Review: “The Man on the Ceiling” by Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem

Cover artGenre fiction, fantasy and horror in particular, is often hidebound and stifled by its own conventions. We seem to want the more obvious monsters and demons, in as colourful and thrilling ways we can meet them. Yet, in the end, the most popular forms are the literature and media of reassurance: we need the baddies to die in the end. But life isn’t like that, which Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem’s brilliant book, The Man on the Ceiling so ably demonstrates.

I use the term “fiction” loosely, however, since this work is not fiction, but rather an imaginative joint autobiography with fictional elements – and everything told within its pages, as the authors state repeatedly, is true. It started life as a chapbook, and I first read it in its short form in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, so was delighted to discover that it had become a full length book.

So what’s it about? Interesting question. On the surface it’s about Steve and Melanie (writers both of genre fiction and highly respected as such) and their family of five adopted children. It’s about their journey through life, the joys, and griefs, the ordinariness and the strangeness of it all. It’s about how story makes us who we are. How we make stories to try to understand and cope with the challenges of living day to day. And it’s about the man on the ceiling, the real shadow presence in their family’s life: demon and angel both; and neither one of those things. It’s also about how, sometimes, story and words, are simply not enough: Steve overwhelmed by the death of one of their children, retreating to his attic room or driving without paying attention; Melanie trying to keep everything together, for the sake of the other children, and her husband as much as anything. It’s about how they try to make new stories after the appalling catastrophe.

By the time I’d reached the third chapter I had wept several times. It’s not often a book can make me cry, and this one did…last time that happened was with Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner. Everything in this book is true. It’s the human condition, and anyone who reads this can empathise or relate to what is within these pages, just as we know (if we’re paying attention) the man on our own ceiling.

The Man on the Ceiling is filled with true terror – enough to make the reader’s mind chill with how real it is. But it also contains humour, drama, joy and sorrow. Most of all it is full of love. The way all great stories are. And, believe me, this is a great story. And it’s all true, of course.

The Man on the Ceiling smashes through the confining walls of genre, with originality, boldness, wit and, as much as anything, superb writing. By any measure a masterpiece and if there was justice it would have won a few mainstream literary prizes. But it didn’t because, in the end, it’s just a horror story – isn’t it?

Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem website: 
http://www.m-s-tem.com/tems/blog1.php/home

Review: “Isis Unbound” by Allyson Bird

Isis Unbound coverWith a nod to Frankenstein, and Shelley’s poem, Prometheus Unbound, as well as references to pulp adventure stories, Isis Unbound by Allyson Bird is a hugely entertaining and staggeringly original first novel which combines steampunk with dark fantasy and horror. It’s easy to understand why it won the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel.

Set in an alternate 19th century Britain, the tale unfolds in a Manceastre rules by a governor general related to a descendant of Anthony and Cleopatra. A new Cleopatra (a direct descendant of the original) makes an appearance, too – and the image of the queen on her royal barge in the city’s shipping canals is truly memorable.

But the tale really begins with Chief Embalmer Ptolemy Child’s two daughters, Ella and Loli, aged eighteen and ten, who are being instructed in the secrets of the mummification process when the dead begin to rise and roam the streets as zombies. The cause is infighting between the Egyptian Gods, who are busy trying to kill each other and Isis, the goddess who takes the dead to the other world, has been murdered by her sister, Nepythys.

The undead are not, however, your typical brain-eaters of current popular fiction. Instead they are creatures of pathos. We feel deeply sorry for these people, who are neither dead nor alive, yet long to be fully in one state or the other. The true villain of the novel  is the Governor, with his horrific political machinations, tortures and murders. The Gods themselves are not much better, though their motivations are somewhat different from the governor’s, and politics – albeit celestial politics – play a role in their shenanigans, too.

There are no heroes here, but complex and flawed human beings, such as Ella herself, an opium addict, and often rather selfish.

