Monthly Archive: June 2008

Book Trailer for Coffin County

Here’s the book trailer for Gary Braunbeck’s new novel Coffin County. The book is a continuation of the Cedar Hill Cycle that was begun with In Silent Graves, Keepers, Mr. Hands, and the stories that have appeared in his story collections Graveyard People and Home Before Dark.

Recent reviews for the novel have been pretty good:

“(Braunbeck) tackles difficult plotting, and writes beautiful, poetic passages. He is also adept at characterization; creating a comprehension of those who may not possess redeeming qualities, and reaffirming, through deft description, the likeability of others. Coffin County has many likeable characters, and many of them die. This is brave of Braunbeck; in the novel, nothing is predictable, anything is possible: Rather like chaos theory.”

“…Gary A. Braunbeck has stepped quite comfortably into the very large shadows left behind by Richard Matheson and Stephen King… COFFIN COUNTY is an intelligent, cogent, powerfully written novel of supernatural horror supported by a solid and thrilling police procedural foundation. I know you will enjoy this truly horrific slice of the dark stuff from a writer whose talents have wowed me for years.”
The Tomb of Dark Delights

“Braunbeck delivers an intensely creepy and truly original tale that’s guaranteed to give you chills late at night.”

“Speaking of characters, more articulate reviewers than this one have noted that Braunbeck creates the most human cast in dark fantasy. These are people you might run into at the corner store or at a neighborhood cookout. Even the unsavory people are drawn with a depth that is so defined it qualifies as High Definition Horror. Pick up Coffin County and lose yourself in Cedar Hill, a town so creepy it makes King’s Castle Rock look like Disney World.”

On Book Advances

by Gary A. Braunbeck

Many dim moons ago, when Reagan had just taken possession of the White House and I’d taken possession of my 20s, I decided on fiction writing as a career, unaware at the time that my decision was due to undiagnosed brain damage, the extent of which is still being determined. I was cranking out bad short stories and even worse novels on a magnificent (and if used as a weapon, potentially deadly) Olympus manual typewriter. Its loud, metallic clickitty-clack-clack became the underscore of my Grand Opera of the Imagination, a march, a rally cry, a battle hymn, always singing out You can do it! You can do it!

Yes, we all recognize the above as being Inspirational Bullshit Designed to Make You Urp on Your Shoes. The truth is, that sound used to drive me crazy, because eventually it began to sound like the Failure Police were mocking me as they danced and sang before my eyes in a Kick-Line of Coming Calamity: You’re going nowhere/You’re doing nothing/No one will read you/You’ll die unread. Boogie-oogie-oogie. Sisyphus had nothing on me.

One of the things that used to keep me going was the thought that, if I kept at it and listened to the advice of pro writers whenever I could corner them, I would start to publish, then be paid, then be able to support myself on writing alone. Well, I did keep at it, I did listen to advice from the pros (especially a marvelously encouraging letter from Harlan Ellison to the 19-year-old moi), and I began to publish. My first short story appeared in a small press magazine when I was 22, and now–almost exactly 25 years later–I have somewhere around 200 published stories to my credit, as well as 10 novels, 10 short story collections, 1 non-fiction book, and 2 anthologies that I have co-edited. And there are nights when that chorus line from the Ninth Circle of Hell still puts on its little show, with a Sunday matinee thrown in for good measure. And I wonder why I’m on anti-depressants.

One thing that often appears to beginning writers much as the vision of the Holy Grail appeared to King Arthur is the concept of the Advance. Ah, so elusive she seems, waiting somewhere Out There in your future, wagging her finger seductively, lips moistened and eyes gleaming with yummy promise: I’m here for you, you’ll see. Some day, we’ll be together.

Cue soft focus, Writer embraces Seductress, Fade Out as echoing voices sing: You finally got here/Don’t need to punch the clock/But you remember/There’s still Writer’s Block!

Ahem. Yes, the last and deadliest phase of going from part-time to full-time writer, from would-be pro to flat-out slave of the muse: the advance.

As I write this, I have a stack of book contracts within easy reach. All have been signed by the proper parties, and all have been accompanied by advance checks. There’s just one little glitch in this portrait of the Writer’s dream Come True.

I haven’t written any of these books yet.

(Not entirely true; work has begun on all and is nearly finished on two; the point is, I’ve got until October to deliver all five. Boogie-oogie-oogie, cue the kick-line in the wings.)

