This is Halloween

As an affect of the peculiar time lag that haunts my blog, I am now able--albeit a week after the event--to announce the Halloween issue of the excellent Estronomicon e-zine features my story Ein Normales Leben.

I urge you to download this fine e-zine and indulge yourself. It is, after all, both completely free AND a damn good read.

Time

I know, I know. I'm late again, aren't I? You came here expecting to hear all about my new course, and how it's changed my writing and transformed me into a god astride the your puny world, right?

Wrong? Probably just as well, because instead you're getting this: a blog about time.

Now, for the word 'blog', you can substitute any of the following: whinge, rant, diatribe, moan, beef, lament, grumble and all the other words my handy Thesaurus can recommend. Because that's essentially what I'm going to do today: complain.

Recently I've stumbled upon a happy place in my work. I'm getting bits and pieces in print (with more on the way!), the Valentine Chronicles continues to gain more and more hits per month, and I'm happy with the way my writing's developing. I've noticed a hardening in that little kernel all writers must nurture; that belief that maybe--after all the rejections and hard work and self-doubt--just maybe, I can make it. It's a belief I hope other writers I admire like Lee Moan and Allyson Bird have discovered: the belief that they can take the next step and make this writing lark a career. Because that's what I'm starting to believe. I could do it, I really could. If only I had the time...

And that's the thing, isn't it? If I didn't have to work do a Normal Job to pay all the bills and loans and mortgages that make a Normal Life, I could just and concentrate on my work. I could produce tale after glittering tale of wonder and daring do. I could write that "third time lucky" novel, or that comic series, or finish the Valentine Chronicles etc. But, dammit, Real Life just keeps getting in the way, doesn't it?

I'm sure this is a barrier all successful writers must overcome... have overcome... and I'm sure that, if I am to succeed, I have to as well. Maybe this is the biggest test? Maybe the next barrier isn't the material I'm producing, but finding the time to produce it?

Only time will tell.

Lead a Normal Life

There are highs and lows to any given pursuit. Be it a leaning toward sporting excellence, a high standard of artistic accomplishment, the satisfaction of a job well done, or the thrill of a well cooked meal, each carries presents us with those days when we throw our hands in the air and decry a cruel and petty world that thwarts our every move.

God knows I'm no stranger to that feeling. From the time I was a young illustrator chasing that Big Break, to my present endeavours as a writer, there have been times I've almost wept with frustration. I've torn up rejection letters in fits of pique, I've hurled abuse at my unsuspecting computer monitor, I've stamped around the house like a petulant child, all the while pulling at what little hair I have left (hey, don't feel sorry for me; it's ginger. the sooner I lose the damn stuff the better). It's at times like those that little voice pipes up in the back of my mind, the one that always ask me if it's all worth it, if I wouldn't be happier leading a Normal Life.

You've heard of the mystical Normal Life, haven't you? One where your moods and outlook aren't so dependant on the opinions, whims, and needs of various editors. One where you can just enjoy a few hours relaxation without feeling guilty because you're not writing. One where those little flashes of inspiration and insight are left safely tucked away in your head and aren't exposed to the indifference and ridicule of others. You know: a kinda... well, boring life.

There are highs and lows to every pursuit, and the highs always make the lows worth while. This past week, for instance, I've been blessed with two bits of great news: two bastions of the UK's proud indie circuit, Twisted Tongue and Estronomicon, want to publish pieces of my work (brand new stories On the Air and Ein Normales Leben, respectively). This, my friend, is what it's all about. The feeling that somebody, somewhere, likes that little idea that you've nurtured, that little flash of inspiration, enough to publish it, to share it with their readers who trust them to entertain and challenge them. That's what it's all about.

Yes, the lows are frustrating, but aren't the highs worth it? Yes, I could lead a Normal Life, but wouldn't that be boring?

Here's to many more lows, and the highs that make them worth it.

Whore

Hey, haven't I been here before? Didn't I used to write some sorta blog, or something? Is 'blog' the right word? Back in my day, 'blog' was shorthand for 'bolognese', but, then again, I remember when Dr Who wasn't camper than a row of tents.

So, how y'been? You look... a lttle tired. Shouldn't you be in bed at this hour?

Me? Well, I'm not too bad. I do, however,have a confession to make.

