For the 55 and 25 word limit format, I chose parts of the story to highlight – what I thought could stand alone. It’s interesting though that I chose to share the 25 word format which ends with a question (and those many possibilities / directions for the story to continue) and feel more comfortable with that open-endedness than in the 400 word limit. Perhaps it’s because I think it assumes a more poetic quality with that short format. Or it could be that since I know the full story, I find it carries more weight in those few words than in the more fleshed out telling.

400 words or less:

I could hear his fingers jostling the loose change in his pocket. Rotating the coins around in no particular rhythm. I didn’t think much of it, really. I probably thought it was annoying. In the same way I find people that chew gum with their mouths open annoying. Only in retrospect, did I understand why he – perhaps – nervous with anticipation chose to preoccupy himself with such a mindless task.

It happened quick. The pain shot sharply across my shoulder as he tore the bag off my arm. I began to scream. Down the block as I chased him. The quiet block. The block that I had just moved to the week before. A few neighbors came to their doors to see the commotion. I punched the air. One, two, three times. Contact. He faltered. But it wasn’t enough.

Someone yelled from the street, asked me a question. “Is that your bag?” I imagined. I probably nodded. Or perhaps, my voice hoarse from screaming, choked out “Yes!” I stopped. Looking up, I watched as the man from the street jumped up onto the curb on his bicycle and nearly collided with the thief. He let go.

My bag lay on the ground. The phone scattered in pieces. He watched as I picked up the pieces, examined the broken strap. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“On your bike?” I laughed incredulously. No, no – in a car. He lives just a few blocks that way. Under any other circumstances I wouldn’t accept such an offer but I thought given the circumstances I should trust him. He dismounted his bike and we walked side by side on the narrow, uneven sidewalk.

I met his parents. His mother safety pinned the broken strap back onto the body of the bag. His father rubbed my shoulder reassuringly. Once in the car, he popped in a cassette tape of Fugazi. We started talking excitedly about music – then film, and comics. I thought (and maybe he too), what great providence! How serendipitous! The cosmos bringing us together on this fateful Friday night on a street in Northeast DC.

I offered to buy him a beer. He asked for a raincheck, it was his father’s birthday. He had to head back to have cake. I met my friends. I thought how great this story would be to tell my grandchildren. If only.

55 words:

It happened quick. The pain shot sharply across my shoulder as he tore the bag off my arm. I screamed as I chased him down the block. The quiet block. I punched the air. One, two, three times. Contact. He faltered. But it wasn’t enough.

6 words:

(here I cheated by providing a title to add more context)

A Story for the Grandchildren (If Only)

Bag recovered, could have been love.

The contents of my bag scattered across the sidewalk. He watched as I gathered everything up, paused to examine the broken strap. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

There were three people working behind the counter and six people total seated in the cafe. To the left as I entered,  four sat alone; to the right, two sat together. I ordered a dirty chai and took a seat near the four. Immediately behind me sits a young Asian woman. She’s wearing a coat and hat but doesn’t show any signs of leaving. She’s engrossed by whatever she’s doing on her cellphone. To the left, there’s an older man. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and a rugby sweatshirt. It looks like he’s been there for a while. He uses one chair to prop up his left leg. He’s reading the New York Post and eating oatmeal.

In front of me sit two men, along the exterior window. I can’t tell what they’re drinking, both have venti size cups. Both are very well-dressed. There’s one reading the Wall Street Journal. He wears an electric blue vest over a checkered shirt, a chartreuse tie, tweed jacket.  Very well put together, slightly effeminate. There’s an air of arrogance I read on his face. What does he do? He reads the Wall Street Journal late in the morning at Starbucks – that is what he does. I can imagine that he’s a musician. His lips say something to me but I wouldn’t guess he played a wind instrument. I’m thinking more along the lines of a cello or a violin. He exudes a certain studied air. I couldn’t imagine him doing anything less civil than reading the paper, retiring to his house nearby for lunch and then playing a few pieces to unwind in the evening. He doesn’t wear a wedding band. The only reason I notice this is because the other man does have one. He is dressed in a much more masculine fashion than the first. He wears a plaid shirt tucked into jeans, brown boots. A brown leather jacket rests on the back of the chair. He also looks very settled, like he plans to spend (or has spent) a good portion of the day at the cafe. There’s a pastry bag, bottle of water, a vent cup. He works on a MacBook. I can’t really see his screen very well, but it looks like email.

A middle-aged white man wearing a scarf, no jacket, runs into the cafe. He orders, a touch breathless, a grande mocha. He adds sugar. I wonder why? The drink is so sweet to begin with. But he has a bit of a paunch so maybe he has a bit of a sweet tooth (or obviously? he does). I wonder if he was thinner at a younger age. Even from where I sit, about 30 feet way, his blue eyes are dazzling. I bet he was an attractive man. He chats briefly with a woman standing by the bathroom door and then runs out of the cafe. Perhaps he works nearby in the village.

