I think I lost sight of what I wanted to do with my life this past year or so.
Not to say that I've had some massive misstep or not fulfilled some ultimate destiny I set out for myself, but I think that I've become distracted, more focused on my job for instance, not made any headway on other projects.
I fucking wrote a novel though. Two novels. Three novels if you count The Chain (and I do!), so that's fucking something, isn't it?
But I didn't make those short films I wanted to make (working on rectifying that now).
Being dedicated to my job isn't a bad thing. What's concerning is when it overtakes my entire life to the point that it's the only thing I concentrate on. Writing time is hard to come by, I'm run down to all hell by whatever this bug is that I've got, and I've not got any time to go see a doctor.
But if I can finally make some headway on putting myself out there some more creatively... then I should... should... be okay...
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
Thursday, 2 August 2012
Abandon All Hope / unedited chapter one
With a look on his face that verged toward the inappropriately erotic, Ryan Norman polished his silver badge. He loved the way it glinted in the moonlight. He loved the way it made him look. So why wouldn’t he take pride in its appearance? Why not, when the rest of the night going to be stuck in the same, plodding rut as the night before?
It was another boring night shift at the dock, looking after the hundreds of shipping crates that came and went on a daily basis from the city port. He wasn’t a police officer, nor was he a security guard. What did his bosses back at head office call him? A security guarantor. Some new age bull shit to make the companies he was hired out to feel more comfortable in their decisions. A security guarantor. That wouldn’t last too long, he thought. People like heavy handed names, titles that struck awe and terror in any prospective thieves. Something like ‘security bastard’. Security guarantor was a fad and it wouldn’t be around much longer.
He held his flashlight like it was a gun, strolling worry free through the looming corridors that were created by the crates that had been placed strategically across the area. The only thing he’d ever had to do here was scare of some homeless guys who had made an empty crate their home. That was it. No smugglers-- boo--, no thieves-- yawn--, just hobos trying to keep warm in the night. But he had chased them off, reported their appearance to the authority, and that was that.
Ryan had tried to become a police officer but they had failed him on psychiatric grounds. He couldn’t remember the exact reasoning. Whatever. All that mattered was the task at hand. The job. He continued his patrol, his flashlight poking into the nooks and crannies of the crates just in case there was something waiting there for him. Not that there ever was. He sighed, resigned to another boring night at the--
There was a sound.
A bottle being kicked?
Something being moved when it shouldn’t have been?
Someone being where they shouldn’t.
“Fucking homeless bastards,” mumbled Ryan. He turned on his radio and called in the minor disturbance. Investigating, he said. Could be a rat. A cat. It could be Sinbad the fucking Sailor, but he had to call it in regardless. With that done, he began his approach.
“Hello?” The shadows didn’t answer. He rolled his eyes. “Fucking…”
Ryan followed the source of the sound. He had heard it once and he knew where to look. He kept his cool, just like he had been trained to, and pushed on. “I’m warning--”
Another sound.
The sound of the containers being struck? Like someone was being thrown against them?
Ryan pushed on, determined. This could be something. This could be his something. The trigger for him to finally become a police officer. Then? A detective! Then… he could become the chief of police for the whole city. These were just some of the ideas he had. Some of the ideas he shared with the interviewers when he had applied to the police force. They gave him looks. Jealousy? He shook his head, dismissing his thoughts. Now wasn’t the time.
Ryan turned a corner and as he raised the flashlight the bulb began to flicker and fail. He cursed furiously under his breath but to no avail. The light died unremarkably, leaving Ryan alone with a shape slumped against one of the containers. He holstered the flashlight and approached the slumped figure. “Hello?”
The man-- Ryan was convinced it was a man now-- remained still.
“Hello…” He couldn’t see a thing. He realised he had stumbled into one of the poorest lit areas of the lot-- typical. He moved slowly toward the shadowed shape ahead of him, arms outstretched just in case. In the distance he could see lights flickering on and off, but there was nothing nearby to rely on to guide him through.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. He knew the man was dead. The man had to be dead. That was the only option now. This was not a night for drunken layabouts slumping over in port authority storage lot. He knelt down next to the figure ready to check for a pulse, but then--
His flashlight turned on in its hilt. He looked down at it in surprise, scrambling to turn it off, and when he looked back up at the man’s face he screamed as loud as his lungs would allow.
