punkPunk! update

As many of you might know I am editing an anthology of punk-inspired fiction titled "punkPunk!" to be published by DogHorn Publishing next year. The submission period opened on 1st July and runs through to 31st December 2013 so we are approximately half-way through the process. In that time I've had several submissions of interest, some way off the mark, and whilst I'm making no definite confirmed acceptances until nearer the closing date there are several pieces which I'm strongly considering for the anthology.

Whereas I felt the original guidelines were clear I've had a few people seeking clarification, so I'm going to try and pin down what I'm after in this post. It might also be worth you reading a previous blog post I made about The True Meaning Of Punk last year.

I'm looking for stories - in any genre - which capture the essence of punk. Not simply what it meant to be punk in the summer of 1976 when for those of us of a certain age the world seemed to tear itself open and roll at our feet, but also what it continues to mean to be punk. For me, punk embraced freedom, a DIY-ethic which meant anything was possible and it didn't have to look/sound good so long as it was done, and also - personally - was tied in with puberty and an understanding of the world which hitherto had been veiled. Stories don't have to reference particular bands or songs, or even directly reference punk itself, but they should carry forwards that sense of freedom and possibility, of kicking against the pricks, and the joie de vivre of anti-establishmentism.

I'm also not necessarily looking for pro-punk songs. Lost and broken dreams are just as integral as transitory success. What I'm trying to avoid are too many pieces about bands which didn't exist trying for a shot of stardom and falling short. I've had a few of these - and no doubt some will make it into the book - but the anthology needs to be more multi-dimensionary and I am genuinely open to anything. And I'm not after stereotypical punk figures with coloured hair and safety pins through their noses - if you have such a character make them authentic, not filtered through the way punk has subsequently come to be portrayed via the glamour of history.

In some sense: if you have to ask what a 'punk' story is then you won't be able to write it. A punk story should come from the heart, be infused with passion. And to further confirm: I'm not restricted to punk in it's pivotal years - the above guidelines are clear that later movements which sprang from punk will also be of interest to me. It's often said that everyone has a novel inside them which is open to debate, but I firmly believe that every punk has a punk story inside them. Let yours out.

Finally, it's best just to get writing with fire in your belly and punk in your heart. Ultimately I won't know what I want until it read it. Make me want it.

What's Inside A Ghetto?

Regular readers of this blog will be aware that I co-edit the irrealist/surrealist/gritty/feral poetry prose magazine, Fur-Lined Ghettos. Of course, we're constantly reading submissions for the magazine and also attempting to flog it, and one of the questions we constantly get asked is what type of work do we publish.

We came up with this: "We enjoy the surreal, the absurd, the nonsensical, the complicated, the simple, the truth, the lies, the complexity of words, the ecstasy of genius, the delightful power we find in the spaces between and dancing at the discothèque. Poetry. Prose. Short stories. Dreams. Essays. Conversations. Musings. Fact. Fiction. Art. Theory. Nonsense."

Naturally, this still doesn't really explain what we're after. And to be honest, we usually don't know what we want until we see it. Last night it occured to us that we're trying to promote a product the contents of which anyone other than those who purchase the magazine haven't seen. Like trying to sell a lucky dip. So, here's a preview of some of the work in each issue. Hopefully this will help those who are wavering about submitting/purchasing to make a decision about doing so.

From #1, "Paola" by Travis McCullers:

"I lit my friend's hair on fire one time. It was cool." - Darius the Convivial.

Blooded arms entangled besides--
Crooks after kisses, sugar for the ride

Flooded temples assume ruin
Doleful hounds perish in the sun
Girls flash their goods for bar denizens
Lorca drags on through the streets of Granada for eternity

Look here, espy the anguish, scan for scars
Stumple upon heaven in a box, dig in for your prize

Bless the relicts, sow the field with salts
Glide like a swan on the surface of comity
Grow your hair out long and brood for a sweet young nestling

Lick your albatross and swoon

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From #2, "A Visit" by Serena Cook

