Contributor: Anna-Jane Johnson
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I’ve got a question.
What do you do
When your genre of choice,
The one that was all you wrote about
As a hormonal little middle schooler
And socially inept freshman
And clinically depressed young woman,
Suffers from a reputation so tarnished
That you know it’d be better to give up on it
And write something that people actually
Give a shit about?
”Of the moonless nights they are kings,
darkness is their kingdom.
Carrying death and sowing terror.
the dark Vampires fly
with great suede wings
ready not only to do evil...
but to do even worse.”
That’s from a silent film called ‘Les Vampires’.
I used to whisper that monologue to myself
As I walked along the streets of Grand Haven after dark,
Snowflakes melting on my cheeks as I
Imagined what it would be like if Anne Rice’s Lestat
Lurked in the shadows of the suburban enclaves.
Sleepy little town on the Lake Michigan waterfront?
Yes.
A slice of Christian Reform Americana?
Yes.
Looks like more of a bloodsucker haven
Than Forks, Washington ever could,
Especially in the spring when the fog rolls in
And the place looks like a Lovecraftian paradise?
Hell yes.
But then the words of my mentor,
The one whose voice rings in my head
Whenever I so much as think about writing about my leeches,
Taunts me from all directions -
”No one will take you seriously.
Vampire stories kill time
That could be spent writing something of substance.
Nothing more.”
He might as well just go ahead and say
That vampire stories are for hacks who want
To write their own porn.
He’s got to be thinking something to that effect.
And of course,
There’s all the Twatlighters who demand Cullen Clones,
Glaring when I yawn and say,
”Eduardo WISHES he was cool enough
To rock that James Dean Jacket.
He can go suck Nosferatu Dick for all I care.
That emo son of a bitch doesn’t even have fangs.”
Vampires are supposed to be scary.
They’re analogies for plague and sexual predators.
They don’t feel bad for killing, they have no soul,
And they don’t fucking sparkle.
That novel I’m writing?
The one that my friends and comrades
Are always gushing about?
Begging for new chapters of?
Eddie St. Clair.
The character was always a snarky writer.
But do you want to know what he was originally?
Before I was told to put the kibosh on the leeches?
He was going to be a vampire.
The kind who adores his gallows humor
And who isn’t above having his victim of choice
Snort a few lines before fang meets neck.
His hunting grounds were nightclubs.
He’d stalk the place until he found
A sufficiently intoxicated young lady
Who also happened to be on the rag.
His proudest conquest – both vampiric and sexual -
Was a nun in a confessional.
He was going to be the vampire Hank Moody.
Now he’s mortal.
He’s a writer who went crazy.
He’s Sylvia Plath with a cock
And the plot’s become so damn trite,
I might as well be writing
For a Victorian penny dreadful.
Eddie’s dad, Crazy Doctor Julian,
Was going to have a spine and a taste
For Type O with a shot of absinthe.
Eddie’s wife was going to be a Prozac-addled Ophelia,
Driven to the madhouse when no one believed
That the man she married had become a monster.
There was going to be a gay vampire
Married to a Mormon woman
In what may or may not have been a ‘Fuck You’
Directed at Stephenie Meyer.
Bereft of all hope,
A broken and bloodthirsty young woman
Was going to crumble into dust
As sunrise hit the Grand Haven pier,
The lyrics to Tweaker’s ‘Crude Sunlight’
The last thing to cross her mind
Before the first UV rays of the day
Burnt her brain to ash.
Werewolves congregated
At the Morning Star Café.
Notes left in Loutit Library books
Would put evil spirits to rest.
There was a St. Clair family crypt
Where Eddie’s cult following
Would make a wish and leave a lipstick stain,
Kissing epitaphs in zealous reverie.
Back in the days when I imagined
That there truly was something lurking in the shadows,
My hometown didn’t seem so damn boring.
But all that’s gone now.
Vampires,
As my nearest and dearest are fond of telling me,
Are young adult paperback fodder.
I can’t completely disagree.
But regardless.
Abandoning the Grand Haven Coven
Feels like I’m betraying my own children.
I don’t know what to write anymore.
I’m out of my element,
My writing’s giving off death rattles,
And fuck all if I can find the pulse.
- Thursday, February 16th, 2012.
- - -
Anna-Jane Johnson is a previously unpublished writer of supernatural smut and bitter snark. She is currently working on a novel about a poet who goes through a nervous breakdown, tentatively titled ‘Detox’, and trying to survive suburban hell.
