Friday, 12 October 2007

What happens to a dream deferred? It writes a stupid post about a song about wrestling.

Last night I was recounting the legend of Old Pennyeyes to some friends. As my horrifying tale began to unfurl, they listened with rapt attention, waiting breathlessly to discover what further abominations the old fiend would commit. The night had long since fallen outside, blanketing the winding streets and passageways of Hackney, and in the glow from the red wine I started to feel pretty damn awesome. I suddenly realized that I had conjured up a nice, old-fashioned horror story in the vein of Sheridan LeFanu or M.R. James. I envisioned curious little paperback editions of "The Legend of Old Pennyeyes", my name gracing the cover in dainty black script, and with illustrations by Edward Gorey, of course. At last, I thought, my lifelong dream of becoming a writer has seemingly fulfilled itself without the least bit of stress or hardship for me (well, except for seeing the supercreepy picture that inspired everything in the first place). I leaned back in my chair with a mingled air of satisfaction and excitement for my new future as a literary genius. Then I realized, "Oh shit. I think I kinda ripped off that part about stealing eyeballs from E.T.A. Hoffman's short story "The Sandman."" And, as it turns out, I did! So, here I am back to square one again without shit to fuel my writer-y dreams except for the moment earlier today when I realized that William Faulkner and I were both born in September!
But what did I do? Did I throw up my hands and listen to depressing music? (Yes! Of course!) What I should've done is listen to Let's Wrestle, a UK group with a lo-fi powerpop/punk sound and an amazing song about professional wrestling. God knows that, in these trying times, when so recently one of the sport's brightest lights felt compelled to murder his entire family and then post a wikipedia entry about it, pro wrestling truly needs a brave, new champion. And I...I need to find a more novel, more creepy facet to the legend of Old Pennyeyes in order to cash in on all the crazy $$$ and sexy dudes entitled to writers of short literary horror stories.

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