A Reader’s Journey: 2023

You know what I don’t want to talk about? AI.

You know what looms over every aspect of the reader/writer universe right now? AI.

I’m typing these words in early November. This post will go live in early December. Pretty much anything I write about AI now will be partially or maybe even entirely obsolete by the time this is posted. It’s not hyperbole: the technology really is advancing that fast. (I’ve worked in the information technology field for 25 years and I’ve never seen anything move at this speed.) And, like every other technology that has come into being since humankind figured out how to scrape two rocks together and create a spark, we are scrambling to keep up. We humans are good at inventing things but less good at evolving our ethics and understanding societal impact until well after disruption occurs. It’s always a messy process. We like to dream but we don’t like to think ahead.

As readers, here are two AI questions we will need to address:

Subjective: What are your personal ethics/boundaries regarding stories created all or in part by AI?
Non-subjective: How should AI-generated stories be labelled, so that you the reader can make an informed choice about whether you read/purchase the story, based on your answer to question 1?

Let’s take the first, subjective question and expand on it a bit: Are stories created by AI something you have a desire to read? Do you desire to know the level of human involvement in the creative process? What is your boundary line when it comes to authorship and using AI?

If the human element of creation makes no difference to you, then you don’t have to do any thinking about this. If it does, then you do. AI makes it inevitable that, if you really care about an writer’s work, you will have to be “in the know” about how the writer created it.  You will need to follow the writer through various channels, you’ll need to know a bit about their artistic intent and philosophy—do they leverage AI and to what degree. That’s already a huge ask when most of us can barely escape the endless stimuli being pushed at us twenty-four hours a day right now. Most of us turn to fiction to, in part, escape our life or at least turn the noise off for a bit. We want that process to be simple.

Side note: it’s possible we will soon see the final death of works of human-centered art reaching more than a small audience. People will have a different perspective as to whether this is good or bad, based on what role such art plays in their life and how they interact with it.

I’ve written a lot about the problems of meta thinking in weird fiction and the closing of the mental circle that often results. AI may prove to be the final nail in this particular coffin. As a reader, it will be incumbent upon you to not only define your own boundaries for what is acceptable, but, should those boundaries involve only reading stories created by a human author, putting in the work to validate the method of creation. And I suspect validating will not be an easy process. How will you know that a new (to you) author is human? The level of effort almost certainly guarantees the audiences will be small. Most are not going to put in that work. Many simply won’t care. Especially for those for whom stories are more entertainment than art. Disposable.

Is it important to you that the art in your life comes from human creators, messiness and awkwardness all? It is to me, but I recognize that this is not a universal truth. If we are being brutally honest: it’s not a right/wrong dividing line, though I suspect it feels like one – I know it does for me. But if art is subjective – something I’ve argued my entire adult life – then there’s no reason that the source of the art is not subjective as well. In my personal cosmos, art simply can’t exist without human involvement. That’s what makes it art and not just output. Not just content. Not just a thing. But this is my personal cosmos – my personal boundary line. It is not for me to say that the boundary line should be the same for someone else.

Here's the conundrum: in my heart of hearts, I believe that AI cannot create art. The key word, though, is believe. Because art is subjective, I cannot offer evidence to unequivocally state that AI cannot create art. It is a question of ethics. How are we as a society, then, going to have this discussion? Or will we have it at all?

Should we?

AI cannot possess or experience human emotion. AI cannot have human intent. What happens if art becomes about the intent behind it, rather than the actual work of art? I do not have a consistent philosophy when it comes to separating the art from the artist. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, sometimes I’m in limbo where I don’t know which way I lean. It’s situational and it changes as the circumstances of my life change, as society changes, as my contextual understanding changes.

And that brings us to question #2: How should AI-generated stories be labelled, so that as a reader you can make an informed choice about whether you read/purchase the story?

I think there should be some kind of labeling, regardless of where you fall on the spectrum. The trick is governance. That’s another thing we humans have not shown ourselves to be, um, particularly good at.

Let me throw out one idea. I’m a beer enthusiast. I despise mega corporate breweries like AB InBev – not their beers (though I’m meh on those) but their business practices. I see them as nothing but destructive to the creative possibilities of brewing. As such, when I’m shopping for beers and come across a brewery I’m not familiar with, I check it against the Brewers Association Is It A Craft Brewery List (assuming the beer does not already carry the Brewers Association Independent Craft Beer seal.) It is important to me that I support independent craft brewing, which I view as the lifeblood of beer and is a vital component of my enjoyment of beer. While not perfect, the BA list allows me to make an informed choice about where my beer money goes. Could something similar be developed for authors, where one could check whether an author or book was AI-free (or shows the level of AI involvement in the creation of work?)

Such a project would be a massive undertaking. Craft brewing is a relatively small hobbyist world, at least in the United States. Authors, on the other hand, are scattered far and wide across the globe, across genres, with various levels of involvement in their own work. And there are a lot of them. The entry bar is low; you don’t need any equipment beyond your own imagination to start writing and a computer or notebook/pen. How could one independently verify the level of AI utilized by an author? Even asking for such validity might seem like an invasion of privacy. The slope is incredibly slippery – and that’s before we even get into the potential parameters of what defines a human-created story.

