Dark River Press #1

As mentioned in my last post, Dark River Press Magazine have today launched their first issue today.  It's a great line up including stories by Brian Lumley, C.W.LaSart, Colin F. Barnes, B.E. Scully, Thomas James Brown, K.A Opperman and many more.

This edition includes Night Holds a Scythe, one of my stories that features in Quintessence of Dust.  So if you want a taste of things to come (well, March 31st to be exact), then download for FREE the magazine.

Thanks for the support.

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Quintessence of Dust: Important Notification!

Today I awoke to an email from Pablo D'Stair over at KUBOA Press who, altruistically, has cracked the literary whip in order to have the artwork for my new book, Quintessence of Dust, finished well ahead of schedule. As you can see, it's damn pretty. The font echoes the work of Saul Bass and the artwork, abstract in its design, reminded me of some of the early work by Ivon Hitchens. Suffice it to say, two visionaries I'm flattered to reference and draw parallels to in this, my first short story collection. If you like the cover, please add a comment and I'll make sure it gets to the illustrator. I'm sure they'll be please to hear your views.

The reason the cover has been pushed through so early is because I was given a little ad-space in Dark River Press's first in-print magazine soon to be released, details of which I’ll post accordingly. That issue will feature, Night Holds the Scythe, a short story taken from Quintessence of Dust. It is not a cookie cutter horror story, but it is horror, telling the story of a man trying desperately to keep his daughter awake in a world where falling asleep means you never wake up. I believe Livius Nedin of Booked Podcast is writing a better version of this story, so keep your eyes peeled.

If you're interested in buying Quintessence of Dust, and why wouldn't you?, it's a pocketbook sized, mass market paperback, and to preorder it's ONLY $2.95 via this link. I don't even think you can buy a beer that cheap, and to be honest, beer won't be as fun as reading stories like, Anal Twine, 180 Degrees Shy of Heaven, Skin, and Morning Birdsong and the Hell Demons!

Keep checking back if you want a flavour of QoD (it's already been truncated!) to see when Dark River Press release the magazine, which I'm sure will blow you away with the author's attached (it's true, I've seen the line up!)

For now, thanks for reading and for sharing this completely self-centred moment with me.

Update: A few people have found that the link provided for the preorder page doesn't work.  If this is the case for you, try this direct link instead:
https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=JMQTGT2678XVY

If you're having further problems, let me know.  

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Bookcases and Braces

When I was 11 years old I had to wear braces. Like most kids I hated them, but what I hated more was visiting the orthodontist. In the run up to having the brace fitted I had to have four teeth removed, on two different occasions. Back then they put you under with an injection. They’d sit me down in the chair, ask me much I weighed, and then inject me in the hand. I remember that cold feeling as the anaesthetic rushed through my veins, and the intoxicating smell of various dental compounds like Formo-creasol, Metacresylacetate, Eugenol, Acrylic Monomer and just the odour of the drill excavating enamel. Black out. Waking with blood in my mouth, the pain, and the disorientation. Ice-cream. Soup. Usually in that order. Then there was the fitting and the tightening of metal plates, and wire. The aching gums and the mortification that came with smiling, or talking. It was a horrible experience and I hated every minute of it.

However, if I went through that process now, I’m sure the trauma would not appear so bad. I would be awake for the teeth extraction, and the smell of the dental surgery is one I have come to accept as a normal part of my year. The aching gums and indignity of wearing a brace would have lost the gravity it had in my youth because peer pressure and vanity is not paramount to me now. In truth, I have considered having another brace fitted, to finish the job that was started some 29 years ago, but like I said, vanity isn’t high on my agenda at the moment.
I mention this because the act of having a brace instilled a real hate for the dentist for many years. After leaving school I didn’t attend one again for 16 years, and when I did, I needed valium to get me through the experience. Luckily, my dentist was patient with me, talked me through the procedures and explained all the noises I would expect to hear during the treatment. Now, I’m fine. Still can’t say I look forward to visiting the dentist, but I’m not bothered when the little blue card pops through the door. (mental note – find out when you’re next appointment is)

