Who Do You Read/What are You Reading at the Moment?
-No one. I haven’t read any books for a few years. I’m not too fussed about what other writers might be creating. I’m only interested in the quality of my own work – and the effect of it on on potential readers. Good for other writers who are writing but – just as I would hope they aren’t creating product for other writers to look at, I’m equally unconcerned about what Author X or Y has made. The public are my only concern, when it comes to the impact of creativity. Everything else is ego, or delusion, or disguised low-self esteem wanting validation from others in the same ‘industry.’ I write for the lone reader who wants to be taken out of everyday life for a brief period of time, shown something interesting that keeps them turning pages and making the world seem a little better.
I used to be a geeky fat kid hiding in the world of books – and I suppose, one of my aims in writing – is to make some equally miserable kid or adult somewhere, experience that same thrill of discovery and adventure that I remember having and relishing. Books and creative product made my life tolerable – and I get a sense of rightness about the idea of trying to do the same for someone else.

What Motivates You?

Its kind of Zen: the desire to have my stories heard, experienced, or read. That’s it. I could get into the esoteric side of it, which is about knowing that – in all things – the journey is more important than the destination, but why make things complicated?

What Writing Advice Can You Give?

My impulse – being an anarchist – is to simply say: ‘none.’ But that’s not entirely true. One of the steps is to take a good hard look in the mirror and ask yourself what your motivations are. Do you have stories bubbling through you that make you growl at the end of the day as you realize you may not have the time in life to get them all written out? Or do you simply want to be regarded as ‘a writer’ and have what you think is fame and fortune? What motivates you? Peering at the engine of your inner workings is a good first step – confronting who and what you are, and why you want to be something more than what you presently are.
Okay, you don’t want to hear any of this. Fine. You want practical advice. Get hurt. Live. Experience. Put yourself in harm’s way. Be curious. Try get used to the idea that ’short cuts’ generally mean ‘banal results.’ Lower your standards. Shrug off materialism and consumerism.
What’s that? You want real advice? More practical tips? All right: Do the work. Sit down and write. Day after day. Fill pages. Ignore the negativity of others (or yourself, at times) and just do it. Reality is an eternal Now – and you’re wasting time if you’re not doing the work now. I still wouldn’t be able to tell you an example of a verb or adverb – but I don’t get hung up by my ignorance of the technicalities.
The story’s the thing. Tell the damn story. Get the work down on paper. You’re a writer if you’re writing. You hear me? Write the damned story. Sure, pause at moments and indulge your inner monkey and exclaim at the bright shining baubles you’re creating, but then file the monkey and keep on trucking, keep on writing, trudge on down that road of next page, next page next page…
Nuff said for now, these are early morning coffee thoughts, and I have work to do, and miles to slouch before I reach Bethlehem.

Finished the editing of the novella yesterday. Today’s task involves doing a slow scan over it, looking for dumb errors – and getting a sense of the unfolding story. This second novella, titled ‘Flies for the Mayans’ has been a painful process. I wrote it once, and it clocked in at around 44 pages – but I didn’t manage to properly capture the world of the story. So, like it or not, I had to begin at the beginning again. This time round it came in at around 56 pages. Nothing worse than treading over old ground. I prefer writing when I have no idea what’s going to happen next. It makes it fun for me. That said, the piece is – I think – mostly done.

Given that I’m in a country where only a minority of people accept the fact of Evolution, its going to be fun seeing the reaction. My main concern has been on creation of an absurd and grotesque situation, and let characters do what they have to do.

Been casually prepping for the next work, soaking up various documentaries on topics ranging from space balloons, to Bronze Age disks, to tunnels found in archeological finds in Italy, Antarctica expeditions, and onward. One has to pour meat into the mince machine. Discovered the beautiful work of Swedish film maker Roy Andersson – watched ‘Songs from the Second Floor’ which was astounding stuff that can only be seen, not described.

The tobacco plants I’ve been growing have decided to switch over into the category of ‘nuisance’ rather than ‘hobby’ – especially now that I’m nearing the point of having to harvest the plants and hang the leaves up to air dry. Idly curious how far I can get in the simple steps of growing my own ‘baccy’ – but soon I’ll be able to ignore them and let them do what they will. This’ll buy me enough time to work out how to achieve the next step in the process, which is about leeching the ammonia out of the leaves and make them suitable for smoking.