Publishers also exist on all parts of the spectrum: small and large, ethical and scumbucket, labor of love and capitalist enterprise with many points in between extremes. What will their motivation be to get onboard with such an undertaking? Many of them are altruistic. And they’ll be evolving (possibly devolving) right beside authors and readers.

So craft beer-like labeling is just an idea, and probably not a realistic one at that. We need something, though, for those of us who do want to make informed choices about what we support. Perhaps The Authenticity Initiative is a good place to start. It’s essentially a voluntary pledge by authors though, and does not yet have a system in place to independently verify that AI was not used in the creation of a work of art. (In fairness, the founder is well aware of the issues with self-certification and sees The Authenticity Initiative as a starting place, not the end goal.) The point here is not to shame, no matter one’s feelings on AI utilization. There’s no need to take AI-created content away from people who want it. But there needs to be an avenue for people who don’t, who value and wish to support the human act of creation. (AI compiles. It can’t create, no matter what nonsense proponents of Effective Accelerationism spew.) I already put a fair amount of effort into avoiding content creators and seeking out writers. I’m willing to put even more effort into avoiding AI-created stories, but I believe it’s reasonable to require publishers to be upfront about labeling, even as the legalities sort themselves out. Although, thinking of the…um…ethics of certain publishers inspires one to consider whether the whole system shouldn’t just be pulled down before it can be bulldozed over.

My day job in the information tech industry offers me a front row seat to just how fast AI technology is evolving. Like any new technology, there are positives and negatives. What is unique about AI is the potentially broad impact across all walks of life it could have and the speed in which it may get there. AI is an inevitability, and even if we can’t yet accurately forecast just how it will change the publishing world, it’s already doing so. The onus is now on us, the readers, to do more than merely consume if we value the human element of creation. (It’s always on us, isn’t it?) Despite the doomscaring that exists on both sides, AI is not a sentient threat. It’s a tool, and like all tools, operating instructions and safety guidelines are required. Let us not lose sight of this fact while we ensure that human-created art has a place in this world.

Alright, let’s set aside the artificial and chat about human-created (so far as I can ascertain, anyway) books! I’ve been doing this for years, it’s a lot of work (it takes me about half a year to write and I’m taking notes all year long) but it’s also still fun. This year I found that I had more to say about a handful books than fit into one or two sentences, so these books have their own subsections. There’s also a subsection for short takes and, of course, King of the Hill (my annual check in on Stephen King and Joe Hill.) No music or other non-fiction books are included in my musings – that is intentional as I prefer to focus on fiction for Reader’s Journey. (But holy shit, Geddy Lee’s book, the Scott Burns book and the collection of Coil interviews are three of the best music books I’ve read in years and I can’t recommend them highly enough!) And while I can’t reveal the details yet, I will likely have some music-adjacent nonfiction writing published soon…stay tuned!

Books Read in the Past Year:

Film, Folklore and Urban Legends, Mikel J. Koven
Asian Ghost Short Stories, Lee Murray, editor
Dark Carnivals: Modern Horrors and the Origins of American Empire, W. Scott Poole
Damnable Tales: A Folk Horror Anthology, Richard Wells, editor
White Cat, Black Dog: Stories, Kelly Link
Japanese Ghost Stories, Lafcadio Hearn
Acid for the Children, Flea
Looking Glass Sound, Catriona Ward
Wylding Hall, Elizabeth Hand
The Twisted Ones, T. Kingfisher
The Fifth Season, N.K. Jemisin
The Obelisk Gate, N.K. Jemisin
The Stone Sky, N.K. Jemisin
Herzog, Saul Bellow
The Haunted World of Mario Bava, Troy Howarth
Lanegan, Greg Prato
Before You Sleep: Three Horrors, Adam Nevill
The Cult Film Reader, Ernest Mathijs and Xavier Mendik, eds.
Les Femmes Grotesques, Victoria Dalpe
The Trees Grew Because I Bled There: Collected Stories, Eric LaRocca
Andy Wood: To Live, Die and Shine in Pre-Grunge Seattle, Valeria Sgarella
Faith, Hope and Carnage, Nick Cave
Lapvona, Ottessa Moshfegh
Art Sex Music, Cosey Fanni Tutti
The Forbidden Territory of A Terrifying Woman, Molly Lynch
Dark Stars: New Tales of Darkest Horror, John F.D. Taff, editor
For The Sake of Heaviness: The History of Metal Blade Records, Brian Slagel
Swing of the Blade: More Stories from Metal Blade Records, Brian Slagel
Mud Ride: A Messy Trip Through the Grunge Explosion, Steve Turner
Liberation Day: Stories, George Saunders
The Beauty, Aliya Whiteley
Sex, Drugs, Ratt & Roll: My Life in Rock, Stephen Pearcy
The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis, Barbara Creed
Into the Void: From Birth to Black Sabbath―And Beyond, Geezer Butler
Everything Keeps Dissolving: Conversations with Coil, Nick Soulsby, editor
Bad Cree, Jessica Johns
Denim and Leather: The Rise and Fall of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, Michael Hann
Press Reset: Ruin and Recovery in the Video Game Industry, Jason Schreier
The Woman in the Dunes, Kōbō Abe
Unfortunate Elements of My Anatomy, Hailey Piper
Little Black Spots, John F.D. Taff
Barrel-Aged Stout and Selling Out: Goose Island, Anheuser-Busch, and How Craft Beer Became Big Business, Josh Noel
The Laws of the Skies, Grégoire Courtois
Holly, Stephen King
Goth: A History, Lol Tolhurst
The Marigold, Andrew F. Sullivan
On the Origin of Time: Stephen Hawking's Final Theory, Thomas Hertog
Forever on the Mountain: The Truth Behind One of Mountaineering's Most Controversial and Mysterious Disasters, James Tabor
The Greatest Band That Ever Wasn't: The Story Of The Roughest, Toughest, Most Hell-Raising Band To Ever Come Out Of The Pacific Northwest, The Screaming Trees, Barrett Martin
Sonic Life: A Memoir, Thurston Moore
The Scott Burns Sessions: A Life in Death Metal 1987-1997, David E. Gehlke and Scott Burns
Perdido Street Station, China Miéville
The Unknown University, Roberto Bolaño
Bone White, Ronald Malfi

