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reSenTinG YoUR DArLiNGS

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

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September 2013

no sacrifice – nocturnal emissions

I’ve been rickety all week. Struck down with the gentleman-flu – the galloping gentleman-flu.
I have generated mucous from my face-holes, low-or-no energy and savaged concentration.
That said, writing up my daily journal this morning (I didn’t, right over the days-of-sickness) I found myself drawing on memories from saturday morning as if I was squeezing out fiction. And you know what? It felt great.
But by and large, I’ve felt like shit ever since the weekend.
Which is ironic, as last weekend was the finest birthday I’ve ever had. Three days of baccanalia, suffering and rejoicing. And as it ended, I collapsed. A further three days of coughing, choking and rivers of snot.
I don’t even buy into the Judeo-Christian paradigm, that all pleasure must be paid for – with pain, with atonement, with sacrifice. Nope, I still smell shite when I hear that noise.
I believe – because experience has taught me – that pleasure is an end in itself. That not all sex needs to end in pregnancy, that not every pint is a signpost to your hangover.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.

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the disease – echo and the bunnymen

This latest draft of ‘the c-word’ is the one where I smooth each section, perfect it.
I’m finding this really difficult. I’m impatient to get my fingers into the bastard and start gouging the fucker.
I’m going to tough it out, hang on for November and NaNoWriMo. I didn’t do NaNoCamp in August – first one I’ve missed in about three years. I missed it. I feel like a sick junkie, raw and shivering. I know that once I get those first few drops on my lips, the drive, the sheer motorised instinct will take over and I’ll be writing again.
Like Geoffrey Rush’s Sade in the film ‘quills’, everything else is fuel for the writing that, if I try to stem it, will explode me.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.

laughing song – the residents

That’s me finished the 3rd draft of ‘the c-word’. I’ve probably more-or-less doubled the length of the thing, so it’ll be around fifteen, twenty pages (probably) once I type in all the additions I’ve made.
That’s it taken a sort of shape. There’s still polishing to be done, but I’m happy with what it looks like for now.
It’s throwing me back on the authors I like who use humour well, Tom Sharpe, Christopher Brookmyre and Mil Millington, to name but three.
When I’m unsure how to polish a particular scene for maximum hilarity, I try to reconstruct the scene in the style of each of them – Sharpe’s willful blasphemy, Millington’s stunned rationality, Brookmyre’s pope-hating and catholic-baiting…
Other humourous influences are, Monty Python (who gave me surrealism when I was but a callow youth with spots and mood-swings), and of course, Graham Linehan (Father Ted, the IT crowd), Charlie Brooker and Chris Morris.
Hopefully the finished product won’t be a photocopy of any of these, but draw on elements from most-if-not-all of them.
I’ve never written humour before, so I’m looking forward to the challenge. Which will probably kill me. And follow me to hell. And watch me being sodomised in a lake of fire by Cerberus, the three-headed dog of the abyss.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.

read it in books – echo and the bunnymen

I’ve had a bit of a break from ‘the C-word’ this week and caught up with my reading. After all, you can’t produce if you don’t consume – and Garth Merenghi’s the only writer who’s written more books than he’s read.
I finished George RR Martin’s ‘a storm of swords’ and started Chelsea Cain’s ‘kill you twice’ – and my bath books are Christopher Brookmyre’s ‘where the bodies are buried’ and Miles Davis’ autobiography.
I saw Brookmyre reading in Dunfermline recently. If you aren’t familiar with his work, he’s like a Glasgow writer except he doesn’t support Celtic FC (I know. Difficult to imagine, isn’t it?)
Live, he’s very very funny, sharing a number of his one-star reviews for ‘quite ugly one morning’ and reading a section from the newie, ‘flesh wounds’.
This is the first of his straight up crime novels I’ve read. The style, the overall voice are the same, but with the trademark coffin humour reined right in.
Clelsea Cain’s ‘Archie and Gretchen’ series are best described as ‘Hannibal Lector – with a uterus – for young adults’.
‘Kill you twice’ isn’t her best (not so far, anyway) but both Brookmyre and Irvine Welsh have had points where their books felt formulaic and both writers grew out of it and went on to create great, surprising work.
I’m going to finish this anyway. I’m already interested in the characters from books 1-4, even if no-one’s really moving forward (yet) in this one.
I’ve tried watching ‘game of thrones’ and, having read the first couple of books already, found it flat and disappointing. I’ve now got three of the novels under my belt and I’m utterly hooked. This is so good you just know weak and insipid hacks are already gearing up to copy this. This is Ellroy’s ‘american tabloid’ with swords and dragons, ‘lord of the rings’ based on the British government (David Cameron as Joffrey, anyone?)
I’m quite literally cheering the goodies and booing the baddies while reading, an experience I don’t think I’ve had before.
I’m only a couple of chapters into the Miles Davis autobiography and already, the most used word is ‘motherfucker’. It’s been used to describe everything from Dizzy Gillespie’s playing to how Miles’ mother dressed when he was a kid. Gleefully enthusiastic like a hipster Frank Booth.
As I say, I’ve only scratched the surface of this just now, Miles is still a child, but has *just* discovered music, announcing in his 78 RPM fashion that it was going to push aside all other interests.
(Oh yeah. I finished ‘kill you twice’. What a superb ending! The whole book set up that ending (and the next one). She definately had me fooled!)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.

