News of the Right

I had to write a review for the new Clive Barker novel Mr. B Gone for Instinct, which, yeah, wasn’t all that great. Here’s my first draft:

Is horror subtle or is horror insidious? Does it sneak up on you and rip your heart out or does claw its way up your spine and squeeze your heart ‘til it stops? If we say subtle, then could Lovecraft or Poe’s “No, no, I’m not mad!” protestations be considered ostentatious? If we say insidious, then what do we make of King’s It or Carrie (you know, the classics)? Clive Barker’s newest book Mister B. Gone is as unsubtle as Poe and as direct as King, but lacks the je ne sais quoi of good horror. The eponymous “Mr. B” begs the reader to “Burn this book” from the get-go (a demonic Abbie Hoffman) and plies our obeisance with stories of his youth in Hell (abusive father, overbearing mother… see where this is going?), his ascent to Earth at the hands of the Fishers, his meeting his first love and beyond. But why it is imperative this book be burnt is a secret he’s not telling, though this isn’t The Closer: the reason is not hard to suss out. Perhaps being a dad has taken the raw edge off Barker’s stylus, but I hope he will soon return to his In the Fields, the Towns days.

And I was told by Jonathan Riggs at Instinct (who, without question, is a dear dear dear person and whose opinion I trust completely) it was “intelligent and well-written” with the subtext (which is an anagram for “buttsex”) of “and completely inappropriate for the tone of the magazine”. I was directly told that I needed to make it “punchier, funnier” and “more direct.” Now, for those of you who have hung out with me, you know that I am really campy and love a joke at someone else’s expense. I know this, and yet, when it comes to my writing I get all ponderous and academic. Bridging the gap between how I talk and how I write is an on-going struggle. It’s a worthwhile struggle because working for Instinct has been the thrill of this past year (next to being on a panel at Comic-Con).

SO, here’s my second draft:

Poor Clive Barker. It must have been hard to reconcile being the Future of Horror with being a daddy. Five short years after The Damnation Game clawed its way out of his imagination, Clive was faced with a more prosaic terror: pre-school! And given that his step-daughter might eventually ask some troublesome questions (“Did you really make skinless people be sexy?”), perhaps Clive blunted the raw edge of his stylus instead of doing what a real devil would do and drive it into her temple. Such is my theory behind his latest novel, Mr. B Gone. It doesn’t scream “innocent blood was spilled in the name of my muse”, but instead screams “Burn this book!” Repeatedly. Incessantly. Distractingly. The eponymous (and diabolical) “Mr. B” breaks through the page and begs the reader for the favor of a good book burning. Knowing the reader hasn’t fallen under his demonic sway (and at $24.95 for a hardback, one would have to be stunningly weak-minded), Mr. B bribes us with tales of Hell, his (not-so-nice) folks and his ascension to Earth, all the while echoing his imperative “Burn!” At first, one may wonder why, but like asking “Will Brittany Spears eat fast food for lunch today?” the answer comes quickly. Speculation aside, Mr. B Gone needs to be. Gone. Next year in Hell, Mr. Barker!

I have no idea if this is punchier, but it is a call to me to work on expanding my style.

UPDATE: The new version is “smart AND funny”. Yay!