Autumn, New England, and H. P. Lovecraft

            Most people returning from New England in autumn think pleasant recollections of yellow-red leaves, apple pie, white church steeples against blue heavens, maple syrup, quaint covered bridges, and rolling hills of brightly colored trees. 

            But I think of H.P. Lovecraft. 

            It doesn’t matter that the sun shone for the two days I was there (in Vermont, in October at peak foliage intensity), that all the people I met were friendly, that the town where I stayed (Woodstock) was lovely and welcoming, and that the forest trails to the nearby mountain tops provided delightful and peaceful excursions. 

            None of that counts.  When I come home from an autumn trip, the first thing I want are the gloomy, mysterious, lurking, frightful, and threatening words of H.P. Lovecraft.  Like the start of “The Dunwich Horror” where a man takes a wrong turn in New England and—

. . . he comes upon a lonely and curious country.  The ground gets higher, and the brier-bordered stone walls press closer and closer against the ruts of the dusty, curving road.  The trees of the frequent forest belts seem too large, and the wild weeds, brambles, and grasses attain a luxuriance not often found in settled regions. . . . When a rise in the road brings the mountains in view above the deep woods, the feeling of strange uneasiness is increased.  The summits are too rounded and symmetrical to give a sense of comfort and naturalness . . . 

The objects seen are not frightening in themselves—the ground, the stone walls, the curving road, the trees, the grasses, the mountains, the summits.  It’s the way they’re described, the words chosen:  “lonely and curious,” “press closer and closer,” “too large,” “wild,” “not often found,” “deep,” “strange uneasiness.”  Lovecraft is famous for taking objects that normally have standard “comfort and naturalness,” but then layering them with emotional adjectives that spawn an inescapable tension and fear.  Nothing really threatening appears, but the perception of it, the emotional reaction to it, makes the mood so uneasy. Mountain tops being “rounded and symmetrical” are harmless, but if they’re “too” rounded and symmetrical, then just that one word makes things suddenly weird. 

            For me, this stylistic game-playing is the great attraction to Lovecraft.  Even if such impressions are forced, a product of imposing emotional reactions onto harmless objects, the overall mood is still convincing.  His New England is not the one I encountered, but I still like to read of it—imagine it, feel it—when I get back home from it.  Keep the maple sugar!  In autumn, I want hints of cosmic terror, a lurking shadow of something not right behind the landscape—an ambiguity, a touch of vast and sinister presences “out there.” 

As said in “The Colour Out of Space,” “It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined.”

            When I was a kid, my family used to go for weekends to a hunting camp in northern Pennsylvania, and my favorite time was in the fall.  Of course, there was all that color and scenery, but what struck me more was the sense of decay.  Of fleeting time, of all that you see accelerating into an unreachable past.  Change is so obvious in autumn—each day brings more leaves to the ground.  And it produces a sense of growing vulnerability:  the trees become more bare, the woods open and reveal themselves, lose their protection, lose their cover.  And since the nights grow longer, and the camp was near the top of a mountain, the night skies seemed closer, to the point where we could almost touch them—and if we could touch the stars, then they could reach down and touch us. 

            The bunk I slept in was on top, close to the ceiling . . . closer to the sky.

            Can you feel that Lovecraft mood creeping in?

            As said in “The Colour Out of Space,”  “at twilight . . . I vaguely wished some clouds would gather, for an odd timidity about the deep skyey voids above had crept into my soul.”  And:  “I hurried back before sunset to my hotel, unwilling to have the stars come out above me . . . the sinister stars.”

            While I was lying in the bunk alone and listening to the wind outside in the dark, another Lovecraft quote would be appropriate:  “in the autumn of the year, when the winds from the north curse and whine, and the red-leaved trees of the swamp mutter things to one another in the small hours of the morning under the horned waning moon” (“Polaris”). 

            The season of fall always brings impressions of Lovecraft.  In Vermont I saw Halloween decorations, even a shish-kabob totem tree of pumpkins on top of each other.  But I felt no feelings of  ominous haunts.  I crossed and photographed a covered bridge, but the sun was glorious and no headless horseman seemed near.  I even saw a lurking full moon pass in and out of clouds and paint baleful glows on white churches, but no hidden demons emerged.  And though the woods were sometimes quite dark with un-illuminated black hemlocks, and though the skies did become overcast and make the hills seem to close in with hidden threats, any sense of menace didn’t stay long. 

            Still, I’ll take Lovecraft’s moods. They bring back what always made autumn so attractive and so haunting to me.  They capture what hides around the corners—even if nothing hides there at all, it’s still here in my mind.  While I download pleasant photographs of tinted leaves and nestled farms, I can’t help imposing my own imaginative excess, and realize I walked on what Lovecraft called “the wild domed hills of Vermont” (“The Whisperer in Darkness”), and that, who knows, just maybe, I unknowingly came near “Unseen things not of earth—or at least not of tri-dimensional earth—[that] rushed foetid and horrible through New England’s glens, and brooded obscenely on the mountain-tops” (“The Dunwich Horror”). 

