23 years


Still, I fantasise about you
I wonder how much pressure?
I imagine that sound, the sound
the sound-man sound, the mimic
how much pressure would it take
a lunge or just steady and constant?
I would talk you through it, my love
my faithless, mutinous, heartless lost love
I would ease you to the floor
we could share those last few moments
you might profess sorrow ~ me too
we did discuss the consequence
fair’s fair, why should I remain broken?
23 years: the age you lied about
the age you were, an untruth
the age our baby is now
the number of years I’ve suffered
23 years, sounds innocent out of context
Twenty three, the cost to you, the cost to me
best consigned to memory
a sperm donation, a price, the fee?
of fantasy, a young man’s vanity.


Apparently I’ve now blogged over 100 times!
For all the feedback I’ve had I might as well have….

Edit edit edit


So I thought I’d try and format a couple of my books for createspace so they’re available in paperback too….!
I might be nearly there with my last book, His own Downfall, but as The Colour Thing is one of my faves I thought it would be nice to do that as one of the first. A ha ha ha. For some odd reason I’ve not got the original odt file, it cuts off about two thirds of the way in so I’ve had to use a text file which needs massively reformatting and in the process I noticed lots of little niggly bits that need attention too. I know I’ve been lax with some of the finer points of editing, my use of apostrophes is amateur, pathetic actually but hey, I’m getting there. I’m a self-taught reform school kid so fuck off, alright?
Fuck it’s hard work this writing guff though isn’t it?

So far I’ve spent hours just realigning the headings and setting the type back into some form of sense as the whole thing is edged right up to the border on the left hand side which is really crappy-looking.
The poxy book is over 200,000 words!
Why this one? It’s almost finished, just a bit of careful editing and I could get on with other stuff but now it’s turned into a major project. It makes me wonder what some of my other early stuff must be like. My grammar and use of tenses leaves a little to be desired at times although I’m coming to understand how to resolve the issues. One of my recent ones I had to go right through and correct the mixed tenses varying from 1st to 2nd person, not cool. At least I’m proper busy now and it means I don’t have to strain my brain thinking up new stories while I’m working on old stuff which is good.
I feel out of my depth and as if I’ve bitten off far more than I’m capable of on my latest novel which I decided would be at least a twin book if not a trilogy. I don’t know why we do this to ourselves. The theory is great, yes I can write, yes I have an imagination but a trilogy!!

I’m panicking because those fucks at the benefit office are trying to find me some dead end job and this will all grind down to nothing if I can’t work as I need to. There’s no way you could be this creative after a days work.
What a waste of talent. I wonder how many others are stuck like that, artists, authors, trapped in the wage trap when they could be better rewarded (mentally) elsewhere. I should get a bonus for being prepared to exist on the pittance I scrape by on. I think those of us with a vocation should be left to create, one of these days I’m going to write something really profound, or at the very least entertaining, for a few days. Fuck, if only they understood how hard we work. All I ask is to be left alone while I build something from nothing, not much bother to anyone is it?

Don’t wake me the F up!!!

Ye! Had one of those days today really. Had to get up early, never good!
I need routine. Years ago I used to think it was cool to deny myself that, to try to be petulant and random, you know, live every day dur dur dur….
But now I’m mad I need routine or the voice gets too much and my equilibrium is set off course. I feel the melancholy more, it’s not so much a depression like in the good old days when I could really sink into that all-consuming mire, this newer medication stops all that horror, thank fuck but still the general morose, what’s that word…at school….sultry? No….begins with an S I think and I do think an S (singular) is an S not a S but I could be wrong. Pedantry is nô requérdo gracias.
I remembered…sullen…apparently I was sullen. No shit?
Anyway, I managed to get a little writing done, only a few hundred words but the main thing is the story keeps moving and I feel alive because I have a story to tell. I wish it was one of those ‘this is going to blow people’s minds and change the world stories’ but I don’t think I’m going to be one of those authors. I remember reading about one famous author who apparently wrote something like twenty odd novels before having any success, someone who ended up well respected, a 50’s crime and thriller writer. No, I don’t remember the name but I’ll be sure to look it up.
Anyway, he just kept banging them off his wrist until one day he wrote the one that got him established as a reliably prolific and quality author and whoosh! He made a living I think and no doubt lived happily in the knowledge that he’d achieved something close to his goal, which is nice eh?
This is my eighteenth so I’m hoping it might happen for me soon too.
SO disappointed people haven’t picked up on my other stuff, The Colour Thing is a beast of a novel, I have such affection for that book yet it’s done nothing but what do I know? All you can do is provide the work and hope isn’t it…
So, anyway, the acid indigestion is as bad as ever. My diet is terrible! Trying to write this with my belly overflowing with bile is really uncomfortable, hot!
I’m blaming it on the early start, I’ve been unbalanced.
My best days are when I can wake when I’m ready and lay thinking about my writing as I come round. Some of the best ideas come in those waking/nodding off moments. Some of the best writing is done in a dream state on the edge of that weird level between sleep and wakefulness. Maybe that’s what it is with The Colour Thing, I think that was the first book I wrote after moving home to the island and I was seriously fucked up then, sleep, write, sleep, few words, nod off, a chapter, sleep.
How I made it through that I don’t know.
How I make it through any day I wonder but we go on don’t we? Too frightened to take matters into our own hands, too pathetic perhaps?
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get it right. Hope so