That’s the part of the Pro Writer Fantasy sequence that never enters the picture when the young You imagines that provocative seductress beckoning to you from your future. Yes, it’s great to have someone hand you a stack of cash for something you haven’t written yet (it’s still one hell of a confidence booster), and when you’re younger it’s easy to think you’ll never, ever, under any circumstances, have trouble producing that book you’ve already taken money for, but somewhere in the theatrical wings of your subconscious Jung and Freud are rolling on the floor, howling with laughter as the Failure Police don their black fishnet stockings ala Dr. Frankenfurter and wait for their cue.

I once promised myself that I would never, ever accept money up front for something I haven’t written. As far as my books go, I’ve broken that promise every time, and so far I haven’t locked up, freaked out, melted down, climbed a tower with a rifle in my hands, or taken to reading John Grisham.

But ….

But there’s always the waiting chorus line in my head, kept in place by a stage manager who every so often calls: “Places for the Dance of Doom and Despair! Places, please, he’s gonna crack this time, I just know it!”

Taking advances up front for something not yet written is a sure-fire way to keep you on edge, and adds (as I’ve found so far) a certain, feverish, almost desperate quality to the work itself, which gives definite intensity to the telling of the tale. I’ve had many people say one of the things they like best about my work is its strong emotional content. I appreciate that, because I do like to engage readers’ emotions as deeply as possible (there just isn’t story without feeling), but to be completely honest, sometimes that intensity comes not just from my imagination, but from the realization that Dear God, I’ve already taken money for this thing and I Have to finish it, I Have To, Dear God I HAVE TO! What if I can’t? What if I go blank, become blocked, flip out, have to take a one-way ride in the Twinkie Mobile to the House of Good Pudding? What Then? What? WHAT THE #@!* WAS I THINKING?

And one lithium later I remember the why I got into this in the first place.

To meet women.

As long as they’re not part of certain chorus….

The Literary Ghetto

by Gary A. Braunbeck

Recently, I saw a blurb for “The Wicker Man” written by a professional reviewer named Jeff Shannon:

Typically categorized as a horror film, The Wicker Man is actually a serious and literate thriller about modern paganism, written by Anthony Shaffer (Sleuth) with a deft combination of cool subjectivity and escalating dread.

Shannon seems to think that horror by its definition cannot be “serious” or “literate”. Unfortunately, he has plenty of company. And I have seen countless instances of others — readers and reviewers alike — who dismiss science fiction, mysteries, and fantasy on the same grounds: that genre fiction is somehow not “real” literature.

And so writers and readers of genre fiction get shoved off into their own literary ghetto, where “discerning” readers of lit-rah-chure deign not tread.

Even within the various streets of the literary ghetto, residents dismiss their neighbors: science fiction writers dismiss horror as “trash”, and horror writers dismiss romance as “fluff”, and on and on without any of the self-styled lit snobs taking the time to actually become familiar with the work they scorn.

(I’m going to talk about horror fiction from here on out, because it’s near and dear to my heart.)

Unfortunately these attitudes are something that I see us being stuck with. Horror fiction–regardless of how well-crafted, well-written, thoughtful, literate, and serious-of-intent any number of individual works may be–will always, always be given at-best second-class citizenship treatment in the literary world, and I maintain that a lot of this (especially over the last 30 years) is due in part to horror movies–make that bad horror movies.

People assume that any work labelled “horror” will have something in common with the Freddy/Jason/Pinhead/Candyman/what-have-you ouvre; it’s got to have blood, guts, sex, death, torture, sadism, all the visceral elements that are right in your face and up your nose and down your throat.

While it may be true that even many of the more literate and serious works have a smattering of these elements, necessary for advancement of the story, it’s those very elements that people tend to focus on and assume that they and they alone constitute horror.

Two quick examples: If I say to you, “Deliverance”, 9 out of 10 people will immediately respond with “Squeal like a pig!”

I want to hit these people.

Yes, that rape scene is brutal, but it is not gratuitous, and in the cases of both the film and the novel, if you look beyond the brutality itself to what the act says about the men committing it and those suffering it–not to mention the spiritual, psychological, and thematic ramifications of the act–it adds a depth, a seriousness, if you will, to what follows that otherwise would not be there. In fact, if you watch or read closely (not all that closely, now that I think of it), you’ll realize that the main characters would not have been able to survive what happens to them later had the attack not happened.

