"Wonder had gone away, and he had forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other."
--H.P. Lovecraft, The Silver Key
I am the one, Orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand
My image is of agony, my servants rape the land
Obsequious and arrogant, clandestine and vain
Two thousand years of misery, of torture in my name
Hypocrisy made paramount, paranoia the law
My name is called religion; sadistic, sacred whore
--Orgasmatron, Motorhead
Motorhead's "Orgasmatron" is about as straightforward, brutal, and heavy as it gets. Crank this one and headbang.
I think what I most admire about this song are the lyrics. This is an expression of war, the glory of war, the god-awfulness of war, condensed into a four minute piledriver of a song. As here:
I march before a martyred world, an army for the fight
I speak of great heroic days, of victory and might
I hold a banner drenched in blood, I urge you to be brave
I lead you to your destiny, I lead you to your grave
Your bones will build my palaces, your eyes will stud my crown
For I am Mars, the God of War, and I will cut you down
"Your bones will build my palaces, your eyes will stud my crown," Jesus. Genghis Khan is nodding his head somewhere from beyond the grave.
I must add that this song was covered exceptionally well by Brazilian heavy metal band Sepultura. In fact I probably prefer their version over the original. Including it here for comparison's sake:
RIP Lemmy. You crushed the world once, and made it your own. We miss you down here on earth.
Confession: I’ve got gaps in my philosophy, Horatio. I have a basic familiarity with the broad tenets of some of the major schools. I have read deeper in a few areas I have found interesting, including the major works of existentialism, and Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and the foundations of stoicism. But when it comes to the classic works my cupboard is pretty lean.
Inspired by the Online Great Books podcast, I decided to pick up Plato’s Five Great Dialogues, a book that includes the classics The Republic and The Apology. I read portions of these in high school or thereabouts, as I remembered the allegory of the cave and a few other bits. Back then I lacked the life experiences to take much from it; today I have a whole different appreciation for what these books say, and mean, and still have to teach us, thousands of years after they were written.
I won’t even bother trying to summarize what thousands of scholars and historians have already done before me, and far better, but rather just offer up a few takeaways and observations that hit home for me, personally.
Reading Plato is a cold drink of water for the soul. His dialogues are a series of questions about what life is all about, including why we behave as we do, how to govern ourselves, and in general what makes for a meaningful existence. These are written in a dialectical style. Plato’s subject, Socrates, engages in dialogues with a series of interlocutors, probing deeper at common but unexplored understandings and surface assumptions until they eventually arrive at a deep level of truth, possibly the bottom. “The unexamined life is not worth living,” Socrates says. Amen.
Plato’s theory of forms makes the case that there are transcendent ideas—justice, temperance, etc.—that transcend the physical. These ideas cannot be explained by science and studied at some atomic/structural level. But they are no less real, and in fact are more important than material existence. Some might take this theory of forms for granted, but it’s a stunning revelation, the framework upon which the rest of the book hangs.
Socrates/Plato believe in the immortal soul. We can deduce the presence of a soul by its absence (i.e., by looking upon a dead body, and finding it inert). The soul is a therefore a form. Like an odd number, it is irreducible by the presence of an even number—an even number does not destroy an odd number; in the same manner, death cannot destroy the soul, it merely parts it from the physical body. I like this, for obvious reasons.
Wisdom and truth-seeking are the highest virtues of mankind. Not "happiness" or wealth-seeking or sensual luxury. Plato believes in the existence of absolute truth and absolute beauty. Subjectivity is a form of blindness when it comes to truth-seeking. This declaration flies in the face of identity politics, which posit that every culture is morally equivalent, and that everyone’s subjective internal monologue is “truth speaking” and sacrosanct. Yes, we all have opinions, and have the freedom to express them, but some are far more worthy than others. Those that seek out absolute truth and absolute beauty, and wisdom and temperance, and make them their north star, are fit to lead, according to Plato.
Plato believes that the best form of government is a ruling class of philosopher-kings. These are chosen not by birthright, but by innate ability, and forged and tempered with exceptional physical and mental education. Rulers must exhibit a soundness of mind and body, and a willingness to sacrifice, to not even own wealth, lest they fall prey to corruption and graft. This structure transcends oligarchy and monarchy, even democracy and other forms of governance subject to nepotism and corruption. This is not a caste system, however. Children of these rulers, if unfit, cannot serve; those from warrior or merchant classes can move up into this class if they demonstrate the same fitness. Many today recoil from this portion of Plato but it is a framework worth pondering (some in fact have made the case that Plato himself did not take this too seriously, but was using the opportunity to satirize the corruption of the Athenian city-state and take the piss out of it). Nevertheless, this declaration is FIRE: “Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of this world have the spirit and power of philosophy, and political greatness and wisdom meet in one, and those commoner natures who pursue either to the exclusion of the other are compelled to stand aside, cities will never have rest from their evils—no, nor the human race, as I believe—and then only will this our State have a possibility of life and behold the light of day.”
Finally, there is heroism of the highest sort to be found in Plato. Socrates could have fled his execution, and in fact had ample opportunity to do so, but refused. He faces his death with equanimity and perfect clarity, because he has been condemned by his beloved city of Athens. To run would be to deny orderly society in favor of individual selfishness, and thereby debase himself. It’s so damned noble, exhibiting a degree of principle most will never fully comprehend, let alone live out. Yet this is what Plato encourages us to do, and what makes him worth reading today.
Every year in May I go to a major conference that takes me out of action for the better part of a week. And when I say out of action, I mean I'm up early and going straight on through the night with dinners and receptions. So shit gets missed, or put on the back burner until I can get back home and come up for air.
One of those events was the passing of the great comics artist Neal Adams.
Rather than try to recap Adams' impact and extraordinary art, I'll just point you in the direction of Deuce Richardson's fine tribute over on the blog of DMR Books. Deuce is one of the best, maybe the best, at this kind of thing--recapping careers, digging up rare and extraordinary art, and packaging it all together in a personal, moving style that makes you realize he is a true fan and aficionado. So go do that, and tip back a cold one in honor of the late Neal Adams this weekend.
I'm borrowing one of the images from Deuce's post because it's new to me, and facially it might capture Conan's smoldering savagery better than anything I've seen before.
This next one from Savage Tales might be my favorite, but Adams left a legacy far too large to sum up in any one image.
Last year I did a podcast interview with Oliver Brackenbury, host of Unknown Worlds of the Merril Collection. I remember having fun with this one and taking a pretty deep dive into sword-and-sorcery on it, including writing Flame and Crimson and speculation on the future of the genre.
Frank Frazetta is to the art of sword-and-sorcery what Robert E. Howard is to its soul. He’s the visual OG. Not the first S&S artist, but the one who captured its essence better than anyone before or since, likely ever. Pair him up with REH and it’s no wonder we had the Lancer Conan Saga boom of the 1960s.
I have a framed print of The Apparition (1969), cover art for the John Jakes novel Brak the Barbarian Versus the Sorceress, hanging up in my man-cave. I found it in an old comics store back in the 80s. It’s a bit faded but has lost none of its power. It’s a great painting but not one of my all-time favorite Frazettas, an indication of just how much awesome work he did over the course of his more than 60-year professional career.
Inspired by a recent interview with Schuyler Hernstrom in which the author of The Eye of Sounnu was sitting in front of one my favorite Frazetta paintings, I figured it was time for a top 5 list. Here they are, in no particular order.