A steady stream of women start to filter in. They come in alone, sometimes striking up conversations with one another. They know each other. Their kids go to school together or they belong to the same church. It’s at this point that I realize that the only people of color are those working behind the counter.

A small elderly woman walks in alone pushing a shopping cart. She sits with her purse on her lap, eyeglasses folded lenses down on the table. This bothers me. Doesn’t she know this could scratch the lenses? She holds the tall cup of coffee in both hands, close to her mouth. The lid is off. It’s interesting how I don’t notice the absence of something (like a  wedding band or a lid) until that lack becomes apparent. She seems to be muttering to herself and keeps turning her head to the left and right. Her body tremors ever so slightly. Does she notice? Is she used to being constantly in this state of motion?

It’s relatively quiet. Most of the conversation is reserved for the transactions between customer and employee. Maybe it’s not so peculiar that only one table is occupied by more than one person. Is going to a cafe to read the paper or do work – such a singular activity? Perhaps during the week.

The man in the rugby sweatshirt removes his leg from the chair. I guess he wasn’t injured as I initially thought. He just wanted to make himself comfortable.

The Asian girl left. A professionally dressed man takes her seat. He’s balding and wears his sunglasses on the top of his head. He pulls out of his laptop and immediately gets to work. I didn’t see him order a drink.

The masculine man is packing up. I now see a stack of folders on the table – he had been working. He picks up some change. He’s not leaving then – just going to feed the meter.

I’m struck by the next person to walk in. I watched as she made her way in from the street. Her outfit is extraordinary -  a short khaki skirt, cropped shearling jacket, pink leg warmers worn past the thigh and a pair of shearling-lined boots. White thin frazzled hair tamed by a knit cap. I wasn’t entirely sure at first whether she was a man or a woman, until I heard her voice (although that could also be deceiving, maybe she’s transgendered). She ordered a hot chocolate. She asked if she could sit at my table. Sure, of course. I nodded. She replied, “…love that smile – this is your good deed of the day.” Not sure what that meant but I smiled. She pulled out the <em>New York Post</em>. She uses a pipette to place some drops into her drink and eats chicken salad out of  plastic container.

The masculine man returns with his iPad and sunglasses now propped on top of his head.

A fat, bald man wearing sweats sits down with the effeminate man. They’re talking about Columbia and all of the real estate that the university is buying. Can you believe they’re not getting taxed? And they’re fighting with NYU, too. I can’t hear the effeminate man very well, he speaks at a much lower volume.

The pink lady takes a pill now, she leaves the bottle uncapped on the table. It has a greenish brown residue along the rim. I bet she purchased it from the natural food store down the block.

A large family enters, definitely foreign. There are four men, two women and two young children.

The fat man also drinks from a venti cup. He hasn’t taken a sip yet because he hasn’t stopped talking.

The masculine man eats a donut. That’s slightly disappointing. A donut, really? That doesn’t fit into my conception of him… The elderly woman reads a pamphlet. It lists a calendar of events – maybe it’s from the library. She applies lipstick with a compact mirror. She finishes with a gloss.

When I finally hear the effeminate man speak, he instantly looses that arrogance. Gone is the musician. The effeminacy. Is he just a smart dresser?

The elderly woman scans a pocket calendar. It doesn’t look like anything is written on it. No handwritten notes. This makes me feel a bit sad. She rummages in her purse, pauses to look at her watch, and then goes back to rummaging. She pulls out a receipt and starts writing. It looks like she’s written notes on a number of old receipts. What does she write? Are they fleeting thoughts? To-do lists or reminders?

An elderly man wearing an oversized coat and a baseball cap joins the bald man and the no longer effeminate man. He makes a joke about the tie. I can tell because he jabs the tie with his finger. The bald man says, “I bet he has socks to match.” This is confirmed when the bald man retorts, “Well, excuse me!” They continue their conversation. I hear there’s a great place in Chinatown that specializes in custom-made shoes.

The professional man did order coffee. I see his venti cup in hand as he gets back on line for a refill.

Three middle-aged men, bedecked in spandex, lean their road bikes against the exterior window. Only two enter. A woman enters behind them – she really captures my attention. A MILF. Impeccably dressed in a chartreuse (popular this season) wool skirt, deep purple knit sweater, a gold brooch, tear drop earrings and eyeglasses propped on top of her head. (This is something I could never achieve – balancing glasses atop my head) Her brown shoulder length hair is perfectly coiffed. I’d imagine she’s still good in bed, even after all these years. Does she still sleep with her husband? When she pulls out her wallet chunky gold bangles dance down her arm.

