|
I've so far had one failed attempt to publish my Port Adelaide urban folklore book, the Panther of Divett Street, and I am tempted to self-publish it, or possibly reformat the book and try again with a regular publisher. Still scratching my head about that one. In the meantime, a few mates have had a go at a cover, using AI. My prompt was "An old fashioned policeman holding a baton chasing a panther with a chicken in its mouth." Results are hilariously bad. Thanks to Richard, Chris and Eva for playing along. A Life in the Book of Monsters is available now through Amazon. While remaining dedicated nonsense, it also hints at the story of Arthur Hindside, a failing romantic poet of the mid-19th century, who goes insane after a trip to France to rescue a lost manuscript, then becomes a supernatural journalist, tries to contact the Holy Spirit during a seance, and then finally escapes London to teach at Scottish Grammar School, only to go missing for seven years after sleeping on a hilltop on St John's Eve.  Sheesh...I never did hear back from the New Yorker (!), or any other place I wrote to, but I happen to think this is a fine piece of nonsense / satire, so I am including it in full this time. Click to read the whole thing...
 NOW AVAILABLE for purchase on Amazon...
It was January and the summer had been mild. As was my habit at the time, I awoke early, and began to imagine myself gainfully employed upon a new literary adventure—my first compilation of public domain material. I’d seen many other self-published collections of older stories, and often wondered if I could make a go of it. That year, I decided it was time to find out. The research was easy and pleasant; in only a few hours I had cribbed a couple of likely stories from the internet—Project Gutenberg, Wikisource, and other places. I could see that it wouldn’t take too long before I had a volume fit for publication. I discussed the proposition with my wife after dinner that evening. “I thought I’d start with ghost stories,” I said as I served the Eton Mess. “You know, the usual suspects, British and American stuff, Edgar Allen Poe, M. R. James, all that spooky old lot. Could be a bit of money in it…” “Damnit, McKenzie”, said my wife, a sensible woman of some fifty-three summers. “You’re meddling with forces you cannot possibly comprehend. You know what these Victorian-era ghost stories are like. Once you start down that path, there’ll be no turning back. You’ll be ruined, man. Best to steer clear of the whole goddamned mess. Have another port, and forget the whole idea.” “Nonsense,” I said. “There’s nothing to fear in the supernatural. Ghosts? Pshaw. That’s all just harum scarum. I’ll be perfectly all right.” I drained the port, and another, and looked out the window at the old manor house up on Tapley’s Hill. I decided to take a walk up there, that very evening. What sort of peculiar curiosity had overtaken me that night?  From the time Naiden was very little, he liked games. There were some games in the Forest of Many Things, and some in the House, and evensome in the Imaginary World. Games in the House had actual rules. Sometimes, the rules were that you got put outside, because you didn't understand why. Another game had some things that people held in front of their faces, and then when they put them down on the table, you could attack them, and then you got put outside again. The best game of all was a big flat thing that you could lie on, and the rules were tiny little pieces of prey made of red and green plastic, and when they went across the board they moved almost as fast as you did! No wonder the people liked playing this game so much.  The people in the House liked it when Naiden helped them played this game. It was his favourite. In the Imaginary World, Naiden knew what all these games were called, and could say their names. He was very good at the game called Poker. The other players could not see what was on his cards, because he held them with the pictures facing towards his body, He often won the Poker game for this reason. In the Forest of Many Things, the games didn't have rules, and there was no such thing as winning. It could be a problem, not knowing when to stop. It was usually Naiden who said it was time to finish the game, and go home. Because he was the particular kind of cat to think of things like that. Next time we'll hear about one of the games that Naiden and his friends played played in the Forest, and how it ended.  I’ve had an interest in the story about a family of werewolves at Loch Langavat in Lewis for years now. They appear mentioned on Wikipedia under Hebridean Mythology and Folklore, and in other places on Wikipedia too, and from there have found their way to any number of sites on the Hebrides or on lists of mythological creatures. It’s a classic case of internet-itis. The entry is always much the same:
“A family of werewolves were said to occupy an island on Loch Langavat. Although long deceased, they promised to rise if their graves were disturbed.” I'm waiting on the proofs for this one to arrive from Amazon. I've given it out to a few beta-readers in pdf form as well. I don't exactly know where I'm going with writing for RPGs over all, this might be the first thing I do in along series, or it could be the last word I wrote on RPGs. Depends how it goes down, I guess. But it felt like it needed to be written and I am experiencing great relief that the project is bearing completion so I can get on and do other things...  An idea has emerged for a compendium project next year. I need a series of short stories in the public domain that deal with people who "meddle with forces they cannot possibly comprehend" and summon dark and ancient magics.
The quote itself is from Indiana Jones, but the idea is much older. I so far have the following material: 1 - O Whistle and I'll Come to You My Lad (M R James) 2 - One of the 'John Silence' stories by Algernon Blackwood 3 - Something by Robert Chambers (most of his stories about about meddling) 4 - The Merewigs by Sabine Baring-Gould I'm hoping to get recommendations for this enterprise. I have news for you:
The stag bells, winter snows, summer has gone Wind high and cold, the sun low, short its course The sea running high. Deep red the bracken; its shape is lost; The wild goose has raised its accustomed cry, cold has seized the birds' wings; season of ice, this is my news. (9th century Irish Poem) |
