Back in '92, I was trying to get my head back together after becoming single the hard way. No, not getting dumped, I mean the HARD way.
This stupid book came out, and I picked it up because the title sort of hit on how I felt.
It was a good book. I loved it, but god it was cheese. UTTER cheese. Gothy cheesy tacky.
How disappointing is it that I probably owe a large portion of my sanity to that book? However bad I thought the world was, however terrible and so on... it was likely to get better. That seemed like the underlying message of the book, to me.
I hadn't read it in years. A friend recently posted a wishlist in her journal which included a hardcover reprint of the book in question. 'Oooh', says I to myself, 'I should really think about picking that up'.
Another friend who's a horror author mentioned that the author's basically being kept alive by the smallpress reprint stuff she's been doing. So I thought for a while.
I've owned half of this author's work in paperback twice. I've never bought a single copy new, which means that I never paid a penny in royalties to her. And they had a terribly godawful cheesy ultra-limited very-spechul edition of the book. Signed. With a new chapter, and a CD of the author reading some of it aloud, and a chapbook which includes a short story that never turned into a sequel, and.
So, yeah, I bought the fucking cheesiest, gothiest, most self-indulgent thing ever. A limited-edition copy of Poppy Z. Brite's Lost Souls, a book I'm still impressed to heck by, even if the author wishes to fucking god the damn thing would stop overshadowing the rest of her work.
At some point I'm going to curl up in bed and re-read it in the dark by candlelight and allow myself the privilege of being very sniffly, probably while getting vomitously drunk. Because when I first read this book I was so very, very alone- and so bereft- and so much of a drunk- and so very much wished I had a friend like Ghost.