Saturday, May 9, 2015

Being a Mother Without a Good Mother

This isn't going to be a clean post. I expect for it to be messy, without clean lines of syntax and imagery. I told myself I wouldn't agonize over finding exactly the right word. And I expect this will be hard. After all, it has all been hard. 

Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm looking forward to the day spent with my husband and little guy. Just the three of us, enjoying our time together as a family. Living in the small moments that add up to a happy life. Not without its stress, of course, but a happy life nonetheless. 

I keep asking the universe when I'm going to have an easy year. 2013, 2014, and now 2015 have all been marked by some major event that borders on, if not dipping fully into, traumatic. And now, the afternoon before Mother's Day, I find myself inundated not by thoughts about my own role as a mother, but about the role my own mother played in my life. The woman I haven't spoken to in almost a year and a half. 

I could dedicate an entire book to the reasons why, so I won't do that here, but when I do think about my own definitions of motherhood, my own expectations of myself, how other people perceive me as a mom, my thoughts inevitability turn to the fear that has scarred my heart for the better part of my life. 

After a terrible, terrible event, long hours of soul searching, and hours in therapy, I finally accepted that I did not have a good mom. And when I finally accepted it, took that knowledge inside of myself  and swallowed that bitterness down, I was so ashamed and afraid. Ashamed for the years I had defended her and tip toed around the truth. Because it hurt too much to admit and face it. Afraid of the woman and mother I would become. How much can a girl without a father and now without a mother amount to when she starts her own family? 

Every day I am wracked with self doubt. Am I paying enough attention? Am I responding in the right way? Am I letting myself become too frustrated? Too angry? Should I be doing more? Saying more? Giving more? Should I not do that? Should I not say that? Am I raising my voice too much? Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. Am I screwing it all up? Will he hate me? Will he grow up resenting me? Will he become an adult and have only memories of Mom being overbearing or irritating? Will he, one day, sit in front of a doctor and talk about all of the ways his mom messed him up, as I have done? 

It is my greatest fear to become the mother my mother was. And I don't know if I'm doing it right. I don't know if I'm a good mom. I hope that I am. There is no self assurance in knowing that once upon a time a woman did right by her daughter, and that now I will do the same. I fear that those old habits have leaked into me like quiet poison, and even now, some small moment from earlier in the day is a tell tale sign of my failure. 

And I mourn. The loss of that little girl who thought everything was so normal. The loss of the person who was supposed to be the touchstone of my life. The loss of the naive young woman who denied the truth. I mourn all of it. 

Somewhere else in this world, I know that she may read this and say that I've gone crazy. That I'm misremembering. That I'm brainwashed or lying or dramatic. And that may be what hurts most of all. 

Years from now, I hope that the pain I feel now is nothing more than a faint memory of hurt. All I can do is hope for it. 

Sunday, February 22, 2015

A Review of The Children of Old Leech

A wonderful, wonderful fellow writer was the first person to introduce me to Laird Barron. That weekend, I lost myself in his strange world, both horrified and fascinated by the mythos he’d created.

The Children of Old Leech succeeds in paying homage to Barron in all of the best ways. I had to read this book in small sips, delaying gratification so that I didn’t squander any of the pleasure. The worlds built in each story vary but that makes them no less terrifying. So many of the stories are incredibly told, but I’ve focused on only a few of my favorites.

“The Harrow” by Gemma Files takes us under the earth, into a place of darkness, a place of old holes filled with things we can never understand. Perhaps one of my favorite stories of this collection.

Orrin Grey’s “Walpurgisnacht” took us inside the shimmering line between that which is seen and that which isn’t and peers closely into the occult world that is just behind that veil. Loved it.

“Good Lord, Show Me The Way” by Molly Tanzer was one of those stories I simply did not want to end. In fact, at its conclusion, I stepped away from the book for a few days because I wanted to stay in that place she had built, the Church of the Broken Circle. Another one to number among my favorites.

T.E. Grau’s cosmic horror in “Love Songs from the Hydrogen Jukebox” was a tripping balls kind of experience that isn’t often replicated in the written word. One of the more specific connections to Old Leech. Fantastic.

It took me a minute to get into the non-tagged dialogue of Richard Gavin’s “The Old Pageant,” but when I did, this story blew me away. The inscription on Donna’s footboard had me shivering from the outset, but that ending. Wow.

Paul Tremblay consistently knocks it out of the water, and his Notes for “The Barn in the Wild” is no exception. Everything here coalesces, rises together to form a perfectly tight story.

Michael Griffin’s “Firedancing” was yet another story that bathed us in cosmic horror. Everything in the center of the earth opened and laid bare.

