To the reader: this story takes the form of entries written in two characters' journals. You'll note a difference in tone, as well as how the entries are set up (van Buren states Journal Entry # X (month, date) while Pickman states month, date year). There are also bits of backstory, which are in italics.
Journal Entry #1 (March 13)
I had the dream again last night. I don't know whether to be thankful, or if I should seek professional help. Each time I wake up from it, I remember a few more scenes - something most people would consider a negative byproduct.
For now, I'm banking on the hopes that the dreams will stop when I'm done writing them all down. That's not to say I don't appreciate them; I enjoy a good nightmare as much as the next weirdo, but I'm quickly growing tired of having one every night.
Journal Entry #2 (March 17)
Lately, the dreams have been really vivid. I'd say what they're like, but it'd take too long; that, and I'm writing them as a story, anyway, so there's no sense in repeating myself. Anyhoo... nothing else much happening in my life. I've been working on that comic again (I came up with the title 'Belfry Crows' this morning), but it's moving ahead slowly. I've been writing a lot of music, too, strangely enough. Really creepy-sounding stuff, for the most part. Zach complimented me on it a few days ago - he said, "Dude, I go to horror flicks to get that kinda feeling. You should make a demo tape, or something." Not too bad, I must say.
Journal Entry #3 (March 18)
I finished the story today. I've officially named it 'Scapegoat'; it seems appropriate, considering the main character is named 'Baphomet'. As a side note, I've noticed the drawings in the margins of its drafts are a lot more... detailed, for lack of a more descriptive word. I've spent most of the day transferring them to blank pieces of paper, so I can do a better job cleaning them up. One picture sticks out in my mind, for some reason - it's of some weird creature, who has a relatively homonidious skull, except it has no eyes. Its mouth, full of hooked teeth, is stretched out of proportion - as is the neck, which leads to a surreally disfigured body. It ends at the hips with a spiralling tail... sounds like something to send in to the Morbid_Arangements.com art site.
Speaking of offering up my creations to the World-at-large, I'm giving serious thought to sending 'Scapegoat' in to Weird Tales. They'd get a kick out of it, at very least. Maybe, if I get lucky, they'll publish it. Now, wouldn't that be something...
PS - Sol's offered to let me use his recording equipment, should I decide to make that demo tape. I just may take him up on that offer.
Journal Entry #4 (March 25)
The road to Hell is paved with good rejection letters. Apparently, although I "exhibit the capacity for great work," Weird Tales won't print my story because "it's not what we're looking for at the present time." This, of course, translates into "you're too young/your vocabulary is too confusing/your story's too damn weird to be published here." Then, they had the audacity to try 'n weasel a subscription out of me!
Bullcrap. This is total bullcrap. I hate dealing with people.
Johnathan van Buren was a quite slip of a gentleman, who had the superior luck to have been born and reared in New England - where the withered mansions of colonial days stand like fortified bastions, permeating the imagination and constructing the settings of every dream. His mother was of a strong, proud stock, and it remained a source of great embarrassment for both John and his extended family that the identity of his father was a mystery.
He was a prodigious student, excelling in the arts from his earliest grades. By the end of his schooling, he had amassed a wealth of knowledge - philosophies and fleeting images from the likes of LaVey and Bacon churned regularly about the undertow of his subconcious memory. They inspired him in his waking hours, and haunted him in his sleep.
This leaning - if such conservative language may be used - both exalted and hindered him; for his writing was seldom accepted by so-called 'bastions of amateur authorship', and so, distraught by this chronic rejection, he often sought to get back his own in the fantasy of his work and passion.
Journal Entry #5 (April 4)
Strange magazine rejected the story, too. The dreams still haven't stopped. Mother won't stop pestering me to get a real job. All work no play make Jack a dull boy all work no play make Jack a dull boy all work no play make Jack a dull boy all work no play make Jack a dull boy all work no play make Jack a dull boy all work no play make Jack a dull boy all work no play make John a dull boy...
