haters gonna hate – even the shit i be proud of, yeah?


July 2012

are you ready – rollins band

Up at 08:00 and straight into ‘dreich noir’. there’s no pressing need to, but I want to keep slamming out a good eighteen hundred words each morning so that come wednesday, I’ll slide gracefully from Edinburgh avant-fucking into feudal sci-fi relationship-sadism. or something.

When I embark on a new novel, it always takes me a day or two to get up to speed. up until now, I’ve always gone from a standing start.

Eighteen hundred words (give or take) is the amount that comes easily to me when I sit down and start writing. of late, I can manage two of these in a day, maybe three.

Next, I went over to the library to print out the twenty-page outline of ‘dystopian’ ready for next month’s frenzied orgy of words, sentences and paragraphs.

I started reading Charles Siefe’s book on the history of zero. having finished ‘the girl who played with fire’, I was looking for something to get my teeth into.

That said, I’m still gnawing my way through ‘fifty shades of gray’, one chapter at a time.

I’ve just managed to complete the chapter that’s just the slave contract.

Are all the otherwise sensible and alert women enjoying this crap aware that a slave contract isn’t legally enforceable – anywhere on earth?

And appendix two, the hard limits? I’ve not only done them all – apart from the ‘show-business’ ones, but I thrived on each and every one.

I’m best described as a method writer – and I do all my own stunts.


hole – the birthday party

My washing’s done. All the decks are cleared and I’m ready for action. I have a twenty page synopsis of ‘dystopian’ ready to go and a couple of days off before starting on the horrific constipation-meets-childbirth-with-both-legs-tied-together I keep putting myself through.

The only thing left to do now is a spot of shopping. Fully clothed shopping as opposed to really naked shopping.

I’ll be like Ewan Macgregor in ‘Trainspotting’, stockpiling tins of soup and plastic buckets for his helltrip to jonestown.

That said, I probably won’t be shitting, pissing and puking all over the house, but I’m certainly not ruling it out – not if the right person was to come along, say.

Now’s a good time to look at the negatives ahead of me. I’m looking at a month spent dredging up elements from various past relationships and folding, spindling and mutilating them to get them to fit what I’m writing.

Hopefully, the experience of squeezing out a story my bullshit detector’s happy with will outweigh the grinding loneliness and sense of my own relationship-autism. my inability to form lasting relationships with anyone not fitted with a screen and a keyboard.

And hopefully, I can keep my need to microwave my own head in check – at least until the novel’s fully out.

back from the dead – the adverts

I slept in until almost nine this morning. Up and staggery and straight into revising and uploading all the August posts for ‘dreich noir’.

I’m still not feeling all that groovy after the last couple of days, but that’s the decks cleared for next month’s novel. I can forget all about ‘dreich noir’ until September, which is certainly a weight off what’s left of my mind.

Recently, I was asked to contribute some cut-ins for the video of me that’s to appear on a DVD next month or so.

It took several hours, me reading ‘once more, with screaming’ and ‘when bridesmaids attack’ repeatedly – from different angles and posing – as if reading – for still photos.

Now, my sense of ‘humour’ being what it is, I took one or two ‘wee liberties’ with what I was doing.

I’ve also been asked to cough up the text of both pieces. No idea what’s being done with these but I’m hoping no-one’s planning to leave them at a crime scene for a laugh.

I suppose they might work as invocations where one wanted to be attacked by Jehovah’s witnesses, bridesmaids or both. I can’t really answer that as these really aren’t kinks I myself cherish.

The FVH memorial dvd is slated to be out next month sometime. Punk as fuck and the money’s going to a good cause, so there’s no real reason not to buy several to hurl into strangers’ laps when they least expect it.

the outsider – ian hunter

A Domme friend of mine commented recently, having read ‘dreich noir’, that she was amazed by all the vanilla sex therein.

My second novel, ‘at home, at work, at play’, like ‘1919’, was about a fem-dom relationship.

They always say you should write what you know, however I didn’t want to be ‘the guy who writes all the male sub books’ – and I’d decided that before all this fifty shades furore!

On top of that, the last few months haven’t been a particularly sexual time for me.

When Irish punk band the stiff little fingers moved from Belfast to London after completing their ‘inflammable material’ lp, they took a band decision to quit writing songs about life in Belfast and I’ve always thought that was a decent thing to do.

It’s the same for me. if I’m not having any chains ‘n’ canes action, I don’t feel I should be presenting myself as someone who is.

The novel I’m about to embark on looks as if it’s going to be about lack of communication – and outside pressures – within relationships. Which brings us neatly back to writing what I know best!

Certainly, I’ve had a few relationships that buckled under these influences.

‘1919’ was very much about how lonely one can feel while (theoretically) still in a relationship. which is very much where my head was while I was writing it.

‘At home, at work, at play’, conversely, showed a couple struggling while managing to maintain their relationship. so fuck delving into that while I’m this single!

Up this morning at eight and back into ‘dreich noir’. I brought back one of his old flames he hasn’t seen in a while, which was nice.

Enough time for the sense of newness to reappear, but enough sexual history for the lovemaking not to be as clumsy as it was to begin with.

I’d also done my #followfriday on twitter before lunchtime – and I’ve only managed to offend and/or upset one person this week!

small town – lou reed and john cale

I suppose I live quite a solitary life nowadays. I live in the middle of nowhere, I spend most days alone and most of my human companionship is on twitter.

