From past experience, I know that elements of the past few days are going to creep into my writing over time. It’s happened before. The section in Something Needs Bleeding called The Blind Walls came from a trip to Austria, where I ended up getting out the lift on the wrong floor and not realising until I turned a corner that wasn’t on my own floor. A trip to Bury St Edmunds became The Wooden Walls and a Monday night spent in a chain hotel in Bristol became the inspiration for the first section of The Righteous Judges.
Read MoreHere at The Blank Page, we like to try and keep our offerings to a fairly high standard. Sadly, this week, your erstwhile blogger is suffering from a mild existential crisis. He’s currently hiding in the attic and is refusing to come out. It’s been a pretty rough week for him and any attempts to blog about it have led to screaming fits, drinking and drawing on the walls.
Read MoreThinking about releasing something new has got me remembering the first novella I published with Kensington Gore Publishing. The Compressionist wasn’t the first horror story I wrote. No, that was The Low Road, back in the days of invisible self publishing. That was followed by The Narrow Doors, which came from attending a cremation and thinking about those patronising advice books they used to publish for girls decades before. Well, that and a first draft ending that freaked me out. The Compressionist found me wanting to try something different.
Read MoreThe relationship you have with your characters can get pretty fraught at times. Granted, you create them and set them on a path. The thing is, over time, they have a habit of rebelling against your intentions. Especially when you’re putting them through a ghost story.
I’ve recently been challenged by Christine Ardron of the endlessly inventive Predgarians blog to have one of my characters answer some question for her. What can possibly go wrong?
Hi.
This is not going to be a blog. Not as such. For which I apologise. I always like to try and serve up a decent sized portion of my brain to you each week. However, this week, I don’t have it in me. It has been a truly strange week. My gran died and it has left me feeling totally and utterly devastated. Since then, I’ve been living in slow motion world, surrounded by small talk and sulking away for quiet moments. I’ve been feeling numb and it turns out numb is no way to write. You would think writing would offer some escape, but first you need to get past the fog in your head and I’m not there yet.
Storytelling is such a fundamental part of who we are now that I don’t think we could really separate it from our lives. Stories are how we talk to each other. They’re how we relate. They're how we relax, either together or alone. Let’s face it, social media is just one long, never ending story we’re telling to our friends. True, some of the character arcs are pretty vague and there are repeating plot points and bad grammar all over the place, but it’s a story none the less.
Read MoreWhat I’m trying to say is that a really productive writing session hinges on a particularly mercurial lynch pin. It depends on finding that certain kind of flow that comes from precisely not focusing on anything in particular. Instead, you allow yourself to be swept up in your own story. You’re trying to reach a moment where it’s no longer clear who’s steering: you or the story.
Read MoreI think I just spent too many years of my life assuming writing would be the solution to all my problems. I never realised back then how much of writing would be about other things. Selling myself being one of them. I never saw that coming as a kid. I just wanted to write. It felt like a clean and uncomplicated way to live. Writing seemed a way to keep away from the world, whilst engaging in it. I could hide in a pretty decent house, send my stories off for people to read and pretend that everything was A-Okay. Boy, was I wrong.
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