ALL AT ONCE AND ALL THE TIME

So after my 3am epiphany as documented below, I've decided to move (back) to Australia! So that's happening. I'm also going to cram a shitload of different things into this post in a gratuitous 'kitchen sink' mindset. GO ON DO IT!!!!

PART ONE: NEEDS MORE KARL [URBAN]

CHILDREN OF THE CORN: URBAN HARVEST (or COTC3 for those of you who go nuts for abbreviations and numbers) is magnificent. Does it piss on the original Stephen King story? Yes. Does it have the subtlety of a brick? Yes. Does it throw a ton of wonky special effects at your eyeballs? Yes. Does this make it a terrible film only to be enjoyed ironically? NO. Up yours if you thought that's where I was going with this.

Ah, 1995. You gave us a load of awesome rock albums (eg Alice In Chains' debut, White Zombie's Astro-Creep 2000) and, er, NSYNC. You sent me to college to make a load of cool friends. You built a fire under my desire to write by getting hold of a word processor to replace my typewriter (seriously, I used to actually type all my stories). You made sure my local secondhand bookstore had copies of H.P. Lovecraft anthologies. You also gave us Children of the Corn: Urban Harvest. Praise be, indeed.

I hadn't seen this film since it came out on video, back when checking the shelves in Blockbuster was a real thrill ("Wow, they made a sequel to Pet Semetary!" etc) and before the internet ruined all the fun of unexpected discoveries by telling us everything. I remembered two things: that corn is planted in some warehouse setting, and that He Who Walks Behind the Rows is presented in this film as some sort of massive monster. How on earth I forgot the rest of this delirious wonder I don't know. But first a recap for the slow kids at the back:

The small Nebraskan town of Gatlin has a dark history - kids there have a nasty habit of murdering adults in order to appease their 'corn god', He Who Walks Behind the Rows. Eli and Josh are brothers living in a shabby trailer with their alcoholic father beside a sizable corn field. One night, he gets too abusive and so Eli (the younger brother) takes steps to stop him, once and for all. In the corn field. Remember that.

Next thing we know Eli and Josh (who's sweet-natured compared to Eli's pious creepiness) move in with foster parents, until 'the adoption comes through'. Who put them up for adoption? I assume the state. How long have they been waiting for a new family? About a week by the sounds of it. Are the new parents actually relatives? Apparently the brothers don't have any. Remember that.

"How YOU doin'?"

Before long, Josh is starting to fit in with the kids at their new school, but Eli keeps himself apart by continuing to dress and act like an Amish kid. Oh, he's also brought some corn from Gatlin with him and planted it in a small dirt yard. Where? In an abandoned warehouse behind the house. That he enters through a hole in a brick wall that clearly wobbles like cheap cardboard. Although the next shot shows a broken fence, so I don't know how he got in. Unless someone painted the other side of the fence like bricks. Which doesn't make any sense whatsoever.

ANYWAY. Eli starts to build up a little cult faster than you can say "Cor, that was quick!" and things get a bit nasty. In fact, they get a LOT nasty. URBAN HARVEST is pretty ruthless when it comes to killing characters off, and how they die. A few people get ripped apart from vines, and one unlucky sod gets his head and spine ripped off/out as he's still alive. NICE.

Through all this, Josh starts to realise that, sure his little brother's technically his only family left, but he is also a magic-powered nutcase, so he should probably try and stop him. But wait! Eli's adopted! So who are his REAL parents?! I'm going to hazard a guess that NO ONE is the answer, given that he turns into a mutant later on. Unless there was a mutant couple out in Nebraska who decided their son was a bit much for them. Maybe. Who knows?

I'd be tempted to call the monster 'Lovecraftian' but only because it's truly indescribable. Well, I could adequately describe it as 'a lumpy puppet', but that doesn't instill much fear. It's evidently supposed to be some sort of mutant corn...thing. But other than that, I have no idea. Take a look:

What else? Oh yes. To start with, there's the suggestion that the CLEARLY TINY corn 'field' in the warehouse ignores normal rules of time and space, as anyone who steps into it suddenly finds themselves in a massive, real, corn field. However, as the film progresses this starts to feel like a weird mistake, in that subsequent journeys into the 'field' are filmed as if the massive one is supposed to be in the warehouse. It's all a bit confusing. But all part of the charm!

I give CHILDREN OF THE CORN 3 five tins of Green Giant sweetcorn out of seven possible tins of assorted vegetables.

PART TWO: THERE IS NO PART TWO

PART THREE: WHAT IS LOVE? BABY DON'T HURT ME, DON'T HURT ME, NO MORE!

