On Edgar Allan Poe, and the Book that Changed Everything

Dear Readers,

I wrote the following post originally for the site Unbound Worlds. This is one of the more personal things I've written, so on this auspicious birthday of the great Edgar Allan Poe, I'd like to continue to pay tribute to his memory and re-publish this piece here, in thanks for his ongoing ministrations as my patron saint.

The single most influential book of sci-fi/fantasy/horror in my life, by far, was my first volume of The Collected Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. That tattered paperback went with me everywhere, it was my best friend at a lonely time, and Poe’s words spoke right to my young heart. I’d been exposed to Poe in grade school, earlier than most thanks to a progressive program. Poe became a distinct catalyst. By the time I was a pre-teen I had already begun drafting a Victorian-set Gothic novel in the vein of The Phantom of the Opera (Leroux’s classic being another influential book).

Eighteen years later, my first published novel, The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker (which now exists in print as Strangely Beautiful via Tor Books), set in an eerie, ghost-filled London in 1888, can track its existence back to that paperback book with a raven on the cover.

From first hearing “The Raven,” then diving into more poetry and the whole of his canon of stories, I was aware I was digesting true genius; an accessibility that readers young or old could grasp, his Victorian voice immediately relatable to a modern ear, his unique gift of making the grotesque beautiful, his deftly poetic turns of phrase and his powerful high-concept invention of most genre fiction.

I also felt, in reading him, like I was encountering a certain window into my own soul. The classic Shakespearean quote from Twelfth Night goes “some are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them.” In one of my novels (The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart) I paid homage to this line but highlighted melancholy instead. “Some are born with darkness, some have darkness thrust upon them…”

I was born with a distinct dark side prone to ghost stories. That side came from no direct influence anyone could tell other than my own preferences; what I gravitated towards and identified with. I learned from Poe, from his art and from his own difficult life, that if that side wasn’t managed and folded in holistically into my full self, it could define me entirely, I could be lost to it, I could war with it without respite. But I also knew my dark side has always been, like Poe, the place within me inexhaustibly full of possibility and imagination, thrilling fantasy, the source of endless esoteric questions concerning the perilous precipice between life and death. My dark side has always been my muse; my creative lens, the more interesting compass determining life’s path.

Donning a Goth aesthetic when I first began shopping for my own clothes, I found that externalizing my interior narrative helped the world navigate me as I was trying to navigate the world. 20 years later, my wonderful, loving and extremely supportive parents have realized dressing in black isn’t a phase. They’ve graciously come to celebrate that my work as a Gothic novelist, artist, performer and Ghost Tour guide means I’ve made an entire career out of celebrating that razor-thin edge between beauty and horror, making friends with melancholy and telling hopeful stories from the shadows. I dance from that liminal space.

Because I dress, daily, in some level and form of Victorian mourning, when people comment on my wardrobe I always say; “if you like my clothes, you’ll like my books, I dress like I write.” The same goes for what I cut my teeth on as a young reader. Themes rife in Poe are rife in my work, as my stories are set in the 1880s, my characters often make direct reference to Poe and his tales, all of which would have preceded them. I speak on countless panels at conventions around the country about the lasting impact of Poe’s genius; my artistic north star.

I often wear (and I also make Poe-related jewelry) Poe’s image on a necklace or pin and I was once asked by someone who didn’t recognize the iconic image: “is that your boyfriend?” I laughed and just said yes. I do believe in past lives, I believe past lives are part of the reason I recognized and was drawn to 19th century stories and writers from grade school age. I doubt I am a Virginia Clemm reincarnate but I do wonder if I would have orbited in Poe’s old literary circles, or perhaps he was just as much an inspiration to me then as he is now. Perhaps the prolific, driven writer wrestling with their melancholic angels echoes through time itself.

The great tragedy of Poe’s life is not only his premature (and entirely suspicious) death, but the constant spectre of loss that haunted him forever; abandoned early in his life, as an adult, his great love Virginia (a healthy, mutual, consensual relationship that by all records was a devoted one on both sides) dying of tuberculosis in the bloom of youth was a blow from which he never recovered, the sincere lack of public appreciation of his groundbreaking, gorgeous work, and the constant financial strife chasing down every penny publishers owed him, all of which drove him to drink. He was not, however, as crazed or as addicted as history has made him out to be, that’s all trumped up allegations from Rufus Griswold, a literary nemesis in life that published a damning and sensationalized biography of Poe after his death. We tour guides try to set the record straight and return Poe’s memory to a more moderate tale of a difficult life of an underappreciated genius.

I pay homage to Poe, and that well-worn paperback collection, every day. I walk the streets he walked while living in New York, I keep his authorial voice in my ear, and from the moment I knew art could be a healing salve and spiritual calling, he’s never been far from me; my melancholic prince, my patron saint.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Poe. I hope your spirit can take comfort now knowing how loved you are in our time.