Looking Glass Sound
We have to start the journey here. Over the prior two years, I’ve heralded Catriona Ward as one of the most vital and important voices of horror fiction. 2021’s The Last House on Needless Street and 2022’s Sundial, while not flawless, are tremendously exciting books that get under the skin and make the reader uncomfortable in the way that only the best horror fiction can. At the same time, both books hinted at a writer that would not be constrained by genre. I’ve held firm to the belief that Ward will one day write a masterpiece. Which makes the arrival of a new book from her an event both thrilling and laced with dread. I know my expectations are high and likely to be unmet – you can’t just expect a masterpiece. When they happen, they usually pop up out of nowhere. So, where does this year’s novel Looking Glass Sound land? Spoiler alert: it’s not a masterpiece. It’s not even entirely successful. But boy, did I find it quite interesting. Let’s try and unpack the often-contradictory impressions it left me with.

 Out of the gate I knew this book would be a challenge as it features one of my least favorite horror tropes: the author protagonist. Longtime readers know I find little imaginative in this trope, to the point where these days, unless I already have other reasons to read the book, I’ll discard it right away. Ward being who she is, I was willing to set aside my personal bias. The good news is Ward’s strange story is an interesting, largely fresh take on this idea. While hardly the first author to blur the lines between fiction and reality or to use an unreliable narrator, she wields these tools effectively for two-thirds of the novel, resulting in moments both emotionally impactful and disturbingly creepy.

Then Looking Glass Sound goes batshit crazy. And I mean completely off the rails, no-doubt-about-it batshit crazy. The last third of the book is meta layer upon meta layer to an utterly absurd degree, a multi-layered deconstruction of the novel in real-time. Like, laugh out loud levels of “twists.” Last year’s Sundial suffered from an unnecessary layer of meta commentary in its conclusion, blunting the impact of an otherwise powerful novel. Looking Glass Sound doesn’t just lean in on this approach, it drives a tank over it.

So, I hated the book, right? Well…no. I mean, yes, I did in that the ending left me unfulfilled as a reader, like I’d just been conned for 200+ pages. At the same time I admire the chutzpah of it; there is no subtlety in the approach. Ward commits to it totally and fearlessly. And there’s still the fact that the first two-thirds of the novel were quite effective, overcoming my own distaste of an overused trope through engaging, direct storytelling. But lord…Ward doesn’t end novels, she unravels them. I still believe she has a masterpiece in her future, and she sure as hell isn’t boring. I crossed the half-century mark this month and I’ve been reading novels damn near since I started string words together. It’s difficult to unbalance me as a reader or genuinely surprise me. Looking Glass Sound did both. Once more, I eagerly await her next novel.

Our Share of Night
Argentine author Mariana Enríquez’s first two translated collections, Things We Lost in the Fire and The Dangers of Smoking in Bed, generated a fair amount of notice when they landed on U.S. shores in 2017 and 2021, respectively. I found both collections to be well worth perusing with the best of the stories bringing a haunting, almost desperate sadness to their surreal atmosphere. Given this, my curiosity was strong when Enríquez’s first translated novel, Our Share of Night, was published this past spring – especially as it seemed to be getting a sizeable publicity push. Within genre channels, I swear I was seeing Night advertised everywhere I turned (even my local bookstore had several hardbacks on display, an extreme rarity for a non-A list author.) Neat as it was to see the book get a healthy push, I wish they would have designed a better cover. Night’s jacket, a Tales from the Crypt-cartoonish illustration of a demon hand, looks like something from the B-moviest B-movie circa 1958. But what of the novel itself?

