"They found my diary today..."

 A small tribute in honour of what would (and should) have been Eric Carr's 59th birthday.

And finally (he says in his best Paul Stanley stage voice) "HEEEEERRRE'S A SOOOOONGGGGG!!!!!" that belonged on Hot In The Shade but wasn't released until it appeared on Rockology some ten years later. With these lyrics, The Fox proves as wise as he was wily, because no truer words were ever spoken.
 

 

 From MAD TV, circa 1998

 /Downloads free track from the new album out of curiosity

/Listens

 /Ejects from computer chair at high speed and flies backwards into living room wall

/Picks up jaw from floor

Fucking hell! Headcrusher is right! I was looking forward to this CD anyway because of Chris Broderick (who you can hear wailing all over the intro). Now I'm even more pumped. Is it September yet?

With thanks to the always delightful and decidedly devilish letheron , I watched Ginger Snaps Unleashed yesterday and positively wolfed it down. Apart from being an unexpected and enjoyable continuation of the story, it reminded me of everything I loved about the first film .

The subject matter is the standard monster as metaphor for adolescence/sexual awakening that we've seen over and over again since the birth of the teenager in the 'fifties, but there's something about Brigitte and Ginger that keeps them ahead of the pack- think Degrassi meets Daria meets Teen Wolf.

Considering my long fascination with body horror (call it a legacy of being born with one that doesn't work properly), my fondness for this movie and so many others like it should come as no surprise. The process of becoming something other than the self has intrigued me since I first saw the poster for The Fly at the tender age of nine. Traditionally the act of transforming from human to "monster" is something to be feared, but if it's going to happen anyway, why not embrace and celebrate it? ArrrooooOOOOO!!

(I have to go to the dentist today. I wonder how much extra he'd charge to sharpen my canine teeth?)

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Twenty long years after his last solo album, my silver-faced guitar god from planet Jendell has stepped back through the Fractured Mirror to grace us with his presence once more.





Tracklisting for Anomaly is as follows:

1. "Foxy & Free"
2. "Outer Space"
3. "Pain In The Neck"
4. "Fox on the Run" (Sweet cover)
5. "Genghis Khan"
6. "Too Many Faces"
7. "Change the World"
8. "Space Bear"
9. "A Little Below The Angels"
10. "Sister"
11. "It's a Great Life"
12. "Fractured Quantum"
13. "The Return of Space Bear" (iTunes bonus track)

September 15th, 2009 will be a day long remembered. Bring. It. On. 

 

 In the further words of the artist formerly known as Vincent Damon Furnier:

"I wanna get out of here
I wanna, I wanna get out of here
I gotta get out of here
I gotta get out of here
IgottagetoutahereIgottagetoutahereIgot...
Ya gotta let me out of here
Let me outta here
I gotta get outta here
Let me outta here
I gotta get outta here
Let me outta here
I gotta get outta here!"

That is all.

This looks pretty damn good, and would do even if Keeley Hawes and Holly Aird weren't involved. Ed Whitmore is the brains behind the show, and I'm sure it will be a fine showcase for the talents he developed on Dalziel and Pascoe, Silent Witness, Sea of Souls and Waking The Dead.

I've no idea when it will hit Australian screens. Last year's ITV adaptation of A Place of Execution (not my favourite Val McDermid novel but bloody good nonetheless) still hasn't aired here, and decent ABC1 Friday Night Crime offerings have been pretty thin on the ground of late. Despite the gorgeous Emilia Fox, Silent Witness has never been the same since Amanda Burton called it a day, and its finale this coming Friday will make room for the welcome return of Lynda LaPlante's Trial And Retribution. Maybe now we'll finally get to see the episode with Glynis Barber. Please?

Much praise to the ever lovely letheron for directing my attention here. I do not like Leonardo deCaprio one little bit, but I'm willing to overlook his presence and very dodgy Boston accent for the sake of a good asylum picture. My spies suggest I should read the book first, and I may just do that if I get a chance between now and October.

