More (mediocre) content is not better than no content: A rant

Once in a while you’ve got to let off some steam (Bennett). For most, that means punching a heavy bag, screaming into a pillow, maybe going crazy and tearing the tag off a mattress.

For me, it’s … angry blogging! Friday rant incoming.

What’s gotten under my skin?

The incessant need for “more content.”

I’m hearing this in the cries of Rings of Power defenders, many of whom admit that while the show is mediocre at best, and plays fast and loose with Tolkien lore in nonsensical ways, they nevertheless continue to watch. Because “its more Tolkien content, and I need more Middle-Earth. I need more content.” 

Actual quotes.

This chaps my ass.

No one needs “more content.” Not of this sort.

To me it sounds like infantile and babylike cries of, “more food, mama!”

How about, more art, please.

Stop consuming cheap and disposable shit, and begging for more. Find the good stuff that already exists, and enjoy that instead. 

There’s more content right now than anyone can consume in a lifetime.

If everyone stopped producing content tomorrow—if somehow we implemented a worldwide ban, and you could only consume content that’s already been made—you’d have enough for 50 lifetimes.

You’ve got way more than enough. I’m not advocating this, BTW, just making a point.

I hate the need for more, at any cost. I also strongly dislike the word “content” when it comes to media. “Content” is the stuff we expel from our bowels. Probably not what we should be feeding our minds with.

We do need good art. But corporations don’t make art. Corporations make content, on an industrial scale, for undifferentiated masses, in order to make loads of cash. As we see with Star Wars and now (unfortunately) The Lord of the Rings “franchises.” Corporations buy franchises and expect massive ROI on their investments. In Amazon’s case, it’s all about getting more Amazon Prime subscribers, converting to product consumers. The Lord of the Rings becomes a means to an end, a power grab, which is the opposite message of the book.

When you consume poorly made “content” produced by corporations it encourages more of the same behavior. Instead:

Support independent artists and small businesses producing new material. Discuss thoughtful and well-made art. Appreciate it. Encourage creation of more of that sort of art. Or, explore the good, old, time-tested stuff. 

If you adopt these practices worry not, you still have near infinite options.

More “content” comes with a cost.

It devalues the historical wealth of riches we already have. I have a bias here; I’m a historian. I do wonder: Who talks about Fritz Leiber anymore? Clark Ashton Smith, Leigh Brackett, Poul Anderson? Very few, in comparison to the new and shiny content of the moment. Hell even Ursula LeGuin, once a household name, is starting to slip into the past. 

I worry these men and women will be lost to time under an avalanche of new “content.”

“More content” chokes out the magic of what makes old properties special in the first place. The avaricious need for more content causes every timeline, every side character, every magic item or scroll, every byway, to be fully filled in. Until the magic is gone. 

We no longer need to wonder how the force operates. We no longer need to speculate about the Blue Wizards and what they were doing.

They’ve all been spelled out, like an adult paint by numbers, in the pursuit of feeding the content machine.

We need dark places in the woods, unexplored realms beneath the seas. 

And we need white space on the page. 

Obviously, I enjoy modern adaptations. Obviously, I consume some of them. Perhaps that makes me a hypocrite. But I’m definitely more judicious these days with what I watch and read, because I know that you are what you eat. And I’m not a big fan of eating shit.

I’m not advocating closing off possibilities. What I do advocate is, mindful consumption. Read or watch deeply instead of broadly. Then share that out. Celebrate the good. And stop giving your time and attention to the mediocre. 

The haunting season is here, in Lovecraft Country

Heading to a trail behind my home, in Essex County.

"It is the night-black Massachusetts legendary which packs the really macabre 'kick'. Here is material for a really profound study in group neuroticism; for certainly, none can deny the existence of a profoundly morbid streak in the Puritan imagination."

--HP Lovecraft 

October is here and I couldn’t be happier. I love this time of year.

I live in Lovecraft Country. I’m surrounded by horrors.