Every opening on the naked man’s face was stitched closed. His ears, his eyes, his nostrils and his mouth, all sealed shut with tightly wound strands of black string. The man’s skin was pale and thin, wrapped tightly around his frame. He looked how Ryan imagined mummies to look like in real life, not CGI-effected or made up all Karloff like. His flesh was torn in places, like it had grown so tight that it had began to split. Blackening ulcers oozed what must have been blood but Ryan couldn’t be sure. The viscous fluid was paste-like and oil-like in colour…. Ryan couldn’t help his next reaction--
“Oh, G--”
--Ryan vomited over himself in shock. He’d never seen anything as horrible as this in all his time on the dockyard. He’d seen homeless men and women covered in shit and god knows what else, but this? He wiped his lips of the vomit, and looked down at his shirt.
“Fuh… fuh… fuck--!”
“Mmmfffffff!”
The man grabbed him-- Ryan screamed again as the desperate hands groped at his vomit drenched jacket and pushed the man back against the container, making the same sound that had drawn him to this location. “nnnmmm!”
The man made stifled, suffocated sounds and scratched at his face, not knowing what was going on. He was pale and dehydrated and his every movement was making his situation even worse, spreading the black discharge all over his face He knew what he had to do, even in his terror. He grabbed the man’s hands.
“It’s okay!” he shouted, trying to get through to the man, “ okay, help is here! Help is here! Calm down!”
The man struggled pathetically, but his actions fizzled out. He settled, but still shook, still looked a horrifying mess of a human being. His paper-like skin was now peeling off his body, and Ryan was horrified by the smell coming from the wounds a rotten dead smell he knew he would never be able to forget.
Ryan took his pen knife from his pocket and fiddled with all the attachments. He pulled out the fork and cursed, pushing it back into its slot. Finally, after some struggling-- his own fingers numb and senseless-- he was able to pry out the scissor attachment.
“Stay perfectly still!” he shouted, and the man nodded.
Ryan went to work.
He began to snip at the strands that bound the man’s eyelids closed. The man seized up for a split second, but settled when he realised what was happening. Ryan assumed he was caught in the moment when his eyes were initially sealed, that horror must overcome you at such a time. Ryan was horrified at what he was having to do. He was trying desperately not to touch the man’s skin, but he had to, and when he did so he felt the man’s skin shift and peel under his grip. The man continued to make pained noises as he went to work, but was trying his best to stay calm now.
With one eye done, the man blinked furiously, trying to adjust to his new predicament.
Ryan smiled in an attempt to comfort him, but the man began to scream through sealed lips, grabbing at Ryan’s shoulders as he tried to settle him.
“It’s okay! It’s okay! It’s--”
Someone took a hold of Ryan’s hand and shoved the scissors into the man’s eye, causing blood to spurt into Ryan’s mouth and send the man into convulsions.
Ryan turned and saw a man wearing what he thought was a gas mask, but before he could react he was struck so hard that his nose split open and his world faded to black--
It was another boring night shift at the dock, looking after the hundreds of shipping crates that came and went on a daily basis from the city port. He wasn’t a police officer, nor was he a security guard. What did his bosses back at head office call him? A security guarantor. Some new age bull shit to make the companies he was hired out to feel more comfortable in their decisions. A security guarantor. That wouldn’t last too long, he thought. People like heavy handed names, titles that struck awe and terror in any prospective thieves. Something like ‘security bastard’. Security guarantor was a fad and it wouldn’t be around much longer.
He held his flashlight like it was a gun, strolling worry free through the looming corridors that were created by the crates that had been placed strategically across the area. The only thing he’d ever had to do here was scare of some homeless guys who had made an empty crate their home. That was it. No smugglers-- boo--, no thieves-- yawn--, just hobos trying to keep warm in the night. But he had chased them off, reported their appearance to the authority, and that was that.
Ryan had tried to become a police officer but they had failed him on psychiatric grounds. He couldn’t remember the exact reasoning. Whatever. All that mattered was the task at hand. The job. He continued his patrol, his flashlight poking into the nooks and crannies of the crates just in case there was something waiting there for him. Not that there ever was. He sighed, resigned to another boring night at the--
There was a sound.
A bottle being kicked?
Something being moved when it shouldn’t have been?
Someone being where they shouldn’t.
“Fucking homeless bastards,” mumbled Ryan. He turned on his radio and called in the minor disturbance. Investigating, he said. Could be a rat. A cat. It could be Sinbad the fucking Sailor, but he had to call it in regardless. With that done, he began his approach.
“Hello?” The shadows didn’t answer. He rolled his eyes. “Fucking…”
Ryan followed the source of the sound. He had heard it once and he knew where to look. He kept his cool, just like he had been trained to, and pushed on. “I’m warning--”
Another sound.
