Last night's poetry slam was an experience; my first.
I am in awe.
I applaud any one who stands on a stage & bares themselves in such a raw & honest way. I know it's something I couldn't do.
But as a writer there is an inherent part of me that wants to be read & admired. I want someone to say "I get it, this is cussing genius". Though I know that what I do is not what they do. I do not, nor feel that I should, call myself a poet. I know nothing of the form, nor do I read poetry on a regular basis. (do I need to?)
I simply write.
I've arrived at the conclusion that anything I do have to say I can express in few words (& that it's okay to do so). Andrew wrote a whole novel based on a six word story I shared with him. He needed 80,000, I needed only six. I am not verbose.
Perhaps that's down to my crippling shyness, my inability to make eye contact with anyone but my partner, or to hold a conversation, the anxiety that floods my body before I even step out of the door, or the way I struggle to formulate my thoughts into something coherent.
But is my writing, which doesn't stick to set parameters, as valid as theirs? Could I, as someone who writes short obscure surreal subversive sentences, that have no real point & are layered with sexual intent, be taken seriously? Do I have the right to call myself a poet?
Can I legitimately take to the stage & recite the following:
Electroshock blue
orgasms & daisy coated
aches.
Volcanic honey-soaked
grazes & your
molten tongue on
stark concrete
or will I be laughed at, misunderstood, dismissed as just another writer?
& there is my fear.
My subversive side thinks I should continue to do whatever it is I do, to call it what I want, & to be proud of it.
Yet I live in Norwich, a renowned city of literature, & I'm still to meet any one who writes surreal alt-poetry, or accepts & praises what I do with my own writing & with Fur-Lined Ghettos.
Sometimes it feels as though I am living in a void, where anything remotely outside of the mainstream simply isn't welcome. I hope I'm wrong.
Very pleased to announce that my eighth book, "The Immortalists", was published by Telos over the weekend and is now available to buy both as an e-book and in paperback.
This is the first of two novels coming from Telos to feature my irascible PI, Mordent, who so far had only made appearances within a handful of short stories. The second novel, "Church of Wire", will be out either later this year or early next. A third ("People I Know Are Dead") has also been written and will hopefully be placed assuming these first two novels are relatively successful.
Here's the blurb:
Is There Life After Death?
Ex-cop, Mordent, is an irascible, anachronistic PI with a noir sensibility and a bubblewrap fetish. Hired to investigate a missing person case he believes the job to be an easy pay-check, but when the kid turns up dead and appears to have aged beyond death, Mordent finds the mystery is only just beginning. When a second body is found similarly aged, Mordent is pulled into rival gang leaders’ quests for immortality, a race where the objective is not to finish. And it becomes personal when Marina, a psychic, disappears after tipping off the police about the second body. Mordent had unfinished business with her.
The Immortalists is the first in a series of exciting crime novels putting a neo-noir twist on the genre conventions of bums and dames, corruption and perversion, and cops and informers; all played out on rain-soaked streets amid a shadow-filled city.
‘An excellent writer and stylist, reminding me of Raymond Chandler, Malcolm Pryce and Jasper Fforde. Suitably creepy and sometimes laugh out loud funny.’ Emlyn Rees, author of 'That Summer He Died'
‘Andrew Hook's fiction is always recognisable, but never predictable. He has that rare, lovely ability: to mess with your expectations while entertaining you at the same time.’ Mat Coward, Dagger and Edgar shortlisted crime writer
To be honest, I'm not particularly nervous before book events. I'm happy reading my material, doing workshops or signings, and talking about my work. But maybe my subconscious thinks otherwise. Here's the summary of a dream I had last night which addresses virtually every 'event fear' a writer might have in one simple nightmare:
1. Arriving at the wrong venue - I had the choice of two bookstores in my dream. I was sure the one I chose was the wrong one, but I didn't even check out the other store;
2. Being late - Other writers were also giving readings and I had to noisily make my way to a seat whilst they were doing so (this is before I'd even checked it was the right store);
3. Checking details - I hate approaching people to confirm they know who I am. In the dream I eventually plucked up courage to ask if I was in the right bookstore - and whilst they said yes, I was still convinced that I wasn't;
4. Needing the toilet - Whilst another writer was reading I had to go to the loo. Of course, I had to walk past the podium to do so. Steps led down to a basement which had a full-length window through which the public were visible. I decided not to use the loo, turned my back to the window, and peed for a good five minutes onto the floor;
5. Occupied seat - Of course, returning upstairs I found the seat I had next to my partner was now occupied by a man eating ice-cream. Whilst the other writer was reading I had to loudly insist on regaining my seat only to find there was now chocolate ice-cream on it;
6. Deciding what to read - I flicked through the pages of my soon to be published novel, The Immortalists, only to find that the typesetting on several pages was skewed and illegible. I couldn't make any decision as to which chapter to read - due to length, legibility, appropriateness;