Why do you chuckle so?
What sparks the cruelty in your bones?
Do you do it to spite us?
You have everything...
Apart from the tissue that makes you human
Because maybe you're not...you can't be
The words you speak are malicious
The deeds you carry out are ruthless
You have everything...
We gave you everything you ever wanted
We gave you what we knew you needed
But now, what you need
What you desperately need is
A visit from a heart

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Interlude to look at all the pretty covers:

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From #3, "Boris Johnson's Hair" by Mike Cannon:

Look at his lovely, lovely, stupid, lovely hair
The mouth doesn't matter fill it full of chips no difference
blunderbuss power politic bichon fries locked disaster face
GUUUFFFFAAAAWWWW!
A deformed Churchill burger smashed into pooh bear's corpse
re animated at 240 volts, fibre optic follicles burn through milk.
RA RA RA! YA YA YA!

How?

The king FOP, emperor bungle chops
jowl quivering over a microphone for stammering puppy sympathy
St Bernard's who cant rescue get put down. YELP. So sad.

I will do it FOR FREE. I will shave his head.
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Of course, all work above is copyrighted to the individual authors and is not to be reprinted without their prior permission.

Hopefully this has answered some of the queries we get about what exactly lies within the pages of Fur-Lined Ghettos. So buy it. We do need your support to continue publishing such great writers.

Holidays

Haven't been able to blog for a while (did you miss me?) because we were on holiday. Now, holidays are pretty essential for my wellbeing. I work 11 days out of 14 in day jobs, not counting any freelance work or writing that I do in my spare time, and travelling is when I am happiest. In fact, I've said it frequently that I feel more at home travelling than I do when I'm at home. I get travelsick for travelling where others get homesick for home. Coming home for me is a big downer. I need to be on the move.

I spent a week in North Wales with my partner and our young child, together with my eldest daughter; and then we dropped off the kids with their respective grandmothers and did a 9 hour detour in the process to spend a second week in the Lake District. Believe me, that detour was worth it. I love my children, but remove them from the equation and BINGO! Anyone with kids will understand this.

In no particular order we saw waterfalls, castles, caves, beaches, mountains, The Village, generally breathtaking views, an assortment of wild animals, and other stuff I can't recall off the top of my head. Time stopped (for my views on travelling, immortality and the dislocation of time read my novel, Moon Beaver), and I incorporated two pilgrimages into the trips (more later). Along the way I took some cool photos and my partner took even cooler photos. A selection follows:

Here my teenage sprog advances on the windswept beach towards the lighthouse at Talacre, North Wales. The tide was out. Such an evocative place. Wales gave us an abundance of cool stuff, with Conwy Castle probably being our favourite destination. It also provided me with the destination of the first of my pilgrimages. Here's a clue:

I first caught The Prisoner television series when Channel Four was launched in 1982. It was one of those series which captured my imagination and probably assisted my desire to write. Portmeirion has therefore been a destination I've wanted to head to for some time, and it didn't disappoint. I kept smiling as I realised I was in the Village. The beach was particularly memorable - I expected to see Rover at any moment. People pruning the trees felt sinister beyond the normality of their roles. I loved it.

Anyway, once the kids had been abandoned and we drove through the worst rain-drenched motorway traffic I've ever seen by the seat of our pants, we ended up in the Lake District. I'd only been here once before on a school trip and could remember none of it. The scenery was the most spectacular I've ever seen in the UK, reminding me in places of New Zealand's Milford Sound. Of course, you had to get away from the crowds which swarmed around Lake Windermere like wasps on ice-cream.

Whilst we were in the Lakes we visited Ulverston for the second of my pilgrimages, to Stan Laurel's birthplace and the Laurel & Hardy museum (less a museum than a collection of memorabillia, rather ramshackle but with a distinct charm), where we watched their classic "The Music Box" on the big screen. Laurel & Hardy repeats were often on TV in my youth and without a doubt they are magical. Here they deliver a piano to an address "right on top of the stoop" (I could probably quote the movie verbatim: "He doesn't want me. He wants the other monkey. You!"). Again, without Laurel & Hardy I would probably be quite a different person than I am today. Certainly more serious and not such an idiot. (example: we spent the last three days of the holiday speaking to each other only in daft American accents).

