The New Ladies of Horror

Throughout my life, the women in it have always been among the most important to me. From my mother to my grandmother, to all the aunts who looked after me as a child, to the brilliant schoolgirls I felt kinship, admiration, and adoration for, to my daugher, to the love of my life who I'm going to spend the rest of my life with, they have all served to inspire and motivate me towards bigger and better things, while grounding me in a state of introspection through which friendship, family, and personal exploration can grow. I love and cherish them all.

Having said that (or perhaps to expound the point), I am an equal opportunity observer when it comes to the matter of the sexes in the world at large. I find Ellen Degeneres as side-splittingly funny as Eddie Izzard, Jane Austen as overrated as Thomas Hardy, Carly Fiorina as amazingly adept with money and expanse as Bill Gates, Tracy Chapman as soulful as Jeff Buckley, Maya Angelou as gifted with prose as Robert Frost, and so on and so forth. Through this, however, I have noticed there is one arena where women - truly inventive women - are severely underrepresented. And this arena is one which is very close to my heart; horror literature.

As a teen I fell in love with Anne Rice. The Witching Hour was the first novel of hers that I read, over a week-long stay at my cousin's house-on-a-lake in New Hampshire, and it was most certainly not the last. I read each of her books up until she became a new-wave holy roller. She's right up there with Barker, King, Layman, and Koontz. But after her, what for the other popular women in the genre?

Not much.

So now we're left with the Stephanie Myers' of the world, creating dumbed-down versions of Rice novels. (Don't get me wrong, I applaud Myers for her success, but let's face it; she writes for twelve-to-fifteen-year-old girls. To include her in the genre would be akin to calling Judy Blume an example of post-feminist literature) There's a chasm of female frighteners out there that begs to be filled. I wish to, right now, start it off my pouring a couple drops in, myself.

I present to you two writers who carry with them as much talent and inventiveness as any I've read of late. Their names are Mercedes M. Yardley and Michelle Howarth, and it is a pleasure to read the both of them. Now, I'll take the opportunity to delve into each one.

Mercedes M. Yardley describes herself as a writer of whimsical horror, and I defy anyone to come up with a better description of her work than that. There is an ingrained mystery in everything I've read, a sense of witholding that sucks you into a story and threatens not to let you go, even after the tale has reached its conclusion. She can be haunting, quirky, and sometimes humorous, yet never lapses into self-mockery or confusion.

The three stories I've looked over - Murder for Beginners (Shock Totem #1), The Container of Sorrows (The Pedestal Magazine), and Water Boy (Whidbey Writers' Workshop) - are each unique in their voice yet consistent in their ability to captivate. Her writing has the added bonus of making one ponder the little things in life, the tiny needles which poke holes in our collective souls. And her as-to-now-unpublished novel, which I've had the honor of reading the first chapter of, will end up being quite the unorthodox little gem once it is published. From the small portion I was able to see, it reads like the lovechild of Doug Adams and Peter Straub. It is truly alluring.

Whereas I have only just recently been introduced to the work of Mrs. Yardley, one Michelle Howarth I have been ingesting for years, since the day she arrived at the Writers' BBS as a naive yet passionate young pup. My, how she has grown over these years; into a woman of vast talent at both finding the hilarity buried in the gloom and penning cringe-inducing horror, sometimes simultaneously. Her creations, while jocose, reveal a hidden depth and darkness, saying that once this particular author decides she will do away with pretense, we all best look out.

I have read most stories Michelle has created and published, and even many that haven't, and it is impressive how undeviating her voice stays throughout, capturing the reader, engrossing them and then grossing them out, until finally the rug is pulled out from under you, revealing the crux of a joke that has been played on you, the reader, with skill and aplomb.

So there you have it; two woman who have the potential to not only thrive in this genre, but transend it. They are a pair of the freshest and most creative minds I've had the pleasure of exploring in years. Read them. Enjoy them. Support them. They need this, from all fans, of not only horror but good literature, to thrive as they deserve to.

The website of Mercedes M. Yardley can be found here.

The website of Michelle Howarth can be found here.

Do it. Start exploring. I guarantee you won't be disappointed.

This has been a message from the Journal. I only have your best interests in mind.

Digging Up Donald

"Did you throw open the doors of Heaven to one and all?"
"Don't be daft, it would fill up with Christians. What would Heaven be if there were Christians everywhere? We'd all have to watch our language."


On Fridays, the public library in town closes down early. There will be no checking out books after 5 PM. That means by the time I get out of work that day, the lot is empty and the doors are closed.