Digression and the art of obfuscation


Well I’m on page 19, and?
Never said I was going to race into anything did I?
I seem to be slower than ever but it’s partly because the last few have been so difficult but the way I write is changing into a more rigid, more expansive, creative process (pretentious twonk!) than my earlier work. It’s probably a good thing judging by the rubbish I read on one guys Facebook page today who clearly didn’t think editing was part of the process: C word!
The more I write the more I realise all those things I didn’t want to have to bother with, all those long-winded tedious parts, you know, the editing, the rewriting, the spellchecking, careful rearrangement of a comma or semi colon or would a full colon be better? All that, I’ve come to realise, is a massive part of what makes an author better. Obviously the story has to roll along, twisting and meandering through the suburbs of the imagination, calling at all the bus stops along the route and taking careful note of the chewing gum on the back of the seat or the patina of the worn seats in the shelter but the stops and starts are all part of it. Without them there is no story but of course experience teaches you that.
Easier to see the mistakes as you’re travelling if you’ve encountered them before and you’re not racing towards the; ahem, climax like a young chap caught up in the moment, what?
So, a new novel is drizzling out of the mind slowly, steadily and, hopefully, with some awesome passages in the new more mature prose that I’ve become adept at rather than the rushed, have-to-keep-going-back-and-checking-everything-over-and-over that I used to fall into.
What’s the cliche?
Nothing worth having comes easy?

Poxy fucking email wankers

So first hotmail decides to close my fucking account with no chance for me to stop the idiots so I thought I’d open a new mail.com account. Did that but it’s just part of fucking gmail and confuses my iPad so I open yahoo mail account, change my amazon to that and now I can’t get into my amazon account with 15 of my books on it.
Next thing the fuckers will try to claim my own work is not mine because I can’t verify my own fucking email account.

Never learn.

I’ve only gone and started a new one haven’t I!
I thought I could stop. I thought I was in control but in a moment of weakness I succumbed and now I feel dirty and ashamed.
It’s that same feeling, that idea that I’m doing something worthwhile. The feeling that somehow the recognition I might receive will balance my life in a way that’s currently missing.
What IS that about?
I woke up with the urge.
I went downstairs, made coffee then got straight down to it. In my usual position at the top of the stairs it took a while to get my mind going. That’s why I wanted to stop. It’s becoming harder to slip straight into it and yet still I can’t let go. I remained there until the words flowed, kidded myself that what I’m doing has value!
Oh the shame of the author.
I even try to do it in public sometimes!
The editing is okay, that’s kept to a minimum in the garret but it’s the flagrant display on beaches or in parks that’s so wrong.
All I can hope is this one is so crushing that it’s my last, although….I have this feeling I’ve begun…a trilogy. I actually think I might pull it off! I feel out of my depth, it feels way beyond anything I should be attempting.
Apparently that is a good sign.
We’ll see