            And thus that kid from long ago, in the upper bunk that was too close to the sky, draws his tightly closed eyes a bit further under the blanket, realizing he’s in the scary state of “awed listening, as if for the beating of black wings or the scratching of outside shapes and entities on the known universe’s utmost rim” (Lovecraft’s “Supernatural Horror in Literature”).  

            Ugh!  The delight!

 An example of "the wild domed hills of Vermont." 

The 777 Meme -- In a Suspect Universe

I’ve been tagged by Heidi Ruby Miller for this year’s 777 Meme. 

            The rules are:

            Go to the 7^th line of the 7^th page of your work in progress.

            Post the first full 7 lines. 

            Then tag 7 friends.

            My current project is a prequel to my novel The Man Who Loved Alien Landscapes.  Though it occurs before the events of that book, it really should be read after it, since the story in the prequel—called In a Suspect Universe—gains greater significance when read after the first book.  It’s self-contained and can be read alone, but the prequel will begin with this message: 

 

            At the end of The Man Who Loved Alien Landscapes, Pia Folinari asked Mykol Ranglen if he would ever tell her the “big story” she was sure he kept hidden in his past.

            He never said he would.

            But this is that story.

            Ranglen—the protagonist of the first book—has just been rescued from a storm in the desert on another planet by an amateur archaeologist surveying the ruins of an extinct alien race.  She’s working alone and she doesn’t trust him since she suspects he’s treasure-hunting at the site.  In an attempt to learn more about him, she insists she’s not after treasure herself, and we then get these 7 lines:

He showed no change at all. “Neither am I, and you can believe that.”

She wasn’t assured but she didn’t feel as threatened by him now.  His personality didn’t seem contentious or selfish.  But she knew—she knew!—he had secrets, and his real focus seemed far away. 

This disturbed her. 

Still, she felt she couldn’t do much else.  “All right,” she said.

He turned away from her and closed his eyes again. And this time, maybe overwhelmed by fatigue, he fell into a genuine sleep. 

            The two go on to have a tentative if difficult relationship.  But she’s correct that he does carry secrets, and the rest of the novel gradually reveals them. 

            She will regret learning what they are.

            The story will be an intricate brew of meetings in a desert, fighting on a tundra world against peculiar denizens of a “Blight,” and a frantic search across many planets.  For anyone who wondered why Mykol Ranglen in The Man Who Loved Alien Landscapes is as withdrawn, guarded, and paranoid as he is, In a Suspect Universe will explain why. 

I tag: 

Michael A. Arnzen

Diana Dru Botsford

K. Ceres Wright

Matt Betts

Jennifer Brooks

Nicole Peeler

John Edward Lawson

Reading Your Own Work, Aloud

I recently did a reading of the first chapter of my novel and several poems to the Morgantown Poets at the Monongalea Arts Center in West Virginia.  I enjoyed it immensely, and I have always looked forward to doing readings of my—or anyone else’s—work.  I teach literature and sometimes the best way to study a poem or a prose passage is to first read it out loud—to absorb how it sounds, how it flows, how the writer worked with the words, how the passages were chosen and precisely arranged to get just the right effect.  A poem is like music, and in reading it aloud you can hear the words sing.  

But not all writers enjoy reading their own work.  So many of us still get nervous standing before a crowd, thinking, “They’re all listening to me—to every word I say!”  Yes, it’s intimidating, and, to this day, I still hate walking into a classroom at the start of a semester and feeling everyone’s eyes on me.  Once I get going I’m always fine, but I do know what it’s like to be nervous, unsure, on display, utterly self-conscious, and so eager to finish and just get-the-hell-out-of-there. 

So because of all that, I’d like to share some pointers.  Now that you’ve written and completed your work, you now deserve to share it in the most intimate, sensory, immediate, and ultimately controlling way that you can manage—by reading it aloud.

Here are some tips. 

Practice.  This is essential so that you can time yourself and know how much you can read.  It’s sometimes hard to gauge times—I find I always take less time at the event than I do in practicing.  I presume that’s because I stop more in practicing to “get it right,” while at the actual event I just keep plunging forward.  But know that practice is the only way to get a notion of how long you’ll take.  Also, where you practice is crucial.  You need a place where you can truly read out loud—not in a library, not at Starbuck’s, and not near a room where your relatives or friends are watching television.  Find a private spot where you can close the door—a cellar, an attic, a secluded area in a yard, a deserted warehouse, an empty swimming pool—a place where you can shout as much as you want.  And then . . . read!  The robins or pigeons or mice might stare at you but they won’t notice any errors. 