I say this because I have become a ravenous reader, going through books the way junkies go through their latest score. I rely on these forays into fantasy to, as I’ve said before, both build my own craft and escape the doldrums of a monotonously busy work week. In other words, finishing a novel on a Friday, if I have no new purchases handy, will leave me high and dry for the weekend and reduce me to perusing my ever-growing bookshelf at home for some retread reading material.

Recently, this very circumstance occurred, and I happened to pick up a book a friend of mine had written back in 2004 titled Digging Up Donald. I shrugged, grabbed it off the shelf, and read it for the first time in four years, when Steven Pirie, my friend and fellow author, sent me ten copies to sell at an international art exhibit that Artwiffy hosted back in ’05.

Boy, am I glad I did, because for a second read, this one blew me away. It is such a fantastic book, filled to the point of spilling over with horror, comedy, and mostly coming-of-age wisdom. The tone is wry and distinctly British, and anyone who ever enjoyed an episode of Monty Python or Black Adder – or maybe even Twin Peaks - will eat this up. I don’t know why I didn’t rave like this back when I first passed my eyes over the sentence, “It was biscuits at ten paces”, four years ago, because I knew even then that I loved it. Perhaps I wasn’t at a place in my life where I could fully appreciate it; or maybe I couldn’t find the proper words and confidence in those words to express myself accurately. Either case, that time is past, and now I am here to sing, baby, sing.

Digging Up Donald is the story of a family in the small English town of Mudcaster, a place that stands on the brink (and frontlines) of Armageddon. Demons have infiltrated the town, you see, and are planning a war that only the Family can stop – with the help of the peculiar and wholly original Donald, of course, for whom the book is named. There are quite a few funny instances where Mother and Father plan to get down and dirty with the whole business, all the while keeping true to their quaint, small-town British sensibilities. The situation with their daughter, Maureen, who is faced with losing something every woman of child rearing age fears, is played out tongue-in-cheek, and her relationship with her sheepish husband Brian is developed with a maestro’s display of wit and sexual metaphor. The townspeople, each of whom is distinct, add more than the story’s backdrop; they’re just as vital to the plot and feel as any of the major characters, which include, among others, the family’s quirky (and deceased) Uncle Norman and a wily, disembodied brain predisposed to acts of extreme violence.

As I said earlier, however, this is a coming-of-age story as much as anything, and to this point the central character is Robert, Mother and Father’s youngest child. His passage to adulthood is marked with the generalities usually ascribed to such tales – responsibility, exploration, loss, young love – only presented in an original and heartwarming fashion. Robert’s romance with Joan, the daughter of the Reverend Likewise (who might not be what he seems) is both sweet and filled with youthful daring, and proves to be a central cog in the resolution of the conflict. To juxtapose this, his rapport with The Grandmother (another shrewdly crafted character) surveys the duplicitous discord-versus-culture inherent with the coexistence of the older and younger generations. Their scenes together are painted with brutal honesty, yet there is a definite tenderness there when you peel away the outer layers.

The underworld is another thing of beauty, created out of a familiar mold and then flipped, upside-down, on the plate of pages. Wait until you see the rapport between the souls here, both lost and found. It’s sure to have you both rolling on the floor laughing and scratching you chin, saying, “huh, that makes sense.”

As a tale of the never-ending battle between good and evil, Digging Up Donald doesn’t forget to present the idea that, even in this fantasy world, not everything can (or should) be lathered in extreme shades of black and white. God is an overbearing father who seemingly doesn’t care too much about what goes on beyond his own gates, and the devil character is very polite with an irresistible swashbuckling charm. The demons are things we can loathe, laugh at, and feel sorry for, all at the same time. It also offers what I find to be a brilliant proposal; that this supposedly unending battle goes on for no other reason than the fact the particulars, the powers-that-be, aren’t forward thinking enough to realize there could be an end, presenting the immortals of both the upper and lower realms as creatures locked in a stubbornly ignorant perception of history.

Needless to say, this is one of the most intelligent, earnest, and hilarious books I’ve ever read. I’m not speaking (er, writing) in superlatives here. The only other novel I’ve completed which it compares to is Another Roadside Attraction by Tom Robbins. I definitely recommend this to any and all audiences. Pick it up, and you won’t want to put it down until you’re finished.

Yes, gentle readers, it is that good.

You can purchase a copy of Digging Up Donald here.

