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


erotic cleansing

the end – the doors

That’s 1919 finished. I got the new artwork this afternoon and it’s looking groovy. All I have to do now is add the artist’s contact details to the endstuff and it’s ready to take on the meatgrinder.
It’s taken about seven years from first sitting down to write it to finally having the whole thing out there where people can touch it with their own skin.
Of course, I’m already working on what-comes-next. Another novel, later this year. Another next spring. And after that? Probably a monstrous eternity, shrieking in a lake of fire, as far as the eye can see. That’s the plan, anyhoo.
I suppose, looking back, ‘Erotic cleansing’ was all the mistakes I could make, writing a novel and ‘1919’ was all the mistakes one could make preparing one for publication. Now I’ve got that under my belt, I can teach myself everything that could possibly go wrNog grabbing the attention of those already happier than I am.
I’m exhausted. My skull’s battered. I feel like I just did fifteen rounds with a sabre-toothed Jehova’s witness. Tonight shall be spent, staring at Mistress Jinty’s enormous telly, lapping up ‘Old boy’ (which she’s NEVER seen!!!) and tomorrow, I’ll get started on the what-comes-next. Probably.


expressway to yr skull – sonic youth

I feel slightly out-of-condition. Somewhere I’ve lost the ability – and focus – to write every day. Still, now I’ve identified the problem, hopefully I can rip its lungs out.
The plan: I’m still keeping my (near) daily journal, still trying to write in here as often as I can. And when there’s time, I’m getting torn into ‘coal face’.
My journal is essentially an x-ray snapshot of my skull each morning. What I’m thinking about, how I feel about it, anything interesting that’s happened in the last twenty-four.
‘Coal face’ seems to be getting plenty of likes and follows. Which is kind of ironic, being as it’s an attempt to write something that out-grosses everything else I’ve done. The self-mutilation in ‘erotic cleansing’, even the cascades of shit, piss and miscellaneous in ‘1919’. The ‘great white death’ of contemporary scottish literature!

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

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.

life – alternative tv

I’m going to take a week out from this blog before transgressionata goes live. I just heard this morning that a spot of research-time I’d hoped for just came through. It’s amazing how the universe just seems to spit what I need right into my lap, right when I need it.
Sure, it would have been better if it had come a month or two earlier, but it’s here and I’m over the moon.
I’m a method writer. I always have been. That means I do all my own stunts. The flagellation in ‘erotic cleansing’? Yep, I did that. I believe that one should always write what one knows – and the best way to write convincingly is to experience life. All living is research.

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

It’ll be our secret – mum and dad need never know!

out of control – kim fowley

#FollowFriday on twitter (or #FF). I don’t manage it every week, but when I do, I usually push the boat out and make of it something strange and beautiful. Yesterday afternoon, I based it on ‘the hunger games’ – and found two dozen people who hadn’t had the sense not to talk to me in the last seven-to-ten days or so.

So I introduced them as the tributes from the twelve districts, piled high the references to not only the hunger games themselves, but turned up the dada to eleven, assigning them ridiculous weapons (apple-corer, anyone?) And slipping in a few in-jokes, of the sort I normally do.

I’ve long enjoyed irrelevant comedy, from Roger Irrelevant in viz, back in the twentieth century, through Vic Reeves to Chris Morris.

The dada/gritty surrealism/new weird forum in NaNoWriMo is another hotbed of disconnected and jocular thought. We’re all probably linked by Carlton Mellick lll and very possibly China Mieville.

After that, everyone has their own preferences, the ‘real’ part of the ‘surrealism’.

When I was writing the erotic cleansing, back in the 1990s, what I wanted was to set the book in a universe where there was no causality whatsoever. A world where, quite literally, anything could happen – and at any moment.

That’s a thread that runs all the way to the idiots’ graveyard. A universe spinning out of control, where razor-sharp fragments of crazy could come out of nowhere and eat your face off


 Get the picture?

Why not check out the novel, “1919 (inside)” available from smashwords?

Doing for preposterous what Sir Paul Maccartney does for blackbird.

porno base – 23 skiddoo

When I wrote ‘Erotic cleansing’, back in the 1990s, it was a joyful burst of enthusiasm and next-to-no actual talent or experience.

Like a young Quentin Tarrentino, what ‘experience’ I had was secondhand. Where he learned from the great directors by watching their work and absorbing their genius that way, I had devoted my own life to studying to work of writers, auteurs and even composers, from Dmitri Shostakovich to Jim Thirwell. Where there was a narrative – any narrative, I absorbed its rules and made it a part of me.

When it came to characterisation, I made it up as I went along. And, to be completely honest, I wasn’t in all that great a space psychologically in those days.

I may as well admit it, EVERY female character in ‘Erotic cleansing’ was composed of one real, actual person of my acquaintance and one model from the pornography I was terribly keen on at the time.

Apparently, Paul Schrader wrote ‘Taxi driver’ while living in his car on a diet of junk food and pornography, following a divorce. (I hope I’m remembering that correctly!) But I do refer to that era as my Paul Schrader period, so there!

A long lie this morning until 08:00 and another two thousand words of ‘Dystopian’.

I’m somewhere between a third and halfway through the outline now and sitting on about seventeen thousand words. I have a wee niggling worry that I haven’t written enough to actually generate fifty thousand, but all I can do is keep plugging away and see where it takes me.

eternity in paris – clock dva

Since I started writing, I’ve been a method writer. I do all my own stunts.

Think Brando in ‘On the waterfront’, taking that pasting at the end for real. or giving Maria Schneider the butter upshove in ‘Last tango in Paris’. again, for real.

There should still be copies of my book of short stories, ‘Erotic cleansing’ bouncing around the somewhere on the masturbation superhighway.

See all the stunts in there? All done for real.

There’s nothing in that book that I haven’t done. Apart from the ‘guts slashed open, pregnant alien laying her payload of eggs in my cavity’ thing.

But I did get involved with a Domme around that time who was really into cutting. So, by the time that book had been rejected by right-thinking publishers the length and breadth of the land, I had experienced being carved up whilst in a state of romantic arousal.

It’s a lot of years later and by now, I’ve done everything on the hard limits appendix of Christian Gray’s slave contract – apart from the ‘showbusiness’ ones. I will not work with children, animals or lawyers.

Up at 04:30 this morning and another seventeen hundred words into ‘dystopian’. after yesterday’s beginning, I’m really fascinated by how my mfc and mmc interact with each other. Watching their communication closely.

I had a few moments this morning where I experienced that sense of watching an in-skull movie and transcribing it into my keyboard. I remember experiencing that whilst writing ‘Erotic cleansing’, watching the tortures and murderings unfold behind my eyes and typing like a demon, trying to keep up.

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