Happy Saturday, dear reader.  And what a glorious Saturday morning it is.  I slept my ass off last night.  I’ve been missing a lot of sleep the last few weeks, staying up late or waking up early to work on the book.  And it’s absolutely been worth it, but it’s been not without its drawbacks, the main one being I’m tired all the goddamn time.  So last night was much needed.  Woke up fresh as a fucking daisy.

Speaking of using the night for things other than sleep, the Badass Literary Calendar tells us that on this day in 1941, in the sultry, jazz-soaked, and decadently decaying heart of New Orleans, Anne Rice was born…the woman who would go on to redefine vampires, gothic fiction, and, really, the entire concept of brooding immortality.

Anne Rice conjured her worlds with a floridity that many found to be a bit much, but given her subject matter, I think her rococo style, going on for pages about the décor of a room, worked.  She gave us worlds where the night was always young, the wine was always red (and occasionally hemoglobin-rich), and the existential crises were as thick as the fog rolling off the Mississippi.  She gave us Lestat, the rockstar vampire with a God complex and a penchant for melodrama that made Hamlet look like a well-adjusted life coach.  She gave us Louis, the original sad boy, who could out-emo any eyeliner-wearing, Cure-listening teenager in the 80s.  And she gave us a New Orleans that was equal parts haunted mansion and hallucination, a place where the line between the living and the dead was as thin as one of her overly-described lace curtains.

But Anne didn’t limit herself to vampires.  She tackled witches, mummies, and even Jesus Christ himself with the same fearless, no-holds-barred approach.  She was a literary badass who didn’t give a damn about genre conventions or what the critics thought.  She wrote what she wanted, how she wanted, and in doing so, she inspired generations of writers, readers, and goth kids who finally felt seen.

So today, we raise a glass (or a goblet, if you’re feeling fancy and really want to get into the spirit of things) to Anne Rice.  Her genius, her audacity, and her ability to make the macabre feel downright sexy.  Happy Birthday, Anne.  The world is a darker, more deliciously twisted place because of you.

And to the aspiring writers out there: take a page from Anne’s book.  Write fearlessly.  Write passionately.  And for the love of all that is unholy, don’t be afraid to get a little weird.
Cheers to the Queen of the Damned.  May her legacy live forever – just like her vampires.

N.P.: “A Funeral Of A Provincial Vampire” – Jelonek