Against the Gods (1967)
Against the Gods was the cover image for the Lin Carter paperback Thongor Against the Gods. What makes this one stand out is its stunning composition, the feeling you get of up—above the flight of an eagle, above the highest peak, this promethean figure, arms upraised, catching lightning from the heavens. It’s a moving depiction of achievement, man at his utmost heights channeling the elemental forces of nature.
The Barbarian (1966)
Again, the composition—that triangle of corpses, the curvaceous female grasping a thigh, culminating in Conan himself at the top of the pyramid, rugged arm and hand downthrust on the pommel of a gory sword. It’s the barbarian, triumphant, and the iconic depiction of Howard’s most famous creation. I also love the stylized background imagery, the skulls and lonely castle, which add an air of pulpy weirdness to the iconic tableaux.
Chained (1967)
This image from Conan the Usurper inspired me as a kid to get in the weight room. I love the rippling, deep muscles of Conan’s back, striving against chains. Bridled but soon to be unbridled power, as you know he’s going to burst his bonds before that snake can strike. By the way that huge snake, between his legs, make of it what you will. The lighting in this one is particularly effective, illuminating some touches in a creepy dungeon and the skeletal remains of previous victims.
Conan Man-Ape (1967)
This one to me has always felt like a camera capture of figures in motion, the swirl of combat of Rogues in the House. Add in the startling color contrasts—a dark background set against the brilliant red of Thak’s cape, Conan’s white eyes and teeth set and flashing, as that wicked poniard is poised to strike—it all adds up to stunning. A primal image of conflict, man vs. (man-like) beast.
Death Dealer II (1987)
I know the original mounted Death Dealer is the more iconic image, used by Molly Hatchet as the cover of their self-titled debut album, but I prefer Death Dealer II. The upraised axe, Gath of Baal’s downturned menacing red eyes, ready to deal an irresistible blow. That horned helmet is so cool. The pillar of smoke, and the wonderful lighting illuminating the tangled ghoulish creatures below, make this one scream sword-and-sorcery.
A couple honorable mentions: 1972’s Silver Warrior (come on, a chariot pulled by polar bears?) and Kane on the Golden Sea (1978), my favorite image of KEW’s iconic character, although Bloodstone is close.
Confession: I really like the old forms of S&S. I love my old purple-edged Lancers, and Heavy Metal (the movie, and bands like Manowar). I enjoy titillation and violence, with a cold beer for company. I like muscular dudes and attractive lasses in my artwork (not exclusively, but I do love the style championed by Frank Frazetta). I even love old S&S movies for their awfulness, in a mocking MST3K way. I enjoyed Deathstalker 2.
I was born in 1973 which means my childhood and teenage years were spent in the 70s and 80s. I readily admit that I wear rose-colored glasses when it comes to art and pop detritus of that era. In general I try to focus on being positive and grateful for this life and everything in it, even suspect art. I like loud, and dumb things. Good things too, including Art (with a capital A), Shakespeare and Milton and Ernest Hemingway. But, I also like 80s hair metal, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s entire film oeuvre up to about The Last Action Hero, and of course sword-and-sorcery. Make of this what you will.
Moreover I am, for better and arguably for worse, pretty forgiving of old fiction for its warts. I cannot fault REH for his occasional bigotry and racism, given the age and place in which he grew up. Expecting an author to transcend their place and time is not realistic. Wagging your finger at people from a long ago past who were suffused in different belief systems and social norms often comes across as sanctimonious. We all have skeletons (I know I do). And, I happen to think the positive contributions Howard made far outweighs the negative. Very few authors of fantasy can match his natural storytelling instincts, pace, poetic flourishes, and wild romance. I can count them on one hand, minus a couple fingers.
So, I will not reject Howard, or Leiber, or old S&S. As in, ever. I won’t rug-sweep S&S’ faults and will gladly talk about them. I love the academic work on these issues being done by the likes of Bobby Derie. These issues should be spoken about at conferences, written about, and generally acknowledged. But, I think these authors should still be read, and celebrated, and championed, at the end of the day. They have endured for a reason.
Social issues are important for most, and critical, maybe everything, for some. I respect that. There is a place for these battles to be fought. But when these are fought on every front, including sword-and-sorcery, I find it tiresome. Your mileage may vary.
I’m a fatigued Facebook ex-pat who turns to this type of fiction, and other pursuits (music, exercise, my kids’ sporting events) to get away from the constant, non-stop fighting, the civil war, that is social media.
Whether or not you can truly put politics aside and write apolitical fiction is another debate for another day, but I do think it can be de-emphasized, and the focus placed where it should be—on story.
When it comes to sword-and-sorcery, good storytelling is really all that matters at the end of the day. Not a precisely worded definition of S&S, or following established rules of the game. Good stories will prevail over marketing. Unimaginative, derivative, or bland, safe writing will doom the genre, just as it did with S&S in the 70s and 80s. You need to have an edge on S&S, lest it become milquetoast and fail to scratch the heroic itch, and urge, in us.
In summary.
Write good stories.
Take your influences, and create something new. Write for you. As an individual.
Make it impossible for readers not to be moved by your stories, and to talk about them.
Write good stories. The rest will take care of itself.
According to some "fans" (I won’t name names—yet), KISS was only good in the 70s, and once the makeup came off they were irrelevant. The same types think that KISS is entirely a gimmick, a circus act that, minus the costumes and fireworks, would be forgotten to history.
Needless to say I don’t agree with this argument, and push back hard on it. I would never compare KISS to Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, nor even the better metal acts (Maiden, Priest). But nor would KISS, frankly. They’re a party rock band who happened to do that type of music as well or better than anyone. They know this, we know this, we’re all in on it together. And having fun.
I started listening to KISS somewhere around the dawning of my interest in rock music, 1987 or so, circa my freshman year in high school. The first KISS album I ever owned was Crazy Nights. By then, KISS had long been out of makeup, shorn away two members of the original band (and a few others like Mark St. John and Vinny Vincent had also come and gone). In place of fan favorites Peter Criss and Ace Frehley were Eric Carr and Bruce Kulick.
I knew KISS from the likes of Beth and Rock and Roll All Nite, but it wasn’t until 1987 and Crazy Nights that I became a true fan. So, I categorically reject the argument that KISS is a gimmick who roped in kids with the makeup. I’m sure that occurred in some instances, but come on, be serious—how long can that infatuation and shock stage possibly last? A year, three, 10? Surely not 50 years. A wave of trash bands with more shock and awe came along in KISS’ wake, and today no one remembers them. Underneath it all, KISS wrote a lot of good, straightforward rock-and-roll that kept the fans coming back. Simple stuff, yes. But if writing commercial rock hits were easy everyone would be doing it.
KISS was of course awesome in the 70s, taking a rocket ride straight to the top with the likes of KISS Alive. They were on lunchboxes, comic books, even starred in a terrible made for TV film (KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park). And, underneath the limousines and seven-inch leather heels, they wrote some of their best material in the 70s. Hard rock hits like Parasite, Strutter, Deuce, and Detroit Rock City, were great then and still are. Everyone loved KISS in the 70s—how could you not?