The pink lady pulls out another pill bottle, labeled “Digest More.” One of the cyclists looks familiar. Did I take spinning classes with him on Saturday mornings in Scarsdale? He walks around the cafe cockily. He’s trying to grab someone, everyone’s attention it seems.

The cafe is significantly busier in the hour since I arrived. I leave right before noon.

Part one

Fernanda and I went to Union Square on Thursday afternoon. Because it was a bit rainy, we thought it would be the best place to talk to strangers. There’s always people coming and going around Union Square. At first, I was a bit trepidatious about having to approach strangers. But that’s always the case for me and then I very quickly get over it and jump right in. I need that initial anxiety to propel myself into action.

Fernanda set up the camera on a tripod. I donned headphones and held the microphone and recorder. We scanned the square. Many passers-by wore headphones or were talking on their cellphones. The phones and music devices acted like armor against the outside world; the technology providing a safe bubble for them as they went from Point A to Point B. This was going to make our task a little more challenging.

We tried to interview the most diverse crowd, men and women of all ages, colors, and socio-economic backgrounds (that, of course, from what we could superficially read).  We deliberately didn’t ask for their names or professions. We didn’t say our names unless asked. We agreed that it set a low barrier for entry – that this wasn’t something formal. We’re just going to ask a question. It’s not a big deal. The only introduction we provided was identifying ourselves as NYU students. After a few interviews though we decided not to say we were NYU students and ask plainly, “Can we ask you a question?” In two of these instances, the strangers (both in pairs) asked us if we were students. We confirmed. One pair ended up being students at Tisch as well.

I never felt uneasy when we were talking to any of the strangers. I think it’s because we only approached people that we felt comfortable interacting with. It’s interesting how you evaluate a person by the way they walk, dress, little idiosyncrasies. There was one woman we both “read” from a mile away, she appeared to have a tic, she kept shaking her head to the right. We didn’t approach her. There was also a boisterous crew of guys hanging out underneath the subway pagoda. I initially thought it would be cool to talk to them but the louder they got the less inclined I was to interact.

Many people seemed perplexed by our question. Their first responses either being “I don’t know” or “spiders.”  A few asked for suggestions.  I thought to myself, why should I have to suggest to you what you’re afraid of? But maybe it’s not such an weird thing to prompt? It could be that we caught people off guard by the question and they felt put on the spot.

The only odd response we experienced was from two women pushing strollers. I think they thought we were being aggressive. Their response felt a little hostile. The woman responded adamantly, “No, no, it’s not cool.”

Right off the bat, we noticed how a few people changed their course while walking when they saw us approaching with our recorder and camera on a tripod.  We found that it was easier to approach men rather than women. This surprised us. Maybe its easier to make eye contact with men because we were women? A number of the women we tried to approach ignored us outright. They avoided eye contact. Some waved us off or offered excuses like “I’m late for a meeting” or  “I only have two minutes form my lunch break.” Others apologized. One woman with a Louis Vuitton bag said, “No, thank you.” My favorite response came from a tall, well-dressed man – he smiled slightly and winked. Somehow that made it alright for him to keep on walking.

Once we got someone to stop and listen to us for a few seconds – either by identifying ourselves as students or saying, can we ask you a question – it was much easier to get them to stay. No one that we stopped said no, I don’t want to answer your question or I don’t want to be filmed. But some did ask us before we recorded, what type of question?

Part two

We decided to take advantage of the unseasonably warm and sunny day and head out to Washington Square Park Friday afternoon – much more preferable than rendering video on the floor.

Unlike yesterday, I felt anxious about having to approach people. Without the props, I felt it would be harder to initiate conversation. How would people react to someone approaching them out of nowhere to ask a random question like, what are you afraid of?

The first person we spoke with was a middle-aged woman. She wore all black. Black sweatpants, sweatshirt, and a long back overcoat. Her hair was bleached blond but parts of it were so bleached it had turned white. She rummaged through a large black plastic bag. Next to her there was a sign “FREE PSYCHIC.” Fernanda initiated the conversation. The psychic responded, “I don’t know. Why are you asking?” We told her we were NYU students. She said, “I feel numb.” That was a curious response. What did that mean? Especially for a psychic? Aren’t they supposed to feel everything? She continued, “I’m not afraid of much. I’m not afraid of anything really. I don’t know.” We chatted for another minute or so but she didn’t share anything else. She asked us if we wanted a free reading. According to her, “you girls have good energy.” We thanked her but declined the offer. She wished us good luck.

