Authors: Subterranean Press
You know, I could, really. I could go on for hours. With
minimal provocation.
But who the hell cares? I’d be bored before I got to the
bottom of the page, and so would you (3). Talk about beating your dead horses.
So, in the spirit of flagellating corpses, I’d rather
talk about zombies.
Now, zombies (4) are cool. They rot. And drop bits all
over the place. And they shuffle, so you can run faster than they can(5), but
they’re pretty much inexorable and implacable. What with being already dead.
And they want to eat your braiiiiinnnnssssss.
In some ways, I think of zombies as being like the
creepy old man at the end of the block, when you were a kid. Remember him? The
one in the paint-splattered medium-gray trousers cut off at the knee and the
mustard-stained v-neck T-shirt, with his hair combed over his glossy age-spotted
pate? Probably with a large carbuncle on the side of his head?
The one who would come lurching out his front door,
around the patio wall, in his black socks and carpet slippers, shouting
“You
kids get off of my laaaaaaaaaawnnnn?”
Pretty much just like a zombie. Which is to say,
carrying out a reflexive action (bellowing, and possibly waving a rake) without
really any consideration of the whyfor or howfor of it. You step on his lawn.
He bellows. You run, laughing like a fool.
He never seems to catch on that all the fun in tromping
across his lawn is to get him to come out and bellow.
Zombies are the same way. They don’t have a lot of
higher processing functions (after all, their brains are mostly mush. Or
maggots. Which is why they want to eat yours.) They don’t move very fast. So
you can outrun them. They’re only really worrisome in groups, because then they
can surround or overwhelm you.
Well, admittedly, some zombies will ambush.
But under most circumstances, if you’ve got just one
zombie, or a small group, your best bet is either to keep your distance, or
maybe whack them with a cricket bat. That’s kind of violent, though, and you
have to get close to them to do it. And if you don’t behead them with the first
blow, then you’re stuck in close combat.
You can’t reason with a zombie. As I mentioned above,
they react reflexively. They just shuffle around looking for brains to suck,
and you’re not going to get much sense out of one.
Besides, in going in there with that cricket bat, you
run the risk of zombie bite. Which, untreated, can turn you into a zombie too,
mindlessly flailing about and bellowing
BRAINS
and
YOU KIDS STAY THE
HELL OUT OF MY ROOOOSEEEEBUUUSHES!
And that’s where the real trouble
starts.
Too much of that, and then you have zombie packs.
And besides, the damn things are already dead. They
can’t adapt. They can’t process new ideas. (6) They’re hopelessly stuck at the
moment of their demise. Brain-death.
So, okay, not great conversationalists. And they are, of
course, dead. And rotting. (7)
And a bit stinky.
But they’re still cool.
They’re cool because they serve as a metaphor for the
destructive influence of conventional society, among other things. For the
perniciousness of programmed behavior and ossified thought patterns.
They provoke the protagonist into motion, and provide
the impetus for him (or her) to get it together. To change his (or her) life.
To win the boy (or girl) of his (or her) dreams.
To take action. To stand up.
To become a hero.
To take that swing. To become a leader. To get involved.
Also, bonking them on the head can be a pretty fantastic
workout. Cricket bats aren’t light.
***
(1) Eleven women in seventy-six slots, of which two are
nominated for fiction, and some of whom share their nomination with a man, but
in the spirit of putting my thumb on the scale as ridiculously as possible, I
counted each of those as a whole nomination. It comes to 14.5%.
If
you
count the JWC not-a-Hugo-Award.
(2) Two out of seven, or 28.6%.
(3) Bet you a shiny penny.
(4) Unlike internet slapfights
(5) Unless of course they are the superspeed zombies
from
28 Days Later,
which are all zippy and can run you down! They’re
highly evolved zombies! They’re way cool, but they are not germane to the
satire.
(6) Except for George Romero zombies. Which are
also
way cool, and
also
not germane to the satire.
(7) Some of them, such as
Michael Jackson,
can
dance. However, bits may still fall off
occasionally.
Column:
HARVESTING THE DARKNESS #2: FULLY STOKE(re)D by Norman
Partridge
Last weekend I picked up my third Bram Stoker award.
Well, not really. Joe Lansdale picked it up for me. The truth is that I’ve
never been present to accept any of the Stokers I’ve won. The first two times,
Lucy Taylor picked them up. That was okay, because I’m sure most folks in the
audience were damn near ecstatic to find themselves staring at Lucy instead of
me. Joe’s another story, though. Sure, Lansdale’s a handsome enough guy… but,
hell, I’ve still got all my hair.
Still, I was pleased to see my short novel
Dark
Harvest
get the award for Long Fiction this year. If you read my first
column here at
Subterranean Online
, you know it’s a book that’s close to
my heart in a few different ways. That makes receiving Haunted House #3 pretty
sweet. Toss in the fact that it comes from my peers… well, that’s sweeter. Fact
is I wish I’d been in Toronto to belly up to the bar and raise a tall glass of
semper
fi
with all of you.
Of course, said sweetness had about as much staying
power as the Costo-sized heavyweights who pass for contenders these days. That
was my own fault, because I checked the buzz on a few message boards after I
heard the news. It wasn’t long before the bitching and moaning started up, re:
The Stoker Process, and everyone gathered ’round for a good catfight.
Ever notice how that happens? And how those threads
endure? Man, some of them remind me of Marvin Hagler in his prime. They go the
full fifteen rounds. Threads in which the merits of books and writers are
intelligently debated–those die a quick death. But give folks a chance to
rail against the powers that be, or work up a head of steam about how much
better things in this disordered mess of a world would work if only they could
don a metal suit and reign unchallenged
à la
Victor Von Doom… well, do
that and you’re good for ten pages and a couple thousand views, for sure and
for certain.
