Lost Soul

We had a party in memory of Mother on Sunday, and it was well-attended.  Perhaps now I can overcome these queer feelings of loneliness and guilt that I have been suffering and move forward with my life.  The queer dilemma is that I don't know what to do; or, rather, that I cannot do the one thing that I know I should be doing--writing new books.  I'm told that I need to mourn and relax and get used to life without living parents, and that this is something that may take years to adjust to.  Honey, I ain't waiting "years" when it comes to getting back into ye creative swing of things.  And yet I feel mentally lost and incapable of fixating on any solid ideas for work.  My lack of mental discipline is one of the reasons I tell myself that I could never be a commercial writer--not that I ever would want to be such a beast.  I find a certain kind of "romance" in being a ghoul of ye Lovecraftian underground and writing my books for a very small, very select audience.  That has a keen appeal.

The one thing that I can always depend on is the aesthetic nourishment that comes from reading, and for the past month I have been doing little else.  Reading has a multitude of effects on me.  When I read a book such as The Poet's Dante, shewn below, it makes me marvel at the richness of great poetry, and at the strange peace of mind that comes not only in reading and writing poetry, but being around poets.  There is a sense of well-being and "belonging" that I get only in the presence of poets, and I used to attend numerous poetry readings or discussion groups just for that purpose.  It felt like I was a member of a cool unique tribe.  Poetry is a special mental realm, and one that is ever-uplifting.  I wish I was a better poet, that I could write a worthy collection of verse.  I love writing sonnets, but I can no longer read the sonnet sequence that I wrote for Sesqua Valley and Other Haunts because--gawd!--they reek.  More and more, I include snatches of my poetry in my weird fiction, in ye tradition of Poe.

And there is always Lovecraft.  H. P. Lovecraft is an eldritch key that can unlock my creativity as none other can.  I am forever returning to his weird fiction and poetry; to read it is to feel inspired, always, even if I cannot always act of that inspiration.  Returning to HPL is one reason why I love new editions of his Work, because it gives me a new package of elder beloved lore.  That's why I am so freaking excited about the forthcoming THE ANNOTATED H. P. LOVECRAFT that Leslie Klinger is editing for Norton.  It's going to be a beautiful hardcover edition, with wondrous illustrations and captivating annotations.  It will be an awesome exploration of Lovecraft's text, and a celebration of his genius.  Alas that it won't be publish'd until 2015.

And so I seek my Silver Key of creativity.  I know that I will find it.  I just grow so weary when the path is so elusive for so long a stretch of time.  In the meantime, I have books to read.  And if I get really bored, I can go to YouTube and make a bloody fool of myself.