Oh people, when I learned that Louisiana folks interchange “loup garou” and “roux garoux” and that, in fact, you can have all kinds of garous (garouex?)–wolfs, chickens, gators, well, maybe not chickens.

So, for you, I invented my own garou–the rock garou–who terrorizes Little Egypt.

Oh, people, I cannot wait. I had to invent some rules for how a garou would work. I cribbed some from the Cajuns–like the idea that you can get rid of your garou-dom by biting but not killing someone else (which is more difficult than you’d imagine)–and made others up–like the real insidious thing about the rock garou is that it can continue to prey on you even after it’s dead, if you get too close to it.

Honestly, I whooped when I pieced it all together.

See, it’s always been the Deraque garou, but the English speaking folks misheard…

But how did the Deraques become garous? Oh, that’s hard saying. Was it a result of the Lachine massacre? Was it Satanism? Witchcraft? A plot contrivance? Oooo. Who can say?

People, I cannot wait.


Draining the Swamp

Years ago one of my co-workers and I were talking about the Catholic sex scandals and she was saying how she just would never be able to go to a Catholic church now because they’re so much more dangerous than when we were kids. But I was like, those kids we’re hearing about are our age. The whole point is that this has been going on for years, but we’re only now hearing about it.

And so I have a similar reaction to Amy Davidson about all this hand-wringing over the coarsening of our society:

The narrative of the past few years seems less about “sinking into moral dystopia” than about the draining away of a swamp that hid bad behavior. It’s lately that we’ve learned to stand up to, say, bishops protecting abusive priests, and to not to tolerate that sort of crime any more. If cynicism about such institutions means not trusting them to police themselves, it has sharpened, not dulled, our sense of right and wrong. We have, if anything, been more engaged than ever with the question of accountability—and that’s good.


It does suck that there’s so much suffering in the world, but that we hear about it and can do something about it is a good thing. The world is not worse than it was. Ordinary people just have more of an opportunity to know what’s bad about it.

Literary Remix

I am completely loving resetting “The Shunned House” in Middle Tennessee. And I feel like I’m learning a lot about Lovecraft’s writing style that isn’t solely apparent from reading it. One is that he often just throws in words like “horrible” “terrible” “terrifying” or others where they don’t really fit in the sentence. Like he might say something like “I had a horrible sense of awe looking at the terrible door to the basement which stood as a terrifying edifice.” Okay, but why is the door terrible? It is because he says it is.

So, it’s like you have a story, which is, in its own right kind of creepy and then Lovecraft has a list of twenty or thirty words he seems to go back through his draft and insert into sentences where they almost make sense–where you can skip over the fact that they don’t quite sit right when you’re reading it–but when you’re writing, as I am, so close to the original, you have to consider “Is this a turn of phrase I want? Is it a turn of phrase that even makes sense?”

It’s a weird thing, because, if there’s one thing they drum into your head as a young writer, it’s “Don’t steal from other writers.” So, I’m having some problems just mentally adjusting to the idea that, no, I really do want to steal this whole story. It feels like such cheating. And yet, it almost just feels too like remixing. Taking the story and setting it to a slightly different melody.

And the world is slightly different, not just in setting, but in time. My narrator has to run a French paragraph through an online translator because he doesn’t know French. The fact that his uncle is single seems to have slightly different implications–an older Southern gentleman incredibly interested in genealogy. I mean, let’s not stereotype, but let’s not pretend the stereotype isn’t there.

I like it.

And it was awesome yesterday because I really don’t know French so I had to send the fragment of my fake letter to the French authorities to K. to see if she could come up with or know someone who could come up with a passable French translation, which I then did feed back into Google Translate to get a kind of more watered-down English version of the English I had started out with.

I needed a Frenchman or two, so of course I picked our friends, Timothy Demonbreun and Joseph Deraque.

Here’s the fragment from the letter Tim wrote to the folks at Fort de Chartres about the death of Joe’s family:

Jean Deraque et la plupart de son groupe de chasseurs (deux fils, ainsi que quatre Indiens) sont morts de la maladie familiale des Deraque. Seul le benjamin, Joseph Deraque, vit toujours, mais il est très affaibli et languissant. Je l’ai ramené en ville pour voir s’il peut être sauvé. Nous avons enterré les corps sur une falaise inhabitée un peu en amont, et les Indiens comprennent bien l’importance primordiale de ne pas perturber le site.

You don’t even have to know French to know that “morts de la madadie familiale des Deraque” is probably not good. That’s what I love about it, especially, is that, even if you don’t know French, what you can pick out is not good. There’s been death. Something something. Joseph Deraque. Something somethingsomething. The Indians comprehend the primary importance of not disturbing the site.


From here on out, I’m going to write horror stories in French for people who don’t speak French, because that is some creepy shit right there–that feeling that something bad has happened, but you can’t quite suss out what.

If this part of the story works, it’s going to be because of K. and this great French letter.