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


March 2013

throne of agony – scraping foetus off the wheel

I’m finished. Well, apart from one more dossier (for someone who’s only in two scenes) and the last two scene-by-scene breakdowns.
There’s one more day left before I commit NaNoCamp.
The other day, I ran up a template for breaking each scene down into each of the five senses (and ‘other’) – hopefully, when it comes time to rip into this beast, this’ll speed things up. I can just surf on the creativity and the sensory stuff’s there like a skeleton for me to do my pornographic acrobatics on!
It’s a far cry from my first NaNo in July of 2011, when all I had was the main character’s job and his marriage/power dynamic (of course he was in a FemDomme relationship; what am I? Some sort of fuckin’ weirdo?)
There’s no kinky sex whatsoever in this outline. In fact, ‘at home at work at play’ was the last time I wrote about what I regard as sex. Which is almost two years ago. Which is almost as long as I haven’t been sexually active – on my own terms.
Funny, I hadn’t considered that til now. Maybe I should do something about it, but not before May first, for sure!
After all, I’m going to spend the next month typesurfing, with all the symptoms of childbirth AND constipation.
And that’s true scientific fact, that!

now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.


black eye – fluffy

On train. First of about four I’ll be on today. Allergies giving me gyp – eyes watering, unable to breathe deeply enough, it feels like.
I revised another section of ‘person-hair’ yesterday, threading in a few new scenes and working out where the dialogue should go.
I’d get bored if I had to write the same novel over and over again. I admit it – I have the attention-span of a moth on crack. I can’t listen to the same song – or even album – over and over again (with very few exceptions!)
So when I’m planning a novel, the boredom sets in and I start working out ways I can make the experience of writing it as different as possible to the others.
Otherwise, I just wouldn’t bother.
(Later) yeah, it took four trains and a soaky bath, but I made it to work. In between, I smoothed another couple of sections of ‘person-hair’. It’s starting to look good. Better still, it’s starting to *feel* pretty good.
A couple of the characters are starting to explode off the page, developing character-facets I hadn’t consciously dreamed of!
The plot’s starting to hang together a little better, too. There’s less holes than there were twenty-four hours back.
Oh, and my left eye, when I caught sight of it in the bathroom mirror, is well bloodshot, the result of a spot of everly enthusiastic breath-play during the early hours of sunday morning!

now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.

lemmings – van der graaf generator

I’ve started fleshing out the chapters, added a chase and a maid’s outfit (although not in the same scene) and I’ve also created dossiers on my mmc and his adversary.
If I can keep to two chapters – and two dossiers – per day I can get this nailed down next week.
Of course, real life has a habit of getting in the way. This next month or so is cluttered with kids ‘n’ grandkids birthdays, (the selfish little bastards!) So, there’s going to be days where I can’t fully focus.
Oh and I’ve started the dossier on one of my supporting characters.
Wow, I’m dredging up bits of people I’ve met, people I’ve only ever seen on tv. So far, she’s only in two scenes; I might even have to beef her part up a bit.
I don’t think, when we plan any piece of writing, we have any idea where it’s going to finish up. The tiniest characters put on weight, explode out of where I sat them in the text, throw up undreamed of facets, pull in slivers of people from real life and meld them into incredible personalities.
I’m gonny be spending the next couple of days on trains, so I should be able to get ahead with this.
I don’t feel like I’m in control at all. It’s like playing ‘lemmings’ – I can herd them, force one to do something that affects the others somehow, but lay down the law? Expect the chaotic little bastards to do my bidding? Nah.

now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.

in the beginning, there was rhythm – the slits

I wrote a rough treatment of ‘person-hair’ over the last couple of days. Just a couple of thousand words, basic plotting and a few scenes, but enough to base a fuller version on.
I’ve been chopping away at it all week, adding characters, smoothing them into each other.
There’s a perverse and masochistic pleasure – like slowly pulling off a long scab – in this bit of the creative process.
It doesn’t feel like this shitty story will go anywhere or amount to anything.
That’s the internal censor, the arsewipe inside who tells me I can’t write. Unfortunately, as a facet of my own mind, it’s not a voice I can silence by the simple application of force. I need to apply a bit of skull here.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cunt.” (Mimi McGuire: Shameless)
I’ve also made a list of characters. There’s thirty-one of the bastards (for now) ten of whom will need to be fully fleshed out before I start the writing proper.

now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.

