The Contrarian

Greetings.

I trust your Thanksgiving indulgences were agreeable. Now that the tryptophan coma has worn off, we can get back to business. Here’s an update about some recent concerns at The Contrarian HQ.

• Scotch Whisky: I’m learning (or hope to begin learning more) about this magical beverage. I never much cared for Scotch, considering it to be another affectation of an American male leisure class to which I have no business belonging. Which is why I’m somewhat annoyed that I’ve developed a taste for single malts — seemingly right on schedule. 35 years old, with something resembling an actual career and what might even be considered in these dour economic times to be disposable income. It’s all so predictable. Sigh.
• Lists: I loathe them. But I’m gonna do the responsible publisher thing and throw our lot into the “best of the decade” hullaboo. The other night, I drank a bit too much of the aforementioned Scotch whisky and emailed a crapload of people to hopefully persuade them to tell me their fave albums of the aughts. Looking back, I think it’s been a grim decade for music, but others may disagree. I’ve also asked a more select group of folks to help me think through a “most underrated guitarists” list. So stay tuned for all that.
• Existential Dread: I’ve been considering what it means to be a writer of horror fiction, mostly due to the positive responses to my short story “The Cove” — which is part of the “digital extras” package for my new album, Eldritch Musicks. Though the story will be published at other outlets, those who purchase the CD directly from this site will get an early edition featuring illustrations from our own Susan Norton. But back to the existential dread. Since childhood, I’ve had very few ambitions: to be a writer, to be a rock star, to be a horror movie visual effects person and to work in politics. So far so good? While I won’t be breaking into the FX business anytime soon, I might be able to do the horror writer bit — albeit at a modest level. Lately, I’ve been revisiting those “outsider” scribes with a grasp of our cosmic insignificance and a knack for crafting tales of philosophical terror. Currently, I’m reading Roland Topor’s The Tenant (with an introduction by Tomas Ligotti!), and my Amazon cart is a who’s-who of literary foreboding and antipathetic decadence. Now, I’m sure I will never reach the heights of the masters, but I can always fail above expectations.

If there’s a lesson that I’ve drawn from my 35 years on this planet it’s that imagination is precious and no one is keeping score. At least no one that matters. So I am delighted, in my own peculiar way, to have the means to pursue my fancies and the temperament necessary to advance my ideas, however trifling. This feels as close to liberation as I imagine I will ever comprehend.

End Transmission.