Disturbing Neighbors

One book really disturbed the crap out of me as a child. That would be Thomas Berger's Neighbors. To be honest, I don't remember a lot about it. I remember being aware of the book because I saw the trailer for the movie adaptation that was coming out starring Dan Aykroyd. I got my parents to buy the book for me at that time, so I was ten or eleven years of age when I read it. The feelings of chaos and disjointed reality that it caused me are feelings I remember to this day, though I can't recall key points of the plot. All I really remember about it is that one family is having a hell of a time with the new couple who moved in next door. There is vandalism (I think), sexual flirtation (I think), and a feeling of insanity that runs through the novel (I'm certain). 

I actually went and found the paperback version of the book I once owned and rebought it . . . with the intention of giving it another read. I haven't done so yet, though, because I'm afraid it won't live up to the uneasy feelings it caused decades ago. I'm far older now and understand more about life, and I don't want that precious, uncomfortable memory to be erased by all that. I don't want to ruin what was such a monumental thing. The Shining made me want to be a writer. Neighbors made me question my sanity.

I will go back to the book someday. I will reread it. I probably won't be disturbed. Here's my secret hope, however: I want to be even more disturbed by it. I want to pick up things I was not able to understand as a child, and I want it to bother me. I'm sure it won't bother me as much as some of Peter Sotos' writing, but I still want to come away with having the feeling of my soul being shaken. I want to be moved. It did it once. It can do it again. I know it's labeled as a "comedy" in some circles, but comedy can be disturbing. Just watch the last Hangover movie if you don't believe me.

If it doesn't disturb me the next time around, though, that's okay, too. It's not great, but it's understandable. I won't be bitter. I won't throw the book into the fire and spit at it. It's not a James Patterson novel, so it doesn't deserve that fate. I will be disappointed, sure. But I'm disappointed by a lot of things I revisit from my youth. The mileage varies as the car gets older, right?

I'm crossing my fingers . . .

If you click on a link, I may earn some cash as an affiliate, which in turn would allow me to buy a home and the surrounding land so I have no neighbors.

On Stephen King ...

Stephen King is rarely ever mentioned as "literature."  If anything, some critics seem to take his popularity as a sign that he is a lightweight.  Perhaps these criticisms are on the mark.  Perhaps they are the shadows of jealousy or disdain.  The two things that are hard to make an argument against is that his books sell, and they are fun to read.

King got me into writing with The Shining.  I was nine when I read it, and it scared the living shit out of me.  It also made me want to do the same thing to others.  Influential?  Yes, but if you read any of me fiction you'll be hard pressed to see those influences. 

My favorite King work (and I'll admit to not having read everything the man has ever produced) is Christine.  There is something about that story that strikes me as a perfect horror tale that is slightly experimental -- especially for King.  It will probably never be held in the same light as The Stand, but I think it is one of his best. 

Right now I'm reading the first part of The Green Mile.  I actually started buying this book in the serial format and then stopped for some odd reason, so I don't have all of them (they are fairly easy to find, so I'm not worried).  I'm enjoying it, but I'm not all very far into it.  From what I can see, it has the usual King hallmarks, and while that's not a bad thing, it is part of the problem with his work.

King has a habit of presenting many of the same types of characters over and over.  All with their own little quirks.  This irritates a lot of people ... including me sometimes.  Life, however, is a lot like that.  You encounter many of the same types of people day in and day out, each with their unique character features, which is often the only way to tell them apart from one another.  King is mirroring reality, but people don't read King's work to take in a dose of the outside world.  They read it to escape it, and therefore their criticisms may be sound.

The older I got, the more I appreciated his non-fiction work.  Reading his takes on writing is an endless source of fascination for me.  I find that a lot of what writes about makes sense, and it captures some of that magic I feel as I'm engrossed in my own manuscripts.  I think he easily conveys those moments to non-writers in a way few others have.  When he writes about it, it comes across as if he were having a conversation with you, and that immediately puts you at ease. 

