A Little Skepticism

I am always stunned when people read something and accept it as fact. If it's written, after all, it must be true. I've seen this phenomena among my students, and unfortunately among my friends and family.

"Where did you hear that?" I ask.

"I read it."

"Where?"

"Paper."

"Did you check it?"

Well no, of course not. That might mean reading other articles, doing a little fact finding, seeing if quotes are taken out of context or if recounting of events are being skewed. I know it takes a lot of time. It's worth it though. There's nothing like reading a story, spreading it around, and then finding out later that you've been the dupe of someone's (left or right) political agenda.

I practice the same caution when reading history books. As I pour through a text, I want to know the sources. I check the footnotes and occasionally try and glean where the information was gathered and whether or not such information may have a bias or be reliable.

What about a book like "John Adams" by McCollough? These non-fiction texts present a challenge. The author will take a series of events and pad them. The intent of the author isn't to change history or influence a reader, but rather to make the narrative flow more easily. To give it life. I have no problem with this if, as in McCollough's case, it is done artfully and scholarly.

What rankles me though is something I call bubblegum history texts or current affair texts. You've seen these. The New York Times bestsellers that are churned out by the likes of Ann Coulter or Bill O Reilly. Or on the left Bill Press or Al Franken. These texts all claim factual integrity. And the facts cited are usually accurate---to a point. It's that point that makes all the difference. Too often what is left out is anything that could be used to counter an argument or which might give a perspective that is different from the one that drives the agenda.

These books are fun sometimes, but worthless from an intellectual perspective.

It always stuns me when this information is then spewed by a reader as fact. Because...let's say it together...they read it somewhere. I tell you, if Mark Twain were around today, he would have made John McCafferty (the crotchety old guy on CNN) look like a naive and funloving cad.

A Wedding

I am going to a wedding tonight.

The first wedding I ever attended was back when I was five, and apparently I was not a hit. At one point, so I am told, my brother (the groom) was seen choking me and my mother had to intercede. "He can't breathe," she said. "That's the idea," he responded.

Apparently, standing on the altar and mocking a rabbi isn't a good idea. Nor is climbing along the railing during the services. Being loud and obnoxious at hushed religious moments aren't considered kosher, either. However, I will maintain to this day that while I remember little about my conduct at that affair, one thing I do remember is the sound of chuckling. It was God. I think God had put me up to it, maybe to remind people not to take things so seriously. Maybe to enjoy the absurdity of a moment. Maybe to warn the bride and groom against having children of their own. Or perhaps, just His way of saying to my brother: "...there, now take that."

And strangely, though I am now fifty three, members of the family still throw the behavior of that five year old in my face. In fact, I received a letter from President Bush recently warning me from attending the wedding of his daughter.

So, tonight, I am off to another wedding. I will go and smile, sit quietly as the bride and groom are wed, and do what all other guests do...save their inappropriate and obnoxious behavior for the reception. And friends, I plan on being extremely obnoxious. Somewhere inside of me, a five year old boy is rubbing his sticky little hands together in sublime anticipation.

Reviewing Rudolph

Every so often, I go back to pulp. Pulp fiction, a term which comes from the early part of the 1900's when most magazines were printed on cheap, pulpy paper, refers to those stories where the characters were often quickly drawn (they didn't have to be detailed; they often pulled from our identifications with archetypes), the action was fast, the locations often fanciful. Plots: good v. evil. And even if the main character was ambivalent, he was at least true to his own moral code.

Tarzan, Doc Savage, The Phantom...all pulp. Louis Lamour, Mickey Spillane. Dare I say Charles Gramlich and the Talera Cycle? And William Jones and "The Strange Cases of Rudolph Pearson".

This last book, just released by Chaosium, is set in the age of pulp and its character, Pearson, is classic. A thin, awkward professor at Columbia University who stumbles into several supernatural experiences, Pearson is an intellectual with little understanding of the opposite sex. He's a loner, a reluctant adventurer trying to overcome a traumatic experience suffered in the War To End All Wars. He's Cary Grant from "Bringing Up Baby". He's Jimmy Stewart.

The stories form an arc and toward the middle of the book, are cohesive enough to be considered a novel. Actually, reading this, I wished the book had been written as a novel. Still, the stories work in this format and offer tremendous fun. If I wanted to be obnoxious and pedantic, I could say that the story is about class struggle, with the main villain representing the corrupt decadence of inherited wealth and the main protagonists representing the best in working class American culture (self determination, humility, sacrifice, industry). But I've never been known to be long-winded or obnoxious, so I'll leave off this sort of analysis and suffice it to say that Jones' book is just good old fashioned Saturday afternoon fun, but the sort that is best read under the covers with a flash light while a storm is caterwauling outside.

One last point...while this book is from Chaosium and while it is definitely Lovecraftian in nature, it is wisely not weighted down by this. A person needs not be a tad familiar with the Mythos in order to enjoy the writing.

Going Commando..Again

"High Seas Cthulhu" did not win a Stoker award from the Horror Writers of America. It was nominated, but no soap. Still...another chance at some acclaim might come for "Frontier Cthulhu", from Chaosium. Apparently The Academy of Adventure Gaming Arts and Design (AAGAD) and the Game Manufacturers Association (GAMA) have announced that the anthology, edited by William Jones, is in the running for an Origin Award.

