Signs of life in lit

So, yeah, I bitched snootily and with some crankiness some weeks back about the painfully poor quality of some of the work on the critical circle I recently joined. I still make only so much apology for that. Life's too short to read bad writing. There's a reason I don't normally do these things (okay, scratch 'normally'--guess it's more like 'ever'--this is the first one I've ever tried, though I used to get invited to the odd thing, some time ago, and went once or twice, much to my regret).

No, I'm not quite saying there's anything wrong with them; I'm sure they can help, and there's obviously also a reason I'm trying this one--specifically that I've got something I really need people with some distance from it to look at. I'm just saying it's something that ain't easy for me, personally. I read something really bad, my first reaction isn't 'how can I make this better?'. My first reaction is, rather, more often, 'where's the wastepaper basket?'. And I think, in many cases, that's a perfectly reasonable reaction. Can't remember who said it (probably lots of people, at different times), but I still hold that euthanasia, while controversial as law when it comes to people, is the law when it comes to fiction. Them's the rules: if it's bad, kill it.

But I thought there were three updates I should pass on, as a matter of balance:

1. Despite my initial whinging, I've managed every week so far (it's been four) to find something solid enough to comment upon. Yes, it's always a bit painful fishing for it, but there's always been something there I can at least read to the end without wincing so much my face freezes that way. And some of it, actually, is even quite good. Usually still worth looking over, sure, but you can see it definitely could be going somewhere, and that's nice.
2. It's actually been quite rewarding, on and off. One of the first pieces I did, the writer thanked me for the most helpful critique he'd had yet, and that's also nice. I get, at this point, what one old publisher friend says about the occasional rewards that come in this sort of effort; it really felt good to think I was able to help him over something he couldn't quite see the way over himself. The work was good, and the writer was really working at it, so this wasn't charity. It was just someone who'd lived a different life, able to spot slightly different things more easily. And, with luck, it really might help him make the thing a bit better.
3. And finally, now and then, there are brilliant moments. Like when you find something that's just beyond good. So good that you do your diligent best to spot whatever you can that's wrong with it, and it's still not much. And then you find out the writer in question hasn't published (yet), and you're probably seeing them just stretching their wings for flight. And that's really neat to see.

Re that last bit, I know it's probably not real nice to whet your appetite that way when you can't actually read the work in question. But them's the rules, too: you can't (as, obviously, the work isn't published yet).

But I can pass on the name you've got to look for, anyway. Holly Messinger (I'm assuming this is her blog here) has just managed to put together one of the coolest little short stories I've read in a very long time. It's this funky, stylish horror thing that borrows some atmosphere from old Westerns and ghost stories and really, really makes it work.

And yes, for those of you who've occasionally heard my sporadic grumbling about the paucity of things actually worth reading on the bestseller lists and awards lists lately, yes, this actually redeems the situation for me somewhat. It's nice to know there are still people out there who can write interesting stuff that actually tells a good story, stuff that's actually fun to read, stuff that actually has a nice, crisp denouement that actually looks like such a thing.

So, if and when you see her name on the spine of a novel or on the cover splash of a magazine in a store near you, my recommendation is: do pick it up. My bet is you won't regret it.

So there you go. Maybe there's life in lit after all.