Dear Cthulhu,
Normally I wouldn't communicate with your almighty corpusculence in such a mundane manner, but I fear the gist of my wants is often lost in the ropey intestines and splattered brain matter of our usual mode. Therefore, yes, a letter. If it makes you feel better, I'll make things a little more diabolic by signing it off in my own blood. Or maybe a virgin's, but they're in high demand these days and it might be best not to draw attention to my...
operation.
Anyway, on with my dilemma...
There just doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to what gets published these days. Sure, some of it makes sense -
Norman Partridge has a well-deserved mass-market release of his rather excellent
Dark Harvest (more about that some other time, unholy one). But for every Partridge there's a veritable pile of deserving authors unrewarded. How about a little bit of help, oh cephalopodic one? Being imprisoned in that dreary
R'lyeh must surely be a bit of a drag, and one would think that you'd jump (err... squirt?) at the opportunity to flex your diabolical influence a little.
It's not like your rival arch-fiends aren't getting in on the action, right? You can't tell me that the almighty tsunami of suck that is the vampire romance genre isn't being pushed by some vapid extra-planar influence. I suspect that
Bast bint. She's never been the same since that gothic phase, and is no doubt still a bit pissed that she only got passing reference in your mythos. This insidious dilution of our genre may very well be her revenge.
Who does one have to fellate/sacrifice in order to get somewhere in the horror world today?
Why is
Greg Gifune not published by a major publisher? Why can't I buy a mass market version of any of
Mark Samuel's collections? Why isn't
Ramsey Campbell riding in a Rolls and eating caviar off the bellies of nubiles? Why won't
T E D Klein answer my most insistent prayers by writing some more novellas, or perhaps even a novel?
And then there's those deserving novelists who aren't even published yet...
As an example, take the wonderful
John Hornor Jacobs (aka John Hornor). I had the privilege of reading two of John's unpublished efforts, and they are easily two of the better novels I've read in the last couple of years.
Southern Gods is set in the1950s, infused with southern music of the period, and heavy with Lovecraft/Chambers influences. He even gives "big ups" (as the young are wont to say these days) to your brother-in-evil,
Hastur. Characterisation is excellent, and the doom builds in a highly satisfactory manner to an excellent climax. I even found myself (
gasp!) getting attached to several characters, the capacity for which I thought your infernal tutelage had burnt out of me an age ago.
But don't just take this humble servant's word for it, oh mighty
necro neocoleoidean, read the unholy
blurbage of his fellow acolytes of evil. I don't know if you get the internet in your aquatic demesne, but you could do worse than read any
related posts on Mr Hornor's blog.
More recently he completed
This Dark Earth, his zombie apocalypse masterpiece. Of course, it's not just about the living dead. It's ripe with themes about family, relationships, sacrifice; all those deep things that humans find of import in their brief, flittering existences. And check out this wonderful
interactive map, and this excellent
teaser clip. Surely these sinister efforts deserve your support, oh most kingly of
octopoda.
So, how about it, oh
squamous one? How about some infernal influence in the world of words as a reward to this faithful servant?
Yours faithfully,
The Doctor
PS. Sacrifice at the normal time and place? I'll try not to get that
Dagon chappie involved this time; his servants really do make an unnecessary mess of the carpet. For some reason his piscian get insist on using the front door when there is a perfectly good secret tunnel directly from the sea. I blame their continued dabbling in the doings of humankind; it is obviously having a negative impact on their behaviour. Next they'll be eating Burger King and watching reality TV.
