To Walk on Worlds, a review

I dig this nostalgic cover art (Mike Hoffman).

Sword-and-sorcery occupies a small space in writing and publishing and so you probably already know the name Matthew John. He wears many hats. Host of the Rogues in the House podcast. Conan game contributor/designer. Does an Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation that could be taken on the standup comedy circuit.

What about Matthew John the writer?

I set out to find more by picking up his To Walk on Worlds, a 2024 publication of Rogues in the House Presents. It’s a 250-odd page collection of 11 short stories, each of which stand alone but are connected by the land of Pathra, a loose chronology, and through the recurring appearance of a mysterious wizard Maxus who has the power to walk between worlds. As a result, it is something of a fix-up novel, akin to what Ray Bradbury did with The Martian Chronicles or Charles Saunders with Imaro. 

To cut to the chase: I enjoyed To Walk on Worlds. It is a cut above (pun intended) much modern sword-and-sorcery. I’ve heard good things about it, I try to support modern S&S, and I can recommend it.

John shines with his depiction of tough, terse, no-nonsense barbarian warriors and opaque wizards. Lachmannon is Conan like but also reminded me more than a little of Logen Ninefingers, which comes as little surprise given that John’s biggest literary influences are Robert E. Howard and Joe Abercrombie. Maxus cuts an intriguing figure, not evil but not even close to good. He’s self-centered and amoral, a wizard out of the pages of Jack Vance or Merlin pre-Disney moving in mysterious ways.

I like that the collection includes both of these characters in something of equal proportion, which speaks to both sides of the S&S equation: Its brawny, heroic, Robert E. Howard-esque side, and the weird, eldritch, Clark Ashton Smith-ian strain.

S&S (and S&P) fans will recognize its hallmarks. Low gravity leaps and interplanetary travel. Weird towers of green stone of an unknown origin beneath alien, multicolored skies. A page that has both “ziggurat” and “thews” on it (bold choice, Cotton). Another with the famous Abercrombie construction “let it be said that Lachmannon can find the humor in any instance.”

There is a risk here of becoming generic S&S, but what elevates it is John’s style and heart. His writing style is quite visual. He does dialogue well. He uses humor well, a dark and sardonic brand that can make you smile (grimly). A pit is described as “an agreeable pit as far as pits go.” I liked that; I laughed. And in a good way he wears his influences plainly, it makes the stories familiar and resonant. For example “Cries From A Sleeping City” reads like a cross of “Worms of the Earth” and Ridley Scott’s Aliens. It is a fine example of suffocating subterranean horror. “A Fate Worse Than Exile” was perhaps my favorite. It has echoes of both “Red Nails” and Genndy Tartakovsky’s Primal with a persistent “dragon” that has much of a T-rex in him. What makes it work is the interplay of the two protagonists, the Conan-like Manus and the squirrely, loose with the truth rogue Quent. This was particularly well-done. The stories generally are propulsive with very little flab to them.

As with every collection I’ve ever read there were a couple stories that did not land, but these were greatly outweighed by the good. I’m not exactly sure where the broader story is going, I probably could have used a few more details to hook me on vol. 2 of the Maxus Cycle, Within the Weeping Eye. It feels like a bit of a prologue rather than a complete work in and of itself, even though the stories each have a beginning, middle and end, save for the last, which serves as both coda and teaser.

But sword-and-sorcery is supposed to be mysterious. The motivations of wizards are notoriously veiled. Jack Vance’s Dying Earth stories did not need anything connecting them to some grand narrative beyond cool things happening in a cool setting. There are a few hints dropped that lead me to believe Matt has something interesting planned for future volumes and the fate of Maxus.

One final word about the presentation. To Walk on Worlds is graced with great cover art, some neat and unexpected black-and-white interior illustrations, and a throwback pocket-sized format. All of which makes for a nice package (resisting, and failing, the urge to add “that’s what she said”).

Killing The Dragon, Ronnie James Dio

“People who deny the existence of dragons are often eaten by dragons. From within.”