We're not great walkers, so the mountains availed themselves as scenery rather than obstacles to be mounted, nevertheless we did get off the generally beaten track and drove the often single-track loosely tarmaced stretch to Wasdale Head with its panoramic view of Scafell Pike and associated peaks. The day was dull and therefore perfect for this journey into an almost lost world scenario. I'll close with this photo from my partner cos it's the best of the bunch. Now just 50 weeks to wait for the next sojourn.

The Tamandua

Regular readers of this blog will know that I love animals of the long-snouted variety. To celebrate both mine and my partner's recent birthdays we took a trip to Colchester Zoo yesterday. It was baking hot, and we did a lot of walking, but we managed to see all the long-snouted animals we expected: the giant anteater, the aardvark, and the dik dik spring to mind on recollection. As well as seeing and enjoying the regular animals with their regular-sized snouts, of course; including the lucky experience of watching a chimpanzee shit into its hand.

However, rather astonishingly, I saw a picture of a long-snouted animal next to an (unfortunately) seemingly empty enclosure that I hadn't heard of before (my partner said she knew of this one, and had in fact previously mentioned it to me, but I must have forgotten). The animal in question is from the genus of anteaters and is a Tamandua.

Looks pretty cool, doesn't it. Well, I looked within the enclosure through the mesh but couldn't see anything, and then I pressed my face to the glass on the other side of the enclosure and shielded the glare from the sun, but if the tamandua was there it certainly wasn't as bothered about seeing me as I was of seeing it. Most disappointing.

From wiki:

Tamandua is a genus of anteaters. It has two members: the southern tamandua (Tamandua tetradactyla) and the northern tamandua (Tamandua mexicana). They live in forests and grasslands, are semi-arboreal, and possess partially prehensile tails. They mainly eat ants and termites, but they occasionally eat bees, beetles, and insect larvae. In captivity, they will eat fruits and meat. They have no teeth and depend on their powerful gizzard to break down their food.

There's also the interesting fact: When aggravated, tamanduas communicate by hissing and releasing an unpleasant scent from their anal gland.

But more importantly, just look at the length of that snout!

Cora Vespertine

What's in a name?

It's been 14 months since the birth of our baby and the time has flown by. She's eating proper food, she's walking, she's saying the odd word, she's a continual delight, and she's tiring the hell out of us with all of it. But it doesn't seem that long ago that we were considering baby names. We wanted to go with something unusual, but not traumatic, and after discounting Snowlips Bumblebee, Capability Snuggles, Echo Echo, Bill Murray, and Adlebert Esquire, we settled on Cora Vespertine Clara Hook (of course, those other names were meant to be ridiculous, she was always going to be a Cora and the Vespertine just stuck).

Here she is:

Cora was a name my partner had considered from the start. It's a character in William Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying", and it had always appealed to her. There's no particular affiliation with the character, simply the name.

Vespertine was something that came up as we were throwing around some mad middle names. As well as being the title of a rather good Bjork album we found it also means flowers that bloom in the evening. We liked it because it was evocative, and as coincidence has it Cora was born early evening.

Clara is the name of my partner's grandmother. Self-explanatory that one, really.

Hopefully with this mixture of old and new names she'll grow up to be an independent, fiercely artistic individual. Maybe this is starting now:

So, we thought, that's going to be a pretty individual name. There won't be many Cora Vespertine's around.

Wrong!

Last weekend my partner happened to google the name (who doesn't do this?). Coincidence City! On a baby name website we were frankly astonished to see this. Just less than three months after the arrival of our Cora Vespertine, there was another one! We have no idea who this person is, but if it's a genuine case of coincidence that has to be utterly amazing. Of course, with the internet as it is, it could simply be appropriation (both annoying and flattering), and I wonder through how many links the name of our child (not found on google, but it would have been on facebook) might have gone through for this to happen. Either way, she's not quite unique any more (although to us, of course, she always will be). More importantly, she was first!

It crosses my mind that inevitably, at some point in the far flung future, if there is still an internet or equivalent, our Cora Vespertine will google her name and end up contacting the other Cora Vespertine. Maybe they'll be friends. In fact, maybe she's doing that now...