I'll let you know more about whether or not the mustard is cut, but until then...I attended a book signing in Flint today. William Jones was at a Borders signing copies of his newest book: "The Strange Cases of Rudolph Pearson". I believe these were advanced copies he made available. I'm not sure and it doesn't matter. I'm looking forward to reading this collection of Lovecraftian horrors, all the stories in this anthology woven together to present a story arc. I'll let you know more when I've had a chance to finish it.

Finally on the writing front, sort of, I attended yet another conference this past weekend. It was a mish mosh of open source computer software folk along with gamers and lovers of science fiction and fantasy. Yes, the Tron Guy was even present.

I wish I could say I behaved myself. However at one point I believe I unleashed upon the unsuspecting member of a panel I was attending. I know. It's hard to accept that I can be confrontational or in any way controversial. I won't name names, but let's just say that my face will probably be posted in the lobby of future conventions, a red circle with a line through it upon my image. I figure it will be a year or so before my friends allow me to live down this maniacal outburst. Currently, I have become part of a threat: "Don't make me go all Stewart on you."

In my defense, I am not the seven foot tall gentleman with the pot belly and elongated limbs who screamed his outrage at the way the panel discussion was proceeding. Rather I was the target of the seven foot gentleman's wrath. Sigh. Well, when you live in your mother's basement, sipping Bosco through a straw, pretending to be a woman in order to browse the lesbian chat rooms while at the same time trying to peruse the online fetish sites, I can understand how difficult it is to handle stressful public settings. Again, I wish I could tell you more, but my sense of decorum and etiquette prevents me from going into more detail.

Finding My Humanity

Horror writing wears on an author. If one looks at what one is writing--really looks--it is disturbing. In something I am working on now, a short story called "The Innocents", a woman commits suicide by stepping in front of a truck. The scene is described in a manner meant to shock the reader and to pave the way for a series of supernatural events. However, when I reread the scene, I stop and think about it in real terms and become depressed by the tragedy it represents.

Sitting in a horror film can have the same effect. The fantasy element drops away and instead of suspense, one identifies with the suffering and feels a sense of weightiness. This is someone's child. This is someone's friend. I know, I know...we aren't supposed to question what we are witnessing. It's an abstract, a plot device.

While we all have a curiousity about the morbid, it's human nature after all, it still is there. Thank God for catharsis in a horror film---if it comes. But even then, what is represented by the violence and the horror remains, like a film, on one's psyche. And we aren't talking just about horror, think about the films you've seen over the past year or two, and the television shows. Even in the comedies.

Maybe I'm being too sensitive. But occasionally, just occasionally, I have to stop and reconnect with reality and the true emotions, remembering that the misery of one often has a ripple effect on the many, and that the horrific is not necessarily something to be celebrated.

Thinking About The Deity

At the writers' group a woman named Jessica mentioned an interest in religion. This sparked an image in my mind, and as I haven't written any fiction here in some time, I thought I would allow myself the opportunity to flow and see what happened.

The priest leaned forward and whispered in Carson's ear: "God's coming for you."

Carson stirred, eyes flickering open to stare into the darkness. He tried to sit up, but didn't have the strength. The priest, a solidly built man with large calloused hands, leaned closer so that Carson could smell his breath.

"God will be here any minute now. Can you feel it?"

Carson inhaled. It was unsatisfying. He tried inhaling more deeply, the effort feeling false. Pointless. He settled on shorter breaths, listening to the wheezing within his chest.

The priest smiled. "You don't remember Him, do you? That's what's scaring the hell out of you. You don't remember."

Carson shook his head from side to side.

The priest stepped back, nervously glancing toward the window. "I have to go. I don't want to be here when He arrives. I'll come back when it's all done. When it's over. I'll tell people you received last rites. They'll cry for you. A couple years from now someone may even remember your name."

Carson strained to say something. The priest waited. Carson strained again, this time his voice coming out in a low growl. "Don't go. Don't..."

"It wouldn't matter if I stayed. You know that."

The priest paused on his way out the door. "Do you want to know a secret?" he asked.

Carson stopped breathing.

"It's sort of my confession."

The priest waited. Nodding to himself, he whispered: "Yeah, that's what happens. That's what always happens."

The Rebellion Is On

Thinking out loud...

Science! True daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?


The movement was characterized by emphasis on the self and by a profound expression of emotion in rebellion to the dawning industrial age and the Enlightenment. In a time when the ego was threatened by the advance of the machine and the depersonalizing influence of an urban environment, the Romantic pushed for the elevation of the spirit.


In much of the reading we've been exposed to in this class, I can't help but make some comparison between today's educational inquiries and the Romantics. Much of what I've read in my recent class seems to point toward the self. It's student-centered and a sharp contrast to the corporate demand for outcome based and standards based education. The trend toward expression and creativity, the idea that deeper thinking should penetrate over rote memorization and drills.

While we are past looking at Industrialization, one can argue that Globalization has produced a rebellion in American culture that seeks to resist the emergence of an educational and cultural system that embraces corporate needs and wants. The Neo-Romantics see change and try and put their imprint on it, to somehow help guide it to be more humane, more people-centered. In a time when American culture is reactionary and increasing jingoistic and xenophobic, the push is to look for commonalties while embracing differences with a synergistic eye.

