In response to a reader’s comment, I wanted to clarify that the review of  Hellfire and Damnation (www.HellfireandDamnationtheBook.com) that appears below, it was sent me by the reviewer, Adam Groves, who agreed to review the book in electronic format (early). As he states, it is posted on his his blog at this time, where you can (also) see it.

Just letting you know that my review of HELLFIRE AND DMANATION is now up at http://www.fright.com/edge/HellfireAndDamnation.htm

–Best,
Adam Groves
On&off Productions

HELLFIRE & DAMNATION
By CONNIE CONCORAN WILSON (Sam’s Dot Press; 2009)

In horror fiction, as in most any other sort, true originality is an increasingly rare commodity.  But it does exist, as proven by Connie Wilson’s HELLFIRE AND DAMNATION, an anthology that is genuinely, blazingly original.

The collection is rigorously structured around the nine circles of Hell as laid out in Dante’s INFERNO, yet the contents couldn’t be more varied in subject matter.  What unites them is the unerringly rational, straightforward prose, which is unlike anything else in horror fiction (usually typified by subjective “you-are-there” descriptions).  Stylistically it’s not unlike Wilson’s previous book GHOSTLY TALES OF ROUTE 66, a journalistic compendium of American folklore that was likewise distinguished by its novelty.  HELLFIRE AND DAMNATION, however, far outpaces the earlier volume in every respect.

“Hotter Than Hell,” categorized under the Gates of Hell, starts things off.  Inspired by the final words of real death row inmates, it’s a gritty and depressing account of prison life.

From there we move into the first circle of Hell, where Pagan souls reside.  Illustrating this is “Rachel and David,” set in Webster Groves, Missouri, and apparently based on folklore from that region.  It’s about a young couple and their fateful meeting with two odd kids.

In Circle Two, Lust, we have three stories.  The first, “Love Never Dies,” is a strange little number set in ancient Rome and headlined by an undead prostitute!  “Konerak” takes a real-life incident, of the man who almost escaped the clutches of the late Jeffrey Dahmer, and spins a wild tale of Oriental sorcery emerging from the Hmong of Laos, who fought for the United States against the Viet Cong (obviously this is the only place you’ll find Eastern mysticism, Jeffrey Dahmer and the Vietnam War combined).  “Effie, We hardly Knew Ye!” is another folklore-based tale, this one of an Oklahoma City hotel haunted by the spirit of its founder’s wronged mistress.

Circle Three is Gluttony, as represented by “Amazing Andy, the Wonder Chicken.”  In this tale a chicken gets its head cut off and still lives–and I’ll leave you to discover the rest of it on your own.

From there it’s on to the circle of Hoarders and Wasters, with “The Lemp Mansion Curse,” a jaunty account of a family curse, and “Queen Bee,” about an all-too appropriate revenge taken on a woman whose personality and social standing are accurately encompassed by the title.

Circle Five is the Wrathful.  It contains “The Ghost Girl of Howard “Pappy” Litch Park,” set along the author’s favorite highway, Route 66.  Here, in what may or may not be a fact-based tale, a father’s wrath causes his young daughter to be whisked away…but glimpses of the girl can of course still be seen in the area.

Heretics populate the Sixth Circle, containing the quietly unnerving “Hell to Pay.”  It combines a look into Amish life with an intriguing speculation on the origins of schizophrenia and multiple sclerosis.  Also in the Heretics circle is “On Eagles’ Wings,” concerning a weird cultist, a young girl and an unhealthy obsession with birds.

Circle Number Seven is reserved for The Violent.  It begins with “Going Through Hell,” about a serial killer and his woman police officer victim, and continues with “Living in Hell,” about a young boy who visualizes a serial killer’s crimes in nightmares.  This tale is particularly shivery: the concept isn’t terribly original, but the nasty subject matter and clinical prose make for a skin-crawling read.

Circle Eight consists of The Fraudulent, represented by “Confessions of an Apotemnophile.”  That word refers to an person desiring to amputate his own limbs, in this case a man who’s harbored an all-consuming desire to lose his legs ever since conversing with a like-minded individual as a child.

Circle Nine is the final circle, featuring “An American Girl,” the collection’s creepiest story.  Its subject is the factual murder of a teenage girl in snowy Illinois, with the bulk of the tale taken up with a methodical depiction of the pubescent killers’ attempts at disposing of the corpse.