Daniel Mills’ “The Woman in the Wood” left me shivering. It’s a difficult thing to pull of period dialect in a subtle manner, and Mills hit the nail on the head. Not to mention some truly terrifying imagery. Rushed off to buy his collection immediately after reading this story.

I’d previously read “Brushdogs” in Stephen Graham Jones’ After the People Lights Have Gone Off. I loved it then, and I love it now. Jones may be one of the most talented writers I’ve read lately.

Overall, the collection is stellar. A few stories weren’t exactly my cup of tea, but this is due to personal taste not lack of talent. A worthy representation.   

Sunday, August 10, 2014

One Year: A Letter


Over the coming years you will come to know something about your Mama. I am not crafty. I am not the chronicler of firsts that many mothers are. I am not the kind of mother who creates beautifully themed birthdays. I am not the mother who cut a lock of your baby hair to place carefully into a powder blue book that one day I'll show your wife as she carries my grandchild. As I think of all of the things that I am not, there is an anxiety that creeps upon me, slow and steady, and a tightness that spreads through my chest. I can't help but question, "Am I doing enough? Am I giving enough? Am I enough?"

One year ago, I had the same questions. Even now, after the passing of 365 days, those questions still linger. But when you reach for me in the night, calling "mamamamamamamama," the syllables tumbling one after the next, an unending stream of need, or when you break into a smile that is so full of joy that it makes my heart hurt, or when you call "YEE" when you are excited, or when you yell at the top of your lungs as you play with your trucks because you think this is the sound they make...all of these things, all of these small moments that make up a life, tell me that despite my numerous shortcomings that you are well, that this little thing we call a family is so full of love and happiness that it can't be anything but right.

In April, I started a list in my phone of the things I hoped for you. One day I'll tell you about what prompted that list, but I'll put them here now.

  • To see the best in people. 
  • Optimism
  • Laughter
  • A sense of justice that doesn't bend 
  • Honesty
  • Compassion when it's warranted
  • Tough love when it's needed and the courage to give it
  • Knowing you are good enough
  • Knowing we'll do everything in our power to not let you down
  • But if we do, it's because we are human and flawed. We hope you'll see this and be forgiving of us and yourself.
  • Saying the hard words and meaning them. 
  • Integrity
  • Not being afraid or ashamed of your imagination
  • Approaching dogs cautiously
  • Cats too
  • Recognizing inner beauty
  • A sense of adventure with a healthy amount of fear and respect 
Time, as it does, has a way of moving too quickly, and every day I'm amazed as I watch my baby morph into a sturdy, rough and tumble boy. Everything is a marvel, and I love to watch you take in the world around you. The intensity with which you examine everything, no corner goes undiscovered. Your favorite trick is seeing how fast Mama can fish that thing you shouldn't have in your mouth out of your mouth. And even though I'm sure it will drive me crazy, I hope you never lose that gleam of mischievousness. Your words are  coming fast and furious now, and you've learned (although not quite mastered) "ma," "da," "doggy," "ball," "no," "uh-oh," and "whoa." 

There is so much of this year that has been hard. So, so hard. Sobbing hysterically when you wouldn't latch. Sobbing hysterically because you cried for thirty-seven days straight (or so it seemed). Sobbing hysterically because you woke every thirty minutes for a month solid when you were four months old. Sobbing hysterically when I returned to work and left you with your wonderful, loving Grandma who spoils you far more than she should. Sobbing hysterically the first time I cut your nails and nicked your tiny finger. But there has been laughter, too. That time we were changing your diaper, and you pooped with so much force that it shot all over me, your father, the wall, and the carpet. The first time you smiled. The first time you laughed. The first time you crawled. The most wonderful part of my day is watching you and laughing. 

And the best part? There is so much more to come. I'll be right here to watch and hold your hand until you decide to let go. 

I love you forever, 


Tuesday, June 10, 2014

A Review of James Newman's Ugly as Sin

With a tale and voice that hearkens back to the glory days of the WWF and The Undertaker, James Newman’s Ugly As Sin is a gritty page turner that crawls under the skin and becomes that itch you scratch till it bleeds.

Nick Bullman has spent his youth cultivating celebrity. As a wrestling star known as “Widowmaker,” Nick has his share of wealth, fame, and plenty of breasts pumped full of plastic. But it’s a fateful meeting with two delusional, knife-wielding fans that alter the course of Nick’s life. Newman digs deep, finds the words and imagery that make the story burn, and the result is nothing less than pure nightmare fuel. The horror here lies in the very real possibilities of an event like this, and the curtain is never dropped. The reader is up front and center as witness while the men carve their madness into Nick’s face, leaving him a horribly disfigured monstrosity.