About the time I had the brace fitted, I had joined high school and was thrust into a world where academia became juxtaposed with Chinese burns, dead-arms and being a human spittoon for most of the older kids. Worse than all this was English lit. I hated English. More than writing, I hated reading. My teacher would give us these foxed, dog-eared books and we would all take turn in class reading a paragraph or page. You could literary hear the sweat rolling down our legs. There is a scientific condition that occurs when a person is placed into a moment of panic and the brain shuts off cognitive function making you momentarily blind. It happens a lot to men who are given the task of retrieving a utensil, or any other arbitrary object, from a kitchen drawer, a demand placed upon them by their partner. For some reason, though the object is in plain view, a man will be unable to see it. Same in shopping aisles when instructed to fetch a box of Sugar Puffs or instant mash. This is why, when it came to my turn to read a paragraph, my brain would shutdown and draw a veil of darkness over my eyes. This feeling was one that resonated through my school days. Even if I read to myself at home, I found the words grew small and meaningless. The content of the books were as dull as the pages that had been faded by age and fingering.

Like the dentist, I grew to hate English. I didn’t smile when I entered the class, much the same way the dentist had forced me to never smile while wearing the braces. The Penguin classics, they were as uncomfortable in my mouth as the many wires that traversed by teeth. English taught me to hate English and everything associated with it. I figured so long as I could string a few coherent sentences together, I could get through life and abdicate literature in its many varied form to people in corduroy and leather elbow patches.

The day I bucked up enough courage to visit the dentist was the same year I picked up a book. Both were monumental moments in my life; the first because I was unfettering myself from an adolescent fear that would, eventually if not conquered, see to it I would be toothless and in dentures by my mid-forties. The second was monumental because I willingly chose to read that book out of pleasure and entertainment, not, as before, for educational gain. That book was To Kill a Mockingbird and remains, to this day, one of my favourites. After that, I read another and another. Soon, I was getting through a book a month, then one every couple of weeks. When my wife and I used to spend our Christmas in a lodge in York, I would get through three or four books in a week. I began to enjoy reading.

It’s timing. I posted a link on Twitter today from the Independent newspaper detailing how reading is important, but how some novelists found books to be off-putting when they were forced upon them as children/young adults. It put me off, and had I not picked up To Kill a Mockingbird 29 years later, I would have never have decided to become a writer. To this day I find myself becoming very frustrated with classics (though Amanda Gowin hates that term). The prose does not appeal to me. Just as LOTR does not float my boat, I appreciate that many people do love that kind of fiction. Likewise, many people these days sing the praises of Cormac McCarthy and Bret Easton Ellis, two authors who’s reputation renders me baffled to say the very least. But hey, there are 7 billion people in the world, and to think that each will enjoy the same book is foolish (especially when a large portion of those cannot read due to them being too young or with learning difficulties). Yet, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I did enjoy English at school. Had I gone to a different school, had a teacher that instilled the joy of literature in me, or had peers that were supportive and as passionate about words at the writers they were reading, would I have been the writer I am today? Would I have been better? Would I even be a writer?

Part of writing for me is overcoming the fear of literature, just as I wanted to overcome my fear of the dentist. I needed to face my fear head on and see if it was as scary as my mind had built it up to be.

My daughter is three years old and loves books. She can’t read but as memorised many and so sits on the couch and reads them aloud to both myself and my wife. To witness this bloats my heart. She is what I wanted to be, a person consumed by the magic of literature, of stories and words, who loves to hear them spoken aloud by herself or others. When she reads I want to cry, and I hope with all my heart she continues to love books and does grow scared or indifferent toward them. While I’m sure our tastes will differ in the years to come, I know the power a book can have, and how it can take you from depression to happiness in a single sentence.

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Fair-weather Friends

Driving to work this morning, I noticed something that made me think of a few writers I've lost contact with. My journey from home to work is spent mostly on the motorway. However, from the cottage to the motorway junction, I need to go down an A road that, at 6am in the morning, is like driving through a black hole due to no street lights. A truck was three cars ahead which was slowing us all down to around 40mph in a national speed limit zone. The car in front of me decided to overtake the car in front, and, recklessly, decided to overtake the truck as well, a manoeuvre that had another car been coming down the road on the opposite side would have resulted in a head on crash.  Now, most of you would have thought the same thing I did in that moment: "I hope you crash, you knobhead.". Of course, this is just a fleeting thought, which holds little truth. But there is a part of you that would like to see some arseholes get their comeuppance, but obviously not at the cost of injuring the lives of others in the process. Alas, the Gods shine on the brave and stupid and he made the run with just a few seconds to spare before causing a major crash. 