It may suprise you to know that I'm essentially a very shy person. Yes, really. I write under a pseudonym. I draw under a pseudonym. For all my burning desire for my stories and characters to dominate the world, I'm quite content to stay in the background. You won't be seeing me hog the red carpet when the Valentine Chronicles film premieres. I couldn't. I hate attention.

With this in mind, I'm deeply embarrassed to announce that the latest issue of Twisted Tongue magazine features an interview with yours truly (as well as the usual array of great stories and excellent value for money). It's a strange feeling. It makes me feel a little... exposed. Does that make sense? Is this, I wonder, what I can look forward to when my career takes off?

Is that part of parcel of being a writer? The ability to whore yourself without hesitation or shame?

I wonder if it's too late to employ a body double ....

Growing Up

Today is a special day for me. Today my little baby website, www/thevalentinechronicles.com, is one year old.

This is a big deal for me. A year ago I had no web-presence, a questionable knowledge of HTML and a little ambition. A year on, nothing's really changed, but at least I chug on!

I'm sure one day I'll look back at the Valentine Chronicles and cringe. I'm sure the stories, like new serial Hearts and Bones will seem badly written and embarrassing, but, right now, I don't care. All writers grow up in public, stamping their feet and crying for attention, and the Valentine Chronicles is no different.

Here's to many more years, and many more embarrassing stories.

Cinematic Soul

A sleepless night later (memo to self: Avoid hotels in Golders Green run by Russians. They tend to have all the amenities and creature comforts of an Eastern European doss-house circa 1960) and my lovely wife and I headed into the heart of London. We spent most of the day in the British Museum’s Terracotta Army exhibition (well worth it—do make sure you go if you get the chance) and had lunch in a miniscule Chinese restaurant in Soho (now that’s what you call Chinese food!). A quick trip back to chez Stasi for a change of clothes and a freshen-up, and then we headed back to the concert venue for the second night of our Barry Adamson pilgrimage.

Entitled These Are a Few of My Favourite Themes, the set was an odyssey through Adamson’s favourite themes from TV and film (including The Man from UNCLE, Dirty Harry, and Shot in the Dark) and a selection of his own instrumental work. A plethora of guest stars were also on offer, including David McAlmont, Sarah Stanton and the inimitable Nick Cave (who, manic as ever with his waving arms and bared teeth, put me in mind of a militant Magnus Magnussen).

As with the previous evening, Adamson and his band were in awesome fettle, and it was a pleasure to be there. The highlight for me, however, was Adamson’s rendition of Elmer Bernstein's The Man With the Golden Arm. It’s a great track in itself, and it’s been one of my favourite tracks since it appeared on Adamson’s Moss Side Story album, but it was made so much better by the guest appearance of Immodesty Blaize.

For those who don’t know, Immodsty is a burlesque dancer of some stature. As opposed to the generic vanilla of Dita Von Teese, she's all double chocolate chip, with a stunning, voluptuous, and brazenly healthy figure. As her name suggests, she’s certainly not backward in coming forward, and she gave a bravura performance that ended up in a gyrating explosion of hips, nipple tassels and cellulite. God love her.

The night, however, wasn’t over. As mentioned in the previous blog, Adamson would be reading a short story after the show (a tale of—as he put it—“Griminality and woe”), and I was intrigued to hear what his work would be like.

Half an hour later, and the story had been read to a jazz backing. Once he’d finished, I felt drained—and confused. This story challenged everything I know about writing, from maintaining your perspective, to staying in character, and staying in one tense. Everything about it, technically, was wrong—but it was bloody good.

The story, like the jazz accompaniment, was free and unfettered, and its components parts were tight and so well written as to be astounding. He jumped from first to third person narration with wanton abandon, from tense and character at will, and there seemed to be no obvious plot, instead happy to move from vignette to vignette, all the while painting such a vivid and acutely observed portrait of the dregs of London life it was painful. Exhibiting a startling skill for regional accents, he brought us Poles, Jamaicans, Mancs, Scousers, Cockneys and Brummies as he painted a vivid picture of desperate, down-trodden and devious individuals bouncing off one another in an East-end suburb. His insight into the mind of the obsessive-compulsive main character was a fine an example of “Show, don’t tell” as I’ve ever encountered.

