Storytellersunplugged

– Jeffrey Thomas

It may have seemed like an ongoing act of love, but I think Vladimir Nabokov actually took the easy way out: he dedicated all his books to his wife, Vera.

I’m not going to complain too strenuously about the politics or difficulties of deciding who I should dedicate a book to; I’m lucky to have books to dedicate to anybody! There are more critical areas of concern in the writing, and publishing, of one’s work. But the issue does come up, and sometimes I struggle with it. Well, I don’t lose sleep over it…but it’s still a consideration. The way I figure it, as you read this essay on Thanksgiving day you may be too doped up on tryptophan to digest a weightier topic.

Well, how I’ve approached it thus far is like this. My first book, TERROR INCOGNITA, was dedicated to my Dad because he had recently passed away…and as a poet and painter, he’d been generous enough to pass along his creative genetic material. PUNKTOWN was dedicated to my first wife Rose, who retyped a lot of the book, and also to my brother Scott and my friend Tom Hughes, since I invited them to write Punktown stories as well from its inception, and thus they’ve always had a connection to that world. MONSTROCITY I dedicated to writer/publisher Joseph S. Pulver, because he encouraged me to finish this novel so that he could publish it through his Hive Press (which sadly folded before that could take place). Which reminds me, I still need to get him a copy! It’s been a few years now, and for all I know he might not even be aware that it was later published by Prime Books. (Note to self: track down Joe Pulver!) LETTERS FROM HADES was dedicated to publisher David G. Barnett with damn good reason. Dave wanted me to do a book for his new imprint, Bedlam Press. He gave me a very specific idea, too; could I set an entire novel in the version of Hell I depicted in a short story of mine he liked, called “Coffee Break”? So that novel wouldn’t exist at all were it not for Dave’s exciting spark of inspiration. Author Jeff VanderMeer receives a dedication in PUNKTOWN: SHADES OF GREY for publishing the first Punktown book through his Ministry of Whimsy Press. Brother Scott shares half of the SHADES OF GREY collection, and he returns my earlier nod by dedicating his stories therein to me.

Sometimes, dedications can read like Academy Award acceptance speeches. I did a little of that with EVERYBODY SCREAM!, in which I thanked publisher Raw Dog Screaming Press for typing the entire novel up from a handwritten manuscript. I also thanked brother Scott again, since he gave me a lot of feedback on ES! and wrote a poem that appears at the start of the book.

So far, all of this has sounded pretty straightforward, but now it gets a little more complicated. Sometimes a book just doesn’t seem to attach itself to any one person in your life. Sure, I’d like to dedicate a book to my Mom, my sister Wendy, my brother Craig, or my son Colin (well, I’ve dedicated two short stories to him), but if a person really doesn’t have a connection to a certain book, I just can’t force it. This is when you might see a writer list a group of influential/inspirational authors, and as a result the line can blur between a Dedication page and an Acknowledgments page. I’ve seen the authors of Black Flame’s series of original NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET novels dedicate them to Wes Craven or, in the case of Tim Waggoner, “Dr. Creep, host of Shock Theater, with thanks for so many fright-filled hours of fun.” My own forthcoming NOES novel, THE DREAM DEALERS, I dedicated to my second wife, Hong (whose name also translates to Rose…confused yet? I know I am). There is no character inspired by Hong in that book, and if I ever write a novel set in her native Vietnam, that might seem like a better project to save her dedication for. (Though I can always pull a Nabokov.) But sometimes a person connects to a book simply in a chronological manner. I associate Hong with THE DREAM DEALERS because we had just been married, and the writing of the book coincided with that heady period, which may have made it easier for me to write that novel as quickly and efficiently as I did. I swear, I didn’t dedicate it to Hong in order to placate her for dedicating an earlier book to first wife Rose! But maybe I should dedicate more books to Hong in the future, to offset the fact that I have two forthcoming books dedicated to a past lover of mine who inspired important characters in both stories (though I use two different, secret pet name for both dedications to protect her identity somewhat from people like her husband). Uh, you see the politics that can become involved? And ego gets involved, too. I was going to thank assistant editor Mark Newton in the dedication of THE DREAM DEALERS for giving me several great suggestions, such as a very specific idea for the prologue in that book…but later I decided not to make mention of his input, for fear that readers might assume my creativity was directed by other hands. Heh. Ahh, vanity.

Then there are books of mine that I just couldn’t think of anyone at all to dedicate them to. Maybe, since they’re short story collections, it has to do with the variety of the stories, a diffusion of effect that discourages a solid connection with any particular individual. Thus, my collections AAAIIIEEE!!!, HONEY IS SWEETER THAN BLOOD and THIRTEEN SPECIMENS contain no dedication. Then again, my novel BONELAND features no dedication, either. And I had no hesitation in dedicating the collections I’ve listed earlier. I guess a book either calls out for its dedication, or it doesn’t…just as one book might beg to have a quote from someone like Dante or Shakespeare start it out, while another wants to jump right into the action.

It might be fun to dedicate a book to some imaginary person, to keep readers – and maybe even wives, past and present – guessing. Writing dedications can become as boring and predictable as writing the same bio page over and over. For one anthology I was in (DARK TESTAMENT), I essentially gave Marlon Brando’s bio and substituted my name for his. Something to break up the monotony.

And why not just thank myself? Hey, I write the damn things. Usually, the wife is just bitching at me to get off the computer so she can use the phone. Yeah. Myself, and coffee. We do all the REAL work.

Anyway, it’s time to zonk out in an armchair someplace in my annual tryptophan-induced coma. I appreciate it if you’ve taken time from your holiday to read my lightweight essay.

Here’s to you.