Author Archives: Rob Tyler

About Rob Tyler

Rob Tyler has been nipping at the cuffs of short fiction for longer than he cares to admit. When he’s not punching the keyboard, he can often be found reading, running, canoeing, straightening up his crooked old house in Fairport, or attending to his needy orange tiger, Attica, named after the institution from which she was rescued. His two 20-something daughters are living proof that it is possible to love your greatest critics.

Getting Centered

I woke up this morning in a fog. No, really. When I drew the shade on the kitchen window, I was stunned and somewhat comforted to see the mist shrouding the garage and rising into the canopy of maples arching over the yard. A friend who dropped by last night described it as cathedral-like as we had drinks and cheese and crackers on the deck. Kind of ironic. But you don’t have to be religious to be moved by beauty.

I appreciate company, which puzzles some of my acquaintances who consider me anti-social – or even a sociopath. I’ve looked it up a few times but can’t remember the precise definition. But it’s bad. You don’t want to be called a sociopath. It means you use people – I remember that. It sticks in my mind because it was the part of the definition that seemed least applicable to me. I’m more of an introvert. But then, some people can resent you for that, too. As though, by denying them your attention, you are committing a malicious act.

The fog was unusual. My waking dream was unusual, too. I was with a man – not someone I know in “real life,” but a close friend in the dream. I was responsible for putting him through some kind of tanning bed or booth – actually more like an oven – setting the dials and the time. He wanted me to, and he trusted me, and he thoroughly believed in the benefits of vitamin D. I left him in a little too long. When he came out, half his face and neck were charred black. His t-shirt had melted into what was left of his skin. He was uncomfortable, but not accusatory. I curled up and covered my face and wanted to die.

And then, as they say, I woke up. And walked down to the kitchen and opened the shade. And picked up my phone and read about the high-rise fire in London. And I felt ripped up inside and unable to think about anything but all the pain and suffering in the world, and all that’s asked of me – which is next to nothing in this stage of my life: feed the cat, go to work, pay the bills, vacuum the floor now and then. I did not turn on the radio, as I usually do, but instead visited the Brain Pickings web site for some kind – any kind – of uplifting inspiration, and I read this by Wallace Stevens:

By the pressure of reality, I mean the pressure of an external event or events on the consciousness to the exclusion of any power of contemplation.

It seems to me that the exclusion of any power of contemplation is the most destructive phenomenon of our age. Information overload, multi-tasking, call it what you will. You can’t contemplate or reflect or feel centered as long as you’re reacting to “the pressure of reality.” This vague feeling, endemic in modern society, that something is missing even though we have more of everything than we ever had. What’s missing is stillness and silence and the chance to contemplate.

This weekend I’ll be heading back down to Naples to spend another day chopping down knotweed. There’s a huge stand in front of the barn. If I’m lucky, it will take me the rest of my life.

Spring is Sprung

If you google “spring is sprung,” you’ll find some version of the following little ditty by the prolific author Anon. I was moved to look it up last April by the painful disparity between the calendar and the weather:

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris.
I wonders where the birdies is.
They say the birds is on the wing.
Ain’t that absurd?
I always thought the wings was on the bird.

You can’t tell from the weather: a windstorm two weeks ago, a snow storm last week. Freezing temps that turn my fingers bloodless and numb every morning and evening. It’s light later in the day, but that’s more a trick of the clock than return of the sun. Although I’m thankful for brighter evenings. Laps around the Cobbs Hill reservoir are easier when they don’t usher in the dark. To watch the sunset while tailgating feels like the beginning of something good.

You can’t tell from the unchanging contents of my house or the clothes in my closets, the boxes of forgotten tools in my garage, the sorry state of my kitchen appliances or the piles of paper on my desk. Or the pale countenance in the bathroom mirror. It feels like I exist in a microcosm of Lake Wobegone, “the town that time forgot and that the decades cannot improve.”

