Bit late this, but if you're in Worcester, check out today's Worcester News - on page nine is a feature/interview with me by Mike Pryce, who actually interviewed Jimi Hendrix in 1969 when he played at the Gaumont. Accompanying the interview is a gurning photo of me, holding up a copy of Stairway to Hell, standing outside the bingo hall that used to be the Gaumont. I'll post it up here some time.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
In Milton Keynes? Go down the main Waterstones in Midsummer Place and you should find some signed copies of my new book on the shelf. Hey, since you're there, maybe you should buy one?
You know this STAIRWAY TO HELL tour I'm in the middle of, where I do all these in-store signings? Well, I've got some competition down under... from very loud people. Bet they're not as loud as these guys.
Four reasons to go and get STAIRWAY TO HELL:
- Waterstones have it in their 3 for 2 promo
- Borders are a cool bookshop who encouraged me to be aggressive, like Rocky
- You should support your local independant bookstore
- Amazon UK have it at the blisteringly cheapo price of £4.79
Monday, August 24, 2009
Had my first crack at hand-selling my books on Saturday when I did a signing at Borders in the middle of Birmingham. Let me make this clear: this was not a signing like Ian Rankin does a signing. When Rankin does a signing, he sits at a desk and signs and chats for a queue of fans. Someone at my level, there's no queue a fans. There is a table and a chair and a pile of books and a whole lot of people ignoring you.
I say it's my first crack, but I had an opportunity to do this a couple of times before. At French (and Belgian) book festivals, they expect you to put in the hours in the dealer area, signing your way down a stack of books. I detected a lot of competition between the authors in trying to push their books, but I wasn't having any of it. It's hard enough talking up your books to a stranger in English, let alone French.
So the obvious question is: Why the hell would I voluntarily put myself through this when no one had asked me to? Three reasons:
- I wanted to do something for my new book, which is going to have to compete with the summer's big releases in a market which is already saturated. On top of that, people are hardly splashing their cash around at the minute.
- Why the hell not? I believe in the book, why not get out there and say it?
- I am a masochist.
So I set up three in-store signings, this being the first.
OK, so the people at Borders very kindly agreed to let me do the event, and set up a table for me in the fiction area with posters front and back of the store. I get there, the books are stacked up tastefully by a nice bookselling person. I can sense a certain lack of faith in one or two of the staff. Do I look that gormless? Possibly, but I am told the problem is that this is not the best kind of Borders store to do this kind of thing. You need a Borders on a retail park, where people go specifically to get books. A city centre Borders is full of people just passing through or killing a few minutes while the wife is trying on skirts in Monsoon. Be aggressive, I am advised. Walk around and talk to them. Seems there is a well-known crime writer who has had a couple of signing events there and that's what he does, to great effect.
Hmm... I'm thinking. Aggressive. Like a boxer. Like... Rocky.
I'm all set to start wandering around being aggressive when a passing customer stops and looks at the books. I blurt something out about David Bowie and it catches - her husband is a fan. A read of the blurb and a bit of a chat later and she's getting me to sign two for her. Man, that was easy. If I can replicate that every five minutes, that's 48 copies in two hours. Piece of piss!
For the next ten minutes, no one else stops at the table. This is despite me blurting random things about Bowie. And urine.
I look at the cover. Maybe Bowie isn't so popular after all? Maybe it's Jimmy Page they want?
Another quiet ten minutes later and I'm looking at the cover again, wondering what's going wrong. Maybe I should drop the Jimmy Page line. And ditch the urine gambit as well, lest people think I'm telling them to piss off. Maybe it's time to take that piece of advice: Get out there and be aggressive.
I walk up and down a couple of aisles, snarling, picturing myself as a prime Rocky Balboa on his way to the ring in Soviet Russia, about to face the unstoppable machine that is Ivan Drago. Eye of the tiger, the ghost of Apollo Creed is whispering in my ear. Eye of the tiger! My fists are balled and I'm ready to beat someone into buying the book. Should be easy: a couple of jabs and then drop 'em with an overhand right, following up with a left hook on the way down, then just drag them to the counter and get their wallet out for them. But I can't seem to do it. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to beat someone into buying my book and getting it signed by me. I've never been good at throwing the first punch, and it's no different now. Besides, these are my kind of people: book people. How could I physically attack them?