Next, we saw a boy and a girl sitting on the ledge of the water fountain. They looked very approachable, easy going. They had been chatting animatedly before we initiated conversation. I asked, “Can we ask you a question?” The girl responded, “Yes.” “What are you afraid of?” Without any hesitation, both responded. I was taken aback by their candidness. I found myself trying to make eye contact with both of them, but the girl had on sunglasses. I’m not sure what prompted me to act this way, I didn’t make the same effort with the psychic. The boy said he was afraid of two things, lies and love. He was afraid to fall in love. He didn’t want his heart broken. The girl said she was afraid of being alone. She didn’t like the idea of not being able to share with a partner your feelings. She didn’t want to hold her feelings inside. This ended up being the most common answer –  the fear of being alone. Which is interesting in many regards, first, that it was the prompt &lt;when do you feel most alone&gt; for the rest of the class . Secondly, it’s a curious thing – this fear of being alone, especially with how much more connected we are these days, at least virtually.

While we were waiting to speak with the peanut vendor (he was on his cellphone), a big white woolly dog approached us. She started the conversation for us. We asked the owner what her name was &lt;Maddie&gt; and how old she was &lt;2 and a half&gt;. “Do you bring her to the park every day?” I inquired. The owner answered affirmatively. Then I prompted him with our question. He smiled and asked, “What class are you taking? “ I guess one of the problems with doing the exercise in Washington Square Park is that it’s a safe assumption we’re students. People may be more open or perhaps expect to be approached in this setting? After identifying ourselves as NYU students, he said, “Public speaking.” I noticed that he had a piece of food between his two teeth. I also noted his severe underbite, his unshaven face. I wondered what he did for a living? Was he retired? He said that he was a smart guy. Despite that fact though, he told us when we was younger he passed up many opportunities because he was too afraid to speak. In retrospect, he would have pushed himself. “That’s my lesson… face your fears.” We said thanks, petted Maddie one more time, and they walked away.

We then walked over to the peanut vendor. He seemed very resistant, even to my first question which was “May we ask you a question?” He said, “Sure.” I asked. He had a perplexed or confused expression on his face. It was very hard to read. I kept searching his eyes to see if I could make a connection. I thought he had a nice sweater on. He repeated the question before answering, “Economical crisis.” I asked him if there was anything more personal, something he felt in his life, that he was afraid of. He responded plainly, “Death.” I asked him what he thought happened after death. He said that nothing happens after you die. And then he asked us, “Are you philosophers?” We attempted to continue the conversation for a few more seconds but his answers were short, curt… there wasn’t anything that I could read in his face or body.  We ended the conversation there.

The last person that we spoke to was a young student. We saw her from a distance. A vision in red. She wore red rimmed sunglasses, red scarf, and red wool tights (and her mocassins had tiny red beads). Fernanda asked her the question. She asked if we wanted a silly small phobia or something more serious, “like really afraid of.” We said both. Her silly phobia is ghosts. Her bigger fear? She’s afraid of someone she loves dying. She thinks both are related. She told us that she’s had some sad things happen in her life. And that its difficult to imagine losing someone that you love; it’s important to enjoy the time that you have together.

Afterwards, I realized that it was much easier to approach people without the camera. I thought it was a useful prop but I felt much better and less invasive when we just walked up plainly to people. I’m not sure if they were more receptive to us but it felt that way. Maybe it had something to do with making ourselves more vulnerable. We’re not hiding behind any equipment. We don’t have clipboards. We’re going up to strangers and asking them a question. It’s unexpected I suppose. Our success rate was 100%. No one waved us off or refused to answer the question. As we left the park we noticed the psychic had left. Her sign though remained on the park bench, along with a small black plastic bag.

As we meandered up the street, we exchanged small talk. We were both from New York. He was here in London for the week checking out Fashion programs. He didn’t want to go to Fashion school in New York because that’s where everyone goes. He had studied music at a university in Minnesota as an undergraduate and spent time in LA working as a graphic designer but couldn’t handle LA anymore. He had just recently returned to New York and that’s when he decided to look into Fashion. He’s interested in both men’s and women’s wear but would like to focus specifically on accessories. He seemed pretty young, maybe in his mid 20s. He dressed pretty casually: white shirt, vest, blue jeans and Nike sneakers. He had his sunglasses propped atop his head. I wasn’t that impressed by what he was wearing. I would have dressed a little more for the part if I was headed over to a school to check out their Fashion course but that’s just me. I told him about my program at NYU, chatting on about interactive art and gesture-based technology. He seemed excited about the prospect of using Kinect (like Xbox? he asked) in art / media projects. His brother is also at NYU but he doesn’t know what he does, maybe political science or economics. He hasn’t spoken to his brother in a few months. I was curious as to why but thought that would overstep the bounds of our first conversation.