Here's an old PSA I stumbled upon whilst looking for samples to use in a remix I'm currently working on. 

Old PSAs are worth watching for various reasons. The most obvious is that they tend to be unintentionally humourous, providing as they do a snapshot of a time past when values and behaviours were different. However, I find them more fascinating than anything, especially when values etc they espouse aren't too different from things nowadays. This video, for example, looks at marriage and the roles a man and woman play in it. Of course, the woman wasn't often thought of as the main breadwinner back then, but there were incidences where roles would be reversed. 

Also in effect is the idea of love, which of course is timeless and unquantifiable. So then, how can you justify (as the chap says at the start of this film) that 'no one can understand or share the love that they (the couple) do'? You can't. And the idea that 'my love is bigger than your love' is something that's bugged me for a while. Love is special enough anyway, you don't need to try and prove it's better or more real or more important than anyone else's. That's incredibly arrogant and also somewhat insecure. Just enjoy it, for Christ's sake. That sort of shit doesn't happen often enough. Grab any chance you get. I used to be terribly jaded about such things, but there's no point in being like that, in wasting energy on that sort of negativity. "I just want to hold her, and touch her, and kiss her" as a chap says in the film. Of course you do. Don't we all?

PART FOUR: OBLIGATORY BITCH PIMP

"POW! Right in the kisser!"

Come on now, get some dirty industrial rock in your ears. I've sent off a bunch of CDs and am still waiting for reviews, but in the meantime I'm working on a bunch of remixes. You can hear some HERE. You can choke on more mighty Bitch shizzle HERE. You'll also soon be able to witness my fitness on a FREE compilation coming from INTRAVENOUS MAGAZINE, fool! It's all go round here.

PART FIVE: THAT'S NOT HOW YOU SPELL ENCYCOLPEDIA!

What stories are you working on at the moment, Wayne? NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! But if you must know, I'm cracking on with a million of the buggers. One asks the question 'Can we ever escape our destiny?' as a man discovers a dark secret about his family that may or may not mean a predescribed fate worse than death for him. Another is about a chap with the power to stop gods, that I'm very excited about. How do you kill a god, and in fact, if you do, what does that mean? Would religion or things supposedly created by that deity suddenly cease to exist? Would it strengthen the resolve of believers, once they receive undeniable proof that their god DID exist (even though he/she/it is now dead)? And all that cheery jazz.

AND that's about for now, I think. I'm pretty sleepy. I'll leave you with the very thing I'm about to put in my ears as I tell the waking world to go do one ;)

THIS BLOG POST IS ALL ABOUT LOVE (AND HAPPINESS)

It isn't, but the title might hook you in enough to see what on earth I could possibly mention alongside those wonderful things. HINT: death.

*hugs*

My American chum Christina is brilliant and writes about brilliant things, such as the science behind love, which is something we've chatted about. Basically, your body produces oxytocin to make you feel nice. This could be thanks to a kiss, a cuddle, a kind word...etc. But do you need to be in love with someone to feel it? I don't think so. Although a boy/girlfriend may produce such feelings on a more consistent basis, you're quite likely to feel lovely if you're around your BFF or maybe even simply thinking about someone you like. Or, quite possibly (and here's the crux of the matter) by doing something you like. Sex is the obvious 'thing', but if you get your mind out of my pants for a moment I'd like to proposition your brain with this startling revelation: I'm talking about true, unadulterated passion here. Pure enjoyment. Think about what it is YOU enjoy most, that doesn't involve physical contact with another human. Gardening? Walks in the country? There's no right or wrong answer. Mine, to no one's surprise, is WRITING. Writing stories, writing music...as long as I'm creating, I'm happy as a pig in poop.

Now, here's the thing. I'm sure pretty much everyone on the face of the planet is enamored with the idea of success. I like people saying nice things about my stories, and at the moment I'm pushing my music, and getting some nice things said about this, too. Praise is ace. Praise might as well be the street name for oxytocin. But I've been giving a lot of thought to what I love, lately. A LOT of thought, and the upshot is that I can do what I love, what gives me pleasure and the warm fuzzies, anywhere. Literally anywhere. I could write on the moon if I had a spacesuit. And a rocket. Or very tightly-coiled trampoline to bounce on. This has proven to be an extremely liberating thought.