So I wander back to my table, thinking. What would Mickey say, if he hadn't died of that heart attack brought on by the evil Clubber Lang? "Just take a look at youse!" he'd snarl. "Call yourself a writer? You're a bum!" Then he'd calm down and say something like: "What is this? A circus? Are we clowns? No! We're trapeze artists, flying through the air for the amusement of all these people. Except we're doing it between the covers of that damn book, which they don't even know about! Now get out there and whip up an audience! Bark like a dog, you no good Irish bum!" Then he hobbles off to the art section and leafs through a book on nude photography.
Mickey's right, of course. One of my great-great-grandparents was indeed from Clones. But how did he know that?
I work out a tactic: approach people (politely - no snarling or balled fists) and show them the cover of STAIRWAY TO HELL. Ask them if they recognise who those two guys are. They know Bowie alright, but most of them seem to think the other one is Marc Bolan. I don't know what to do about that, but it doesn't matter: I'm already talking to him or her by this stage. We're away from the cover and talking about what the book is about, why I wrote it etc. Some of these conversations lead to a signing, some don't. Most are fun and interesting, hopefully, for both parties.
At the end of two hours, I'd signed nine. "You're a bum!" Mickey's shouting. And he's right. Nine? Jeez... Then the staff guy wanders back and I ask him just how many that well-known crime writer signs when he comes. "Nineteen." So Maybe nine isn't so bad for this store, and I can go away and not feel like such a loser. "Crap!" Mickey's screaming. "You're a no-good, Irish, scum-sucking b--" I shove a sweaty towel in his mouth. Mickey, why all the negativity? Why not just chill out?
I go home, leaving him on the floor behind me, having another heart attack.
Do you know what? Mickey's wrong. That book is not a trapeze act and I'm no circus barker. It's a high wire act, like all good books are. And I'm a relatively unknown writer, putting myself out there and trying to make myself a bit more known. Even if a conversation leads to a signing and a sale, I'm still making someone aware of my book and myself. Maybe they'll think about my book and buy it later. Maybe they'll see my next book and remember me. Either way, it's a bit of exposure.
Thanks to all at Borders in Birmingham for letting me do it. And to all the people who showed an interest. Even that guy who came in the hope that he was going to get this guy's autograph (I had to break the news of his death).
Next Saturday I've got another one lined up at Waterstones in Gloucester. If you're around, do drop in and see how I'm doing in my pursuit for that elusive 10 books. Mickey's not invited to this one, and neither are Rocky, Ivan Drago or Apollo Creed. But I think David Hasselhoff might be there, so you could try and get his autograph.
Friday, August 21, 2009
This post puts the number for the year at 39, which makes it higher than last year and we're only in August. If you look at the archives down there on the right, you'll see that I've been dropping off badly year on year, but that's all over. I'm born again, baby. I'm out there amongst them. Like my new book, STAIRWAY TO HELL, which is in shops NOW.
Talking of which, I'll be signing copies of that baby at Borders in the Bull Ring, Birmingham (West Midlands, not Alabama) tomorrow from 1pm. If you're around, drop by and I will tell you the secrets of the universe. Otherwise, come back here next week and I'll let you know how it goes. But I won't tell you those universe secrets. To get those, you need to get a copy of STAIRWAY TO HELL signed by me.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
It is August 20th, which means Stairway to Hell is published today. It also means that the X Factor (US readers, it is the Brit version of American Idol) is back on UK TV screens this Saturday. But we'll gloss over that - there will be enough media fanfare for the latest round of TV's favourite talent show, and precious little for my book (although some people have been very kind). So let me make up for it here, with a humble blog post.
I don't even remember where I first read or heard that in 1975 David Bowie used to store his urine in the fridge to stop warlocks (in particular Jimmy Page) from using it to harm him. It might have been in Nicholas Pegg's The Complete David Bowie, which I read years ago. Looking at it now, two sentences regarding the background to the album Station to Station stand out:
Tales abound of black candles, bottled urine, bodies falling past windows, witches stealing David's semen, demons attacking him in photographs, the exorcism of the swimming pool, the CIA infiltrating his movie-making plans, and the Rolling Stones sending him messages in their record sleeves.and:
What David later referred to as his "wayward spiritual search" had begun in New York in early 1975 when he met Kenneth Anger, the author of Hollywood Babylon whose film Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome was an exploration of the neo-pagan warlock Aleister Crowley, a figure who famously attracted the attention of Led Zeppelin's Jimmy Page at around the same time (a groundless suspicion that Page meant him harm was reportedly another of David's myriad neuroses during the period).Obviously the phrases in bold were the ones that lodged in my head. The urine was being stashed away to stop baddies from getting their hands on it. Which baddies? Jimmy Page. And that got me thinking... What if Bowie wasn't careful enough? What if Page managed to get hold of some of that urine?