Again, just thinking out loud..writing helps me think about things.

Here's To Me

I have just read a wonderful essay on writing by Paul Robinson. You can find the book containing the essay through this link: "Opera, Sex, and Other Vital Matters".

The essay: "Why Write?" is an insightful piece laced with wit. I won't try and sum up Robinson's work, other than to offer some lines that made me pause. Robinson quickly dispels the idea that people write for money. They may think they are writing for money, but when the majority of writers pause and consider how many hours they spend and what the return is for their efforts, that concept quickly evaporates. Likewise dispelled is the idea that writing is something that professors do for tenure. Robinson points out that many professors continue to write long after they've achieved that end. So why? Why write?

One thing Robinson proposes is that "Writing is an act of self-clarification, in which we bring order to those ideas and sentiments that otherwise would remain muddled and inarticulate". I love that. Of course, writing isn't a guarantee that the muddled becomes unmuddled, but the act is a way to express thought in a manner that stimulates further thought.

Robinson goes on to note that "Actual readership is less important to the writer than imagined readership." I love that idea. Actual readership. In some cases my readership is me. Too often my work never goes further than my harddrive. But of course, Robinson would nod with understanding.

"The writer reads his own work with greater pleasure than any other reader." This narcissistic logic, according to Robinson, protects the writer from insanity.

Why write?

It really is narcissism, isn't it? The idea that what we think is important enough to engage people is fascinating. Of course, being a frightening egomaniac, I have no problem at all with this concept. I can't imagine people NOT wanting to hear me.

Someone else pointed out that a writer must be an egoist to deal with the rejection that is part of the writing experience.

Narrative Inquiry

I have recently been exposed to a group of educators who believe the best way to inquiry is through the narrative process. Their approach is a personal one. My reading in this area started with a woman named Vivian Paley, a kindergarten teacher who used a form of community drama in her class to help students grasp new ideas and to express themselves.

The thing about using narrative for inquiry, and I am not objecting to it, just thinking out loud, is that its personal approach tends to be too subjective and for some not approachable. The opposite of the narrative would of course be a straight forward proposal, giving the reader something to think about, challenging him, and backing up statements with numerous facts and figures. The problem with the second approach, of course, is that black and white figures don't always tell the whole story and can be skewed.

What interests me about this trend toward narrative in educational inquiry is that it goes in the face of No Child Left Behind and its emphasis on quantitative results. Maybe its a reactionary movement within education. Not that I would ever want to accuse my fellow teachers of being passive aggressive.

As always, when thinking about extremes, the middle road seems the best, taking the cream that both sides have to offer.

Gimme Two Hundred Dollars

I'm at a writers' workshop, a term I use loosely, when one of the people coordinating the affair taps a short story I have written and proclaims: "Yes, I've read this. It's good. Really good. I wouldn't take any less than two hundred for it."

"Really?" I ask.

"Not a penny less. Not a farthing."

"So..then, are you going to be writing me out a check?"

"Well..no, I'm just saying. If I was going to sell that sucker, it wouldn't be for less than two hundred."

Another writer at another conference, some time ago, leaned over, looking at me and whispering: "There's no secrets to being published, you know. It's all just hard work."

I looked at him as sternly as he was looking at me and whispered in return: "Okay."

He tapped a finger to the side of the nose and winked before skipping off.

Someone else told me that writers are by nature not a supportive lot. There are only so many paying markets out there and so many of us scrambling to find a niche. Don't get me started about the corporations. So, this someone said, don't expect much help from other writers. Sure, they'll tell you how to get published, but they won't share too deeply with you.

My own belief is that I am willing to read people's work and try and give them honest feedback. I've read some work from people who visit this blog. Sometimes I've been kind, others--not so much. I think the most important thing though is the sense that there are other people out there trying to do the same thing you do: make some cash off the written word. Maybe even a little fame.

All this being said, I thank all who have given me good advice and even those who have offered questionable advice. Now, that being said, I have to go off and write a paper for school.

I Eat Your Young

Writing, taking online classes toward an advanced degree in education, teaching, gaming, and just being me...well, I hope that explains why I am not quite the blogging dynamo I used to be. I still want to keep my hand in though. So...

I am currently teaching a literature class and we are working on character development, looking at arcs of transformation and what makes a character memorable for the reader and the writer. The students and I began talking a bit about villains, and this got me to thinking.

As a writer and as a reader there is nothing better than a powerful baddie. For me, the villain that works best is someone who has fallen. The tragedy of that character has enough pathos to keep the reader hoping for eventual redemption. Maybe the vile person in question will see the error of his ways and turn toward healing and redeeming himself with the poor protagonist whom he has been tormenting. And of course the best villains remain those who are able to allow the reader at least a sliver of empathy.

Don't worry, I'm not going to launch into a long discussion here. I like using my blog for release. Besides long blog entries, more than five hundred words, are seldom read. But to show you how my mind works, I'll just briefly outline three of my favorite villains and why I enjoy them...some of these characters may seem a tad unconventional. I present them in no particular order.