Suicidal depression

Facebook! We all know it’s a bit shitty but all of a sudden there’s a mass of ‘we love you’ bollocks all over it in the wake of Robin Williams’ suicide which is all meant in the best spirit I’m sure but don’t people get it?
People who are suicidal can’t be saved by love any more than Courtenay, Michael Stipe, family, friends and fans could save Kurt Cobain.
Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that.
Depression, especially the type that Robin had, doesn’t allow for love. It doesn’t penetrate; at least not from strangers.
Most depressives feel in a completely different way to the average person. HUGE ups, vertical downs, overwhelming emotions going both ways from the greatest waves of love for their family, babies, toddlers, birds, cats, the sun, trees, the breeze, to the most destructive hateful, murderous, negativity imaginable, or rather; unimaginable…to most.
There is no sense to a disease that tells a successful, loved person that they are worthless. There is no explaining that.
I long ago got used to the fact that every day the voice will tell me what a useless piece of shit I am and how much better it would be if I wasn’t here. I get that, most days I ignore the twat but some days……
I get these waves of melancholy.
I zone out at the supermarket till.
I get sudden moments of what-the-fuck-is-the-point?
Luckily, my medication works enough that I can feel like this every day until I find the courage to do what Robin did but there will always be those who say “that’s selfish, that’s wrong, that’s the easy way out.”
Yea? Well you suffer this fucking disease every poxy day then motherfucker and see how you get on but don’t ever assume to know the inside of someone else’s personal hell because you do not have a clue, trust me.
The saddest thing is so many people have the same problems and there really is little to be done.
Keep going as long as you can but I don’t blame anyone for tiring of the fight

Not again?


Yup, I’ve only gone and started another novel…tsk!
I swore I wouldn’t put myself through the trauma again but it’s a drug, the only one I use, well; if you don’t count coffee and I don’t. Coffee is what old people use to wake, socialise, take a break and retain interest. Without it we are empty vessels.
I think I may have started number one of a series of sci-fi/fantasy novels based on the concept of extreme torture to an authors imagination.
As usual everything feels way beyond me.
As usual I have very little planning underway.
As usual I will probably get 20,000 words in and wonder what the hell I’m doing with my life and “how the Fffff am I ever going to finish the first one?”
At least I have the belief/knowledge that I can turn a story on my instinctive ability to dredge stuff from the well at the bottom of my mind. Somewhere down there in the darkness is a river, stream, brook? that drizzles ideas in from underground and if I think for long enough or drift into ‘that’ zone the sparkles rise to the top. It’s an odd thing, to have nothing but a blank page in front of you that somehow fills with all manner of stories, from where?
I’m going to drop the bucket in and hope because I am well out of my depth with this one but fantasy is my thing.
I wrote my sci-fi novel and that turned out way better than I could ever have imagined so I’m gonna do this. I’ve got a whole world to invent now, characters to write, stories to make up, histories to invent…
It’s going to be amazing, challenging, scary and horrible but I can do this, you wait and see.

Not writing; not crying


Tragic title but it’s evidence of how fucked up writing can make you.
If you’re not careful you’ll get caught up in the, ‘I can’t make it through the day without writing something’ bullshit. I was like that but you can get away. Maybe it’s only a short respite but it is possible to break the habit, you’ve just got to have faith.
I’ve been lucky. I finished my last book then got put on this course so I don’t really have time for writing just now, besides I find I’m tired when I get in. A little bit of editing but that’s more curiosity to see if the book hangs well together after a seven month break between beginning and returning to it.
You have to be careful or you convince yourself you’re work is important, SO important that it rules your life.
It’s not: not for me, not for any writer.
Writing is a gift to be enjoyed, not a weight to hang round your neck. A vocation should not be a curse that has to be adhered to every day like the world might end if you don’t nurture it, as if the muse will relinquish it’s hold if you don’t bow and scrape to it daily.
Take a break; I don’t believe in writers block.
I believe in enjoying what you do.
I believe in the muse flowing, meandering up and downstream, idling in eddies and swirling in circles with the tide until the current catches the wind and torrents surge but if there’s no breeze then there’s no rush; all natural things ebb and flow. Don’t try and force it and if it doesn’t come back…so?
There is no set amount of work you have to produce.
Some will write volumes. Some; one book, good or bad.
Occasionally one will come along who catches the zeitgeist. If you’ve written more than three books then chances are it’s not you so probably best to simply enjoy whatever comes along while it’s with you.
No biggie.
I never seriously thought I would finish one book, certainly not one that achieved the standards expected of a ‘proper’ author, and I AM a proper author now, accomplished and authoritative yet humbled by my peers apparently greater skills.
Still; I do hope I write again. There’s so much yet to learn but if I don’t finish another sentence then I’m content with what I’ve achieved so far. Who thought I would produce so much?
Still editing the last one so I’m guessing it’s not finished with me just yet….