You won’t find another collection like this one.  Some readers, I’m sure, will be put off by its oddness, yet it fulfills most every expectation one might have for a horror anthology, being readable, entertaining and deeply unsettling in a manner unique to itself.

I wanted to share, with loyal friends, the “mock-up” of a trailer that is under construction for my debut short story collection, entitled Hellfire and Damnation. Eventually, there will be a website entitled www.HellfireandDamnationthebook.com and this link will be posted as a trailer on that website.

http://www.blazingtrailers.com/Mockups/Hellfire.mov

For now, you can watch the trailer as it progresses from its initial “mock up” by professional trailer maker Kim McDougall of Blazing Trailers) to a finished product. (We’re still tinkering with it.)
I’m awaiting the publisher’s (Sam’s Dot) news of the ISBN number, but, until then, I’ll be working on the promotional aspects such as this trailer, bookmarks, post cards, etc. Look for me to be announcing book signings in the area in February/March.

While it is true that I have written three books of short ghost stories (Ghostly Tales of Route 66, Vols. I, II and III) the requirements for that publisher are that the stories be very “family friendly.” There is a definite formula involved, which is not the case with my short story collection organized around Dante’s Inferno and the various sins punished at each level of hell.

Stay tuned for further developments as Kim and I refine the trailer and continue keeping you posted on the book’s progress. Right now, all I know is that it will retail for $9.95, that you will be able to order it from www.HellfireandDamnationthebook.com and from sdspublishing.com, as well as possibly by phone and from the master site (www.ConnieCWilson.com). I hope that it will also be “up” on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.

The book signing at “Centuries & Sleuths” in Forest Park on October 31, 2009 from 2 to 4 p.m. went quite well, and two 9-month old granddaughters, dressed as sunflowers, Ava and Elise Wilson, graced the store with their presence as the readings were winding down.

My “ghostly” story submitted to the Chicago “Tribune’s” scary story contest was also printed, one of only 24 from over 800 entries (top 3%) that were published.

Many thanks to store owner Augie Aleksy at 7419 W. Madison St., who assisted with arrangements and put up the lovely store window display you see in the photos.

East Moline’s “Fright Night” festivities (4 to 7 p.m., October 23, Friday) were miserable, with a light drizzle and cold temperatures. Fortunately, I was allowed to share the tent that the pumpkin carver set up. He was carving pumpkins and selling chances on them.

I set up my table next to his and decorated with a “Ghostly Welcome” carving, a jar of candy, and a large spider web, complete with spider. The young ghosts and ghouls and goblins of East Moline trickled by our blue tent, which was in danger of blowing down at any minute.  I felt sorry for the event’s organizers, who had to contend with lousy weather.

People who drifted by my table told me they had heard me “live” on WOC-AM and heard the book signing mentioned on WLLR radio. There was a headshot in the events area of the “Quad City Times” calendar, a small two-paragraph article in the Arts & Entertainment section of the Sunday “Dispatch,” and I had a nice tablemate, Dean Klinkenberg from St. Louis, who was selling his two travelogue books on the Quad Cities and LeClaire.

If you came by, thanks. If you bought a book, double thanks. If you WANT to buy a book, go to www.ghostlytalesofroute66.com and use the Pay Pal option or dial the 800 number of Quixote Press (1-800-571-2665). Price of the book is $9.95 (plus postage and handling).

On Thursday, October 15, 2009, humorist/writer David Sedaris visited Davenport, Iowa’s Adler Theater to share his musings on jury trials, breast milk, condoms, and our “God-given right to mimeograph.” He lived up to Toronto Globe & Mail writer Bill Richardson’s assessment: “He’s smart, he’s caustic, he’s mordant, and, somehow, he’s well, nice.”

Sedaris has the unique vocal rendering(s) of Truman Capote before him, and, yes, both were openly gay. Hear Sedaris read just one time on NPR, where his career blossomed, and you won’t forget the tone. It’s one of the lovable eccentricities of the man that you learn to like, just as you learn to make your peace with his aversion to having his picture taken.