Certainly the raw floorboards in the alcove at the base of the stairs, blackened with age and the stain of tar paper, don’t signal a change of season. I’d wanted to have it tiled by now, but the floor moves too much, even with backerboard, so I unscrewed 200 screws and pulled it up. Next time it goes down for good over a layer of Liquid Nails. But meanwhile, as progress is measured, time has stopped.

Is it me? Or is it what winter does to us? Even Attie, my unperturbable cat, seems to be affected, moping around, meowing disconsolately, listlessly draping herself over the furniture. Is it like this every year? Is forgetfulness the major symptom here?

You can’t trust robins and tree buds and croci. This morning I saw the first sure sign of spring – a stink bug crawling across the bathroom floor. Soon their primordial carapaces will be everywhere – lurking on walls and ceilings and windowsills, dotting the shower curtain, crunching underfoot.

I plucked that first harbinger of change from the floor and flushed it down the toilet.

Things are looking up.



If you want to run like a berserker, you need to run with a berserker. That’s my strategy for setting a PR at this year’s Muddy Sneaker.

Muddy Sneaker is a 20K trail race through Hi Tor Wildlife Management Area in the Finger Lakes region of Upstate NY. Lots of  hills and water and, yes, mud. Some years more than others. You never know what sort of conditions you’ll encounter Upstate in mid-April. As the Muddy Sneaker web page promises, “The weather is guaranteed to be a mystery on race day.”

Could be snow, freezing rain, hot and humid. I’ve had opportunities to blame them all for my performance. But the greater mystery is usually…am I in any kind of shape to run the race? Some years I am, others not. Muddy is typically the first race of the season that really tests my conditioning. It tells me, with painful clarity, how much I’ve slacked off during the winter.

This year will be different. Because I’m training with a guy in my age group who consistently bests me whenever we race together. I figure, if I match him pace for pace, mile for mile, in the months leading up to the Muddy, I should be able to hang with him all the way to the final brutal hill – The Demoralizer – and then, perhaps, have a shot.

I acknowledge that there’s a flaw in this strategy. If I trained twice as hard as Joe (which would be impossible, but hypothetically speaking), I would never BE Joe. Behind Joe’s mild-mannered facade lurks the spirit of a berserker. He can ignore pain. He runs every hill. His discipline is iron-clad. He’s followed the same training regimen, on the same course, three days a week, FOR THIRTY-FIVE YEARS. He swims in Lake Ontario at least once a month year-round – unless the ice is too thick to break through or two jagged to walk on. He fasts for two weeks every February, subsisting on a secret concoction of maple sap and lemon juice, and loses 15 pounds in the process.

I can’t do any of those things. But if I run with him, maybe some small shred of the berserker will rub off on me – enough for me to keep him in sight during the first 11 miles of the Muddy and perhaps on his heels up the Demoralizer. Maybe I’ll learn how to flip that berserker switch at the right moment and become something else, something wild and unthinking and impervious to pain. A berserker for an hour or a minute. Isn’t that something we all want to experience? I figure it’s worth running around Cobbs Hill reservoir three nights a week all winter. To see if it’s possible.

And maybe to set a Muddy Sneaker PR.


I Miss John Thaw

Most of what I knew about John Thaw I learned from Inspector Morse. Because they were the same person, although not the same persona. I first knew Morse, the crusty British homicide inspector, and developed a fondness for him – his aspirational love of literature, opera, and classical music. His disdain for contemporary culture. His poor Sargent Lewis, who took the brunt of Morse’s abuse and his superior, elitist attitude. Morse drank too much – loved a good bitter – and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. He struggled to articulate his softer emotions, so when he did, it was heady stuff. When he fell in love, he fell hard. And when it didn’t work out, as was always the case for one reason or other, he took it stoically and buried himself in his work or his books or booze, and returned to his solitary life.