So, how does a reckless manoeuvre lead me to old acquaintances?  Well, my friends were, in this shit analogy, the writers hanging patiently behind the slow moving vehicle of success, taking their journey at a respectable and safe speed. But for some reason they were overtaken by a prick with an attitude. Suffice it to say, I'm hoping there is some truth to the story of the hare and the tortoise. 

So to my old friends, Chris Chester, Graham Bell and Gary Libero, all of whom taught me that good writing isn't just a good command of the English language but the gift of good storytelling, I am beyond the point where gratitude is enough. I miss you all and I hope that one day you reach your destination with integrity and passion intact. 

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Who the Fuck Does Craig Wallwork Think He is?

Question: When do you become the authority on a subject? Maybe too broad a question, so let me scale it down. When do you gain enough experience to have the authority to pass it down? I’m sure if you’re a lumberjack, then the process and techniques involved in *felling a tree, I imagine, are quite simple to follow and, with practice, master. Same could be said about riding a horse, shooting heroin, mastering the perfect punch, walking a tightrope, and various other mindless activities and professions. The only two things that can’t be passed down, regardless of how much exposure you’ve had to either, or how good you are at them, are, in no particular order, falling in love and writing. There, I said it; we can’t teach writing. Well, we can, but to be great at [writing] the skill has to be there to begin with. Much like love, you need to really feel it within every part of you. Yes, corny as it sounds, writing has to make you nauseous, cause you to do stupid things, and become obsessed to the point of madness. Even then, you’ll end up getting your heart broken. Writing is, for want of a better term, a sickness, and while many profess to know the secret to assuaging the illness, many do not. What worked for them, will surely not work for you.

The reason. That’s the simple part. We’re all different. I’ve begun to hate this methodology that abiding by a set amount of rules will enable you to write the perfect novel. There are lists and lists out there with the same old crap, crap that I refuse to write here in case someone, anyone, reading this decides to follow. I promise you I will not go down that road. But that is not to say these rules shouldn’t be read, but just as quickly as you’ve digested each, they should be pooped out of the system. Don’t believe anyone who says they know the secret to writing. They don’t. Writers are magicians. They trick you. Slight of hand. They mislead you into believing the impossible is possible. They mystify you with words, deceive you with syntax. They’ll convince you that what they say and do is magic, when really the only magic they posses is the ability to influence you.
I’ve fallen foul of this myself. I’ve believed that adverbs is a mortal sin, that I should never, ever use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose". That when in doubt, strike the adjective out. That I mustn’t do anything with the story/novel, unless I revise, revise, revise. It’s occurred to me that I’ve actually broken the promise that I wouldn’t write down any of these writing tips, so please disregard all I’ve said from the line, “I’ve fallen foul of this myself” and pick up again from this point.

Back with me? Okay, let’s move on. I’ve also, at one stage or another, given my own tips on bettering your writing. How pretentious! Me, with only a novel, short story collection, and various publications in anthologies, journals and magazines under my belt, telling you, a complete stranger how to write. Fuck me. No, it’s wrong of me to say such things. I don’t know what will work for you. I don’t know what technique suits your style. I certainly don’t know how best to get what’s in your head out onto the paper, least not without the aid of a gun. Those seeking ways of improving are clearly spending too much time reading about how to be a better writer than writing to be a better writer. That sounds like advice. It’s not. It’s an observation. To veer away from the misunderstanding I maybe giving advice here, be clear that I have no interest in such things, but I will add that a whore makes her money being a great fuck. A lousy whore needs to fuck more or get out the business. I’m sure I could make that more concise and it would be quote worthy, but to be frank, that would be leaning too far toward advice again.

For me, there’s little I can’t learn from reading. Some books inspire me, some depress me, and not in a good way. Some are so depressing it makes me want to write something better. Most are average. I then sit and write. Some days I write crap. Some days I write crap that has potential. Some days I write average. But every now and then, I write something good. It’s not tips or advice that’s done this, it’s me. It’s my brain. It’s all the accumulative hours spent tapping at the keyboard. It’s stealing lines from other books, lyric, dialogue from a movie, rearranging the words, adding my own slant on it, and then re-packaging it. Most of what we do as writers is the equivalent of Mexican food: the content is the same, it’s just the way it’s presented which differs. There’s no real secret about this, and what annoys me is there are many so called “experts” out there making money off other writers under the pretence that being under their wing for five weeks will make them a better a writer. All that will do will give you access to a great editor. I’d recommend investing that $500 in getting a professional editor to look at your novel. Then you’ll realise how good or bad you are. Which leads me finally to the most depressing part of this little blog entry: Most of you cannot write.