Sedaris has a way with words. When he describes his son, Todd, as being “the artistic one in the family” and goes on to describe him as having “a useless degree in dance history,” audience members smile with recognition. Everyone has someone in his or her family with a useless degree in something. We can all relate. Some of Sedaris’ sharing is painful, tinged with a deep pathos that gives his humor greater humanity and, with it, greater emotional weight. Whether it’s the needless cruelty that man inflicts on man or his mother’s drinking problem or his own dalliance with drugs back in the day, Sedaris has suffered and it shows in his writing. His humor is a shield and he wields it with bravado.

This night, Sedaris vamped his way through the acronym A.S.S.H.O.L.E. (don’t ask) and what it stands for in a boundary-pushing way that has garnered him 3 Grammy nominations for Best Spoken Word and Best Comedy Album(s). With 7 million books in print in 25 languages, the 2001 Thurber Prize for American Humor and Time magazine’s anointing him Humorist of the Year, it’s pretty clear, as the San Francisco Chronicle put it, “Sedaris belongs on any list of people writing in English at the moment who are revising our ideas about what’s funny.”

On Thursday night in Davenport, Iowa, the funny bits that amused me were about jury duty, possibly because of my own experiences on several coroners’ juries in Illinois. He describes his late mother, Sharon, saying to him, “How can you not want to sit in judgment of your fellow man?” and “Whoever thought a gun could be so tedious?” Reminiscing about a defendant in the trial he drew who had been knifed three times, the line that resonates is “If you’re the type that everybody stabs, maybe you need to make some fundamental changes.” As a member of a jury himself, Sedaris couldn’t quit fixating on the fact that the defendant was wearing “a cross the size you’d reach for if you wanted to crucify a hamster.” The image is vintage Sedaris.

We were treated to Sedaris’ ramblings about depictions of a soulful Jesus on the cross and how easy that is. He pines for an obese, repulsive, balding, Jesus with “fur-covered man titties”…a vision he ultimately referred to as “comb-over Jesus.”

Sedaris’ irreverent observations had the nearly full house amused and laughing throughout. He was kind enough to not only plug his own books which, this night, were his newest (When You Are Engulfed in Flames), but also his best ones of years past, such as 1997’s Naked, 2000’s Me Talk Pretty One Day, and 2004’s Dress Your Family in Corduroy, but also to plug Our Dumb World from The Onion and a book he is currently reading while on the road for 34 days, Everything Ravaged; Everything Burned. Sedaris says he actually enjoys meeting his fans. He doesn’t get a day off until after Day 33 on the road, tours which he typically does on a certain schedule that takes him away from his home in France, where he lives near Normandy with partner Hugh Hamrick. This day, he praises the Davenport YMCA for its kindness and hospitality in letting him swim laps in its pool, (which he must have done less than four hours before show time, because he had not yet checked in at 3:30 p.m. and the show was at 8 p.m.)

A bit of research into how Sedaris got his start (above and beyond his autobiographical tales in the books) reveals that, while living in Chicago, Ira Glass heard him reading aloud from his diaries at a Chicago club. (*Note to self: find out what Chicago club and go read excerpts from Both Sides Now!)

Sedaris was invited by Glass to read Santaland Diaries on the radio. The humorous essays described his experiences working as an elf at Macy’s at Christmas-time and debuted on NPR on December 23, 1992 on “The Morning Edition.” From that start, he has never looked back. Sedaris himself has said, “I owe everything to Ira…My life just changed completely, like someone waved a magic wand.”

Sedaris typically writes about his family members, one of whom is Amy Sedaris, formerly of Saturday Night Live. Amy and David have worked together writing plays as the Talent Family. This night, however, when an audience member practically cooed, “How cool is Amy, your sister,” David seemed less-than-thrilled with the over-the-top enthusiasm for his sister that the audience member was projecting. He acknowledged the comment without joining the love fest. He also said he was not writing about his brother, currently, because his brother loves being written about and owes him money. He told us that he is writing a book with animals, similar to fables (one was read aloud) and that he was collecting stories about rudeness from his audience.