To the west, Arkham University. To the east, Innsmouth and Kingsport. 

The South, Salem, which needs no fictional fears. Along with Danvers State Mental Hospital. Or at least the façade, now that the main body has been turned into haunted condominiums.

For good measure, to the North is New Hampshire, home to America’s Stonehenge. Northwest is Vermont, setting of ‘The Whisperer in Darkness.”

I’ve been reading some Lovecraft to get in the mood for the season, Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre. The 1982 Del Rey edition with the wraparound Michael Whelan cover that serves as the main canvass for the subsequent line of paperbacks.

I have read most of Lovecraft’s stuff, but it’s been a few years. So it always leaves me very pleased to see the plethora of local towns called out in the stories.

Newburyport, which I visit quite frequently. Rowley. Ipswich. Marblehead. Athol. Portland. We still have a handful of old Puritan homes with small dark windows and the long sloping roofs that nearly touch the ground, the haunted architecture that served as inspiration for stories like “The Picture in the House.”

I’m minutes away from some of these locations. In about 10 minutes I can be in Newburyport, home to several scenes in “The Shadow Over Innsmouth.” My wife and I love to eat there and stroll along the wharf.  In “Shadow” a decrepit bus takes passengers on a little-used route to Innsmouth, home of a strange, mutated race of fish-men and the Order of Dagon Hall.

Which makes it not impossible for a Deep One to have wandered over and taken up residence in this still pond just a short walk behind my house. Where I took these photos, today, while getting outside for fresh air.

These photos are a minor piece of Lovecraft Country.

Nothing too extraordinary, but in a few weeks they’ll look a whole lot more suitable as the orange and red leaves begin to pop. And perhaps a few Mi-Go. What’s that sound? Perhaps the Music of Erich Zann…

Home to a Deep One?

Don't cross that gate...

Alone on the path?

Neither Beg Nor Yield, a review

This book can have none more attitude.

Neither Beg Nor Yield is an ass-kicking sword-and-sorcery anthology that you should read.

This thing is a beast, an obvious labor of love. 456 pages. 20 stories. Illustrated throughout. An incredible lineup of authors. How the hell did editor Jason Waltz manage to land this group, a who’s-who of fantasy writers? Each story gets an outro penned by Waltz, a smattering of biographical info coupled with his insights on what makes each story fit the prescribed “sword-and-sorcery attitude” that unites each of the stories.

This book has attitude.

Did we mention attitude?

Waltz plants an Iwo Jima-esque flag for what sword-and-sorcery means to him. It can be summed up in one word. Attitude, with a capital A. Always. Stories of vital, never-say-die protagonists, shouting “enough talk!” before contemptuously hurling a dagger into their garrulous foe (this actually happens in one story). Think of Conan cutting down a magistrate and hacking his way free of a corrupt courtroom, or running down a cruel Frost Giants’ Daughter in the snowy wastes. “An indomitable will with the passion to live,” Waltz proclaims, in his introduction to the volume “It’s Not Gentle.” 

This attitude accurately describes a large swath of S&S, and undoubtedly draws many fans under its bloody banner. Including me.

It’s an interesting and compelling way to look at the subgenre, even if it does circumscribe S&S a bit more narrowly than I’d prefer. I suspect it might leave out the Clark Ashton Smith weird/antiheroic strain of Satampra Zeiros that I enjoy, for example. I’m not sure if it permits a story like “The Best Two Thieves in Lankhmar,” or most of the Elric stories. I fear something like HP Lovecraft’s fuck around-and-find-out, dreamy and atmospheric “The Doom That Came to Sarnath” would not make the cut. 

Even Conan realizes the pen is often mightier than the sword, and diplomacy is needed.

On the other hand Waltz’ theory allows for a story like “Suspension in Silver,” a story set in the present in which werewolves attack a tattoo parlor that most probably would not consider S&S. So in another sense, it’s permissive.