Read more »
- -
I’ve got a question.
What do you do
When your genre of choice,
The one that was all you wrote about
As a hormonal little middle schooler
And socially inept freshman
And clinically depressed young woman,
Suffers from a reputation so tarnished
That you know it’d be better to give up on it
And write something that people actually
Give a shit about?
”Of the moonless nights they are kings,
darkness is their kingdom.
Carrying death and sowing terror.
the dark Vampires fly
with great suede wings
ready not only to do evil...
but to do even worse.”
That’s from a silent film called ‘Les Vampires’.
I used to whisper that monologue to myself
As I walked along the streets of Grand Haven after dark,
Snowflakes melting on my cheeks as I
Imagined what it would be like if Anne Rice’s Lestat
Lurked in the shadows of the suburban enclaves.
Sleepy little town on the Lake Michigan waterfront?
Yes.
A slice of Christian Reform Americana?
Yes.
Looks like more of a bloodsucker haven
Than Forks, Washington ever could,
Especially in the spring when the fog rolls in
And the place looks like a Lovecraftian paradise?
Hell yes.
But then the words of my mentor,
The one whose voice rings in my head
Whenever I so much as think about writing about my leeches,
Taunts me from all directions -
”No one will take you seriously.
Vampire stories kill time
That could be spent writing something of substance.
Nothing more.”
He might as well just go ahead and say
That vampire stories are for hacks who want
To write their own porn.
He’s got to be thinking something to that effect.
And of course,
There’s all the Twatlighters who demand Cullen Clones,
Glaring when I yawn and say,
”Eduardo WISHES he was cool enough
To rock that James Dean Jacket.
He can go suck Nosferatu Dick for all I care.
That emo son of a bitch doesn’t even have fangs.”
Vampires are supposed to be scary.
They’re analogies for plague and sexual predators.
They don’t feel bad for killing, they have no soul,
And they don’t fucking sparkle.
That novel I’m writing?
The one that my friends and comrades
Are always gushing about?
Begging for new chapters of?
Eddie St. Clair.
The character was always a snarky writer.
But do you want to know what he was originally?
Before I was told to put the kibosh on the leeches?
He was going to be a vampire.
The kind who adores his gallows humor
And who isn’t above having his victim of choice
Snort a few lines before fang meets neck.
His hunting grounds were nightclubs.
He’d stalk the place until he found
A sufficiently intoxicated young lady
Who also happened to be on the rag.
His proudest conquest – both vampiric and sexual -
Was a nun in a confessional.
He was going to be the vampire Hank Moody.
Now he’s mortal.
He’s a writer who went crazy.
He’s Sylvia Plath with a cock
And the plot’s become so damn trite,
I might as well be writing
For a Victorian penny dreadful.
Eddie’s dad, Crazy Doctor Julian,
Was going to have a spine and a taste
For Type O with a shot of absinthe.
Eddie’s wife was going to be a Prozac-addled Ophelia,
Driven to the madhouse when no one believed
That the man she married had become a monster.
There was going to be a gay vampire
Married to a Mormon woman
In what may or may not have been a ‘Fuck You’
Directed at Stephenie Meyer.
Bereft of all hope,
A broken and bloodthirsty young woman
Was going to crumble into dust
As sunrise hit the Grand Haven pier,
The lyrics to Tweaker’s ‘Crude Sunlight’
The last thing to cross her mind
Before the first UV rays of the day
Burnt her brain to ash.
Werewolves congregated
At the Morning Star Café.
Notes left in Loutit Library books
Would put evil spirits to rest.
There was a St. Clair family crypt
Where Eddie’s cult following
Would make a wish and leave a lipstick stain,
Kissing epitaphs in zealous reverie.
Back in the days when I imagined
That there truly was something lurking in the shadows,
My hometown didn’t seem so damn boring.
But all that’s gone now.
Vampires,
As my nearest and dearest are fond of telling me,
Are young adult paperback fodder.
I can’t completely disagree.
But regardless.
Abandoning the Grand Haven Coven
Feels like I’m betraying my own children.
I don’t know what to write anymore.
I’m out of my element,
My writing’s giving off death rattles,
And fuck all if I can find the pulse.
- Thursday, February 16th, 2012.
- - -
Anna-Jane Johnson is a previously unpublished writer of supernatural smut and bitter snark. She is currently working on a novel about a poet who goes through a nervous breakdown, tentatively titled ‘Detox’, and trying to survive suburban hell.
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Author:
Anna-Jane Johnson
