FROM THE DESK OF THE LSM
SIGNPOST
Hello, fair friends and fellow freaks. Welcome back to another week of pulpy goodness. It’s lovely to see you all again.
If you are new here (which most of you are considering this is all of the second week I have been doing this) and wondering what you got yourself into: I’m Skylar Dates, an independent horror author who writes Midwest Gothic. What you find here will often drift a bit — plus, you’re joining on an article week, so no scary stories until next edition— but there will always been chilly, rotted-out grist mill vibes right around the corner.
THE PULP
This week’s essay is about the philosophy of Existentialism, and in particular Existential Dread. I came up with it after having an existential panic in the wine and cheese aisle of my local Kroger (no, really, this is absolutely a true story) and wanted to explore the roots of those feelings a little further.
You can find it right here.
AN EXTRA SLICE
As I shake out the jitters, the newsletter is going to evolve a bit into something more interactive and “update-y” and less statement of purpose, but since we’re all new to this you’ll forgive me the first week or two of working out the bugs. Stretching a bit. You know how it goes.
Perfectionism is a deep-rooted neurosis in this author, and some of what you early adopters are bearing witness to is an individual deeply uncomfortable with imperfection forcing imperfection into the workflow. Everything is going to get cleaner and tighter over time with practice. Right now, I’m telling myself it’s okay that this isn’t what I want it to be yet.
You’re free to disagree.
DREDGE
That’s it for this week’s main squeeze. If you’re enjoying the journey, or even just a few sips, please subscribe and share. I won’t be bombarding your inbox. I don’t have the bandwidth or capacity for that kind of mass writing yet, especially as I work to complete my novel “Will Parker is Still Missing.”
But I do appreciate the support dearly. It is meaningful.
Next week, we’re back to spooky stories with an exploration of domestic dread with a short story I wrote one night after returning from the bathroom and becoming convinced something was going to be lying in the bed I had just left.
Tune in for “It Was Not My Wife”
Until then.
Crossbone Hugs and Phantom Breeze Kisses,
Skylar Dates