I do too. But, I’ve always had a soft spot for 80s KISS. Maybe it’s the nostalgia of my Crazy Nights tape, which I still have by the way. Maybe it’s one too many beers in the 90s, or in general a suspect taste in music.
Possibly, but I don’t think so.
I actually think KISS peaked musically in the mid-80s. Eric Carr was without question a better drummer than Peter Criss. Ace Frehley is an underrated talent who wrote some iconic solos and hooks, but Kulick can play, and at this point was far more disciplined in his craft than the dissolute Frehley. KISS was also facing much stiffer competition from younger, more energetic bands like Van Halen, and had to step up their game. To its credit KISS delivered with some awesome music in the 80s.
I’m going to leave one example, right here.
I love this song. Paul sounds phenomenal. In the 80s he grew fully into this voice. This was his best decade vocally. The guitar tone is perfect. The deep backing chorus is magnificent. The lyrics are what I want—empowerment, girl you messed up when you left me ‘cuz I’m the best, stuff I wanted to hear then, and still has a place now. It’s got power and punch. It’s better than just about anything you’ll hear on the radio these days but that’s not saying much, either.
I could go on and on with further examples. A few others: Creatures of the Night, War Machine, Lick it Up, Fits Like A Glove. KISS had it going on.
KISS was undoubtedly less popular in the 80s, ceding space in the limelight to the likes of Def Leppard. By the turn of the decade they already seemed a little old, perhaps a little out of touch. And they hurt themselves with a pair of turkeys out of the gate (I like a couple songs off 1980’s Unmasked and the ill-fated The Elder (1981), but no fan would call these largely lousy efforts their finest hour). But, for those who kept listening, after some initial stumbles they soon started putting out some really good material. It started with Creatures of the Night (1982), which holds up as an outstanding example of 80s hard rock/nosing up to heavy metal. I think it’s one of their best albums, ever. KISS continued to crush it on Lick It Up (1983), which got big props from the likes of Kerrang. Animalize (1984) was a step back, but who doesn’t love “Heaven’s on Fire” and the terribly underrated “Thrills in the Night,” one of my favorite all-time KISS tracks? Asylum (1985) had “Tears are Falling” and “Who Wants to be Lonely.” (“Uh! All Night,” a song about as subtle as a Penthouse centerfold, is embarrassing, but not really). Then of course came 1987s Crazy Nights, with its rousing anthemic title track, “Reason to Live” and my favorite, “Turn on the Night.” Which still makes it into my regular rotation when I want to hear KISS.
KISS closed out the decade with Hot in the Shade (1989), which I don’t think holds up as well as the previous albums I’ve listed, a bit of whimper to be honest, but since I danced with my wife to “Forever” at our wedding, because of “Hide Your Heart” and “Rise to It,” AND because it was the first tour on which I saw KISS, it still holds a soft spot in my hard heart.
So there you go. 80s KISS. You probably won’t find too many riding out to the defense of the band in the decade of excess. I can’t defend the most garish of Paul’s outfits (green sleeve gloves and tight white jeans?), his trapeze acts, or Gene’s hair. But their music? Yeah, I’ll defend that.
Don't push it, or I'll give you a war you can't believe.
Growing up in the 80s, surrounded by larger-than-life action heroes, one of my favorite films was First Blood. The first in what would become the “Rambo series” was my favorite, darker and more serious than its sequels. First Blood and John Rambo became a minor obsession among my friends, one of whom got hold of a “special forces” knife with the wicked serrated back edge and a hollowed-out handle where he stored a needle and thread—just in case we needed battlefield stitches. You never know.
As most know First Blood tells the story of a special forces soldier, John Rambo (played wonderfully by Sylvester Stallone), coping with post-traumatic stress syndrome from a brutal stint in Vietnam in which he was captured and tortured. Now stateside and adrift, a post-war vagrant, he just wants to be left alone, but quickly runs afoul of an overzealous small-town chief of police (Brian Dennehy), who ushers him unceremoniously out of town.
Pushed too far and humiliated, Rambo refuses to acquiesce, and turns back. That sets in motion the events of the rest of the film—a rousing jailbreak, a cat-and-mouse game in the mountains of Washington State with Rambo using his survival skills honed as a Green Beret to maim (but not kill) his pursuers.
I loved the film, and still do. But all this time I had never read the book upon which it is based—David Morrell’s First Blood. Published in 1972, it was out a full 10 years before the film adaptation, which spent the better part of a decade in “production hell” before finally making it to the silver screen.
I recently got a hold of a copy of Morrell’s novel and rectified that, burning through a read in all of 2 nights. I enjoyed the heck out of it and was surprised by the differences from book to film. Chiefly, that Rambo turns on a blood spigot and kills at least 20 of his pursuers, maybe more. Holy hell there is a lot of killing, including a pack of dogs hard on his scent. There is also more characterization. Teasle, the police chief, is portrayed far more sympathetically and three-dimensionally in the book than the film. Morell places a heavy emphasis on his service in the Korean War, a sad separation from his wife, and his obsession and eventual identification with Rambo. I won’t spoil the ending but that is also quite different, and much grimmer, than we see in the film.
Otherwise the movie follows most of the major beats of the book.
I have this edition... but not the knife.
Make no mistake, like the film the book is mainly pure action, unrelenting page-turning glory. There is a deeper and more serious undercurrent, commentary on the invisible scars soldiers often bear (made doubly hard on the veterans of the war in Vietnam, an unpopular and unfavorable conflict that most of the U.S. populace either wanted to sweep under the rug and forget, in some cases treating its returning Veterans with disdain). But principally it grabs you from the opening page with a compelling pace and refuses to let up with its action.
As a sword-and-sorcery fan headlong action and violence is part of what I enjoy in my reading. And First Blood scratches the same itch. In fact, outside of being set in modern times, there are several S&S parallels—an outsider protagonist, suffused with gray, wandering from place-to-place. Low stakes/survival plot. We even get a “dungeon crawl,” a hair-raising sequence in a cave where Rambo encounters filth and bats, rats, the skeleton of an unlucky miner. And a final showdown with Teasle and his men. The equally shared POV between Rambo and Teasle is not something we typically see in S&S but it could work.
Near the end of the book Colonel Trautmann, architect of Rambo’s Green Beret training (played in the film by Richard Crenna), offers up an interesting commentary on why the modern age is anathema to sword-and-sorcery heroes. With the manhunt in full swing, Trautmann—who is both helping Teasle capture Rambo, while also admiring his pupil’s incredible survival skills—laments the coming “machine” that will spell the end of heroism:
“In a few years a search like this won’t even be necessary. We have instruments now that can be mounted on the underside of an airplane. To find a man all you need to do is fly over the spot where you think he is, and the machine will register his body heat… a man on the run won’t have a hope. And a man like me, he won’t be needed. This is the last of something. It’s too bad. As much as I hate war, I fear the day when machines take the place of men. At least now a man can still get along on his talents.”
Morrell, now 78, has lived an interesting life. A former university professor, he gave up his tenure to pursue a career as writer. First Blood earned him a handsome payout from the movie rights and he went on to write novelizations of the ensuing films. He also wrote horror (winning an award from the Horror Writers Association), non-fiction, and for the comics (Captain America, Spider-Man, Wolverine). A pretty cool mid-list author success story, increasingly rare these days.
