In this issue of Noglesue, let’s learn about my mysterious friend TJ Price and his forthcoming book:
Why should people buy and read your new book, The Disappearance of Tom Nero?
I'm not very good at telling people why they should do things, especially when it comes to reading. I prefer to think that people..."encounter" books, sort of on their own time. I know that most of the books I have come to love have surprised me, or have come to me at just the right place and right time. I've found them in the oddest of places—used bookstores halfway across the country, yard sales, libraries... Heck, I still remember coming across Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves in a Waldenbooks, back when it was initially released. I remember seeing that the book had an index, and yet the front cover very clearly said "A Novel." Some more cursory investigation yielded the further surprise of what appeared to be musical notation, oriented vertically on one of the pages, and I was sold.
I am hoping that something akin to my experience there happens for others with The Disappearance of Tom Nero. There's a lot to pique the interest of a casual observer's eye in these pages—not to mention that the story itself concerns a random encounter with a book, so there's a bit of thematic resonance there as well. Also much like House of Leaves, this is not an inert story. It directly involves the reader.
If any of that seems intriguing, then perhaps you should buy and read The Disappearance of Tom Nero
. I cannot be held responsible, however, for any untoward consequences as a result of reading, as those will be products of your own mind.
Or are they . . .
I have heard that you identify with the character Tom Nero. Is this simply about shared character traits, or have you and he shared some of the same experiences?
I used to live in a harbor town many years ago, and I was a member of a society of drunks that frequented more or less the same two or three bars. Some nights, alcohol (and other assorted drugs) would cause terrifying, marvelous revelations—other nights, they would inspire deep depression and existential anxiety. One night—I think it was one of those cold, graphite nights that come in January in New England, I found myself quite alone on a park bench, mildly intoxicated and in possession of a new notebook. I sat there for a long time, smoking cigarettes, watching small clumps of humanity shiver by, and I thought I heard someone say "Tom Nero." Now, I suppose it's possible that I assembled random sounds from various places and formed the name myself, but I like to think that someone was walking by and deep in conversation with a friend—or perhaps on the phone—and happened to mention him in passing. Either way, I wrote the name down in huge letters, sprawling across the first page of my notebook, then tucked it away into my messenger bag and headed to a different bar. My purpose for choosing that bench, at that time, had been fulfilled, and I felt somehow . . . free to go.
That same night, I was the only member of the aforementioned society of drunks present in the city. The other members had gone out of town, or were unavailable for whatever reason. I wandered from bar to bar, listless, vainly seeking company, or conversation that I could not find. All around me, the world was involving itself with itself, and was utterly unconcerned with me. I felt bitterly alone, and terribly angry, and wondered what it would be like if I disappeared. Not for me, of course—I'd have vanished—but what it would be like for those I left behind.
Guilt, and the fear of vanishing, led me home to my bed, and the sun came up the next day just like it did every other day, and I remained unvanished. But there was always that one night in the constricted throat of January where I came so close to disappearing, or—in the immortal words of Paul Simon—"slip slidin' away."
Tom Nero and I share this night.
I have learned of many good books from you, and you and I have shared some favorite books and authors as well. What are some books you would like to recommend to readers of Noglesque, perhaps things that are not so popular, underrated, or brand new?
So, so many. I'm currently completely in love with the narrative experimentation of Kurt Fawver, whose last two collections of short fiction vie in my mind for supremacy on a constant basis. Both The Dissolution of Small Worlds and We Are Happy, We Are Doomed are a joy to read, crammed with inventive and terrifying work from a writer who isn't afraid to really experiment with narrative form.
Also, absolutely anything by Ivy Grimes, Alex Wolfgang, Demi-Louise Blackburn, Andrew F. Sullivan, RSL, or Carson Winter.
Other collections of short fiction I have very much enjoyed recently are Strange Epiphanies, by Peter Bell; The Black Maybe, by Attila Veres; Lost Places, by Simon Kurt Unsworth and The Moon Will Look Strange, by Lynda E. Rucker. I would also love to recommend the strange work of Edouard Levé, whose books Autoportrait and Suicide are both incredible, savage works of self-reflection, and oddly readable, too. I would also recommend the universe of David Mitchell—perhaps best known for Cloud Atlas, or Slade House, but whose work is so sprawling and inter-connected that it truly is best read as some sort of epic fantasy series, where each book is a piece to a larger puzzle.
Lastly, two strange volumes that found me once—in that same harbor town mentioned earlier—the little-known novel A Good and Happy Child, by Justin Evans, and another, a play: The Mimic's Reflection, by Reid Brooks.
What were some of your formative experiences as a reader?
Perhaps the first, and most formative experience as a reader, was a childhood book: Harold and the Purple Crayon, by Crockett Johnson, Jr. Harold's nighttime adventures, for me, far outstripped the nocturnal voyage of Max in Where the Wild Things Are. Not only did Harold escape the confines of his reality, he created a new one entirely, with his imagination and the use of the titular magical purple crayon. Even from an early age, I think I understood the allegory behind the simple story.
The second-most formative experience I ever had as a reader was when I discovered poetry. The first time I read "The Waste Land," by T.S. Eliot, was in fifth or sixth grade. Of course, I had absolutely no idea what any of it meant. The allusions and historical references and all of that was completely beyond me, but it didn't stop me from feeling a very specific way. Then I read "The Hollow Men," and I was in love. My very astute teacher observed my interest and recommended that I read some E.E. Cummings, and my entire world shifted, somehow, as if I had turned a kaleidoscope. Everything was new. I saw from different angles—angles I didn't know existed.
Do you have any guilty pleasures as a reader? As a writer?
