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Post-Fest Post
Sep. 6th, 2006 03:24 amFirst up: The Festival of Fear Report.
Yes, it's a bit of a grind, and yes, literature was severely underrepresented…indeed, many people there seemed a bit weirded out that there was any representation, but those sort of mouth-breathing looky-loos we can all do without. I was sitting between Don Hutchison and the guys from Dark Sky Films, who had their remastered version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre on all day, every day, which drew a very particular type of crowd; at one point, I leant over to him and whispered: "I think I’m turning into H.G. Wells", because a lot of them did have this vaguely pig/simian/dog/cow-like look—-an unattractive combination of utter vacancy if they didn’t catch my eyes and self-protective contempt if they did, like I might suddenly jump up and try to make them READ something. I mean, heavens to Betsy!
Nevertheless, by the end, I found I’d sold all the Loonie Dreadfuls, plus those extra eight I asked Brett Savory to bring by on Saturday. Indeed, the "you may not think you have fifteen dollars for a book [that normally sells for $26.00, which makes it all the more insane I’m offering both for $25.00], but I know you have one dollar" thing worked so well as a general gateway drug-type introductory pitch that Steve and I later made "The Diarist" and "Folly" into folded-over black and white pamphlets, and sold those for fifty cents. It’s like giving something away, except A) you’re not really GIVING it and B) sometimes, they really do come back for the whole collection. Not to mention how you leave with a lot of pocket-change.
Better still, I also sold all but two copies of The Worm in Every Heart and all but seven copies of Kissing Carrion, both out of a re-order of twenty books each. And The Worm was by far the bigger seller, which pleased me no end.
So, to sum up: My purpose was to get seen, get my name out there and hopefully get read and recognized; I believe that was accomplished. It's also really energizing to at least be around people who (in the main) know both what horror is and what it can be, people you don't necessarily find yourself having that same stupid "but why do you want to do THAT?" conversation with, before skipping forward to the "good" parts. And like I said to Liisa Ladouceur (of the Royal Sarcophagus Society, who’ve just opened a cool-ass online shop—-hint, hint), at the time, I enjoyed it so much more than I ever thought I would that I'm really looking forward to next year, when I’m going to try and push the Rue Crew to put all the authors as close to each other as possible, to create a sort of "book island" in the midst of a sea of other horror media; we’ll see how that works, if and so.
Monday was mainly all about decompressing and dealing with Cal, who is toothing like a maniac. The highlight of the day was finding out, via email, that the people who were once interested in me doing a book on Canadian Film are…still interested, amazingly enough, since it’s been two years of silence from my end. So it’s time to dust off my outline and get cracking on that sample chapter, finally. More energy! Perhaps it will even help me ward off this cold that I seem to be courting, after only three whole days of constantly breathing 40,000 other people’s recycled germs.
Other stuff:
Tonight I rented and viewed Clive Barker’s The Plague, a straight-to-DVD original (actually directed and co-written by a guy named Hal Masonberg, but don’t let that stop you) which, I’m happy to say, is already on my shortish list of Best Films I’ve Seen This Year. Certainly of Best Horror, let’s put it that way…it’s creepy, psychologically well-observed, vicious, wonderfully framed and cut, with a true undercurrent of mournful dread and spiritual speculation. Essentially, an entire generation of children fall suddenly comatose for ten years, during which no child is born awake; the ecosystem and balance of society are thrown askew, no one can move forward, parents are locked in a toxic loop of perpetual hope and mourning combined, and the "lucky" kids who didn’t get hit with this curveball are left to fend for themselves. And then, fifteen minutes in—-the kids wake up. Which turns out not to be such a good thing, after all.;) See it! These people—-ie, the filmmakers—-are ones to watch, and I’m glad Barker’s allied himself with them.
My friend![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
green_trilobite finally kicked me a cheap copy of The Book of Robert E. Howard, containing the legendary "Pigeons From Hell". WOW, what a crazy-ass story! I especially love this moment, which A) could only have been put in the mouth of a guy from the North by a guy from the South and B) becomes pure inappropriate comedy, once you kick in the sheriff’s reply:
"Voodoo!" [Griswell] muttered. "I’d forgotten about that—-I could never think of black magic in connection with the South. To me witchcraft was always associated with old crooked streets in waterfront towns, overhung by gabled roofs that were old when they were hanging witches in Salem; dark musty alleys where black cats and other things might steal at night. Witchcraft always meant the old towns of New England, to me—-but all this is more terrible than any New England legend—-these sombre pines, old deserted houses, lost plantations, mysterious black people, old tales of madness and horror—-God, what frightful ancient terrors there are on this continent fools call ‘young’!"
"Here’s old Jacob’s hut," announced Buckner, bringing the automobile to a halt.
And, okay…do I actually have to cut for spoilers on a story fifty years old?( Read more... )
Oh, and John Farris? Robert E. Howard wants his ideas back, because I now see where much of All Heads Turn as the Hunt Goes By must have come from. Horror: It runs on recycling, more so than any other type of genre, even! But hey, that’s okay. More for everybody, and you get to eat it twice!