I wrote Mr. Sedaris a fan letter (only the second of my life) after completing When You Are Engulfed in Flames and he wrote back from France. I don’t think he will consider it a violation of this private (and unexpected) correspondence if I share with you that, on a tour of the Hastings Bookstore chain in the Southwest he was placed in the Christian fiction section for his reading. Anyone who knows of Sedaris’ past brushes with drugs (now, he doesn’t even smoke regular cigarettes) or his open homosexuality has to smile at the thought of him delivering his material in the Christian fiction section of any bookstore, just as the audience this night laughed outright at his tale of wheeling an entire cart full of condoms (to give to his readers as gifts) through the aisles of a CostCo store accompanied by his 59-year-old brother-in-law.

After the evening’s performance, which was a great success, at least 100 of us waited in line patiently for 3 hours to shake David Sedaris’ hand…but only after we were offered hand de-sanitizer (probably not a bad idea in these times of H1N1 flu pandemics). [Let New Yorkers attempt to wait so patiently and so politely for so long!) The evening’s artist seemed in no hurry to brush off any of the hundred or so fans who waited it out until nearly 1:00 A.M.

I heard him ask the young couple ahead of me if they were married. They told him of their plans to marry next October. I turned to my line-mate and said, “Well, I had been married for nearly 42 years before I made my husband wait 3 hours outside in the lobby tonight. But that’s ancient history now.” They laughed. [Maybe some Ira Glass/David Sedaris person will recognize my wit and talent and launch me on a reading career of my own humorous essays (I’m very good at it, after years spent reading to 7^th graders who couldn’t read well for themselves; I always loved performing “The Night the Bed Fell on Father.”) Ah, if life were only so simple, she said to herself with a sigh. Maybe budding humorists like me should sing a chorus of “Put Me In, Coach. I’m Ready to Play. Today.” Or not. One never knows. I did almost perform a limbo along about Hour Two, in an attempt to shimmy under the metal restraining line to give my long-suffering husband the funny Onion book I had bought.

Earlier, the woman from Cedar Falls who gave up and left early tried to give it to him for me. She came back and told me there was no man with a red umbrella sitting in the lobby, which gave me pause. The cab situation in downtown Davenport is not like that in Chicago, and I was across the river from home. (Later, when placated with reading material given him after my daring limbo dance—which, at my age, could be described my as death-defying limbo dance—he lightened up a little, but I kept seeing one man’s angry face, a swarthy fellow, appearing at the door and mouthing the words to his wife in line, “Hurry up!” (How, exactly, was the poor woman supposed to do this, I wondered? Was she to trample us in a mad rush to the front, like Mad Cows set loose in a pasture? At least my husband merely left the building. And me. But he did return.)

When I finally made it to the front of the line to get the author’s autograph on 3 books and to tell him my “rude” story, I was not sure if Mr. Sedaris remembered my letter that prompted his personal response, or if he realized I was the woman who had left him the books at his hotel (difficult to tell whether that was a bad move or a good move, since the novel has, as its protagonist, a time-traveling rock star, for which I will be eternally remorseful, and a cover of a naked couple that generally catches your eye for all the wrong reasons.) He asked my name. Was I a complete mystery, then? There are multiple pictures of me in the books, so he must have already round-filed them. David (if I may use his first name) was friendly, but not effusively so. He offered me hand sanitizer as I went totally blank on my own name, while struggling to open the small bottle of gel. I’ve never used hand sanitizer. Just as I poured a huge glob of this stuff into my open palm (think KY Jelly, with which I am much more familiar), he extended his hand for me to shake. My timing, as usual, stinks.

I began my rude story of being sold out by a Pulitzer Prize-winning author who not only lied to me in print (an e-mail of August 25), but also lied to my face, ruining an expensive (over $3,000) trip to the Hawaii Writers’ Conference and destroying my faith in “getting it in writing,” since I had gotten “it” in writing and the man still flat-out lied to my face. For some reason (Nerves? Stress?) I was suddenly overcome with the emotion of retelling the sad episode that still has not resolved itself, financially or emotionally. As I finished my story, I almost choked up at telling it so soon after it had occurred. I felt like a complete dork as I said, “So I don’t like that author any more.” David Sedaris, in his distinctive voice, looking sympathetic, responded, “Well, then, I don’t like him any more, either.”

Now you see where the “nice” comment comes from. Here’s another with which the audience on Thursday night agreed, as articulated by the Chicago Tribune: “Sedaris’ droll assessment of the mundane and the eccentrics who inhabit the world’s crevices make him one of the greatest humorists writing today.”