wax dolls – fischer z

I bit the bullet last week and started on the skeleton of ‘the c-word’.
Character will always grow out of plot, while plot almost never begets character. So I started with a loose outline, made a list of characters and fleshed them out. Just a few broad strokes – one character’s irritating laugh, another’s obsession with fellatio, another one’s ability to appear – without speaking to anyone – in the most unexpected places.
I completed the characters’ sketches on friday and immediately began filling in the gaps in the plot – which now seemed simple, armed with how each character would behave in any given situation.
I’m now about one third of the way through the plot (working from the end, backwards) to try to catch as many logic bombs as possible before I sit down and scrawl this thing from start to finish.
I’m doing this draft on trains, in cafes, in pubs, short bursts, anything to keep it as bitty as possible.
I want it to seem fragmented, broken up, chaotic. Like life is.
I’m enjoying the way everything’s falling into place. Because I’m starting from characters, how they behave and react is coming out easy, like a post guinness dump.
Interestingly, I haven’t given anyone names yet. It’s all, ‘woman with a huge collection of beanie babies and no boyfriend’ and ‘shy monosyllabic gay guy’. I’ll hand out names before the next draft, but for now, everybody’s ‘just’ their plot function.

Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.

close to the edge – yes

One thing about belonging to someone whose favourite noises are made by Journey and Runrig is my growing acceptance of prog rock.
Ok, I’ll put my hand up for (freaks era) Hawkwind, and Yes’ ‘close to the edge’, but Genesis? Nah. Pretty much everything else Yes imposed on the world? No thanks.
However, the last seven months have seen me sink deeper and deeper into a morass of guitar solos, keyboard doodlings and (sigh) even flutery-pokery. No drum solos as yet, but I’m sure even that’s coming, like incontinence, confusion and chest pains.
In an interview, Steven Wilson said he originally thought that metal was something you listened to and then grew out of – right up til he started meeting people backstage at gigs who liked Porcupine Tree as well as various metal bands.
I’ve felt the same about prog rock. Like smoking and beer, everybody had a crack at liking it – to try to pass ourselves off as being as grown up as our elder brothers. Then punk happened and all these dinosaurs were consigned to the dustbin of history. Or were they?
My favourite album this week is Telergy’s ‘the legend of Goody Cole’, blistering guitar solos? Check. Folksy singery? Yep. Fucking flutes? Damn right. Concept album? Aye. About the witch trials? Oh fuck, aye.
In a couple of days, I’m off to see Swans, for the first time since 1989. Does this seem an uncomfortable juxtaposition? Nope.
I just bought my ticket for psyche-fest next month, where Eat Lights, Become Lights are playing (along with Mugstar and Moon Duo) so maybe I was just in the closet all along.
I saw Mugstar in 2009, just before I left Liverpool. Although their albums are a bit lacklustre (apart from the newest one, a classic) live, they’re terrific. Blistering. They set fire to Korova that night – and all who sailed in her.
Before Mugstar, there were three other bands who blew me away too. Their names are gone in the mists of time and hard drugs, but the one who sounded a bit like PFM particularly impressed me.
So maybe I loved prog all along (with certain hard limits) Rick Wakeman being one, ‘Tales from topographic oceans’ being another.
Another band who’ve grabbed me of late are Dark Buddha Rising, whose work contains many passages that positively reek of Black-boned Angel, a longtime fetish of mine.
Maybe the whole of industrial culture grew out of prog – or was as much of an answer to it as punk was. Rather than punk’s year zero approach, old-school industrial music could be thought of as a subversion of the mores of prog. The long instrumental passges? Check. High concept overload? Oh fuck aye! Coum grew out of that era and most famously supported Hawkwind in Hull, leading Dave Brock to wonder aloud what the fuck they’d taken.

http://dreichcoalface.wordpress.com/

Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.

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