Update: Maiden New England and The Hellion were excellent. Both had female lead singers who could belt it out, and great musicians backing them up. Much fun was had. A few scenes from the evening.
Tomorrow night I'll be seeing two tributes to a pair of British heavy metal legends.
Uncle Eddie's Oceanside Tavern is probably not a place you want to bring a first date. Or a female in general. Unless she is OK with spilled beer, loud music, and the occasional bar fight that spills into the streets of Salisbury MA.
Or happens to like British steel.
I can't wait for this. Maiden and Priest are my two favorite heavy metal bands of all time. And typically these tribute acts go deep on the cuts, deeper than the original bands themselves who have to appease mass audiences, fake fans who only know and demand to hear a handful of hits.
I'm hoping for "Steeler," "Rapid Fire," "Dreamer Deceiver," or "Starbreaker" out of The Hellion. Maybe Maiden New England will dip into the likes of "Prowler," "Burning Ambition" or "Judas Be My Guide."
Who knows. Regardless, it will be fun, I'm sure. I need a metal fix and I'm about to get it, double-barreled.
I knew I wasn’t, of course, but it was nice hearing the voices of so many other passionate souls for whom the Texas writer made an impact, either on their reading habits, their journeys as writers, or in some cases, a decision to press on in dire personal circumstances.
Robert E. Howard Changed My Life (Rogue Blades Foundation, 2021) collects 33 essays, with additional foreword/afterword/and a fun “Appendix REH” for further reading. It has been nominated for The Atlantean (best book about the life and works of Robert E. Howard) by the Robert E. Howard Foundation and is deserving of the honor. I found it to be thoroughly enjoyable.
An essay by Charles Saunders is particularly poignant as it is likely the last published piece he ever wrote, prior to his death in early 2020. Several other “name” writers have contributed pieces, including the likes of Michael Moorcock, Joe Lansdale, Keith Taylor, Steven Erikson, Howard Andrew Jones, and Mark Finn. Some heavy hitters here.
Many of the essays were excellent, but I think the most powerful may have been Scott Oden’s (author of Men of Bronze and Twilight of the Gods). Certainly it was the most personal, along with Bill Cavalier’s, from whose 2018 Howard Days address the project was launched. Oden lays out his early failures as a writer, his bouts with self-doubt, heavy personal blows including an eviction and a divorce, and finally, after decades of struggle, breaking through with the publication of Men of Bronze. Only to have his career halted as he became caretaker with a father with dementia and a mother with Parkinson’s disease. His insights on Caregiver Stress Syndrome offer a glimpse into Howard’s well-documented struggles caring for a terminally ill mother. Years later Oden’s imagination and pen were rekindled after drawing inspiration from the Howard hero Turlogh Dubh, in the story “The Grey God Passes.”
Robert E. Howard certainly changed my life as well. I’ve documented my discovery of Howard here on the blog and in the introduction to Flame and Crimson. I discovered Howard in the pages of The Savage Sword of Conan in the early 80s and that cemented my love of this weirder, wilder, more muscular brand of fantasy fiction that I would later come to know as sword-and-sorcery. That led me to branch out to other like writers such as Fritz Leiber, Michael Moorcock, and Poul Anderson, write more about the subgenre here and in places like The Cimmerian, and finally decided to offer a full treatment in my book. Howard was a blessed refuge for me, who endured the usual maladies of a suburban kid (alienation, self-doubt, rejection, etc.)
It's a marvel, isn’t it? How did a pulp writer from rural Texas working largely in the pages of a defunct pulp magazine nearly a century ago alter the future courses of so many? The answer is the power of stirring writing, and the force of imagination of a writer who, as Patrice Louinet notes in his essay, is a true American original, “the definer of American fantasy.” I have not heard Howard’s case quite made like that, but, if you consider J.R.R. Tolkien the architect of British fantasy, Howard arguably deserves that moniker on this side of the Atlantic.
So too does Edgar Rice Burroughs. It struck me how many of the essay authors came to Burroughs first, pre-Howard, during the Burroughs Boom of the early 60s, before discovering REH in the purple-edged pages of the Lancer paperbacks. One essayist after the next—Cavalier, Jason Durall, Lansdale, Adrian Cole, on and on—all thrilled to the adventures of Burroughs first, Tarzan and John Carter of Mars, before finding REH. I think we need a companion volume on ERB.
So the Judas Priest concert was cancelled after 70-year-old Rob Halford came down with a bad cold, but 83-year-old Gordon Lightfoot powered through on Sunday with a memorable concert at the Tupelo Music Hall in Derry, NH.
Yeah, my musical heroes are aging--check that, are aged. Or, more charitably, well-seasoned. Gordon as you'd expect has changed quite a bit vocally, losing his resonance and richness, and doesn't move too fast on stage anymore. Not sure if he ever did.
But, none of that mattered. With a good band behind him, a great venue, and my old man and brother by my side, it made for a memorable evening. It was quite cool to see this old legend still performing, after all these years.
Gordon played 90 minutes and we were out of there by 8:30--old men all around, early to bed :). But he got through (almost) every one of the classics I was hoping he would. "Sundown," "Early Morning Rain," "If You Could Read My Mind," "For Loving Me," "Carefree Highway," "Song for a Winter's Night," and of course the highlight and everyone's favorite, "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." The latter was the highlight, and maybe it was my imagination but Gordon seemed to channel some deep wellspring of strength for this one. It was powerful and sounded pretty darned good.
In an era where everything can be immediately captured on video and shared instantly with the world, it's interesting that this song, which became a no. 1 hit in Nov. 1976, almost a year to the day after the maritime disaster itself, outlives the ephemera, and the crisis of the day that really isn't. That's the power of art over instant gratification. We remember the doomed ship when we hear those sad opening bars, even now.
If anyone reading this is a resident of MA/NH or the broader New England region, the Tupelo is a good take. New, clean, small so the views are all great. Excellent bar with a good beer selection (I drank a couple local brews, a nice Battle-Axe IPA brewed by Kelsen). Reportedly good food too, if you want it. They open 90 minutes before showtime so you can get in and enjoy yourself, and have some cool art on the walls, acoustic guitars signed by a few of the greats, etc.
Nice bar.
(L-R) my brother, old man, and me. The place did fill in to capacity.
If asked a few weeks or months ago I would probably not describe myself as a heavy social media user. I had Facebook, but not Instagram or TikTok. I have a Twitter account, but one I rarely use save for business-related tweets. But, I had Facebook, and that was enough. It had become my "home page." I followed news organizations by following them on Facebook. Sports, music, etc., were all fed through Facebook.
I got up in the AM and checked it first. Before bed, it was usually my last stop. In between, I would catch myself scrolling...and scrolling... Hours went by, daily, in small-ish chunks. I was not paying attention to the real world. I was perpetually distracted.
Worse, I was perpetually irritated, occasionally angry. Because I was seeing a darker side of humanity, and occasionally contributing to the same base instincts.
When you join a Facebook group to follow your town news, who speaks the loudest? The crank with an axe to grind.
When you follow the page of your favorite band, whose comments rocket to the top? The troll, who shit-posts, and gets reactions.
Then, sometimes you respond. And get dragged down into the same mire. And for what reason?