Tetsudo Fan

Please bear in mind this post will contain spoilers, both written and visual, of my story, "Tetsudo Fan".

When Eibonvale Press announced guidelines for a new anthology of train-themed stories I knew I would be interested in writing something for submission. Themed anthologies - when done well - can represent the best in short fiction in my opinion, forcing writers to consider ideas that they might not previously have had, and opening up a wellspring of creativity. The only problem I foresaw from my point of view is that other than enjoying train travel I had no particular affinity for glamorising those journeys. I don't consider myself a 'trainspotter' and wondered whether the anthology might lean toward that kind of aficionado.

Nevertheless, I began to consider ideas. A few options sprung to mind, including writing something about Stalin's unfinished railway after reading an article which coincidentally appeared at the time the guidelines were announced. Another idea, which unfortunately I can no longer remember, also seemed viable. What I decided I didn't want to do was to go down the hokey steam train track - however evocative that might be - and so considered with my train-uneducated mind what the opposite - most modern - train might be: my first thought being the Japanese bullet train (even though, I realise now, they have been around for quite a considerable amount of time).

The bullet train seemed an attractive starting point as I'd written and had published quite a few stories set in Japan. But I needed an angle. Google beckoned. I typed "Japanese train fetish" and waited...

As soon as I saw this I knew I had my train story.

'Tetsudo fan' is the nearest translation for 'trainspotter' in Japanese. I researched the types of trains and the culture of trainspotting which might appeal to my main character. I discovered the Little TGV bar in Akihabara where the diners are welcomed as though they are going on a journey and found the Hara Model Railway Museum that had only opened days after I began to write my story. I found details of Japanese comics which would appeal to train enthusiasts, and information about hotels which directly overlooked railway lines. All this information seemed to be pulled through at the same time, to paraphrase Kafka it seemed that "the [story] will freely offer itself to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet". Or, to use an appropriate metaphor, all these individual story train tracks seemed to converge to make one story: the station of my ideas.

I find it fascinating how an idea can emerge almost fully formed simply by applying a little imagination and seeing what happens. Some writers view stories like archaeological digs, as though they are unearthing something that has lain hidden from view all the time and was already fully formed before they started. I'm more struck by the impossibility of ideas, by the certain knowledge that if I had written the story five minutes earlier or five minutes later that the story itself would be completely different - in some instances, possibly beyond recognition of the one that was written. Add the internet to this and the usefulness of searching for reference material as one writes, then the story itself becomes a sea of twisting possibilities. For example, searching 'Japanese train fetish' today I found information about an "image club where men can pretend they are in a train groping fellow passengers". Would that have been useful in this story? Possibly. Would it have derailed what was eventually written? Maybe. A story in itself is a journey with limitless destinations, but the finished version is the one accepted as true. I find this almost arbitrary, akin to millions of sperm racing toward an egg, and the thought both excites and horrifies. What happens to those unwritten stories, those unborn babies, and the trajectory of their fates? But I'm getting off topic. The book, "Rustblind and Silverbright", is out shortly, to be launched at this event in London. See you there. Are you coming by train?

Fur-Lined Ghettos #3

Those of you observant and/or interested enough to keep an eye on this blog will know that I have an editorial assistant role aiding my partner editing an irrealist magazine of poetry and prose that we've titled Fur-Lined Ghettos. The derivation of the name is open to speculation (please speculate in the comments box below), but the process of submission selection is clear. She reads the incoming work and makes a decision, then asks me for my opinion and then sticks with her decision. She knows what she likes and what she likes is good. This is why we have such a great magazine.

We publish to a six-monthly schedule and issue three is now available. Featuring poetry and prose from Trevor Calvert, Mike Cannon, David Gullen, Jack Madigan, Travis McCullers, Eleanor Mitchell, Adam Napier, Jacob Solstice, Kate Tattersfield and Jon Wesick. The cool cover art is by Bonnie Seifert. This is a print magazine, so order a copy and get something tangible in your hands. We're also open to submissions for issue 4.

www.fur-linedghettos.weebly.com