Weird Coincidences and Distant Visitors

This is strange.

Today is my first day back from an extended "vacation" of sorts. If you've read any of the recent posts here you'll know that I was in Toronto last weekend promoting The Lucifer Messiah at FanExpoCanada. From there I hopped on a plane for the desert southwest where I spent the rest of the week roasting in the Arizona sun. No book promotion there, just spending time with la famiglia, doing a lot of eating, as my family always does when we're together.

Yesterday, killing time at Sky Harbor, I mused about the idea of writing a western-themed horror novel. My bald head still scorched-red and only just beginning to peel, and the rest of my body exhausted from a week's worth of hot, dry desert air, I couldn't help but imagine the bygone days of Tombstone and the OK Corral. Of Geronimo and his band of Apache appearing like a mirage from the red-rock desert, striking at the white invaders and then disappearing back into the wilderness.

Of course, that isn't exactly what I write. In my world, those Apache warriors would probably be walking beyond the grave, or those unfortunate cavalry they massacred would be saved from death by a pact with some desert spirit, older than the Sedona hills and thirsty for human souls.

I think Neil Gaiman once said that he didn't set out with the intention of writing about angels, but every time he sat down to write, they just seemed to show up. That's kind of how I am with this monster/undead/weird mayhem thing. I don't necessarily want to be that kind of writer, but it seems to be the only thing that ends up on my screen when I open my laptop.

Which brings me back to the first line of this post. Strangeness.

Today I made my weekly trek out to Westlake to the nearest fake-downtown/open air shopping mall. I should mention that I hate myself for patronizing places like this, I think they represent everything that's soulless and empty about suburban living, but it's where the bookstores are, so I bite my tongue and go. All the time.

Anyway, after checking out what Borders had by Anthony Bourdain, whose audio-book version of Kitchen Confidential kept me company to and from Canada last week (and taught me never to order fish on Monday), I made my usual pass through the fantasy and horror sections. And what did I find?

A western-horror book. With pictures, no less.

The Devil's Rose, by Brom. I bought it, but I haven't started reading it yet. I'm still working my way through Gary Frank's maze of madness and mystery called Forever Will You Suffer -- which is a wild ride, by the way.

This Brom guy I've "read" before. I put that in quotes because I have several books of his, but not novels. They're all art. I love them. Whenever someone tells me my book is too weird or too odd, I tell them to look at Brom's work. He makes my sordid imaginings of bestial fornication and quasi-human sacrifice look tame. Apparently he's not just a fantastic painter though, now he writes too. That's kind of annoying. He does what I do (and sells much better, I'd bet) AND he illustrates his own work.

Oh well, I'm assuming he wouldn't know when to file a Motion in Limine under Evidence Rule 807, so there is still at least one thing I can do that he can't. All in all though, I think I'd probably trade my knowledge of Article VIII of the Ohio Rules of Evidence for the talent to paint like he does.

I'm looking forward to reading it. I'm a little conflicted though. I really want to write something set in the old west. And I want to get to it while I can still taste the desert air. But the last thing I want to do is crank out a pale imitation or a cheap retread of something that's already been done, and done quite well, from the look of things.

I'll have to mull it over.

Finally, I'd like to extend a little welcome mat to the international (from my perspective) visitors who have been checking this blog out over the last few weeks. Recently I've gotten hits from Malaysia and Brazil, and quite a few from Canada since FanExpo. Don't worry, you're not being tracked. I know nothing about you other than where on the planet people who visit my site come from.

Anyway, welcome.

One final, totally random note to all my Canadian visitors: I would like to thank each and every one of you both personally and as a collective nation, for the existence of Martin Brodeur. Without him New Jersey would be a crowded, toxic-waste dump and landfill state where the Gambinos used to send people on a permanent vacation. With him, my home state is still all of those things, but with three Stanley Cup banners to hang over all of it.