It was much later that I met the actor, John Thaw, who was completely unlike Morse in most respects. He was sensitive and vulnerable and not afraid to laugh at someone else’s joke and didn’t have an elitist bone in his body. But his was an incredible actor who persevered for years to rise from his humble beginnings to play Shakespeare on the world stage and earn accolades worldwide. I was amazed that one man lived inside the other and wondered if that wasn’t true for each of us. I liked them both for different reasons.

When Morse died on screen, and Thaw died in real life, I felt like I’d lost two friends, or brothers, or fathers. When I see John Thaw in old Inspector Morse episodes, I want him to be alive again. It tears at me if I let it. And I wonder why. Sometimes I listen to the theme music over and over and wish I was hearing it for the first time.

But of course. The music. How does music work? It taps into your emotional memory. I learned to love Morse when I was married and the kids were small. The weekly broadcast on WXXI, our local public TV station, was one of those evening rituals my wife and I would enjoy after the kids were in bed. We would hunker down (maybe with bowls of rum raisin ice cream) on the living room couch in the blue glow of TV screen and lose ourselves to Morse and the towers and quadrangles and pubs and punts of Oxford. Oh yeah, and the murders that Morse would solve – eventually. That was the other thing I liked about him. He made mistakes, but always seemed to right himself. Or at least accept being righted.

I have the theme looping on YouTube as I write this. Just missing Morse and everything connected with his memory. I suppose I should think of it as a celebration. I’m sure John Thaw would want it that way.


I doubt anyone in Eastman Theater’s Kodak Hall last Thursday evening for Mozart’s Requiem was thinking about Count Franz von Walsegg – the man who commissioned the work – or his mysterious employer, or the mysterious employer’s deceased wife, for whom the work was purportedly dedicated. You can’t listen to Mozart without thinking about the artist, the brilliance of his spirit and the tragedy of his short life. His music is a window into his soul; it brings him to life in us two centuries after his death.

Everyone should be so remembered.

My father and mother, for instance, who instilled in me a love of classical music. They had listened to Requiem, somewhere, at some time. They might have played the LP on Dad’s tube stereo that occupied the corner of the living room at 84 Hillcrest Drive. Or earlier, at the house in Burnt Hills, through the Tannoy duel cone speaker in the “folded horn enclosure” Dad had painstakingly cut and assembled from plywood. He loved classical music all his life, right up until his long decline, when he became preoccupied with the end of things rushing at him, like an upwind wildfire on the horizon. That makes a mesmerizing sound, too.

And my sister. I have some of her albums in my collection, rescued from the converted barn on the property she loved in Italy Valley, New York. The place is too cold and isolated in the winter and the deer flies are murder in summer, but three or four months of the year it’s heaven; in spring, the air perfumed by the ancient lilac looming over the smoke house, by the sweet smell of cut grass and hay in autumn, the view of the valley from the berm of the pond on the hill. After she took the job at the library, she lived in Brighton, but she never moved out the the barn. When she’d escape to the farm on summer weekends, her collection of vinyl was always waiting for her. The mice are feasting on what albums remain on the shelf. They like the cardboard, for some reason.

I thought about them, and others who’ve gone ahead, as Mozart’s Requiem brought the audience to tears and ecstasy. A thousand people, transfixed, channeling their grief into this one shared experience, this moment, a stranger 200 years gone, before applauding and zipping up their coats and venturing out into the chill, alone with their dead.

I went to Salinger’s instead to drink some beers with the living for a while.




Writing the Weird

“The strangeness of the world at large has finally caught up with our capacity for imagination” – Ross E. Lockhart

I believe there’s some truth to the old saw, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” As I seem to be somewhat behind schedule in achieving worldwide fame as a writer of fiction during my lifetime, I am pursuing the more modest goal of leading writing workshops at Rochester’s literary center, Writers & Books. Modest in some ways; demanding in others. Critiquing is one thing; demonstrating knowledge of a genre is another. My foray in to speculative fiction a year ago forced me to do some homework so that I could, at the very least, answer the question, “What the heck is speculative fiction?” As it turned out, I never had to, not head-on anyway. No one signed up for my “Writing Speculative Fiction” course the two times it was offered. I changed the title to “Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy” and nine people showed up. Apparently, people would rather write in genres they are familiar with than one they’ve never heard of.

