There are three constants in this world:
1. There is thirty-percent of any given population that will cling to the objectively worst outcome, without fail. Oddly, this is the same number required to force a decision for the entire population if their ambitions are not given proper consideration and mitigation.
2. Predictive forecasts in any field are reliable, at most, to four day intervals.
3. Art, in any form, will take on a life of its own. This is not only a warning, but an implicit threat.
Fifteen years ago, my aunt asked me what it was that I wanted for Christmas. Our family chose to follow a "pollyanna" format for the holiday, so everyone was not expected to buy gifts for the potentially dozens of people that would be in attendance for the gathering. I told her the name of a book that I had continually come across in my recent deep dives. Back then, I spent far too much time on paranormal message boards and online sources of weird fiction and storytelling that intentionally blurred the line between reality and fiction.
"That's it? A book?"
That was quite the loaded statement.
House of Leaves has been lauded for its achievement in contemporary writing a thousand times over in much more prestigious publications and by those much more qualified than myself. If you do not know of it, it is unlikely that you'd find yourself here. If the book is unknown to you, I'm not sure if you'd be able to appreciate why it is that I'm doing this. Then again, at this juncture, I'm not sure what it is that I'm even hoping to accomplish.
I was entrusted with something. Consider this me eagerly fulfilling my end of the bargain.
A personal project that was born of three young friends and grew to consume almost a decade of their lives led to this book being more than just a pop read, for both the creators of the project and the most dedicated members of their audience. It's especially true for this creator. I'm met with a feeling adjacent to the chicken and the egg: was reading the book the initial inspiration, was it simultaneous, or was it something else? Synchronicity? Two things independently created in different places and different times, only meeting through violence and calamity? A beautiful and harmless collision, but a devastating one nonetheless.
Our project was a creative obsession. The book was an inspiring obsession. They each entirely consumed my productivity and the result was whatever it was that came out of my pen during that period of time.
The winter following my receipt of the book coincided with the initial brainstorming of the large project, which from here on out will only be referred to as the Monolith (if at all). Only in hindsight can I understand how much of my input (it being a three-way collaboration), at least, was influenced by this story. Not entirely, but definitely visibly. Unconsciously, but undeniably. Then literally.
At that stage, Mark Z. Danielewski’s book (“MZD” from here on out) had taken on yet another life, as a part of a fledgling horror series in 2010. Though (then) only existing as a few offhand references and visual gags, it was, against its will, set as a foundational block in a world created by complete strangers.
Art, once again, takes on (and takes a) life of its own.
There are boundless versions of this phenomena that could be told of the Monolith, as well. I have seen it firsthand and I am still told, today, about what kind of butterfly effects our work has had a hand in creating. I try not to focus on the specific outcomes in an attempt at avoiding or giving attribution to unworthy (and or unguilty) parties. You can't take credit for the nebulously linked, and on the reciprocal, no one deserves unearned association. I don’t want to take credit from, or dispense blame, to anyone. But art affects whatever it may touch, whether in inspiration, in disgust, or as a warning, a cautionary tale of what and what not to do. And that conversation went out into the world fifteen years ago and it is a fool's belief that it can just as easily be reclaimed or recanted.
In the last year, I had the opportunity to attend a speaking event with the author himself. These have become increasingly rare and recently non-existent. Of course, we leapt at the chance. And, in line with the bulk of the text here, synchronicity and the reach of art itself, led to my attendance even happening. I only knew of the event by word of a long-time friend, whom I had only ever could have known because of our work on the Monolith. If I had never worked on the series, I may have never become so attached to the book, and if the project died off with a whimper, I would have not have met this distant friend, and if I had never kept in touch with this distant friend, they would not have messaged me with details about this exclusive evening with the author... and those were the thoughts I was processing as I sat in the dimly-lit and comfortable stone halls of an art school outside of Philadelphia. The room was relatively small, like the speakeasy behind a great library in a fantasy novel. I've written about the night elsewhere and will leave it at that. A wonderful experience. My feelings about the encounter are summed up by the author's, as he inquired about the meaning of my dedication request when I had him sign my copy of House of Leaves as a tribute to our audience.
"That's kind of an interesting 'gift' - kind of dark, isn't it?"
That was quite the loaded statement.
All of this is to say, that when I saw a request form for advanced copies of MZD's next epic, Tom’s Crossing, I felt obligated to recount some of these stories and say, hey, I think I could be an appropriate cheerleader for the release of this novel. However, I know I'm not an influencer, and murder me and dispose of my body if I ever express the interest to become one. My only social media these days is an non-updated instagram page and a threads account that only posts links to my written blog articles. I'm not going to be able to pump the numbers for what such a marketing campaign demands. I thought it was a fruitless endeavor, but still wanted to be a part of it. So I threw my hat in the ring... and largely forgot about it. That's all you can do. Hope, for however insignificant a thing, is a precious, finite resource. Don't put yourself into its debt.
Around this time, I had largely recommitted to my above feelings about social media. Trimming has been done, my interest for the topic has dwindled towards non-existent. It does not fit into my life or appeal to me. In some cases, I had gotten myself locked out of years-old accounts, and still have no interest in dealing with customer service loops to regain access… not worth the stress.
But on the other side of the coin… the creative outlet afforded by reclaiming the "old internet" does actually interest me, and I've been diving into projects like neocities and old forums to scratch that forgotten itch.
This is all building up into another moment of synchronicity.
After a period of drought and an odd on-and-off death of winter, we finally had a week straight of rain. I thrived in it. Then, late one Tuesday, I received a random email confirming a receipt of a postal order. I had no idea what this involved and the only other information provided was the name of the shipper: a publisher. I had an inkling then of what it could be. I had pushed all possibilities of being selected out of my mind, but I guess they agreed to send me an advanced reader copy (ARC).
That night was a fitful bout of excitement, toeing the line between Christmas Eve as a child and the desire to cover your eyes at the scary moment in a movie that you were far too young to be watching.
That afternoon, I arrived home from work and noticed something on the doorstep. I had thought that the package was delayed, but there it was, right on time.
And here we are, right on time.
As discussed, I will not be "spreading the good word" on the usual outlets. I am creating this page as a means of detailing my dive into this new world, trying to experience anew my first adventure into the house that had transpired all of those years ago. I am stepping forward by stepping back, writing about a book that would not yet exist, in a format that had died out many times before. We can be clever sometimes. I hope this is as exciting and enjoyable an experience for you, as it already is for me. I intend on channeling some truisms of yesteryear's personal websites and want to use some of these entries as a means of expression and blogging. As I go through the nearly 1,300 page book, I will update my writing with the themes, vibes, patterns, and references that I recognize from MZD's previous work, and my own experiences. I am excited. I am ready.
This site is simply my review of Tom’s Crossing, but breathing and expanding in the real-time it took for me to finish reading the advance copy. I will be “rewriting” my review for every couple of hundred pages of the book as I finish them. I expect there to be some repetition between entries, as I tend to get really stuck on specific details or feelings that a story creates in me.
You could, of course, skip to the final entry to get my overall feelings on the book, assuming I finish it alive and in one piece. But where’s the fun in that?
Life takes on an art of its own.