The weather, since you asked, is gloomy and pouring rain – rather pleasant as it reflects some of my Nordic-style moods lately.

You know that when you’re reduced to scanning through your manuscript for stupid word-usages, that you’re almost ready to throw the book towards an agent.

Its pretty much done.
As to whether its ‘Harry Potter and the Big Piece of Shit’ – or merely ‘Big Piece of Shit’ – who knows. I’m too close to it. Parts still make me laugh, which I’ve always taken as a good sign with my work.

I’m aware there’s one chapter where it feels like it might need a quick bit of additional action-adventure – but I have to remind myself that this is a 650 page book already, and creating additional scenes at this late stage, could be seen as masochism in action.
And I’m trying not to think of the fact that this whole saga is merely ‘part one’ of a much longer story.

A few more scans for stupid words, and then its attach and hit send time – and I can continue with the far more complex novella I’m busy rewriting. Already written one novella, I’m rewriting a second, and then achieving one more will technically give me another potential book, radically different from the Epic saga. Can’t say too much about the novellas – except that they are perhaps my ‘love letters to America.’ Of course, by ‘love letter’ – I’m using the term as Dennis Hopper did in the film Blue Velvet – so its not a good thing.

Normality has returned.

One day I’ll share my thoughts about my experiences with the Ivy League ’sensibility’ I encountered.
Its been enlightening, and I can feel the desire growing to create some characters and portray what I saw.
I think even Gerald Scarfe couldn’t do it justice. But for now, loose lips and all that.

Its good to be back and working on the final stages of the book, as well as pruning one of my plays.
In between these two, I’m rewriting one novella, and slowly watching as another new novella takes shape.
At this pace, there might well be two books ready to roll, before long. Each wildly different from the other.
I’m restraining myself from spilling energy into script – although my recent adventures have given me a menagerie
of characters who deserve to be seen…

Now…back to work

have had a two week break from the dorm living, until the ‘Dogs’ show resurfaces, so I returned home. Dealt with the usual wobbles of trying to find a routine amidst the quiet life on the edge of a forest and a lake. Finally begun focusing in on the writing again, and – like a gourmet gargling with expensive Belgian chocolate – am enjoying the treat of weighing words and making sentences ‘just so,’ so that they express what I mean.
Prose is expressive beyond belief.
So much creativity seems weighted towards commercial gain, and/or peer-approval before it finally reaches an audience, that its delicious to be working in solitude in a territory, and dealing with content, which few would want to get near.
Good.
I’m wary of consensus-creativity, where material is handed around to ensure that nothing offends, before its launched into being.
The schizophrenia of my thinking is interesting. (The mindset of me doing theatre, is quite opposite to the mindset of me working in prose.) By its nature, the play-script is open to the whims of the actors and the director – if they don’t comprehend the playwrights intentions, and misunderstand, they can easily alter the meaning of the words – and thus the effect on an audience that the playwright wanted.
Prose, on the other hand, is a unitary vision. Discussion and explanation isn’t needed. If the writer is able to put it on the page correctly, the ‘world’ created then exists and speaks exactly as the writer intended. The craftsman in me likes that.

re The Novella.
The story has been written – but I realized that it was shite, and inadequately told. So I’m treading over the same plot but taking a lot more care this time, to create the world the story unfolds in, as well as to draw understanding and sympathy for my characters. Previously it took around 45 pages to tell, but I was rushing it. There’s too much back story, history, and information which needs to be painted against the walls in the background beyond my central characters. So I have to tell the story properly, tell it like it wants to be told, not like I thought it should be told.

Its interesting how creations have their own desires and ways of expressing themselves.

The Bushmen, and yes its a politically incorrect term, I know – but anyway – the Bushmen have a name for God which has always tickled my imagination, because its so evocative and apt. ‘Atnatu’ – which means ‘He who is without an anus.’ This kind of gets to the nitty gritty of theology and religion. All fancy thoughts aside over the idea of a Creator, it all boils down to ‘he who doesn’t need to shit.’

I couldn’t think of a better way to describe the idea of ‘God.’