But spec fiction is real – it’s a thing – and I managed a bait and switch in the one-day spec course, twisting the conversation and writing exercises toward the speculative. A good time was had by most. And then, after another year dwelling in the spec world and drilling down, following clues and currents, exploring rabbit holes and rat holes along the way, I found myself in the sub-sub basement of spec, a smaller and darker chamber carved out of the bedrock, called The Weird. Strange as it may seem, that’s a thing, too.

Weird Fiction

According to Wikipedia, “Weird fiction is a subgenre of speculative fiction originating in the late 19th and early 20th century. It can be said to encompass the ghost story and other tales of the macabre. Weird fiction is distinguished from horror and fantasy in its blending of supernatural, mythical, and even scientific tropes.”

Think Poe. Think Lovecraft.

Contemporary weird author Jeff VanderMeer and his wife Ann VanderMeer are perhaps the leading curators of weird fiction today, having published a massive anthology (The New Weird) of short weird works spanning the last 100 years. The Weird Fiction Review is also one of their projects. This (which includes Lovecraft quotes) is from the introduction to their site:

[Weird fiction] represents the pursuit of some indefinable and perhaps maddeningly unreachable understanding of the world beyond the mundane—a “certain atmosphere of breathless and unexplainable dread” or “malign and particular suspension or defeat of…fixed laws of Nature”—through fiction that comes from the more unsettling, shadowy side of the fantastical tradition.

The Weird can be transformative—sometimes literally—and it entertains monsters while not always see them as monstrous. It strives for a kind of understanding even when something cannot be understood, and acknowledges that failure as sign and symbol of our limitations.

Usually, the characters in weird fiction have either entered into a place unfamiliar to most of us, or have received such hints of the unusual that they become obsessed with the weird. Whether It exists or not, they have fallen into dialogue with It; they may pull back from the abyss, they may decide to unsee what they saw, but still they saw it.

The Weird in a modern vernacular has also come to mean fiction in which some other element, like weird ritual or the science fictional, replaces the supernatural while providing the same dark frisson of the unknown and the visionary.

The New Weird

I like weird. It suits me. Especially the “new weird,” which seems to me to be exactly the right fiction for the world we live in today. The new weird was born in the 1990s and explores a broader range of metaphysical questions, pondering the mysteries of the universe. It’s about the existential impact of confronting the unknown, which may be horror, or awe, or some other transcendent experience.

The introduction to the anthology The New Weird defines the genre as “a type of urban, secondary-world fiction that subverts the romanticized ideas about place found in traditional fantasy, largely by choosing realistic, complex real-world models as the jumping off point for creation of settings that may combine elements of both science fiction and fantasy.”

Robin Anne Reid, from Women in Science Fiction and Fantasy: Overviews, put it this way: New weird fictions “subvert clichés of the fantastic in order to put them to discomfiting, rather than consoling ends.”

Fiction that Reflects Today’s World

If the world seems surreal to you these days, that’s because it is. Weird fiction is a consequence:

“Weird fiction tends to be fundamentally concerned with eliciting an effect of disquiet, displacement, and alienation in the reader… Instant access to information, images, video, and other media from all over the world has given the author two things that I think contribute to the New Weird’s even greater tendency to experiment than its forebears: 1) more source material, ideas, and perspectives from cultures that differ from one’s own, and 2) more competition in the sense that it is easier than ever to be exposed within a few seconds to the horrors of the real world, which the writer must both distill and transcend.” – Christopher Burke

The world is weird. You can’t escape it. But you can embrace it. And if you happen to be a writer, it’s a rich source of raw material, which, more than ever before, is truly stranger than fiction.

