Just a quick post in recognition of H. P. Lovecraft’s birthday. I’ve been swamped with too many projects, writing and otherwise, to have read anything by him this year. I hope to rectify that omission in the next few weeks.
One of the projects I’m working on, which has taken a back seat to more immediate deadlines and concerns, is a Lovecraftian story set in Mississippi in the 1950s. It will be the centerpiece of a collection I have planned.
Once things settle down, I hope to get back to it.
But I couldn’t let today pass without a tip of the hat to the Gentleman from Providence. Now, I’ll go and tip my glass to his memory and literary legacy.
I think Lovecraft is both brilliant and frustrating. He obvious not only changed horror fiction but created a whole new sub-genre: Cosmic Horror. That said, especially when reading his letters, he can be frustrating. While, from the letters, he seemed genial, but a bit superior. There, of course, is his notorious racism, but it showed in other ways. He considered himself some sort of artiste separate from the rest of us. He did not seem to want to get a job. Which is tragic since his poverty shorten his life. If he had gotten a job he might have lived longer and continued writing great horror stories.