I kept checking the map to make sure that we were headed the right way. We were on course. There were a few times when the conversation would drop. He seemed a bit hesitant to go on. Then I would check the map and we’d resume walking and talking. It reminded me of Goffman’s notes on leave-taking. Maybe I was not acknowledging his cues? Perhaps I didn’t establish enough “trust” for him? I’m not sure. I was set on getting him to Fashion Street.

Finally, we had arrived. Or at least, this was as far as he would go. I didn’t even bother to look across the street to see if it was really Fashion Street. He made it a clear definitive stop. He extended his hand and said, “Thanks. I’m Zach by the way. Nice to meet you.” I introduced myself in turn and wished him well. As he walked away he said, “Maybe we’ll see each other again, you never know.” I smiled and nodded. I thought I should look up the university when I get back home. I thought of the google search terms “fashion school fashion st london.” I never did.

I made it to the main road and pulled out my map. I really didn’t have any clue where I was. The map didn’t help so I put it away. That’s when I heard, “Would you like a haircut?” I turned around to face the two women I had just passed on the road. A little shocked by the proposition (do I have a penchant for attracting hair stylists? is my haircut really that bad?) I quickly replied, “No, no thanks.” Though she continued, “Would you be interested? My salon is just down the road.” I noticed the woman’s nose ring, her hair. It wasn’t styled at all. She had it pulled back in a ponytail. It was not the best endorsement for her skills with scissors, I thought. The other woman’s hair was much more funky. She had purple streaks and an asymmetrical cut that reminded me of my old hairstyle as an undergrad. I declined the offer again, it seemed like a risky proposition. I explained though that I was just in town visiting and on my way to the Design Museum.

However, I was still lost. They offered to walk me part of the way, it was in the same direction as they were headed. We chatted about how much easier it is to navigate New York, since it’s on a grid system. The woman with a nose ring said she’s lived in London all her life and she knows plenty of other Londoners that haven’t a clue where they’re going most of the time. They led me right up to the bridge and directed me down a flight of stairs. The purple-haired woman then gave me specific directions to reach the museum. I was greatly indebted. I would not have been able to find this on my own. I said thanks and they wished me well for the rest of my trip. Part of me was still a bit intrigued by the possibility of getting a haircut, but I continued down the stairs without turning back. This interaction also prompted me to question the assumptions that I make about strangers. In this case, I had completely misread these two women. They had transformed in a matter of minutes from threats into aides. Lesson learned.

Another point made clear in the New York Times was that the restaurant was hard to find. No precise address given, only the name of the school—“Rochelle School”–and that it was off of Arnold’s Circus. A “circus” of course didn’t make any sense to me as an American but as I deciphered from my map, it was a circular road with a park in the middle and about seven different streets transecting. I started out towards there from the north.

I saw a middle-aged woman, smartly dressed, walking alone with a book in her hand about 20 steps in front of  me. She turned onto Calvert Street. So did I. She continued down Calvert until the road forked and turned left. So did I. Were we headed to the same place? She doubled back. I decided to follow. I thought about approaching her but hesitated. I didn’t want to assume that we were both looking for the same thing. We finally reached the “circus.” She slowly made her way around the circle, me about ten steps behind. Then she stopped to consult her book. I asked her, “Are you looking for Rochelle’s Canteen?” She was. We both consulted the entry in her guidebook but it didn’t reveal any more than we already knew about how to find the restaurant.

We continued walking, looking for clues in each building we passed. A school sign, a bike shed. Nothing. She asked how did I hear about it? I told her I read about it in the New York Times. She guffawed, “Well it’s all over now. The secret is out. There might as well be a marquee.” I laughed hesitantly. I changed the subject to art. I told her that I had spent the morning visiting galleries. She had just been to see the Gilbert &amp; George exhibition at White Cube. She suggested that I check out David Hockney at the Royal Academy. There were so many good shows on at the moment. She appeared to revel in that fact.

The conversation returned to the restaurant and she commented, “I love how egalitarian this country is.” I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by this, and I didn’t ask for clarification. Maybe people from all walks of life can find themselves together at a place like this restaurant and that’s an equalizing factor? She also said that British people are exceptionally polite. She said it should be marketed really – the politeness, especially with the upcoming Olympics. I nodded.

Finally, we spied a “BOYS” entrance sign. This must be it. We approached and found the buzzer for Rochelle’s Canteen. The gray wooden door opened to reveal a secret garden of sorts. It really felt like Eden. The sun shining. People sitting outside on small tables and benches. All smiles. We were both beaming ourselves as we approached the bike shed to see about tables. The waitress went to check.

As she returned, a man (maybe another waiter or the maitre’d) followed swiftly behind. In a snarky tone, he said it was not possible, there were are no more tables that day. Dream crusher. The woman turned to me and said, “That’s a bit of disappointment now, isn’t it?” I concurred.

I started to walk away and then stopped. I thought about being a pushy New Yorker and getting myself a seat. That wouldn’t be polite, though, would it?