Sword-and-sorcery can mean different things to different people, and readers gravitate toward it for many reasons. Though it is admittedly a relatively narrow subgenre dominated by men and women of action, there are different strains within it, not all flush with attitude.

We can decide what sort of S&S we prefer. And that flexibility allows an editor to curate a vision for what type of stories he or she wants to publish.

Waltz plants a firm fucking standard in the ground with NBNY. A giant middle finger at the sky, drenched in blood. I commend him for this.

Are the stories any good?

Of the 20 tales, I liked at least 13 of them. S&S anthologies are never perfect and I consider this a very good hit-miss ratio.

My absolute favorites included:

• Soldier, Seeker, Slayer, John C. Hocking. A powerful story with an end that hits like a ton of bricks. A mercenary who has lost his memory has it all come crashing back.

• The Stone from the Stars, Chuck Dixon. This was well-told, amusing, and entertaining start to finish. Reminded me of a Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser story with a little more gross-out action.

• Evil World, John Fultz. Fultz is one of the best S&S writers working today and delivers the goods every time I read him. This story taps into the mythic, with battles against external evil and weakness within.

• Reckoning, Keith Taylor. Taylor is an excellent author, full stop, one of the best of the S&S “silver age” or whatever you want to call it, late 60s to early 80s. The author of Bard takes us back to his sweet spot, Dark Ages Ireland for a tale of Nasach. The combat is 10/10. Great little tale.

• Bona Na Croin, Jeff Stewart. I don’t believe I’ve read anything by Stewart before but I loved this gritty story from an unknown to me author. Very Taylor-esque with its ancient Celtic setting, good use of grit and historical realism that makes its irruption of weird magic powerful and horrifying.

• Virgins for Khuul, Steve Goble. Another new name I was pleased to be acquainted with. This was like a much better told Death Dealer story, over the top but in a fun way. Includes a massive snake and a protagonist with the moniker “Slaughter Lord” … but it all works.

• The Last Vandals on Earth, Steven Erikson. Erikson is a great author even if I have no intention of wading through his Malazan series. Powerful and well-written with an emotional charge, dying letters written in blood never fail to move me.

• Maiden Flight, Adrian Cole. Very apropos ending for the book. Concerns a Valkyrie and a warrior not ready to depart for the halls of Valhalla. The Northern thing never fails to land with me and this one stuck the landing.

Five other stories were good, entertaining if not as unqualified good as the ones above. Seven failed to land with me, likely a matter of taste and style. The only disappointment I want to mention is the Joe Lansdale story. I am a HUGE Lansdale fan and was greatly anticipating this one, but I bounced off its gonzo style and (very) strange subject matter. It reminded me of his The Drive-In, which I also did not particularly enjoy. I love Lansdale’s Hap and Leonard stories, and several of his standalone novels including The Bottoms. He writes humor better than any author I’ve read, save Douglas Adams. He can do pathos and action with equal facility. I’m firmly in Joe’s fan club and he can take the critique. Other reviewers seem to like “The Organ Grinder’s Monkey” so make of this what you will.

TL;DR, get this book and read it. You will be entertained, and your testosterone levels will increase. It’s pretty metal.

Rock on.

Weird Tales of Modernity: Elevating the artistry of the Weird Tales Three

Pulp and other forms of genre fiction have become not just an accepted form of entertainment, but an acknowledged outlet for meaningful artistic expression. But this is a relatively recent phenomenon. For more than a century literary critics shunned pulp, categorizing it as cheap entertainment for coarse consumers, junk food devoid of value. Some actively discouraged its consumption.

Today literary elites no longer dictate broad cultural tastes—or if any do, they certainly wield less power and influence than the likes of Harold Bloom, Edmund Wilson and William Dean Howells once did. At least from my limited perspective.