In the fantasy genre in general, I find many novels far longer than they need to be. With this one, it’s the opposite – if anything, Isis Unbound is on the short side. In other words, I wanted more! The reason I say this is that there is so much going on. Isis Unbound is fine example of world-building on a compressed scale. Indeed, had the author written one volume just from Ella’s point of view, another from the point of view of the Gods, and a third from the evil governor’s, it could have worked as a trilogy. Which touches on a small aspect of the novel that did not appeal so much – multiple character points of view in individual chapters, which can be confusing at times. I would rather have a single point of view, if not for the entire novel, at least chapter by chapter. Having said that, plenty of big name writers sometimes do the same thing, so it may just be my personal preference.

The other very minor carp was that I felt the prologue was unnecessary. Prologues are a trope of many fantasy novels, and often read like info-dumps. Personally, I would have rather seen these details folded into the story rather than loaded at the front, although I also question whether the prologue was necessary in the first place. It’s such a fantastic story as it is that being dropped straight into the action would have done the job perfectly well, sans prologue.

Isis Unbound is by turns creepy, startling, and riveting. The mix of steampunk and fantasy and horror is unique, as far as I am aware. A truly wonderful novel, full of adventure and emotional depth, as well as terrific writing. I can’t wait to read what Allyson has in store for us next.

On a side note: I could easily imagine Isis Unbound as an HBO series, given the success of Game of Thrones at the moment.

Allyson Bird’s website is: 
http://www.birdsnest.me.uk/

The Anatomy of Seahorses on Tales to Terrify podcast

Tales to Terrify April coverMy tale, “The Anatomy of Seahorses” is out now in audio format in episode 69 of the excellent Tales to Terrify podcast.

As for the narration, I think it’s brilliant. Jedidiah Kalanu Shepler recounts the story in a performance not unlike Ray Winstone or even a young Michael Caine – the English bad boy character is perfectly crafted by Jed.

When the story first appeared in The Horror Express magazine a few years back, it attracted this review by Peter Tennant (of Black Static magazine) on the Whispers of Wickedness website:

“With the possible exception of the [Dear R] Koontz, The Anatomy of Seahorses by John Dodds is the finest story THE has to offer, the tale of professional tough guy and contract killer Wilbur, who is in the Far East to retrieve a valuable package for his employer. Dodds does everything right here, succeeding in the difficult task of creating a credible killer and then making him sympathetic by invoking terrors even more fundamental to the human condition. His evocation of the foreign setting is perfect too, with the spirit life woven seamlessly into the physical world, and the people given attitudes and traits convincingly at odds with our own Western world view. And Dodds’ writing grips from the very start, bringing an intriguing plot to life, providing the essential colour and sound and fury, with phrases that ring in the mind, such as the simply wonderful, ‘The corpse looked like four gallons of snot spread on a log,’ which I so wish I’d come up with myself.”

On the podcast, too, you’ll find a really nasty story called  “It’s Just Tearing Me All Apart” by O.D. Hegre, narrated by Stephen Kilpatrick, a fact article,  “Horror 101” with Kevin Lucia and a poem,  “The Taemor” by Alexei Collier.

Tales would value your comments on their website, and star ratings on itunes. The podcast is always free, though donations are welcomed to keep the podcast alive. I do hope you will consider giving Tales to Terrify your support.

Horror Express Vol. 3 Out Now

Horror Express Volume ThreeI am happy to announce that my short story, “After the Storm” appears in the excellent magazine, Horror Express, Vol 3. You will find stories by Shaun Hutson, Douglas Wright and more…I feel honoured to be in such auspicious company. Please support the mag by buying a copy.

Screenwriting heroes 1: Vince Gilligan (Breaking Bad)

Breaking Bad characters

Breaking Bad Season 3

I’ve been catching up on my favourite TV series, “Breaking Bad”, and have just watched first two episodes of season 3.