I don't read much fiction these days.  When I do, it's rarely King.  It's not because I don't want to.  Instead it's because I have read most of his stuff.  When I do pick up one of his books (about once a year), I'm reminded of why he made me want to be a writer in the first place.  It's a comfortable feeling, and one I hope never changes.  Someday he'll give up the words, but I have no doubt his work will be available for quite some time to come.

The Joys of Not Getting Published

I've finished my latest draft of what I always call "the cannibal manuscript." I sent it out before and the publisher I sent it to rejected it because the ending was too downbeat. I would argue that it's realistic, but I don't think any publisher wants to hear that line of reasoning.

After getting that feedback I did something I never did before -- I let people read it. Friends from all different backgrounds with all different tastes. I wanted different opinions. I wanted honesty and brutal comments. Most of what I got back, though, was positive and fit with what I was trying to do with it.

So another rewrite was in order, and I did it. Added some stuff. Took out a tiny bit. Polished it. Now I wonder what will happen when I send it out again. Rejection is a given, but what will the reason be? Will I find a publisher? Will I self-publish? Should I?

I've wanted to be a writer since I read The Shining. I'm proud of my achievements. Not many people can say they outsold John Lithgow, caused a web site to get more hate mail then it had ever previously received, or have their daughter walk through a bookstore and say, "There's my dad's book." I've caused a major moral majority group to forgo a planned speech and instead attack an editorial I wrote. That attack lasted an hour. I've caused people to leave the room during a public reading of my fiction. I've done less than some writers, more than others. This manuscript, however, is one I want out there.

I feel good about this (but I always do). I feel like it could change things. All it needs is a chance. All it needs is a publisher to believe in it. All it needs is one person to give the nod, and I think I will be set. I won't be rich, but it's not about that. It's about being able to make a living off something only I can do. I'm the only one who can write my stories, tell my tales. Me. That's it.

When people say I should relax and take it easy, not work so much, it's obvious they don't get it. If I don't write these things, they don't get done. There is nobody there to pick up my slack. Hell, there can be no slack.

I want this one to get published. I want it to bother people. I want movie options. I want interviews in magazines and newspapers (it was cool to get interviewed by my old hometown paper during my lunch hour when my poker book came out).

I want it.

I will get it.

Or die trying.

Blame This One

I was nine. Loved horror movies. It was summer, if I recall correctly. The trailer played on the television. The Shining. It looked terrifying. The fine print in the ads encouraged me to read the book. I encouraged my dad to make a run with me to 7-11. I told him I wanted ice cream. What I wanted was the book.

My parents never really denied me books. They said no to toys, candy, animals. But rarely did they say no to books, and this was no exception. They didn't care that it was out of my age range. Later my mom said she was probably wrong to let me read it at such a young age, but I disagree.

Stephen King's book terrified me. It freaked me out. It had me jumping at every stray noise in the house. It also inspired me. I knew then and there that I wanted to create that same feeling in people, and it was when I finished that book that I knew I wanted to be a horror writer.

I still have that book. It's seen better days. There was a time when I was more superstitious and believed it caused my parents to fight. (They seemed to have massive arguments whenever I read it, which was usually once or twice a year.) It has tape on the edges, and try as I might not to bend the covers too far, the spine has stress wear. Hell, I've had it thirty years. You have to expect that sort of thing.

I am not anywhere near what I'd call a successful writer, but I've accomplished more than most ever thought I could. I have a book, a few short stories published, and enough non-fiction out there to destroy a city. I want more, and will never stop, and I blame that book.

I think every writer has one of those moments. One of those experiences when the light bulb just turns on. It's a beautiful feeling, and it puts your mind at ease because you suddenly know what you were meant to do.

I hope to someday thank King. I wrote him once, but I don't know if he ever got it. If not, consider this my thank you. If it weren't for your imagination, my imagination would have never had a place to go. Thanks to you, I'm not killing people ... at least not for real.