Putting Myself Out There

Seven years ago I started writing again - real writing - for the first time since my first year of college. I threw myself into a single project and let it envelope me. This particular project, a four-book series dealing with some of my greatest interests - personal tragedy, horror, romance, science fiction, and the possibility of a zombie apocalypse - went through many titles during the five years it took to complete the first draft; everything from B'lor to End of All Seasons to I-95 to Tabula Rasa. I never felt the work was complete under those names, however - they were just thrown together, attempts at building cohesion where there was none. This harrowed me until I was listening to the radio one day and a certain song (that I will not name) came on. There it was, right there in front of me. A title that wrapped every issue the books deal with in a nice little bow. It felt complete. I could move on.

Finally, The Rift was born.

I mention this because I've decided to, as the title of this post says, put myself out there. I've started a new website - http://robertduperre.com/ - in an effort to sell this work in serial format - one chapter a week, until the words THE END appear at the bottom of the final page. It is quite exciting; the thought of other people reading what I've written and garnering enjoyment from it is really the culmination of a dream. It is my sincere hope - or should I say prediction? - that I will entertain any who wish to delve into this story.


I hope to see you there, gentle readers. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

This is the Journal, signing out 'till next time.

After fifteen months away...

I've come to realize that I've neglected my little corner of the web for some time. With my creative juices again flowing, I feel it's time to pick the torch back up and get some things out there.

In the last three months, I've rediscovered my (literary) voice after a year of stagnation. It was answered with the drive to create a space of my own, an area in which I can create my worlds in the quiet my personal creative process necessitates. After this came a steamroller of writing - twenty thousand words, good words, in forty-five days - and the requisite excitement that one needs to complete a massive work of fiction.

This spark of creativity came because of one reason: I realized that I hadn't done so much as open a book in two years. Now, to some, that might not sound like a huge deal. But for a writer...well, that's almost beyond forgivable. How can you advance your own craft without exploring what you may or may not be doing wrong, what ways you might or might not want to change, how many plots may or may not have been done before? Yet this was what I'd done to myself - expecting my mind to imagine new and creative galaxies without feeding it, like asking a mountain climber up a slope without the proper gear to complete the task. It just doesn't work.

So I dove back into reading, as well. In the last two months I've read twelve full-length novels, during breaks at work and time off. It's a daily thing, and it must be, or else you'll fester. For those of you who don't write, just know that this is perhaps the most important action you must perform daily, and that includes sitting in front of the keys or blank sheet with a pencil in your hand. Read. A lot. Enjoy it. Analyze it. Build off it.

So now I'm writing again. And submitting. Hopefully soon there'll be a sale. Definately soon I'll be finishing the first draft of my second novel, Silus, the strange story of a man and his beloved dog. And I look forward to the editing process as it inevitably works its way forward.

So for now I'm off, though I hope not for long. For those who've served as support and inspiration to me, thank you, you know who you are. And I'll be back soon to post my thoughts and opinions in the form of reviews of some of the newer books I've been reading.

And I'm quite excited about that.

#19 - V for Vendetta (2006)

Remember, remember, the 5th of November,
the gunpowder treason and plot.
I know of no reason the Gunpowder Treason
should ever be forgot.

You want a movie that asks an impossible question and offers up an extremely un-pc answer? If so, then this is a flick for you.

The overlying query in this film is as such: can a terrorist be a hero? Arriving on the heels of September 11th, with Oklahoma City a distant yet still relevant memory, the creators, the Wachowski brothers, took a definite risk. And my, oh my, did it pay off.

(Note: This film is actually an adaptation of an Alan Moore comic which came out it the early to mid-eighties. It differs greatly from the source material – Moore’s vision was one of the struggle between Thatcher-era fascism and anarchy, whereas the film version deals more with the modern trend towards ultra-conservatism and 1984-style control. The original book is fantastic and a worthy read, but please do not judge the movie based on its differences. Coming today, the way it’s constructed and with what it says, the film is poignant, even necessary. No matter what Moore says.)

V would be a villain in most stories. He is proficiently violent and blows up buildings, all the while waxing poetic in a naïve yet intelligent way about the need for people’s revolution. He idolizes Guy Fawkes, he of the aforementioned Gunpowder Treason, to the point of wearing his visage in the form of a mask. He is a man without a face in a literal sense. His Fawkes disguise is as much his identity as his message is; he’s become the definition of revolution, railing against the dystopian, controlling, almost Nazi-like culture that has swept through England.