Alice Cooper. What? Alice Cooper is the stage personae of Vincent Furnier. Although the name is clearly that of a rock icon, the stage personae is something different. When Alice is on stage, he becomes a corrupt, sneering reprobate. He enjoys shocking the world and reveling in disapproval. But Alice has no idea of moderation. He is hedonism unleashed. By the middle of the concert, he takes his hedonism and perversions to the limit, engaging in necrophelia, sexual violence, madness, and murder. And then? Like morality plays of old, Alice must be punished. He is usually captured and killed ( decapitation, hanging, electrocution...). After which, he emerges in white top hat and coat, resurrected.

The Ring. For me, The Ring in "Lord of the Rings" is very much a character. It is the embodiment of corruption. It takes the sweetness of Baggins and twists it into the worst of human nature. It has a voice. You can hear it echoed in Gollum's pathetic hissings: "Yes my precious, yes...kill it, we will." Does The Ring have an identity of its own? No. It has an identity as part of each character; it is a physical representation of greed.

Dr. Doom. Okay, yes, this is a comic book figure. Forget about the film version that they created in "The Fantastic Four". Fox's pathetic attempt to create a franchise. The real Dr. Doom is a fascinating figure. He is the ruler of an Eastern European country. Running the land as a dictator, he also has a sense of responsibility for his people. He believes that ruling them with an iron hand is a form of true devotion.

Doom, wearing a mask because of a small scar that he views as a horrible imperfection, is a scientific genius. He has no super powers apart from an amazing intellect. His nemesis is Reed Richards, the head of the superhero group and the man responsible for the tiny scar that has caused him to wear a mask. Of course the mask is a metaphor and the imperfections from which he hides run far deeper.

Darth Vader is based on Doom, but next to Doom, Vader is a pale figure, bereft of the complexities that form the prideful Doom. Doom is the embodiment of the idea that I will explore in my next posting: A villain isn't a villain to himself. Doom is a hero seeking approval, constantly battling his pride and temper.

I remember after the attack on the World Trade Center, Marvel ran a comic in which their different characters dealt with their feelings of the tragedy. One panel that struck me was Dr. Doom, looking at the carnage on his television screen, a tear in his eye.

Two For One

I keep casting about for themes for story ideas. Just looking for something that crackles and energizes a plot. Last night, looking at myself in the mirror, I gave consideration to the old concept of the doppleganger. Good enough for Poe. Good enough for me.

A doppleganger is defined as

Etymology: German Doppelgänger, from doppel- double + -gänger goer
Date: 1851
1: a ghostly counterpart of a living person
2 a: double 2a b: alter ego b c: a person who has the same name as another

This concept of duality deserves a greater examination than is about to be offered on a blog, but it's intriguing to think of how fascinated we have been with this concept through history. Good and Evil. Christ and Anti-Christ. What would happen if when looking in the mirror we thought that there was something different about the image staring back at us, something unaccountable?

Is there horror to be found in this concept? Not overtly. But I think the idea mines discomfort from the need for individuality. If there is a doppleganger out there, then perhaps we aren't so unique. And perhaps everything we thought we knew about the nature of existence, or at least or place in existence, can be called into question.

Some folk truly believe in the idea of their double being out there somewhere. Some have explained it as a manifestation of out of body travel.

Consider if you will the case of Emilie Sagee. With thirteen students looking on, this 32 year old French woman was writing lessons on a classboard when her exact double appeared next to her, writing as she wrote. I think the documentation on this is questionable, probably an 1800's version of tabloid journalism, but it still captures the imagination.

And although we don't know of Sagee, we do know the names Guy De Maupassant, Percy Byron Shelley, and Queen Elizabeth---all three claimed to have seen their double at one time or another.

Tim Curran

I went to another convention and another book signing. There I had the opportunity to meet Tim Curran, author of "Hive" and "Dead Sea". And while the picture to the left is definitely of someone called Tim Curran, it isn't the Tim Curran I met.

A resident of that distant place in Michigan's Upper Peninsula called Esconaba (funny, he didn't sound like a 'Yooper'), he was also at the convention to promote his work. High forehead, round cheeks, dark brown hair with reddish highlights, playful eyes and a devilish goatee, Curran was a pleasure to talk to. He is funny and down to earth. Wry wit.

One thing that impressed me was Curran's passion about his writing and his research. " Hive", a sequel to Lovecraft's "At The Mountains Of Madness", is set in the Antarctic. Curran had contact with numerous people currently engaged in work at different Antarctic weather stations to make sure that his descriptions of the landscape were correct as well as his understanding of the science in his work.

I'm still looking forward to having an opportunity to meeting Stephen Mark Rainey, Charles Gramlich, or Sidney Williams some time. You never know where the flow of writing and promotion will carry you.

Dead Beat

I have kids in school who are only there so they can collect social security check. I remember one kid who received money from the government who would run out and buy large boxes of beef jerky to cram them into his locker. On one shelf beef jerky, on another a box of condoms.

I'm not criticising people who need a leg up, but sometimes what people will do in the name of fraud is worth noting. For instance, the Associated Press is circulating a story about two men who were busted for wheeling a corpse into a Pay-O-Matic to cash the dead guy's social security check. According to the article: "The witnesses saw the two men pushing a chair with the deceased flopping from side to side." I immediate thought about "Weekend at Bernies".