7. Equipment faults - Finally at the podium to do my reading I was so wary of getting the right volume on the microphone that I tried speaking with the end in my mouth (later in the dream, the mic disappeared and changed into a horn-like tube);
8. Disruptions - Before I could begin reading I was disrupted by the previous writer coming back to collect her stuff, and someone knocking a glass of Coke which had been provided for me all over my trousers as he knocked against the podium (thankfully not spilling onto the book);
9. Inappropriate material - It wouldn't be the first time that I've chosen something to read at an event to find children in the audience with their parents for whom the material wouldn't be appropriate. In the dream I made an announcement that some of the content might be considered sexually or verbally offensive for some people, only to find the back of the bookstore drop away and see my words broadcast over a wide plaza containing all kinds of townsfolk going about their daily business - with the guarantee of offending somebody;
10. Unable to find chosen text to read - In the dream I repeatedly searched through the book in front of the waiting crowd whilst inexplicably I was unable to find the passage I had chosen, the tension and fear mounting continuously. People begin to leave;
11. Inability to do the reading - In the dream, once I found the chapter I wanted, all the pages turned to coloured tissue paper and it was impossible to turn a page without scrunching it into a useless unreadable ball, whilst all the time muttering apologies for my uselessness;
12. No confidence in the material - Finally, having surmounted all the obstacles, I began to read only to realise my delivery was flat and without enthusiasm as I realised what I was reading was utter rubbish;
It was then that I woke.
Hopefully when I do take part in promotional events for this novel I won't be beset by anything like the above. But all eventualities are possible.
Christmas 2012: my partner asked for an extra present, the new Taylor Swift album, "Red". I wasn't keen on the purchase for two simple reasons: I thought Swift was some kind of mediocre pre-packaged popstar and my partner has control of the car CD player. Nevertheless, being the good guy that I am, I bought it for her.
Christmas 2013: I am overjoyed to receive the first Taylor Swift album on CD, the last album to complete my Taylor Swift collection. I also have a Taylor Swift t-shirt and I burst into tears every time I sing along to "Love Story" in the car.
So what happened there?
In a nutshell, Swift is not some mediocre pre-packaged popstar but a solid storyteller and songwriter who understands perfectly how to craft great songs. She's a consummate professional in the best sense of the word. And she is a narrative storyteller, with an understanding of beginnings, middles and ends. Her songs press all the right buttons - and whilst she aims for the emotional kick she does it in an intelligent way; you can't help but react emotionally to the songs whilst at the same time admiring the way she has manipulated you. Let's take the lyrics to "Love Story" as an example.
I got tired of waiting Wondering if you were ever coming around (sets up fear of lost love, even danger) My faith in you was fading (again, fear of loss) When I met you on the outskirts of town, and I said
Romeo save me I've been feeling so alone (fear of being alone) I keep waiting for you but you never come (admonishment, fear of being alone) Is this in my head? I don't know what to think (fear she has misread the signs, losing love) He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said (bam! we know what's coming next - restoration of her hope)
Marry me Juliet (bam! Packs emotion) You'll never have to be alone (bam! Emphasises togetherness) I love you and that's all I really know (bam! Emphasises love) I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress (bam! bam! No longer a secret love, and the white dress emphasises the permanency of his feelings) It's a love story baby just say yes (bam! The line reiterates the theme of the song, the possibility of eternal happiness, the refutation of her fears, and the hope of a perfect future)
Don't take my word for it. Listen here:
This is just one example of Taylor's ability to write coherent narrative songs. There's no laziness, no doing it by the numbers. You can feel the emotion in her voice (a voice that isn't perfect, by any means, but carries fragility because of that). But she can be cheeky too (the "don'cha?" in "Speak Now" - an aside to a bridegroom that she knows he prefers her to the girl he is marrying - is perfectly pitched; the "there's nothing stopping me going out with all of your best friends" jibe in "Picture To Burn", and the - of course - dismissive "like...ever" from "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together".)
Narratively, she also doesn't go for straightforward hooks and choruses, with the chorus often subtly altered lyrically each time it comes around. Also, a phrase at the start of a song is sometimes repeated at the end of the song, providing a wraparound coda and again demonstrating her storytelling abilities. Such as the repetition of the 'scarf' in "All Too Well".
Her detractors don't like the way she writes about ex-boyfriends so dismissively, but why not? She exhibits no more misandry than The Stranglers in their day were accused of misogyny (bassist JJ Burnel when asked this question responded: "Yes, I admit it. We're the first band ever to write songs about girls". Maybe Taylor is the first woman ever to sing about boys).