And, in case you’re wondering, yes, this is relating to what I’m writing.

The writer/artist always has grandiose private secret ambitions for their work, don’t they?

I was thinking that I want to ‘use prose to redefine the nature of reality.’ That’s what one part of me (rather pompously) feels – while at the same time, another part of me is too well-aware, that all the words in the world, don’t equal the power, impact, and effect of a well-placed bomb.

I suppose its normal, this inner conflict from juggling the sapping effects of understanding the futility of existence, with the delusional constructs we wrap around ourselves, to ward off the darkness of the night, lying just beyond the dim illumination of the campfire we make for ourselves.

Its now been more than a week of sleeping on the floor in a dormitory. (I tried using the bed, and ended up twisted like a Rubik’s Cube. Mentioned the shitty mattress to the powers that be, who suggested either a plank under said mattress, or putting mattress on the floor. No use. So I’m been getting more or less a good nights sleep, sleeping on the thin carpet on the floor.)
Can I just say that I miss my bed?

Its interesting how its the simple things that I crave as routine. The morning smokes, cup of coffee, a ‘bed.’ Before I start sounding like the angels in Wings of Desire, and list the feel of palms being rubbed together on cold mornings, to my list, I’ll change gear.
Rehearsals have been going at high speed. Its been interesting to be confronted with student actors, and to see what the taught approaches to performance are in America. I’d go into detail, but as Inspector Clouseau would say “Now is not the time, Cato.”
I miss writing; feeling the satisfaction of observing the emergence of well-crafted sentences from out of the morass of jumbled words on the printed page.

There’s a scene in Dennis Potter’s Black Eyes, where characters literally pause midway up stairs and awkwardly loiter, waiting for the instructions on what to do next, as the narrator (the writer of the piece) verbally doodles and ums and ah’s over what happens next. That’s roughly how my characters are feeling at this point. They’re all standing around, eying me and waiting for me to direct them towards their intended actions. But currently writing isn’t possible. The rehearsals are long and cut into my morning wide-awake hyper period – whereas by nightfall and around 8 or 9ish, I’m slitty-eyed and ready to fall over. The cast and director kindly cut me enough slack and realize its not coz I’m lazy – truth be told I’m probably not getting enough nutrition to last the very long days, given that mine starts around 6am. (Good nutrition is a daily struggle – I’ve got my rice cakes, fruit, and diminishing supply of broccoli, and that’s what’s keeping me alive and well-fed. I’ve learned enough previously about US food, to deliberately avoid the toxic sludge of it. Stupidly ate some bread from the scam known as ‘Wholefoods’ when buying fruit and vegetables – my mouth was stripped raw, and my whole body took days to recover. Gawd knows how people can eat the stuff on shelves and restaurants here.

But the rehearsals continue, and I step through old thoughts and old material. I think I have a glimmer of what Michael Palin felt/feels like, when people quote Python material at him, and he’s having to think back decades to the person he was when doing it.

That said, ‘Dogs’ is fairly funny, and is a self-contained little story which is still effective. Its doubly interesting seeing what the cast and director are able to by turns, perceive and not perceive, in terms of the nuances in the script – this alone is teaching me volumes about American society, in a way that is profoundly educational. Its fascinating seeing what constitutes ‘complexity’ locally – and how script is approached and understood.

Scientists and hunchbacks, cooks and broth.

Its these and other issues that draw me towards Prose, where what IS – provided its written correctly – remains unassailable and undeniable on the printed page. And others wanting to pretend they’re part of the artistic vision, can simply fuck off and wander in the wilderness of their own vacuousness.

As opening night draws near, I wonder sometimes about what constitutes ’success’ and how one is supposed to appraise this…

I know I’ll be sitting outside on the steps on opening night, smoking and looking at the Moon, and thinking my various thoughts. Hopefully the audiences inside the theatre will be having a good time and enjoying themselves.
I’ll find out soon enough whether I can reach through the numbness brought about by a million miles of concrete highways and parking lots, and sameness – and make some folks ‘feel’ something.
/Goth mode off

An update. Semi irked, I guess. Finished a new novella, and realized that it didn’t properly capture the world (or the story) that I was trying to explain. I’d got the story arc nicely created – but much like the Fairyland book – the complexity of the world I created was just too vast to fit properly into a little 40-something page creation. With hindsight, looking over it, I can see that I need to take more time with the unfolding plot, especially given that there’s a huge amount of theology and backstory involved. So what I’d created was almost a precis of the actual events.
And now I need to revisit the ‘world’ and rewrite it properly.
What have I learned? ‘Writing’ teaches patience.

