Six Months On

Testing, testing. Is this thing working? It’s been a while. I thought I’d fire up the old blog-o-matic 5000 and send out a quick message in a bottle. Let you all know what’s been going on.

Back in June, I’d wrapped up working on a project that’d been an absolute joy to work on - a ten part mini series for the podcast Victoria’s Lift, along with the novella version, ready for release once the series finishes. It all sort of felt like a swan song for me. I’d not really written anything you could loosely term horror in a while and, as much as Victoria’s story had featured moments of nightmare, it felt closer to fantasy to me. There was also something in the act of writing it which made me believe I was ready to tackle a novel length story again.

That’s why I stopped hunting for horror submissions and dusted off an old idea I’d been working on before I’d written my 2nd novel Fluff and I’d gone back to briefly during the furlough days. It’s a distinctly science fiction flavoured story, which deals with people’s perception of time and the addictive nature of nostalgia. There are a few concepts in it which I’ve loved since I first came up with them and there are a couple of characters who are so much fun to write. So I opened a new folder on my laptop and set off to explore this new story, with any need to write horror out of my veins, certain this was the right time to make a change like this.

Turns out I was wrong.

Not that I realised it straight away. Oh no. For the first few months, I had a lot of fun getting this idea into some sort of new shape. I discovered whole new characters, new worlds and startling twists. Some of it fit together so neatly that I started to believe I was onto something really special. I was convinced I’d found a neat little branch of the tree all for myself. I didn’t worry about how long it was taking to get the idea to work. Well, not at first, anyway.

Now, however, the journey looks a little different. The story has been through around 7 drafts of alterations, perspective changes and restructuring. The lead character has changed gender, shifted in age and they weren’t even human for a time. At one point, it nearly became the 2nd book in a series and, for a while, it started to sound a lot like Douglas Adams cosplay. (You should’ve seen how many footnotes I had ready for that damned draft.) And that’s not forgetting the week I spent obsessing over the plot of Halo Jones.

Last Friday, as I started the 7th draft for what felt like the 100th time, I realised I had to face facts. I’d completely pulled the idea to pieces. There wasn’t a loose thread left which didn’t bore me to tears. There wasn’t a plot point ahead of me which I hadn’t already trampled into the ground. Worse than that, there still wasn’t an ending that I was entirely happy with. I had to admit defeat. I’d fought with it. I’d run with it I’d fumbled it and now, frustratingly, I’d gotten myself completely turned around it in. The minute I caught myself wondering if a narrative style from one of my favourite shows would work for the new draft, I knew it’d come tumbling off the rails.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m determined this isn’t going to be the end for this idea. There’s something really interesting buried at the heart of it and I know I’m going to find it one day - this just isn’t the day. I also know that going over and over it isn’t going to be what resuscitates it. I need some time away from it. I need some distance to clear my head.

So, I’ve saved everything from the past 6 months into one of the tatty archive folders where I keep all my sleeping ideas and I’m going to focus on something shorter and stranger for a while. Something with a lot less genre because, as it turns out, the minute I introduce a flying car or some form of futuristic communication device, I can’t take myself seriously. That’s strangely what kept tripping me up with any horror idea I was trying to write last year as well. It turns out that I really can’t commit to a genre cliché, no matter how structurally important they can be. It just makes me feel like I’m lying to myself. Or that I’ve put on a coat that’s 2 sizes too big for me. It also feels like a giant, flashing neon sign which says ‘CLUE’.

Anyway, as a tribute to the last few months and the work that’s waiting ahead of me when I go back to this idea, I thought I’d share a little piece of it here. It’s just a taster. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll get to read a lot more of it.

The following is a short except from a section of the story that’s currently called ‘Their Digestible Yesterdays’:

He checks over my reflex and pupil responses, pricks my fingertip with a needle and takes a small sample of my light blue blood. The sample is run through his diagnostic deck and we talk while it works away. He asks me some basic questions. Set routines. Coding responses that come from my memory like echoes to his call. Then he asks me about my favourite pastimes and previous tenants and the blood sample comes past clean.

“Just the last bit to go,” my doctor tells me.

“Okay.”

“I promise I’ll try and keep it quick.”

“Thank you.”

I do my best not to tense as he stands behind me and takes my wig off. I’m wearing one of my favourites today. The short one. The white one. It felt right after discovering a death in the Lock. Normally, in my rooms, I will go without a wig or I will opt for one of the blonde wigs. My original pattern was primarily blonde.

Realistically, I could’ve removed it when I stripped, only something always stops me from taking a wig off until it’s absolutely necessary in front of company. It’s a strange quirk in our design that Synth’s are not permitted to grow hair or nails. Especially when you consider the Corporation which allows us to exist also makes money from selling us our wigs and fake nails to help us feel as if we fit in around people.

Cold, sharp tools touch against my scalp before they cut just deep enough to expose the jointing seal. I feel the cover prised a little before it lifts. There’s no pain, only a level of gathering physical unease. There can be no doubting what I am at a time like this. My every response to his requests have been the same. Telling me strip, telling me to sit. Whenever a landlady is assigned a new doctor, we meet them for a coding and clearance session. Humans talk about the link as a bond or a level of parental trust. I suppose that sort of thinking makes it easier for them to swallow their power over us. It certainly implies a trust that not all of us experience.

As my cranial cap comes clear, I shiver, unsure if that’s a programmed response. You could hardly call it natural. My fingers twitch a little against my lap. Cables are connected to my corresponding inlets. The doctor’s programmes enter me like a pack of snakes.

The discomfort is so fresh that it could be the first time. As always, it will leave ghosts under my skin for the rest of the day. Fingerprints of my contained distress.

“Now,” the doctor says. “Tell me about the death of Freddie McGregor.”