Peripheral Beasts

We take in so much information on a daily basis. It makes sense that certain things will just slide past our attention after we’ve seen them enough times. Building sites, shops, queues at bus stops. They’re in our world every single day. They become white noise, background details. Scenery. I had a moment yesterday when I noticed something on my wife’s desk at work that I had completely been looking through for months. Don’t worry, it wasn’t divorce paperwork.

You know I work in the same office as Sam, right? I can’t remember if I’ve ever mentioned that before. I must have. I’ve talked about pretty much everything else. How bad would it be if I’d taken the time to write a purposefully franchise ending fourth Back to the Future movie but I hadn’t talked about the woman I love? Then again, that is exactly the sort of scraggy faux pas my brain could easily pull off.

So, yes, Sam works in the same office as me. For a few years, we worked in the same building but in different departments. Then I moved into her department, mainly so I could get away from a job that had me literally screaming in my sleep. We worked one desk apart for a while, which really did feel like our manager was trying to see if we would turn on each other. These days we work a few desks apart. Which, for the record, does not mean we turned on each other.

Now, before people start to think I’ve used the word ‘beast’ in the title of a blog about my wife, let’s get back on track. Sam has a few bits and pieces stuck around her desk, as we all do. Mine, in case you’re curious, features a Wile E Coyote picture, a Rise of the Planet of the Apes poster and a jokey little piece of Cylon inspirational art. I also have an old GameCube controller tucked under a monitor, which has the habit of really confusing any new members of our IT department.

Sam, amongst other things, has a badge stuck to one of her monitors. I see it everyday, but I’d stopped seeing properly until yesterday. It was just set decoration until it caught my eye again. It’s a white badge with two pink rabbit ears on it. She made a bunch of them for the Fluff launch and we gave them away with the copies bought on the night, along with a bookmark and some other goodies. I’d totally forgotten it was there. Which made me realise how easily I let a story go once it’s out in the world.

Fluff has been out for over a year now. The evil little pink rabbit turned one back in May and I don’t really hear much about the little guy now. A friend recently finished reading the book, but I only found out about it when she told me Amazon wouldn’t let her post a review because we’d both bought something out of each other’s wish lists previously. Which was yet another kick in the writer’s teeth for me. Cheers, Amazon. Have fun buying Space.

I wonder if every writer has this same habit. I wonder if we all spend our time working on a story and then cut the apron strings once it’s found a home. I can spend a month or two working on a short story, but once it’s gone I never really look back to check on it or dwell over changes I wish I’d made. I suppose it helps that I’ve been fairly lucky this year. Most of the stories I’ve sent off were requested, so there was little chance of rejection. Still, once they’re in my Sent folder, I leave them to their own devices.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll help promote them. If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll certainly know about that. But I don’t really think about their success too much. This year I’m really trying to stop craving feedback after the fact. Reviews are a little like gold dust for me and I can’t bring myself to ask for them. It feels a little too close to begging A bit too close to the cry of all podcasts now, big or small: five star reviews, please.

If people like a story I’ve written, that’s great. If they want to tell other people about it, well, that’s even better. I’m just trying to keep in mind that the first impulse I had to write stories did not come from wanting to be popular or rich. It was to have fun. Which I’ve certainly had this year.

In my own humble opinion, I’ve written some of my best work this year. Winter Wings for the Shadows at the Door podcast. The Man in Number 23 for The Wicked Library. Half the Mirage is Mirror for The Lift. Terminus and The Cleanest Cut for The Ghastling. The View from the 12th Floor, for Sanitarium.

For the record, View from the 12th Floor features one of my favourite openings to a story I’ve ever written. It took a lot of drafts, but that description of London ended up better than I ever could’ve hoped.

I’ve also just had a story appear onstage in The Aurora Theatre in Georgia, thanks to The Wicked Library. Who’ve also included a story of mine in their first published anthology. A story which has been rattling around in my head for a good few years, waiting for a place to land. Which is exactly the point. It’s out there now. Just like my novel about a man driven mad by the presence of a little pink rabbit toy. Both of them free to set up a home in someone’s head, wherever they’re welcome. Meanwhile, I’ve got another novel to try and figure out. Which is politely way of saying ‘bang my tired brain against the insides of my skull’.

It can be a strange life when you’ve accidentally become a horror writer. I never set out to scare people, but it’s fun. Fun to write something and seed the terror through it. Fun to stand in front of room full of people and read out a story or two sometimes, just to hear them react. Still, once the stories are out there, they do fade into the background for me. Which is no comment on them. I just move onto whatever’s next. Whether someone’s asked for a story or there’s a story it’s stamping feet and demanding to be told.

I’m pretty sure, when I was younger, I would’ve thought every story stays with its writer, fresh and perfect in their head. Always waiting to be recounted, word for word if necessary. Always another trophy in the cabinet. Instead it seems that once the work is over, you release your writing into the wild and move on, hoping other people will pick it up and like what you woven out of your brain. Sometimes they might even make badges for it.