Reviews: Lindqvist's Horror Short Story "Itsy Bitsy;" SF classic "Flowers for Algernon"

As far as vampire books and movies go, nothing can touch the cold, brutal elegance of Let the Right One In. With Halloween around the corner, I may have to watch it again (the Swedish version; I hear the American film is quite good as well but I'm not interested). In the meantime, author John Alvide Lindqvist has a free horror short story available, Itsy Bitsy.

Frank is a paparazzi photographer intent on getting a debt-clearing photo of an actress and her  secret boyfriend. To this end, he's set up camp in a tree on the property beside theirs, with his camera trained on their pool area. When the elusive couple finally appears, Frank clicks away. The results are not what he expected, and when he returns to the spot to figure out what happened, he finds that he was not the only one waiting for someone to come to the pool.

I read reviews before I buy. While I try to avoid spoilers, in this case, it was the lack of spoilers which threw me -- not well reviewed, most readers found the story vague and confusing, and often said they had no idea what happened at the ending or what it meant.

I decided, hey, it's free, and Lindqvist's style and imagination appeal to me, so I'll give it a shot. That said, if I had gone in without reading reviews, I would have figured out what was going to happen by the middle. Instead, I thought that I must be wrong, and I waited for the inevitable cloud of doom to descend on the ending.

While I can't speak for everyone, obviously, let me say this -- the ending is not ambiguous. Lindqvist laid the groundwork and left clues all along, and while the requisite horror "monster" in this case is completely strange and somewhat amorphous, it's just what he puts on the page.

Was I horrified? Not really. The last horror book to electrify me was Hill's Heart-Shaped Box. That's a pretty high bar. But I was quite fascinated and, truly, felt tension and dread at Frank's demise. In addition, the style is fantastic (I'm starting to believe all Swedish writers have a terrifically crisp style that turns words and phrases on their heads) and the pace is brisk. It's not bad, it's a quick read, and it's free. Get it.

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Flowers for Algernon is often called science fiction (sure, sure, I can see it), but it's far more potent as an allegory for man's search for knowledge. To that end, Keyes often clubs the reader over the head with references to the Biblical Garden of Eden, characters in the university's science department who are arrogant and cold (and therefore destined to fail), and Charlie's own insistence on being seen as a real person. Despite that, Keyes has written an astoundingly powerful and clean, subtle story arc that delivers the message and leaves the reader transformed and emotionally wrecked.



Yes, I was a wreck when Flowers ended. All along, Keyes kept me uncomfortably glued to the page, with scene after scene of the awful, joking treatment that Charlie receives at the hands of his "friends" in the bakery or the distant repugnance he's handled with by the professors at the university where he receives experimental surgery to turn him into a genius. Deft and knowing, Keyes exploits our fears of the mentally retarded, our feelings of superiority, and puts us squarely in Charlie's place. And when Charlie's intelligence grows--past the point where it can be measured--he is once again beyond the realm of understanding, and left alone, by himself, to bear the brunt of fear and hostile jealousies.

Charlie's humanity is apparent throughout, and his struggle to understand, in an extremely short amount of time, what has happened to him not just after the surgery but during his entire life, is compelling. With flashbacks to a tortured, misunderstood childhood and present-day fumblings with women, he is a fully-rounded character like no other in fiction.

I'll make the assumption that everyone, even if you haven't read it, knows Charlie's and Algernon's stories. But that's no reason not to read this; while I felt Buck's Pavilion of Women was thought-provoking (see my previous review), Flowers far outstrips it and packs a wallop of an emotional punch, as well.

                         

Review: Pavilion of Women by Pearl S. Buck

 After a year and a half reading drought, broken only by spots of tortured page-turning, I've been on a reading roll. Four books in two weeks.