It's certainly ambitious…and long, at over 600 pages. Hopping from 1980s Argentina to 1960s (swinging) London, then back to Argentina in the 1990s, the novel covers some serious ground, essentially telling the story a father (Juan), mother (Rosario) and son (Gaspar) and the occult activities of their rich, decadent families. At times the story directly confronts Argentina’s notorious Dirty War while other times approaching it through allegory, but the war hovers over the entire novel, even when story events take place outside of its timeline. That’s not to say Night is a political novel, or even one that primarily grapples with war and its sociological effects…though there are moments the novel comes close to the latter.

So, yes, Night is ambitious…but is it a successful novel? I’ve been hemming and hawing over that question for a while now. On the plus side of the ledger: the first third of the book is utterly absorbing (as well as horrifying at points), the writing and pacing on point. On the minus side: after an effective climax that brings the first part of the story to a close, the book starts to meander. At first, this can be forgiven. Though there is a distinct lack of anything actually happening, the somewhat reflective mood established in the middle pages allows for a generous depth of character development. Unfortunately, this depth gradually made me realize that not only did I not like any of the characters (hardly a requirement in this genre), I found them less interesting the more I knew about them. And for the last 200 pages or so, the book drags. It just flat-out stalls. A bunch of attention is paid to minor characters who end up not factoring in the novel’s conclusion at all, and one major plotline is never cleared up. I slogged through the book’s final pages (and some multi-page paragraphs), anxious to just be done reading the thing…and to know how it all came out.

Because despite all of this, I couldn’t forget how effective that first third of the book was – it left me invested enough in the overall storyline to push myself through so I could see how it all ended. It was a tremendously disappointing conclusion – neither redemptive nor bleak, neither impactful nor frustrating. It was just…there. And I was a little sorry that the one character left standing wasn’t dead, because frankly I’d long since lost any empathy or engagement with them. Night is one of the most whiplash reading experiences I’ve had in a long while. I still don’t know what to think of it. I’m also cognizant that subtleties can get lost in translation, though I did not feel this gulf in Enríquez’s prior two collections, which were done by the same translator.

This is probably coming across a bit harsh; there are certainly things to admire about Night. Given the prominence Enríquez has achieved, it’s a book worth checking out by anyone interested in current horror literature – as well as anyone interested in Latin American fiction. I’m just disappointed, because I was genuinely excited through the first third of this book (an excitement I feel all too rarely these days) and I kept holding out hope as Night started to meander…and by the end all my positive feelings were gone. But you know what? I will absolutely be in line to read whatever Enríquez puts out next. There’s no question of talent or vision. I wouldn’t be surprised if her next book knocked me out.

Dark Stars
There are worse books to set as your north star than Dark Forces. Unlike Kirby McCauley’s classic 1980 anthology, though, homage Dark Stars is frustratingly uneven. At least half the stories feel unfinished, in need of a final pass to put all the elements in place. This is not unique to this anthology – in fact it has been readily apparent in many weird fiction anthologies I’ve read the last decade. Perhaps the result of authors feeling pressured to rush content out, even if at the expense of solid storytelling? That said, Dark Stars contains several gems and is a worthwhile read for fans of the genre, even if it doesn’t achieve its (admittedly ambitious) goal of showing how expansive horror can be.

Before looking at a cross-section of tales, a note for those who tend to read anthology introductions: skip this one. It offers no context, creates no anticipation for the stories within and could easily put you off on reading the anthology as a whole. Moving on, Caroline Kepnes’s “The Attentionist” is a solid enough tale, if a bit of an odd choice to lead off an anthology ostensibly surveying modern horror as it’s a pure throwback to 80’s horror in both setting and tone. Placing it first was likely intentional, offering a bridge between Dark Forces and Dark Stars, but with Ramsey Campbell represented in both volumes, he better serves as that bridge. His story here, “A Life in Nightmares”, is placed second. Anyone unfamiliar with Campbell’s style may struggle with the tale, which is good but not great. Interested readers would be well served to check out Campbell’s Alone with the Horrors collection to understand why he is such an important figure to the genre…

Elsewhere, editor John F.D. Taff’s “Swim in the Blood of a Curious Dream” is a highlight. I am always down for some good rest stop horror – truly some of the most terrifying places in existence – and when you mix that with raging ghosts, fierce parenting instincts and Hawaiian Punch, well, I’m sold. Taff’s tale gets under the skin and into real, tangible emotion, where the best stories live. I so enjoyed it I promptly read his collection Little Black Spots and it didn’t disappoint—he’s moved into my “must read everything” list…Penultimate story “Challawa” by Usman T. Malik is an eerie exercise in terror, a symbolic examination of xenophobia and the pull of cultural roots. The first-person narration ensures the reader never feels distant from the beating, bloody heart of the (longish) tale. Bow before the Burnt Goddess…

Stephen Graham Jones’ “All the Things He Called Memories” has a great premise that achieves moments of almost unbearable tension but fumbles the execution – better pacing would have made this story the highlight of the anthology. As is, the story is the poster child for the issue of incompleteness mentioned above and a tantalizing near-miss…Wrapping up Dark Stars, John Langan once again proves he may currently be the best short story writer in the weird fiction genre. He’s become such a master of characterization. “Enough for Hunger and Enough for Hate” is essentially just two people talking, but the tale they tell is chilling (in temperature as well as tone) – Langan achieves the tricky balance of making the villain, if not exactly sympathetic, at least understandable…to a degree. Where that line tips over will be different for every reader and that is what makes “Enough … “ such a brilliant story.