This lead to another sleepless night as chez Stasi—and much introspection since. If Adamson’s story could be seen as an analogy for jazz (free, well-written, crafted, an exhibition of peerless skill), then surely I was wrong about jazz, and finally I was getting an insight into just what it was my Grandfather enjoyed in those records and endless concerts. Thus, by extension, was I wrong about poetry, which I’ve so often likened to jazz? For all my dismissive attitude toward these little snap-shots that “don’t go anywhere”, that “pose and pontificate”, was I blithely ignoring the qualities that make poetry such a widespread and appreciated art-form—and one which is so hard to master? Does my brazen lampooning of poetry say more for my paucity of depth and skill, and an inability to read and decipher subtler texts that aren’t all tits and spaceships?

Jazz Devil

Okay, I’ll admit, I didn’t go to Uni last week. Not because I was still struggling with a heavy cold, but because I was in London to see a two night show by the awesome Barry Adamson.

I’ve been listening to Adamson since I was fifteen (yes, that’s nearly twenty years. Yes, I bought his first album on cassette, and, yes, we had electricity in those days. Smart-arse), and ever since I’ve loved the unique combination of narratives (Vermillion Kisses, A Gentle Man of Colour, Here in the Hole etc), instrumentals (The Man With a Golden Arm, Checkpoint Charlie etc) and flamboyant, clever songs (Here Am I, Can’t Get Loose et al) a new Barry Adamson album presents. He’s always been on my ‘Wish-list’ of artists I wanted to see live, so you can imagine how excited I was.

Unfortunately, before Mister Adamson came on stage, we had to sit through the support act. Now, as Barry quite likes—and is influenced by—jazz, he had a jazz four-piece as his support. I just don’t get jazz, and my opinion of it can be summed up with the following quote from Otis Lee Crenshaw: “I fuckin’ hate jazz. Jazz is what you get when you push a blues quartet down a flight of stairs.”. To me it belongs in the same category as poetry. What’s the point? To me, it’s just laziness and an inability to construct something with a beginning, middle and end. Maybe I’m missing something, or maybe I’m just opinionated, ignorant and blinkered…

I have no idea if this particular quartet was good or not, but the audience seemed to appreciate it. The only thing I could say for certain was the drummer needs to get laid. I have never seen a man look more orgasmic hitting some pig-skin with a stick. He hit every single irregular beat like it was some sort of money shot, and he got so carried away that, at one point, the bassist had to slap him to stop the poor lad from jazzing all over the sax solo.

Finally (thankfully), the support vacated the stage, the Ron Jeremy/Dave Grohl amalgam on drums so bereft he had a tear in his eye, and Barry Adamson’s show got under way.

The first of two nights, this first evening was split into a sampling of tracks from his new album, and a small collection of his older stuff—and jolly good it was too. He had a tremendous band, and keyboardist Nick Plytas blew me away. Never mind this writing crap—that’s what you call talent.

It was, as these things always are, over too quickly. I enjoyed it tremendously, but that leaves me with an odd dilemma. The jazz influences on Adamson’s work are so obvious as to be glaring, but why do I enjoy his music and not, say, John Coltrane or Sunny Rollins?

Part of me knows the answer: Adamson’s music is very narrative, there’s a definite beginning, middle, and end, whereas most jazz I’ve encountered (and I grew up with jazz, as my Grandfather was a clarinet player in a jazz band and had more jazz records than God) seems so directionless and meandering. I’ve already made the analogy between jazz and poetry and—although I like Blake because he has a fierce, javelin narrative that rattles through a story at a breathless pace—most poetry I know just seems to sit with its hands in its lap lamenting this or observing that and being so awfully clever—and I hate being talked down to. By anybody.

With Adamson, however (as with Blake), I don’t feel patronised. I feel like I’m being entertained, like I’m being invited into a story or piece of music and shown something secret and shiny, as opposed to being told “I’m clever, and you’re base. You can’t understand my work. Go back to your workhouse, plebeian,” by some poet or jazz wanker. Anybody who’s read my work knows there’s nothing clever or highbrow about it—it’s straight cut adventure with some neat characters and no heirs and graces.

With this in mind, I left the concert that evening looking forward to the following nights performance. Entitled “These Are a Few of My Favourite Themes”, it was labelled as a collection of Adamson’s favourite TV and movie instrumentals, with some of his own cinema work thrown in as well. More than that, however, after the concert he would be reciting a short story he had written. Having, for many years, admired the narratives on his albums, I was looking forward to this a great deal.

Little did I know how much it would challenge my perceptions of story telling, jazz, and poetry...