Apparently the two men left the body outside and went in to cash the check. As they did so a group of people began gathering around the corpse (go figure) until they attracted the attention of a police officer lunching at a diner across the street. The two were arrested for fraud while the dead guy, not charged, was released to the morgue.

Amazing Tatas!!!

As I read a projection that gasoline prices were likely to rise to four dollars a gallon in the U.S. this summer, I became depressed. Then I thought about Tatas. Tatas always cheer me, but more so when I read an account in Business Week and the BBC detailing that the Tata Motor Company is going to be producing a car which will cost about three dollars a tank to power. The vehicle, you see, is powered by air.

Air. Compressed air. Want to read more? Check out these Tatas. And these.

True, I can fume over Bush's past decision to cast a blind eye to this technology, looking instead to ethanol, an expensive alternative which is driving up food costs. I can fume that the Big Three have ignored such options, whining instead about energy standards and labor costs. But I won't. I will instead take heart at the development of a technology that will make a tremendous splash internationally, forcing automakers to re-examine their priorities. If the Air Car can be embraced and properly promoted, marketed and supported by American corporate know-how, the Middle Eastern stranglehold on oil can be reduced. Not eliminated, but reduced.

So here's to the future and to ingenuity borne of necessity.

Devil May Care

I've always been a sucker for exorcism. There's something about a couple priests pushing up their sleeves and heading out to Georgetown to kick a little bit of demon ass. Maybe it's the romantic in me. Imagine then how delighted I was when I heard the pope had announced a "War on Satan" with the intention of setting up exorcism squads. Heart be still. I'm sure George Bush became more than a little aroused.

Apparently the Vatican is concerned about what they see as an increase in interest in the occult. That and poorly printed expiration dates on milk cartons. According to an online Catholic news service, the Vatican has introduced courses for priests to combat what they call the most extreme form of "Godlessness." Furthermore, each bishop will be instructed to have a number of priests in his diocese trained to fight demonic possession.

Why can't Jews be this cool? Why can't the rabbis band together and have squads of holy guys traveling around shaming evildoers? They could wear special uniforms so as not to be mistaken for the Hasidim. I think about these things because someone has to. If I had it my way, Jews would do communion, too. Oh sure, we couldn't do the "body of Christ" thing. We'd have to put a different spin on it. Maybe call it the "the cookie of Aunt Esther". Just thinking out loud.

Forgive me for getting off topic. I just want to tip my hat to the pope. Either Benedict is getting very cool in his old age, or very very crazy. I wonder if he has plans for dealing with cats.

How Lucky For Us All

In the last week, I've heard three people tell me that some oaf has said these hideous words to them: "You're lucky to have a job."

What an odious phrase. Consider its intent. These words are really not meant to offer comfort or congratulation. They are a club to beat someone down and to impress upon them where their station lies. It is a cautionary phrase.

Sadly, it's not only used by people in power, but by people who cling precariously to their station, to their class level, to their own employment. For them it's a phrase which comes from jealousy and bitterness, from their own insecurities.

"They're changing my health benefits."

"Really? Well, I wouldn't complain too loudly. You're lucky to have a job at all."

REALLY? Well since I'm so fortunate, why am I even accepting compensation? Hell, I should turn around and give my employer half my paycheck for being so wonderful as to let me help him make a profit. Perhaps I should elevate him to godhood and supplant the Holy Trinity with the Holy Quartet.

It astonishes me how we accept certain statements and ideas without questioning them. How we love our conditioning.

The next time some miscreant utters those words to me, no matter how well intentioned, I am going to rip open his or her shirt and bite their belly. It might not make a proper political statement, but it will be something to remember.

THERE AND BACK

Every couple years I tend to slip into a reclusive state. I stay home, read, and try and avoid as much contact with the outside world as possible. When in this state, I tend to avoid the internet and become negligent in returning email. Friends who have known me for a long time tend nod their heads and mumble: "Here he goes again." Some friends give me space and some try and drag me out of my hole.

Since I am writing here, I would say it's a safe bet that I am starting to emerge from hibernation. To those who have wondered what happened to me, that is about all the useful explanation I can offer. I'm not saying I've entirely sluiced loose the cocoon, but it has serious cracks in it.

So, let me dust off the keyboard and reclaim my address at the HOUSE OF STERNBERG.

A Teacher's Story

A teacher's story...

A group of students shuffled into a classroom, smiling sheepishly and explaining that the reason they were so miserably late was that they had just had a flat and stopped to change it. The teacher nodded. Then, seperating the students into different corners of the room, asked that each one write on a sheet of paper which tire had been damaged.

A Story of Cynical Inspiration

I hate inspirational stories.

In an old non-profit I worked for that did foster care, the executive director would step up at almost every staff meeting and public event and deliver the "Starfish Story". If you don't know it, here is a thumbnail of it:

"A guy walking along the beach after a storm spotted an area where thousands of starfish had washed up on the sand and were drying out and dying in the sun. He came upon another man who was carrying each starfish gingerly back to the ocean. The first man said: 'why do you do this? You can't possibly save the starfish? What does it matter?' The second man held up the starfish and said: 'It matters to this one.'"

Retch.

After listening to this story forever, I wrote a response and mailed it to the executive director of this non-profit agency.