And right about here I’m tempted to haul a
60 Minutes
crew straight down the rabbit hole to Message Board Land, where the Internet
warriors dwell, and go a few rounds myself. But Bill Schafer only allows me
1,000 words for this gig, so we’ll have to
raincheck
that action. Let’s
get back to those threads chewing over the Stokers and the awards process
itself, since that’s what this column’s about. See, in the midst of the weekend
hubbub, some interesting questions managed to rear their heads, and I’d like to
take a crack at them.
Since we’re talking Stokers, an award decided by popular
vote, much of the discussion focused on the responsibility of the voters. Tote
up the final ballot this year, you’ve got just over three dozen works of
fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. That’s a lot of ground to cover, and a lot of
money to spend if the membership’s ponying up dollars for books. The question
is: how many voters actually make that trip,
and–realistically–should they be expected to?
To find an answer, let’s slap together three quick
scenarios:
1. It’s a perfect world. Everybody reads everything and
votes accordingly.
2. Nothing’s perfect… but, hey, everyone tries.
Members read what they can, and–since they’re professionals and know the
field–they cast some votes based on factors other than the particular
work in question. Say, a writer’s entire body of work, or career.
3. Are
you
kidding,
idiot? The world
sucks
. The most popular kids win
every
goddamn time.
Welcome to
Horror High School.
Of course, the truth lies somewhere in the gray areas
between those scenarios. And the truth isn’t consistent, either. It varies from
year to year. So what can be done to make things better, and move us toward
that ideal in Scenario #1?
Someone suggested that nominated works be made available
to the HWA membership, perhaps as PDF files. And, hey, that might work in some
categories–say a short story. But I don’t see it happening with longer
pieces. These collections, novels, and novellas represent the sweat of each
creator’s brow. The nominees worked hard on them. Personally, I can’t see an
author giving up what might be the best work of his or her career in pursuit of
an award. That doesn’t sit right with me… and I didn’t do that with
Dark
Harvest.
My reasoning was simple. Mostly, it just didn’t seem fair to the
readers who were supporting my work by popping forty bucks for the hardcover
over at Cemetery Dance.
And even if I had gone the PDF route, and every other
nominee had, too… remember, we’re talking more than three dozen works showing
up in members’ email boxes in the relatively short time between final ballot
and vote casting. Me, I work a joe job and write–there are some years
where I don’t finish that many books. In other words:
Sorry, Charlie,
there’s too much tortoise in the equation, not near enough hare.
So sweep that idea under the door, and what alternatives
are left? Well, there are always juried awards like World Fantasy and the IHG.
To tell the truth, the longer I’m in the business, the more I appreciate awards
of this sort, where a small group of professionals accept the reading chores
for a year, narrow the field, make the calls for winners and losers. As far as
I’m concerned, anyone who signs up for that kind of a deal is really going
above and beyond the call of duty, and I certainly respect those who give it a
go.
Of course, the downside to juries is that they can
pretty easily fall victim to the predilections (if not the downright
prejudices) of their memberships. Remember, these are small groups, and four or
five individuals can easily find themselves leaning in a direction that may not
be representative of an entire organization. Conversely, a small group can
split wide and hard, too. Hey, if you’ve hung around long enough, you’ve
probably heard about that happening between the fantasy- and horror-based
judges for the World Fantasy Award a time or two.
But no method is perfect. And maybe that’s the only
answer I can scratch up for you right now. I will tell you this: when it comes
to this year’s Long Fiction category, I was pleased to find myself in fine
company. The other Stoker nominees included Kim Newman, whose particular blend
of horror and pop culture I’ve admired for years. Laird Barron, a hot new
talent whose work I’ve been following in F&SF. Chris Golden and Jim Moore,
two of the hardest working professionals I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. And
Fran Friel… well, I don’t know Fran’s work. Not yet. But her inclusion in this
category is enough to make me order a copy of her book, and I look forward to
reading it.
And for me, that’s ultimately what awards should be
about.
The tale, not he who tells it.
For a writer, that’s the place the work gets done. You
fight your battle on the page. That’s where you need to ask yourself if you
measure up–to the best that you can do, or to the best that can be
done–because that’s the only place you can make a difference.
Right there. On paper.
It’s the same place you’ll
find your real reward.
Column:
Me and Lucifer by Mike Resnick
Lucifer Jones was born one evening back in the late
1970s. I was trading videotapes with a number of other people—stores
hadn’t started renting them yet, and this was the only way to increase your
collection at anything above a snail’s pace—and one of my correspondents
asked for a copy of She, with Ursula Andress, which happened to be playing on
Cincinnati television.
I looked in my
Maltin Guide
and found that
She
ran 117 minutes. Now, this was back in the dear dead days when everyone knew
that Beta was the better format, and it just so happened that the longest Beta
tape in existence at the time was two hours. So I realized that I couldn’t just
put the tape on and record the movie, commercials and all, because the tape
wasn’t long enough. Therefore, like a good correspondent/trader, I sat down,
controls in hand, to dub the movie (which I had never seen before) and edit out
the commercials as they showed up.
About fifteen minutes into the film Carol entered the
video room, absolutely certain from my peals of wild laughter that I was
watching a Marx Brothers festival that I had neglected to tell her about.
Wrong. I was simply watching one of the more inept films ever made.
And after it was over, I got to thinking: if they could
be that funny by accident, what if somebody took those same tried-and-true pulp
themes and tried to be funny on purpose?