I have many pleasures both as a reader and as a writer, but there is very little guilt attached to any of them. I feel as though inspiration is a sneaky beast, and can hide between the pages of almost any book, or really, anything. To assign guilt to any possible route to inspiration is like judging a door for being too ugly to open. If it's unlocked, and the knob turns, I say, throw it wide.
What do you love about writing, and what do you hate about it?
Dorothy Parker once famously said, "I loathe writing. I love having written," and I return to this quote often, even if I don't agree with her estimation. For me, the joy of writing is in all the permutations of the words possible to create meaning. I feel like an draughtsman sometimes, carefully erasing a wall or a west-facing window only to sketch it on the other side of the imaginary room, to allow for sunrise light or something. I love the sound of prose, too, and all the different patterns you can make with word choice. I love to examine a sentence on a granular level, hearing its music in my head as I go.
But this, I'm afraid, is a double-edged blade. On one hand, it can be marvelous and exciting to mold and remold, but there's a limit before you start to run into some real Ship of Theseus-style issues. When is the sentence/paragraph/chapter no longer the same entity as when you began? I have difficulty with this, and often mire myself in performing too much of this examination, before drafts are even complete, sometimes. I have folders full of these attempts, like blueprints tossed aside with missing walls and load-bearing beams. Some of these derelict stories are only furniture in an unfinished house. Someday, I would like to return to them and perhaps make them habitable, but past attempts have only proven fruitful a handful of times. This is my great frustration when it comes to writing. I have closets full—not of skeletons—but piles of bones.
Do you keep a reader in mind—say a certain person or a certain type of person—when you write? Were you imagining a particular reader when you wrote The Disappearance of Tom Nero?
No. Well, not always. I think the reader in my mind is very close to—if not a Doppelgänger of—what I call my critical eye. It—they—have very, very high standards, and are often quite dismissive of my work in general. When I subject my writing to the reader in my mind, it is almost universally panned.
That being said, I write for the curious. For people who fidget at the walls of their reality and strive to find the holes in it. For people who ask questions, and for those who value the act of questioning moreso than the finality of finding an answer.
I do sometimes wonder if anyone from my past will read The Disappearance of Tom Nero. There are some clues in the pages that will only make sense to a particular set of people, people I have left behind in the passage of my life. The joke there, of course, is that I am a sort of Tom Nero to them—I have disappeared from their lives. In addition, they would also know me by a different name—not the name that is printed on the front cover of this book—which makes the challenge that much more difficult. Still, maybe.
What’s next for you as a writer?
I'm not sure. I'm never sure, really. There's always something that looks enticing, but sometimes when I arrive at its gleam, it disappoints, or has lost its luster. I have recently assembled a manuscript of original poetry, entitled An Uncanny Guest, but I don't know what I want to do with it quite yet. I am also slowly accruing—as a mollusk will around an irritant—a little brood of flash fiction pieces that each deal with grief, death, love, and remorse. Some of them have ghosts. Some of them are ghosts. Maybe I'll put those together in a book someday, if and when I have enough of them.
I do keep a corkboard on the wall above my desk for notes on possible future projects, and on it there are currently three Post-It notes, the hue of goldenrod. On the first note, the words "the dogs of Chernobyl" are written. On the second, the phrase "worm moon." On the third, two phrases: "bad facsimile" and "a man in a shirt and tie at night."
Your guess is as good as mine.
Do you have any recent or forthcoming work you want to mention, and where can readers find out more about you and your work?
Yes! This has been a good year for me, publication-wise. Most of this work can be read for free online, and a list can be found on my website (tjpricewrites.com), under Published Work.
I have also recently had the distinct pleasure of working with the Future Dead Collective to edit, contribute, and assist in the birth of Collage Macabre, an anthology of art-related horrors. In addition, I will have a short story in the HOWL Society's third anthology, HOWLS from the Wreckage, edited by Chris O'Halloran, entitled "Heavy Rain." At some point in the undisclosed future, my poem "dread" will also be published in Nightmare magazine. I will also be editing an as-yet untitled anthology of fiction exploring the concept of liminal spaces, which will kick into high gear beginning this fall.
Beyond that, I just pulled a card from a Tarot deck at random to see what might also be forthcoming, and the King of Wands (upright) revealed itself to me. The divinatory meaning of this card points to opportunity, so it seems that for the next couple of months, at least, I will be craning my neck, listening for its soft, hesitant knock.
Maybe someday it will realize that I've installed a doorbell.
Thank you for the interview, TJ!
And, as always in Noglesque, I will leave you with some new publications and happenings of my own:
My folk/cosmic horror story “In Dark Tabbitree” appears in the May issue of Cosmic Horror Monthly alongside stories from Gwendolyn Kiste, Ray Knowles, Alex Wolfgang, Timothy G. Huguenin, and more.
Cosmic Horror Monthly is also releasing its first anthology, this one a charity anthology edited by Jolie Toomajan and benefits donated to the Chicago Abortion Fund. My story “Bitter Makes the Sweet So Sweet” appears alongside stories from Hailey Piper, Joe Koch, Kelsea Yu, and more.
A release party for Aseptic and Faintly Sadistic is coming on May 25
I have received word that I will be on two panels at StokerCon this year:
The Anthology: More than the Sum of its Parts: What is involved in an anthology’s creation, and where does one begin? Our panelists, both anthologists and contributors, discuss the role of anthologies as vehicles for finding a community, developing craft, supporting causes, and creating critical mass.
Algorithmic Possession: Confronting Big Tech on the Page
We were lied to. Venture capital, big tech, and the promise of a better tomorrow have unearthed new, subtle everyday horrors we are only beginning to fathom.
Hope to see you there!
Thank you for reading Noglesque!