All Blog posts
Sharp Objects and genre blindspots
Genre fiction is often used to describe science fiction and fantasy, but everything fits into a genre. People tend to dismiss sci-fi as not belonging to the real world and following set formulas. I admit to similar prejudices with crime novels, particularly those with detectives or journalists trying to solve a murder. There are some twists and red herrings, the protagonist gets personally involved due to their issues but by the end of the story it is all neatly resolved and the murderer is revealed. This is the narrow-minded view I have of the crime genre.
Starting again
Towards the end of last year, I finished two major projects I had been working on for ages, a short story collection and a poetry collection. I finished them to a stage where only minor changes were needed.[^1] These sprawling ideas I had been carrying around in my head, my notebook and several disparate files suddenly existed as completed manuscripts.
Thoughts on 'Annihilation'
For my first book of the year, I sped through Jeff Vandermeer's Annihilation, the first in the Southern Reach Trilogy. It is classified as science fiction, but in this case it seems to be a catch-all category of "I dunno. Seems weird." Science fiction isn't really a good classification for this odd novel. From the very first moments, it is clear that this strange little book is delving deep into horror.
Resolutions
I'll finally tidy up this place and keep it neat. It's too dark! Too many cobwebs and not enough flaming torches. I'll stop leaving tomes half opened on the lectern. Need to keep my ingredients in order. I can never find salamander's tails when I need them. Similarly, I will stop leaving half-finished potions around the place. The number of times I've been interrupted then come back to find the laboratory filled with a putrid purple smoke, I tell you... It's not good. I'm four hundred and seventy-two, I need to start clearing up after myself.
Best of 2018
It's that time again when I examine what media I've consumed over the past twelve months and pick my favourites. Defining the best of anything is an entirely subjective act that nevertheless, I try to do every year. I've moved away from trying to pick the 'best' of anything as they are all different experiences, so instead, I have chosen a few in each category I like.
2018 in Review: A Poem
In previous years I've written rambly, angry blog posts that tried to make sense of the world around me and mostly failed. This year I've given up trying to understand the world and instead have written a poem to sum up the year:
Why Writers Should Exercise
The problem of writing is that you spend too much time in your own head. Even if you do it as a side hobby as I do, you can spend a lot of time imagining future plot twists or details for your characters and world. I’ve been editing short stories and poems recently, finally getting to the end of a couple of projects that have taken me years. During editing, I stare at words, cross them out, write another in, before crossing that out and going back to the original. It can be frustrating and maddening. That’s why I find it important to focus on exercise, at least a couple of times a week.
Recent Published Writing
Recently, I've been very lucky to have some writing accepted in a couple of different places.
Flash Fiction: Reasons Why I Believe I Am Dying
- My food tastes of rubbish. Every day, I am brought the most sumptuous feasts imaginable, the finest Kobe beef, caviar and gold encrusted truffles. All of it is expertly prepared by the best chef in the world, who cooks for me and me only. Each new plate is brought to me on the finest antique china, every one a collector’s piece that by rights probably belongs in a museum. I eat with handcrafted silverware. Each knife, each fork and each spoon has been handmade exclusively for me by artisans in Naples. And every time a new meal is brought to me, it tastes of cigar ash and chalk. I push the plate away in disgust.
-
I barely have the power to leave my four poster. Sometimes, I conjure the energy to raise myself from the Egyptian cotton sheets and fine silk pillows, before staggering across the room to my en-suite. All too often now I have to call Williams to assist me. Loyal Williams. He’s been with me for years and never wavered. Terribly loyal. I ring a bell and there he is, to lift me out of the bed and across the room. My feet barely touch the hand woven carpet. Williams never complains. Just lifts me with no word. I am increasingly weak and stuck in this house. My world is narrowing down to the house, my private quarters and soon, when I am too frail to be pushed in my wheelchair, I will be confined to this room. After that, my bed only. Then only my body. Then...
Ten Miserable Years of Austerity
Like the rest of the UK, I’ve been steadfastly ignoring anything to do with Brexit. It’s like there’s a ticking time-bomb hanging over our heads and we are doing everything we can to distract ourselves from the countdown, hoping that it won't explode if we just ignore it hard enough. Sometimes though, something slips through. This week I saw the chancellor’s comments on how Brexit will probably reduce public spending further.