Regardless of how much time and energy you put into that project, you’ll never be that good. Whoever said every person has at least one novel in them should be shot. You don’t. At best, you have a decent short story, if you’re lucky, but the majority of writers out there have little to say and even less skill to say it. Sorry. But that’s the truth. Some may class myself in that unsympathetic summary, and maybe they’re right, but at the moment, I’m getting enough interest thrown my way that I’m willing to keep pushing for a little longer. I feel sorry for editors though. I truly do. Having to sift through the stacks of toilet fodder that someone, in a moment of absolute psychosis, believed was worthy of labelling a novel must be soul-destroying. I doff my hat to each and every one of you. I couldn’t do it. So yes, fledging writers of the world unite and give up. Honestly. It’s not worth losing your marriage over or missing out on seeing your kid ride their bicycle without the stabilizers or taking their first steps. Seriously, it’s not. This business is only for the insane, the selfish, the broken and the delusional. Be a good person and make the world a better place. Don’t think your writing will.

Back to the question: I personally have no idea when you’re allowed to say these things. I have no concept of when you’re good enough to be that arrogant you can pass down advice. Unlike their ability to wax lyrical on how to improve your writing, no author teaches you when you keep your mouth shut and when to open it.

Now there’s a course I may sign up for.

*Felling (taken from: http://www.woodlands.co.uk/blog/practical-guides/felling-a-small-tree/)

The first cut is the sink cut (front of tree) which controls the direction of the fall. It’s done in two parts using the bottom of the guide bar. The cuts should not be more than one quarter of the tree’s diameter.

Cut downwards at an angle of 45 degrees (60 degrees if downhill) ensuring the guide bar is at 90 degrees to the intended direction of the fall. This cut may be less than 45 degrees if felling over raised obstructions so that the hinge may break earlier.

The second part of the sink cut is horizontal and must meet the 45 (or 60) degree cut exactly.

Start the felling cut (back of tree) by aligning the guide bar slightly above the bottom of the sink cut, ensuring that you are standing to the side of the tree when making this cut. Stop cutting when there is a parallel strip of uncut timber not less than 1/10th of the diameter of the tree. This is the “hinge”. The tree should now start to fall, so move quickly out of the way to your safe place.

If the tree does not fall, do not cut further into the hinge. Use a felling lever or wedge. To use a felling lever, stand firmly with both hands on the lever, knees bent and back straight, lift upwards using your leg muscles. To use a wedge, insert the wedge into the felling cut opposite to the felling direction and drive it in using a sledge hammer.

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Zombie Review

Because I've not posted for some time due to tweaking this place, here's a little review I found on Amazon for my short story Revenge of the Zombie Pussy Eaters:

Revenge of the Zombie [...] Eaters by Craig Wallwork has a censored title, so that Amazon would let post this review intact. The author wastes no time with a set-up, and jumps directly into the gore (nice touch with the tampon detail...eeewwww). BEST. ZOMBIE. TWIST. EVER...title is not an attempt to be shocking, but rather quite literal. Also qualifies as WEIRDEST. STORY. EVER. I will never think of genitals the same way again. This story needs its own genre...for now, I would place it somewhere near bizarro.

You can order the anthology, Midnight Movie Creature Feature by clicking this link. Thank you Ursula K. Raphael.

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Underdevelopment

You may see a few new changes around the website in the next coming weeks.  I'm gearing up for the release of my short story collection, Quintessence of Dust, and my novel, To Die Upon a Kiss, so wanted to tidy up this place and give it a facelift.  Most of the new features will not be active and the images in the above slideshow will be updated accordingly.  Suffice it to say, the whole sight is underdevelopment.  But please, keep checking in.  The posts and most of the links will still be working an updated. 

Thanks for your continued support.

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Conjectural Figments #1

Richard Thomas brought this one to my attention, or perhaps it was Simon West-Bulford...unsure, both are great authors and both keep me reaching within to pull out work as good as their own, so it's understandable I mix them up from time to time.  Whomever it was, they put me in the direction of a new zine called, Conjectural Figments, set up by Andrew Post.  The first ever edition went live today and centres on the subject of Transhumanism.  