The ol' to-read pile looks set to grow as 2009 hurtles towards its end, with new offerings from Ruth Rendell, Sue Grafton and Val McDermid all in the works. I've learned more from those three alone than just about anyone else writing in the crime genre today, and have been lucky enough to meet two of them. Sue Grafton, in a display of impeccable timing, visited Adelaide exactly a year before I had any reason to know who she was, but our paths might still cross one day if I manage to publish anything before she finishes her Kinsey Millhone series and retires! 

After the brief and unexpected euphoria of starting and finishing a magazine article (inspired by my last post here) within 24 hours of being asked to write it, life has once more settled into a holding pattern. My enquiries to Prospect, Greenacres , Walkerville and Norwood, Payneham and St Peters libraries about potential volunteer work and writing sanctuaries have all led either to deafening silence, well intended non-responses or the hollow promise of return phone calls. I wasn't naive enough to think this change of seasons would happen overnight or without teething troubles, but some small indication of progress would have been welcome.

I am a patient man. Indeed, I submit to whoever may be reading this that few could have endured the false starts, disappointments and general inertia of my last decade without going bugshit crazy. There have been times (most of 2005 for example) when I've come all too close, but have usually managed to keep the black dogs at bay with a dose of retail therapy. Self-medication via the repeated purchase of CDs, DVDs and books can only go so far before you find yourself with shelves full of stuff you no longer have the time or inclination to enjoy properly, and I think I passed that point a couple of years ago.

Life, among other things, is supposed to be a journey, one I'm sure I'd get a lot more out of if I could find a way off this roundabout long enough to see the road ahead and get some idea what's waiting there. Yes I have my dreams and relentless ambitions, but are they really worth shutting myself away from the wider world and losing contact with far too many friends over? They get me through the day but they certainly don't pay the bills or keep me warm at night. As time marches on, I ask myself with alarming frequency if that's a sacrifice I'm prepared to continue making.

Is it really a sacrifice though? What would I be doing if I weren't making things up and writing them down in hopes of getting them published? I'm all but useless at everything else I've ever tried because nothing and no-one moves or motivates me as much as the people Stephen King calls "those lovely figures who dance in the smoke". Conjuring a character from my imagination and recording a part of his or her life on paper is the ultimate high, and chasing it is all that's ever mattered to me. It still does and it always will, but every now and then, as those around me seem either to achieve their goals or move towards them at greater speed than I'm capable of just now, I'd like to feel as if I'm getting somewhere as well. Is that too much to ask?  


 



   

Why is it when I'm reading fantasy or horror I crave the order and rationality that only crime fiction can provide? Likewise, whenever I'm elbow deep in the blood and guts of a good whodunnit, I find myself wishing the protagonist would step through a mirror and find him or herself in a magical and miraculous world nothing like the one they come from?

I'm re-reading Weaveworld just now and, much as I enjoy feasting on its "raptures... and glorious deliriums" I find myself longing for a crime scene tape to divide the wonders of the Fugue from the Kingdom of the Cuckoos. Inspector Hobart, with his devotion to the idea of Law and relentless pursuit of Suzanna and her Aunt Mimi's book of faery tales almost fulfills this need, until Shadwell's manipulation drives him mad. His steadfast denial of the other realm makes his surrender to it inevitable, and ultimately costs him his mind. 

I've never been a fan of "traditional" (Tolkein- descended) fantasy. I much prefer the sort of book whose dream, nightmare or parallel world exists alongside our own. This gives the characters a point of reference, just as the process of slaying the dragon, completing the quest or rescuing the princess shows them they have abilities and resources they never imagined. This in turn gives them the confidence to confront and resolve any problems in their real lives when they get home from Neverland and have to resume the dreary business of being. That is a true hero's journey, with lessons and self-discoveries aplenty for characters and readers alike.

Crime fiction is a very different beast, celebrating logic and solutions and preserving the status quo. Murder investigations have rules, procedures and answers that real life doesn't. It's all about restoring order from the aftermath of chaos, emotional or otherwise, and focusing on what you understand rather than getting lost in what you don't. Too often, though, the reasons for this eruption of madness aren't nearly dramatic enough for my liking. While the motives may appear mysterious at first, they usually boil down to domestic disputes, arguments over money or crimes of passion. How very dull, not to mention anti-climactic. It's a bit like finding out Excalibur was just a rusty old bit of metal with no magic powers.

