From and On “What Is the Business of Literature?” By Richard Nash (2013)

“[Publishing has the power[ to disrupt industries like education, to drive the movie industry, to empower the gaming industry. … the notion of an imperiled book culture assumes that book culture is a beast far more refined, rarified, and fragile than it actually is. By defining books as against technology, we deny our true selves, we deny the power of the book. Let’s restore to publishing its true reputation—not as a hedge against the future, not as a bulwark against radical change, not as a citadel amidst the barbarians, but rather as the future at hand, as the radical agent of change, as the barbarian. The business of literature is blowing shit up.”

The entirety of Nash’s article can be found here.

I worry that the closing argument contained in Nash’s article opens up too many opportunities for Michael Bay to defend Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen as a work of art; having been involuntarily exposed to those reels on a half-dozen occasions, I would argue that there exist exploitation films–ones severely lacking in explosions–that do a better job of embodying “literature.”

Some of us like to think of ourselves as the disciples of long-established creeds, the guardians of the holy world of literature against those that might defile it, against the corrupting influence of a loose-moral-having wave of newfangled filth; some of us like to think of ourselves as anarchists, revolting against an established hierarchy that we ourselves find revolting, tearing down the tyranny of an industry that refuses to recognize the beauty in looking forward rather than behind.  The truth is that we are, all of us, a mixture of the two.

We are the breadwinners who publish Poe and Austen as a surefire means to put food on the table in an attempt to find secure ground in an industry in which taking a risk on an untested author could get a whole floor fired.

We are the artists who pour a sentence–one that has somehow never been written before–out onto the page in an effort to release the creative fluid that burns behind our eyes, so tightly compressed within our minds that pens act as our safety valves.

It’s in finding the balance between these to identities that we thrive.  It’s in pulling together that we branch out, in imploding that we explode; in reconciling, we blow shit up.

On ‘Dogwood’ Poetry and Its Place Within Weird Fiction

HP Lovecraft, who is, as some of you might have noticed, my self-appointed paragon of literary beauty, tried his hand at poetry only a few times in his tragically cut-short life.  Having read several of these attempts, I can confirm the belief that poetry of prose does not directly correspond with poetry of verse.  Kindle erotica writers, with the help of Sir Mix-A-Lot, might be able to moonlight as lyricists for Nicki Minaj (id est “Anaconda”), but it seems that not all authors are born with the gift of songwriting.  Regardless: it is Lovecraft’s prose, not his verse, that defines the genre of weird fiction (see my thoughts on that here).  Which begs the question, “Does poetry have a place within Lovecraft’s genre?”

I prefer my poetry in forms of Andrea Gibson and Taylor Mali, but I’m into the weirder side of things, too.  And, going back through old copies of the locally (to me) edited, nationally published Dogwood literary magazine, I would argue that “Sea Stories” by Derek Sugamosto (published in Dogwood 2013) and “The Moths” by Jan Bailey (published in Dogwood 2003) would both feel at home, to one extent or another, in a journal of weird (in the Lovecraftian sense) poetry.  To me, at least, it’s about the minuscule details that illuminate the larger concepts: the strands of DNA that house remnants of a long-dead sun.  The best of Lovecraft’s work lingers on each living moment, something that all great fiction should do.  And I suppose the only thing that separates weird fiction from popular fiction is that it gets to the inner workings and the ultimate truths of the universe not through everyday human drama but through celestial geometry and the fever dreams of discarded youth.

So yeah, if you’re into that sort of thing, feel free to join us.  Cthulhu bakes a mean cookie.