The sound of the containers being struck? Like someone was being thrown against them?
Ryan pushed on, determined. This could be something. This could be his something. The trigger for him to finally become a police officer. Then? A detective! Then… he could become the chief of police for the whole city. These were just some of the ideas he had. Some of the ideas he shared with the interviewers when he had applied to the police force. They gave him looks. Jealousy? He shook his head, dismissing his thoughts. Now wasn’t the time.
Ryan turned a corner and as he raised the flashlight the bulb began to flicker and fail. He cursed furiously under his breath but to no avail. The light died unremarkably, leaving Ryan alone with a shape slumped against one of the containers. He holstered the flashlight and approached the slumped figure. “Hello?”
The man-- Ryan was convinced it was a man now-- remained still.
“Hello…” He couldn’t see a thing. He realised he had stumbled into one of the poorest lit areas of the lot-- typical. He moved slowly toward the shadowed shape ahead of him, arms outstretched just in case. In the distance he could see lights flickering on and off, but there was nothing nearby to rely on to guide him through.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. He knew the man was dead. The man had to be dead. That was the only option now. This was not a night for drunken layabouts slumping over in port authority storage lot. He knelt down next to the figure ready to check for a pulse, but then--
His flashlight turned on in its hilt. He looked down at it in surprise, scrambling to turn it off, and when he looked back up at the man’s face he screamed as loud as his lungs would allow.
Every opening on the naked man’s face was stitched closed. His ears, his eyes, his nostrils and his mouth, all sealed shut with tightly wound strands of black string. The man’s skin was pale and thin, wrapped tightly around his frame. He looked how Ryan imagined mummies to look like in real life, not CGI-effected or made up all Karloff like. His flesh was torn in places, like it had grown so tight that it had began to split. Blackening ulcers oozed what must have been blood but Ryan couldn’t be sure. The viscous fluid was paste-like and oil-like in colour…. Ryan couldn’t help his next reaction--
“Oh, G--”
--Ryan vomited over himself in shock. He’d never seen anything as horrible as this in all his time on the dockyard. He’d seen homeless men and women covered in shit and god knows what else, but this? He wiped his lips of the vomit, and looked down at his shirt.
“Fuh… fuh… fuck--!”
“Mmmfffffff!”
The man grabbed him-- Ryan screamed again as the desperate hands groped at his vomit drenched jacket and pushed the man back against the container, making the same sound that had drawn him to this location. “nnnmmm!”
The man made stifled, suffocated sounds and scratched at his face, not knowing what was going on. He was pale and dehydrated and his every movement was making his situation even worse, spreading the black discharge all over his face He knew what he had to do, even in his terror. He grabbed the man’s hands.
“It’s okay!” he shouted, trying to get through to the man, “ okay, help is here! Help is here! Calm down!”
The man struggled pathetically, but his actions fizzled out. He settled, but still shook, still looked a horrifying mess of a human being. His paper-like skin was now peeling off his body, and Ryan was horrified by the smell coming from the wounds a rotten dead smell he knew he would never be able to forget.
Ryan took his pen knife from his pocket and fiddled with all the attachments. He pulled out the fork and cursed, pushing it back into its slot. Finally, after some struggling-- his own fingers numb and senseless-- he was able to pry out the scissor attachment.
“Stay perfectly still!” he shouted, and the man nodded.
Ryan went to work.
He began to snip at the strands that bound the man’s eyelids closed. The man seized up for a split second, but settled when he realised what was happening. Ryan assumed he was caught in the moment when his eyes were initially sealed, that horror must overcome you at such a time. Ryan was horrified at what he was having to do. He was trying desperately not to touch the man’s skin, but he had to, and when he did so he felt the man’s skin shift and peel under his grip. The man continued to make pained noises as he went to work, but was trying his best to stay calm now.
With one eye done, the man blinked furiously, trying to adjust to his new predicament.
Ryan smiled in an attempt to comfort him, but the man began to scream through sealed lips, grabbing at Ryan’s shoulders as he tried to settle him.
“It’s okay! It’s okay! It’s--”
Someone took a hold of Ryan’s hand and shoved the scissors into the man’s eye, causing blood to spurt into Ryan’s mouth and send the man into convulsions.
Ryan turned and saw a man wearing what he thought was a gas mask, but before he could react he was struck so hard that his nose split open and his world faded to black--
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
Saturday, 21 July 2012
Thursday, 19 July 2012
Fan Fetishisation
My novel started as fan fiction. I wanted to write horror stories and I was
seventeen and I didn't want to do the leg work to actively create my own
character from scratch. But I knew of a character, quite low profile, not as
well defined to modern audiences that I thought I could make "mine".