It's hard to say which has been the best of the lot, but certainly Pearl S. Buck's Pavilion of Women has provided some of the most engrossing and thought-provoking reading. The story of a woman in China in the early 1900s, it traces the spiritual growth resulting from her fortieth birthday decision to no longer engage in sex with her husband, but to instead move to a building in their compound and live a "peaceful" life. She buys a concubine for her husband to take her place in bed (a decision which, even then, was somewhat shocking). Additionally, she's a bit of a meddler, and wants to see all of her four sons married and producing children. To this end, she hires a foreign tutor for one of her sons, in order that he might become more attractive in the eyes of a "modern" Chinese woman. Of course none of her carefully planned and orchestrated decisions turns out as she might wish, as the emotional lives of people are far more complicated than the cool reserve she herself portrays.

I must admit that the description of Madame Wu initially put me off. It was as if she was made of marble, perfect in every way, and her husband's vision of her as some sort of goddess seemed appropriate--for she barely seemed human. This must be Buck's intent, to create a chasm between the reader and Madame Wu, for our confusion in not understanding this woman is certainly, at last, reflected in the journey that Madame Wu must take as she realizes she does not understand her own heart.

Artfully done, the progression of a woman learning her own heart and mind, and finding love unexpectedly, is as delicate and lush as a Chinese brushstroke painting. As her understanding unfolds amidst the growing chaos of her coldly manipulated family, she is taken from tragedy to spiritual heights that most of us would envy. In the end, that is the only real complaint I've got with Pavilion of Women: Madame Wu, at the finish, approaches once again the marble perfection of the early section, making her distant from we readers, so far from emotional and spiritual divineness ourselves.

On the other hand, the changing philosophies on the page challenged me to consider my own notions of love, to broaden the parameters of my compassion, and to see the world through another's eyes--which last might, ultimately, be Buck's intent after all.

If this makes it sound as if Pavilion is a meandering philosophical read, far from it. Filled with dramatic events large and small and a cast of well-drawn characters, not to mention exquisite writing, Pavilion is a page-turner. And I found myself constantly thinking of Madame Wu throughout the day when I could not read. Even now, two weeks after having finished it, the book lingers in my mind, and that is the hallmark of something truly wonderful.


*

I'm finishing Flowers for Algernon today, and it's filled my mind with more questions and considerations than, perhaps, Pavilion, though of an entirely different kind. My thoughts on that book tomorrow. And if you've now got the impression that I'm only reading last century's classic fiction, fear not: I read two dystopian YA novels in between, and they were DA BOMB. No review? Ah, well, they are the first two of a trilogy, with the third coming out the end of October. I will not praise them to the heavens only to have you find out, tragically, that you must wait for the third -- because trust me, when I went to download the third book and realized it wasn't available, there was much weeping and pulling of hair and storming about the room.

So, Flowers will be finished tonight. After, of course, my yearly trip to the Ren Fest! Assuming I'll be in a state to read after having had more than my fill of pumpkin beer. :)

"Chicken" at 101 Fiction, and A Word to My Neighbors

It's fitting that 101 Fiction's inaugural issue in its new format concerns rebirth and seasons of change--eight bantam-sized tales under the banners of "phoenix" and "autumn." Read all 800 words meson by neutron, or download the PDF here.

My contribution is Chicken, in which the bird is cursed, and the matriarchal line finds its mouth filled with ashes. A favorite from the series is Kymm Coveney's Implosion. Vivid, violent imagery.

A wonderful selection of flash fic edited by John Xero.

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If you were here last time I blogged (you were probably knee-high to a grasshopper then), I have completed my first goal, which was chapter one of the yarn. It's rough, I have ideas to change it, but no matter, it's a chapter a week, and I'm onto chapter two.

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I have neighbors. We mostly do, in this world. I try, personally, to be a decent neighbor: keep my area fairly neat, not overgrown with weeds or encroaching on someone else's property. I keep the music to a tolerable level. I don't watch porn on the big screen t.v. with the curtains wide open at seven in the evening. My fornicating is tender and hot and kept to a reasonable level of noise; I've not found that screaming, anyway, does anything for the process. I think 1:30 in the morning is a good time to sleep, and not to light a fire in the backyard, bring out the radio, laugh like a horse's ass, and fuck my husband beside the climbing rose and hostas.