I headed towards the entrance, looking wistfully behind me. Next time, I’ll make a booking. The woman lingered a bit behind me. I saw her from across the street. I should have asked her to lunch. I knew of another restaurant nearby (where I was headed). It’s too bad I didn’t… next time?

The aeons and the worlds are my sport,

and I watch with calm and amused aloofness

the anticks of the planets and the mutations of the universes.

– H.P. Lovecraft

H.P. Lovecraft is the most well known twentieth century writer from Rhode Island. Lovecraft bridged the gap between Poe’s style of horror and contemporary science fiction and fantasy and, subsequently, held a particular place in the evolution of weird and supernatural fiction.  Lovecraft’s literary creations, the Necronomicon and the Cthulhu mythos, inspired a tradition in weird fiction writing that has continued to the modern day.  In addition to weird writers, Lovecraft caught the attention of a number of social groups, including goths, science fiction geeks, and scholars. The different ways these groups engaged with Lovecraft created a space for this thesis to look at how both fans and scholars used Lovecraft.  Lovecraft inspired fan art, music, role-playing games, and a plush toy line. Also, scholarly interest in the weird author doubled the Lovecraft collection at Brown University’s John Hay Library and created the journal, Lovecraft Studies. Lovecraft’s appeal to such disparate groups makes him a great case study for audience reception and production.

In 1890, Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born to Winfield Scott and Sarah Phillips Lovecraft in Providence, Rhode Island.  Lovecraft spent most of his life in Providence, except for a three-year stint in Brooklyn, New York, when he was briefly married to Sonia Greene. Lovecraft had a peculiar upbringing raised by his mother and his two aunts, and was sick most of his childhood. Confined to his house, Lovecraft turned to reading and writing. He began reading authors that would influence his work throughout his life, Coleridge, Hawthorne, Lord Dunsany, and Poe. He wrote short stories that mimicked the authors he read.[1] Additionally, Lovecraft expressed an interest in science and journalism. He created and published two journals in his youth, The Scientific Gazette and The Rhode Island Journal of Astronomy, which steered him towards a career in amateur journalism.[2]

In 1914, Lovecraft joined the United Amateur Press Association.[3] His involvement with the UAPA connected him with a number of other writers with whom he corresponded until his death. Lovecraft’s letters are still available at Brown University’s John Hay Library, which holds more than a thousand of them.  A few years later, in 1917, Lovecraft started publishing his writing in pulp magazines like The United Amateur, Home Brew, Weird Tales, and Astounding Stories.[4] Lovecraft’s fiction did not appear in true book form until after his death. Interestingly, Lovecraft fans and fan-scholars published their Lovecraft-inspired fiction and critical analyses in the similar form of pulp magazines in zines, like Crypt of Cthulhu and Lovecraft Studies.

Lovecraft fans and scholars have produced enough work devoted to or inspired by Lovecraft to create a substantive community of interest. In his book, A Study in the Fantastic, Maurice Levy explained, “to enter Lovecraft’s fantastic universe is to be brutally dislodged from the familiar, dispossessed of all criteria or systems of reference, violently thrown into an abnormal space amid beings of which the least one can say is that they transgress the common order. The monster plays no negligible role in this basic bewilderment; it surprises, it frightens, it shocks.”[5] Lovecraft’s fictive world has drawn a wide range of devotees, enticed by Lovecraft’s proficiency in exploding the fantastic into the mundane. Fans drew upon Lovecraft’s most popular literary creations, the Necronomicon and the Cthulhu mythos and wrote mythos-inspired fiction, wrote songs about Lovecraft and his stories, sold plush toys of Lovecraft’s gods, and published their own creations on the Internet.

The Necronomicon was a fictional book of occult lore that figured largely in a number of Lovecraft’s stories.  From its introduction, there was interest expressed about the content and location of the Necronomicon.  Lovecraft responded by writing a history of the Necronomicon. He revealed very little content of the Necronomicon, and focused on the provenance of the book and the locations of all extant copies. Lovecraft’s fans have responded in a number of different ways to Lovecraft’s history. Some Lovecraft fans searched for a copy of the real Necronomicon, others published spoofs, and a few investigated all available material on the book to provide a critical analysis.