But one result of this century of neglect is comparatively few literary studies. Only recently have we seen a steady uptick with the likes of Jonas Prida’s Conan Meets the Academy (2012), Justin Everett and Jeffrey Shanks’ The Unique Legacy of Weird Tales (2015), Mark Fisher’s The Weird and the Eerie (2017), Bobby Derie’s Weird Talers: Essays on Robert E. Howard and Others (2019), John Haefele’s Lovecraft: The Great Tales (2021), and Stephen Jones’ The Weird Tales Boys (2023). We have plenty of catching up to do, which makes Jason Ray Carney’s Weird Tales of Modernity (McFarland, 2019) a welcome volume. It’s a work that certainly deserves more attention. I recommend it strongly, with a few caveats.

The first caveat is price. McFarland describes itself as a leading independent publisher of academic and general-interest nonfiction books, but academic publishers typically charge more due to their small print runs, and McFarland, though cheaper than some academic presses, is still pricey. This book runs nearly $40 new at just under 200 pages.

The second is accessibility. Weird Tales of Modernity is a challenging read. It took me a while to get into the flow due to the denseness of Carney’s language and use of academic jargon. I have a degree in English and have read (and even appreciate) academic writing, but it’s been a while since I tackled such material and needed to shake off a little rust to get back into that headspace. It probably also assumes a little too much familiarity with literary modernism.

But once I acclimated to the language I both enjoyed Weird Tales of Modernity as an entertaining read, and for the compelling case it makes for the literary merits of H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and Robert E. Howard. Carney’s central thesis is that the “Weird Tales Three” were not just producing entertainment, but contributing meaningfully as original artists writing in reaction to literary modernism.

This would be a good time to explain that particular term. 

Literary modernism was an experimental mode of fiction in vogue from roughly the late 1800s to the early 1940s, peaking in the interwar period (1920-39)—roughly concurrent to the literary output of Howard, Lovecraft, and Smith. It was a time marked by profound disillusionment in institutions and doubt that universal truth and human progress were possible. Rapid changes in technology and industrialization coupled with the carnage of World War I made old certainties a shifting sand.

Amid these rapid changes artists such as T.S. Eliot, James Joyce, William Faulker, and Virginia Wolfe adapted modes of literary expression to match, abandoning old traditions and pioneering new prose and poetry techniques--slice of life, introspection, emphasis on realism, abandonment of meter and rhyme in poetry. As the old sureties in life were slipping away, they sought to achieve immortality through “art in amber,” even if just in limited, fragmentary glimpses. A chief example is Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), a dense and sprawling work which depicted the events of 24 hours in the life of Leopold Bloom.

Carney argues that Smith, Lovecraft, and Howard were aware of this movement, but instead of engaging in it produced stories of shadow modernism, “strange art, artists, and experience of art created in reaction to modernity.”  Howard’s decaying cities and corrupt civilizations and Lovecraft’s Great Old Ones and uncaring, indifferent cosmicism were symbolic representations of the terrible ephemerality that lurked behind the seeming consistency of our day-to-day lives—the inevitable march of time and the subsequent corruption and decay of all human endeavor. The Weird Tales Three saw through this veil and understood the ephemerality of life—the “ephemerality of the ordinary” as Carney repeats in an oft-used phrase.  “Irrespective of tribe, race, clique, or coterie, we are all ephemeral forms trembling in strange stasis destined for formlessness.” 

Capturing the ephemerality of human endeavor required more than the language of literary modernism could provide. It required fantastic and extraordinary literary techniques married to the techniques of the Gothic novel—hallmarks of the Weird Tales Three. Writes Carney, “After many creative iterations honed over several stories—e.g., Pickman’s demented art, Malygris’s sorcery, the fell mirrors of Tuzun Thune—this shadow modernism becomes an inhuman form of technology that, functioning like a cognitive prosthesis in the virtual world of fiction, thereby reveals the secret truth of history: history is a cruelly accelerating process of deformation. The ordinary is ephemeral. History is the interplay of form and formlessness with formlessness terminally ascendant.”

