Beyond that the day has had a rather sinister pall over it. And no, this has nothing to do with the books I’ve been on about, either. It’s something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something feels odd in the air.
Really, though. What good is it for me to start flailing away with ambiguous, paranormal-sounding claptrap when I have ZERO direction with which to aim it?
I could go ahead and start peeling forth like one of those Midway necromancers, and get all muttery and stuff and say “I think this sinister harbinger I feel begins with the letter …. Q!”
Oh, and I have to admit. The Litore books have given me inspiration of an entirely different direction. Actually, I have to toss Clive Barker in here too, because one thing he wrote in a book I really didn’t like very much had a BRILLIANT premise barely grazed by him. Between he and Stant Litore, I might actually be able to write a serious work along with the complete and unadulterated farce I have in my head. Either that or I need serious meds.
So . . . off to write I do. I have decided that I am going to commit to writing a review of every book I read from here on out, unless I hit the EJECT switch and have my cockpit dump me out over the Sierra Nevadas because it’s so awful. And then I still might come in here and testify to its completely awful offering.