Weird writing that isn’t at all weird really.
Fiction that belongs to the weirdless weird (the vast majority of weird fiction) merely shuffles pre-existing scenarios and clichés into different patterns. But genuinely weird fiction is an outwards journey at a tangent to itself.
I must now make a confession that won’t endear me to those who believe there is a sacred canon of weird writers and that they all lived in the past and are already dead. The blunt truth is that most of the so-called ‘masters’ of fantastic fiction leave me unmoved and deeply unimpressed. My belief was always been that the ‘literature of the imagination’ should be exactly what it claims to be, namely original and inventive, overflowing with truly ingenious conceits.
But it so rarely is. The ‘masters’ have made false promises or have had false promises made on their behalf. They were supposed to create work that was imaginative to an extreme degree, that dreamed dreams beyond those I am capable of dreaming by myself. But they didn’t. The ‘masters’ let me down. They just aren’t capable of blowing my mind. None of them make me jump up and ruffle my hair. I’m sorry to say it because I know it’s a dreadful thing to admit, like many disappointments.
