Book Review: Human Tenderloin by Craig Wallwork

I think I'm going to experiment with adding my book reviews to this space for the one person who comes here.

                                             

Craig Wallwork’s Human Tenderloin is a collection of 16 short stories.

The opening track is ‘Bird Girl,’ a bit of a body horror/grotesquerie playing over the background of an apocalypse. Bird Girl’s outer world is grim and dark but its inner life contains warm, bright notes of hope. Like a lot of Human Tenderloin, it’s ultimately a story of Love - in this case, parental Love.

I really appreciated that facet of these stories.

Love - Capital L Love.

There are plenty of horrors out there, and none I’ve read have trod so steadily the narrow path of real, loving notes that don’t stray into greeting card sentimentality.

***Editorial sidebar: Too much of my reading (and viewing) in the last year has featured remorseless horrors that sell humanity short in exchange for brutal & shocking violence or rely on a cheap supposition to prop up shoddy approximations of better stories.***

The second entry in Human Tenderloin is ‘Dollhouse’ - a creepy little cursed object story, pressed into its musty surroundings like a footprint in a swamp. The dread slowly pools like water leeching up through the earth. Odds are, you’ll see the end coming - as you will with other stories here - but it doesn’t lessen the effect.

Similarly, the title track, ‘Human Tenderloin’ has a hazily visible climax that doesn’t tarnish the tale in the least, as it relies on its own bizarre circumstances and almost slapstick level humor to carry it through a tale largely about sourcing long pork for butchering and eating among a close-knit group of ghoulish gourmands.

My favorite entry in Human Tenderloin is ‘Paradise Won.’ ‘Paradise Won’ is an almost funny meditation on love and loss, repentance and forgiveness from the perspective of a widower renting a cabin from the devil. I won’t say more than that because, even though ‘Paradise Won’ does nothing to hide its cards, it manages to be surprising and moving nonetheless.

There are some truly bizarre mindbender horrors in here as well. Most notably: ‘The Hole’ ‘Time’s Flies’ ‘Murder Song’ and ‘They Were Born Without Faces’

‘Nothing Short of Dying’ is brutal, bizarre, downright gross, perhaps - and yet, it is a love story. And that is what elevates this and so many other stories in Human Tenderloin beyond being beautifully written oddities.

If there’s a low note here, it’s the hidden track, ‘The Ballad of Windsong House’ - a longer tale than the rest whose introduction is a bit laborious but serves its own payoff well. It has the feel of a bloated short story or perhaps a truncated novella. In the end, ‘Windsong’ circles back around to the connective tissue that holds the entire collection together, Love. Capital L Love.

I’ve been truly disenchanted by a lot of my reading of late, feeling that storytelling had become a contest of grim ideas and horrible suffering visited upon rooms stuffed with poor approximations of humanity. Human Tenderloin is populated by people that feel real, often sympathetic - at the very least understandable - even in the most horrific and strange of circumstances.

My only complaint about human Tenderloin is also one of its greatest strengths. The language is consistently beautiful and inventive. It always feels fresh and lush and filled with the Love that suffuses the entire collection. For me, it felt at times just the thinnest layer too thick, which is really hardly any complaint at all.

TLDR: Horror built on a solid foundation of Love, weirdness, and prose sharp enough to carve a steak from your leg. The collection I’ve read that shares the most DNA with Human Tenderloin is Joe Hill’s Full throttle - one of my all-time favorite collections.

Why is everyone down on The Dark Tower?