The rest of the stories veer all over the map in execution and effectiveness, many dragged down by the feeling of being unfinished. Still, the highlights alone make Dark Stars a worthy read for genre enthusiasts…just set your expectations appropriately.

The Forbidden Territory of a Terrifying Woman
As I finished reading Molly Lynch’s debut novel The Forbidden Territory of a Terrifying Woman, I had no idea if the book worked or not. If it was successful, on its own terms or mine. If it was well-written and told a compelling story. One is tempted to think that having that many conflicting thoughts about a book is an answer in itself: no, it’s not successful. In the case of Forbidden Territory, this line of thinking is wrong. Audacious is the term that kept circling my brain as I considered this strange, powerful, surreal novel, and what should literature be if not audacious? Did I read any other books this year that caused me to run out of the shower and jot my thoughts down because I could not stop thinking about it? No. There is so much to try and unpack here. I’m gonna need more than one paragraph.

Forbidden Territory tells the story of wife Ada, husband Danny and son Gilles. Employed in academia, financially privileged, on the surface theirs is a comfortable life. Ada is unsettled by the state of the world, yet this doesn’t really affect her life until she flat out disappears – one of multiple women to do so, with the only connection the fact they are all mothers. Eventually Ada returns, initially unable to believe she was gone for three weeks and, even as she comes to accept her absence, unable to remember what happened. This synopsis suggests a book that could be a couple of things: a mystery, a thriller, a supernatural tale, even a domestic drama. Forbidden Territory, though, is trying to do more. It wants you to consider BIG IDEAS ABOUT THE STATE OF THE WORLD at the same time it wants to tell an intimate, domestic tale of the light and dark sides of a marriage. That it doesn’t tell either story successfully doesn’t mean that the book fails.

The first and last third of the book is told from Ada’s viewpoint, the middle (when Ada is missing) from Danny’s. The problem with this approach is that once Ada returns and the story largely (though not exclusively) focuses on the troubled marriage, we get only one side—one perception. Then at the end it’s somewhat unbelievably sewn up by Danny saying “oh no, that’s not what I felt.” Because of this one-sided tilt, nothing feels earned. In fact, the book here slips into telling instead of showing the feelings of both protagonists. I felt very connected to the problems they were wrestling with but I could not relate to them as characters – because I was only getting one side and it was being dictated to me.

The other angle of the novel is a topic relevant to all of us: how to live in a world that is not only on fire, but constantly shoving that fire in your face. If your privilege affords you the ability to consider this fact—if you are living above the basic survival line—what is your obligation to the world? Can you live, perhaps even find joy, while not burying your head in the sand? Using elements of magical realism and pseudo-therapy speak, the novel really wants to…well, I’m not sure what it wants to do with this. I don’t think it’s necessarily trying to say anything profound (I think it wants to be a smaller human story first) but I don’t think it’s being flip or dishonest in its intentions to interrogate the big questions either. Here’s the problem: the language of science, academia and poetics are no longer enough to address these subjects. Ada’s continual reaching for description/understanding of her experience illustrates the limits of language to describe our current crisis, our evolutionary need and what any potential solutions could be. Western language is no longer enough. A new language is needed.

The Forbidden Territory of a Terrifying Woman does not propose such a language—no novel is going to do that—but by illuminating the very issue it’s doing something that feels extremely important. More than anything I was reminded of The Overstory. When I finished Richard Power’s novel four years ago, I thought it was an ambitious novel that ultimately failed to work. And yet, to this day, I have not stopped pondering the book, and in fact in the last decade the only novel that looms larger in my consciousness is Roberto Bolano’s masterpiece 2666. I could not stop thinking about Forbidden Territory while reading it (this relentless need to dissect it, get under its skin!) and I suspect I’m not going to stop thinking about it in the future, either. It can be said that 2666, The Overstory and The Forbidden Territory of a Terrifying Woman are all flawed novels. More importantly, they are also ambitious, intelligent, relevant and critical novels…three books that dare tackle the biggest concerns in our burning world. Books that spur discussion and debate amongst those who take the time and make the commitment to read them—and engage with them. Books that are not disposable. Books that demonstrate literature is still a living, breathing, messy tool to help us grapple with a living, breathing, messy world. These authors have done their part. As readers, will we?

Herzog
I’m far removed from academia so I can’t speak with certainty, but I would like to think that the cannon of Western literature has evolved past wallowing in the sort of tedious, privileged middle-age white dude existentialism that Saul Bellow’s Herzog offers up. I’ll admit that through much of the book I was trying to figure out if it was supposed to be satire. The ridiculously misogynistic collection of stereotypes that make up the women cardboard cutouts (because they sure as hell aren’t actual characters) are so over the top that, even in the context of the early sixties, it seems like it must be a joke.

I don’t think it is.

