A Writer's Tale

Viable? If any alternative is not viable, should it be considered an alternative at all? No.

Of course not. If it’s inviable, why bother to mention it at all?

But people do.

Frequently.

Just read, just listen.

People are constantly using such garbage, stuffing their sentences with meaningless junk, making themselves sound really smart and in many cases cluttering the works so that the audience isn’t exactly sure what the hell they’re getting at.

Maybe obfuscation, as it were, is their intent.

As it were? More garbage, if you will. Dumb filler thrown into sentences for no good reason. Like if you will.

In many cases, people are obviously using such language in order to side-step the truth.

The same good folks will clutter their language with other junk such as “to be perfectly honest,” and “frankly,” and “in point of fact.”

Such words and phrases always precede an evasion.

A lie.

“In fact” comes before a falsehood.

As does, “Trust me.”

As does “absolutely.”

As in, “I’m absolutely, 100 percent not guilty.”

If you read or hear such language being used, you may be sure that its source is either: a. an innocent who has picked up his language skills by watching television, or b. a charlatan who is hoping to hoodwink you. More often the latter.

I now see that I’ve been too harsh in my condemnation of garbage language.

Three cheers for it!

God bless it!

Because without such language, we would have a much more difficult time identifying those who are trying to put something over on us.

Instead of being marked with an A like Hester Prynne, these people are branded by their use of the ABC’s.

A is for arrogant.

B is for bullshit.

C is for con.

They are not to be trusted.

ON CRITICS (AND FANGORIA)

BACK IN APRIL, 1993, AN ARTICLE THAT I WROTE ABOUT CRITICS appeared in Afraid: The Newsletter for the Horror Professional. Here it is.

THE LIZZIE BORDEN SYNDROME OR VICIOUS HACKS WITH A LUST FOR CHOPPING OTHER PEOPLE’S WOOD, FICTION, AND NECKS

Here is a little secret for you reviewers out there who get your jollies by applying forty whacks to our books.

We know who you are.

We know what you’re doing.

We’re pissed.

Usually, you hear nothing about it. The main reason is, we don’t want to waste our time.

You see, we understand.

We know that you’re taking your shots at us for any of countless petty reasons, not the least of which is envy. We know that you have your little axes to grind. We know that you get a lot of attention from your peers for penning your opinions about other people’s creations. Hey, and you get paid, too! On top of that, you look so grand when you dump on us, because it presupposes that you are our superiors. You see? We do understand. We also understand that you would probably be writing fiction, the same as us, if only you had what it takes.

You’re really just the same as us, you see.

Sort of like a tick is the same as a dog.

Say now, that’s quite an analogy! Not only do you subsist by crawling all over us and sucking our blood, but you’re also a fundamentally useless pest. You hide in our fur, bite us, get bloated, but do little real damage (unless you’re diseased, which I wouldn’t consider unlikely). You’re difficult to get rid of. But the folk remedy is lighter fluid on your butt.

Curtain.

Lights come up.

Applause from the writers among the readers of AFRAID, smirks from the subjects of this little piece. Oh, I can see them now. Sneering, muttering, thinking “I’m really gonna get that damn moronic pervert, Laymon, next time I get a chance to review one of his pitiful pieces of crap.”

To which I proudly exclaim, “Yawk yawk yawk, do your worst, you idjits.”

Now, before the more reasonable of you people out there decide I’ve gone off the beam, I want to explain something. I’ve kept quiet for YEARS while a small tribe of brainless assassins have been throwing hatchets at me. Their aim is bad and their hatchets are dull, but for just how long is someone supposed to ignore the attacks?

Also, these ambushers are disguised as book reviewers. At first glance, they appear to be performing a fairly legitimate task: writing book criticism.

I have no problem with the real book reviewers of our world.

Such people are doing writers and readers a service. They usually know good writing from bad, and they try to be objective and fair. Whether or not such reviewers may like my books, I can respect their opinions.

I asked Mike Baker (the publisher of Afraid), to print this article because Afraid has always seemed to print honest, unbiased reviews. Mystery Scene is also a fine magazine with a high standard of reviewing books.

I’m dealing here with others.

The tribe of ambushers. The hacks with their axes to grind and the gleam in their eyes.

People like David Kuehls, Linda Marotta, Ellen Datlow, and Stefan Dziemianowicz.