Once again, truly wonderful. But, more than anything else, I have to say how staggered I am by the brilliance of Vince Gilligan’s script writing. His characters are very real, his storyline worryingly plausible, and each episode puts my heart in my mouth with stress. “Breaking Bad” also funny, in a blackly comic way. And what’s more, fantastically surreal – I mean what’s with the Mexicans crawling on the ground in episode 1? And what the hell is going on with that toy eye in the swimming pool. Creepy, very, very creepy.

There are so many great things to say about Gilligan’s scripts. First, they sometimes go out of their way to frustrate expectations, or give you a startling image at the start, and fail to explain it until the end of a series (namely, those Mexicans I mentioned, and the toy bear in the pool in season 1). Second, just when you think things can’t get worse for your favourite characters, they get worse. Much, much worse. Third, the juxtaposition of comedy with dark deeds and edge-of-the-seat thrills, works brilliantly well.

If you haven’t get checked out this series, I highly recommend you do. But don’t drop into the middle. You really need to start at the beginning, otherwise you will have even less of a clue than Gilligan plans for you to have in his puzzlebox scripts.

Nobody Likes a Smart Arse!

Reblogged from A Dyslexic Perspective on Writing - Brittunculi:

From The Head or From The Heart?

A Dyslexic Perspective on Writing

What’s in a name? For a rose would smell as sweet – wouldn’t it? Mhm, the hardest decision I made when writing this, approaching the creation of my first blog was to decide on such a thing. What am I going to call it? Indeed, what am I going to actually write about, what have I got to say that anybody would be remotely interested in.

Read more… 4,744 more words

First blog from singer/songwriter and author, Jonathan Taylor, whom I interviewed earlier on this blog. He would welcome feedback.

Hollywood the Hard Way

I was tempted to call this posting, “I’m too old for this shit,” to give you a clue as to what it’s about.  And, yes, you’ve got it, I am talking today about clichés.  Clichés, the writer’s sworn enemy. Clichés have a way of sneaking in under the wire, in the work of even the most seasoned of writers. At high school we were told by English teachers in no uncertain terms to “avoid them like the plague.” Did you notice what I did just then? I used a cliched expression “avoid them like the plague.”

My point being that school kids are allowed to get away with them. It’s – another cliché – a learning curve. However, seasoned Hollywood scriptwriters, directors and producers have no excuse. Clichés can of course be employed  in a tongue-in-cheek way, but not when they are used and re-used in the same way. We all know the hoary old cliché of the aging cop who is brought out of retirement to track down the killer he failed to capture first time around. At some point, during a shootout, or when he’s trying to vault a wall, or when he’s in the middle of a car chase, he’s going to say (I promise you): “I’m too old for this shit.” And on the subject of car chases, why is it, I wonder does the driver of the fast car, when he’s trying to escape the pursuers, invariably says, “Hang on.” Talk about a needless instruction. Also, I asked myself, hang on to what? Your hat? Your cojones? The air?

My all time favourite Hollywood cliché, though, has to be THE BIG SPEECH. In way too many films these days, whether it’s a high school teen romp, a romantic comedy, a courtroom drama, or a sci fi epic, there’s a scene close to the end when all is put right. The anti-hero finds redemption, and stands up on a platform and tells everyone what a bad person he has been and how he has changed because of the love of a good woman/parent/mentor/dog. Or the villain is crushed – usually in a very public place like Prom Night, an assembly hall, a football arena, or somewhere else large and crowded – while the hero publicly shows his triumph. Admittedly, I did want to cheer when Al Pacinio, in the film, “And Justice for All” turned on the client he was defending and declaimed to the judge and all assembled in the courtroom: “He did it. The sonofabitch did it!” Only now I’ve lost count of the times I have watched that same scene, or one much like it, played out again and again in Hollywood movies.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a huge amount of respect for scriptwriters. Many of them do a sterling job against all odds (budget, market forces and so on). But the producers and directors all too often go for the easy way. They somehow believe that this kind of nonesense is what the audience wants. But, in my view, all these clichés and cop-out endings simply insult audiences. Honestly, Hollywood, you don’t need to over-explain everything. And, if you’re going for laughs, come up with some new lines, please.