After the incident, Nick finds himself back in his hometown, Midnight, North Carolina, at the request of his estranged daughter, Melissa. While Nick was no doubt a terrible father in the past, he hopes that he can make steps toward something better, something good. In doing so, he agrees to help Melissa find Sophie, her daughter and Nick’s granddaughter that he has never met.

What follows is a galloping, blood-smeared good time. Newman has a unique talent for setting. Time and time again I felt as if I had stumbled into my own childhood in a small, white trash town. If Newman himself didn’t grow up in such a town, I’d be mightily surprised. If you’re like me, you’ll lose yourself so completely that you’ll inevitably feel as if you’ve stumbled down a rabbit hole somewhere and woken up right back where you were born.

Newman takes characters that are typically marginalized and lets us root for them. Leon, a tweaker and Widowmaker’s biggest fan, becomes a character that both surprises and breaks your heart. I admire a writer who is able to see the nuances of both good and evil in every character. Even Koko Puff, who is meant to be despicable, has clear motivations, and I appreciate that Newman doesn’t rely on used up tropes and stereotypes. But there is the despicable here, too, and in “Daddy,” Newman has crafted a character that genuinely sets the skin to crawling.

I didn’t expect to enjoy this book. I’ve never been a fan of wrestling, but it only took two pages to hook me. I’ve seen others call this book “white trash noir.” I’d have to wholeheartedly concur. But for Newman, “white trash” is anything but an insult. In fact, I’d call it high praise. I sincerely loved this book, and look forward to reading more from this highly talented author.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Dark Oddities: A Review of Shock Totem 8

Eight issues in and Shock Totem proves once again, that when it comes to unnerving the ever-loving piss out of its readers, they definitely have the stuff. I admit that I have a slightly biased love for this particular publication given that my own work has appeared there, but in every issue the quality gets better and better. At the end of this reading, I sat back and whispered, “Goddamn.” Because I was jealous.

I’ve read quite a bit about—not to mention seen more times than I can count—Marnau’s Nosferatu. Modzelewski’s article taps the vein of the well-known vampire tale and examines this particular film’s influence on modern vampire culture.

John C. Foster’s “Highballing Through Gehenna” is Old West meets nuances of a pre-apocalyptic world where terrifying creatures roam uninhabited plains. An unassuming family man takes center stage as a train barrels toward uninsured safety.    I’m glad I stuck this one out. Much like the steam engine at the heart of the story, it took a while to really get rolling, but once it did…

“We Share the Dark” by Carlie St. George blew me away. There are subtle emotions at play here, and the author uses a tightly controlled hand. What could have been just another ghost story becomes much, much more. The impact and resonance of loneliness and need for intimate connections hit hard. This may have been my favorite of the bunch.

Catherine Grant’s true horror tale “The Highland Lord Brought Low” is both terrifying and heart wrenching. Grant delivers the small moments that make you hold your breath, waiting for the big, crushing moment that doesn’t always come. It’s only when you reach the end of her tale that you realize those small moments are the ones that crush.

“The Barham Offramp Playhouse” by Cody Goodfellow reads like a fever dream. All too bright colors, too loud sounds, strange moments that hover on the precipice of reality and hallucination. While the ending is a perfect finale for the story, I had to wonder at the sudden name change from “Tim” to “Jake.” I stopped reading. I went back into the story three or four times, but still. No prior mention of a “Jake.” Maybe I’m thick, but it left me befuddled.

“Watchtower” by D.A. D’Amico is a tale of war and insanity.

“Death and the Maiden” by David Barber follows the legend of Dr. Frankenstein into the little known land of Ygor, the cliché hunchback and oft dismissed assistant. Barber avoids the pitfalls of fanfic and crafts a story that is emotionally satisfying. As a parent, this one made me shudder.

Harry Baker’s “Fat Betty” read hard and fast, and when I finished, I went back and read it again. Baker’s description of the aforementioned Black Betty is singularly horrifying. Particularly as she eats that chocolate bar.

The 2013 Flash Fiction Contest Winner Michael Wehunt took home the prize with his story “Stabat Mater.” I’ve participated in these contests for a couple of years now and never come close to Wehunt’s success despite sharing pages with him in Shock Totem. During this contest, I voted his story as my top pick. I haven’t heard from him in a while, but there hasn’t been a thing Michael has ever written that I didn’t love, and this story is no exception.

John Skipp’s “Depresso the Clown” is a disturbing reversal on the psychopathic clown story. The story closes the issue, and I don’t think there could have been a better send off. Sometimes, the monster isn’t any further than the mirror.

Among the fiction is poetry from WC Roberts, reviews designed to send you scrambling debit card in hand, John Boden and Simon Marshall Jones’ excellent feature “Bloodstain and Blue Suede Shoes,” and a conversation with one of my favorite authors Adam Cesare (check out Bone Meal Broth and Video Night).