Be organized.  This goes without saying, but you don’t want to be splashing through your notes or desperately trying to find your place—which you “just had”—when you start out.  So have all your passages marked.  Have everything handy and easily found.  And if water’s not provided, then you might need a bottle handy.  And be sure you can carry everything you need to the podium—you don’t want to drop anything along the way.  And, if you need them, be certain you can access your reading glasses. 

Check out the setting beforehand.  If you have time, it’s good to survey the environment where you’ll be reading.  Is there enough light?  Is the podium shaky?  Can you lean on it without it collapsing under you?  Is the room too hot, or too cold?  (Most likely, you’ll be too hot—just doing the reading should be active enough to keep you warm.)  Is the podium already cluttered?  Is it slanted enough that things might fall off?  Is there enough room for all your books and papers--and iPads and laptops?  And if you use technology, make sure it will do what you want it to do.  For a reading I almost never use it simply because I don’t trust it.  (A colleague of mine inadvertently entered a command by just the way he held his iPad right as he stood up to read, and all his material disappeared.)       

When you first reach the podium, look at your audience.  Walking up to the podium is always the scariest moment.  You might be on a panel instead and won’t have to do this, but let’s assume you’re a star and have the room to yourself.  To overcome that moment at the beginning when you’re most unsure, here’s what I suggest.  When you get to podium, look at the audience.  Don’t look down and arrange your pages.  You can do that soon.  But take the very first moment to look inclusively and widely at everyone who’s sitting there.  You might see a grouch or two, but in most cases the people are present because they want to hear you.  You have the advantage at that moment because you are the invited guest.  They’re pulling for you—because then the reading will be better yet and they’ll enjoy you more.  Also, when you look at them directly, you avoid imagining worse things about them. If you just look down, then the people remain undefined, shadowy, lurking half-presences that grow more threatening in your overwrought imagination.  So look at them first, before you’ve even opened your book.  You’ll make them real, known, and thus not scary at all. 

But when you first start reading, look at your words more than your audience.  That doesn’t contradict what I said in the previous suggestion.  I’m talking here about when you actually begin reading, after you’ve said a few words like, “Thank you for having me tonight; I will read from . . .”  I’ve noticed that when I start the actual reading, especially since I just addressed the people directly, I mistakenly look up from the book often to maintain the connection with them. And it’s mistake, at least for me, because when I look up too much at first I lose my place and trip over a sentence or skip a word.  I’m connecting with the people but not with the text, and that’s crucial at the beginning.  So, my suggestion, just for the first few moments of actual reading to prevent any initial glitches, pay more attention to the book and where you are in it—you’ll have plenty of chances later to regain that closeness and get your audience “into” the story. 

Take your time.  Let me repeat that:  TAKE YOUR TIME!  This is the best piece of advice I can give you.  The most common problem with readings is that readers go too fast.  I understand why this often occurs—if you’re scared, you want to get done quickly.  Or if you have a lot of material (and you haven’t planned or timed it) you feel you might not get to finish it all.  But the effects of speaking too fast are almost always bad:  a monotone, poor enunciation, not being heard well, and your eyes so locked into the text that the audience sees only the top of your head.  These words are yours.  You know they’re great.  So take your time with them and show them off.  Present them like treasures. You’ve worked hard to get them just right, so treat them like the precise codes of meaning they are.  Roll them in your mouth as if they’re lumps of ice cream, let the phrases glide through the air like the aurora borealis, and present your statements with grandeur because they’re your true findings and conclusions about life.  

Enunciate clearly.  If you take your time this should occur naturally. The more you slow down, the more time you take with the pronunciation of each syllable.  People have more problems understanding words than hearing them.  So make each part of each word distinct, don’t “slur” over the words, don’t let your voice drop in pitch and volume at the end of a sentence. And again, remember, your words are wonderful, so you want to make them heard—precisely, distinctly, roundly and deeply.  You’re conducting a symphony in language, so make sure the notes are clear. 

Make your voice carry.  You’re not reading to the first row.  They’ll hear you no matter what you do, even if you whisper.  You’re reading for the back row.  So you need to speak loudly enough for them to hear you.  Don’t shout, just let your voice come from deep inside you—from the diaphragm, I’m told, instead of the throat.  If you know your voice is soft, ask for a possible microphone, or ask everyone to move closer—tell them you want a campfire effect.  (Besides, if there are any editors or agents in the crowd, they’re probably sitting in back.)

Voices of your characters.  You don’t have to be fancy.  If you can’t master accents, or gender differences, or slang, don’t try.  You can suggest differences in characters’ voices by simply changing the pitch, making one a bit deeper than the other, or a bit higher.  Or you can just point your head in a different direction when you’re speaking in that voice.  This helps in dialogue:  one person talking slightly to the right, the other speaking slightly to the left (and, if your hands are free, when speaking “right” you can raise your right hand to make a gesture, and then use the left hand when talking “left”).     

