K. Marvin Bruce

Vardøger, the title of my story published in Danse Macabre XLVI, Morgenblätter (May 2011), is based on an actual phenomenon.  The word itself is Norwegian for that experience of hearing someone arrive before they actually do.  It is common, and bizarre. There was an alley between our house and the next, through which we had to drive to park our car.  Since the alley was shared by the neighbors, we quickly learned the signature sound of each make of car.  You could tell who was home based on which car trundled up between the buildings. When my wife shopped for groceries, I helped carry them inside.  Naturally, on the days she went to the store, I kept an ear out for our car in the alley.  More than once I’ve dashed to the door after hearing her pull in, only to find no car there.  The sound seemed real enough; I’d never thought to try to record it since it is a daily sound.  Every once in a while, however, it was Vardøger. Folk trad...

Some years back, I remember, there was not inconsiderable clamor over J. K. Rowling’s confession that Professor Dumbledore was gay.  Having been teethed on po-mo fare, this struck me as very odd indeed.  Yes, Rowling had invented the character, but he was dead by the end of Harry Potter’s series, and his sexual orientation seemed a moot point. Having written a few novels myself (don’t run to the bookstore, fantasy readers, for only one has been accepted for publication), I know how attached writers grow to their characters.  We are their gods, creating them, nurturing them, punishing and sometimes killing them.  We know them better than anyone.  Or do we? Every thought takes on a life of its own.  Writers think worlds into being.  The problem with thinking worlds into being is not dissimilar from being a parent.  You bring a new creature into life, but that child has a life of her own.  You can only make decisions up to a poin...