What was he going to do?
I don't know about you, but I have a love/hate relationship with Bowie's music. Most stuff up to and including 1980's Scary Monsters, I love it. After that, well, we all know what he went and did. He came up with Let's Dance, which made him a global superstar and rang the death knell for whatever strange creative genius he had. He achieved massive commercial success with that album, but it was watered down pop compared to most of his earlier stuff. It was as if someone had taken the soul out of his body and switched it with that of a lesser mortal. But who could have done such a thing? What kind of occult-dabbling, long-haired rock guitarist whose name rhymes with Timmy Sage could have meant him harm?
But that's crazy, right? Everyone knows that in order for someone like, say, Jimmy Page to switch Bowie's soul with that of a lesser mortal, he would have to find a lesser mortal. And where would a rock superstar find a lesser mortal?
Regular readers of this blog will know that I was born and raised in Worcester, a place which has an interesting history. The city can be traced back to 400BC, when a walled village existed on the banks of the River Severn. In the first century, the Romans turned it into a fort and thriving industrial town. In 1651, the English Civil War was decided here when Charles II was defeated at the Battle of Worcester. In the late 20th Century, members of Led Zeppelin are known to have frequented the Lamb and Flag, a pub on the A38, North of the city centre. Around the same time, in the maternity ward of the nearby Royal Infirmary, a plentiful supply of lesser mortals were being born. Also around the same time (June, 1973) David Bowie played one of his last ever Ziggy Stardust gigs at The Gaumont - mere yards from both the Lamb and Flag AND the Royal Infirmary.
See what you can turn up with a bit of digging?
Now, let's fast-forward 30-odd years from the time, post-Scary Monsters and pre-Let's Dance, when the deed might have been done. Meet Rik Suntan, local pub singer, winner of the Pub Idol for two years running and unwitting host of David Bowie's soul. Except it's not unwitting anymore - his manager, Ted Regis, has spilled the beans. He's worked it all out, plus a few other bits and bobs.
Some of you reading this might think I'm nuts. Fair point, but consider this: Bowie believed someone might use his urine to harm him. Jimmy Page believed he could get things done with black magic. Ted Regis believed that David Bowie's stolen soul was inside Rik Suntan, and that Rik Suntan's was in David Bowie. Rik Suntan, even before all this, believed he was destined for pop superstardom. Thousands of lesser mortals, in the opening rounds of the X Factor, American Idol and any other glossy TV talent show, believe they have what it takes to be the next Christina, Justin or Beyoncé.
They're delusional, aren't they? Yeah, 'course they are. And we're all a bit delusional, if you look close enough. Maybe in small ways, and to no great extent, but we've all had unrealistic ideas about ourselves from time to time. We keep a check on those ideas, staying in touch with reality and disappointment. But what happens if you don't? What if you commit everything to that delusion - your life, your future, your soul? My guess is that it leads you down the Stairway to Hell.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
From an interview in the Telegraph:
What do fellow drivers make of his writing? Mills stretches in his Metroline
jacket, pale-eyed, tall and lanky. "They tend to forget. A couple of them have
got my books but I don't know if they've read them. One inspector read my last
book and was quite interested."
This is the number two reason why I am such a fan of Magnus Mills: he has no writer's ego whatsoever. Which probably goes some way to explaining the number one reason: he is simply a great, great writer. Uncluttered, unfussy, unique, seemingly unambitious and yet effortlessly getting at more truth that the "deepest" Booker winner.
His new book - THE MAINTENANCE OF HEADWAY - is out now.