"A man from a nearby fishing villiage was walking along the beach after a storm and spotted an area where thousands of starfish had washed up on the sand and were drying out and dying. He came upon another man carrying each starfish gingerly back to the ocean. The first man said: 'What are you doing? The starfish raid our fishing area. They ruin everything. Starfish are pariahs to us.' The second man shrugged and continued to the ocean. 'Sorry,' he responded. 'I'm only licensed for starfish'."

Time For Rick To Rethink His Avatar

Author Ferrell Moore, a friend and critic, who never updates his blog, and who provides all manner of smug and erudite commentary (designed to bait the gullible) has had this white cat as his avatar.

I think it's time he changes it. It's not that I dislike cats (I do, but that's irrelevant), it's just that I don't think this particular image suits his personality.

And speaking of avatars, I think it's time for Jon Zech to try another as well. Here's Jon's:


See what I mean? Smug. Self-satisfied. Over-confident. You want to just take a magic marker and draw Groucho eyebrows and glasses all over the picture. Good thing I love this guy.

Another avatar begging to be changed? SQT.

Don't defend her. Mystique is an interesting image. It begs for a closer look. But I want something raw. I want something that screams at me, a rage, a fury, an explosion of personality that erupts like a volcano.

Yeah. I could toss up a few more. Charles and his motorcycle (yawn), Jim Miller's Cartman, Pythia's nymph....but I think my point is made and well taken. Time for a change.

Now, I know, there will be some people who will jump to the defense of the cat and the smarmy guy, and they'll do it by attacking "THE CULT OF STERNBERG". Okay. Well, attack away, because in a day or two, I'll practice what I preach and put my new image up. Something that reflects the wry, gentle man with a heart of gold that all who know me come to love. No. Seriously.

No More Horror

With Halloween over, I hid my horror films and put aside my horror novels. At least for a little while. For the next month I will be watching dramas, comedies, and chick flicks. I sat through "Eight Below" the other night and cried like a little girl with a hormonal abnormality.

Fiction? I'm in the middle of Steinbeck's "Tortilla Flat". When I'm done with this, it's "Cannery Row" and maybe "Of Mice and Men" again. Then....Dickens? Maybe "The Pickwick Papers".

I love horror. But a steady diet of it guaranteed to depress and give one shoulder acne.

Changes In Education

I have a simple question. How much have human beings changed in the last fifty years? I don't mean who we are, I mean what we are. Physically? I think it's a valid question and one worth examination.

As a teacher, I am constantly being told that I have to be accountable. People want me to keep trying different techniques. They say education is failing.

Yet, teachers pretty much do what they did fifty years ago. We assign reading, we engage the students in discussion, we attempt to engage them through interactive activity, we take on the role of Socrates. We assess and check to see what the class isn't getting, target some students who seem to be lagging too far behind, and then we test to check for competency. Sure, teachers are constantly being told to work on critical thinking, to teach to the test, to do a myriad of other things which sound great to the community-at-large, but the basics of teaching haven't changed. Even homeschool teachers can't really teach differently, although they have the advantage of a smaller group of students.

So if education is failing, then what's changed? The teachers? Most teachers I know go through a four year program, majoring in their desired content area. They take two more years after that and get certified. Then, they take eighteen additional college credits over the next five years and assorted professional training experiences.

Over half the teachers graduating college leave the profession within the first five years, so those that remain to teach have accrued some strong knowledge of their craft and appear to have a degree of dedication.

So what has changed? Really? Why is education failing? I go back to the original question: are human beings physically different in how they are able to learn?

Or is it possible society has changed? Could education's failure somehow be influenced by a fifty percent divorce rate or the amount of single parents? Could it somehow be influenced by the amount of time students spend in front of a television, playing videogames or watching vapid programming? Could it be somehow influenced by the diets of the young, manifested by the obesity level in the country? Could it be influenced by the elements within the government who, desiring to implement an agenda of privatization and politicization, twist curriculum this way and that?

So what's changed?

Last Night

I live in a working class neighborhood and we get a fairly large amount of kids on Halloween. I have some observations from last night:

1) A large amount of our trick-or-treaters dressed up as soldiers. Some wore bandages. I've always seen kids dressing up as militarymen, but this time there were more of them. Not sure what that means. One thing I can say: watching those kids walk away from me was an eerie experience. I prayed that they wouldn't be wearing real uniforms and marching off to war in the next ten years or so.

2)In Detroit, where the Pistons, Tigers, or Red Wings didn't have championship seasons, there were scant amounts of kids wearing sports getups. No kid was seen in a Lions outfit, but then, no kid is ever seen in a Lions' outfit. Maybe this will change in the next year or so, but I doubt it.

3) Retreads and Make Do's constituted the bulk of outfits. It was almost as though this year parents threw together last minute things for their kids or bought whatever was on sale at the store. Of course, this meant a healthy mixture of faeries, monsters, and ninjas. Among the littlest kids, Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles were hot.

I'm not sure what these costumes say about conditions in my area. We probably have the highest number unemployment numbers and foreclosures in the country. Things in Michigan are pretty dismal. I get the feeling that next year, it won't be the kids that will be coming around for handouts, but the parents.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

Journal

I often discuss writing journals with other writers and am surprised by the resistance I find. Here are some common objections:

"I don't want to write in something everyday, it's too confining. It makes me feel like I'm back in school." "I forget to write entries and then I feel 'what's the use?'" "If I have something to write, then I would prefer it be a story."