Journal Entry #6 (April 15)
Oh, my... where to begin... I met Pickman! Howard "In the Hall of the Elder Gods" Pickman!!! He was outside a coffee shop downtown when I saw him. I asked him if he had any advice for an aspiring author, and he replied, "it depends on how intelligent you are," and we hit it off! I happened to have a copy of my story on me (I'd been considering re-submitting it to Weird Tales under another name, to see if they'd recognize it). Pickman was kind enough to skim through it; he apparently liked what he saw, because he invited me back to the coffee shop tomorrow to review my work more in depth.
This is something most people would consider a coincidence. Now, I don't want to sound like I subscribe to the concept of fate, destiny, and the Cosmic Egg, but this can't just be luck that's at work here.
April 15, 2002
A curious thing happened to me today. I had the opportunity, during my traditional stop at the local coffee shop, to hold discussion with a loyal fan of my stories (alas, but they are so few and far apart!) The young man approached me with a polite meekness - I do believe I unnerved the fellow! Pity, that; he seemed pleasant enough, and he shewed a sincere interest in the art of writing - both mine and his own. He offered a selection of his work, which he'd been attempting (unsuccessfully) to submit to some faceless horror magazine for some time now; no doubt one of the rags I'd been published in during my more enthusiastic years. After reading through his piece, I must say he posesses a strong perchance for fluidity of language and atmosphere - that poetry of narration which so few of my former peers have mastered.
So impressed was I at this young author's ability that I made plans to meet him again at the same cafe tomorrow. Perhaps I could even be of assistance in his quest for fame, whatever its worth be.
Ai, but it does my old heart good nonetheless to see such talent in the young.
When he was 27 years of age, Howard Pickman truly believed he was capable of greatness. Already having gained noteable success in his journalistic profession by writing for a number of prestigious newspapers and tabloids, he supposed he knew all the political intricacies of the art. At this juncture in his life, he felt the undeniable call to do something much more extravagant than the occasional draconian editorial. He wanted to become famous by inventing his own stories, rather than by putting his bias on those that have come to pass in this world. Nevertheless, he chose not to dive directly into unfamiliar waters - rather than outright penning and publishing his own novel (something wholely possible, regardless of his talent, as he'd formed many bonds of friendship with publishing executives during his time as a reporter), he decided to submit a few of his works to local magazines. These found nigh instant favour with readers, and, over the course of the next few years, he cultivated quite a niche in the New England literary sphere.
Then, at the age of 35, Pickman sold his soul. His detractors - whose numbers had increased tenfold during this, his last year of fame - claimed unanimously that he spent too much effort in pandering to his publishers, and that his art suffered for it. Secretly, he agreed with them in most cases - it was not unheard of that, during his decline into mediocracy, he would be called upon to subtract entire pages of plot-strengthening text from his manuscripts to match the maximum word requirement. His final attempt at salvaging his reputation - an uncensored anthology of his latter works - fell on deaf ears. He had become a media whore in the eyes of his audience.
Sales plummeted further, and Pickman was left with a moderate and anonymous life. He'd become an old man by the age of 37.
Journal Entry #7 (April 16)
Pickman is a genius. The first thing he did when I sat down was ask me for the copy of 'Scapegoat'. He sat and read for about 15 minutes (to date, the most uncomfortable 15 minutes of my life!) Then, he looked me right in the eye and said, "This is a brilliant story. You mix awe and primal fear with stunning ease, and the result is literary beauty. But your problem lies in your selection of a target audience. This story is worthy of the greatest of the modern intelligencia; but, sadly, few of them subscribe to Macabre Monthly. Remember H. P. Lovecraft's advice: it takes empty art to please an empty herd. It is an unfortunate truth, yes, but brilliance must be watered down in order to gain commercial success.
