Disturbing. Most of the characters are completely unlikable, especially the men: the worst are outright misogynists and racists, even the best act like superior assholes to everyone else.
Mamatas doesn’t pull any punches in exposing the sexism and harassment that happens at fan conventions. It makes for tough reading, both because the female protagonist is constantly experiencing it and because the male narrator, whose death she’s investigating, is one of the superior assholes it’s hard to sympathize with.
Worth reading, though, if nothing else than as a “Do I act like this?” check.
Three things it taught me about writing:
- – Can get away with very skimpy descriptions — or none at all — if you choose the proper perspective to tell the story from (in this case, a corpse’s).
- Protagonist’s motivation for pursuing the mystery can be thin, if the reader’s interest is piqued enough for them to want to see it solved
- Characters will always rationalize their behavior. Even when dead.
Compelling. Read the last half of this 900+ page monster in a single day.
Still amazes me how King’s writing style is so slight as to be non-existent, but with it he creates these incredibly long, involved, gripping stories. Truly a master of the craft.
Three things I learned about writing:
- Horror stories lean on senses other than sight: smell and taste, in particular. These senses are more intimately connected with our bodies, making the texture of the story more physical.
- A simple task can have tension if the reader is kept guessing as to what might happen, and if the character thinks things could go horribly wrong; if the character has a goal-threatening freak-out, that’s even better.
- Horror needs a temptation: an invitation to follow a compulsion the character normally wouldn’t, with promises (usually false) given that make it seem ok.
In honor of Halloween, three personal ads with a horror twist:
Missed connection: Saw you making dinner last night, that blouse really brought out your eyes. I’m a secret Billy Joel fan, too. If you can tell me which album you were listening to, drop me a line, let me watch you have coffee?
DWF seeks M for night of debauchery followed by dinner. Must have nicely-shaped head. No beards.
Where are you, my sweet Rose? We danced while Nero played fiddle, we smuggled rats to Constantinople, we kissed by the light of Giodarno Bruno’s torch. We had a date for five years later, November 5th, but you never showed. Have you forgotten me? Hope to see you in Chicago next year.
Inspired by one of Chuck Wendig‘s Flash Fiction Challenges, I’m posting three flash fiction stories today, each three sentences long, and each in a different genre.
The Infection was spreading up her leg, converting flesh and clothes into an amorphous green tentacle. Anne pulled her belt loose for a tourniquet, tying it off a few inches above her knee. Then she lifted the hacksaw, set it just below the tourniquet, and sawed through.
With the dragon dead, the town didn’t need a hero anymore. Bjorn spent his days bragging and his nights drinking, his armor hung up at home, rusting. When he died, they couldn’t fit him into it.
He could see into my memories, read the very core of my soul. We met in a chat room, in those heady days before the Regulation. Since he was Deleted, all I have left of him now is his Worm inside me, spreading random bytes of his code wherever I go.