The mythos, sometimes called the “Cthulhu mythos,” referred to a set of elements in Lovecraft’s fiction that figured predominantly in his work. The elements included gods (Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth), books of occult lore (Necronomicon), and fictional New England towns (Arkham, Kingsport). Lovecraft used these elements to produce cohesion in his work. Lovecraft’s creations did not remain exclusive to his fiction but appeared in the works of Lovecraft’s contemporaries, like Clark Ashton Smith, and continued to inspire a great number of authors to this day. Mythos-inspired fiction appeared in zines, books, and role-playing games. The issue with the mythos is that Lovecraft never referred to these literary elements as the “Cthulhu mythos.” August Derleth, one of Lovecraft’s young protégés, coined the name “Cthulhu mythos” after Lovecraft’s death and popularized the mythic aspect of Lovecraft’s work. Although fans debated Derleth’s interpretation of the mythos, if Derleth had not pushed the mythos so incessantly, Lovecraft may not have been known today. The Necronomicon and the mythos attracted people to Lovecraft and eventually initiated discussion and debate within the Lovecraft community.

In researching Lovecraft fans, the Internet provided a wealth of material on audience reception and production. Fans and scholars published biographies, bibliographies, fictional works, and critical analyses of Lovecraft on the Web. Since the Internet was so important to the community, for primary research data on fans I posted a questionnaire on the Web, using the Center for History and New Media’s Survey Builder tool. I advertised the questionnaire in several places: in forum-based communities, journal-based communities in LiveJournalä, and newsgroups. In hindsight I realized I should have asked the respondents where they saw the survey. The questionnaire elicited demographic and subjective data. The respondents were required to provide an age, gender, occupation and zip code. My initial hypothesis about modern-day Lovecraft fans as predominantly goths was reflected in the subjective questions which asked the respondents about the Goth scene and their involvement, their knowledge and interest in H.P. Lovecraft, and if they thought there was a connection between H.P. Lovecraft and the Goth scene. The survey responses changed the thesis that follows though by revealing that goths were not the only Lovecraft fans, sci fi geeks and fantasy gamers also shared an affinity for Lovecraft.

The first Lovecraft story I read was The Lurker at the Threshold. I realized only after starting my thesis that the book was not written by Lovecraft, but inspired by Lovecraft. August Derleth used notes and outlines left by Lovecraft to create this story. It’s compelling that my introduction to Lovecraft was through a fan-produced text rather than an original Lovecraft work. This study hopes to understand why fans are attracted to Lovecraft and how that translates into how fans used Lovecraft. Moreover, the study considers the dynamics of the Lovecraft community and why there is a distinctive line drawn between the Lovecraft fan and Lovecraft scholar.

[2] Joshi, 41.

[3] Joshi, 77.

[4] S.T. Joshi, “Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Life of a Gentleman of Providence,” 13 April 2004 < http://hplovecraft.com/life/biograph.htm>.

[5] Maurice Levy, Lovecraft, A Study in the Fantastic (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1988), 55.

Black Ships

Scroll 2

“There was a crowd of people there, all stirred up and making guesses about the burning ships on the horizon. Then those ships came nearer and nearer, until the shape of them showed us they were not Japanese ships but foreign ones…”1 recalled an anonymous Japanese eyewitness. In 1854, Commodore Perry directed his small force of four steamers into the seas of Japan for the second time. As the ships drew nearer to the land and the fog lifted, the men of the expedition observed a number of Japanese villages set in between “deep ravines, green with rich verdure [that] opened into small expanses of alluvial land.”2 The sailors must have seen white forts along the water’s edge, undoubtedly outfitted for defense, but the Americans were not intimidated.

A fleet of Japanese boats tried to stop the squadron but Commodore Perry pushed on. Bayard Taylor, the New Yorker Tribune correspondent reported from the Susquehanna, “[that] the sight of our two immense steamers- the first that ever entered Japanese waters- dashing along at the rate of nine knots an hour, must have struck the natives with the utmost astonishment.”3

Near the city of Uraga on the western side, the squadron dropped their anchors. Not long after, the Japanese fired warning shots from the shore. The Japanese were hostile to any foreigners entering their waters and Japan maintained a strict policy of isolationism having negotiated stringent trade agreements with only the Dutch and Chinese. The Japanese kept close surveillance of the American vessels and approached the squadron for a second time.

This panel illustrated the first concrete contact made between the Americans and Japanese on the second expedition. The panel depicted the Japanese small sailing boats as they approached the formidable steamers. The American ships flew the American flag, symbolic of the young unified nation. The Japanese boats flew the Hinomaru, the flag of the rising sun. The Hinomaru was first used as a shrine flag but, in the sixteenth century, was designated as proper for Japanese vessels. In 1870, during the Mejii Restoration, the government ordered that every Japanese merchant ship should use Hinomaru as the national flag.

The Japanese called the American vessels the “Black Ships” because the hulls were black and the ships belched black smoke. The Americans’ described the Japanese vessels as “trimly built, of pinewood, without a touch of paint, propelled over the water with great swiftness by a numerous crew of boatmen, who, standing to their oars at stern, sculled instead of rowing, the boat.”4 Clearly there was a significant technological divide in shipbuilding between the two nations.