Carney does an impressive job supporting his thesis with multiple references from the literature, both from mainstream modernist writers and from Howard, Lovecraft, and Smith. I found his arguments original and convincing, offering new insights and perspectives I hadn’t previously considered. If you take these writers seriously it’s a book you ought to seek out.

In addition to his scholarship Carney has done much of note for sword-and-sorcery and the broader field of pulp fiction. His efforts building the online Whetstone discord community (which recently shut down after a notable run of some five years), initiating the Trigon awards and associated conference, organizing academic panels at Howard Days, and of course establishing the Whetstone Amateur Magazine of Pulp Sword-and-Sorcery, served an important function for many. We’re all on the same path of dissolution and formlessness, which makes any efforts to make sense of the art we enjoy while offering warmth and community for other like-minded souls deeply appreciated and sorely needed. Weird Tales of Modernity and Carney’s broader oeuvre serve as a bulwark against the ephemerality of the ordinary.

This review also appeared on the blog of the Rogues in the House podcast.

Prayers for Howard Andrew Jones, ardent sword-and-sorcery champion

When I heard the news that Howard Andrew Jones was diagnosed with inoperable and fatal brain cancer, it staggered me. I’m still reeling. 

The great HAJ, author of Lord of a Shattered Land

Although we’d never met in person, Howard is much more than just an author whose works I admire. He’s a person I admire.

Relentlessly optimistic.

Passionate and informed.

Encouraging and welcoming.

And after all that, he’s also a darned good writer responsible for some books I enjoyed, and recommend you seek out.

I got to know Howard a bit through an online Discord community, Whetstone, which has recently shuttered. We also served together on a Rogues in the House podcast and a video panel, The Best of Sword-and-Sorcery.

But despite meeting him in online venues only, I feel like I knew him. 

I’ve heard it said that if an author writes in enough volume, and truly, that he will inevitably end up on the page. I’m not sure if I fully believe this, but I do believe it in the case of Howard. 

He was Hanuvar. Relentless in his work, honorable, hopeful that one day he might succeed in his mission.

He was also The Skull, mascot of Tales from the Magician’s Skull, the sword-and-sorcery magazine he edited for Goodman Games. Relentless in his love of sword-and-sorcery, and threatening immolation for anyone who profaned the sacred genre. He reduced many interns to ash, all in good humor of course.

He was a tireless champion of Harold Lamb, whose stories he assembled in an eight-volume “Harold Lamb Library” series for Bison Books. Howard constantly shoehorned Lamb into every conversation about early pulp adventure writers, which was endearing but also opened many eyes (including my own) to Lamb’s underappreciated influence and greatness. Instead of “GOAT-ing” Harold as all-time Lamb champion, we’ll bison him, I guess.

I’m hoping against hope that somehow we might get more stories from his pen. I hate talking about him in past tense, because he's still very much alive. But the news does not sound good.

Cancer steals people in their prime, with no warning. Cancer stole someone near to me, now it threatens Howard’s life. It is an absolute scourge and I hope one day I might live to see it eradicated, or driven back to the pits of hell from whence it came, like Conan did to Thog in Xuthal of the Dust.

Life can be absolute shit. 

This heavy news is yet another reminder to live every moment like it matters. Because they all do, and we never know when it may all be taken away.

Prayers for Howard and his family.

Resurrection, Rob Halford

Let's set the scene for this Metal Friday.

In the late 90s heavy metal was in shambles. A Mad Max wasteland, fans squabbling over the little juice that remained like savage, scavenging bikers. The mutated blight of grunge and nu metal (Jesus I hate even typing nu metal) had dropped a steaming deuce on anything resembling taste, talent, or actual heavy metal. It was a dried out, sad, creatively bankrupt, pathetic wasteland of terrible music, suffused in the outflow of the great septic tank of post hair-metal apocalypse. 

God I hated this period.

