An Argument of Alliteration: A Manifesto for a Literary Diary of the Weird

From Wikipedia: “Weird fiction is a subgenre of speculative fiction originating in the late 19th and early 20th century. It can be said to encompass the ghost story and other tales of the macabre…. Because genre or stylistic conventions had not been established, weird tales often blend the supernatural, mythical, and even scientific.”

Give us your tired and drained, your apocalyptic visions and your new-beginning reveries, your lifeblood and your death rattle; we have no qualms. Those streams rejected by the sea may yet find homes in these lakes—let the shores of this, a refuse-and-refused-ridden Lac Supérieur, be combed by treasure-hunters and dream-seekers alike. Let them see that our words are not landmines but gold mines, rivulets of meaning overlooked by those spent too long basking in a sun of terseness. We are the broken, the beaten, the downtrodden host made anew in words often thought best left unsaid. Let it be known: we are the weird.

We are the macabre beyond the mundane, the ones who know that raw emotion requires the touch of adjectives. We are those who know that the editor’s knife carries no anesthetic; it stings. And we long to feel something other than pain, despite what the subjects of our pieces might convey. From sci-fi noir to the feelings of stars, we crave what the human mind might initially reject, what the scions of so-called “literary quality,” forged in a century plagued by war, would call “the old ways.” These, our detractors, are men and women born in a period of terror, born into fearing the atom bomb and the suddenness with which it snuffs out all life; and so they write with sentences short, so that whatever diminutive addition they might make to the written word—and their associated, underdeveloped meanings—might be heard before the shockwave hits and their bodies become shadows upon a wall.

We carry our souls, ones that were born in the pre-nuclear age, upon our hands and wrists, and we bleed them out upon the page; we know the value in revery, the positivity of proliferation—not of weaponry but of language, despite that we might use the latter as the former. Our mouths and pens were raised in the era that had nothing but time, the era that knew when to pause and when to proceed laterally, spiraling out across the stars, our spilling-out words resonating with the background hum of the universe. We might still fear the bomb, but we know that the way to fight against it is to proceed regardless; wee do not bow to terseness. We are the weird and we speak volumes.

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