Herzog’s concerns are so alien to the world of 2023 that the novel cannot be read without placing it in the context of its 1964 publication date; an admitted challenge since that was 9 years before I was born. A bigger problem is that the novel has nothing to offer as a cultural document/historical artifact. Kingsley Amis famously opined that John D. MacDonald "is by any standards a better writer than Saul Bellow" and he’s absolutely right; any MacDonald novel of the era will give you more cultural insight…and you’ll get an actual entertaining story, to boot.

Novels like Herzog exist in their own echo chamber with absolutely nothing to engage the reader. Moses B. Herzog is an insufferable man-baby who mistakes picking his navel lint for profundity. Look, it’s hard to get past the privileged attitudes of pretty much everyone in this book; I realize it’s of its time and place in that sense but I found it impossible not to marvel at these so-called intellectual characters’ complete lack of engagement with the world outside of their own heads. Every single one of them has an incredibly limited understanding of the world they live in and are so lacking in empathy that they are borderline sociopathic. I ask again—is this a joke? Is there an intentional exaggeration by the author here, an attempt at satire? If so, Bellow was not skillful enough to pull it off. The only reason I finished Herzog was to see if there was a punchline at the end. Reader, there was not. Let this one fall into the dustbin of history. It will be no reader’s loss and humanity’s gain.

Liberation Day: Stories
George Saunders’ collection Liberation Day: Stories is one of those books that has all the mainstream “literary” outlets tripping over themselves to proclaim its greatness. Saunders having long been a darling of these publications makes such bountiful praise inevitable, regardless of the merits of the work in question. (The clerk at the bookstore where I bought Liberation Day was very eager to let me know Saunders had a story in the current issue of the New Yorker.) Is the hype justified? Well, no. Liberation Day is, for this reader at least, an extremely mixed bag.

What works, works really damn well. When the writing itself is fully locked in with an interesting premise, the stories sing, as found in “Liberation Day” and “The Mom of Bold Action.” Elsewhere, though, premises are only half-developed or intentionally oblique, the curse of writing that is a little too sure of its own cleverness. But the real issue is that the characters in virtually all these stories—even ones that otherwise work well—are the worst kind of cardboard cutouts. There’s a sense that this book wants to be a scathing look at our times and portray these characters as complex, but frankly it reads like the work of an author who has never actually lived in the real world. A stifling sense of closed-in academic conceptualism permeates, creating a wall between the reader and the story. It’s possible this was intentional and there is some meta-level of satire that didn’t come across clearly to this reader; as a member of the unwashed masses I may not have picked up what it was laying down. All of this is to say that I found Liberation Day a supremely frustrating collection, because when it hit, it hit hard – but when it didn’t, it felt overwhelmingly condescending, which is perhaps the single most unpleasant experience a reader can experience. Approach with caution.

The Marigold
It’s rare to find a horror novel that feels truly modern. Too many horror novels trade in on nostalgia (hiding behind the safety of hindsight and/or historical settings) or feel disconnected from the current world even though their premises rely on a perversion of current societal mores. When a horror novel does concern itself with current affairs, it too often becomes shrill or clumsily thrusts its concerns in your face to MAKE A POINT. Andrew F. Sullivan’s The Marigold avoids all these landmines and was one of the pleasant surprises of the year for this reader. I thought of the late, great James Herbert, Ramsey Campbell and especially Fritz Leiber’s classic Our Lady of Darkness while reading The Marigold, but the book is never imitative. Sullivan’s voice is solidly his own, admirably balancing a tethering to the world we recognize outside our windows with a grotesque surrealism. The Marigold isn’t particularly violent or the least bit gory, but it is queasy. When I say the book feels like a night where you aren’t sure if you overate or if you’re coming down with something, I mean it as a compliment. The Marigold is occasionally a bit muddled, suffering from a few too many characters for its runtime and slightly undercooked development of the characters that do emerge as key. These minor issues do not blunt the novel’s effectiveness. It’s rare for a book to unsettle me these days, and Sullivan’s ability to do so in The Marigold ensures I’ll be searching out more of his work.

Broken Earth trilogy
I’m going to be honest: I’ve been dreading writing about this trilogy all year (I finished it in March, it’s now November.) Not because it sucked—far from it, it was genuinely one of the best things I read this year. The old cliché of “I couldn’t put it down!” held true through all three books (The Fifth Season, The Obelisk Gate and The Stone Sky.) No, my dread comes from simply not being able to summarize everything that made these books powerful and relevant in a mere couple of paragraphs.

Often—and I don’t think it’s any great secret—character development in sci-fi/fantasy novels is found to be, um, wanting. That’s not the case in this trilogy. N. K. Jemisin is a talented writer in a field where that is rarer than one might think. She writes smooth, contained lines of prose that effectively move her characters about as governed by the natural laws of the world she creates - laws which she efficiently and effectively explains without disrupting the natural rhythm of her story. At the same time, the relationships developed between characters (and their reactions to the events surrounding them) are deep, complicated and true to the complex social interactions that take place in her worlds. Jemisin is not writing characters who would be at home in our “real” world; she’s writing them fully within the world she’s created. Yet these are not unrecognizable characters. We identify with their emotions and motivations. The breadth of her imagination and her ability to bring her stories into a self-contained, logical world is, frankly, stunning.

