It's so weird...I'm writing this book The Box now. It's going good. Half finished with the first draft. All nonlinear and disconnected in a connected and linear way, about the love and hate and indifference between Eddie and his evil princess, his holy darkness, Anita. I've been enjoying interlaced chapters on mind-blindness, superheroes, a deep cold colder than cold, trees and streams that act as translators for what poor Eddie can't say, a trio of hair-brained but brilliant thinkers who have been studying Eddie and Anita to discover the source of all love...Just all kinds of fun. But then a strange thing happened...
...I started writing another novel.
Still writing The Box, but now there's this fun little traditional horror novel going on over here at a second work station that just popped up out of nowhere.
This horror novel's called Green Mother. Started it yesterday and have most of the first chapter lined out. And I'll just tell you, it's straight up folk horror set in the deep, dark hills of Eastern Kentucky. Also, the thing is, it's pretty traditional. Nothing incredibly fancy, no modernist or postmodernist brushstrokes, no Monsonic experimentation. I guess what I'm saying is, it's nothing more than flat out fun as hell.
I'd been hoping a book like this would come to the surface. I've written gritty realism, what a lot of people call country-noir, crime fiction, regional literature, and then, of course, glittering and enjoyable surrealism, magic realism, certain levels of short-form horror (such as this story published in Lost Balloon in 2018 and this one published in Occulum in 2017).
But man oh man Green Mother is like a carnival, like one big horrific festival, a folk festival!, where all the carnies and performers want to gobble you up. It's patently beautiful in that it's absurdly fun to write.
Whenever I can't think of a good way to close a post, I just write this and then stop...
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