In Evey, the woman he saves from “fingermen” (the new regime’s version of the SS) in the beginning of the film and then brings to the top of a building to act as his audience as he blows up the Old Bailey while Tchaikovsky’s 1812 plays in the streets, he finds one bound to him as much through fate as mere circumstance. She is a symbol as much as he, a vision of what happens to people lost in a system of control. She is generally untrusting, as her parents, being activists, had been taken away from her at a young age because of their anti-government battlecry. Yet she is passive and even a bit lazy; she’s more than willing to go about her everyday business and turn a blind eye to the evils that occur around her in an effort to make her life, which she is imminently afraid of living, pass by without incident. It’s a brilliant illustration of society as a whole: bludgeon the people into submission with fear, and it will be far less likely they try to rise up against you. This is what she signifies.

It is through the relationship between V and Evey that the crux of the story unfolds. He befriends and protects her, even acts as her mentor. In a prolonged scene he imprisons her against her will, pretending to be a government official, in order to absolve her of her fear. The act seems outwardly cruel without subtext; whereas the suffering and humiliation she is subjected to is horrible, she cannot be truly free to live her life – a life of true freedom, in mind, spirit, and action – without it. So, even though horrible, this is actually a gift to her. The gift of autonomy, a gift V wishes to give all people living under the umbrella of manufactured phobia.

That brings up the second point of the film, which is actually the one that is the most dangerous. To what level with those in power go to maintain, and build, control? In the film, the administration befell horrors on its own populace in the form of a killer virus, in essence murdering thousands of people, to gain power over the national psyche. It is a despicable move, to be sure, but not necessarily outside the realm of possibility. Countless examples can be found in history of many the same things done in different ways, though most times they occur in third-world countries, not the west.

Depressing as this is, however, it has to be said that there is a bit of Faustian karma to the storyline. Make a deal with the devil, and you’ll eventually have to pay. Through their biological manipulation to create the ultimate weapon against their own people, those in power created V. His is their Frankenstein’s monster, their problem, their offspring. Just as Evey is a reflection and henceforth evolution of V, V is the reflection and evolution of his makers. This is why V says to Evey, as he’s ready to make good on his promise and take down the Houses of Parliament, that the world he is to create he could not exist in. He is a fiend, albeit a well-spoken one. Without his rage, without his vengeance, he would cease to exist. There is a balance inherent in being human he simply doesn’t possess. V isn't human – he’s the living embodiment of an ideal. He understands this, and also understands that Evey is the next step. She feels what he feels, yet also knows what it’s like to exist. She takes it to the next level, a level V was never prepared to enter.

The end of the film I’ve heard lambasted at times, but I cannot understand why. The people gathered, all wearing their Fawkes masks and capes, signify a convergence of ideals, not conformity. And the shedding of the disguises at the end is purposeful, as well. In disrobing and revealing their individual selves, they are giving visual representation to the ideal V states just before he dies. Free of the bonds the symbol of government represents, the terrorist who created them ceases to exist as those buildings go up on flames. At least for the moment, they have gained resolve, and that can be equalized by a connection to their emotions and individual thoughts; in other words, that which makes every person different. Sure, it’s a bit of grandstanding, but it works. It helps make the film great, and I place it at number 19 on my countdown.

Which brings me back to the beginning, and the forbidden question the movie asks. Can a terrorist be a hero?

Perhaps, given the current state of world affairs, that’s a question best left unanswered.

Idleness in Art

Just a quick little tangent for today.

As a writer, sometimes the effort it takes to construct sentences and paragraphs that fall into line with the whole of a certain creation can bring with it a sort of fatigued laziness; a mental state through which inaction, at the time, might seem more productive than putting thoughts down on paper you just know won’t do the job. I fight with this often – there are hours that I sit there in front of the laptop, staring at the screen, typing the first few letters of a word only to delete them immediately. This can go on for hours, until I finally slam the cover shut and go about the rest of my day’s business.

I’ve often asked myself…is there any way to avoid these situations?Yes.

The conclusion I’ve found is that there’s no such thing as wasted words. Even a passage that will inevitably wind up in the recycle bin is a worthwhile endeavor. Creation is all about trial and error, of mistakes and changes of thought. Jessica Torrant (from here on known as ArtWiffy) has taught me this. Watching her lather a canvas with paint, stare at it sideways for a moment, and then throw another layer on top of what she’s just finished, all the while with this odd expression on her face that might seem to be a smile if not for the intensity brimming right below the surface, has been an inspiration. No longer can I sit idle and feel sorry for my lack of inspiration. The only muse I need is right here (taps on temple). It’s from within that art springs forth and, just like everything else in life, the mistakes mean just as much as the finished project. After all, there wouldn’t be a finished project if not for those mistakes. It’s all a part of the process.