This little ‘zine packs a lot of punch for little cost. Looking forward to many more tales from the amazing people over at Shock Totem.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Strange Bits: A Review of Jamais Vu

          In this second issue, Jamais Vu proves once more that when it comes to dark, unsettling pieces, they are second to none. That’s not to say that I finished the issue feeling wholly satiated, but for the duration of my reading, I was pleased to lose myself for long moments in worlds so artfully crafted that I felt genuine jealousy after reading. For what it’s worth, I’ll be offering comments on mostly the fiction and nonfiction pieces. I wish I could say something about the poetry, but I’m no poet, and I fear that I’d do the authors a disservice in attempting to review their works.

            First, the artwork of Lydia Burris who has designed the cover of all four issues as a kind of puzzle to be put together.  I can’t wait to collect all four. My only complaint was that I wanted to see her pieces in color, but I understand. The old budget and all that noise.

This issue opens with Steven Wolf’s post-apocalyptic tale “Valedictorian.” This may have been my favorite story. In a world that has come to an end, it’s the quiet, ingrained habits that keep us going. But deep inside those habits lurk deeper evils and, more importantly, the need to punish those who do wrong. The ending of this took my breath away. Beautifully done.

“The Long Lonely Empty Road” by Billie Sue Mosiman was a piece that I very much wanted to like. I really, really did. But what held me back was a voice telling me, “Haven’t you read this story before?” And I had. Stephen King’s “Big Driver” tells a very similar tale, and I’m sorry to say, that this story wanted to be “Big Driver” but didn’t quite have the chops.

There’s a section devoted to the sudden rise and interest in cryptid erotica, which I have to admit, I could have done without. I completely concur with Alexandra Christian in that my frustration over the poorly crafted salacious content detracts from those writers who are not in it for a quick buck at the behest of some dumb yokel dazzled by monster genitalia and the heaving bosom of some over-sexed damsel in distress.

The interview with Bobcat Goldthwait is delightful and chock full of moments that will both surprise and induce a chuckle.

After several pieces dealing with Bigfoot—including a review of The Legend of Boggy Creek and an interview with Sasquatch sculptor Jean St. John—I found myself frustrated to see, you guessed it, the first chapter of Brad Carter’s novel Big Man of Barlow concerning the big fuzzy guy himself. I mean, how much Bigfoot can one girl take? It’s like driving over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge without knowing how it works. Just when you think you’re off the damn bridge and finally in a tunnel, you emerge only to find yourself on the damn bridge again. But, I was glad I stuck it out because what followed was a touching story of Hank and Gus and the Big Man. By the end, I was wiping tears away. Carter’s characters are deftly rendered, and with the opportunity for such subject matter to veer quickly into the land of the cheesy, he manages to retain humanity and compassion. Bravo, Mr. Carter. Bravo.

The story I was most excited for, however, was Jack Ketchum’s “Oldies.” What I anticipated was the same breathless, gut-punched feeling I had the first time I read The Girl Next Door. What I came away with, however, was a feeling much, much different. I think that many people would be hesitant to call this story horror, but what Ketchum has done is taken us into the horrors of our own world, the terrifying possibilities and humiliation and confusion that face us all. At this point, I had to put the issue down. The story hit a little too close to home. And doesn’t that always mean the author has done his job well?

“Functionality” by Lucy Snyder is one of those stories that are competently told but I can never like. Because here be dealings with children, and maybe it’s because I’m a mom now, but I can’t handle these stories any more. Still, there’s competent writing here.

“Karmic Interventions” by William D. Carl was exactly the kind of twisted sense of humor I appreciate when an author can pull it off, and Carl pulled it off. A wry one, this.

Eric Beebe offers reviews of some of the strangest movies he’s seen, and by the end, I found myself wanting to shout at him through the pages, “Have you seen Dogtooth, Eric? Have youuu? Because I want to talk weird with somebody who gets it.” Eric gets it.

After James Newman’s review of We Are What We Are had me chomping at the bit to see it. By the way, Newman was the victim of an accident. If you’re interested in helping out a genuinely good guy and awesome writer, check out his benefit book auction.

Jeff Vandemeer’s Annihilation is a book I’ve had on my wish list for quite some time. After reading Paul Anderson’s review, I went ahead and bit the bullet. It’s sitting on my nightstand now like some delicious bit of juiciness.

There are other reviews and interviews throughout—one in particular with Jonathan Maberry whose fiction I adore.

The English teacher in me couldn’t help but notice a share of typos, but overall, Jamais Vu is a lovely mix of heavy hitters and newcomers who are bound to make a splash in the genre. Definitely looking  forward to issues three and four, and if you haven’t bought your own copies yet, what the hell are you waiting for?