Writers' journals are fine for some. Not fine for others. I love them.

My wife bought me a journal of crisp white paper with an attractive, sturdy leather binding. I take it with me most everywhere I go and write in it on a daily basis. In it are passages which will sometimes end up in short stories, or sometimes I'll write detailed outlines for stories I am considering. Occasionally I will set down three or four story concepts, often no longer than a few sentences, hoping this will spur me to write. It's not for everybody, but it works for me.

Here is an example from my writers' journals of ideas which may or may not become something. I'll write them down exactly as they were in my journal just to show the process I go through. Who knows if any of the ideas will become anything:

The Statues- a man moves onto a block with curious and imaginative children. They are in awe when he puts on his lawn two or three grotesque statues. The children start to notice that the statues poses seem to change slightly from day to day.

When The Weathervane Lied- 1930's. A poor farming family in Oklahoma is about to lose its farm. Grandmother: "Fortunes change --weathervane says so." The family faces a murderous dust storm. Someone comes to the door, a thin man with a bandana over his nose and mouth. The grandmother sees him and says: "Don't let him in!" The father gives the stranger charity.

Stranger: "Funny thing about doin' good. People reach out and give a man a hand up. Sometimes they do it and it's automatic. They just do good without thinking about it. They just do." Father: "It's Christian to be charitable." Stranger: "Is it Christian when charitability becomes a habit." Father: "I don't get your meaning." Stranger: "The old lady didn't want me in here. The old lady was right." Father: "Ma don't mean nothin'." Stranger: "But she was right. You should have listened to her. When I leave here in the next couple minutes, I'm takin' your children with me."

Finding The Road: A Nazi concentration camp officer is shown to be a normal individual. Whatever his conflict is, the concentration camp must be nothing but a background, all violence and gore portrayed in a mundane manner. The story is theme driven, showing that the Nazis are not monsters, but humans doing monsterous things. As such, the terror should be found in the potential for all of us to play the role of monster.

Zombie Freak Out

"Zombie freak out," I said.

My wife, who is used to such unprovoked outbursts, stared at the road ahead, ignoring me. The silence sat between us until she couldn't stand it any longer. "Okay," she asked. "So what's a zombie freak out?"

"I have this idea. We need to get about ten to twelve people together and dress them up as zombies."

She waited. She waited a bit longer. "And?"

"And we turn them loose in different places. Maybe one night let them wander through a car lot on a busy road; another night we could all go to the airport, maybe they can hang out in the bathroom there like Sen. Larry Craig; another night we could all go to a local McDonalds, maybe all of us just order the Apple Pie. Who knows, maybe it could get popular. We could put an ad in the local paper advertising future zombie freakouts."

She nodded. "Zombie freak out," she said. "Cool."

"Cool."

Another ten miles of silence. "Vampire Wilding."

She didn't ask.

The Burning Times

"No more burning times," shouted the man on the stage. Dressed in a buckskin suit with a long braid running down his back, the man raised a militant fist. The pagans around me raised their fists and returned the chant.

"What burning times are we talking about?" I asked the person next to me.

"You know, in Europe."

As a person who considers himself well-schooled in history, I scratched my head. "The Inquisition?"

"It's called by many names. We were persecuted. My people have been persecuted for centuries."

"Your people?"

"The Wiccans. Witches. The Christians tried to exterminate us."

"Wicca hasn't exactly been a codified religion," I protested. "And the Inquisition wasn't just a religious event, it was also political. The church was using its power to solidify its control. They were burning anyone who got in their way."

"They were burning witches."

"And a bunch of other people. Besides, most of the people burned as witches weren't witches."

The person looked at me with a hurt expression. "I expected you to be more understanding about genocide. Look what the Germans did to your people. The Jews."

I didn't trust myself to respond.

Someone came by selling candies shaped as something called "The Green Man". The man on the stage had stepped aside for entertainment: a man with a bare torso who was spinning in circles while banging a tambourine and singing elongated vowels.

I nodded and bought myself a "Green Man."

Not Feeling The Love

I thought to myself: why don't I join the Horror Writers Association? You know, the people who give out the much politicized Bram Stokers Award. I thought, hey, why not. You can communicate with other writers, have other writers communicate with you, and join that big happy much politicized group.

I sent them the application fee and waited. Nothing. Not even an acknowledgment. I waited an appropriate period of time and sent a gentle prod to see if there might be something awry. Nothing.

At least magazines send out rejection letters.

Maybe some of you who are members of this esteemed group can send emails to your organization and tell them to maybe give me a buzz and let me know what the deal is. Just a thought.

DAED GNIVIL EHT FO KCATTA

Since we're still revving up for Halloween, allow me to turn my attention from the exploitation of vampires to another form of undead, the Zombie.

Prior to seeing George Romero's unintentional iconic rip off of "Last Man On Earth", starring Vincent Price, I associated the zombie with such films as Val Lewton's "I Walked With A Zombie", Hammers' "Plague of the Zombies" and "White Zombie" starring Bela Lugosi. In these films, the zombie is a product of a dark Voodoo rite. Magic.