And please don't try to change my mind. It sucked, hard. I saw it all, first hand, at multiple Ozzfests and a lot of shitty listening sessions in college surrounded by assholes in flannel. Yes, I gave it the old 'college try,' for FOUR YEARS, and can confirm it sucked, Pearl Jam and all.

I saw Limp Bizkit come out of a toilet, literally, at Ozzfest. They should have stayed there. I'd gladly hit flush, as the world cheered. 

Spare me your nostalgia and stories; this was fucking dark times for heavy metal.*

And then came 2000.

Iron Maiden came roaring back with Brave New World, and Rob Halford came out of a post Judas Priest funk with Resurrection. And suddenly the world tilted back on its correct axis, and all was right again. 

Heavy metal was back.

"Resurrection" was Halford telling the world, "Fight and 2wo were interesting ... okay not 2wo. But I needed these albums at this point in my life. I've gotten them out of my system. Now? Fuck that noise. I'm back, with legit music." 

This was a repudiation of the 1990s. Don't believe me? Here's the lyrics:

I'm digging deep inside my soul

To bring myself out of this god-damned hole

I rid the demons from my heart

And found the truth was with me from the start

Holy angel lift me from this burning hell

Resurrection make me whole

This song is awesome. It resurrected heavy metal.

Listen and enjoy. And remember how fragile it all is, boys.

* I don't hate you, I just think you have terrible taste in music.

Of artistry, addiction, and self-discovery: Forthcoming memoir of fantasy artist Tom Barber

Tom Barber at the canvas.

The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. 

--Kurt Vonnegut

Tom Barber was working in a commercial art studio in the mid 70s when he walked into a local bookstore while on lunch break. He found a book of illustrations by N.C. Wyeth, picked it up, leafed through it. 

Returning to work, he marched in to his boss’ office and gave his two-week notice.

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but after looking at those paintings I knew it was something along those lines,” he said.

That “something” was a lifelong commitment to the creative muse over the commercial. Wherever that path would take him. 

Tom assembled a portfolio for Houghton Mifflin, a Boston publisher specializing in children’s books. And was promptly humbled. “I got my first interview with a real art director,” he said. “He looked through my work and told me I ought to find another line of work.”

Stung but undeterred, Tom took his ideas in a new direction. An architect friend reviewed his work and saw something the art director didn’t. He asked Tom if he’d ever been to a sci-fi convention. Tom hadn’t. So he painted several pieces and attended his first convention, art in tow.

And promptly sold every painting he had.

Tom's first cover.

Buoyed by his success, Tom set his eyes on New York. “I started pounding the pavement, trying to get a cover on a magazine called Creepy,” he recalled. After a few failures, his first agent encouraged him to try sci-fi. Tom painted a beautiful spaceship against an alien backdrop. That turned out to be his first cover, for the March 1976 Amazing Science Fiction, featuring a story by George R.R. Martin (aside: 43 years later Tom received an email from a scientist informing him that the March ’76 cover got him interested in aerodynamics and wind tunnel testing, and eventually to studying failure modes in US spacecraft). That same year Tom attended the New England Science Fiction Convention, met his second agent, and started selling regularly to New York publishers, including Zebra Books, an imprint of Kensington Books. 

Zebra published Tom’s work in a torrent, for the likes of the covers of Black Vulmea’s Vengeance (Robert E. Howard), Lud of London (Talbot Mundy), Andrew Offutt’s The Sign of the Moonbow, Adrian Cole’s The Dream Lords: A Plague of Nightmares, Lin Carter’s paperback revival of Weird Tales, Robert Bloch’s Mysteries of the Worm, and others. 

One of my favorites.

The rest is history. “I found my niche,” he said.

That history will soon be revealed in full. Tom recently finished a memoir of his creative life, and is currently exploring publishing options.

He’s also still painting, though as much or more of the natural world than S&S and SF. In addition to Frazetta and N.C. Wyeth he’s also a devotee of Claude Monet, and you can see clear inspiration of the French impressionist in his expansive skies and galaxies.