And it doesn't end there. I'm fed up with men being portrayed as sex objects in modern pop music by female singers, as if sex is the only thing that appeals to them. Taylor's approach is fresh, using words that you wouldn't normally find female singers using to describe boys/men ("you're beautiful, every little piece love" from "Stay Beautiful"; "I can't help it if you look like an angel" from "Hey Stephen"; and the songs are mostly love songs (even if unrequited or broken) rather than songs about sex. There's an innocence in the telling, an honesty, and in some respects a romantic expectation which is thoroughly refreshing and grounded. That's something deserving of respect in today's easy to displease culture.
In some respects, Taylor reminds me of Rachel Sweet, the almost-country singer who signed to Stiff Records in the late seventies. Although maybe that's me trying to shoehorn her into something I can acknowledge liking from my past, rather than me admitting that this willowy songstress has inveigled her way into my heart (my partner's glad that Taylor isn't my type!) in the present.
Just a quick blog post this Tuesday morning to reveal the cover art (by Iain Robertson) of my new novel, "The Immortalists", which will be appearing from Telos Crime in March/April. It's the first in a series of neo-noir crime novels featuring my PI, Mordent. Hopefully the first of many!
My short story, "Drowning In Air", has just been published in Strange Tales IV from Tartarus Press and as usual I'm blogging about the genesis of the story for those who might be interested. There may be spoilers for those who haven't yet read the work.
The story is set on the Japanese island of Miyake-Jima where - due to the risk of volcanic activity - residents are required to carry gas masks with them at all times and raid alarms sound should there be a dramatic increase in the levels of sulphur in the air. I've been writing a series of Japanese-themed stories recently and finding anything remotely odd always sparks my creativity. In this instance, eerie sepia-tainted photographs of the residents on the island simply begged to be written about.
Of course, the photographs suggest an element of horror which in fact isn't actually there. These are just normal residents. I'm always intrigued by the contrast between what we see and what we want to see, and how we interpret life in order to rationalise it, so I knew that the idea of masks themselves in my story wouldn't be sinister and that they would simply provide a background to the effectiveness of the tale.
I had the story title in mind before I knew of Miyake-Jima. Cycling to work one morning with a strong wind blowing in my face felt suffocating, and the line 'drowning in air' came from that. When I saw the gas mask images I knew the title - the sense of suffocation - would fit.
Finally, upon searching for the names of my Japanese protagonists I came upon a name - Aiko - which not only is a Japanese girl's name but also a Dutch male name and which means love child. Suddenly I had two characters who would be somehow linked due to that name, who might almost be interchangeable. From the photos to the story title to the name I now had all the elements I needed to write. The examination of the relationship between these two quite different characters forms the crux of the story.
If you've read the story, I would be interested in reading any comments you might have. e Tales IV is edited by Rosalie Parker and contains fiction from Christopher Harman, Rhys ughes, Rebecca Lloyd, John Howard, A.J. McIntosh, V.H. Leslie, Andrew Apter, Angela latter, Matt Leyshon, Mark Francis, H.V. Chao, Jason A. Wyckoff, Richard Hill and John Gaskin.
My short story, "A Knot Of Toads", has just been published in Black Static #38 and as usual I'm blogging about the genesis of the story for those who might be interested. There may be spoilers for those who haven't yet read the work.
Several ideas for this piece came about whilst I was on holiday in the Lake District last year: the diversity of tourists at Ambleside, the line about Cumbrian female accents sounding like men would sound if they were women (not intended to be disparaging, this is my character's view not mine!), and the "can I take your picture" line as an intro to picking up solo female travellers.
Meanwhile my partner had come across a list of collective nouns for animals and thought some of them would make good titles or jumping off points for stories. I agreed, and this idea was knocking around in my head for a while like a fly in a glass box, until I realised that the outdoors-ness of the nouns would tie in with my Cumbrian story. I tried to avoid the obvious (a murder of crows etc) and a knot of toads suggested a complex immersion in nature and it fit as a title, with other collective nouns as section headings.
The crux of the story is about a protagonist who believes he is instrumental in causing deaths after he has taken someone's photograph. These are natural deaths. He attempts to assimilate these coincidences rationally, has believed that seeing groups of animals is a harbinger for what occurs, but really he is fighting to impose a structure on something that isn't structured. At the end of the story my intention is to show that in fact there is nothing supernatural behind this, it is totally random. Given an infinite amount of time all permutations of existence are possible, as are aberrations. That's my reading of the story, anyway, although more traditional readings are also possible; my intention is that he feels bound to something where he is only a coincidental observer and any attempts to rationalise it are useless.
If you've read the story, I'd be interested in your comments.
Black Static #38 also contains stories by John Grant, Tim Waggoner, Maura McHugh, Danny Rhodes and Malcolm Devlin. The issue is dedicated to the memory Joel Lane, and Nicholas Royle pays tribute in "The Conscience of the Circuit". Further information here.