What were originally going to be the adventures of John Constantine, Hellblazer
became Doctor Occult due to a scheduling error at the fan fiction website I
posted at. I was told I couldn't use Constantine-- even after having a cover
done up!-- so I had to come up with a last minute replacement.
And Doctor Occult would do.
So yeah, I, like many before me, started writing in the creative favela of fan fiction. I wrote 35,000 words, and I loved it. This was me writing what I wanted to write: Horror. I hadn't been fully able to do so before but I thought this was pure and unadulterated. I did things I always wanted to do with the genre. And sure, I was influenced by Supernatural and, of course, DC Comics-- so there were cameos from The Shade, The Spectre, Madame Xanadu-- but it was mine. I did things with the character that hadn't been done with him before. I told a whole new story in the context of him.
... Which isn't exactly right, is it?
I mean, I wanted to become-- and I still do!-- a serious writer. A writer on the up and up. And I always thought that fan fiction was something to look down on, and yes, I think it still is, but E.L. James is a millionaire for her Twilight fan-fiction trilogy Fifty Shades..., and all she did was replace vampires with bondage. I mean come on, honestly? Honestly? So my roots in fan fiction aren't the stigma I always thought they were. Yes, they're a bit embarrassing, but so what? My closest friends know I did it, and they were just "yeah, okay, moving on," about it, so I can't fault that reaction.
I tried getting back into it at the tail end of 2011. It was what actually energised me into writing original content. I wanted to wrap up some stories from a few years ago (I took a massive hiatus after starting my new job) but the excitement petered out. I started strong, wrote like a beast... but then the enthusiasm died. I didn't want to write about Green Lantern. I wanted to write about... something for me.
When I was in America, travelling via trains from Point A to Point Z to all Points in-between I had a journal I was scribbling furiously in. This was... 2010. 2010, a year that was both horrifically unkind to me but also the start of a lot of new, too. I was building a world in my notebook, and a name occurs again and again in my notes. Richard Faraday. And there weren't mentions of his wife Scarlett, she was a later addition, but this was the man I could write stories around. He was a mix of the Winchesters and The Doctor, horror and science fiction rolled up, all my favourite kind of adventures just waiting for him to experience. I wrote about all the characters you find in Books One and Two, you find everything out. He's there. He was whole. And all I had to do was write him. Come 2012, I did just that.
So anyway, if you've read my blog this year you know I just committed to writing. I did what I wanted, and I did it well, I think.
The stories started out as horror, pure and simple. But as I wrote I found things changing. It became a homage, perhaps a pastiche, to my childhood, and maybe to yours. There were no capes or superpowers. There were spectral private detectives. Odd, numerically inclined mystery men. Every other character was based on the shows of the sixties that had a short revival during the mid-nineties during reruns and have now found a home on ITV4. I'm talking, as you well know, Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased), The Prisoner, The Professionals and so much more. Book Two is full of it. Department S, Jason King, Captain Scarlet... it's insane. And you probably won't see them like I do. You'll maybe recognise a name. You might feel fleeting familiarity with one character. But everyone has their origins somewhere. And I've taken them and I've twisted them and placed them within the context of my mythology, and I love it. Book Three is going to be even worse. My novel has become a place for my influences to come out and play. Supernatural, Night Stalker, Doctor Who, Angel, The Wire, The Man from UNCLE, Fringe, Moonlight, True Blood, et al, just dancing wildly to the beat of my drum. Their stories become something new, and then the question is asked... what next? Where did Illya Kuryakin go? What next for Patrick McGoohan's Number Six? Whatever happened to Jason King? And things get bigger and bigger until what can really threaten them other than the end of reality?
I have a plan now. I know where the novels are going, loosely. Getting Book Two out there is the most important thing at the moment, but I want to think beyond that. So, the plan. Three novels-- potentially four-- published by Summer 2013. A pitch in the hands of Image Comics by the same time, based on my novel series. I'm already talking to an artist. I want this stuff to be in the hands of people who come from the same place as me, that's always been the goal.
And Doctor Occult would do.
So yeah, I, like many before me, started writing in the creative favela of fan fiction. I wrote 35,000 words, and I loved it. This was me writing what I wanted to write: Horror. I hadn't been fully able to do so before but I thought this was pure and unadulterated. I did things I always wanted to do with the genre. And sure, I was influenced by Supernatural and, of course, DC Comics-- so there were cameos from The Shade, The Spectre, Madame Xanadu-- but it was mine. I did things with the character that hadn't been done with him before. I told a whole new story in the context of him.