“The Ill Wind that No One Blows Well”

I’ve taken up the french horn. When I pick it up to play, my cat slinks out of the room, her ears flattened to her head. Proof positive that cats CAN be trained – at least to avoid pain.

The horn was originally my brother’s. When he upgraded later in life, he passed it along to my father, who used it to make sounds that entertained my niece when she was very young. But it’s not an easy instrument to master, especially with dentures, and it ended up in his upstairs closet, where I found it, in its original case, covered with dust, wedged in between two rusting file cabinets, a week after he died.

I added it to my collection: two trumpets (also originally my brother’s), two ancient trombones (I don’t remember how I came by them), two serviceable saxophones (a tenor and a soprano), a cello (my mother’s), a viola (the one instrument I actually played back in the day), and a set of entry-level congas.

I don’t acquire as much as accumulate. I’m the shore – stuff washes up on me. Ninety percent of everything in my home came to me from deceased relatives. The rest from living relatives. I mentioned this to a friend who knows me too well and she nodded and observed, “you’re passive.” I objected. “We’re not talking about relationships with people,” I said. She shrugged. “People, things, whatever.” I proved how active I could be by making her lunch.

I’d been thinking about learning (or relearning) how to play one of the instruments in my collection for a long time, and – inspired by the second movement of Haydn’s Horn Concerto No. 1 in D major – I decided on the french horn. In the last several months, I’ve nearly mastered Lightly Row. Notes in the higher register give me trouble – I have to press the horn to my lips with such pressure that it’s pushing my incisors out of place. And yet, there is something gratifying about making such a racket.

My brother is an accomplished player and is pleased that I’ve taken it up. We’re an ocean apart but I hope, some day, we’ll sit down and play together. A duet perhaps. I have a two-part score for Lightly Row. If only I can keep my teeth til then.

What is True “for All Nations and Religions”

Wouldn’t that be nice to find? I guess each of us needs to find it for ourselves. I was lucky – my father found it and passed it down. It wasn’t easy for him. No matter how rational we are, we still look for something beyond. It can make you crazy – to know one thing and hope for another. To hold both in your head, until the day we take that last breath that we know is coming for all the years we distract ourselves from thinking about it. But that’s what makes us human.

My father lived the last 27 years of his life in Glens Falls, NY. In the Fall of 1982, he wrote a letter to the editor of the Glens Falls Post Star newspaper. It was published in the “Your Viewpoints” section. I have a photocopy of the article on my refrigerator, but I don’t want that to be the only surviving copy. So here it is, reproduced in full.

Reconciling Modern Science with Religion


Readers who may be concerned about reconciliation of religious beliefs and progress in science may be interested in an article that appeared the September issue of the British science journal Nature.

Entitled “Twelve Wise Men of the Vatican,” the article summarizes a recent meeting of scholars at the Pontifical Academy of Sciences. Participants included paleontologists, geneticists, and molecular biologists from six countries, chaired by Carlos Chagas, president of the academy and scientific advisor to the pope.

The following is taken from the Nature article:

“The highest scientific body of the Catholic Church produced a strong statement supporting the evolutionary hypothesis as the explanation for the origin and diversity of living primates – just a few weeks after the 100th anniversary of Darwin’s death… The pope reportedly takes a keen interest in the activities of the academy.”

This acceptance of scientific verities brings to mind the address of  Pius XII to the academy in 1946. Recognizing “that insights and perceptions of science are irrefutable,” the pope described and accepted the conclusions of astronomers and physicists related to the formation, properties, and evolution of the universe as known at that time (quoted from “The Bible as History,” by Werner Keller, translated by William Neil, author of “Harper’s Bible Commentary”).

In conflicts between religious dogma and scientific findings, science eventually prevails. This relates not only to the inductive methodology of science, but to its supra-sectarian constituency; all nations and religions are represented in science.