You'll find in the magazine an interview with author, Simon Morden. Poetry by Jhon Z. Baker and Dale Herring.  And short fiction by Richard Thomas, Simon West-Bulford, and Rommel Luna H. Artwork by Marius Hjelseth and Glenn Porter.

You'll also find in there Factory 37, a short story of mine that tells the story of rat eating an android who thinks he's human.  It's a really cool magazine, and it's FREE.  So please, download it, have a read, and then spread the word.  

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Mlaz Neatherlandishes Me

To celebrate the birth of the New Year, good friend and writer, Mlaz Corbier, has kindly taken one of my stories and translated it into Dutch.  The story was originally called, Girth, but given the literal translation in Dutch is "Omvang", which, by all accounts, sounds lame, Mlaz has tweaked it slightly.  The title is now, "Enlargement".

Giving great consideration to the fact Mr Corbier can be roguish at times, if anyone from the Netherlands drops in here and reads the story, please alleviate my concerns that he's not just used the opportunity to mock me and make comparisons to myself and Phil Collins by adding a comment. 

If you'd like to read more by Mlaz, all of which you can find in English, then drop by his website: Red Puffin Tobacco. 

And let me take this opportunity to wish you all a very flourishing New Year.

 

Verlenging

Origineel Geschreven Door Dhr. craig wallwork

& Geherinterpreteerd In Het Neederlands Door mlaz

Je moet het touw wat laten vieren, zei mijn vriend Jimmy en dat deed ik dan maar.

            Toen ik aan het touw trok kwam er een man met hoorns op zijn hoofd en hoeven voor voeten tevoorschijn. Zijn huid was helemaal rood, hij zat onder de blaren en leek het duidelijk niet op prijs te stellen dat hij in het koude daglicht werd getakeld.

            Jimmy liet het touw los en vroeg waar hij zich moest inschrijven.

            Inschrijven? vroeg de rode man.

            Jimmy was zo gek als een deur en bereid zijn ziel van de hand te doen omdat hij altijd al een grotere lul had willen hebben.

            Kom op! Je kan mijn ziel krijgen, sprak hij, maar in ruil wil ik twintig centimeter kloppend vlees bij mijn lul aan geplakt hebben.

            De rode man begon te lachen en zei dat hij de verkeerde voor zich had. Hij kocht geen zielen meer. Meer en meer mensen hadden de kerk de rug toegekeerd toen ze ontdekten hadden dat er oneindig seks en drugs verkrijgbaar was in Hel en zodoende hoefde de rode man geen enkele moeite meer te doen om zielen te winnen.

            Maar hoe moet dat dan met dat lulletje van mij? vroeg Jimmy.

            De rode man adviseerde hem een dwerg te trouwen of anders te sparen voor een penisverlenging en sprong terug in het gat waar hij vandaan was gekomen.

            Jimmy kon zich zo’n operatie niet veroorloven en trouwde daarop met een dwerg. Zo hebben ze nu een behoorlijk goed bestaan in een klein huisje net buiten de  stad. Soms zie ik hem lopen met zijn vrouw en ze zien er gelukkig genoeg uit.

            Dan kan ik het niet helpen te denken dat grootte echt geen zak uitmaakt.

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To Die Upon a Christmas Kiss

Tis the eve of Christmas, and I’m a bit tipsy after having a few San Miguel’s in the local.  But while my head is light, by heart is full with gratitude to those who have made 2011 very special for me.  Big thanks go to Pablo D’Stair who saw some glimmer of importance in Quintessence of Dust, a short collection that features some of my best work, many of which have been published and some that are new.  He’ll be pushing this out of KUBOA in the first quarter of 2012.   

Equally, I can’t commit to words the appreciation I have to Snubnose Press who will be publishing my first novel, To Die Upon a Kiss in 2012 too.  Yes, it finally has a title and it’s quite perfect for the novel.  This is a really big deal for me and I’m looking forward to its release.  Suffice to Say, this blog will be plagued with that title before the year is out.  

Special thanks go to all those who have supported me through the year, be it either a morbid curiosity or an interest that stretched to enjoyment.  You know who you are, and well…. Without you I would have fallen and forevermore never found my feet.  

Finally, before I’m sick, let me wish you all a very merry Christmas, and whatever you pursue in 2012, I hope it’s a journey full of excitement and satisfaction.   Take care, and thank you for making my year one of the most memorable.

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