So thank you, ArtWiffy, for giving me that knowledge. No more meandering. This one's for you.

#20 - Unbreakable (2000)

Before Y2K passed us all by, we were still searching for a tangible villain to hold onto as a movie-going audience. Gone were the Russians after the decline of the Cold War, the source of so much material from the late seventies on up. The Vietnam War was far in the past; there was a sensation of “been there, done that” to it all. So we started turning our eyes in every direction we could; backward to the old bad guys of World War II (Saving Private Ryan, The Thin Red Line, heck even The Phantom Menace would fit), forward to the possible effects of our reliance on technology on the future (The Matrix, The Thirteenth Floor), and upward, to the one enemy the majority of us who live in homes with foundations have still never seen (Independence day, X-Files: Fight the Future). It would still be a little more than a year before fate brought us new scoundrels to fear and a new set of wars to transpose into pulp.

At the end of it all, after western civilization failed to collapse with the new millennium, M. Night Shyamalan released Unbreakable, his second movie after the ultra-successful The Sixth Sense. It opened well enough, earning thirty million in its first weekend and ninety-five million overall, but this had more to do with the way it was marketed as “By The Guy Who Did The Sixth Sense” than anything else. Lost in all this is the fact it’s one of the best movies I’ve ever seen, telling a story the way the best of all time have been told: by focusing inward, at that which makes us human, and the struggles we face today, in our everyday lives, our spiritual desire to be either the saved or the savior, and introducing a villain that is, for all intents and purposes, a reflection of ourselves.

David Dunn is a man just like any other; father and estranged husband, struggling with the dual terror of work and finding his place in the world. After a horrific train accident at the beginning of the film – which follows a fantastic human scene of David musing through the guilt before taking off his wedding ring and chatting with the pretty lady beside him – Mister Dunn is found to be the only survivor.

He is discovered after this event by Elijah Price, a comic book aficionado who is afflicted with osteogenesis imperfecta, a genetic disorder which renders his bones brittle. It is here that the film gains its overwhelming sense of synergy. Whereas Elijah is frail and introspective, David is strong – it is discovered he’s never been sick in his life – and a bit naïve. They are, in both theory and practicality, flip sides of the same exact coin. This is the point brought about by most all of the traditional comics written before the emergence of “grey matter” into the genre, yet no movie has ever done as good a job as this of highlighting their connection. The tete-a-tete between the two characters is equal parts intense and filled with longing. Elijah has long searched for the one to answer his ideology that there exists a man at the other end of the spectrum as he; David is an introvert who longs to simply connect with others, which Elijah, with his outward personality and flamboyant dress, possesses.

It is through their budding friendship that the truth behind David’s existence is slowly revealed. This is the overall best aspect of the storytelling. There is very little violence in the film – only one scene at the end, really. It tells the tale through dialogue and calm visual representation, using bright color to highlight the important events unfolding. David goes through many evolutions along the way. It is discovered that he is stronger than most men, that he is not easily hurt. We find out he is unusually altruistic: in an effort to save his dying relationship with his soon-to-be wife, a young David fakes an injury during a car accident, thereby saving Audrey from the miserable life he assumes would be forthcoming were he to keep on his path as an athlete. Their son, Joseph, thinks there is something special about his father from the beginning, and it is to him that David exposes himself toward the end of the movie as a way to strengthen their bond and save Joseph from the horror of self-doubt that has plagued him his entire life. In all, it’s really just a story of a man discovering his place in the world – a duty that no other comic book movie, which this basically is, has ever accomplished.

The acting is superb and the pace flows slowly without feeling dragged out. Bruce Willis embodies David Dunn as much as Samuel Jackson becomes Elijah Price. In fact, the acting is so well played out that the twist at the end of the film, which had every chance to come off as cheesy, became a highlight, and even almost obvious in hindsight. The overriding theme – that there is an emptiness which dwells within each of us that longs to be filled should we ignore our true purpose – resonates with the audience. We all want to find our path in life, after all. And I’d bet than any of us has had that sensation, upon waking up in the morning, that there’s something we haven’t done which we should have.

“They called me Mister Glass,” Elijah tells David at the end of the movie, after their true intentions are revealed. But the unasked question between them is what resounds the most, and also helps make this one of the best films I’ve ever seen.

Where do we go from here?