Not one to get hung up on subgenre writing, I happily fall into the “Southern Gothic” realm of the historical fiction genre, not only because it is an author differentiator; but it’s also an in-my-face reminder of why I’m writing an epic hero’s journey that needs to be filled with a sense of wonder while tapping the gripping murky depths of human emotion—those things that make a novel worth reading. Somewhere on some psychoanalyst’s chart beyond “happy” and “ecstatic,” is “sad" and "morose,” which can quickly escalate into “fearful” and “terrified!” That’s where you’ll find the attraction of “Southern Gothic.”
The South is a place of endless fascination for me. I love the lemon scent of a big, waxy magnolia blossom that looks good enough to eat. The humorous euphemisms spoken with a heavy accent keep me laughing (and using) for decades. The sight of water turkeys (Anhinga) and alligators transport me into the Oligocene or Jurassic eras, to fuel my imagination and sharpen my respect and awareness for all things creepy crawly, my apprehension caused by a disconnect from their base instinct to survive; and mine, thinking about the fun of finding them—two totally different priorities we need to be aware of if either of us are to survive the day.
If I had to explain it, I would say “Southern gothic” is stumbling upon a freshly dug-up gravesite, exposing questions of sinister weight about family history and the attentive ethereal musings among neighbors, when compared to a normal actual burial, which is “that’s that,” finite. It’s being thrust into situations that bypass convention that dislocate the center of gravity. It’s a distant creeping terror playing hide-and-seek within the bright shafts of sunlight on a cheery day, leading to an emotional mélange that shifts the atmosphere, causing the skin hairs to suddenly stand at attention. It's about the oblivious things going on around you, that don't escape the subconscious—the atmosphere.
". . . you notice red road clay (or is that blood?) smeared on a white board fence, and you wonder how it got there . . ."
Atmosphere
Atmosphere is felt, not seen. It’s “a feeling” that pours over you like molasses on biscuits, the five senses information converging at once, until collectively, they reach a sober conclusion: you feel a sudden chill in a deserted country house; depression sets in when you spy a cobweb, ragged and tattered, tugging in a drafty window, it’s corners anchored in weathered lignin and fly speck, its silken strands glowing like glass strings, laying contrast to sun-shifting shadows; your sense of attention is heightened when you notice red road clay (or is that blood?) smeared on a white board fence, and you wonder how it got there; the pulse rate quickens when crossing a black water bend in a broad creek, when you see a ripple of something large, moving unseen beneath the surface; or maybe the sight of a broken hoe leaning against a fencepost, blade up, menacing, a primitive Celtic-like scarecrow’s weapon that gives you pause to assess your surroundings.
I heard the “gothic” term in literature, film and architecture when I moved to Georgia many years ago, but I assumed it had more to do with Civil War relics, superstitions and cemeteries with grasping live oak guardians and leaning gravestones. But it’s broader than history and creepy feelings, or abject horror, though that’s a big part of the subgenre. It can show its face as irony, in an awakening lost memory, an emotional twist with a bit of dry humor.
Irony
PHOTO: Vecteezy
“Have you seen Dabby? I want to find out when Bible study starts tomorrow.”
“I saw her walkin’ ‘Trixie’ along the lake there. She walked behind the clubhouse, just a minute ago.”
“Wait. That’s Trixie isn’t it? She’s barkin’ up a storm and looks like she’s off her leash. But where’s Dabby?”
“She wouldn’t let Trixie run free like that. She drafted the leash law with the Homeowners Association. You know Dabby.”
“You mean like pickin’ and choosin’ which rules she wants to follow versus those she says you need to follow?”
“That’s right. . . . You might need to call 911 about that bible class. I believe she struck a problem. . . . This time, she might could ’ave picked the wrong rule not to follow.”
Awareness
An alligator attack is horrific, but bad occurrences or “evil” encounters happen when an opportunity presents itself, among two “entities,” either by lacking awareness when something is in your space, ignorance for not assessing upfront risk or simply crossing paths in an unfortunate random meeting through space and time. Be it survival of the fittest, or an “Act of God,” predators, tornadoes or viruses don’t care about societal rules or your Saturday fun. Nature doesn’t live in a vacuum and that space will be filled with an outsider, should it just happen to turn up—maybe at random, but over time, in a predictable pattern within the chaos. Catastrophic weather events appear under the right atmospheric circumstances and exist within the same world, sharing the same physics as living creatures, who are forced to respond with a survival tactic. Weather vagaries such as cloud formation even have a life cycle. We’ve all evolved together to some extent with the same modus operandi—the will to survive, within our fitness possibilities.