... Which isn't exactly right, is it?
I mean, I wanted to become-- and I still do!-- a serious writer. A writer on the up and up. And I always thought that fan fiction was something to look down on, and yes, I think it still is, but E.L. James is a millionaire for her Twilight fan-fiction trilogy Fifty Shades..., and all she did was replace vampires with bondage. I mean come on, honestly? Honestly? So my roots in fan fiction aren't the stigma I always thought they were. Yes, they're a bit embarrassing, but so what? My closest friends know I did it, and they were just "yeah, okay, moving on," about it, so I can't fault that reaction.
I tried getting back into it at the tail end of 2011. It was what actually energised me into writing original content. I wanted to wrap up some stories from a few years ago (I took a massive hiatus after starting my new job) but the excitement petered out. I started strong, wrote like a beast... but then the enthusiasm died. I didn't want to write about Green Lantern. I wanted to write about... something for me.
When I was in America, travelling via trains from Point A to Point Z to all Points in-between I had a journal I was scribbling furiously in. This was... 2010. 2010, a year that was both horrifically unkind to me but also the start of a lot of new, too. I was building a world in my notebook, and a name occurs again and again in my notes. Richard Faraday. And there weren't mentions of his wife Scarlett, she was a later addition, but this was the man I could write stories around. He was a mix of the Winchesters and The Doctor, horror and science fiction rolled up, all my favourite kind of adventures just waiting for him to experience. I wrote about all the characters you find in Books One and Two, you find everything out. He's there. He was whole. And all I had to do was write him. Come 2012, I did just that.
So anyway, if you've read my blog this year you know I just committed to writing. I did what I wanted, and I did it well, I think.
The stories started out as horror, pure and simple. But as I wrote I found things changing. It became a homage, perhaps a pastiche, to my childhood, and maybe to yours. There were no capes or superpowers. There were spectral private detectives. Odd, numerically inclined mystery men. Every other character was based on the shows of the sixties that had a short revival during the mid-nineties during reruns and have now found a home on ITV4. I'm talking, as you well know, Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased), The Prisoner, The Professionals and so much more. Book Two is full of it. Department S, Jason King, Captain Scarlet... it's insane. And you probably won't see them like I do. You'll maybe recognise a name. You might feel fleeting familiarity with one character. But everyone has their origins somewhere. And I've taken them and I've twisted them and placed them within the context of my mythology, and I love it. Book Three is going to be even worse. My novel has become a place for my influences to come out and play. Supernatural, Night Stalker, Doctor Who, Angel, The Wire, The Man from UNCLE, Fringe, Moonlight, True Blood, et al, just dancing wildly to the beat of my drum. Their stories become something new, and then the question is asked... what next? Where did Illya Kuryakin go? What next for Patrick McGoohan's Number Six? Whatever happened to Jason King? And things get bigger and bigger until what can really threaten them other than the end of reality?
I have a plan now. I know where the novels are going, loosely. Getting Book Two out there is the most important thing at the moment, but I want to think beyond that. So, the plan. Three novels-- potentially four-- published by Summer 2013. A pitch in the hands of Image Comics by the same time, based on my novel series. I'm already talking to an artist. I want this stuff to be in the hands of people who come from the same place as me, that's always been the goal.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Ahora contare hasta doce y tu te callas y me voy.
I love poetry. I love using someone else's language and soul to convey your own emotions. And it's big and it's scary and it's intimidating but you know what? Okay. Okay, this is fine. This is right. I love songs for the same reason, because I could send you a song and you would know, within a few lines, how I'm feeling. I fall back on using music and words-that-aren't-my-own to communicate because sometimes the world is so overwhelming that you can't verbalise how you feel. I know that sometimes I can't.
Por una vez sobre la tierra
no hablemos en ningun idioma,
por un segundo detengamonos,
no movamos tanto los brazos.
I also love the work of Pablo Neruda and I am such a cliché to do so. His words just... sing to me... and I want to use them to describe how I feel and how to... haha... oh, I don't even know what I'm saying.
This one time upon the earth,
let's not speak any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
Saturday, 19 May 2012
But what they could not see, scuttling across the ceiling and vanishing down into the darkest recesses of the house, was the oily black thing, with leather-like skin glistening in the fluctuating candle light that illuminated their way. If they had only looked up at the right moment, been able to see the thing for what it was, they would have left the house then and there, vowing never to return. But their curiosity had them in a vice grip, their spatial awareness had them doomed, and they journeyed further into the corridors, further into the shadows, closer and closer towards the nest…
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