Hello everyone and welcome to my very first Echo. I’m new to Substack and my record when it comes to blogs and journals is spotty at best, but that’s kind of the point of this exercise. I am a struggling writer of horror stories trying to get over his own fears and get it done. There’s a lot of us out there, I’m sure. With these newsletters I’ll keep you informed of the good, the bad, and the ugly of the process — with a generous helping of books, movies and other asides mixed in. And I promise: stick with me and I’ll stick with it. No pressure.
When I was in the fourth grade, the last two hours on Friday were set aside for story time. It might sound lame but it wasn’t. This story was about a boy named Jimmy and a special, powerful ring — sort of an urban fantasy riff on LOTR. Our teacher not so much read it as acted it out, with a frantic, maniacal energy that would put most thespians to shame. Like Tolkien, his story was an epic saga that was doled out in small, agonising spoonfuls every week. Thinking about it now, it brings to mind that short story of Dan Simmons in Prayers to Broken Stones, about another teacher and his stories, and the absolute truth of that tale. But I digress.
There was a Friday when instead of the usual Tome of Jimmy, our teacher reached for another book, and the groan that went up from our desks rivalled those that sounded at the mention of the words “spelling test”. Still, we settled, and in another minute or so, I was gone from the world. Jimmy and his ring were wonderful. But the book he was reading right then was something else — like gasoline on the fires of my young imagination. It had monsters, it had scares. It had teeth.
I wonder if there’s anything as powerful as that first eye-opening read. There’s a line in The Shadow of the Wind about it that pretty much nails it. It finds its way into your heart. To me, that book will always be De Griezelbus, which I guess translates to “The Frightbus.” It was a short story collection with an overarching story about — you guessed it — a bus. In my memory the book was purple instead of blue and much, much thicker than its official page count. But that’s the thing about books, isn’t it? They grow. Some cast great giant shadows. That one did, anyway. It scratched an itch I didn’t even knew I had. I guess that is why I stole it. I needed to know — needed to see — what was lurking on the other side of the page— more than I did with Jimmy and his ring. I couldn’t wait another week for the cliffhanger to be settled.
I got caught. I almost always got caught. But I got what I needed. That book led to others — an endless chain that has led to the books I’m reading today (and I happily pay for, in case you’re wondering). It would also lead me to writing my own stories, in due course. It gives me a funny feeling, seeing it listed for eight bucks. To me it will always be priceless.
Paul van Loon was the chairman of a YA horror writer collective in those days. They rolled out a couple of short story collections, there was an official club you could join— You get the point. We were at a book fair one year and I saw one of the collections and nagged my mom until she bought it for me. If you knew my mom, you’d recognise it for the achievement it was. That was the first book that was really mine. I must’ve read it half a hundred times. There were stories by all nine members of the collective, and while most of them were pretty great, there were two that didn’t really do the trick. I can do better than that, I thought. And the question that followed has defined most of my adult life. Why don’t you?
There’s been a lot of great reads since the days of Paul van Loon. Sadly, none of them have been mine. This would be the time to make excuses but I won’t do that. Writing, as a craft, desires practice and dedication — two things I have neglected a lot throughout the years. More than once I’ve thought about giving it up altogether. But I can’t. Somewhere inside I’m still that ten-year-old, spell-bound, staring at the shadows and seeing things that others can’t — or won’t. The desire to pin them down in words is too strong to resist.
So, here I am. Ready to go out into that dangerous blank space again. I have no idea what’s out there, no idea if it will work. I’m alone, for now. So I’ll call out for others out there, in their own blank spaces, struggling. If you can hear the Echo, let me know.
This was a long post. Maybe too long for the likes of Substack. Maybe a little too dramatic. If so, I apologise. I believe in starting this with all the honesty and rawness that comes with humble beginnings. Things will get better, you’ll see. Be sure to let me know if you liked it (or didn’t) and to subscribe if you did (even if you didn’t). Let me know what your first important read was, or what you’re reading now. Or anything. I’m around.
This is a great intro. It is interesting how books affects us in many ways. I hope you keep writing because from what I have read so far you definitely have what it takes.