I’ve tried to post any reviews of my work I’m aware of on here, and that’s usually a Nice Thing to do. Sadly, every now and again, you get one that isn’t full of praise. But you’ve got to expect those. You can’t please everybody all the time.
So when I read:
“After three good stories things take a distinct downturn with The Woods by Nik Perring, the longest story in the issue and also the weakest. Two friends leave the pub and wander through the woods, getting spooked by local legends, though there is also the suggestion of animosity between them. ‘Only one of the friends made it out of the forest,’ reads the text, at which point we lose all sight of credibility. The police are called in and Dennis’ body is found at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft. Suicide conclude the local plod, not even bothering to consider any other theory, or even to question survivor Christopher. Christopher then goes into mental meltdown, while police officer on the make Harold starts to prowl the woods at night looking for goblins. It ends badly, which in the circumstances was only to be expected. This story has poor plotting, incredulous characterisation and a prose style that at times borders on parody. There is the hint of something interesting peeping through, a man’s descent into madness, and flashes of talent in the prose, but no more than that. It reads like a first draft.”
that’s what I thought. I’m not saying I agree with what’s said (I wouldn’t, would I?) and you’d be right in thinking I was a little disappointed. But, well, everyone’s entitled to an opinion and not everyone’s going to like what you write. You know, I didn’t like Moulin Rouge but that doesn’t make it a bad film. Does it?
(Incidentally it was nice to see Sarah Jackson’s story getting deserved praise on the same site, so not all bad.)
You can read the review in full here.
And here at the Perring household we’re fast running out of chocolate and marshmellows and carrot cakes. Soon I think it’ll be getting to the point where I have to opt for trick unless the little skeletons and zombies and vampires who’ve been appearing at my door want me to read them a story.