On that note, therefore…food. Then bed.
Yes, it's a bit of a grind, and yes, literature was severely underrepresented…indeed, many people there seemed a bit weirded out that there was any representation, but those sort of mouth-breathing looky-loos we can all do without. I was sitting between Don Hutchison and the guys from Dark Sky Films, who had their remastered version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre on all day, every day, which drew a very particular type of crowd; at one point, I leant over to him and whispered: "I think I’m turning into H.G. Wells", because a lot of them did have this vaguely pig/simian/dog/cow-like look—-an unattractive combination of utter vacancy if they didn’t catch my eyes and self-protective contempt if they did, like I might suddenly jump up and try to make them READ something. I mean, heavens to Betsy!
Nevertheless, by the end, I found I’d sold all the Loonie Dreadfuls, plus those extra eight I asked Brett Savory to bring by on Saturday. Indeed, the "you may not think you have fifteen dollars for a book [that normally sells for $26.00, which makes it all the more insane I’m offering both for $25.00], but I know you have one dollar" thing worked so well as a general gateway drug-type introductory pitch that Steve and I later made "The Diarist" and "Folly" into folded-over black and white pamphlets, and sold those for fifty cents. It’s like giving something away, except A) you’re not really GIVING it and B) sometimes, they really do come back for the whole collection. Not to mention how you leave with a lot of pocket-change.
Better still, I also sold all but two copies of The Worm in Every Heart and all but seven copies of Kissing Carrion, both out of a re-order of twenty books each. And The Worm was by far the bigger seller, which pleased me no end.
So, to sum up: My purpose was to get seen, get my name out there and hopefully get read and recognized; I believe that was accomplished. It's also really energizing to at least be around people who (in the main) know both what horror is and what it can be, people you don't necessarily find yourself having that same stupid "but why do you want to do THAT?" conversation with, before skipping forward to the "good" parts. And like I said to Liisa Ladouceur (of the Royal Sarcophagus Society, who’ve just opened a cool-ass online shop—-hint, hint), at the time, I enjoyed it so much more than I ever thought I would that I'm really looking forward to next year, when I’m going to try and push the Rue Crew to put all the authors as close to each other as possible, to create a sort of "book island" in the midst of a sea of other horror media; we’ll see how that works, if and so.
Monday was mainly all about decompressing and dealing with Cal, who is toothing like a maniac. The highlight of the day was finding out, via email, that the people who were once interested in me doing a book on Canadian Film are…still interested, amazingly enough, since it’s been two years of silence from my end. So it’s time to dust off my outline and get cracking on that sample chapter, finally. More energy! Perhaps it will even help me ward off this cold that I seem to be courting, after only three whole days of constantly breathing 40,000 other people’s recycled germs.
Other stuff:
Tonight I rented and viewed Clive Barker’s The Plague, a straight-to-DVD original (actually directed and co-written by a guy named Hal Masonberg, but don’t let that stop you) which, I’m happy to say, is already on my shortish list of Best Films I’ve Seen This Year. Certainly of Best Horror, let’s put it that way…it’s creepy, psychologically well-observed, vicious, wonderfully framed and cut, with a true undercurrent of mournful dread and spiritual speculation. Essentially, an entire generation of children fall suddenly comatose for ten years, during which no child is born awake; the ecosystem and balance of society are thrown askew, no one can move forward, parents are locked in a toxic loop of perpetual hope and mourning combined, and the "lucky" kids who didn’t get hit with this curveball are left to fend for themselves. And then, fifteen minutes in—-the kids wake up. Which turns out not to be such a good thing, after all.;) See it! These people—-ie, the filmmakers—-are ones to watch, and I’m glad Barker’s allied himself with them.
My friend
green_trilobite finally kicked me a cheap copy of The Book of Robert E. Howard, containing the legendary "Pigeons From Hell". WOW, what a crazy-ass story! I especially love this moment, which A) could only have been put in the mouth of a guy from the North by a guy from the South and B) becomes pure inappropriate comedy, once you kick in the sheriff’s reply:"Voodoo!" [Griswell] muttered. "I’d forgotten about that—-I could never think of black magic in connection with the South. To me witchcraft was always associated with old crooked streets in waterfront towns, overhung by gabled roofs that were old when they were hanging witches in Salem; dark musty alleys where black cats and other things might steal at night. Witchcraft always meant the old towns of New England, to me—-but all this is more terrible than any New England legend—-these sombre pines, old deserted houses, lost plantations, mysterious black people, old tales of madness and horror—-God, what frightful ancient terrors there are on this continent fools call ‘young’!"
"Here’s old Jacob’s hut," announced Buckner, bringing the automobile to a halt.
And, okay…do I actually have to cut for spoilers on a story fifty years old?( Read more... )
Oh, and John Farris? Robert E. Howard wants his ideas back, because I now see where much of All Heads Turn as the Hunt Goes By must have come from. Horror: It runs on recycling, more so than any other type of genre, even! But hey, that’s okay. More for everybody, and you get to eat it twice!
On that note, therefore…food. Then bed.