Taken the almost unheard of step of taking a day or two off. Naturally I’ve already started the new tack at the story. And now, on day 3, I’ve also started writing something else. Not entirely sure what it is, or where its going, but its emerging and so I’ll go with it and see where it takes me. I have a vague idea of some of the moods I want to evoke, but as to the actions, conflicts and the like, no clue.

I was thinking idly about the upcoming Brown University jaunt, and more specifically about having to talk with the students – and that’s going to be a fun and weird thing. I can picture the question: How do you plan your stories/plays? I dont. The stories emerge and I write them down. I try not to get despondent at my own exhaustion as I do my best to keep up with the story as it plays in my head. What advice can you give? Put yourself in harm’s way. Discover discomfort. Get real life experience. Face some life threatening stuff above and beyond being handed the wrong kind of coffee from the waitress. Discover the delicious clarity which comes from facing the possibility of not getting out alive from the situation you’re in. Assuming you live, the work you’ll do after this will probably be of a higher order than the mindless navel-gazing variety.
At the same time, I’m aware that a lot of good writers were comfortable middle class people, who merely used their imaginations. Dickens never starved. On the other hand, Joe Orton lived in a way that closely parallels my ideas of ‘putting yourself in harms way’ – and being true to yourself, regardless of how weird, sleazy, repulsive, or mischievous that might seem to everyone else in society. If you don’t know Orton, source the film ‘Prick Up Your Ears’ and learn a little something.

Side thought, I can feel my subconscious mulling over the half written play, whose characters are standing with their arms folded, waiting for me to point the way. Again, I know the story arc, and more importantly, the mood I want the audience to have by its end – but for now its still gestating. Like that character says in Bergman’s Serpent’s Egg (when describing the rise of Nazism) ‘you can see the egg, and the thing within, dimly visible – but its still not properly formed yet.’

Hmm, other things to perhaps raise with questioners – like ’sometimes you just have to write what you want to write, and its irrelevant whether or not you think the market will like it.’ I suppose that’s one of the issues I have politically with some ideas of ‘good art = what makes money’ – one ends up in a situation where people trudge along the same old footsteps creatively-speaking, believing that when you’re making money from art, or mass media ‘notices you,’ this therefore means that what you’re doing is ‘good.’ The primary difference between Culture in the EU and Culture in the US.

I think its lovely if/when ‘recognition’ happens, but there’s no way I’d ever want to be having those sorts of thoughts or motivations of fame/recognition in my head when making things. And trying to persuade people that there’s a technique which everyone can learn to ‘make good art’ (ie: stuff that makes money) is a slow dive towards scraping the bottom of the barrel, wearing weird glasses that have distorted the perspective. Hey, is that the surface I’m approaching? No, its the ocean floor – you’re upside down. The Aimee Mann line about ‘you’re on the ground and moving down…’ comes to mind.

I’m curious to see the kind of rehearsal process that’s going to unfold, and what the actors might need to know, in order to achieve the roles. Ditto seeing the other playwrights ‘process’ – as there’s no single one way that is ‘right’ – there’re many ways to skin a cat, and my approach is merely one of an infinite number of them, en route to the cast standing on stage, saying the words in the right order – and having fun with it, too. ‘No one gets out of here alive,’ after all…

And, now I think of it (re the ‘many ways to skin a cat’ line), what were the circumstances around the original unfortunate cat, which gave rise to that faintly sinister saying?
What were the original humans up to, which gave birth to that creepy line?
Who came home at the end of a long day, and muttered to their significant other ‘Damn, there are many ways to skin a cat.’
Why were they doing it in the first place?
Had they only been skinning cats in one standard way up until then? Just what were they doing with cat skins?

Hm, I suddenly notice that this is a rather kinky feline-sadism version of Brecht’s (I think it was) ‘thoughts of a person studying history.’
Good grief.

Its a gloomy day in Connecticut. Soft rain. Perfect writing weather.