I knew this un-virtuous, illiberal circle was not good for me, but I hung on, for months and even years. I was getting SOME value out of Facebook. I followed my favorite breweries on the platform, and saw their latest releases. I got value out of some old sword-and-sorcery groups, paperback collectors groups. The occasional post from a friend or acquaintance that was genuine, and made me smile. The local news, that fed me stories about a bridge being out so that I could plan a new route.
And so I kept using the platform.
Unfortunately the noise was drowning out the signal. I saw fewer and fewer friends posting. The ones that were, were often complaining, looking for sympathy I could not deliver over a digital platform, or just posting memes and other nonsense. Arguably harmless, but also a very poor use of my time.
On Saturday I deleted my Facebook account outright, no warning, no good-byes. Did not want to chase one last bit of dopamine in some grand declaration to the world. So I just quit.
So far, I remain off. In a pavlovian reaction that speaks volumes I still go to the page regularly, without thinking, where I'm confronted with a login to an account that no longer exists.
I could undo this--Facebook gives you ample time, and warnings, and pleas to return. But, I'm not planning to. At the minimum, it's going to be a long break that I need.
It's going to be much harder for me to aggregate and follow news, particularly hyper-local stuff. But I"m going to give it a shot. My sanity is worth it.
This Monday, April 4, I get to see the gods of metal, Judas Priest, play at the Tsongas Arena in Lowell.
Then six days later on Sunday, April 10, I go to see ... Gordon Lightfoot.
It may seem like an odd combo, a pairing that seems to attract radically different fanbases. Except that both are badasses in their own respective spheres of music, each with an unconquered spirit that can be described as metal (using that term as an adjective). So, I'm equally pumped for both.
This post was meant for Metal Friday by the way but yesterday got away from me so I'm shoehorning it into that category.
I was supposed to see Priest back on Oct. 31, 2021--Halloween night which would have added even more of a metal atmosphere to the show. But guitarist Richie Faulkner decided that an on-stage acute aortic aneurysm was too metal to pass up (the guy kept playing right though it by the way, finishing up the guitar solo in Painkiller. Honestly there is nothing, nor could there be anything, more metal than that). Faulkner nearly died after the dreaded widowmaker and only the presence of a first rate heart and lung center four minutes away from the stadium saved his life. Parts of Faulkner's chest were “replaced with mechanical components.” He added: “I’m literally made of metal now.”
Cue "Electric Eye."
So, that resulted in an understandably lengthy postponement for the Priest.
But here we are, on the eve of seeing a band that is either my favorite metal band of all time or second favorite to the great Iron Maiden, depending on what day of the week you ask me. I'm super pumped, of course.
Now on to Mr. Lightfoot.
It was my dad that introduced me to the Canadian singer-songwriter, decades ago, when he sat me down to listen to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." I remember really liking the song, a haunting retelling of a boat that went down in Lake Superior in November 1975, taking all 29 of its crew with it to the bottom. Later I went on to discover the rest of his catalog, including hits like "Sundown," "Carefree Highway," "Song for a Winter's Night" and my personal favorite, "Early Morning Rain."
Now I get to see Lightfoot, age 83, with my dad, age 78. I'm glad both are still here. Lightfoot is still doing it even at that age, which is just remarkable. I'm sure he's lost a fair bit off the fastball but I don't really care.
The show will be held in an intimate arena, the Tupelo Music Hall in Derry, NH, a venue that hosts acoustic artists and describes itself as a "friendly, relaxed, attractive, and intimate setting." The environment will likely be a lot more chill than Rob Halford storming the stage on a Harley Davidson in a hockey arena full of men in black t-shirts.
I have said I wanted to review more modern sword-and-sorcery written by contemporary authors, and so stepped up to that promise with Skallagrim: In the Vales of Pagarna. The author is Steve Babb, a name that you might recognize as one of the founders of the progressive rock band Glass Hammer. Steve is a sometime passer-through of my blog, someone I’ve mentioned here before. This is his debut fantasy novel, which published this month.
To cut to the chase:
Do read this if you are looking for something different, a book not easily categorized, that wears a handful of prominent influences on its sleeve. Some obvious ones are Michael Moorcock’s Elric, and J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. There are heavy echoes of both in here. I’m pretty sure I picked up on a few prog song references, too (Time Stands Still by Rush, Steve?).
Don’t read this if you are looking for traditional sword-and-sorcery. That this is book 1 should have already tipped things off. I would say it treads closer to mainstream fantasy, albeit with healthy doses of combat and weirdness that push it back toward S&S territory.
The book’s conceit is that the protagonist, a young rogue named Skallagrim, has lost his memory; he does not know who he is, and cannot remember his friends or his own history. He just knows the blue-eyed girl whom he loves has been abducted, and is due to be sacrificed on the altar of a sorcerer. This sets off a rescue mission through the Vales of Pagarna, a dangerous and weird valley. Skallagrim is also the beneficiary of a powerful but cursed sword with the portentous name of Terminus, a final point in time and space. It represents hope, with a bitter edge. Terminus is double-edged in every sense of the word.
The dialogue is pretty darned cracking. Babb has an ear for it, and that makes the book flow well, very easy to read. The quest is compelling and the encounters with the likes of flesh-eating ghouls memorable and fun.
I did have some minor issues with the novel. I’m an S&S guy through and through and prefer books where lots of things happen at a rapid clip. This book tends to take its time, although there is plenty of action, combat, and weirdness. To be fair there is no leisurely build up: Babb drops the reader into a swirling melee on page one.
The other issue is that I’m not entirely sold on the romance, at least through book one. As noted Skallagrim has lost his memories, but that makes his obsession with this girl not immediately apparent. His primary motivation is her rescue, and what is purer? But that doesn’t mean the reader understands why he’s so desperate and driven. I was deeply intrigued by Skallagrim’s encounter with a powerful and long-lived but fun and lusty water nymph, a memorable character who I hope returns for book two. And I suspect we’ll learn more about Skallagrim’s persona and motivations in the sequel.
A few other items I’m still chewing on… near the end of the book an aging sorcerer delivers a powerful soliloquy on aging. Although Skallagrim is young, the author of this book is not, nor is this reader. There is much in here about lost youth, and lost loves, and regret, and seizing the opportunity while you still can. The sorcerer’s words struck home, at least for this reader.
More ruminations… Skallagrim suffers a grim, face-altering wound at the outset of the novel and Babb expends lot of ink on the character’s disfigurement. Skallagrim is afflicted with bouts of self-loathing, guilt, and unworthiness, even contemplations of suicide. Some heavy stuff I was not expecting, and deeper characterization than you typically get in S&S protagonists.
Overall this is a solid first effort by Babb. Skallagrim: In the Vales of Pagarna can be read and enjoyed alone, as it ends with a satisfying final battle. Book 2 will presumably continue with Skallagrim’s pursuit of his lost love.
A couple items of interest to report on in the world of sword-and-sorcery:
Author Schuyler Hernstrom recently launched a kickstarter in conjunction with a new publishing outfit, Pilum Press. The project is for a new version of his out-of-print Thune's Vision, with a couple original stories added to the collection. I threw in my pledge for a $35 hardcover; I was pleased to receive notification this AM that the kickstarter met its modest funding goal of $5,000 and the project will proceed. I greatly enjoyed Hernstrom's The Eye of Sounnu (DMR Books), which to me successfully captured an old school S&S vibe while managing to avoid the slavish pastiche trap. Hernstrom has a compelling writing style and tells good stories. I had been thinking of tracking down a used copy of Thune's Vision until I heard about this upcoming project a few months ago. Glad to see it has come to fruition and met its initial goal, but please consider getting in on it.
