Recently I’ve been spending time with some ancient horrors which lurk in isolation. No, I haven’t been visiting relatives in Amarillo. I’ve been reading H.P. Lovecraft.
I became enamored with horror, science fiction and monsters in early childhood. I watched all the scary movies, from Frankenstein and Wolfman to the Things that came from outer space, beyond Mars and beneath the sea. Almost nothing really frightened me or gave me nightmares. Fright was my element.
I didn’t start reading a lot of science fiction, though, until college, and I completely missed out on the Tales from the Crypt offerings of horror and gore. I read Stephen King and Dean Koontz, but somehow Lovecraft completely escaped my radar. Many of my college friends knew Lovecraft and I have hazy recollections of some discussions of his works, but still I never read anything.
Years later, when doing some reading on literary analysis and writing techniques, I came across other references to Lovecraft. Finally, my curiosity sat up and looked around. I bought a few of his works and read them with great joy. Later, I bought a few more. My last foray into Kaboom! Used Books (“Houston’s least eponymous book store”) turned up three more volumes to explore. I’m in heaven.
So when I might be blogging each morning, instead I’m mentally tramping through the darkened hollows of rural Massachusetts, seeking the source of the nightly rustlings that disturb my sleep and visit strange dreams upon me. Instead of crafting words, I’m floating on their surface, diving below, peering deep into the murk, sensing the strange vibrations that resound even more deeply still.
I don’t have time for composition. I think there are rats in the walls.