-- Leanna Renee Hieber

If you like these thoughts, you'll like my books! Especially The Spectral City series with Kensington Books! Cheers and Happy Haunting!

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A Haunted Night in the Morris-Jumel Mansion

As you've noticed, the blog has been overtaken by the serialization of The Double Life of Incorporate Things, which has been such a wonderful, fascinating ongoing experiment. But recent experiences ought not go unmentioned.

Fittingly on November 2nd, dia de los muertos, and All Saints' weekend, I spent the evening in the haunted and incredibly historic Morris-Jumel Mansion in Manhattan for a ghost investigation, thanks to dear friend Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, author of Scandalous Women, who found out about it in the first place and invited us along (on her birthday, no less!).

This mansion saw the likes of George Washington, Aaron Burr, Bonapartes, and least of all, the indomitable lady of the house, Eliza Jumel.

Paranormal is my normal. I believe in ghosts because I have seen, heard and felt them, all in various ways and capacities through my life. If you've read my work you know that spirits and spirituality factor in as the major themes.

So I don't NEED proof. I know what I know. I am suspicious of and generally dislike the idea of ghost hunting. I write about ghost-busters, I don't need to patrol them myself, because often if you go looking for things the wrong kinds of things are looking for you.

But in this case, the mansion itself was putting on the evening, billing it in a relaxed manner in which it would be a historical sleepover with tour guides availing themselves to our questions and giving us a whole night in the house to ourselves, what a neat way to live in that house for a day and get a chance to immerse myself in the history of it. If there was a haunting along the way, so be it.

What I wasn't prepared for was the amount of spectral activity that availed itself to us in the house as if it were another tour guide. The lady of the house was certainly active for her guests. Known to actively and unabashedly haunt the house, Eliza Jumel was a fascinating woman who led a fascinating if not oft controversial life. (For more about this amazing lady, please visit Elizabeth's fabulous blog post about her.)

The evening began with the group of about twenty participants interested in history and the spectral (my kind of folk), listening in the small ballroom to gentlemen from Acoustic Archives. They spoke with us about some of the amazing spectral activity captured and recorded in the house, showcased video and audio, and explained a little about what they'd be doing with equipment in the house that night. We continued with a tour of the outside and full inside of the mansion by very talented, knowledgeable guides.

Then we all gathered in the kitchen, the basement of the house and the official "ghost hunting" began. With this, I was skeptical. Ghosts don't necessarily like to perform on command. The questions to "show yourself" and "give a sign" as bidden by the gentlemen with the equipment weren't really garnering a response. But they were amenable to all of us asking questions and participating and the group got an interesting discussion going in the dark, talking about history and positing things the spirits might be feeling or hanging onto. It was a large sort of seance, in a way, but there was just too much activity, too large of a group, I thought, to get a specific response. However there were significant cold spots near me and my friends, and I saw that someone had taken a photo and there were a lot of orbs. I sensed we were not alone, but I knew it would take time before something responded, if anything would. I don't like to test the spirits, and had this not been a welcoming energy in the building, I would not have stayed there. I certainly don't tempt malevolence. A fascinating development began when we decided to split up the group by gender. Men went upstairs with equipment, we ladies remained downstairs and for the next hour. And we communed. Without any real need for communication with spirits (I can sense people's desperation about these things, proof of the paranormal drove a lot of very intelligent persons from Conan Doyle to Houdini a bit batty, so I try to steer clear of ever having expectations of the spirit world, for in expectations therein sets up disappointments), we talked to them anyway.

We all, taking turns, told them of what all had happened for women in the intervening time since women had been there in that basement as slaves or servants, young or old, all of them living a life of great toil and struggle and limited freedoms. We told them of laws, of suffrage, of rights, of careers they likely couldn't have imagined in their day. We thanked them. Profusely. For being our foremothers. For having visions that grew into our modern world. For having stories no one would ever know. We honored them. We tried to imagine what their lives would have been like. We all realized how lucky we are now. How much there is to be thankful for. How much there is still left to be done, in terms of equality. And then, when we wondered if the lady of the house had much hand in the kitchen, all the track lighting flickered on in a wave and then off. (No one was near the switch and it was not on a dimmer so the effect would have been impossible to create by hand). There were certainly spiritually charged feelings about house and housework.

When we rejoined others upstairs, they were taking our questions and comments further, with incredible results. With a small flashlight with its cap unscrewed so that any connective presence from a ghostly response would make it flicker on or turn it back off, the lady of the manor was answering questions.