Indie Purcel reviews STAIRWAY TO HELL in Tuesday's Morning Star:
"Stairway To Hell will leave you feeling confused, bemused and amused - a rare
read, which is both disturbing and hilarious. Definitely worth having on
your bookshelf. "
I can only agree... especially when you consider that Stairway To Hell really does have a beautiful spine, with bits of fire on it and at least FOUR different fonts. I can't argue with the other things in the review, either. Although personally I was neither confused nor bemused when I read it. I read it at the same time as I wrote it, actually, and found it pretty compelling stuff. I had to write super-fast just to get to the next bit.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
I am sometimes gripped by a burning question that I have to ask just about everyone. So I decided to indulge it this time... I went ahead and asked a load of great writers what they thought, and most of them were kind enough to give me a response. I present those responses here for you to check out.
Please have a look at all of them. You may find that your favourite ones are spread out all over and not all stacked at the front. Many thanks to all who responded.
You may think this question is a bit basic, but probably that's why I like it:
"When it's going well, what does writing feel like for you?"
I suppose it's like swimming underwater - head down, no coming up for air, getting lost in the depths. But in a good way and with no lingering smell of chlorine.
..... Matt Haig's books include The Last Family in England and children's book The Runaway Troll
Like heroin addicts say...........kissing God
..... Ken Bruen's books include Rilke on Black and The Guards
I don't like to resort to self-quotation. But, in this case, I once tried to answer the same question, and said something that I don't think I can say any better now. The article was called 'Writing' and was published in Poetry Review: 'When the writing is going well (I am avoiding the word inspired) it feels as if someone has taken my brain out and filled my head with a very cheap and chemical-heavy soft drink – orangeade or cherryade; I call it this state "headfizz". The bubbly liquid being shaken up behind my eyes is brightly-coloured, almost day-glo (this brightness is the manifestation of a kind of internal embarrassment); I would assume, if at this moment brainscan were to be taken, the synapses would be seen to be getting themselves in something of a lather.' There's another thing I might add. When the writing is going extremely well, I begin to lose interest in it. I feel like walking away from the desk, because the writing would - it seems - continue even if I weren't there. Not to stop feels very silly. If it's this easy, surely it can't be worth doing.
..... Toby Litt's books include deadkidsongs and Journey into Space
When I'm writing good it's like I've disappeared into a movie, time just stops.
..... Willy Vlautin, author of Motel Life and Northline and lead singer with Richmond Fontaine
When it's going well, writing feels like very slowly and incrementally solving an astronomically complex puzzle, with a symbiotic balance between how hard it is and how rewarding it feels to make progress.
..... Christopher Brookmyre's books include Quite Ugly One Morning and Pandemonium
When it's really going well, it doesn't feel like anything at all, because I am completely absorbed in the writing. But far more frequently I find it's not going as well as that and it feels a lot like work.
..... Jonathan Trigell, author of Boy A and Cham
It's very rare for me to feel that writing's going well - I have a hypercritical eye and a melancholic disposition which doesn't lend itself to satisfaction - good writing always seems to be the goal rather them the accomplishment.
However, occasionally, there's a kind of Zen occurrence which is a bit like a dream of flying or running without effort. Then it seems as if everything you see, read, overhear in a bus queue, every song on your iPod, is informing your thinking - you aren't even thinking any more, you're simply open to messages from the ether - and suddenly, briefly, you know what you're doing. It was all there in your own head and all you had to do was get out of your own way.
I wish it would happen right now because I can't seem to describe the experience without sounding like a root vegetable.
..... Liza Cody's books include Monkey Wrench and Gimme More
It feels like the opening to Toots and the Maytals "54-46 Was My Number"
..... Ray Banks's books include Saturday's Child and Beast of Burden
It feels like runner's high times a ten--a relaxed, euphoric, optimistic state that no drug I've tried can reproduce.
..... Jason Starr's books include Fake I.D and Panic Attack
It feels like I'm watching someone else's movie, complete with soundtrack and cinematography. Most of the time I have an idea of the next scene already in my head the day before, or sometimes I carry it around a week or longer, but when I sit down to actually write it I see it more clearly than I had previously--the difference between storyboards, script pages, and the final real deal on film. I learn how to write that scene, figuring out what in my original vision works and what doesn't, by visualizing.