Conan Returns! Yes, the mighty-thewed barbarian is getting an fully authorized novel treatment by author S.M. Stirling. Conan: Blood of the Serpent is slated to publish in October. I have not read anything by Stirling but I'm sure I will pick this up. It will I believe be the first authorized Conan novel since 2003's Conan of Venarium (TOR), not counting film adaptations/gaming material and the like. It sounds interesting enough; from the Conan.com website: "We wanted to place the adventure within the timeline of Howard’s tales, and over the course of several outlines determined that it would lead into one of [Stirling's] personal favorites, “Red Nails.” Thus it would feature other elements Conan fans will find familiar, while being entirely accessible to readers who may come to the genre via A Game of Thrones, The Witcher, or works by authors like Jay Kristoff or Mark Lawrence." I will admit that I'm not much of a pastiche Conan fan, with a few exceptions. I hope Stirling can capture even some of Howard's original magic. You can pre-order a hardcover copy from Titan Books now at the link above.
I haven't fully made up my mind on how gaming impacted S&S/fantasy fiction more broadly, but I sort of sum up my current thoughts as they stand today at the end of part II:
Fantasy fiction that relies on an ordered set of game rules as its foundation, or seeks to recapture free-flowing moments of social serendipity at the game table without applying the rules or discipline of good storytelling, is not likely to capture the imagination of readers, nor stand the test of time. The two mediums, gaming and writing, share some commonalities but are ultimately different disciplines.
An involuntary swim with sharks, mollified by embrace of hot babe.
Last night I decided a mental break was in order and so I watched 1981’s For Your Eyes Only. It was just what I needed. I gave it my full attention, and it held it. I had forgotten how much action is packed into this film, scene after scene of hijacked helicopters, car chases through the Greek countryside, ski chases down mountainsides, death-defying climbs up sheer rock faces, underwater brushes with sharks and divers in murderous deep-water suits, on and on. Incredible fun, never a dull moment.
I watched this film many times as a kid, as it seemed to be on HBO every time I turned on the TV. But it had been ... 35 years since I saw it last in full? More? I think part of the reason I was so enamored with what I was watching was nostalgia. There is something about the 80s, the early 80s … it just made me extremely comfortable, the low-tech and no cell phones and Bond's turbo Lotus and Walther PPKs and flings with beautiful women. Set against the backdrop of the cold war. All exotic (for the time), but now intensely familiar, reminders of a time that has slipped into history.
Yes, like all Bond films this one has its share of ridiculousness. I had forgotten one sequence where three dudes in full hockey gear attempt to kill Bond on an ice rink. They gear up in full uniforms, skates, sticks, masks... none bothered to bring a gun, and Bond disposes of them, one by Zamboni, and tosses them into a net, which tallies the 3-0 score on a scoreboard. WTF... but still awesome.
Bond films are great for so many reasons, but one is the familiar flourishes and sequences. Every film seems to have Bond walking through a laboratory to view Q's latest contraptions and spy gear. This one had a spring-loaded arm cast capable of smashing a head, and an umbrella that, when exposed to water, snaps down with murderous steel hooks around the user's neck. I always love the opening action/title sequences, the dalliances with Moneypenny, the physical specimen goons, and of course Bond's roguishness and effortless charm, even in the most dire of circumstances.
The on-location film work was beautiful, the pre-CGI stunt work including high speed motorbike and ski chases through the snow of the Italian mountains, and mountain climbing, impressive. The theme song is one of the best in the series, earning a nomination for Best Original Song at the Academy Awards in 1982. It sets the tone... it's got sex in it, but also mystery, just what a Bond film needs of course.
I started the new job on Monday and it was just what I needed after a firehose of a week. I need to do this again. One film, and the world, is not enough.
Are there any Bond aficionados out there that would recommend another? There are many I have not seen, and I'm itching to work backwards to keep the nostalgia train running... but also I have yet to see a single Daniel Craig entry in the series. I know, but I just don't watch much TV, at all. I'm torn between Goldfinger, The Spy Who Loved Me, and the 2006 version of Casino Royale, the latter of which I've heard so many good things about. I have seen Goldfinger, but so long ago that most of the details (save Oddjob, the laser sequence, and a gal dipped in gold) have escaped me.
Probably hard to go wrong with any of them.
Bad ass car that we didn't get to see enough of ... thugs should have heeded the warning.
The first is the result of a couple emails exchanged with my friend Tom Barber, who is looking to sell some of his artwork. He's not doing commissioned pieces at the moment, but has some work that will likely be of interest to fans of spec-fic. I am planning to see Tom in the next couple months.
As for the latter piece, hey, we all enjoy a little shit-stirring every once in a while. I love RPGs and have been an on-again/off-again player for large portions of my life, but I don't think they are an unalloyed good for budding S&S writers. YMMV. It is weird that their meteoric rise tracks very closely with S&S's precipitous fall. It may be a coincidence, but perhaps not.
My latest post is up on the blog of DMR Books: "Fantasy without Tolkien? Yes that happened, and yes it matters." Check it out here.
This one was prompted by a few lines I heard Corey Olsen, aka., The Tolkien Professor, state during one of his recent podcasts. It was rather a throwaway line but struck me as not fair to fantasists working before the world-altering impact of The Lord of the Rings, and so I felt compelled to respond.
If you read the post, you will see that A) I venerate Tolkien, and B) I enjoy Olsen's work. But, I also call them as I see them. And I think the fantasy genre would have materialized even without JRRT. It would have been far less rich, a paler version, and the genre might never have attained the commercial success it now enjoys. I can hardly bear to think of it... but, I think if you review the evidence of what was occurring in the 1950s and 60s, prior to the Ace Tolkien explosion of 1965, the arrival of the genre was inevitable.
We'll never know and this is of course all speculation, a game of alternative history. Tolkien's arrival ushered in a new brand of fantasy and changed the course of history, and fantasy fiction, forever. But, we should not forget that he himself was influenced by many fine writers of fantasy, the Burroughs boom was in full swing, and in all likelihood we would have had the Lancer Conan Saga. The likes of Burroughs and Leiber and Moorcock and Vance and Lovecraft were coalescing and emerging from the shadow of 1950s science-fiction.
And, with all due respect to Olsen, their work absolutely mattered.
Joe Lansdale is one of my favorite authors. He consistently delivers good, tightly-plotted stories, populated with memorable characters, and moments of violence, sometimes shocking, but leavened with a great sense of humor throughout. He keeps you turning the pages, which in and of itself is an art form. He has a inimitable voice that comes through on every page.
Reading "Hyenas" from his collection Hap and Leonard (love those characters, who briefly enjoyed the limelight with a far too quick to be cancelled TV series ) reminded me of how good Lansdale can be. Look at what he does with this opening. You're effortlessly all in with a just a few paragraphs of description.
When I drove over to the nightclub, Leonard was sitting on the curb holding a bloody rag to his head. Two police cruisers were parked just down from where he sat. One of the cops, Jane Bowden, a stout woman with her blonde hair tied back, was standing by Leonard. I knew her a little. She was a friend of my girlfriend, Brett. There was a guy stretched out in the parking lot on his back.