I suppose that's why my attempts at crime fiction also invoke elements of the fantastique. I write for the same reasons I read, listen to music or watch films and television, to escape from reality rather than immerse myself further in it. Who wants to wade through another tired old yarn about a drug bust gone wrong, a family feud over an inheritance or the tawdry exploits of an unfaithful husband or wife when there are so many more interesting, if moderately supernatural, tales to tell?   
  

 I saw The Reader on Monday which, apart from the obvious appeal of much Kate Winslet nudity, posed some interesting questions. Her character's illiteracy was used as a metaphor for people's lack of knowledge about the Holocaust, and started the rusty old gears of my brain turning in a particular direction. 

To what extent are those of a particular religion, race or minority obliged to be spokespeople for that group or culture? Several of my online correspondents are Jewish, and one or two of them have a deep interest in matters relating to the Holocaust. I wonder how much of this is due their own family history or a "shared" memory of something that had a disastrous effect on others of the same faith? 

Similarly, many women, gay people and those of other races or religions have fought for recognition and equality through the years. Should those who come after them feel a duty to carry on the struggle even if they don't have any direct experience of the discrimination or prejudice their forebears suffered? 

I ask this as someone with a disability who's been lucky enough not to have to spend my whole life thinking of myself as disabled. It's a part of who I am, yes, but it doesn't define me. I went to school with several kids who grew up into the sort of people who defined themselves by what they weren't and, as a result, were encouraged to have no higher ambitions than to become statistics. 

I saw even more of this during the years I "worked" as an advocate for people with disabilities. Yes, you're entitled to this payment, that subsidy or whatever, but is that really all you want? My enthusiasm and idealism for the job evaporated very quickly because I couldn't relate to many of the situations I had to deal with. I could empathise as easily as the next guy, but I felt like a hypocrite because I'd never experienced any grave social injustices first hand. Or maybe I had, I just chose not to let it bring me down. Sure I can't get up stairs and I'd need a referral from a social worker if I ever wanted to use a dating service, but so what? Neither of those things bug me enough to make me want to change the world single handed. I can't speak for everyone who has a disability because I have no right or reason to. That sort of thing is better left to people who have a true passion for their cause, whatever it may be. 

Having waded through all that, you could well ask if I believe in anything. Like the song says, "I believe in me" and I believe in the power of stories to give us the strength we need to get through everyday life in one piece. That's as close to a credo or manifesto as I'll ever get and, while it won't win any community service medals, it's enough for me. Peace out.

 Nightbreed director's cut?

Please please please....

For the uninitiated, Nightbreed is Clive Barker's big screen adaptation of his 1988 novel Cabal. Mangled, misrepresented and ultimately ruined by the narrow minds of studio executives, the film fell far short of its own potential and its creator's vision. Now we know the "missing" 25 minutes of footage has been gathering dust in the vaults all along, and if the campaign I linked to above succeeds, there's a chance it might be included in an extended version.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to help make this happen. Go and do your duty for the residents of Midian and give them a fair go. God knows 20th Century Fox didn't!  

Last night while rummaging through my drawers looking for a place to file the latest instructions from my physio, I found a note I'd written to myself four years ago while bored at a meeting where I "worked" at the time. It was an idea I'd all but forgotten, for a book about the only survivor of a religious cult's mass suicide (think Jim Jones or David Koresh) who for some reason doesn't drink the poisoned Kool-Aid and makes it through the armed FBI raid without so much as a scratch. He gets out and finds his way to the- literally- big bad city, but can't cope because he believes he's in Hell, exiled from the paradise his brothers and sisters were called to. 

The poor lad has a lot to learn about the world and his place in it. Along the way he meets two other people, a couple at first, who will also be forced to confront and challenge their beliefs about themselves and the society they live in. 

This tale begins in 1999, when Y2K angst was at its height and no-one was really sure what the 21st century would bring. It goes on until Sept 11th, 2001, when the world really did change in a way few could have predicted. At it's heart it's a very American story, which leaves me with a bit of a problem because I've never set foot on US soil and wouldn't know how to begin describing or bringing one of its cities to life on the page. Google Earth makes things easier than they once were, but it still lacks a certain authenticity. 

