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tired of being tired

Monday, again. The less said about yesterday, the better. For now, anyway. It seems highly unlikely that I'll actually write today, but I'll do something, because there is always guilt, and, hey, at least I have a clean desk again.

My skin, bare of its normal covering of downy hair, is unnaturally, almost unpleasantly sensative. My hand brushes my face, or my clothes brush my back, and the sensation is entirely alien.

Since I seem to have nothing much of my own to say today, here's an e-mail from David LeMoine, which I am including in this entry because it made me feel a lot better for a little while last night:

Following on the heels of your blog entry about your experience while seeing The Village, I offer many sympathies because my friend and I were loathe to experience exactly the same thing when we saw it. One would think that a small theatre in the little northwest corner of Massachusetts where we live would yield better results from people, but alas, it did not. Our theatre also erupted into laughter when Ivy confronts Noah after he's stabbed Lucius. I was also forced to endure the man behind me who crunched his popcorn the entire time, stopping every couple of minutes to shake the contents of the bag before resuming his feeding. But the clincher for me was the couple in front of me. The waif of a little blonde girl who sat nearly in the lap of her boyfriend while he decided to yell at the screen during choice parts. His bellowing of "How'ya feel now, bitch!" when Ivy is standing lost in the middle of the patch of red flowers was almost enough to make me get up and leave. The ending of the film was also entirely lost on these people, who were up and out of their seats before the fade-to-black finished, and the credits began to roll. Jesus frelling Christ, have we become that much of a society of ADD-riddled fuckwits that we can't even wait for the credits before storming out of the theatre like cattle while saying "This movie sucked." Or perhaps my personal favorite, and most telling, a girl walking out with her boyfriend told him, as she walked past me, "You're going to have to explain the ending to me, 'cause I didn't get it."

I'm guessing none of them could ever hope to "get" one of your books then. Which I'm guessing is as fine by you as it is by me, as who needs fans with dren for brains, right? Though the sales figures would be nice. Anyway, I finished my advanced copy of
The Dry Salvages just a few hours ago, and I want to once again say how much I like the idea Sub. Press had of sending out advanced copies to fans. You'll have to thank Bill Schafer for me. With that said, I'll tell you that I absolutely loved the novella. It is definitely the best writing you have finished as of yet. The simple, stripped down style was masterfully done, as was the first person narrative.

It is easy for me to see the maturity in your writing style, having read all your novels, chapbooks, and majority of your short stories. Every book you have written has gotten better and better, and I think I would reason this to be not simply honing the craft of writing (a silly term, I know), but rather that each book is filled with so much personal emotion from you that every new character, every new story, every continuation of a character is an extension of yourself and your life's experiences. You've often likened the finishing of a book to birthing a child, and I believe that to be very true for you. These stories you write are more than mere words, as each word has a piece of DNA from you in there, a piece of its mother who cared for it for so long before sending out into the world, the story can never fully separate itself from its author, and I think this to be a good thing, as it lends an air of personality to each and every book or story you write. A good author can hope of having a "style," and you certainly have a wonderfully unique one.

The Dry Salvages left me breathless. The sheer adrenaline that pumped through me at the end of Audrey's story, and then the haunting and crushing defeat, the knowledge that no matter how many words she puts to paper those memories will never leave, forever trapped inside her mind, so better to drop the pen and see out the rest of her life; it is a beautifully desperate ending, but one she seems to have known was coming all along.

Reading
The Dry Salvages brought back such great memories of reading Lovecraft's work when I was younger. The final scenes of what really happened on Piros were so perfectly worded that I felt I was literally there and losing my sanity with them. You have accomplished in words this time, better than I think you ever have, what Lovecraft mastered — the telling of unexplainable terror without ever showing us its face. The play of emotional and mental collapse brought to life in the characters by your words was intensely executed. I would easily rank this novella as one of the marvels and masterworks of science-fiction and horror, as well as one of the best damned pieces of writing I've ever had the pleasure of reading.

You mentioned in your blog that you would like to see your future writings take on this kind of style. I'll tell you that I would love to see that. An entire book written in this style - admittedly different from how you normally write - would be absolutely delicious.


Thank you, David.

Comments

( 1 comment — Have your say! )
pinkteaset3
Aug. 3rd, 2004 04:58 pm (UTC)
I used to experience the "unpleasantly sensitive" problem whenever I shaved back my mohawk, many years ago. It made me think the nerves that are affiliated with hair follicles - even the tiny ones - are so used to having a "direction" (like the "right way" to pet a cat) that without hair above the surface, they are disoriented, and sensing and disliking everything. Whenever I had a newly-shaven head, even a light breeze against the skin seemed almost agonizing, til a little stubble came in.

Then it was *pet pet pet*

xx
Mella
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