I've been pondering this for over a month now.
Why is everyone down on The Dark Tower movie?
Everyone should be down with The Dark Tower.
Did it deserve multiple 3-hour installments?
Yes.
Did it get them?
No.
Was 90 minutes too short?
Yes.
Am I tired of Universe-In-Peril stories?
Very.
Does this necessarily make it bad?
No.
My wife won a couple tickets to the movies. We spent them on The Dark Tower, even (especially) after hearing how bad it was from every critic and fanboy and Johnny-come-lately. I went because I love the Dark Tower Mythology. I expected a bad movie. Maybe if I didn't have the background knowledge from the gazillion pages of the books, I would have felt a bit lost. Don't think so but not sure on that one.
Did I get a bad movie?
No.
Did I get a great movie?
Hmmmm . . . .
Of course I suffered little disappointments that all gazillion and one pages weren't condensed and represented on the screen. But, really, that's about it. And compared to how much I disliked darlings like Inglorious Basterds and The Avengers, not to mention Batman Begins and bloated tripe like The Dark Knight Rises, The Dark Tower was not only not bad it was actually great. Not a great adaptation, but great entertainment.
I just sat back, stuffed my face with popcorn and thoroughly enjoyed seeing a few bits and pieces of my favorite series of books splashed across the screen. Good CGI. Great in-jokes for King fans. Idris Elba made a fine Roland. Matthew McConaughey looked a bit too mannequin-ish for my tastes but was calm and threatening in a way that I enjoyed. Top notch casting and performances all around. Seems a shame we're not likely to get this group together again.
The fuckin' low men? Nice little touch there.
The gunplay was top notch, even in a world inundated with topnotch gunplay (I'm looking at you again, John Wick).
but at an hour and a half, there just isn't enough of it.
of anything.
Still . . . .
I had fun. I saw a couple of my old friends for the first time in years.

Maybe I'll revisit their novels soon and hope that Netflix or HBO or Hulu gets ahold of The Dark Tower and does right by it with several well-produced seasons of Television.
I hope the movie (which doubled its tiny budget) inspires a new audience to read its source material and spawns the adaptations it deserves.
Do I want more?
Yes.
Am I happy with what I got?
Yes. Yes I am.

On the occasion of my idol's 70th birthday

So here we are, September 21st, 2017. Stephen King is 70.

First of all: Happy Birthday, Steve. (Just FYI, I don't know him personally, I just read that he prefers Steve. I try to use that whenever addressing him as though he were here, even though my instinct is to call him Mr. King)

Second of all: Thanks.

On July 3rd, 1991, I was 13 and you were not yet 44. On that day, I did some volunteer work for the library in my hometown setting up for their annual independence day book fair. As payment for my services I was allowed to choose any books I wanted. I chose a novelization of one of the Friday the 13th movies. It even had a selection of black and white stills form the movie in the middle. It sucked. It was unreadable even for a 13 year old boy looking for some blood and guts and boobs. The other book I chose was this:

a 15 year old paperback. I had to hide it from my parents because my dad thought Stephen King was a pornographer. I read it under cover of darkness in a week.

With that book, I went from reading the Hardy Boys and Caldecott winners from the kid's area at the library to reading grown up stuff.

Salem's Lot terrified me. I remember pinching the pages between my fingers to the point that some of them ripped. My pulse pounded just in anticipation of reading it. And when I got to the end, I wanted more.

MORE!!!

Because of this one book, I read a thousand more. I read a few Dean Koontz but that wore thin pretty fast. Ditto Robin Cook, Michael Crichton, John Grisham. All the other prolific/popular writers seemed to be more or less repeating themselves in story, style, structure. Not so Stephen King. I noticed he reused a few phrases. In the early years, it seemed that someone's flesh would run like tallow once a story. But it didn't seem he was reusing ideas or forms. Each book was fresh and I couldn't get enough. I made myself a deal: I would never read any King books back to back. It would be too easy to rip through the entire Stephen King library.

In those gaps, I discovered Chuck Palahniuk, Dracula, Frankenstein, Lonesome Dove, The Art Of Racing in the Rain, Terry Brooks, Ray Bradbury ....

Through it all, I learned most about authenticity. It's strange to think that a man known mostly for supernatural horrors taught me more about authenticity than anyone else. The stories were surreal and honest and never felt like someone was trying to push me to think one thing or another. They just made me think.

Then, of course, I found my love of writing. I briefly toyed with trying to write heavy, important stuff. But that's just shit. I like camp. I like accessibility. I like chills and thrills. I like vulgarity. I like making you think. I'm not going to tell you what comes after this life, but i'll sure as hell give you the opportunity to ponder it.

