You can read Kat’s answers here. The chain goes back from her and will go on ahead from me. Time is a flat circle.
what am i working on?
I used to say ‘a novella’, but it sounded so genteel and precious – like claiming to be learning how to play the lute – that these days I just give a sort of level stare, take a drag of a non-existent cigarette, and say, firmly: ‘fiction’.
how does my work differ from others of its genre?
Nice, a genuine excuse to whip out ‘sui generis’. Someone once described my writing as silly ideas treated seriously, which I liked.
why do i write what i do?
A lot of the time, the initial impulse to write is the desire to elaborate on a phrase that has come into your head without any planning. It’s not like there’s some language-less image or incident or idea that occurs or is perceived and that you then try to put into words (though that can happen). More, your thoughts have been trundling along as words already, and a particular run of them has something more to it. ‘Cool’, your brain says. Or: ‘Yep’. Once you’re writing though, once you’re long into it, then the desire is just to get it over and done with, probably not too smart a desire either, like a literary form of the Sunk Costs Fallacy. Getting from that initial impulse and out the end of the desire – that’ll do as well as anything for why I write.
how does my writing process work?
I write before work and, if I have time, edit after work. Anything else I can say about process is either too niche or banal and in either case not worth relating. In fact, re: process, out of all the multiple-tabs and infinite scrolls of procrastination, the only useful Writing Tip that’s ever stuck (for me) is to try write in the morning. Claw that way to your cold desk. Because then, whatever happens, wherever you go, whoever dies – well then at least you got some writing in.
Three friends, colleagues, writers, people will be taking the baton on 12th May. They are:
Robert Sharp, who writes on ideas of free expression, multiculturalism, shoddy political debates, and the impact of digital technology on our lives and cultures. http://www.robertsharp.co.uk/Ross Hopkins, who works a really dull office job and escapes in the weekends to what is essentially another really dull office job in his own free time, writing and scribbling amateur art-things: http://acornerofnowhere.tumblr.com/
“Nikki, the temp from HR, has prominent collar and cheek bones; has beige skin that looks airbrushed; is Manga-eyed; wears her dirty-blond hair jagged; wears lamé tops which fall off one shoulder and expose her back with its down which, when it catches the office light, looks like the last trace of a feather of a giant golden bird; and is about nineteen, or so Wilbur reckons.”
Read more at The Literateur
"The second to notice were the paramedics because the cyclist’s blood stood out on the enamel; at her speed, she must have felt like she’d ridden face-first into a nail. Others stopping to help or watch also noticed and entered history. It was a cold, wet morning on a quieter side of Victoria Park."
Read more at Litro Magazine, Issue 123
Available in print at these stockists.
Featuring work by Anniken Blomberg, Elishia Heiden, Helen Jukes, Oli Belas and Thomas Binns.
NEW ARTICLE @ BIG OTHER - The Ending as Wish-Fulfilment in the Tree of Life, A.I. Artificial Intelligence, and Lost
"It’s tempting to see the world of The Tree of Life as one where nobody shits. Granted, for all the beautiful moments, there are ugly ones too – the young brothers in the film see a crippled man, thirsty prisoners, the drowning of a child – but these feel like examples, like the Buddha’s Four Sights (what politicians would call ‘teachable moments’).”
Read more at Big Other.
‘I was cut up to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than a voice. And I heard - him - it - this voice - other voices - all of them were so little more than voices - and the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber: silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices - even the girl herself - now -‘
To add provinces to Being, to envision cities and spaces of hallucinatory reality, is a heroic adventure.– Jorge Luis Borges (quoted in ‘Impossible Cities’ by Darran Anderson http://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/impossible-cities/
With all fiction comes the future.– Karl Pilkington (via noisesoundsignal)