Hi. Do people still blog much these days? Evidently not in my case. But I am doing it now!
No book news to report, although there is always a possibility. No advancements in the life and times of Royston Blake though. I hear he very occasionally utters things on Twitter and Facebook, so look him up there if inclined. I can't think who might have shown him how to access those services though.
Stay safe.
I been doing some thinkin' on this Brexit wossname. I hears the Prime Minister went over Froggy Land and gave em what for about how the true Brits voted, and they was mean to him and roughed him up and that, telling him he can take his Brexit and shove it up his fuckin' Shexit. We got a contract with em and we better carry on coughing up, they says, else they'm sending over the Euro top boys to jemmy it out of us. And we're talking vikings, nazis, wop footy hooligans, Ivan Drago and a bunch of vampires and zombies. Well, much as I'm up for a rumble (and if you been harkin' me you knows I can handle vampires and zombies and werewolfs and the like), I got a better plan. See, I been havin' a good old gander at a map. Of the world, like, not just the normal one of the Mangel area including Tuber, East Bloater and the Deblin Hills. And I made a bit of a discovery that changes the whole fuckin' game. A tyre-changer, I hear they calls it.
Britain ain't even in Europe.
See, there's this big river thing flowing between the arse end of Britain and the tit end of Europe. Says here it's sponsored by the English Channel, although I spent a good five minutes flicking and I can't for the life of us find that one on my telly. But what it means, right, is that we don't have to do all this begging shite. Prime Minister Farage or whatever don't have to go cap in arse and apologise and ask em to be nice to us even though we reckons em all cunts. No, all we gotta do is push ourselves out a bit.
I mean, fuckin' literal like.
Get a massive pole, ram it into the side of Paris or whatever and heave-ho, off to the deep water Britain goes. That's the beauty of being an island, see? And if anyone says we ain't got no poles long enough - have a look down the back of the hairy factory. There's some fucking massive ones there even if they'm rusted to fuck. Stingers growing all over em too so wear some gloves.
And why stop there? See, if we makes a couple of massive oars and all we can row ourselves all the way to America. Fuckin' imagine that - Britain becoming one of the United States, along with Texas and, erm... Hey, we could run up them Rocky steps and everything. We could track down Paulie and give him a good shoeing for the way he treated that watch Rocky gave him! I'm talkin' America, where you don't have to wear helmets on motorbikes... where the coppers have all got proper caps and not fuckin' tits on their swedes... where you can gun fuckers down and not spend eight years in Mangel jail for it, like Jason Roper from the dole centre when he shot that burglar in the arse with that shotgun he nicked from that farm out by Barkettle... where...
Hang on, can you get Embassy Regals in America? And what about kebabs?
Fuck it - I ain't riskin' it.
Your mate,
Blakey
'You out tonight?'
'Nah.'
'Why not? Nurses is having a do up the Tadpole. They'll all be in the Shed later.'
'I don't go in the Shed no more.'
'You does.'
'Ain't been in over a year.'
'Bollocks has you not.'
'I ain't. They banned me, remember?'
'What, when you fell on that bird?'
'I never fell on her. Graham Selby pushed me.'
'He was helping you tap off with her, I heard. Eggin' you on like.'
'Oh yeah? That why he tapped off with her himself soon as they kicked me out?'
'That's the way it goes sometimes. And they never banned you.'
'Look, I just ain't going in the Shed again. Plus I got stuff else to do.'
'Like what?'
'Don't matter.'
'Oh aye? You on a date?'
'Shut up, I ain't on a date. Ain't even going out.'
'It's fuckin' Saturday night! How come's you staying in?'
'Eurovision.'
'You shittin' me?'
'No. Me and mam is watching Eurovision. Sarah might and all. Plus her Dave's coming if they loses in the footy. We're having a party.'
'What, four of you?'
'A Eurovision party. It ain't like a normal party. You watches the songs and the results and have a sweepstakes and that.'
'Yeah but Eurovision is shite.'
'That's your opinion.'
'You saying you actually like the songs?'
'Course I do.'
'So you listen to 'em when it ain't Eurovision? Bands from fuckin' Borat-land and that?'
'That ain't the point.'
'Ah, you so admits they'm shite!'
'It ain't about the songs. It's about the whole package, all the different countries and that. I likes all the weird stuff. They got a naked feller this year. With wolves.'
'You're an arse bandit.'
'I ain't. You should see some of the birds on it as well - they'm practically naked and all!'
'Not as naked as one of them nurses tonight, after I gets her in me pit.'
'You wanna know how to tap off with a bird? Talk to her about Eurovision. All birds loves it.'
'Bollocks does they.'
'I ain't lyin'. Tell 'em about the naked feller and the wolves.'
'Hmm...'
'Tell you what, I bet all the good ones is stayin' in tonight anyhow. Or going to Eurovision parties like mine.'