I suppose what I'm really asking is for any American readers who may happen across this blog while exploring the farthest reaches of internet land to paint me a picture of where you live to help me get the details right and give them some colour and character. Also (if it's not too painful or personal) I'd like to hear your memories of Sept 11th, so I can write about it as a real and tragic event rather than just something people on the other side of the world heard about on the news. 

This is different from anything I've ever tried to write before, incorporating everything from religion, technology and doomsday prophecies (one of the characters is a postgrad student working on her Ph.D thesis about the apocalypse myths of various religions and belief systems). It's part Don DeLillo and part Iain Banks with a dash of Neil Gaiman's American Gods, and probably way too much for a journeyman like me to cope with, but the least I can do is give it a try. Will Shetterly, in his short story Splatter, wrote "there's a difference between a book that wins a Booker Prize and one that pays for a Manhattan townhouse." Can this one do both? Dunno, but I want to find out!

In semi-related news, I can feel the time to institute my cunning library plan drawing ever closer. My illustrious radio "career" has got older then most of the people I have to work with, and I'm tired of chewing over the minutiae of daily misery while being a mouthpiece for the political propaganda machine. I need to step back and focus on what's important to me, ie putting more words  on the page and finding a quiet, secluded place in which to write them. At best, I have one day a week where I can work at home undisturbed either by talkback radio or general domestic drudgery and quite frankly, it ain't enough. If I can persuade Centrelink that what I plan to do is legitimate work, that's half the battle. The other half is, of course, convincing certain external forces that a change is not only necessary but long overdue, and I'll burn that bridge when I come to it. 

Waking up is hard to do, especially after a dream as pleasant (if unlikely) as the one that visited me earlier this morning. I've all but given up on the possibility of such things taking place in "real life". In fact, here is what would most likely happen were I to make an attempt.

(Sketch proper begins at 0:37)




In totally unrelated news, I've found a couple more authors worthy of investigation. Top of the list is one Sarah Pinborough who, apart from writing just the kind of horror I like, is English, gorgeous and a former teacher. Exactly my type in other words :). Pity she also wrote a Torchwood book, but nobody's perfect. 

Deborah LeBlanc also seems potentially interesting, though her penchant for Southern US settings and characters with "special" abilities may invite comparisons with Charlaine Harris, which nobody needs if they hope to be taken seriously ;p.

This week's Target catalogue informs me there's a new Mo Hayder book on the shelves as well, which I ought to have known about already. Her work reinforces the double standard I wrote about here a few days ago but it's stomach-churningly compelling, with a main character who makes Gene Hunt look like Mister Plod. Ritual wasn't as unputdownable as I'd been led to believe, but it had more than enough going on to keep me interested. Since Skin revisits much of the same territory and resolves a few plot threads its predecessor left dangling, I owe it to myself to have a look. Dymocks', here I come again ;). 

 

 As my Dad used to say, and probably still does.

What am I breaking my self-imposed online silence to blather about now, I hear you ask? I've had some more thoughts (and interesting conversations) about the dilemma I mentioned a few weeks ago and thought I'd share them here to see what my fellow bookish types had to offer by way of opinion.

My enjoyment of women writers' work in the crime and horror fields is well documented. Alexandra Sokoloff and Sarah Langan are next on the list for inspection once I've cleared my current to-read pile and I look forward to sampling their wares immensely. The thing that most troubles me (as I've said before) is that female authors are so much better at, and comfortable with, handling the sex n' violence stuff than I. Indeed, it's almost expected of them and many seem eager to oblige! Val McDermid and Ian Rankin, who I think live in the same street, even traded insults about it in the Brit press. Rankin said (and I'm paraphrasing) the best way to succeed as a female crime writer is to include as many gory scenes as possible, whereas the exact opposite rule applies to the boys. 

Fiona McIntosh was kind enough to assure me "you are not the first male writer to face this dilemma. In fact I've watched many a panel at an SF convention where some very well known male writers have complained bitterly that the girls are not only capable of writing the most brutal scenes but can get away with it without being accused of anything more than having a wild imagination. Meanwhile, if they attempt a rape scene or similar in their fantasy novels, suddenly they feel they will be looked at in a different light."