I parked and walked over, glanced at the man on the ground.
He didn't look so good, like a poisoned insect on its way out. His eyes, which could be barely seen through the swelling, were roaming around in his head like maybe they were about to go down a drain. His mouth was bloody, but no bloodier than his nose and cheekbones. He was missing teeth. I knew that because quite a few of them were on his chest, like Chiclets he had spat out. I saw what looked like a chunk of his hair lying near by. The parking lot made the hunk of blond hair appear bronze. He was missing a shoe. I saw it just under one of the cop cars. It was still tied.
I went over and tried not to look too grim or too happy. Truth was I didn't know how to play it, because I didn't know the situation. I didn't know who had started what, and why.
It paints a scene that begs the story to be told. Kudos to Joe.
If you haven't read any of his stuff I recommend you start with his Hap and Leonard stories (Mucho Mojo is a particular favorite of mine) or perhaps his standalone novel The Bottoms. This stuff may not be sword-and-sorcery but it moves like the best of it.
The latest episode of Rogues in the House is out, with me joining the crew for a panel session on the current state of sword-and-sorcery. Alongside stalwart S&S authors Howard Andrew Jones and Scott Oden, Matt and Deane and I discussed questions like:
What is the current state of sword-and-sorcery? Where is it strong, where is it not?
Sword-and-sorcery in gaming
Is the subgenre involved in a renaissance, and do we want it to be or are we better off staying off the beaten path?
What perception does the label have in publishing circles, and is it a help or hindrance to getting a work published?
Does it need a rebrand/new name to escape its past?
How does it differ from the more popular "grimdark" strain of hard-edged fantasy?
What do we hope to see in the future, and what does it need to continue to grow?
I had a lot of fun with this one, as always. The best part for me might have been seeing one of the co-hosts' legit armory pre-show. We're talking swords of all stripes, including replicas from The Lord of the Rings and Conan the Barbarian (1982), working crossbows, halberds (bec-de-corbin!), handcrafted chain mail armor, WWII armament, on and on. As I mentioned to Deane, I know where I'm going if the zombie apocalypse breaks out, or if I start seeing parachutes coming down Red Dawn style.
A few notes I jotted down prior to the show... sword-and-sorcery today is a very small niche in an incredibly popular broader fantasy genre. Below are some of the interesting things going on it, but added up, it’s still quite small.
· A few good but niche publishers (DMR Books, Rogue Blades Entertainment, Pulp Hero Press, etc.).
· A good magazine (Tales from the Magician’s Skull).
· A swelling number of amateur publishing outlets (Whetstone, Flashing Swords, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, etc.).
· Some watering holes (Whetstone Discord, a small Reddit group, various small groups on REH websites, Facebook, etc.).
· Some publicity on Black Gate, blogs like my own/Silver Key, DMR Books has a great blog, as is the blog of Tales from the Magician’s Skull.
· Some new anthologies. Swords and Sorceries (Parallel Universe Publications has 3 volumes), Savage Realms. Blood on the Blade (Flinch Books)
· It’s supported by one good podcast—Rogues in the House. Cromcast has at times supported S&S, occasional episodes from likes of Elder Sign. Oliver Brackenbury’s So I’m Writing a Novel explores S&S. Appendix N Book Club covers a fair bit of S&S.
· Some good authors—Scott Oden and Howard Andrew Jones, James Enge, Schuyler Hernstrom, Adrian Cole. Keith Taylor is still writing and Michael Moorcock is still with us, with an original Elric story due to publish next year and reportedly “definitive” Elric editions coming out.
· But, it’s still a widely misused and misunderstood term, which is what I tried to help repair with Flame and Crimson. Still used synonymously with “fantasy.”
· It’s not a genre that major publishers want to take a chance on, and therefore not commercially viable.
The Robert E. Howard Foundation recently published its list of nominees for the 2022 awards. I'm on there, twice, for the Hyrkanian--Outstanding Achievement, Essay, and for the Venarium--Emerging Scholar.
The Hyrkanian is for my essay "Myth Manifesting in the Present: Robert E. Howard's 'Marchers of Valhalla,'" which you can find over at the DMR Blog. I like that piece, as the subject matter pressed all my buttons (come on, Vikings and Howard, and myth intermingling with the present day?) I was gripped by a James Allison level of fevered possession while writing it. The Venarium is further specified for my work on various recent essays, as well as for writing Flame and Crimson.
I have been at the writing/blogging game for some time, and will leave it to others for what qualifies as an emerging scholar. Flame and Crimson required of course an immense level of research. I don't know the other names on that list, save for the administrator of the fine The World of Robert E. Howard website. But it's really cool to see the breadth of scholarly work being done, both domestically and abroad.
There are many, many worthy entries on these lists. To be nominated is as always an incredible honor. Just as with the Atlantean for which I was nominated, and ultimately won last year, I don't know who nominated me for these categories, but ... thank you! I do hope to see Robert E. Howard Changed My Life win an award. I owe that fine book a review.
This announcement also serves as a reminder that I NEED to get to Robert E. Howard Days in Cross Plains and see the Howard homestead. Maybe this will be the year.
I hadn't read War of the Gods for the better part of 20 years, and a recent re-read confirmed it's a pretty darned good book. My somewhat spoiler-ific review is up on the blog of DMR Books, here.
If you want the TL;DR version of the linked article, Poul Anderson is a damned good writer who channeled the Northern Thing in a way very few authors can.
After spending the better part of 18 years with the same company, albeit one that has been purchased in that time, undergone many changes, and looks very little like the one I walked into on my first day back in June 2004, I recently made the momentous decision to change jobs. I landed at a new company, hired for a role that did not exist, which this company created exclusively for me, and they’re paying me well to do it.
It’s been a hell of a last few weeks, starting from accepting the offer on Thursday, Jan. 20, telling my boss and my colleagues on Friday Jan. 21st, then releasing the news to the broader healthcare community which I serve this past Thursday. Since then, messages of well-wishing and support (mixed with some of surprise and disbelief, and sadness), have been pouring in non-stop. It’s left me feeling exhausted, but also incredibly grateful, with a great sense of anticipation for this next chapter in my professional life. I’ll be working from home, permanently, as this new company—small and nimble—does not have a brick-and-mortar presence. I can’t wait.
What did I learn over the last 17 ½ years, and in particular this latest momentous turn in my career? What would I recommend to others looking to further their own career? Here’s my advice.
1. Get comfortable with discomfort. As someone who suffers from mild social anxiety, and has struggled with bouts of inferiority, imposter syndrome etc., giving opening conference addresses in front of crowds as large as 1,800 people, and leading teams through tough times, has not been easy, and resulted in considerable levels of personal discomfort. Playing football and lifting heavy weights has allowed me to work through pain, but never inured me to it. Discomfort never goes away. You have two choices when it confronts you—retreat, or press on. I choose the latter almost every time, and that has made a difference. Like tearing muscle fibers during a workout, and then allowing them to repair themselves and get stronger, you grow professionally in zones of discomfort. A hard lesson, but true.
