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Brian S. Monroe (1959—) lurks somewhere in the Pacific Northwest amidst its dark mountains and grim waters. He suffers from the delusion that he is an author and carries this to the point of actually publishing some of his so-called books. They make great campfire starters and can be used to lay a trail behind if escorted into the woods by a wicked step parent. Within the pages there are occasional flashes of excellence that are very impressive but for most, the best part of the story is the ending.
His first efforts saw the light of day in the late 1960s. Despite a movement to place his works on the Index and jail him for criminal boredom, he was never restrained or convicted and thus allowed to continue his destruction of Western literature. He remains fairly prolific today. So blame them.
At home in several genres, his major focus is the style of H.P. Lovecraft – horror/science fiction if you will. His narratives tend to push (and sometimes break) the accepted boundaries of reality and often leave the reader in a state of confusion regarding where imagination begins and reality leaves off. He also has written in other styles such as erotica, non-fiction technical manuals, and wry humor.
If you should encounter him on the street, be sure not to approach too closely unless you have a good stock of hot fudge sauce or whipped cream. These can distract him while you run to safety. Should he capture you, be prepared to be bored out your mind while he inflicts his latest verbal creation on you, much as the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge’s poem. Those who survive are never quite the same.
It is hoped that eventually he’ll drift away from literature and get into something else—but it’s a given he’ll run that into the ground too. Like most disturbing intruders, he likely has developed immunity to his repellent, leaving us to suffer as he continues to serve up creations of the written word.