Every fall, I get an urge to read a good horror story. Preferably nothing gory, but rife with horrific oddities and chill-inducing moments. I’ll award bonus points if it’s got Lovecraftian intrigue and bizarre pseudo-history. And at the heart of it all, I want a good story.
The Fisherman by John Langan checks all of the boxes, draws a few new boxes I didn’t realize belonged on the quiz, and checks them for good measure. It’s creepy. It’s chilling. And it’s fantastic, in every sense of the word.
Every summer, I make the same mistake. I start to get really optimistic.
I don’t mean in general; I’m not talking about how I feel about humanity or the nature of life. Those things aren’t quite so seasonal. I mean, I get optimistic about what I can realistically take on.
My wife has a reduced work schedule in the summer. My day job doesn’t officially have less hours in summer, but there’s a natural slowdown to projects as people take vacations with their kids. My kids have less commitments. We take days for ourselves. And I’m generally pretty darn productive.