'Four people ain't a party!'
'Sarah said some of her mates might come.'
'Yeah? Like who? That Chloe?'
'Maybe.'
'You shittin' me? If she's coming, I'm comin'.'
'I ain't invited you.'
'You sayin' I can't come?'
'I'm sayin' you just spent five minutes slaggin' off Eurovision. You can't have it both ways.'
'Well fuck you then. Thought you was a mate.'
'I am a mate, but you ain't coming to my Eurovision. That's the way it goes sometimes.'
'Fuck you.'
'Fuck you and all.'
What? That guy who used to write? The dude who missed the entirety of 2015 on his blog after hitting every one of the prior ten years? And you're telling me... what are you telling me? That guy wrote something? And put it out? What is this?
I don't blame you for reacting that way. But it doesn't change the facts... which are these:
It's called LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY AND MONSTERS. It's a novella. It's available for Kindle in all good countries and some shit ones too (as long as the tentacles of Amazon reach them). It's cheap - 99p, 99c or whatever the equivalent is in your preferred currency. It's kind of a new genre for me - alternative history (although you could argue that STAIRWAY TO HELL is also that). It features King Edward VII, A.C. Benson, Edward Elgar and The Old Ones.
Yes, I strayed down an unfamiliar alley when I wrote this one. But that's where my compass took me. Go ahead, Charlie, said the compass. Walk on down that alley. Breathe in the smells, soak up the knocks and spill it all on the page.
Give it a go if you feel so inclined. UK, USA, Can.
(And if you dig it, please write a review.)
It wasn't much of a year anyway so good riddance.
I wonder if anyone still reads this?
Perhaps you're a Mangel fan hoping to find news of a fresh Blakey adventure? Maybe a new fan, wondering what the hell kind of guy writes books like THAT? Either way, I consider myself privileged to have you here, seeing as how I've neglected things somewhat of late. So pull up your stool a while.
What's coming up on the Williams front? It's true - things have been quiet. Some writers keep hacking away relentlessly year after year without a break, keeping that muscle moving in case it stagnates and dies. Me, I'm too lazy for that. Unless there's something urgent to do on the writing front I'll sit on my arse and read the paper. For years on end if that's what it takes. But I haven't been sitting entirely on my arse.
Perched on one buttock is how I'd put it.
With the other I have completed LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY AND MONSTERS, a novella first-drafted a couple of years back and dangled in front of anyone who was looking... then snatched away and hid in a drawer. Truth was I knew something was lacking, so I've clipped it, buffed it and shot it up with testosterone. Then I sucked out the testosterone and pumped in some oestrogen. In other words, I gave the thing an edit. Expect it available for your e-reading device in a couple of weeks. (Announcement here.) I haven't even been arsed to show it to a publisher. Like I said, I'm firing on one buttock right now.
Other than that, I'm alive. I walk around and breathe air and occasionally glimpse beauty and grace amid the darkness. Other times I hear the voice of Royston Blake. I'll share with you when he gets loud enough.
Soz for the radio silence. And blog silence. Basically I have been silent on the radio and the blog, and it's just not right. So I'm sorry, OK? Like I already said. Jesus.
Anyways, some of you may want to follow another blog I am posting to here. I've been doing a fair bit of running lately and it's something I feel inclined to waffle about, so that link is where I do that. Or you could catch the action via @rungatedawn on Twitter, if you are that way inclined.
Other than that, just keep on trucking.
Especially if you are actually a truck driver.
I love taking the dog for a walk at dusk. Bats follow me down the lane, swooping around my head and apparently trying to get my attention. They are delicate little animals, like kits made out of silk and bits of balsa wood, powered by a little clockwork motor. I sometimes wonder if they have been sent out by a reclusive demi-god to tell me something. But what? I can see that they are beautiful. I can see that they are admirable works of engineering. But what are they all about?
Good writing is like that. Failure awaits the writer who sets out knowing exactly what he wants to say. His output does the job and works efficiently. It is conventionally pretty and might turn your head for a while. You might even hail it as a work of genius for a season or two. But in the end it has no charm. You cannot love it.
The writer who sets out with a vague idea and a character to travel with, meanwhile, she can succeed. She has the best chance of getting something up in the air and making it soar forever. It can be a thing of beauty, something you can't take your eyes off. It can possess truth. But it might not be a bat.
It might be a wombat.
I love those wombats. For me, the best kind of novel is one I get to the end of and think, wiping a tear from my eye or calming my beating heart, shit, what was that? I might not know what it was but I know it was something. I know it lives and breathes and has a smell. I know it has slipped some form of truth past my consciousness. It's a truth bomb, waiting to go off at a later date, maybe not even noticed.
Maybe at dusk, taking the dog for a walk along that lane, the wombats swooping around my head.