I'll give my neighbors this: they mow the grass often enough, and I don't give a shit if they want to cover their yard with resin cats with chipped ears and ten of those spinning laser-cut multi-color sun-catcher things they sell at every garden store. Hey, express your individuality on your own postage-stamp of earth in the way you see fit. Except...

For fuck's sake, don't scream and moan from 1 to 3 a.m. so that I can hear you over your turned-up-to-10 heavy metal, and if you decide to take your antics outside, expect me to call the police.

I will say this. The expression on their faces when the officer shined his light on them was hilarious. And maybe they'll get the picture now. Speaking of which, yes, they are the ones watching porn (A LOT OF PORN) on their big screen in front of a picture window with the curtains left open. While at first we laughed, I do think about the people walking by in the evening, and how some may have kids. That's a concern.

They're exhibitionists. I get it. But I'm not amused, and they can go somewhere else and let others, who may appreciate it, in on their lovemaking.

For the record, I'm down with whatever freakiness you got going on. Trust me, I've seen/read it all, and I may have participated in more than my fair share. I'm not offended.

I just want to get some sleep.

Vampire Puppies with Mange! Free to Good Homes!

Sometimes I dump some internal combustion engine of despair onto the blog, forget about it, and then start receiving supportive comments, DMs and emails from those who stumble upon it. Meanwhile, I forget to update with, "Oh, I'm all right now! You know how it is with writers. Some days are the pits. Some days are sunshine and puppies." Actually, most days are like vampire puppies with mange, but who can resist those big eyes?

Anyway, thank you kind folk. Especially those who pointed out that Judith of the Lions, which was published by Three-Lobed Burning Eye in issue 22, was nominated for the Year's Best Horror, volume 5, and received an Honorable Mention. Ellen Datlow, editor, has a full list of nominees at her LJ here. Thank you to those who nominated the story, to 3LBE for accepting and printing it, to Ellen Datlow, and to everyone who drops by occasionally to offer a word of kindness. I am, always,  deeply grateful.

This past week has been positively chock-full of vampire puppies. This time last week, I saw a retweet by Gollancz of an article by Ghostwoods, seductively entitled How To Write A Book in Three Days. Really, how can any writer resist? It's like those Top 10 Lists that famous writers put out, their rules and laws for writing. We must read them all and discuss! At any rate, this one is Michael Moorcock's point-by-point method for writing a novel, followed by the Lester Dent Master Plot Plan.

It should be pointed out that three days of writing is just that--three days, about 20,000 words a day. But before that three days begins, there are two days of planning. So, five days. All in all, a daunting task for those of us who, you know, work and have kitties demanding dinner every hour and stupid weeds which never stop popping up. Still, I was intrigued. I mean, this thing lays it all out there, bare bones, including how many chapters, how to plot, etc. So last Sunday, I read it. Mulled it over all day. Got up Monday, my day off, and treated it like it was homework for a class. Which meant that if I didn't agree with something--such as, right off the bat, point number one--I had to do it anyway in order to pass.

So, yeah.

It works.

In one week, I've managed to do most of the two days of preparation work. So no writing, technically, but you must understand that I can't plot a novel to save my life, and every attempt so far has begun with a bang, a stellar idea that fizzled out about the 15-20,000 word mark (or much earlier, say, page one). And yet currently, I have the outline for a real novel with a real plot and a nice little host of interesting characters. Now I'm working on chapter synopses and filling in blanks, so that it actually ties together and I don't go off the rails when I get to writing it.

I have one serious book I've been working on for two years. I'm not touching that. Instead, for this experiment, I picked an idea I've had that got scribbled down in a 500-word passage and left for dead. Since I wasn't emotionally attached to it, I could take Moorcock's plan and apply it without fear of mutilating my baby. Now, however, I'm in love with it, and very pleased with what I've got so far.

The Moorcock/Dent plan also applies, as Dent points out, to short stories. Just scale down the word count (he does it for you, FYI). At this point, I can look back at other pieces I've written and see how improved they would be if I had applied this knowledge to them back when I was actually writing them.

I'm not a lit major, didn't go to college for creative writing studies or anything like that. So whatever I can learn on my journey now is just fantastic. And this has been very valuable. Highly recommended if you're stuck, like I was, or just in writerly doldrums.