..... Anthony Neil Smith's books include Psychosomatic and Hogdoggin'
One student I was teaching said: "It's the best feeling in the world!" quickly adding; "Not counting sex of course!" But he's not wrong. How can it be anything else when you play God all day? Not some fakey Christian vengeful God, but you know... God-God? Sometimes people ask me what I've been up to. I usually say: "Oh, you know -- deciding who lives, who dies." But that's more or less it. How can you not love it? It sure beats real life, or whatever they call that thing that lurks outside the front door.
Of course, as the postcard on my wall says in big letters: "Other People Ruin Everything". And that couldn't be truer than for the tortured world of the screenwriter. (But let's not get into what it feels like when it isn't going well... that's a whole 'nother question!)
My favourite part is typing "THE END" and feeling that there is something there, a story, a script, an entity, a thing, which (good, bad or indifferent) didn't exist before. And guess what? It came out of my head. All of it. I like best of all the secrecy and privacy of noodling an idea, as Salvador Dali rolled a rock round inside his mouth, to feel the pleasure when he took it out.
At best, writing is like channelling. I always thought it was bollocks, that thing about characters demanding what they wanted to do, resisting the direction you wanted to push them: but I have to admit it's true, even for a control freak planner and outliner like me, and that can be thrilling; buzzing on too much coffee late at night, beyond tired, beyond the deadline, way beyond the deadline, when the spooks come out and tap your shoulder and the best ideas ping in from the ether or the id... wherever it is, I bow to it because those ones are worth the wait and they don't feel they're from you but that doesn't mean they aren't from you; just that you feel that. And that feels good. (Even if it is bollocks.)
Finally, and many writers will agree with this... the hardest thing to learn is getting out of the way and letting the story happen. And when you feel it has, not because you forged it with hammer and anvil, bleeding and sweating, but it was already there, waiting... that's like lightning in a bottle. Rare. Precious. Illuminating. And not a little weird.
..... Steve Volk, screenwriter (Gothic, Ghostwatch, Afterlife) and author of the short story collection Dark Corners
It feels like I've tapped something in my head and am suddenly peering into a part I didn't know was there---words, pictures I barely recognize. It doesn't happen much, but when it does, well, it's the best thing. It's like dreaming someone else's dream.
..... Megan Abbott's books include The Song is You and Queenpin
When writing's going well for me, it's equal parts exhaustion and exhilaration; it's utter fun; it makes cocaine seem like aspirin (that's glib, I know, but it's true). It makes you feel that you might not be a complete gobshite after all. That your birth has a purpose. That you're the first to set foot on a wonderful and mysterious island full of dangerous but beautiful animals an women and cataracts made of wine.
..... Niall Griffiths' books include Kelly and Victor and Runt
I don't think writing ever goes well. Or hardly ever. It only goes different degrees of badly. And on those extremely rare occasions that it does go well, it feels terrifying and vertiginous, because previous experience tells me I'm either deceiving myself or drunk or, most likely, deceiving myself because drunk. I'm afraid I regard writing in much the same way I think of going for a run or to church - really hard to make the effort to start, fundamentally depressing during ... but I do get a rush when I come out the other side knowing that I've in some way exercised my soul.
..... Patrick Neate's books include Twelve Bar Blues and Jerusalem
I honestly can't remember.
..... Allan Guthrie's books include Kiss Her Goodbye and Slammer
When the writing is going well it feels like I'm passing a kidney stone the size and shape of a spiked mace. When it's not going well, it's worse.
..... Tom Piccirilli's books include A Choir of Ill Children and Shadow Season
For me it's a bit like one of those cgi animations of DNA strands or other biological components locking together, very colourful textured shapes joining up with other shapes in space. It's hyperdimensional and the shapes have vibrations and temperature and so on, and I'm manipulating this environment. The shapes are ideas, obviously. It's part of the synaesthetic thing that I have, and it's a trip. Physically it's a bit like a tornado blowing through the room, and my eyes are absolutely pinned open.
..... Steve Aylett's books include Slaughtermatic and Lint
I wish I could remember. If I think back and try to block out all distracting thoughts, I'm getting a taste of freedom, a sense of exhilaration, empowerment, fun.
..... Nicholas Royle's books include The Matter of the Heart and Antwerp
Thomas Mann wrote A writer is a man for whom writing is more difficult than it is for others. Without wanting to sound precious, writing is something I find difficult. Every day at my desk is a challenge, a potential uphill trek in cement boots and a suit of 15th century armour.