Its been a while since I got around to writing words that aren’t directly connected to the manuscripts I’m creating. So apologies to the aether and the 2 or 3 out there who stumble past on occasion.
The house move was as horrifying as one can imagine, and the least said about it, the better. More importantly, my tobacco seedlings which I have decided to try and grow as a ‘hobby’ are doing well. Whether or not my enthusiasm will sustain long enough to see it through to planting the 50+ tobacco plants, and then, at the end of it all, harvesting, hanging and curing it ahead of smoking, is another matter entirely. Still, if the world goes boom, there are three basic items which become of value; gold, alcohol, and tobacco. To me, the measure of self preparedness is how much of each of these items one has stashed.
The ‘evil little thing’ I was writing at the time of the last blog entry, has been named ‘Pigman’s Fingers’ – and runs at around 44 pages. I’m pleased with it, it captures a dark American Gothic feel – like Night of the Hunter meets Steinbeck via JM Coetzee.

The epic saga, the 800+ page book, has also been completed – although minor editing tweaks are taking place. It feels at times like I’m hacking through undergrowth and clearing foliage. The book is down to around 670 pages now, which gives an idea of the extent of ‘weeding’ taking place. Its close to the point of being in a fit state to throw towards the Agent.

Had to turn down a voice job last week. I can’t go into details too much, suffice to say that the amount of time and energy required to travel from where I am to LA, in order to record, just wasn’t worth it. Weird though it was to turn a job down. Oh well, inshalla, as they say.

Being a freak of note, amidst the editing and ruefully eying my slowly growing tobacco, I’m 40+ pages into another ‘evil little thing’ – which is providing me with much amusement as I write. If the Pigman’s Fingers work pushes the envelope to a degree that folks may not have seen before, this current work, I contemplate at times, is probably going to get baying and howling mobs trying to hunt me down – as it dives into territory that’s dear to the hearts of many. I personally think its deliciously funny satire, but who knows? It’s not my job to do too much self analysis on my writing. My task is to write the stories that want to emerge, and craft them as well as I can, before I let them loose to hunt for their own food.

Its occurred to me that these ‘evil little things’ are potentially another book, which is a pleasant idea. Each takes me a couple of weeks to create, and then – hello iteration – almost as much time again to chisel, cut, polish, and make the words do exactly what I require. Prose is most certainly a harder taskmaster than theatre scripts. Speaking of which, the rehearsals of Dogs of the Blue Gods are set to begin later this month, and I’ll be relocating to Brown University for the duration. My primary concern? Making sure I have a decent source of fresh vegetables and fruit so that I can continue my food regimen, more or less as usual. I know, I’m a weirdo – but I’ve learned that even one day without my usual x2 fruit intakes and x2 clumps of fresh vegetables (no, not the toxic greasy garbage as found in US restaurants – just simple plain vegetables) and I can feel my body beginning to grind to a halt. Hopefully the other two playwrights aren’t going to mind the constant smell of cooked broccoli in our shared living space

As for the play, I hear you ask? I’m not too fussed. The actors are good, the director is good, and the text is road-tested. I can see that the only thing really that might need to be done, is to perhaps reassure all concerned to just ‘trust the test’ and do the piece as a straight play, which happens to have comedic and dramatic elements. Having done so much theatre, especially where I was the sole actor/director/performer – I’m fairly chilled about the process. And given the very high quality of acting I saw during the audition process, I think its going to be delicious fun to watch the actors discover the meatiness of what they’re a part of.

Hmm, its now 7.17am – time to get to work. That’s my update, Oh Constant Reader.

Just a quick note. The staging this summer of my ‘Dogs of the Blue Gods’ play at Brown University has become official.
See this link.

Very pleasant. Me? Still editing the book, finished a 44 page nasty little saga, and am slowly advancing on another story.

This is amidst a house move – so much chaos in general.

Advancing on the second almost-final edit of the book at a steady pace.

As is typical, while doing this, a plotline and a situation emerged unexpectedly from me – and now I’ve also finished writing a 45 page story which is inconveniently too long to be a short story, and too short to be a book. But I’m busy editing that, as well. Another two or three works of this length and I guess that’s a short little book.