Which is not to say the world of Broken Earth is alien; there is much the reader will recognize. Perhaps the most amazing thing is how she manages to make her story work both metaphorically and as a grounded tale that approaches beach-read levels of accessibility. Very, very few writers can pull this trick off. That these three books also speak to multiple existential concerns extremely relevant to our (burning) world right now is all the more impressive.

So maybe this is a bit of a cop-out, but I’m not going to write a dissertation on how brilliant these books are. Simply put: I cannot praise them enough. Unequivocally recommended.

King of the Hill
For his 2023 novel, Stephen King once again returns to the character of Holly Gibney with, appropriately enough, Holly. This is Holly’s sixth appearance in a King book, but the first where she has the sole starring role (she did previously headline the novella-length titular story in 2020’s If It Bleeds collection.) In multiple interviews King has spoken of his love of Holly and his fascination with this character is something this Constant Reader just doesn’t share. Holly is ok, but really…she’s just ok. Not all that interesting or compelling. I’ve been over this ground in prior Reader’s Journeys, so here’s a quick recap: The Bill Hodges trilogy that first brought Holly to light is nestled well down in the depths of King’s bibliography. Post-trilogy novel The Outsiders (Holly co-star) is mediocre King, as is the If It Bleeds collection. Spoiler alert: Holly is mediocre King too. Constant Readers will find things to enjoy here, casual readers need not apply.

In Holly, King once again fails to conceive of a character profession that isn’t writer, teacher, academic, police officer or detective, a tic which has cast a grey pall over too many of his twilight works (last year’s Fairy Tale was a refreshing exception – largely because much of the book was in a world other than our own – and is one of his best books in years.) We get all five of these in the book. Generating further eyerolls, we are treated to an entire subplot – probably about 60-70 of the novel’s 446 pages – about a student poet who happens to, of course, be brilliantly original and, under the mentorship of a nonagenarian poet teacher, who, of course, is a brilliant poet herself – was once shortlisted for the Pulitzer, dontcha know – goes on to enter and win a HUGELY IMPORTANT poetry contest that includes the publication of her debut book. The whole ludicrous subplot has zero to do with the main story and is so random it feels like it’s from a different book altogether – but I want to talk about it because it’s not only far and away the most interesting thing about Holly, it’s clear that it’s an important (sub)story to King.

What shines through in the substory is not the ludicrous plot or characterizations, which are stock King. What shines through is King’s passion – even his anger – at the dog and pony show aspects of the writing profession. There’s a knowing cynicism in the exchanges between characters regarding the contest which, while fictional, is clearly modeled after real world contests such as Yale Series of Younger Poets. King’s relationship with literary criticism and academia has always been uneasy and this comes across in this story-within-a-story, which attempts to have its cake and eat it too via an attitude of “it’s the only game in town so you play it.” I can’t imagine this to be of interest to anyone other than another writer…and, well (raises hand.)

The substory gifts the reader one laugh out loud moment, one of my favorite King book moments in recent memory. (I really did LOL!) Basically, our brilliant poet has successfully made her way through each stage of the competition. For the final stage, she must write a statement of poetic purpose. After several false starts, she realizes she’s truly angry at the whole idea—her poems, after all, are her poetic purpose and stand alone. So she tears out a piece of notebook paper and writes in longhand:

I write poetry because without it I am a dead engine. That I should be asked to write an essay about my poetry after sending so much of it to you is idiotic. My poetry is my essay.

She shoves the piece of paper into an envelope, mails it and wins the contest. It’s all patently absurd, but at the same time it resonates, at least with this Constant Reader (writer). If you’ve been in the writing game at all and haven’t felt an urge to do the same, well, you are a rare flower indeed. I identified with every word of her defiance. (Also: only in fiction can you do this and win. Talk about a Hollywood ending!)

Throughout the substory, King uses his characters to voice observations and thoughts about the process of writing and creativity. I was reminded of his brilliant writing memoir On Writing and it honestly makes me wish he would write a follow-up volume as the original came out in 2000. I do really wonder if lacing his novels with this type of writerly conversation does a disservice not only to the novels but to the writers who might benefit from his insights. I hold the opinion that King is the most important popular writer of the last hundred years; it’s a subject I could prattle on for days about (including what the definition of “popular” is.) Few have ever been able to express what writing is all about so eloquently and in terms that shun the often-distancing language of academia. He has much to offer writers of all stripes. They need not have an interest in his fiction to benefit. It’s a crime to see these insights buried in depths of his latter-day novels.

King can do whatever he wants. His bibliography speaks for itself. While I consider Holly lesser King, even lesser King brings me joy. I know the day on which no new King books are forthcoming is likely not that far down the road. I never take receiving a new King title for granted. I treasure them all, even the dogs.