I try to tell scary stories. Sometimes I succeed.

Finding 'Salem's Lot at age 13 was perfect timing for me. I was a very sheltered boy with a big imagination. I was ready for bigger things and I feel very lucky to have found Stephen King that day. I also feel lucky to have been able to distinguish between 'Salem's Lot and shitty book based off a mediocre horror movie. A year earlier and I might have preferred the one with pictures in the middle - then who knows what might have become of me.

So, Mr. King - um, Steve - Happy Birthday!
And Thanks!

I hate technology

Sometimes I just want to bitch about things.
Right now, I want to bitch about writing.
Not in general.
In particular.
There's this one story I've been plugging away at. It's good.
I mean, I'm pretty sure it's good.
Two people have read it. Neither of them unfriended me.
Sometime during the third draft, I came to the conclusion that it might be an even better gooder story if I were to convert it into a first person tale.

Still not a fan of editing.

But!!!

I am a fan of making things good and better, so I went about making some of the changes my editor recommended as well as some basic pronoun swapping and language tweaking to provide a slightly more personal touch than the original narrator. I was about two thirds of the way through 10,000 words when I opened up Ye Olde MacBook to sit down and complete the first step in the process.

Did I mention I hate the process?

I'm no M. Night Shyamalan. I'm not trying to surprise you here.

I know you know where this is going.

The changes weren't saved.

Don't even ask. I absolutely DID click the image of the antique data storage device.

Twice.

Aways twice, just in case.

I was doing so well. Ignoring the platform, reading, writing, editing . . . .

All going well.

Three stories cooked al dente, two more simmering.

I even read a novel.

But now this shit with the editing. I have been avoiding that story - so near completion - for several days. I'm here now because it keeps me from having to redo lost work.

You don't suppose it's some kind of message from the great old ones that perhaps I should just leave it be? Maybe. It sure makes me want to give up. I was so jazzed too. The Tall Man will be published very soon, which leaves a vague hint of accomplishment floating around in my failure stew.

It might help if i learned to type. 35WPM is no place for a writer to hang out.

Yet, here I sit slouch.

The lost file is crippling. Everything I want to do, I won't do because I have promised myself to first sit down and finish that pretty good story. But I can't. It infuriates and depresses me every time I open the file. That ain't no editing headspace.

So I eat.

But now we're officially out of food (unless you count onions or corn starch). Thus I have come to this time-sucking cave of barely remembered dreams of ordinary days. Just to avoid being pissed at the goddam unsaved story.

Guess it's not working.

No, wait -  this has been cathartic. Like screaming in the woods or feeding the last jiggly bit of your your nemesis to a pen of hungry pigs.

I know I'll be shoveling teeth out of here later, but I feel ready to move on.

Wandering the Platform

First visit here in a while.
The Blog - 'tis a curious place.
He writes to alert The Others to the fact that he writes.
Just not this.
Some other stuff you cain't look at.
Nuh-uh, not unless someone coughs up a buck for it, so's he can try'n get you to cough up a dime for it.

Y'know, I'd like to give it away.
But I don't because I know I might be able to squeeze a buck outta someone who knows how to squeeze a dime outta you.

But if you wanna be shakin' people down for their lunch money, you gotta have a platform.
I have read one article that said the the platform was unnecessary. That's NOT one of one and one of the other. There seems to be a consensus. While I was napping, everyone else ran down the Woolworth and got one.

A consensus.

And a Platform.

shit.

I'll be honest. I don't wanna platform. But everything I read (except one) says: "THOU SHALT PLATFORM!"

And, oddly, I enjoy my platform, such as it is. This Blog. Instagram. Facebook.
To a lesser extent, Twitter and Tumblr.

I like creating content for them. This questionable post is bringing me some 2am joy. I like the sound of the keys. I like the opportunity to share and interact.

I write because I like to. I don't write because I want to share. I like to read maybe even more than I like to write. I like to write stuff I would like to read. Sometimes, I even like reading something I wrote.

But every minute here, or applying filters and hashtags on Instagram, or likefishing on Facebook is a minute I'm not focused on what I really want to do.