There are advantages to being an ‘outsider’ to American society. It allows one to see things that the citizens raised within the country are generally unable to. Something like those who live beside the sea, and who don’t hear the roar of the waves anymore, because they’ve become so accustomed to it.
(Perhaps that’s why cinema artists like Wim Wenders and Werner Herzog have each been able to create such fascinating dissections of US culture.)

I find the single most important aspect to me, of America, is how the citizens perceive ‘politics.’

Politics is seen as merely the equivalent perceptually, of ‘another channel on the TV’ – something distant. A thing to be groaned over, or seethed about, but ultimately – its removed from direct impact in citizen’s daily lives. A whole culture of phrases and cliches have been allowed to develop within western society, like a form of etymological mold, in order to describe, minimize, and shrug off the doings of those with political power.

And as the status quo remains the same, and human liberties decrease, and the profit motive for warfare continues to crouch unnoticed behind the raggedy shit-stained torn flag of ‘patriotism,’ in order to keep justifying mass murder – a thinking person has to pause and wonder…

But politics in America is that distant thing, requiring just a click of the remote control to change the channel, to something less complex or more pleasing.

Whereas the rest of the world knows that ‘politics’ is what killed their mother, or father, or friends, or family. It was politics that dropped that bomb which killed those children, including the neighbors toddler. It was politics that made mom have to do those things with soldiers in order to find food for the family.

Politics, for the larger world beyond America, is personal. Its not a well-framed distant channel of happenstance, hanging over there on the wall like a banal cheap desiderata praying to a nonexistent deity. Its what blew your fathers head off and smeared his brains along a wall, and every day as you trudge to school you can still see the smear.

America has a new President, and to those who naively base their judgment on the color of a person’s skin, rather than the content of their character (thank you MLK) – this was a new day dawning. There’s a vast sound of a hundred million people slumping back on their sofa’s and figuring all’s right with the world. No deeper attention need be required.

‘Change’ has come.

Its not surprising that citizens might seriously believe that, given their disconnection to the reality of what ‘politics’ means. They weren’t looking too closely to begin with, and the general education level – well below many other nations, means they lack the reasoning skills to perceive the complex web unfolding around them.

Change doesn’t seem to include the stopping of torture, or the death squads roaming the world and assassinating whoever appears to be ‘an enemy’. ‘Change’ doesn’t mean stopping of kidnapping of people and secretly transporting them to countries who like using power drills on human skin. Change doesn’t mean the withdrawal of the tens of thousands of paid thugs and mercenaries from a country invaded for no valid or legal reason.

On the contrary, ‘change’ seems to mean even more people will experience a personal view of politics, as new countries are invaded in a global imperialism which shows no sign of stopping. (The only positive, is that the expansion in genocide is much like that of any animal whose head has already been cut off, but whose limbs continue to move mechanically.) Change in this semantically-twisted version of democracy also seems to mean forcing citizens to have no choice but to ‘volunteer’ to work for the State, wear uniforms, chant slogans. Change also doesn’t mean justice and public trials for the war criminals who caused more than a million dead. Change doesnt mean justice for those men, women and children trapped in a prison-sized country, being blown apart, burned, and melted by US-supplied chemicals.

Change, I would have thought, is also not about continued, retarded excessive printing of worthless currency, and continuing to bully the world into accepting that these worthless slips of paper represent anything of meaning, value, or currency.

‘Change’ (the last time I looked) doesn’t mean ‘continue to think you can expand fake colonial wars of aggression on countries weaker than you, in order to steal their wealth.’

‘Change’ is not carte blanche to continue with the unmitigated greed of consumerism and capitalism.

Its cold comfort to know that History repeats itself. And those who do not learn from history, are condemned to repeat it.
I think of the Mussolini line, defining Fascism. “It is the merger of State and Corporate power.”

Naturally, disconnected from what ‘politics’ really is, the citizens here will most likely think they’ll know how to behave around it, as it rises, spreads, and scoops them up. They’ll admire the flags, try and outdo each other to prove their ‘patriotism’. Citizens will almost certainly want to ‘talk reasonably,’ and argue, debate, discuss – and ’share’ what they feel…all the way to being sealed in the cattle trucks-

when ‘Politics’ in America, finally becomes personal.