2. Success mainly is a result of hard work. I don’t disregard luck, or privilege, but mainly, persistence and discipline make the difference, even more than talent. I have no special level of intelligence, or rare skill, but I do stick to things after others give up. I have a good attention span. I also communicate well. But most of all I’m a fairly disciplined individual. I like keeping busy and doing good work. I don’t kill myself with marathon days, and deeply value and make time for family life, but I don’t slack off. Stack several good days of work on top of each other, and you will have something good to show for it. Stack several good years together, and you’ve got a career and a resume that will make you stand out. There really aren’t shortcuts to this process.
3. Don’t blame others for your failures. One of the best books I’ve read in the last five years is ex-Navy Seal Jocko Willink’s Extreme Ownership. He describes a rule for self-conduct that is both incredibly simple, but very hard to rigorously follow—taking responsibility for everything in your life. Yeah, shit happens along the way, but we can choose how we react to it. We can choose to use failure as an opportunity to get better. If you experience failure, start not by looking for someone to blame, but asking yourself: What could I have done better? What will I do better next time? If you are a leader and someone on your team comes up short, instead of pointing the finger, recognize that it’s your responsibility to train that person better, and equip them with the tools they need to succeed. Victim mentality is a terrible mindset to adopt.
4. Kindness goes a long way. Treat people—especially your direct reports—as you would want to be treated. More than ever these days, there is no bossing people around (there never really was, unless we’re talking medieval lords/vassals relationship). In these days of labor shortages and “the great resignation,” employees more than ever hold the upper hand. Your colleagues will respond to being treated fairly, and with kindness, and will reciprocate with loyalty. You will find yourself surrounded by people willing to work hard and make you look better, because they care for you.
5. Networks are a thing, so cultivate them. Talk to people. Help them in their careers—invite them on a podcast if you have one, allow them to speak at your event, write articles about them, respond to their emails, link in on LinkedIn. Inevitably they will return the favor. This creates a network effect, where knowing a lot of people gives you acceptance, even authority, in your field. Congratulate others on their successes. Treat your competition as people, because that’s what they are, and all they are. Do this, and you will find doors open when you did not know they even existed.
6. Dip your toe in the water before taking the plunge. Putting in a few extra hours of work, after hours, is not easy, and will cut into your Netflix time, but it allows you to try the thing before you commit to it. In my case I started freelancing for this new company on my personal time, and they liked what I had to offer, which led to a conversation about coming on board full time. In short, see bullet point 2.
Richard Tierney has died. I can't say much more than what is expressed in this fine post by Deuce Richardson over at DMR Books. Peace be with his friends and family.
Tierney was, as the article states, one of a thin line carrying on the sword-and-sorcery tradition with good new material in the 1970s, alongside the likes of Karl Edward Wagner and Charles Saunders. I very much enjoyed his Simon of Gitta stories, as found in the classic Swords Against Darkness anthologies, his pastiche work/posthumous REH collaborations in Tigers of the Sea, and his Red Sonja collaborations with David C. Smith. He was also highly regarded as a poet, and that bit of verse published on DMR confirms his skill.
It's sad to see these old S&S veterans go. But when you keep reading them, you keep the flame burning.
Someone recently asked me, Can sword-and-sorcery be written successfully at novel length? My answer was, of course: See Karl Edward Wagner’s Bloodstone, or Fritz Leiber’s The Swords of Lankhmar.
But, after reading John Myers Myers’ The Harp and the Blade, I would now tell aspiring authors: Here’s a pretty solid template.
This book moves. The Harp and the Blade was originally published as a seven-part serial in the venerable magazine Argosy in 1940, and in paperback still bears some hallmarks of its pulp heritage. It needed to be swift, and grab readers from issue to issue. Each chapter is just 10 pages, and the entirety of the book is a mere 230 pages. No needless descriptions. No navel-gazing “world building” (it is set in 10th century Dark Ages France, on the cusp of the feudal era, so not a whole lot of that is needed). More to the point: Something important happens each chapter to advance the plot.
S&S beefcake... 1985 style.
Now, is The Harp and the Blade sword-and-sorcery? Maybe, but probably not. It’s best classified as historical fiction. Although you could be forgiven for thinking it was S&S, so closely does it skirt that territory. Certainly it’s packaged that way. I have the 1985 edition as published by Ace. Look at that cover! Two overmuscled dudes, one a hip bard with 80s surfer hair, the other a classic Boris Vallejo style barbarian. This was definitely marketed to the same audience that devoured the Lancer Conans in the 60s and the DAW Elrics in the 70s. Publishers of the era were going to great lengths to ride the sword-and-sorcery wave, although by the mid-80s the subgenre was about to disappear from the shelves, almost overnight, with few exceptions (Keith Taylor’s Bard novels, for example). Morgan Holmes calls this “The great sword-and-sorcery extinction event.”
Oh, and the “barbarian’s” name happens to be… Conan! Not the Conan you’re thinking of, and in fact other than being a resourceful, charismatic leader with some skill with a blade, bears no resemblance to Robert E. Howard’s most famous creation. The name Conan has historical Gaelic/Celtic roots, although one might assume Myers Myers was at least familiar with Howard’s work.
Packaging alone is not enough, but what edges this book back into S&S territory is the geas our hero, the bard Finnian, is placed under. After callously watching a man get murdered in a tavern brawl when he
may have intervened and saved a life, Finnian is shamed (and possibly,
ensorcelled) by a druid in a wonderful scene atop a cromlech on a
moonlit night. Thereafter his life is changed; he begins to accept
responsibility, and act out of a sense of altruism. "From now on, as long as you stay in my land," here he swept an arm to include all directions," you will aid any man or woman in need of help," the old man declares. This is skillfully handled by Myers Myers, and it may just be shame, or the power of persuasion, that causes our hero to begin to take responsibility. But it may be magic.
This is the heart of the book, and the message that lies beneath the page-turning action. Finnian is, like many of the classic heroes of S&S, an outsider. He is literally that—an Irish bard in foreign lands, making his living with his songs and his poetry, never settling down but moving from modest payday to payday. Just living, untrammeled. Lacking any commitments, he has nothing to tie him down, but seemingly nothing to give his life meaning, either. He’s at a crossroads.
Make no mistake, this is THE struggle all men face. Do we drift through life, viewing others’ misfortunes as not our own (“not my circus, not my monkeys”—not a fan of that phrase), dreaming, noncommittal, childlike? Or, do we take a stand, find principles we can live by, put down roots, raise a family, and get to work on adulthood? Personally, I don’t think there is a choice, and if you fail to grow up it will bite you in the end, hard. Peter Pan is a cautionary tale, not an ideal, and the lost boys are just that.
The book has an interesting, muted ending, where all does not turn out like we had thought, or hoped, or expected (and, which I had guessed due to some mild telegraphing from Myers Myers). I won’t spoil it here.
Despite what I’ve written above this is not a heavy book laden with psychoanalysis. It’s action-packed, with death defying rescues and escapes, violent combat, romance, wine, and song, set against a dangerous backdrop of lawless lands where outlaw bands carve out fiefdoms at the point of a sword, as Danes plunder from the North and Moslems threaten incursion from the South. There is drama, but it’s gritty, grounded, and the world does not hang in the balance. Just enough characterization to allow us to latch on to the main character. In short, good stuff.
Sadly Myers Myers seems to have fallen into obscurity, but for a time had gained a level of popularity and critical respectability with Silverlock (1949), which I have not read. I can recommend The Harp and the Blade, however. Even if not S&S it follows the formula us fans want and appreciate.