I’m single and I share my life with no pets.

I run into my kids occasionally. Everyone else is dead or faraway.

I lived in cities from age five to forty-eight. I was born in a small town in South Wales and have spent the last three years in two small towns in central Scotland.

My first novel was written while I was in Liverpool and it took me eleven months. in the last twelve months, I’ve written four more first drafts. the last took just eighteen days.

I slept in until eight this morning, wrote another episode for dreich noir, before finishing my revision of the ‘dystopia’ draft.

It felt great, getting to the last page – especially since I’d added in an entire chapter around the middle and changed the order a wee bit, too.

After that, all I had to do was fold in the notes I’d taken on what each section should feel like.

After that, I cleaned up the flat a bit, which I’d been putting off for a day or two, preferring to take it out on my keyboard and talk to myself.

voodoo idol – the cramps

I spent the weekend wrestling with the cover for ‘1919 inside’, which will be out in the world shortly.

Saturday night, I went through to Edinburgh to see Maya Deren’s “Divine Horsemen” film. I read her book way back in the eighties, but had never got around to seeing the film itself until now. Pretty impressive, as was the soundtrack by William Bennett.

I met up with the artist who’ll be doing the ‘1919’ cover. We’ve communicated for so long through e-mauls and text, that it’s easy for each of us to forget that the other ever had a face.

After the entertainment, the artist and I headed to a hostelry seemingly created for students to swear in while drinking lager. and there were absolutely no dark beers whatsoever – we ‘made our excuses and left’ as tabloid journalists do when fleeing fetish clubs.

Eventually, we hit a proper pub and were able to have that wide-ranging conversation. (the king’s head was encouraging all those who sailed in her to commit karaoke – the scoundrels!)

This morning, I got up at seven and dived straight into dreich noir, tidying up three episodes to upload later. I wrote the first draft of another, too.

i write the b-sides – eels

I’ve hammermed ‘dystopian’ today. Taking wee breaks where I needed to and then returning to it. It’s really taking shape now. I’ve had two passes, looking for what was missing and today has been spent merging it all together.
I’m quite looking forward to getting started on this next week.
Okay, it’ll still be daunting to think, “shit, I have to somehow wring fifty thousand words out of this piffle.” But I’ve learned not to think that way.
It’s a decent enough idea, with several wee stylistic flouishes I’m fairly proud of. The central characters are strong and the plot has more convolutions than a politician on question time.
There’s always that fear before I start that I’m a crap storyteller, that the bubble has burst, my muse has fled.
(And if anyone knows how I can obtain one of the muses from “almost famous” – a little closer to my age and without the blow-jobs – I’d be delighted to hear from you!)
But my muse’ll be there for me – she always is.
My mate rang up today to arrange a spot of getting bunnied on bath salts next week and I had to turn him down.
I’m not going to have the time while this novel’s hanging out of me like a homesick miscarriage – THAT’S how seriously I take my muse and what she squeezes out of me!

sleep (electro-induced version) – fad gadget

I’ve been getting up in the morning and battering into dreich noir these last few days. It doesn’t matter what I’m working on, getting up first thing and starting to write before I’m properly awake.

One foot in the daylife and the other still dangling somewhere in the surrealist realms – it’s a cracking headspace to be writing in! The prose seems to flow out of me like pish from an unconscious jakey.

I’ve been doing this for quite a few months now. Back in the day, I used to write at night. I’d read that Bukowski could only write after the sun went down and only to orchestral music on the radio. (i think I read this in ‘Women’, but don’t hold me to that. I could’ve told you, were it still 1995, I assure you!)

Living in Los Angeles, I’m pretty sure ol’ chuck would’ve had commercial radio soundtracking his nocturnal typing. Living in Edinburgh, about a year after his death, I tuned in classic FM and hammered away at my first PC, an old XT – 640k of ram, MS-DOS and Word Perfect 5.1.

In actual fact though, the human organism is generally in better nick at nine in the morning than it is at midnight. The same dose of amphetamines that’ll kill you at midnight, you’ll survive first thing in the morning.

(PRO TIP: write all day, do any drugs you need to do at night – more bang for your buck.)

So nowadays, I get up with the light and start typing before I’m fully awake. It’s a creative period, with loads of mistakes and god-leaks that flood into my work.

the man who couldn’t afford to orgy – john cale

I got up and wrote another thousand word episode of dreich noir. Although I had a slight sense a week or two back that it was starting to run out of steam, the ideas are piling up thick and fast as an upper-class cokehead.

I’ve added tags to dreich noir now, too. I don’t know why I never bothered before – probably because I was new to wordpress and it looked like more trouble than it was worth.

Having seen the amount of interest I get on this blog using tags, it seemed churlish not to experiment on dreich noir, so as of a couple of days ago, dreich noir has tags, too.

There’s a perverse part of me wondering about the innocent people who’ll stumble over it and decide Edinburgh’s a hotbed of people fucking soft toys and effigies of coal, cheese and stained glass.

Not, of course, that this isn’t the case. Eny fule kno Edinburgh’s a slow motion orgy, filled with people made of all kinds of materials. If Stuart Macbride can write about Aberdeen in terms of its hideous, anti-personnel weather and horrific, stomach-turning villainous deeds, I can certainly point out the avant shagging that typifies the rotting capital I grew up in!

I’ve also gone through the draft of dystopias, looking for more changes and additions I can make. It’s a filthy job, but somebody’s got to do it.

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