I want to tell stories. And I want to you to read them. I don't necessarily want you to like them but I do want to uncover something to ponder, even if it you just end up wondering how I've managed to remember to breathe all these years. By the way, when it gets tough, I just say to myself: "In. Out. In. Out." Eventually, it becomes habit again.

But as a father and husband working full time, there aren't always hours or minutes where I have the energy to focus on these things. I admit that I am a lazy, procrastinating daydreamer and that as often as not, I simply fritter away the hour or minute I had. When the FDA approves UnLazy and NoProc, I will at least take them for a test drive.

Unless diarrhea is a side effect. If diarrhea is a side effect, I will wait until my children are independent and I'll see if cocaine or speed are as helpful as their promoters say.

I'm not sure how it all helps. Will someone read my story and then visit my blog and say, "Oh look! This one is borderline incoherent on Tuesdays! That really informs this schlocky horror story about a possessed radio!"

Am I proving my commitment here? Will I be overlooked if I appear only to be writing stories that I want to sell? Am I proving my politics? Will I be skipped over (or worse yet, selected) because of my politics?

As I said, I enjoy this.

Platform.

But it makes me anxious. Right now there is a reclusive writer I'm neglecting. He needs a spell-check and a Bowie knife. But I'm over here because I'm afraid no one will ever meet him if I don't have some manner of platform.

It's a bit of a catch-22, wouldn't you say?

Portrait of the artist as a lazy old man.

Death and Damnation

"In the world beyond this one, do you intend to lead a better life?"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that your existence - such as it is - is meaningless."

"Meaningless? I loved and raised two children to adulthood. They each raised two children as far as the world allowed. I loved my wife. It meant a great deal to me."

"Selfish. And little more than the accomplishments of the rabbits that lived under your tool shed and ate your cucumbers every summer."

"Fuck you."

"That's no way to address the gatekeeper."

"Oh, so now you're Saint Peter?"

"Not just now. As long as I can remember."

"Then where are the gates?"

"Your kind made that up, along with wings and halos and harps."

"And good looks. You're fucking repulsive."

"Maybe. Ever notice how with everything better than a human, people imagine it to look like them?"

"Angels, aliens, gods. Ok - I'll give you three quarters credit on that one."

"You have no imagination. That's your problem. You think you're the smartest, most powerful creatures under the black skies and you can't imagine anything better than yourselves, so you end up imagining all these things in your own image."

"The bible says-"

"I know what it says. Your kind have been quoting it at me for two thousand years. You all made that up too. Some of it's right, but that's just luck more than anything."

"Is my wife in the world beyond this one?"

"No. Not the one we're talking about."

"There's more than one?"

"Always."

"We get to choose?"

"Not really."

"That sounds suspiciously like sometimes."

"The fact is, I'm just a salesman. I happen to think this is the best Beyond available and I'm trying to get you to choose it but it's a one-time deal. You have to pick it sight unseen."

"And my wife didn't?"

"No. She had no faith."

"What did she pick?"

"I couldn't even guess. Suffice it to say she got to preview a million horrors and select her favorite. I ask you again. In the world beyond this one, do you intend to live a better life?"

"I can't say yes. I thought my life was good. I had no intention of bettering it. Were the question would I, I might be able to say yes."

"Very good. Now do you want to be like me? Or would you prefer another go at being human?"

"Is that body as uncomfortable as it looks?"

"Yes."

"Will I remember any of this if I go back?"

"Only a few ever have."

"Was Jesus one of them?"

"Yes."

"Mohammad?"

"Yes."

"tell me one more?"

"Michael Landon."

"Jesus."

"Language."

"Is there anything other than this gray void here?"

"Only if you close your eyes."

"Ok. I think I'd like another crack at being human."

"Very well. Just head toward the light."

"On my way."

"Once there, you will be faced with some options."

"Some?"

"Millions, really."

"Millions?"

"Yes, but don't worry. As I understand it, the best option is always readily apparent."

"Okay."

"Oh - one last thing."

"Yes?"

"Think warm thoughts. It's cold when you arrive."