--Ursula K. Le Guin

Dragons are fire-breathing lizards, the great wyrms confronting the heroes Beowulf and Sigurd. And they can also be something less tangible but no less terrifying or formidable. A conceptual or symbolic evil. A dark philosophy of hard and cold materialism that says we are nothing and to nothing we shall return or a desire for selfish wealth-hoarding above altruism, or love for fellow man. 

In the pivotal scene of Growing Up Metal I confront my dragon. Not those described above, but a very personal struggle of my own making.

What is it? It’s in the book man.

Dio sang about this theme powerfully and beautifully (as if he’s capable of anything but) in 2002’s “Killing the Dragon” off the album of the same name.

This particular song concerns a dark dragon we’re all fighting today: Electronic serfdom. Dopamine leashes, AI slop. Digital overlords selling us paid subscriptions to the world humanity built—not they.

Kneel and behold your new king

Digital dreams

And wonderful things to tease you

Small gods with electrical hearts

Later “killing the dragon” became the rallying cry for Dio’s battle with cancer. As he and his wife Wendy said of  their trips to MD Anderson for chemo treatments, “We’re Killing the Dragon.” 

It’s also of course an absolutely kick-ass song. I love the haunting, spectral intro. I love the powerful chorus, the chugging guitars, and most of all I love the lyrics and the underlying theme for all the reasons mentioned above.

I love it most of all because it’s Dio. He lost his battle with the dragon of cancer but continues to inspire me today.

The Howling, Gary Brandner

Warning: Some spoilers and discussion of sexual assault.

We’re in the witching season, and with it comes my pivot to all things horror. Today a review of “A Terrifying Tale of the Occult”… Gary Brandner’s The Howling.

The basics: Published in 1977 by Fawcett Gold Medal. A little about them: Fawcett broke ground with paperback originals at a time when the standard was 1) Hardcover first and 2) Paperbacks later. Fawcett said straight to paperback.

Smart. The Howling probably doesn’t need a collectible hardcover edition. It is the definition of a disposable horror novel.

But I think it’s a little more than that.

The plot is basic: Abandoned town with a bad reputation, high number of strange disappearances, and a werewolf problem. Out of town couple moves in, trouble ensues. The characters are rather wooden, the build slow for such a short (223 page) novel. But I enjoyed it all the same. It’s the equivalent of a good B movie. It works, a solid little horror novel that rates a 3/5, or generously a 3.5/5.

Brandner is an effective writer of atmosphere. The story is quite telegraphed but that hardly matters. He creates a mood and I enjoyed said mood.

The book opens with a graphic sexual assault, so reader beware. This has gotten a lot of flak on review sites. Most declare it gratuitous and unnecessary and almost a DNF non-starter. For example (Goodreads sample):

Karyn endures a horrific assault at the beginning of the story which is described in grossly intimate detail. Worst of all, it's done just for shock value. It doesn't really aid in her character development, it doesn't add much to the overall plot and it just ends up feeling like pointless tastelessness. It's brushed off and dismissed way too easily. 

I agree with the part in bold. I get why it might stop you dead in your tracks.

I disagree with the rest of this paragraph.

Karyn’s terrible assault might be very hinge of the book. I think it is integral to the plot.

During the assault she is bitten on the thigh; werewolf bites transform their victim. Her attacker is not a werewolf, but after her experience Karyn is transformed. The bite is a metaphor for the terrible and deep trauma a sexual assault has on not just its victim, but their relationships. It ruins Karyn’s relationship with her husband. Everything else in the story afterward is its consequence. I get the complaints and the non-starter issues people have, but I think they’re missing something Brandner might have been trying to do. Am I giving him too much credit? Possibly. Brandner does not have a reputation as a sophisticated novelist and isn’t around to defend his choices (he passed in 2013). 

I’m just giving you my opinion. YMMV.

Heavy shit aside, let’s talk about the packaging, the 1970s, and the werewolf genre.