"The brooding sunset, a whisper of wind in the trees, or secrets, which are always disquieting, slithering among those with a penchant for the pernicious or prone to postulate the hearsay . . ."
That’s the fascination! We coexist with “things” we may not see or comprehend, but can easily interact with, should we choose to do so, at our own risk. If you believe the teachings in The Bible, Apostle Paul clearly states a warning in the Book of Ephesians, claiming our fight for life as we know it, is not with beings we can see and touch, but of demonic spirits. In my companion’s town of Casoria, her suburb in Naples, Italy, exorcisms are held in a particular church on an “as needed” basis. Who am I to question a practice continued for thousands of years, and apparently needed, in an ancient city that hosted great civilizations that has outlasted wars, plagues and volcanic eruptions? But Southern Gothic is also more than awareness of the physical and the supernatural, as measured by the tick of the clock.
Time
Southern Gothic involves a time warp, with a juxtaposition of the known and unknown, resulting in a surreal state of consciousness. One foot in the world you know and one foot out. It’s a triggered response based on how long it takes to notice something and secondly, to make associations with past experiences. The brooding sunset, a whisper of wind in the trees, or secrets, which are always disquieting, slithering among those with a penchant for the pernicious or prone to postulate the hearsay. It can creep over you before you know it or slam into you with a shock value that doesn’t register because it’s just too—shocking! It’s a surfacing recognition of a past experience—maybe déjà vu— that can ride the axis measured by a psychopathic needle, where polite society avoids discussion, while whispers revolve around familial or neighborly secrets. We live in a cycle chamber of patterns and experiences that primitive tribes before us also experienced. They saw sunrises and sunsets, observed weather patterns, experienced a life under a moving starscape and moon signs and the significance of birth and death cycles. All living creatures live their lives within these cycles that are forged with time. Sometimes the cycles wobble and warp, speeding up or slowing down the watch.
A sense of place
Any discussion of Southern Gothic tropes can’t escape the dirt. Though hundreds of thousands of acres in the South have been paved for gated housing communities and landscaped golf courses, land is still the magnet, holding ferrous memories and stories that give meaning to families, neighbors and thriving communities. Meaning is what gives depth and significance to a spiritual life. There was, and still is, the attraction to place cotton seeds in furrows and to harvest a chipping saw log. Farms and their stories have been passed down through the generations because while land provided a living, it was the stories that made land ownership significant by giving the owners a connection, a sense of belonging. Family. Activities rooted to an agrarian lifestyle, such as hunting, fishing and equestrian sports are bonding acts with a reconnection and respect for the experiences of former generations as well as a quest to understand the natural world. Dogs and horses are revered in the South because they continue to play a part in those outdoor memories. A Southern Gothic treatment allows them to be almost human, which any dog or horse owner will attest. My hometown’s claim to fame is the “Saddlebred Horse Capital of the World.” Harness racing was a big thing at the local county fairs as well, an expression of the Southern culture heritage in Little Dixie.
When Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone with the Wind, she knew the quickest way to reader’s hearts, particularly Southern reader’s hearts, was the transformation of Scarlett, from spoiled brat to giving a damn about “Tara,” the family plantation farm, which was nearly destroyed, the family fortune lost by war and Yankee blockades. To a Southerner, family land is something worth holding onto tenaciously. Time cements family strengths and reputations, but everyone needs a place to settle—a place to make history. It can take on a significance larger than life.
"I believe books written about the South practically write themselves . . ."
It’s full circle real
Anybody raised in the country sees nature’s life and death experiences often. It is the sudden exposure to nature’s brutal acts of survival, as well as the retch-inducing seldom seen horrors of biological breakdowns familiar to all beings in the web of life, a necessary ending towards recycling nutrients through the meek who rule the earth, rushing towards an “ashes to ashes” phrase at a graveside service, leading to a Christian doxology—with the promise of an everlasting life to follow.
I write historical fiction because it is a way to experience the living world my ancestors experienced. I write because I search for significant meaning trying to understand the world around me. I want to keep things "real." For sanity, I need to keep things "real." I have experienced most of what I write about. I have been to those places I write about. I know how they look, smell and feel at different times of the year and I hope to bring all of this to my writing. Things don’t come any more genuine than in the South, because you’re never far away from the land, the history and the traditions. I believe books written about the South practically write themselves and the Southern Gothic emotional juice, which is there for the telling, brings readers/listeners a little closer to the page and humanity a little closer to the earth, from which we originated.