And whither Joe Hill? We are now six years out from his last novel and four from his last collection. He's apparently working on a novel called King Sorrow but also recently became the father of twins, so writing is probably not the foremost thing on his mind these days. I'd rather have a long wait for something done with care than content cranked out any day. I'll be here when/if King Sorrow appears.

Short Takes
Kindle-fooled: when you mistakenly assume a book will be completed at 100% but instead it’s over at 70% with the other 30% turning out be a “bonus short story.” Hey, I’m all for bonus short stories, but I was not expecting Aliya Whiteley’s The Beauty to end when it did. I thought I had finished a chapter only to turn the page and find the author’s acknowledgment list. I went back and reread the final few pages to see if I’d just missed something but no, the pages really did read like the end of a chapter and not the whole book. In an era of bloat and filler, it’s unusual to finish a novel and feel that it should have been longer but The Beauty just…ends. Given that it was an involving story up to that point, it’s hard not to feel disappointed. Subjectively, I’m trying not to let that disappointment color what was otherwise a pretty great book: thought-provoking with careful deployment of unsettling imagery, solid line writing and strong voice. Those things didn’t disappear with the abrupt ending. Perhaps if I’d known it was more of a novella going in, my perspective would be different? It shouldn’t matter. A successful story feels complete when it reaches its conclusion. As good as the The Beauty otherwise is, there’s something missing in the ending beyond just being Kindle-fooled…

Elizabeth Hand has hovered on the edges of my vision for decades now, but I’d only managed to read a few short stories. That changed this year with Wylding Hall, a novel I quite enjoyed. Centered the around an acid-folk band and their weird experiences recording an album in the English countryside at the titular location, it’s a book that could have easily been too clever for its own good. Instead it moves with confidence through its tale of unease and dislocation. There’s a Blair Witch vibe for sure—really more of a Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows vibe (goddammit, I like that movie!) Hand is an assured storyteller who knows the value of conciseness— even at well under two hundred pages Wylding Hall doesn’t feel rushed at all. Evocative and satisfyingly chilly…For the life of me, months later, I’ve still no idea what Lapvona was. Ottessa Moshfegh’s book is…something, that’s for sure. You could say it’s a novel of magic realism and you’d be right, but also way off the mark. It’s incredibly disturbing yet funny and when you do laugh you feel queasy and realize you didn’t want to laugh in the first place. It’s gross, but elegantly so. Except when it’s not. Hell man, I don’t know. I still don’t know if it was good or not. It’s unique, I’ll give it that. Fellow travelers beware…

Bad Cree by Jessica Johns is a solid and engaging horror novel. The sense of place—in this case, a small rural town in Alberta—is extremely strong, the most vivid and impressive aspect of the book. Johns’s book is populated with colorful characters both alive and dead. The novel wobbles a bit from time to time with occasionally erratic pacing but is one of the strongest genre novels I read this year and suggests Johns is a writer to watch…Also solid and engaging is The Twisted Ones. T. Kingfisher’s novel works with a smaller cast than Bad Cree, allowing for a deeper exploration of the psyche. The novel is suffused with a mounting dread. Kingfisher impressively balances smaller, intimate scenarios that any reader can relate to against the creeping cosmic unease, never losing the Southern Gothic vibe. When the novel goes full-on weird for its climax, it loses a bit of steam, but Kingfisher writes with enough verve to confidently stick the landing. This is one of those books where I wasn’t expecting much and ended up being pleasantly surprised. Clearly I need to check out more of Kingfisher’s work…

Kelly Link’s Magic for Beginners is one of my favorite short story collections of this century; her debut collection Stranger Things Happen isn’t far behind. However, her 2016 collection Get in Trouble was tremendously disappointing to me at the time, Pulitzer Prize nomination be damned. I revisited last year and found my stance had softened somewhat yet overall it’s still a miss for me. With this year’s White Cat, Black Dog: Stories Link appears to be back on track. And what a relief: there’s nothing worse than falling out of love with an author’s work. White Cat doesn’t scale the heights of Magic for Beginners, but then few collections do. However, unlike the unfocused Trouble, White Cat feels grounded in its magic realism, committed to the strange worlds the tales are housed in. Link’s voice has always been distinctive and it comes through strong and assured in this collection. It’s great to have her back… Grégoire Courtois’s grisly The Laws of the Skies is by no definition a pleasant read. With a cast of desperate six-year-olds trying to survive in the woods, one of them a killer, this book is gonna set off multiple trigger warnings for a lot of readers. Oh, and it’s bleak. There’s nothing funny in it – it is fully committed to its premise. It’s effective, though, and well-written. If you believe that horror should pull no punches – if you don’t like your horror safe – then The Laws of the Skies is delivers…Roland Malfi is prolific and, at least with what I’ve read thus far, consistent. The most effective element of 2017’s Bone White is its setting. You’ll feel the cold and darkness of the Alaskan wilderness. Genuinely disturbing at points, you’ll feel as much an outsider as the protagonist—and I mean that as a compliment. Bone White won’t change your life but is an enjoyable breezy read despite its subject matter.

That wraps it up for this year. Thank you for sitting with me a spell. I hope the upcoming year is one of good luck, good health and many interesting reads. Cheers!