The Howling features an interesting back cover blurb declaring it “in the tradition of ‘Salem’s Lot.” Eh… not really. It’s hard to imagine how a tradition could be launched in two years (‘Salem’s Lot debuted in 1975). Stephen King was a rising force at the time and I suspect Fawcett was trying to catch a piece of the wave.

In fact, I wonder if King’s Cycle of the Werewolf (1983) isn’t in The Howling’s tradition, owing its inspiration to Brandner and the general werewolf craze of the era—not the other way ‘round. There were a lot of werewolf treatments at this time in book and film including Whitley Streiber’s The Wolfen and An American Werewolf in London. Cujo (1981) is another fine werewolf story, the tale of a St. Bernard transforming after a bite from a rabid bat into something monstrous. Not a werewolf per se, but the same principles apply.

The Wolfen and Cujo are far superior to The Howling if you’re asking for my opinion/recommendation. But that doesn’t make the latter worthless. It has a period charm of its own. 

If you like sex in your stories there’s a fair bit of that. In fact the best writing is the sex, in particular when Karyns’ husband Roy gets it on with the wicked and voluptuous Marcia. Brandner’s ordinary, workmanlike prose comes to life here in full Skin-emax, late-night glory:

The shadows of evening moved into the valley and darkened the windows of Marcia’s small apartment, but the people within had no sense of time. For Roy Beatty the universe consisted of the hills and hollows, the knowing hands, and the wet, clinging orifices of the wild black-haired woman.

I love the novel’s intense isolated 1970s vibe. No cell phones, no internet, everyone reading books (remember that?) The haunted town of Drago where the action unfolds is haunted and sinister and utterly insular. No police station, a creaky general store and post office, homes left mysteriously abandoned. As the howling intensifies and her pet dog disappears and the menace increases Karyn finds a sympathetic local schoolteacher who knows the town’s backstory. The two plow through books on werewolves, trying to discover all they can to defeat the supernatural monsters. 

Stuff that really doesn’t happen anymore unless you set your story in the past. Which is probably why I prefer this era of horror.

I’ll probably watch the film now, which at best shares a passing resemblance to the novel but has its moments.

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Silence your inner critic, enter the unknown deeps

I have a critic. He has made it his life work to follow me, hound me wherever I go. When I’m online. In the car as I’m driving. I’m taking a shower and look, he’s there again.

He’s not only persistent and annoying (and kinda creepy), he’s also a master of disguise. 

He assumes the voices of readers of works that I haven’t published, offended by what I’m about to say. And he whispers, don’t say that. 

He is the looming presence of a lecturing conservative father. Keep that bottled up, dude. No one wants to see your dirty laundry.

He is the shrill voice telling me I’m not a talented writer, and never was. What a joke… that post, that book? That sucks dude.

He is the placid voice of the common man, urging me back to the safe middle. Don’t write that. Do another top 5 sword-and-sorcery list—that’s what people want. Play it safe. 

He reminds me I’m not worthy to write about certain topics because they’re too complex, the field too well-sewn. That I’m out of my depth. What could you possibly say about heavy metal that Chuck Klosterman and Ian Christe and Eddie Trunk haven’t already said, and better? Who gives a shit about your story when we've got Bruce Dickinson's?

That critic is me, of course.

I fight the battle with him every day. Sometimes his voice barely rises above a whisper, other times it drowns me with a deafening roar. I push on.

I’m currently reading Moby Dick (yes, I’m a glutton for punishment—but not really. Moby Dick is far more accessible than you think, long diversions into the details of whaling aside). It is worth reading because it’s a book loaded with rich, imaginative writing and profound wisdom applicable to all of mankind.

One chapter relevant to this post is “The Lee Shore.” In it Melville describes the primal urge to turn away from the safety and surety of the shore and embrace the unknown of the treacherous deep. The courage to be at sea when dry land calls.

Here’s a pretty good analysis.

So it is with Bulkington. He arrives home after a long whaling voyage, and immediately signs on with another, back out onto the tempestuous ocean. Not because he loves the sea particularly, but because he must, for some reason, be at sea, there being some intolerable pain that assaults him on the land. 