A good day, for me, is one where I find a shortcut around the hill. In other words, when I actually get quite a bit done and I’m pleased with it. It’s a good feeling. A wave of benevolence spreads over me. I'm nice to people. I actually manage to smile. Of course, it never lasts. Happiness in writing is even more fleeting than it is in life. The shortcut simply leads to another hill. A sharper, steeper one where the ground has been greased and spiked and mined. And, this time, there's no shortcut. You have to go the long, hard way. It's either that or your last day job. My benevolence fizzles out. I morph back into a scowling, gimlet-eyed misanthropist and take my first difficult step ... Fuck happiness! Let's suffer all the way to The End.
..... Nick Stone's books include Mr Clarinet and King of Swords
It feels great, Charlie. I love it when it's going well, and it always goes well if I've planned it properly.
..... Daren King's books include Boxy an Star and Manual
When it's going well, I feel settled and at peace.
..... Sean Black is the author of Lockdown
Like I know what I'm doing. Like not only can I finish this book/story/play, but I may well even be able to manage another one after that. Like not only will they not 'find me out', but there's actually nothing to find out - I can do this. It feels like I imagine it might feel for someone working in wood or stone or marble, who really knows what they're doing, who lets the grain tell them what to do and can find the right places to cut, to hew, to crash, to smooth, without too much thought and as much by sense as by sight, letting the piece guide their hands. It feels great. And in truth, if I let it, it also feels scary, because I know it won't, can't last, and that while it's working I need to really use that time, because there will be another day, another hour, when it simply isn't going well at all, and when it feels as if it may never go well again. It's not often that bad, often it just is, just the job - daily, weekly, monthly, keeping going. Sometimes painful, more often ordinary, and sometimes, every now and then, totally joyous. I don't mind the ordinary - it is my work after all. I try not to mind the other two extremes either.
..... Stella Duffy's books include Calendar Girl and The Room of Lost Things
Boys never talk about their feelings, Charlie, you know that.
..... Daren King's books also include Tom Boler and Jim Giraffe
It's a feeling as if I've moved beyond everyday things and I've somehow found a spot where no one else can go, at least not until I finish, and maybe never in the same way I went there. Its sexual and it's meditative at the same time, it's something that makes you feel as if you transcended reality and that you are existing on another and higher plane of existence. For a while.
..... Joe R. Lansdale's books include Freezer Burn and Vanilla Ride
I am an utterly commonplace man. I lack drive and any ability to lift me much beyond the merely average. I can be cowardly and irritable and isolative and proud. I've never been able to commit to much and tend towards a self-indulgent existential futility. It's a real effort to do things. But. When I write; when it takes off: I'm a fucking god.
..... Paul Meloy is the author of the short story collection Islington Crocodiles
I rarely admit this, but for some reason your abrupt question makes me want
to blurt out the truth: when it is going well, I feel like dancing, and I often
do, alone, like Billy Idol.
..... Jonathan Lethem's books include Motherless Brooklyn and The Fortress of Solitude
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Monday, August 03, 2009
...on Thursday this week. What is it? Interviews. With 20+ authors across different genres and forms, some established, some emerging and ALL on top of their game, writing-wise. How do I do this? How can I bring you so many interviews all in one go?
Because I ask each interviewee only one question.
The SAME question.
Does that sound like something you can dig? I sure do hope so, because it's the only way I can conduct interviews. I'm a one-question kind of guy. But I think you will like what I bring you, courtesy of some very generous and honest writers.
So, Thursday. What do we call this new form*? One Shot. Gotta call it something.
*New to me.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Check out today's Guardian for a review of STAIRWAY TO HELL. It's a bit early. THREE WEEKS early, and anyone digging the review will find that there are no copies of the book in shops yet. But hey, I'm not complaining. Shit, I'm celebrating! So if you've found this after reading the review, please check bookshops after August 20th, which is the book's publication date. And you can always pre-order.
Also, just noticed: the book is reviewed under "Science Fiction, fantasy amd horror". I guess that makes me a genre hopper. FWIW, I reckon this book could also be general fiction, black comedy or even crime. I didn't really write it with a genre in mind but everything seems to have seeped in.