violence – mott the hoople

I have an ambivalent, ‘to me – to you’ relationship with violence. Like the chuckle brothers, smoking crack and trying to gnaw each other’s faces off. Those of you who regularly touch yourselves in an inappropriate manner while reading this after lights out will recall that I’m pretty much the product of violence.
To recap: I was named after my paternal grandfather, who (allegedly) battered my gran on a regular basis.
Growing up in edinburgh in the sixties and seventies, violence was all around. It was the golden era of football violence. Never mind the 1980s’ casuals – football crowds were much larger back-in-the-day, as were the record-buying and/or concert-going public. And concerts – and discos – were incredibly violent places; like a cross between the circus maximus and jail-porn.
The literature of the day, certainly for those of us engaged in growing big boy hair, spots and mood-swings, were the hell’s angels and skinhead books. Peter Cave, Richard Allen, casual racism, misogyny and above all, violence. Violence was like a river everyone had to swim in and credibility points were awarded to those who brought back the best tales of force and betrayal. Points were lost for flinching or not laughing during the telling of these tales.
Kids older than the rest of us were thought to have more experience in violence than us; it was seen as something to aspire to, something to look forward to when we grew up.

jewel – t.rex

A whistle-stop visit to glasgow today – and a visit to a record shop. A record shop it cost me twenty bucks to get back out of again!
I picked up Beck’s ‘Odelay’ (been meaning to for years) and Von Sudenfed’s ‘Tromatic reflexxions’ – any album featuring Mark E Smith that I don’t have counts as a hole in my record collection, yeah?
But the absolute jewel-in-the-crown had to be the can 3xCD, ‘the lost tapes: 68-75’. For THIRTEEN GODDAMN QUID!!!
I’ve been hunting that for a while now, so having it jump out at me for a knockdown price wasn’t exactly a disappointment.

all through the city – wilko johnson

I don’t usually write about individual gigs on this blog, but it’s been quite an emotional experience, saying goodbye to old Walter. Wilko’s been there as far back as I can remember. Let’s face it, the feelgoods were, at best, okay-ish after Wilko jumped-or-was-pushed following ‘stupidity’. And tonight – 2013 – Wilko doesn’t look any saner than on the cover of ‘stupidity’. There’s just less hair.
It’s emotional from the get-go. Meeting someone I haven’t seen in a fuckload of years to see Wilko’s last stand. Decades to catch up on. Reminding him he was the person who gave me my first ever psylocybin mushrooms, back in 1979.
The audience are weird. At gigs in Glasgow, a lot more than Edinbugh, one sees a lot more women attending gigs. Tonight was like a fall gig, ten, twelve years ago. A mostly male audience, what women there were, seemed to have been dragged there, complaining bitterly.
I’m kind of hoping the friend I’m staying with can find it in her heart to administer a savage beating.
When I lost my mother, a friend stepped in and helped me process my emotional pain through physical chastsement. Eighteen months later, I lost a really close friend and my ‘Domme’ at the time refused point-blank to help me externalise the emotional pain through physical pain.

now, why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

Guaranteed – absolutely NO traces of horse DNA anywhere in this novel. And that’s the truth – or my name’s not David Cameron.

eat us, mother! – black sun productions with val denham

I saw this on cold spring’s site and liked the sound of it, so I bought it unheard. I’ve liked Val Denham’s art ever since Throbbing Gristle’s ‘Funeral in Berlin’ back in the early eighties.
“my bra and knickers were red like sin”
With a name like ‘Black sun productions’, it’s no great surprise that there are occasional hints of Coil – not that this pair sound ‘like’ Geff, Sleazy, et al, though – in fact, the more I listen to it, the more I think of more underground eighties acts like Redemption inc or Un-kommuniti. Not that they sound much like either of them either. In fact, maybe Soft cell would be a closer analogy, particularly in the vocals, words and delivery. That same near-clumsiness found in Marc Almond’s earlier work.
In fact, Ms Denham’s voice ‘n’ delivery are more like a witchy Mark E Smith in a burning cabaret.
“and now, the room is spinning; the alcohol is winning”
Due to the androgynous name, I never knew which gender Val Denham actually was – oayk, I never lost any sleep over the question – but it turns out I was right.
“when in danger, when in doubt; run in circles, scream and shout”
A lot of the songs deal with transgender issues, a subject pretty close to her heart, it seems. In particular, ‘flowers in the trenches’ takes a savage look at military history – using a perspective I hadn’t considered before.
This is the second great album I’ve come across this year. Radically different to the Pretty Things’ ‘Balboa island@, but equally, a regular dancefloor-filler at scat-candy acres.

the idea – adam & the ants

I’m really surging forward with dreich NOiR just now. The ideas are coming thick and fast and shooting off into areas I hadn’t even considered.
This is what I love about writing. That dropping into a trancelike state and transcribing the in-skull movies I find there.
I’m not sure what went wrNog with dreich NOiR towards the end of last year. Certainly, it was becoming top-heavy, bulky and cumbersome. New year’s explosion of destruction threw me off my stroke and the whole thing ground to a halt.
Things had started to calm by late january and, thinking about where the plot could go, I arrived at the idea of a coma.
This has been a great convulsion, sending ripples out in all directions.

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