In the late sixties, Romero added a new twist.

No Voodoo rites in "Night of the Living Dead", but rather some strange radiation animated corpses, turning them into unthinking flesh eating machines. So successful was this manifestation of the zombie that Romero's vision now permeates most fiction and film dealing with the undead.

I've been tackling the topic myself. It's difficult. In writing stories featuring the more modern version of the zombie, I am foreced to grapple with an apocalyptic image where the protagonist is doomed to failure; where the defeat of mankind at the hands of nature is inevitable. Such a restrictive and depressive setting isn't easy fodder. I mean, how many different ways can you set up a protagonist to deal with the zombie threat in a crumbling infrastructure that resembles Baghdad at high noon.

What complicates such a story for me is the inevitability of the protagonist's demise. Sure, they may defeat the immediate zombie threat, but ultimately the undead are going to get them.

Brian Keene (one of several authors who have tackled this sub genre approach) in "The Rising" and "City of the Dead" shows exactly what the problem is. He creates engaging drama and likeable characters, but they of course end up as most protagonists in these tales end up, serving as a main course for the undead. Still, Keene's books are worth reading. He is entertaining and his novels are page turners.

Personally, I hate writing a story where the protagonist dies. I want my characters to triumph, or at least not fall under the wheel of a steamroller. I believe readers deserve more than to be shot down after investing in a character's development. Readers want a catharsis. The reader, who has given emotional time to the writer, wants to experience some sense of purging.

When writing about things Lovecraftian, I take care to carry this belief forward. In the world of Lovecraft, it's easy to kill off protagonists as they are overwhelmed by a reality that is nihilistic and beyond any mortal understanding. I won't spill the beans about what happens to my characters in "The Others", my contribution to "High Seas Cthulhu", but I'll just say that my character lives through the end of the story. Maybe changed, but he lives. The reader is allowed a catharsis.

Poe wrote that without hope there cannot be terror. Without hope there is only a tale of the fatalistic. The doomed man who knows his fate with a certainty that does little to spark horror. The doomed man who thinks that perhaps there is a chance, even only a sliver, engages the reader and creates the dramatic tension and suspense.

I will finish my novel "Food For The Flies", which features good old-fashioned Voodoo zombism, but I'll also attempt to chew my way through a Romeroesque zombie story. I think maybe that I have something to offer readers.

I hope.

And that's really the key to horror, isn't it? Hope.

The Vampire Preservation Society

With Halloween around the corner, I want to return to a particular complaint that I'm sure I've mentioned before, but it needs repeating. What prompted this forthcoming rant was a book by Brandon Massey called "Dark Corner". I read the first chapter, having no prior knowledge of what the book might be about. It began promisingly enough. An African American goes south to live in the home of his now dead famous father. The characters were engaging and whet my appetite. But then...then Massey began Chapter Two with a tall man in black sitting in first class on an airplane, a metrosexual vampire drinking blood through a straw from a juice pack. I threw the book aside and began this rant.

An open letter to would-be horror writers and urban fantasists.

Dear Sir or Madame,

Leave the vampires alone.

I understand that they are alluring and that these manifestations of repressed Victorian sexuality are irrestistable as you attempt to draw in readers by playing upon their own power and repressed sexuality issues. However, in writing about these dark creatures and in giving them all the neurosis of metrosexuals in heat, you rob them of their primal energy. You take away that which has made them fearful, that which has haunted our subconscious and thrilled us and instead left behind a pale, ineffectual doppleganger.

I remember the thrill I had watching "Nightstalker" for the first time. The made for TV film followed a vampire as he hunted prey in Las Vegas. No charming foreigner there, with smoldering good looks and a seductive smile. No. Kolchak's prey was the vampire revealed. The cruel animalistic bloodsuck, drinking our fear along with our blood, chewing through our psyche, devouring it as though chewing through popcorn at a midnight show.

Dan Curtis' Barnabus Collins. I know some will think that he was a fop, a pathetic troll trapped in a daytime drama. However, every so often, Jonathan Frey showed what lay beneath the romanticized version of evil, and it wasn't pretty. Not one bit. Love him all you want, you lovers of "Buffy" (one of the greatest offenders) but when given rein, Barnabus was evil without bottom. He was darkness come solid.

Shall we talk about Simon Clark's creations? What about Dracula as drawn by Bram Stoker, without the baggage given him by Hollywood? Shall we discuss Robert R. McCammon's "They Thirst"? What about F. Paul Wilson's "Midnight Mass"? Or King's "Salem's Lot"?

I won't throw blame though. I won't wail about Anne Rice, nor shall I stake poor Laurell K. Hamilton. I won't even turn a critical eye toward the likes of Mary Janice Davidson and her Queen Betsy series (you really don't want to know). Let me instead just extend my arms in supplication and beg that these writers stop. Go pick on someone else. Leave the vampires alone. Write stories about uncertified car mechanics. That can be terrifying. Write about professional soccer players transplanted to the U.S.. Egads!!!!! Just turn away from the nightstalkers. Stop. Now.

Given time, these creatures of shadow can reclaim their mystique. The word VAMPIRE can regain some of its iconic horror. The mind heals. The culture forgives.

So turn back to the light where you really belong, and leave the darkness to us who know it and love it.

Stewart Sternberg