 

 

Tales to Terrify No. 63

Tales to Terrify cover

The latest episode of the wonderfully creepy Tales to Terrify podcast features a story by Gary Fry, a terrific British writer. His story,  The Indelible Strain of Company, is narrated by yours truly. I had great fun recording the story, which brought to mind the classic tales of M.R. James and others. Such tales have little need to for literary special effects – though the writing is beautiful and extremely effective. Rather, this ghostly tale seeps into one’s bones, and leaves that sensation of something watching…just beware of turning your head around to see what it is!

Oh, and if you want more, I do recommend you pick up a copy of  the first volume of Tales to Terrify  in print or ebook format.

Tales to Terrify book

A Real Boy (flash fiction)

Once in a while an idea for a story jumps into my head and won’t let go until I write it down. This one has been on the back brain burner for a few days. It may become a longer tale at some stage, but for now I am signing off on it as a flash fiction story. It also prompted a writing tip: try writing something which is an inversion of something familiar. I trust you will get it when you read….

A REAL BOY

My father’s expression is kindly, unchangeably so. That frozen smile, those laughter lines scored into the corners of his eyes. He rarely speaks, but whenever he does his voice seems to come from above, behind the curtained vault of heaven.

How he came to make me in the first place is a profound mystery. His hands  are  fingerless, the thumbs not even articulated, but I admire them; they are the hands of a master craftsman. A master craftsman who made me so perfectly in all my imperfection.

I waggle my tiny, chubby fingers in front of my face. Five fingers and a thumb on each hand. They repulse me. Why should I have all this fleshy articulation when I would infinitely prefer to have solid wooden spoons like father? It seems so unfair that he is unarticulate whereas I am so fluent, both in body and in speech. When I speak my lips and my tongue move. That tongue of mine is disgusting in my mouth, a wriggly little worm, fattening itself on the inane words that insist on spilling out of me.

If only I could have the same painted smile as my father. If only my lips could not move. Then perhaps I would not keep asking the same question, over and over, “Why, father? Why did you make me?”

With my back against the wall, I sit quite still, legs outstretched, feet over the edge of the workbench while father tries in vain to tie my boot laces.  The best he can manage is to cup each boot in turn in his spoony hands and lever them onto my repulsive, multi-toed pink feet. Though he’s still smiling — how can he do otherwise? — I feel sorry for him, and decide to let him off the hook.

“Can I do up my own laces, father?” I say.

When he raises his head his expression might be one of either surprise or gratitude. Depending on the angle of his head or how the artificial lighting strikes it.

He steps back, giving me his silent permission. My heart breaks for him.

Drawing my feet up onto the bench one at a time, I lace up the boots. Then I slide off the bench and onto the floor.

Father nods in satisfaction and clumsily pats me on the head.

“Time for school,” he says.

I know this already. My first day.  I nod and fetch my satchel from the hook behind the door. Glancing up briefly I find myself finally understanding why our house does not have a roof. Why none of the houses in town do. It is to allow father, and all of the other residents to move in and out of their homes freely. So that their strings do not catch on anything as they go about their daily business.

After kissing my father’s hard, varnished cheek, then patting the black carved wooden cat sitting on the windowsill, I bid them both goodbye. The cat might try to follow me, I think, but then again he has been on his perch for as long as I have known him, though I have no idea how long that might be. Each day, like my father’s smile, is exactly the same as the one before. There is nothing to mark the passage of time here, except for that single bright star that appears in the dark blue curtain above us once upon an eternity.

Garbo (oops, I mean Taylor) Speaks!

In an earlier blog I interviewed the great singer and songwriter, Jonathan Taylor. Now you have a chance to hear the man himself speak (not like Garbo), on one of my favourite podcasts, Get Behind Me, Now Stay There.

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