Ia! Ia! Shub-Niggurath!

I am consum'd with Lovecraftian passion!  The ache to write Lovecraftian weird fiction burns so ferociously that I have been able to rise above ye chaos of my household & concentrate on writing!  Ia!  Shub-Niggurath!  Part of this present fever, I know, is linked to ye ecstasy I feel at the idea of journeying to Providence next year, for NecronomiCon Providence 2013.  The idea of that single event consumes me.  Part of the way I am celebrating this forthcoming convention is to write a new collection of Sesqua Valley novelettes.  Last night I finish'd ye semi-polish of "An Ecstasy of Fear," a story in which I pay homage to Samuel Loveman.  At 11,230 words, the story is quite ample.  I shall set it aside for a fortnight, and then return to study, revise & polish the print-out.

I feel the delicious fever that comes from creativity.  Thus I am nigh preparing to write the next new novelette for Bohemians of Sesqua Valley.  The working title for this new thing is "This Splendor of the Goat," and I am hoping that it will be my definitive "take" on H. P. Lovecraft's Great Old One, Shub-Niggurath.  Ah, that nebulous, enigmatic creature.  I have a hankering to insist, in my new novelette, that Shub-Niggurath is an earth deity, linked to the formulation of our planet.  This distinguishes her from Yog-Sothoth, who is a daemon from alternative dimension, or Cthulhu, who is a star-spawn that has come to our planet so as to debauch mortality.

Who or what is the Black Goat in the Woods with a Thousand Young?  I intend to investigate this with my new tale.  This title hath been used to link ye worship of Shub-Niggurath with terrestrial Satanism, an idea that I reject utterly.  The origin and worship of Shub-Niggurath pre-dates Christianity and Satanism.  I am playing with ye idea of creating a new mysterious figure, a dark man (of African or Indian heritage) who is suddenly discovered in Sesqua Town, having emerged from the valley's haunted woodland.  He will have goatish features, and Simon Gregory Williams will complain, "He smells like a goat farm."

This is part of the fun of writing new Lovecraftian weird fiction, investigating HPL's own writing for clues, dreaming about the Great Old Ones and trying to form a plot wherein one can express, mystically, ones own ideas concerning those awesome being who haunt the earth, and the minds (and dreams) of humanity.  O, what nameless fun!