Ramble:

For me, finding who I wanted to be as a creative was directly tied to when I first stumbled across alternative media. It wasn’t underground literature that I was first introduced to though — instead, it was music, and for that, I’ve got my dad to thank. Listening to Nine Inch Nails, the Cure (‘cewer’), Placebo, Sonic Youth and a whole host of other great bands with him on long car drives completely changed my taste in media, as well as the themes I wanted to convey in my own work. Obviously, these aren’t exactly little-known bands, but it was an insight into genres I’d never even heard of before. And then music led into films, which I would also often watch with my parents or friends. I still like plenty of mainstream films, and I completely disagree with anyone who considers themselves somehow morally superior because they prefer Daisies (1966) over Avengers: Infinity War (2018). But these strange, forgotten films spoke to me in a way box-office hits rarely did. Still, it was a few years yet before I started exploring underground literature.

I’d been teetering on the edge of alternative literature for a while, but when I really became absorbed by it can be pinpointed to an exact moment: when my friend lent me a copy of a book they had been gifted for their birthday. This book was Paradise Rot by Jenny Hval, which I’ll be talking about in the media highlight section. I’ll discuss my thoughts in-depth there, but it’s safe to say it changed the way I thought about writing forever. Interestingly though, I don’t think it was solely the book that caused this shattering. Like with music and films, this book was connected to a person, in this case, my best friend. Because underground media is less widely appreciated, it tends to create communities and bonds. If you enjoy, for example, surreal horror stories, finding someone who also enjoys this feels like something special.

 Just like some of the iconic music scenes that cropped up from the seventies and onward, recommendations are often spread through word of mouth, which creates a symbiotic reliance on each other that harbours camaraderie. Many of the friends I’ve made I’ve grown close to by discussing media we both love. This is a huge goal of mine with my writing. One day, I’d like someone to find a story of mine in some dusty corner of a bookshop, devour it, share it with their friends, become closer through their shared interest in it. Maybe a bit of a self-important goal, but it’s something that’s brought me such joy as a reader, so I’ve always wanted to carry that forward as a writer. It’s been wonderful that already, people have talked to me about my projects in the same way as I’ve talked to friends about my favourite media. I’m so grateful to anyone who has been kind about the things I make. I’ll always write, but the enthusiasm of others is what makes underground media come alive.

Progress:

- I’ve added a progress log to The Seventh Season, accessible through the projects page. This’ll be updated whenever there’s news about the project!

- On the magazine submissions front — I’ve been accepted by one and have another I’m still waiting to hear back about. It’s really exciting to be putting stories out there, especially given that they’re actually being accepted! I’ll share more about the magazine when it’s closer to publication, but it’s university-run, and a magazine I’ve admired for a while. Even on this smaller scale, being published for the first time under this pseudonym is really exciting.

Writer’s Desk:

I’ve screwed myself over again by choosing another genre that’s nearly impossible to pin down. This time, it’s ergodic literature. The electronic literature dictionary defines it as ‘literature that relies on or requires the active engagement of a readership’ which… is true for all literature. You can’t read a book without reading a book. Instead, I’d describe ergodic literature as fiction that twists form beyond usual conventions to add an extra dimension to reading — for example, adding fictitious footnotes to a novel, changing the colour or orientation of text or including hidden code a reader has to decipher.

This does run the danger of ergodic stories being, to put it in academic terms, up their own arses. Cleverness for the sake of cleverness tends to be annoying rather than engaging. But when used to accentuate theme, ergodicity in literature allows authors to utilise the virtually forgotten (at least, in mainstream literature) resource of the physical text. Writers aren’t — always — artists or graphic designers, so it’s often overlooked how much the physical object of a book changes the reading experience. Annotations, cover art, online vs print all change how readers experience a story, so why not use that to your advantage?

There are some challenges, of course, the biggest of which is money. It costs much more to print a text that follows a nonstandard format, especially if it includes photos or colour, or god forbid, photos in colour. As such, most ergodic literature is printed on a small scale, circulated in the same way as zines, or else is exclusively online (many ARGs arguably fall under the category of ergodic literature).

There are a few mainstream examples of ergodic literature. House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski is probably the most prominent, and was also my introduction to the genre. Though parts were hit and miss for me, it fascinated me like nothing had before it. It felt like I was reading forbidden knowledge, uncovering its secrets alongside the protagonist(s). And that’s the great power of ergodic literature: because of this extra dimension readers have to participate in, it’s a much more intimate experience than most fiction. It’s even more individual than ‘ordinary’ reading, with every reader approaching it in a different way. Do you turn to the appendix as you go, or read it once you’ve finished the main text? Do you take notes, or let the book wash over you? If a page is split into sections, which do you read first? Ergodic literature combines the feeling of curling up with a book and an escape room — you are both an observer and a participant, searching in the dark for answers. It’s a fascinating genre, and one I’m only just beginning to explore. I hope to see more of it as it establishes itself.

Media highlight:

Paradise Rot by Jenny Hval

Paradise Rot is a damp book. It’s dripping with descriptions of rot, mould, strangely beautiful despite the ickiness of the subject matters. Hval’s prose is eerily enticing, drawing you into the protagonist’s off-kilter, darkly psychedelic world. The protagonist, Jo, is an international student who moves into an old brewery with Carral, with whom she quickly develops a codependent- friendship? Relationship? The boundaries between friend and lover blurs, which is something a lot of sapphic readers can probably relate to. What most can’t relate to, though, is the urine. If you’re squeamish about bodily fluids, this isn’t the book for you. My friend had already annotated it before I read it, which meant it came with a ‘piss counter’. 8.5 was the final score, with the caveat that it has to be a sustained description and not just an offhand mention. Considering that it’s only about 160 pages, that’s a lot.

But, once you get past the squick of seeing through the eyes of a urine-obsessed protagonist (which does admittedly take a fair bit of getting used to), Paradise Rot is lurid and nuanced and wonderful, packed to the brim with imagery that gets under your skin and stays there. It speaks to the desperation with which a lonely person clings to those they care about, and to the baffling web that is navigating your feelings as a young adult. This book came into my life at the perfect time. There’s wonder in the rot, albeit a twisted kind, and I can honestly say it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read.