And ENJOY IT!  My last recommendation, and it’s the best!  This is your moment, your material.  Everyone’s  looking at you not to frighten you but to share in your achievement, and you’re showing you’ve worked long and hard for it.  Such a chance doesn’t come often.  So savor it!  And—I guarantee—the more you enjoy it, the more your audience will.  Pleasure communicates.  If you’re having a good time, so will they. 

So get out there and have a blast.    

(See the links in the sidebar for two brief videos, the first of me reading from my novel at a panel of Dog Star readers at Confluence, and the second presenting one of my poems to the Morgantown Poets.  Thanks to Jennifer Barnes and John Edward Lawson  for doing the recordings, and the still photo above was taken by Michael Arnzen during the Morgantown reading.)

A Poem Behind the Novel

When I gave my reading to the Morgantown Poets a few days ago (which was a delight—I really “got into” reading a segment of the novel and four of my poems), I announced that I’m writing a prequel to The Man Who Loved Alien Landscapes (tentatively entitled In a Suspect Universe), plus a sequel, and a collection of poems supposedly written by the protagonist of these novels, Mykol Ranglen. 

An unexpected 4:30 a.m. awakening several days later allowed me to dabble in writing for these works, and I completed a Ranglen poem that explores his personality.  Think of it as the open-ended background material one would write while developing a character for a book—but it’s poetic, so not fully explanatory, which is appropriate for the character involved.  It came about after the fact of the book because, though he’s much at the center of the novel, you always want to know more about him (he’s not very revealing about himself, for a number of reasons), and even with the prequel focusing on a major and personal event of his earlier life (which it will do) you still want to know more. 

So think of this as an addition, an appendix, to the novel, just to whet your pondering about my hero.  (When the poetry book gets written, it will appear there.)  As you can see by the length, I thought about him a lot that morning. 

The poem is entitled—no surprise—“The Man Who Loved Alien Landscapes”: 

He’s more the lone derelict

That turns away in space,

An alienated activist

Who doesn’t want to be bitter,

Though he has said hastily,

“Landscapes are more important than people.” 

He doesn’t know if he’s in exile

Or just self-isolated.

He’s shocked he has a conscience.

His relationships are strictly one-on-one

Though he dreams of ardent longing

And a heart that feels heat.

He thinks he “needs a mission,”

But he rejects them when offered. 

First-person narration

He invariably avoids. 

He dreams of Ghost Worlds

In a haunted private universe.

He seeks caged flowers,

Spin vectors, lattice vanes,

Barrier gates to illusion jewels,

Caves, maelstroms, oceans with lids.

When he's too much into self, 

He wants to dissolve and be lost

In an alien landscape

That’s unbearably new. 

He fills his house with demons

While opening it to lovers.

He builds new romances

From the remnants of a “you.” 

Space should horrify him

But he finds there new worlds. 

He says, “I’ve built butterflies

But destroyed whole universes.”

He doesn’t understand

The potentialities of guilt.

His heart is in winter

Surfing avalanches of change.

He knows he masters

Only interpretations. 

He seeks Affected Earths,

Realities gone wild,

Abstractions he can know

While building his ideal,

His Gray Lord’s identity

For behind his Black Knight. 

His ships are all plague ships.

He fears he’ll be told,

“I’m not the only enemy you have.”

His father, a rationalist,

Was a drinker but never drunk—

He had moments of profound

If defeated wisdom

Within his implacable

Concrete stubbornness. 

His mother, too sensitive,

Was too terrified of life,

Was an artist without training,

And a desperate manipulator

Though everyone loved her,

And yet she always feared.

He inherited the best,

And worst, of both.

He dreams of flying saucers

Half buried in icefields,

Spaceships that disappear

In the wide Galactic Reach,

Crew-members vanishing

One by one on alien planets,

Dancing twisted trees,

Huge glass coins, icebergs,

Emeralds, volcanoes,

Lyres singing and beckoning

In snow-covered mountains.

He doesn’t feel he’s aging

And maybe he is not.

He’s been to so many worlds

That time’s become space.

He lives for forgetfulness

But knows he’s afflicted. 

He carries secrets

That he’d secretly discard.

He’s seen “the other side” . . .

He’s seen several of them. 

He’d rather not see more. 

He’s solitary, stoic,

Withdrawn, and alone.

His attachments unravel,

Become fugitive, free.

He perpetuates the riddle

That, in the end,

He’s the one abandoned,

And he’s scared he’ll never have

What he sees so widely owned—

A place, a harbor, an anchor,

A home.