48 Hours a Day

Zhang Heng pointed to the half-typed manuscript on the old typewriter.

"Is this your new book?"

"No, it's not my novel, it actually belongs to a friend of mine, I do some editing and proofreading for him and in return he pays me some money." At this point Lovecraft seemed to look a little ashamed, and added frantically, "I usually do this work mostly for free, mainly because things have been really difficult at home lately, by the way, you said you read my novel, was it in the paper?"

"In fact, they're almost everywhere." Chang Heng.

Lovecraft was a little confused at the news.

But before he could ask a question, Zhang Heng moved a chair from the side and placed it in front of him, "Let's talk about those novels you've written."

"Ah, yes," as soon as he talked about his novels Lovecraft changed his previous wooden restraint and immediately became fervent, "The ...... things I'm writing originated from the horrors my grandfather told me about in the first place! stories. They opened doors for me that I had never before seen any other writing that could so strongly engage human emotions, and what's even more interesting is that the atmosphere in most horror stories before the monsters make their appearance is instead the most tense, so from a very young age I wondered, "What is it that we're actually afraid of?"

"The oldest and strongest human emotion is fear, and the oldest and strongest fear is the fear of the unknown." Zhang Heng said.

"That's exactly what I'm trying to say!" In my novels, I've always tried to create an atmosphere that engages the imagination to the fullest, rather than portraying what brings fear. Because no matter how scary what you describe in words, it must be no scarier than the reader imagines it to be, and beyond that another trick is to make your writing seem as real as possible, to make the reader integrate the novel with his own life."

"That sounds very effective." Chang Heng.

"I also think it should work, but for some reason my editor told me that I don't get many readers for my articles." Lovecraft was embarrassed, "I actually can't afford to live with my aunt on the manuscript alone, we've moved a few times, and I never liked typing on a typewriter before because the noise it made made made it hard for me to concentrate, and I used to draw random drafts on the paper when I was writing, and I couldn't do that with a printer. "

Lovecraft sighed at this point, "But now, I've started trying to type on a typewriter in order to get more manuscripts through, after all, we've moved several times, and I'm afraid if we move again we'll have to go to the slums."

"That would be a good start." Chang Heng.

"I hope so."

A smile also appeared on Lovecraft's face that looked a little pale at that point, and the next thing he seemed to have thought of was something else, coming to open his desk drawer and taking out a bottle of red wine that was only half empty.

"I didn't expect guests in the house and wasn't prepared for much, this was my grandfather's wine, when my family was still prosperous and I also lived in a large mansion surrounded by servants, but now, now all I have is this bottle of wine." Lovecraft smiled to himself.

"Why is it just you and your aunt and uncle, your parents, at home?" Chang Heng asked.

"My father ...... suffered from some mental illness and he had a nervous breakdown in a hotel in Chicago and then died in a mental hospital, and my mother, who lived a little longer, got sick and died after that. And shortly after that, I met my wife in Boston, and we lived together for a few years, but unfortunately eventually her hat point went out of business, and we got divorced, and then I rejoined Aunt Annie in Providence."

Here Lovecraft said there was a sudden knock at the door again outside, and then he got a somewhat strange look on his face and said to himself, "Aunt Annie has called me to dinner again, strange, she just called me once fifteen minutes ago."

"Are you going to open the door first?" Chang Heng took a glass from Lovecraft's hand and asked.

"No, Aunt Annie will answer the door," Lovecraft said, "I just need to focus on my creation."

And not long after his words, there was a definite sound of a door opening outside.

A food cart was then pushed in, and the waiter who had delivered the food seemed to be used to the strange situation in the house, not saying a word the entire time, and immediately after delivering the meal, he pushed the cart out of the room, taking the door with him again as he left.

"Come join us for some food," Lovecraft warmly greeted, "As long as you don't mind the shabby food in my house."

As a result, Zhang Heng didn't get up at the news.

He looked at the man in front of him and asked, "How long have you been suffering from a mental illness, did you inherit it from your father?"

Lovecraft was startled, and after a moment he smiled a somewhat bitter smile, "How do you know, I was indeed depressed for a time after my father's ...... death, no, to be precise I would have mental breakdowns from time to time during that time, and I was unable to finish my high school education, and as a result I was unable to Got into the college I wanted to go to, but I'm feeling better now, and Dr. Greene gave me the medicine I've been taking."

Lovecraft pointed to a small pill bottle on the table.

Zhang Heng opened it and looked at it, but the inside was already empty at some point.

This was not surprising. Because looking at Lovecraft's face, as well as the living environment, at this moment, there was already no money left in his home, even the food was almost full, and there was certainly no reason for the medicine prescribed by the previous doctor to still be able to afford it.

In the last stage of life, this horror novelist has reached the point of desperation, and has been suffering from mental problems, and may even have been unable to distinguish between what is reality and what is illusion, just like the believers who have been influenced by Ksulu and gradually lost their sanity in his writings.

Zhang Heng suddenly had some understanding of how the monster in that city under the ice was born, he looked at the thin, sickly looking horror novelist in front of him and spoke, "There's no need for dinner, I have some other things to do today."

Lovecraft's look dimmed at the words, although he had been locking himself in his room and not going out, he could tell that deep down he actually craved for a friend, especially one who would approve of him, although he had only known Zhang Heng for a short time, but when Zhang Heng said that he appreciated his talent, he was indeed already planning to consider this plucky stranger as his friend, so when Zhang Heng refused to join him in the It was only after the invitation to dine that he would feel incredibly disappointed.

However, before he could make any indication, he heard Zhang Heng continue, "You said you're helping other writers with their rewrites, it just so happens that I have some writing problems as well, so if it's not too much trouble, can I continue to visit you after that?"

"Of course." Lovecraft gushed.