But Tom still takes regular detours into the weird and macabre. His new memoir will feature more than 60 pieces of art. Some are scenes from his life, but others are conceptual, and dark, reflecting his own dark struggles with alcohol addiction. So you’ll experience not just his story, but a large slice of his visual imagination.

Tom discovered his love of speculative fiction from the short-lived TV show Flash Gordon (1954-55), which he watched as boy of eight. Later he discovered Conan and Frank Frazetta. “That took me off into the land of make believe. Or maybe I already had it in me and that woke it up,” he said.

Zebra kept Tom busy...

His imagination never stopped working. In fact, he spends a good deal of his time wandering the halls of his mind. As a regular at the Vet Center in White River Junction, VT, attending readjustment counseling, he recalls standing with a bunch other Vets in the kitchen one day. “As I was standing there, one of the psychologists came out and said to the group, ‘you know, just because you see Tom standing here in person, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s actually here.’ I just spent a lot of my time in other worlds, my head in the clouds, my heart in the stars.” 

Tom dwells in other worlds because he’s found this one rather chaotic. He served as a Vietnam-era army medic from 1968-71, providing bedside care for some grievously wounded soldiers returning from the jungle. The experience never left him. 

In the early 80s Tom moved to Arizona, leaving behind the east coast and his promising art career. He attempted to keep working but his addiction got the better of him, and for a while he stopped painting altogether. Drinking not only derailed his career but nearly ended his life. He was fortunate to have friends who realized he needed help.

The memoir begins with him finishing off his last beer in a smoky little barroom full of drunk Indians up in Flagstaff, Arizona. This was followed by a 28-day, in-patient rehab program at the VA in Prescott. 

“I knew if I didn’t stop drinking, I’d be dead. All the details are in the memoir.”

Tom reads books about Zen Buddhism and has tried meditation with limited success. Painting remains his principal form of meditation, his studio a place where the chaos stills. 

After a series of sessions at the VA his counselor recommended Tom put his life to paper. Writing his memoir proved therapeutic.

“She said, ‘Tom, you’ve had an interesting life. Why don’t you write?’ So I went home and starting writing. It took hold, and turned out to be a real eye-opener,” he said. “I was learning about myself, stuff I didn’t realize.”

The book is written for entertainment but also to let others suffering with addiction know that there is a way out. Tom doesn’t care who knows about his struggles. He hopes his story might help them in some way.

“One thing I don’t like about Alcoholics Anonymous is the word ‘anonymous.’ You’re not supposed to tell people,” he said. “Well, I always tell people because you don’t know who you’re standing next to. They could be ready to go home and shoot themselves.”

Attack at Dawn

At age 78 Tom is a survivor, and likewise his best work stands the test of time. Most of his classic work is in the hands of private collectors.  In the noted collection, The Frank Collection: A Showcase of the World's Finest Fantastic Art (Paper Tiger, London, 1999), the following short writeup accompanies his work, “Attack at Dawn”:

Watching over these sculptures, peering warily above the tops of their shields, is Tom Barber’s small army of armored warriors in Attack at Dawn, a personal work he created circa 1980. This is the first piece we purchased from him. We were immediately drawn to the image, always wondering, who and what army might those soldiers be confronting that morning? We lost track of Tom in the early 80s, when he moved out west to paint western scenes. And no one that we know in the fantasy art world has ever run into him again. That’s a shame because Barber was a great talent and if he had stayed in the field he would today be known to fans around the world.

And then one day, there he was. Sober.

“Attack at Dawn” now resides in the private collection of George R.R. Martin.

Tom's latest S&S foray.

Jane recently asked him to create a new piece of commissioned art. Tom responded with a foray back into sword-and-sorcery, a muscled warrior battling a fearsome giant scorpion. 

Today he continues to get occasional jobs, including some covers and private commissions.  And he continues to live by the motto: 

Art that isn’t shared with the world is only half finished.