Amen to that!

The Second Annual Route 66 Festival at the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge was held on October 3 in St. Louis, and I was one of the featured speakers at the event.

My husband and I had to take “the scenic route” to St. Louis, via Route 61, in order to pick up Volume II of Ghostly Tales of Route 66, which was hot off the presses on Friday. This second volume in the trilogy documenting ghostly tales along the Mother Road has one story that revisits the Hanging Judge of Fort Smith, Arkansas, a precursor to Route 66, as outlined in the history of the road (p. 17).

Many of the stories were told me during the November 15, 2008 Ghost Tour at Fort El Reno, Oklahoma. Those include “Fort El Reno, Communing with the Spirits,” which tells the story of a very weird occurrence that happened to me during the four to five-hour tour; “The Buffalo Soldier of Fort El Reno, Oklahoma”; “The Mysterious Major of Fort El Reno”; and “The Strychnine Specter of Fort El Reno, Oklahoma.”

After the Oklahoma stories, the book moves on to the Texas Panhandle, New Mexico, and ends at the Arizona border. The final book in the trilogy will pick up in Arizona and take the readers through California, documenting stories told me as I traveled the route.

Pictured here are some pictures of the 70 vintage automobiles that were parked on the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge during the Antique Auto Contest. There were vendors…including the man with the seventy-pound pumpkins! (He was selling them at 40 cents a pound.)

After trying out the AmericInn Casino nearby, we all were thankful that, although it was cooler than last year’s Festival, there was no rain. A good time was had by all.

Eight of them, silhouetted against the paddlewheel steamboat…four boys, four girls.

They slouch there, ill-at-ease in their unaccustomed finery.

The I74 bridge looms behind them in the distance.

One girl, chilled by the spring breeze, wears her date’s jacket slung casually around her shoulders.  She stares at the ground.  Is she thinking about the night ahead? Is she thinking about the future, as she shivers, clutching her evening bag?

“Are we grown? Are we ready?”

The blond athletic-looking boy in the white Saturday Night Fever suit and white shoes wears a turquoise tie and matching handkerchief.  He coordinates with his date’s turquoise strapless formal.

Willl they always be this in tune with each other, this harmonious?  Are they a couple only for now, only for tonight, only at this moment in time?

He squints, staring at the camera.

“Are we grown? Are we ready? Are we having fun yet?”

What lies across that bridge…across the Mississippi River…across time?

What does the future hold when Prom night ends?

“Are we grown? Are we ready?

In youth, the future stretches out forever, spins on like an endless ribbon, an eternity of time, an infinite river of days and nights and dances and dates.  But this is Prom night, and the end of high school is near.

“Are we grown? Are we ready?”

The sign reads: “Please do not feed the waterfowl.”

If only there were other signs.  Signs to instruct.  Signs to warn about the future.

For now, it is just “Please do not feed the waterfowl.”

(Public reading at either the Midwest Writing Center or in the Rock Island District at 7 p.m. on Thursday, October 22nd. I will be present with copies of 3 of my previous books: “Both Sides Now” (some poetry included); “Ghosts of Route 66″ (Vol I); and “Out of Time,” a novel.)

I’m packing to go to Chicago and, from there, to fly to the Hawaii Writers Retreat and Conference. Originally, I wanted help with finishing my genre nonfiction novel, and the person for that seems to be a man named Gary Braver, whose class I did not gain admission to (it was full). I was then assigned to Ron Powers, who won the 1973 Pulitzer Prize for his TV criticism when he wrote for the Chicago Sun Times. I was thrilled, as my book is movie criticism. I received a lovely note, inviting any of us to write with questions, and, in the original “Welcome to the Class” e-mail, the suggestion was made that perhaps I should EXPAND the book I am bringing. (Anyone who knows me knows that EXPANDING is not a good idea for me.) Since I have been working diligently to cut the book down from about 500 pages to 250 for some time, I did write back, saying that I didn’t really see myself expanding, at this late date. From there, I have received 2 phone calls from Hawaii, and, in one of them, the suggestion that I move to a different class has been made. I like the sound of the instructor I have now, so I am hoping that this “flies,” At any rate, I shall attempt to post from Hawaii, where names like Mitch Albom are going to be present and Nora Jones is singing in a special concert.