But most people will say, “Squeal like a pig!” and think they get it.

Same goes for the original The Exorcist; most people remember only the little girl’s cussing and spitting up pea soup. Forget that both the movie and novel have a core of emotional pain that has rarely been equaled, and that both ask very serious, very smart questions about the nature of human goodness and decency–nah; let’s talk about the vomit and a little girl saying “Your mother sucks cocks in hell!”

Yeah, that’s what it’s about. Right.

Paul Schrader’s version of The Exorcist: The Beginning, gets shelved because it was “…too cerebral and not nearly violent and bloody enough”, yet Freddy vs. Jason–an idiotic, sloppy, sadistic, hollow-cored piece of cinematic afterbirth that not only celebrated everything that is wrong with modern horror, but wallowed in it–was a box-office smash.

And the majority of people assume that horror fiction is exactly like horror movies. Or that it’s all a regurgitating of Stephen King–because, after all, nothing in the field was done before King did it, right? (Not a slam against King–I’m impatiently awaiting the seventh installment of The Dark Tower just like millions of other readers.)

It’s just that King–more than Clive Barker, Dean Koontz, Peter Straub, Anne Rice, any of the giants–has been the most visible and the most popular, so naturally he has amassed the largest and most fiercely loyal readership; unfortunately, a part of that readership is a bit tunnel-visioned: everything and everybody is just (in their eyes) copying the master (untrue) and riding on King’s coattails.

(Which, in an important way, we all are, like it or not; the man bulldozed and widened the road on which we’ve all traveled the past 30 years, so you know what? If part of the toll we have to pay for all he’s done for modern horror writers is answer questions like, “Oh, so you write stuff like Stephen King?”…ultimately, isn’t that a small price for still having the field of modern horror? I digress.)

Take another look at T.M. Wright’s Cold House; this was, is, and will always be a f*cking brilliant piece of work; it’s moody, eerie, thoughtful, scary, poignant, smart, and challenging–everything good, literate horror fiction should be. Do you honestly think this novel would gain the wider mass-market readership it deserves were it to be picked up by a bigger publishing house?

I don’t think so (though I would fervently hope for it).

Why? because it forces the reader to think along the way; it forces them to pay attention; it’s not the type of novel that presents everything in clear, graphic, spoon-fed terms so that readers aren’t challenged in the least and can easily lay it aside for a game of beach volleyball and be able to pick it right back up where they left off without blowing a single brain cell.

And I maintain that at least part of the reason for this is because people have become too spoiled by a steady diet of bad, stupid, by-the-numbers horror movies. The two things ain’t mutually exclusive; one of these things isn’t like the other.

What it comes down to is this:

  1. Horror will always be given at-best second-class citizenship in the literary world, and our only defense against this is to continually produce, read, support, and buy work that is of the highest caliber we are capable;
  2. Horror fiction will always be judged–at least, in large (if not total) part–by the quality or lack thereof of the majority of horror films, because it’s easier for people to judge a field on the basis of something they can watch than something that they have to take hours (if not days) out of their lives to read;
  3. Writers in the field are going to have to answer the “Stephen King”-type questions for at least another 20 years, so we’d save ourselves a lot of time, energy, and frustration if we quit complaining about it because–face it–most of us who’ve emerged in the field in the past 2 decades wouldn’t have careers if King hadn’t widened the road for us to follow;
  4. There are always going to be those who want to distance a work from horror by calling it something like “…a serious, literate thriller” or somesuch happy horseshit, because (and I speak from experience here) whenever you link “horror” with “serious” and “literate”, the two words that emerge most often in describing the works in question are “pretentious” and “depressing”.

I am not saying that I look down on writers and filmmakers whose work has a more visceral core; I think Jack Ketchum and Martin Scorsese would be a match made in heaven (“Closing Time”, anyone?); nor am I disdaining work that succeeds in giving you the out-and-out creeps (like the work of Hugh Cave, great stuff); I like to think I embrace all aspects of the horror field when they are done well. And if that makes me a snob or an elitist–demanding that work be done well–then guilty as charged.

So join me here among the rest of the second-class citizens in the literary cul-de-sac, won’t you?

Dave W. says A couple years ago I heard a literary critic describe Connie Willis as “sort of a science fiction writer” because she couldn’t imagine SF writers as being able to write. What would she do with Gene Wolfe?