And now I've babbled on too long, so I'm off to pluck at the '60s guitar B just hung in the living room, and annoy the cats.

Pennies

A penny chiming against another; my pockets were full of them. Collected by pieces from the hot asphalt, on cracked cement. Two hundred more and I would be rich. Maybe then she'll marry me; maybe then she'll wear that dress I have always imagined her in.

The days grow shorter now. We till the night fields; at dawn, we lay down our hatchets, our machetes, our tined steel, and watch it all dissolve in a flurry of sleepless dreams. When you have seen the children ask, upon waking, what the dream of cotton candy meant, you know you have done your job, but who gets to see that? We return to our beds exhausted.

Yesterday, I counted the pennies again. And then sometime after moonrise, I caught her eye across the rows. She smiled. I am forgiven! Forgiveness and wealth equals happiness. I will ask her tonight if she will wait--only two hundred more coins, I will tell her. So close.

Now to sleep, before the hot sun bakes my little shack and I cannot drift off. A cup of morning mist, a blade of green grass. I dream.

Open House

Open House

Wretched wardrobes, derived from walnut and beech--no children disappearing into them, not today, but in ten years' time, twelve, oh, the solidification of the quantum theory of developmental archaic chaos! The doors bore strange motifs, red lacquer lotus blossoms, ebony roots in a swirling tangle, a giveaway to the disgraced mathematician. We set the dolls inside, cornhusk and acorn and slightly damp dog tongue. Said the words. Lit the flame. And stepped back, shutting the doors to all three.

The open house would begin in a moment. A steal, this place, at one-forty. And fully furnished, of course.

I Make a Very Good Cup of Tea, but Nothing Else

I've come to realize, on the late end of forty, that I don't do anything remarkably well. There are many things I enjoy doing, and some I do with some amount of competency, and many more I do like a five year old in kindergarten. The trouble is, I want to be extraordinary at something.

We all want to think we're remarkable in some way; I once thought I was a very lucky person. What great luck I had. Looking back, I was deluded, completely wrong, or perfectly right. I'm not sure I know the difference anymore. And if I was lucky, what sort of skill is that?

At any rate, time goes by quicker and quicker each year, as many of you know. How did it get to be the end of July? How is it that 41 will soon be upon me and I am not extraordinary? I find my greatest joy in actually doing those things that I am less than competent at, but when I am finished with my self-imposed joyous tasks, I frown at the results. It was as if I took great pleasure in building the world's flattest, lumpiest mud pie. And worse, while I was making it, I thought it was a raspberry-lemon creme cake with coconut icing.

It is not entirely true that I'm terrible at everything. I can make a cup of tea that is perfect for me. I cannot buy this cup anywhere, and even my beloved, observant B cannot make me a cup of tea that is just right. (I don't complain, because while I'm often impatient and critical, I do have some grace and thankfulness in me) But if I am tomorrow--or tonight, or in an hour--lying on my bed or on the floor or in the bloody wreckage of a terrible accident, what will I have to think about? "At least I made a good cup of tea for myself."

This comes around, you see, to the fact that I'm not even good at thankfulness, as we all know that in our final moments, we are wracked with guilt or remorse or, for many, consumed with love. And it's that love that is what life means. I should know this. And yet I wave away that love, take it for granted. "Yes, yes, I know, they love me; Yes, I love them too! Of course!" But god damn it, I cannot write a wonderful novel. I cannot, it seems, write a passably tolerable novel. If you asked me right now, I could barely write you a beautiful sentence. Scratch that. All I can think about is unicorns and glitter, and that would be a horrible sentence.

There is a moment each day, after I've been hanging upside down for twenty minutes listening to guided meditation (this is no joke here!), that I do feel the infinite power within me, and within you all. And that power is love. Everything is right there, everything is tangible, reachable, and then it is gone. Brushed away by dogs with their heads in the litter box or mailman at my door with something to sign. But I swear to you, today, again, I will try. Regardless of what I've said before, however anxiety continues to toil within me (it is a jewel-green snake), I will try again.

Here I go.