“The name comes from the Attic theater, in which a tetralogy was a group of three tragedies followed by a satyr play…”
OK, so I’ve been inspired.
If you’ve read my post “Slamming Against The Fourth Wall,” I talk about the idea of “channeling” literary works as opposed to purposefully writing them. I composed the first 3 books available to read below, The End Of The Vampire Craze In New York City series, when I was pretty ill and admittedly delirious. I remember very little about writing most of this material. Some of it also weirdly presaged events in my life that later came true, the mist striking of which was predicting the name of my future husband.
The series also seemed to highlight two catastrophic injuries I would later encounter—one a year or so after the final draft, and the other about eight years later. The first injury in particular seems to be continually alluded-to in the books, with a greater and greater urgency.
How did this happen? Why did I write all that? How would I have known? This has haunted me for over a decade. And as I got involved with one opportunity/scheme after another to bring the books to some sort of proper print (including working with a publisher of low-rent erotica who wanted me to add “roughly 7,000 words of fucking”), I began to question whether this was something that was “meant” to be in print at all; at least, in the way I had continually envisioned it being.
I was gravely ill and in an altered state of awareness when they were written. Had I “tapped” into something? Or, as is the opinion of some in relation to dream material—was it all just the flotsam and jetsam of my brain that was better off cast away as soon as they surfaced from my subsconscious?
The last book, Bled Again, was my attempt to “fix” the timeline of Vampire Craze somewhat…in my conscious efforts, to “salvage” some of the characters and ideas and place them in a “sellable” context that I could spin off into a “legit” novel or a comic book series or an RPG. This book is also quite insane and thoroughly weird, and again it anticipated future events in my life.
Bled Again “broke” me—a story for another time, perhaps—though I did manage to compose the novella ELVIN and the short story The Rat Courier in the years that followed. But in general, after Bled Again the only fiction I wanted to write was for clients, with very set parameters. As I wrote in “Slamming Against The Fourth Wall”:
In a similar vein, I find the writing that I do for clients to be a lot tighter and (perhaps) “better” artistically and narratively than that which I create for myself. What is a work of fiction and what is merely a type of personal shamanic experience? Which one will pay the bills? Which one becomes Blade Runner and which one merely develops a small intense cult audience of part-time mystics and code-breakers, or no audience at all?
And so why even drag these works out into the light of day at all? Closure, for one. But also, a lot of what I write about on this website concerns the liminal realm between the art and the reality. These books are like “primary sources” for me in terms of this continuing inquiry and research. If you get anything out of them outside of those nutty interests of mine, all the better—though my opinion as an editor is that a portion of it is uneven & rough.
But as esoteric documents, however, I’m still finding new things.
Postscript: As I wrote this post, an ad played on YouTube (played incessantly, for pretty much every other clip) for a sleeping pill whose side effects include, I shit you not, “not remembering what you did the day before.” Pretty much, more or less, how most of these books were written.