With a directive to turn the flashlight on to full or off depending on a yes, no, or 'flicker if maybe' question, the lady told us she liked our presence there, was fond of men but never really loved one, had complex feelings about children, was very proud of her home, would like to have a ball in the ballroom (she was hesitant about this until I clarified for her if she would like it if it were a ball done in the style and dance of her day, and this was a resounding flashlight "yes"). And she really liked being spoken to in French. (Thanks to fellow writer and bookseller Stacey Agdern for helping provide insights and some French).

Perhaps the most striking answer to a question was the flashlight blazing in full when asked if she might linger on haunting her own home because of fear. Fear of what was next. Fear of the beyond. Fear of passing onwards...

It's something I muse on in every one of my books. The veil between our world and the spirit world is always very thin in my work. As I feel it is very thin in general if one but focuses upon it. Ghosts play prominent roles; are heroes, antagonists, love interests, plot twists, problems, saviours, complications. What I try never to do is answer those questions beyond what I feel the characters can safely say. What the strictures of my worlds dictate.

I was moved by our night in the mansion, both from a human level of what we accomplished as people, strangers drawn together merely by a very respectful interest in history and what might haunt it. And then from a spirit level as there was no trickery to the flashlight, (I'm enough of a skeptic to have queried the item but there was no incentive for the light to be rigged, no one was filming this, no programs were watching, and no obvious way it could have been rigged, so I simply took the item for what it was) and Lady Jumel's responses matched what we know of history, of her nature, with some surprises and nuance. She deigned to bring herself to life for us and entertain in her home once more. What an honour.

I don't come away from a night like that with any answers, or any different notions about ghosts or about an afterlife. I believe what I believe; that the spirit world is always there for us, but that we shouldn't rush desperately into its arms. As for the Great Beyond, that's the divine mystery. And we'll all find out when we do. I don't go looking for proof of the supernatural, in this case, I went looking to spend time in a historic mansion. I let instances happen to me and then I enjoy and respect them for the isolated incidents they are. Life and the spirit is an unfolding journey. I can be a very impatient person, but when I just trust in process, I'm happier and more likely to be presented with all that I need, moment by moment, experience by experience. For more poetic and lyrical musings of that nature, please read my books.

Soon I'll post another musing of visiting a building that helped define me and my mission in life and art.

Happy Haunting...

 

 

"Get Your Ghost..."

Wheeeeee!

Here goes the first installment of "Get Your Ghost..." Where we explore ghostly-ghoulie-great trivia, news, and tidbits from the supernatural side of the tracks.

We begin with her highness of the American icon; the Statue of Liberty, dedicated in 1886. Well, not her exactly. Her island.

This entry utilizes sources: "Ghosts of New York City" by Therese Lanigan-Schmidt, published by Schiffer, her source for her Liberty Island entry: "Ghostly Beacons: Haunted Lighthouses of North America"

Did you know the Statue of Liberty was the first electrically lit lighthouse in the United States and remained so until the year 1903? Well I didn't! Learn something new every day. Well I hope to.

Liberty Island began as Bedloe's island and had been used as a smallpox quarantine station. In the year 1800, Fort Wood was erected on the island (walls remaining as framing for Lady Liberty's pedestal)

Beginning in 1825, Sgt. Gibbs and Carpenter, a recruit, began a long and extensive search for something on the island. Treasure. (insert intense beat of musical score here).

Yes, Treasure left in the wake of the former privateer, infamous pirate, murderer, stockpiler of wealth, etc, Captain Kidd who had been active all around New York Harbor. Kidd was executed in 1701 but rumors of the ghosts he left behind hung on in Bedloe. Pirates were said to toss murdered crewmen down into a treasure hidey-hole so their ghosts would haunt the booty.

A psychic told Gibbs and Carpenter that during the next full moon, to look for a particular rock, and use a witch-hazel divining rod (my kingdom for a metal detector) to find the treasure.

The branch dipped along the rocky shoreline. Digging several feet down, Gibbs and Carpenter struck gold! Well, a trunk.

And that's when the ghost came in. Boo! (clang of tension-inducing music) With a lightning flash, and a "pressure" (I'm not sure what that means, maybe seeing ghosts makes your ears pop?) they saw a frightening figure and started screaming like little girls. When Fort Wood guards came running, Gibbs was unconscious and Carpenter was captured while running away. The men were turned over for questioning since they were out way past their bedtime. They told the sergeant that a demon-like form rose from the earth, breathed sulfur, and glided around; obviously a dead pirate on booty-stealin' guard, and swore to it in a signed affidavit.

The end. Or... is it?

(Problem is, my sources gave no resolution on where the treasure went. That's what I want to know. Any conjectures anyone? Hard facts?)

Like ghost stories? So do I! You can read one I dreamed up and published over at the Glade at Crescent Moon Press, it's a twisted lil' ghost story called Sea-Found and it is a FREE download:

http://www.crescentmoonpress.com/Lore.html