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Damn it, Everard thought, up at the podium. Only ten people?
The convention was being held at a ritzy hotel in Williamsburg, Virginia, and thus far, it seemed a crowded affair by the busy discussion panels he’d already stuck his head in.
All but THIS discussion panel, he concluded.
The programming manager—Everard already forgot her name, but not her bosom—tapped the microphone for that familiar hollow thump that told her it was working, then began, “Welcome everyone, to the Why Lovecraft? panel, and here with us tonight is noted academician and author Professor Robert Everard.”
Several members of the lilliputian audience applauded, and Everard nodded with a stiff smile. The manager continued, “Professor Everard is here to promote his new book, Over-Rated: The Life and Work of H.P. Lovecraft, and is pleased to hear your comments and answer your questions.” The manager’s eyes thinned over the paltry crowd. “And I don’t have to remind you all to be nice…”
What a dud this is gonna be, Everard thought. I must’ve been drunk when I said yes. He took the microphone and began, “Many of you might be thinking it’s the height of stupidity for an author to come to a horror convention with the expressed purpose of bad-mouthing who many call the greatest horror writer in history. It’s kind of like wearing a Yankees hat at a Red Sox game…”
A few people laughed. Encouraging, he thought. “And I’m not here so much to promote my new book”—he held it up; beneath the title was an artist’s depiction of a very long-faced Lovecraft wearing a dunce cap— “but to try to level the playing field a bit. Many, many horror authors from Lovecraft’s day are unheard of now due to the smothering hype bestowed upon Lovecraft since his death. Arthur Machen, Algernon Blackwood, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, just to name a few. The skillsets of these writers so far surpass that of Lovecraft that it’s laughable. Machen gave us The Great God Pan, Le Fanu gave us Carmilla, Blackwood gave us The Willows. But what has Lovecraft given us? Flying crabs and fish-people. It doesn’t take much of a glance rearward to see that Lovecraft’s most celebrated works are howlingly derivative of other, better authors. So why all this hype? It all goes back to one publisher and one book. The publisher, of course, is Arkham House, that began the commencement of all the pro-Lovecraft hoopla. And the one book is Mein Kampf, in which Adolf Hitler described the propaganda vehicle known as the Big Lie—”
Some fat punk in the back blurted, “Really, Professor! You’re not comparing Lovecraft to Hitler, are you?”
“Oh, not at all,” Everard replied, “though I will point out that there are a few comments in Lovecraft’s letters that might be construed as pro-Hitlerian. It was Arkham House that perpetuated the Big Lie in this case, and from there a mechanism of critical bandwagonism took off and continues to this day. The tenet is, if you tell a lie big enough and enough times, people will believe it. That’s why Lovecraft has been raved about for all these decades. It’s a big lie that readers have been force-fed by a pro-Lovecraftian syndicate designed to make money.”
This was when the fat punk frowned, stood up, and left the room. Well, fuck him anyway… Everard smiled. “And no one understands more than me what a hard sell this topic is. Last week, at a convention in Maryland, someone wrote May You Be Food For Cthulhu on my hotel room door in red lipstick. At least, I hope it was lipstick.”
The audience spared a few chuckles. “Indeed, Lovecraft has a very big bandwagon and a multitude of critics to sing his praise, to speak for him. But who speaks for the others, the horror authors of greater skill and more importance who’ve been swept under the carpet by the all-pervading cult of Lovecraft? Well, I do. I speak for them since they can’t speak for themselves. There are two sides to every conversation. Well, that’s what my book is about, and that’s what
I’m about. I’ve been listening to people trumpet Lovecraft’s greatness for my entire adult life, and by now I’ve had it… up to my gills…”
Did one person laugh? Perhaps.
“I just want to help set the record straight. The fact of the matter is, at his very best, Lovecraft was a disheveled hack. He was a charlatan with words whose only good concepts came from other writers.”
An attractive blonde a few rows back—wearing a LOVECRAFT IS GOD t-shirt—raised her hand. Oh, no. Here it comes. Everard’s eyes flicked to her blue-jeaned crotch. At least she’s packing some camel-toe. “Yes, miss?”
“Aren’t you being a little harsh, professor?” the blonde asked with rancor in her expression. “Lovecraft’s popularity is undeniable, and very few critics maintain anything close to your negative stance—”
It was impossible for the sexist schmuck to remain dormant in Everard’s being. This ditz has boobs to write home about…
“Surely, there must be something positive you can say about Lovecraft’s contributions to the genre. Can’t you at least name one story of his that you find commendable?”
Everard looked blankly at her. “Young lady, I must answer your query with a resolute and unwavering No… unless by commendable you mean mediocre.”
Two more attendees got up and left.
Wow, Everard thought. This is going to be a long day…
It wasn’t as though Everard were one of those pedantic academics who insisted on using his elevated intellect to go against the mainstream consensus—he was not arbitrary for the mere sake of being arbitrary. But he figured his opinions were as qualified as the next person’s, or perhaps more so since he was a professor of literature, and some of the “literary” analysis these days seemed a bit off the mark. Hence, during his off months, he’d taken to writing about the purveyors of classic supernatural fiction, the writers who were true artisans and really had something to say that transcended genre. Writers like M.R. James, Edward Lucas White, and William Hope Hodgson, etc. Everard’s first book several years ago had made quite a splash in the high-end horror-fiction circles; it was a powerfully positive look at the work of Flemish writer Jean Ray. The book, in fact, got him his first invitations to conventions all over the country. Everard, not the most social of persons, scarcely knew such things existed; nevertheless, his first summer of the book’s release, he found himself being invited as a “special guest” to one convention after another. Free airfare, free room, free dealer’s table, plus a formidable fee, all in exchange for his presence, sitting on a few discussion panels, and participating in an interview and Q&A panel.
He enjoyed the scenario quite a bit—suddenly, attention was being paid to him, which wasn’t really the case at his teaching post. He got to converse with like-minded horror fans and made respectable side-money by selling signed copies of his book at his dealer’s table. There were even some “fringe” benefits: occasionally, there were some attractive, spookily dressed young women who took a more concerted interest in him, which led to more than a few sudden trips to the hotel’s gift shop to buy condoms. Damn, these conventions aren’t bad at all…
The same went for his second book, an analysis of the work of the little-remembered Bruno Fischer, whose dozens of pseudonymous novels and hundreds of short stories proved a cornerstone to the genre of the day. This book received even loftier accolades from the “weird tale” community, and cemented still more convention invitations, which altogether thrilled him in his otherwise studious and solitary existence.
And what also continued to thrill him was the excess of sexually available women. It was uncanny. Many of these women seemed to gravitate toward the younger novelists and horror movie actors, which made sense—some sort of “groupie” phenomenon, he supposed—but even guests such as himself, in their ‘40s and ‘50s, often found themselves approached by attractive female fans whose intent was obvious. What’s the big deal with me? he remembered thinking after his third night in a row of getting lucky at a convention. ...