That's just one aspect of what our friend Mr Holmes might call a "three pipe problem". Not content with ducking potential accusations of sexism at best and misogyny at worst, I also like to pepper my crime stories with supernatural elements, thus occupying the nebulous territory between two genres and sending potential publishers into spasms about how best to market me. Add to that the grief I'll cause as a man writing (mostly) from the perspective of a female protagonist and you still have only a hint of the trouble I could get myself into!

I know, I know. Stop thinking and just write, then all this crap will take care of itself. I can but hope...

I  caught up with an old friend on Sunday afternoon, who also brought his wife and 7 month old son along to say hello. Said friend has blossomed into quite the doting dad, and as I watched him play with his little boy on my living room floor, I felt more than a tad envious. This sense of having missed some sort of boat grew as they were leaving and the li'l feller  was asked if he had a hug for Unkie Steve. I gave him the biggest cuddle I could muster and thought how lucky his father was to have met someone he loved enough to want to create another person with while I've spent the last ten years taking painfully slow dictation from the voices in my head and getting nowhere fast. There's a balance that needs addressing, and it'd be easier to do if I had the faintest idea where to start.

The most useful lesson I've learned from my recent moment of clarity is the need for and importance of emotional depth in writing. For authenticity's sake, writers have an obligation to  draw from their own feelings and experiences to make their work the best it can be, and use the negative or painful to fuel their creativity! For years I have grossly underestimated my ability to do that, and been more interested in aping my influences than plumbing my own depths and making good use of what I bring back. Well, no more. I've found the strength I needed for a short story I've been afraid to tackle until now, and writing it  will be an act of cleansing and purification just as Clive Barker's The Hellbound Heart was an exorcism of his failed relationship with John Gregson.

 Because the Starchild says it so much better than I can just now:





In other more uplifting news, I just got a phone call to tell me today's swimming class (and I use the term loosely- other people ambling back and forth across the pool and bumping into me while I'm trying to do laps does not constitute "swimming") has been cancelled. Hooray! If the fog clears from my eyes and I can unscramble my brain long enough to conjure up a sentence or two, I've just got a couple of hours' extra writing time. I might not get anything worthwhile down on paper in this state, but at least now I don't have to make polite conversation with the elderly, toothless and senile on my way into or out of the change rooms. 

Insomnia came to call again last night, and left me staring at the ceiling until the wee hours cursing the fact that my eyes wouldn't close. I must have catnapped for an hour or two (because I remember a vague dream about harmonising on The Kids Are Alright with three perfect strangers while standing fully clothed in the shallow end of a swimming pool. WTF?) but that's about it.

I can just about cope with having nothing and nobody to wake up for and going through the same old motions day after pointless day provided I get some shut-eye the night before. When I don't, the solitary reality of my colourless existence hits harder than Muhammad Ali on steroids and the resulting wounds  start to bleed through to my waking world. "This is not life. This is sickness."

I thought Easter, or the spring fertility festival as it was in pagan times before those self righteous Christian do-gooders rebadged everything to suit themselves, was supposed to be a time of rebirth and renewal after a long and restful hibernation. To quote The Thing, "you gotta be fuckin' kidding me!"

This rambling, directionless and self indulgent post was auto-written by the revenant currently occupying the body of Stephen J Lord. He accepts no responsibility for it, nor for any shuffling, slavering, brain eating rampages that may ensue.  

 Some of it anyway. If anybody reading this can help me find a torrent of this whole series, your every wish will be my command.

For the uninitiated, below are two clips from Clive Barker's A-Z of Horror, a six part companion documentary to the book of the same name, which is one of the most well loved and well thumbed volumes on my shelf. Enjoy!

The only "reality" show I would ever want to be involved with is one where all the contestants are subjected to rigorous psychological testing when they audition and made to reveal their deepest fears. Each week one of them has to face that fear and the last one left alive wins. They don't get any prize money, product endorsements or D-grade celebrity status. They just get to live, with their mind semi-intact if they're lucky.

What would be my strategy for winning? Make damn sure I'm the executive producer!