I have to go to sea, again and again. I don’t know precisely why, other than being on land for too long grows intolerable.

My critic is on my shoulder now, as I type this post. Aren’t you mixing metaphors? Are you just showing off by saying you’re reading Moby Dick?

Hey, merciless critic, fuck you. OK?

Today I’m feeling worthy to be on this shelf. 

The real message of Fahrenheit 451

The firemen are you.

People (myself included, until a recent re-read) often get one of the core messages of Fahrenheit 451 backwards.

People ended books. Not top-down government authority. 

People decided shallow entertainment was preferable to literature that challenges them to think and invokes discomfort. The Firemen who burn books—the splashy and memorable part of Ray Bradbury’s novel—aren’t one-dimensional monsters, they’re just men giving the people what they want. 

Chilling.

What they think they want, anyway. Some resort to sleeping pills to silence the pain of existence. Some hold on to their books and are burned to husks. 

Montag never asks to think if his life—which includes a well-paying job and a wife and all material needs met--makes him happy. Without poetry or color or depth or diversity of thought, it does not. 

Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451 as radio dominated and television surged in popularity. He saw and grew fearful for the steady erosion of reading and book culture. In the late 1950s he recounted the following incident:

In writing the short novel Fahrenheit 451, I thought I was describing a world that might evolve in four or five decades. But only a few weeks ago, in Beverly Hills one night, a husband and wife passed me, walking their dog. I stood staring after them, absolutely stunned. The woman held in one hand a small cigarette-package-sized radio, its antenna quivering. From this sprang tiny copper wires which ended in a dainty cone plugged into her right ear. There she was, oblivious to man and dog, listening to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. This was not fiction.

I can only imagine what Ray would have thought of the age of the smartphone and its endless short form video reels and doomscrolling and Twitter and AI.

We might lose to AI, and if we do people as much as big tech will be at fault. Because we settle for its comfortable babble, “create” with it instead of creating with our own skills and intuition and effort.

Fahrenheit 451 is also a stark warning against censorship in all its forms, including softer forms like “political correctness.” Interesting that Ballantine Books censored some of the “problematic” words from the text in a 1967 edition. Did anyone there read the book, I wonder?

If you’re a right-winger who wants to ban books with sex or depict a gay family in a positive light, you’re the person Ray Bradbury was warning against. If you’re a left-winger who condemns Lovecraft and Howard and Burroughs and labels any author who doesn’t check every diversity checkbox as “problematic,” you’re a person who needs to read this book. And do some rethinking. 

Fahrenheit 451 might be old but it’s still a very sharp book. It can cut. 

Great.

Reject machine culture. Reject TikTok. Read.

Growing Up Metal is available on Amazon

Growing Up Metal: The Story Of A Fan Who (Kind Of) Rocked is now available on Amazon.

Kindle: $5.99

Print: $15.99

I'm psyched! And now, for one naked ask.

Please buy a copy.

You’re a loyal reader of the blog. You’ve loved or at least read (skimmed?) my essays, my posting about sword-and-sorcery and heavy metal. Some of you for years.

Thank you.

You know I don’t charge a thing to read anything I’ve written. There’s no annoying pop-up ads, no asks to join my non-existent Patreon, no paywalls, no tip jar. Nothing.

I plan to keep it that way

But I have an ask.

Please buy Growing Up Metal.

If you don’t like heavy metal, you probably know someone who does. Or who likes memoir. Or who grew up in the 80s and 90s. Or struggled to grow up, struggled in his or her marriage. And made it to the other side, with a story that doesn't pull punches.

Read it, review it. Send me feedback. Tell me if you love it, tell me it sucks. Tell me if it moved you, or didn’t.

What is it?

My story from teenager to adult, full and largely unexpurgated. The Truth, the facts of my existence and what I learned from it all, how I listened, and changed. With a fantastic soundtrack.

The story of heavy metal, filtered through me.

The story of a bygone era of time that I tried to bring back to life.

Even a couple dribs and drabs of sword-and-sorcery. Not much, but not zero.