"There are ways to work ingenuity into the mask of mediocracy your story must wear, though. My suggestion would be to change the way it is told. As it is told now, you speak of this netherworld landscape as if it were real, and the average reader cannot grasp such a lofty and abstract concept with enough strength to give your tale the understanding it requires. Write it, instead, from the perspective of the unusual gentleman who experienced this dream. That way, the vital atmosphere is fueled by the original plot, but the reader is given a character whos psychological workings, mannerisms, and personality they can latch onto as an anchor to commonplace reality. Keep the original draft for yourself - you've earned that, at very least. But give your wider audience something recognizeable to associate themselves with."
Needless to say, I got right on that task as soon as I got home. I finished it a couple of minutes ago. I think I'll make a stop off at the Weird Tales HQ again tomorrow. Then, maybe the coffee shop.
April 16, 2002
Today proved to be an exhilerating romp through the finer things in life. I met the young man from the cafe again - Johnathan, I believe he said his name was - and we shared quite a mind-expanding conversation about his story. He seemed much more at ease around me that he did yesterday (thank God!)
I had the good fortune of reading his work again today, when I could better analyze it. He has an amazing gift, and he sports it with great pride. I certainly hope he didn't take offense to my suggestions - I certainly meant none.
On perhaps a related subject, I've decided to give writing another try. With any luck, I'll not make a fool of myself again.
Journal Entry #8 (April 17)
I submitted 'Scapegoat: Revised' (officially known as 'Dreaming of Divinity' now) to Weird Tales. Here's hoping it makes it in. Pickman wasn't at the coffee shop, so I got home early. I wound up working on 'Belfry Crows', which is coming along nicely now. I've actually begun using the doodles from 'Scapegoat's' drafts in it, which saves me having to draw each cell from scratch. Tomorrow I plan to go over to Sol's to record some noise, which I will hopefully translate into something resembling harmony.
April 17, 2002
Today, I spent the better part of my waking hours working on a new story, tentatively known as 'The Olde Man of Providence'. The remaining time was squandered on such petty activities as eating...
April 21, 2002
Today, for the first time in years, I made the journey to Weird Tales to submit my story. I wish I could add some comment on the sheer nostalgia I felt, but it is late, and I grow weary.
I will say this, though: on my way out of the old, familiar building, I was given to picking up a copy of their most recent edition. Lo and behold, our old friend Johnathan van Buren had been published - moreover, his new revision spawned the cover illustration! Here's hoping this to be a good omen...
Journal Entry #9 (April 21)
I'll give you three guesses as to who made this week's edition of Weird Tales. I thought I'd feel more elated over my success, but, knowing I had to intentionally weaken my story in order to win it, I really can't. Maybe I'm not cut out for this line of work; it's not like this is my only creative outlet - I've begun mixing some tracks over at Sol's, and, in my opinion, they sound better than most of the stuff on the market now. I've even titled one song Scapegoat, and I've started writing the lyrics to have the same content as its predecesor.
At any rate, I've been looking around for Pickman all day, but I haven't found him yet. Actually, I haven't seen him in a while. He hasn't been at the coffee shop, so God only knows -
Journal Entry #10 (April 30)
I finally saw Pickman today. He commended me on 'Dreaming of Divinity', and I got the chance to return the courtesy - he got a story in this week's edition! I must have read it three times by now; in my opinion, it's even better than 'In the Hall of the Elder Gods' was. I told him of my decision to go on hiatus from writing prose for the time being. He didn't seem surprised, and he looked pleased when I informed him of my recent dealings with Sol (I've finished mixing 12 tracks, which I've burned on CD's - furnished with my own illustrations - and sent to various record labels). He balked at the thought of me writing a comic book, but I assured him it would be nothing like those in the mainstream.
Looks like things are picking up for our heroes. Gotta go - Pickman and I are going out to dinner in celebration of our newfound glory.
PS - The dreams still haven't stopped. I'm beginning to think this is a good thing.