It is, however, not obvious that science and Christianity must be in conflict. The most significant and profound truths of the Old Testament and in the teachings of Jesus transcend dogma and are not at odds with the findings of science.

An integration of Christian theology with modern scientific humanism would generate greater spiritual force than either alone in coping with present, worldwide, societal problems.

Winfield W. Tyler
Glens Falls, NY

My father was not a genius. This is just rational discourse. And yet, look at what’s making headlines these days. As Einstein said, “We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive.” Starting with each of us.





Stollen Moments

The only time I have any ideas anymore is first thing in the morning. Or second, if you count coffee. Third, if you count a little fruit bread on a white porcelain plate, absolutely still, in the diffuse morning light washing over the kitchen table. Diffuse, because the big kitchen window faces north, overlooking the backyard, under the canopy of towering maples. Still, because everything is at that hour, inside and out. Still enough for thoughts to precipitate out of suspension.

The radio whispers in the corner, on the counter, which, is a more modern kitchen, might be occupied by an appliance garage. It’s the birthday of American novelist Francine Prose, according to Garrison Keillor. A novelist named PROSE? And I think, of course, it’s April Fools’ day. But it’s no joke, and he goes on with a straight face, or straight voice anyway, and mentions her 2006 book on writing, “Reading Like a Writer,” which I’ve heard of but never read. Because why would a writer need to read it? If you’ve done any writing at all, had your stuff workshopped, critiqued the work of others, spent any amount of mental energy TRYING to write well, you already read like a writer. You can’t help it, and that can be a problem.

Because the critical faculty can cripple the creative one. What we need is a guide book titled “Reading Like a Reader,” reminding us how to appreciate the art of the written word without constantly looking for flaws and ways to improve it. No doubt it would cure many a case of writers’ block.

The challenge is to write like writers and read like readers – and that goes for reading your own stuff as well. To avoid self-censoring yourself into silence. And to allow yourself to enjoy your work and the work of others for what it is.

Change Agent

It’s been so long since my last post, I’ve forgotten my password.

For months leading up to the workshop at Writers & Books, I gorged on sci fi and spec fi, trying to make up for years of not reading – or reading crap. Crap being writing that doesn’t unlock any rooms in your head, that doesn’t show you things. That doesn’t take you somewhere you don’t want to leave. Or can’t leave, even if you want to.

One of the authors I’m reading lately is M. John Harrison. I read “Light” and moved on to “Nova Swing,” which takes place in the world  – no, the universe – the Mr. Harrison has created in these thin, dense novels that bushwack you with mind blowing images and ideas. More than that – he nails aspects of the human condition that each of us thinks are ours alone. I’m getting close to the end of Nova Swing and am encountering literature that is absolutely genre agnostic, a thrill to find in a novel that is classified – because everything must be classified – as sci or spec fic.

It’s a paradox: it’s the universality of ideas that make them feel personal. This, for instance, spoken by Lens Aschemann, the existentialist detective haunted by the spirit of his dead wife:

“When I left Utzie,” he said, “she would dial me up and say, ‘People think it’s a failure to live alone, but it isn’t. The failure is to live with someone because you can’t face anything else.'” He chuckled. “Two days later it would be, ‘Cooped up with yourself 24 hours a day, that’s life, without remission. Lens, the worst thing in the world is to be inside yourself, you don’t even want to be rescued. Yet to be as happy as we were – to be so open to someone else – invites the failure of everything.'”

Was anything more true every written? All options are fraught. Most of us bounce from one to the other, ricocheting off pain like a pinball.

And later, when Vic Serotonin, an opportunistic “travel agent,” follows Elizabeth Kielar deeper into the twisted physics of the Event Site:

“The further off the beaten path Vic got, the more nervous he became and the easier it was to persuade him to take another wrong turn. It was what he had always feared.”

But it’s the thrill that keeps you going in the wrong direction, isn’t it? The unknown, inside or out. What you might encounter, or learn, or survive.

Makes for good reading, too.