The artist seemed more familiar with the Japanese vessels than with the American steamers. While the American steamers appeared two dimensional and static, the Japanese boats were dynamic, full-bodied, and moving. The artist may not have understood the mechanics of the American vessels or this depiction could have been operating on an entirely different level, the artist portrayed the Americans as obstinate in their relations with Japanese and generally not fitting into the Japanese milieu.

References

1. Oliver Statler, The Black Ship Scroll: an account of the Perry expedition at Shimoda in 1854 and the lively beginnings of people-to-people relations between Japan & American based on contemporary records. (Tokyo : Weatherhill, c1963), 8
2. Robert Tomes, The Americans in Japan: An Abridgment of the Government Narrative of the U.S. Expedition
3. Statler, 8.
4. Tomes, 154.

Professor Smulyan and I received a grant from the University to continue researching the scroll and develop the website, Perry visits Japan. Over the summer of 2003 we reviewed all available resources on the Japan Expedition and worked with the Center for Digital Initiatives, Brown University Library, to produce the site. The website relies on the 12 panel painted scroll by an anonymous Japanese artist and 6 lithographs originally painted by Wilhelm Heine, the official American artist of the Expedition. Below is a narrative I wrote to accompany the first illustration on the scroll.

First Contact

Scroll 1

The first panel of this illustrated scroll by an anonymous Japanese artist provides the observer with a Japanese interpretation of the early relations between Japan and the United States and the separate histories that led up to “first contact.” During the European age of exploration, the Portuguese traveled westward to Japan. Jesuit missionaries accompanied Portuguese merchants because Christianity was an integral part of the Portuguese goal of contact with non-Western peoples. The missionaries thrived in Japan and acquired such a large following that soon the shoguns viewed the religion as a political threat. Consequently, during the seventeenth century, Christians and the practice of Christianity were prohibited. Moreover, in 1639, the Bakufu established a policy of isolation, or national seclusion. With the exception of the Dutch, Westerners were prohibited from interacting with Japan and Japanese were barred from leaving the country.

About two hundred years after the Japanese closed their doors, Americans began to look beyond their borders. The United States, motivated by the idea of manifest destiny, tried to expand their influence and wield more power in the world. The Lewis and Clark expedition in 1804, the annexation of Texas and Oregon, the Gadsden Purchase, joined in 1853 by the first expedition to Japan under Commodore Matthew Calbraith Perry are all examples of this impulse.

In the panel, the American officer points his gun at the Japanese peasant and with the other hand points to a place beyond the panel. The Japanese artist probably considers the Americans as aggressors. The Japanese man appears prostrate with his arms outstretched towards the officer. The artist seems to believe that the Japanese pleas; the Japanese are not barbarians like the Americans and work for peaceful solutions. Commodore Perry led his expedition with the clear intent of standing up to the Japanese people. He wanted to demonstrate that the United States would not take “No” for an answer. His plan was “to drive by force.” Wilhelm Heine, the resident artist, in his own words explained Perry’s strategy was to “meet force with force.”1 And as commented in the official Narrative of the Expedition, “Perry’s attitude and action…gives indications of the compelling influence that the concept of manifest destiny had upon American foreign policy”2 On the 1853 voyage, Perry’s only concession was that the Americans would return the following spring, which according to him, would give the Japanese an adequate amount of time to discuss the issues.

The use of the color blue is striking, it stands out from the surrounding earth tones of brown and green. Unlike the colors red and purple, blue [made using indigo dye] was not forbidden by Japanese edict. The dark navy blue used in this panel, according to Kunio Fukuda, was employed most frequently. 3 Most likely the artist worked with Prussian blue, discovered in Western Europe and introduced to Japan in the eighteenth century. Fukuda conjectured that because blue was a familiar color to all Japanese it was popular among artisans. Moreover, blue was ubiquitous “possibly because the Japanese never worshiped an almighty god envisaged as dwelling in heaven, blue never became associated with lofty religious sentiments.” 4 The US naval officer and the mountain in the background are the only two objects to appear in blue. The mountain most likely is Mount Fuji, which is easily visible from Edo [Toyko] Bay. The inclusion of Mount Fuji in the panel is significant as it is a revered landmark of Japan. Sangku shinko, a belief held by many Japanese past and present, is that mountains are sacred. The gods are believed to live in the mountains. The mountains are also environmental assets, they provide for and protect the animals and produce the streams that give water to surrounding areas.

References

1. Wilhelm Heine, With Perry to Japan, trans. and ed. Frederic Trautmann (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1990), 3
2. House Record, Narrative of the Expedition (1856): 626, quoted in Wilhelm Heine, With Perry to Japan
3. Kunio Fukuda, The Colors of Japan. (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 2000), 28.
4. Fukuda, 28