But not in the Michael Jackson way. In terms of being a tough guy in leather, a weird mullet and a lot of make-up, Jackson is king. (Notice how I say "is"? His legend lives on.) But in terms of staying up with the latest authors, yes, I am bad. The proportion of books I read published in the last five years or so is minuscule. Actually make that forty years.
Does that make me less of a connoisseur if the written word?
Hell no.
I hate to declare this, but books don't get written better as time moves on. Very little that is new and exciting can be discovered in terms of putting words together. Chaucer Nailed it. Shakespeare nailed it. Hardy, Conrad and Poe nailed it. Dickens nailed something, slightly overwritten though it sometimes was. Then there was Hemingway, Chandler, Hammett - they all nailed it in a tough guy kind of way. Thompson, Caldwell, Dick, McCarthy, Bardin, Goodis - they also did some pretty hard nailing of their own. Bringing us up to King, Lansdale and Thornburg, who all did nailing of varying degrees of prolificacy.
Does that make me more of a connoisseur if the written word?
Hell no to that too.
Here is one of the very cool things I was going to tell you about. I was going to wait until it's a fait accompli before telling you, but I just can't. So I have waited until it is a fait semi-accompli. But it's one hell of a fait!
A DEADFOLK film is in pre-production.
You heard it right - a project is afoot to turn Royston Blake into an actual living thing... at least for 90 minutes or so. The project is already quite a ways into development. The screenplay is written (by me), Stuart St Paul to direct and Neil Chordia and Andrew Berg of Eclipse Films producing. Casting is underway. I know what you're thinking: who is going to play the big guy? Believe me, when I know, you'll know.
Hey, it's 2014! And you know what that means, right? Yes, we are in the future. We have actually time-travelled. Finally!
In other news, there will hopefully be two big announcements this year. I'm always doing that, right? I tell you there will be an announcement and it never comes. Well, that's not strictly true. I do eventually tell you the things, I just don't tell you they are the things I told you I was going to tell you. But I will tell you something about each of these things right now, it being not long past the season of goodwill*: one is Mangel-related, the other is non-Mangel-related. Is that useful?
I like short stories. Hey, what a coincidence... I have a new short story out! It is called LOVE WILL TEAR US APART and is a cautionary tale about what happens when zombies and romance get mixed up. Seriously. But there's one catch: it's only available for Kindle. Sorry. I know how much you love paper. But hey, this is the way things are going.
To commemorate this event, please accept a list of my all time top 7 favourite (at time of writing) short stories:
In the Hills, the Cities - Clive Barker
Ostensibly horror on account of its inclusion in Barker's Books of Blood, this one starts as an Eastern Euro weird tale and ends up just blowing your mind. With horror
The Lottery - Shirley Jackson
I think all small communities should read this. Then lay down their stones
The Swimmer - John Cheever
Has there ever been such a brilliant example of starting in one place and ending up somewhere so utterly different? But really, when you think about it, not going anywhere
Savannah River Payday - Erskine Caldwell
No short story has hit me with the savagery of casual violence as much as this one from the master of the Deep South
The Pattern - Ramsey Campbell
Similar to the above by Caldwell, the explosion of violence is both eye-watering and somehow inevitable
City Fishing - Steve Rasnic Tem
Sometimes you just know things are going to end badly. Especially when there is a dead crow flopping around in the footwell of your car
The Last Great Paladin of Idle Conceit - Paul Meloy
Meloy proves himself a virtuoso at taking a real life (dead) character and turning it to his own ends (Lenny Bruce). And simultaneously honouring him
Just read on a blog that someone read one of my books and got lost at the end. In other words, he or she does not know how it ended, after investing all that time in reading it. The blogger also adds that he is sure that this is his fault, not mine.
I beg to differ.
Even though a book could only have ended one way. Even though I believed it to be the perfect ending, foreshadowed in several places (including the first line of the book) and summing up a lot of things about how this protagonist's life has gone. Even though my editor loved that ending, recognised its potential ambiguity and worked with me to make it clearer. Even though [insert excuse here]...
...it is not that blogger's fault.
It is the author's fault, every time.
Every time a reader gets lost at the end of a book. Every time they yawn and put it down, switch on the TV instead. Every time they throw it across the room a little too hard, inadvertently hitting that goldfish bowl and causing the poor fish undue mental trauma while it thrashes helplessly on the chic, exposed floorboards. Every time they read the book, like it enough, put it back on the shelf and immediately forget all about it.
Each time one of these little failures happens it is my fault.
If you are a writer and you don't agree, just think of the way books are these days. This isn't the fifties. We don't have a pulp fiction stand on every intersection of every main street of every city. We don't have half the punters on the train to work with their nose in a book (or if we do, it's the same book). We don't have the written page as the premier format of storytelling. We don't have shit, dear author. Least of all a fair chance of making a living out of this gig.
So what do we have?
One opportunity to grab a reader's attention, every time we are lucky enough to have someone pick up our book.
Use it.
