he’s a whore – big black

I took a day out to sort out one or two things peripheral to the writing. One being getting the cover of ‘1919’ ready for publication next month.

I’ve picked out an artist whose work I like and more importantly, has the necessary sense of humour to work with me.

There’s no point in trying to get into the kind of headspace I need to bring this to term if you find ‘Mr Bean’ and ‘Men behaving badly’ funny.

Anyway, that’s in hand now, so I can get back to focusing on the future.

So, this morning, up at 04:00, straight back into ‘dystopian’. It’s coming slowly, but I’m impressed with the prose itself, wherever I’m dredging it all up from.

This morning, I found myself hauling up old memories of Edinburgh’s victorian banks and museums, the architecture, the decoration and so on.

It never ceases to amaze me how much I have backed up in my skull, which I can draw upon to flesh out my fiction.

Writing ‘Dreich noir’, I’m recycling old memories of bodies, going back to my twenties, maybe even further.

Everyone he’s fucked has been an amalgam of my various exes, the flat and youthful stomach of someone I spent one glorious night with around 1983, the pendulous breasts of a woman in her fifties years later in another country. Okay, I photoshopped the various bits so they matched a bit better, but the fact remains that, like the good Doctor Frankenstein, I’m recycling the departed into new life – throw the third switch, Igor!

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