I was in a serious relationship a few years ago, back when I was, frankly, directionless. I had my love of music, was in a few bands, had started writing stories, but had a severe lack of focus. I was with an attractive lass, so was getting my fix of oxytocin, but there was something missing. I'm still reluctant to qualify it as 'happiness' as a) I'm always happy - there's no point wasting energy being grumpy, and b) I'm sure I was happy, since I was doing the things I loved. But there was no success. I wasn't successful at anything I was doing. The bands were enjoyable but we were hardly selling out gigs. I'd lost my job and was being forced (sorry, but I was) into taking some godawful office job (I cannot think of anything more soul-destroying for a creative than to be stuck behind a desk). Turns out I wasn't actually that good at being a boyfriend, either (I didn't do anything shady, just took certain things for granted, I think). Anyway, it all fell apart and I came back home (as mentioned in my previous post).

This is the scene that greeted me upon my return to Scunthorpe.

I'd said, many many many times, to my girlfriend that coming back to Scunthorpe would be a "career kiss of death" as there's nothing here for someone like me. I was, of course, hilariously wrong. I now work in an art gallery, and on a daily basis engage with kids to make things. It is excellent. I also run an arts event/workshop business with my BFF. Which brings me back to the start, and the idea that you don't necessarily have to be sleeping with a person to get that sweet, sweet taste of oxytocin. We've (my bestie and I) often talked about how it's deeply ironic we both came back to Scunthorpe under similar circumstances, and with the firm belief that there's nothing here for us. She's like a little sister to me, and has been a defining presence in my recent past, basically as an extremely strong force of support, about a great many things. I could easily, and happily, write a million words about why she's ace, about why many of my friends are top people, but that's implied by the fact they're my friends, so I'll comfortably move on ;)

So I have now found success. Success is liberating. Success tells you that, now you've achieved something, you can achieve anything. If there's a will, there's a way. If you have a clear intention to accomplish something, then by god you'll do it. The biggest barrier to success is your own mind, if you'll forgive me for sounding like a life coach. My parents have taught me many things, but the best advice they've ever given me is "Give anything a go". Don't be scared of failure; embrace it and learn from it.

What's so liberating about realising, truly realising, that I can do what I love anywhere? The answer's in the question. I can go anywhere. I'm no longer tied to one location. If I can start my own business out of thin air then I can feasibly do the same thing again and again, anywhere there's a potential niche. Or find a niche and exploit it, like any good business haha I no longer feel the need to stay still. I'm partly inspired by my younger brother moving back to Australia and getting the life he's always deserved, partly by meeting awesome people like Christina who travel loads, or consciously make plans they fully intend to follow through on, partly by the cold hard fact that things have to change. I do not like change, and don't always handle it very well, but I accept it's a part of life. What we can do is shape that change to suit our needs, and in this respect I'd like to shape change to get more delicious oxytocin. I'm just not sure yet how...The future is yet unwritten. It is what we say it is. With any luck :)

And so you know I wasn't lying about this blog post also involving death:

YOU CAN DRINK YOUR WEAK LEMON DRINK NOW, OR SAVE IT FOR LATER

Here's a fantastic article by Brain Keene in which he succinctly states

"A professional writer spends more time writing than they do talking about writing."

He also discusses how real life impacts on writing, and what's really important in terms of being a professional writer and a "hobbyist". If you've got a spare ten minutes, give it a good read. I've mentioned many times before (including at the start of my last post) about how life can, and will, get in the way of my own writing. It's kind of irritating, but ultimately there are more important things to worry about than whether I can write 500 or 5000 words in a day. What I would like to talk about today is Mr Keene's quote.

I know people (naming no names) who can, and will, talk about (their) writing until the cows come home. What ideas they've come up, what plots they've made a note of, what the grand scheme is in terms of a main character's continuing adventures past the initial novel...and so on. The only thing is, these people have never done anything. Maybe they've written a few chapters, or an outline, but that's a world away from writing a complete story and then selling it to a publisher. Talking about writing does not make you a writer, the same way talking about starting an amazing band does not make you a rock star.

I know a few too many people who are full of big ideas but no will to make them happen. Don't misunderstand me - there is absolutely nothing wrong with having dreams and aspirations, or talking about those things. The difference is in when a person talks about something with the certainty of accomplishing it, when they don't possess the wherewithal to actually do anything. Simply put, don't tell people you're going to do something if you have no intention of doing it. We all fall into this trap from time to time (usually because life gets in the way) but once you recognize the pattern, why not take steps to avoid or even prevent it? I think the answer to this is, unfortunately, some people are so used to the idea of talking big potatoes that they are unable to see that they're repeating old behaviour and that, until they break free from this routine, they'll forever be small fry.

I made a deal with myself a few years ago to refrain from telling people I'm going to do something until there is an extremely strong chance of that thing actually happening. Which brings me back to writing, specifically. I've always enjoyed writing - I used to fill exercise books with stories when I was 6, used to enjoy writing stories at school when I was 10, used to spend every Sunday afternoon writing when I was a teen...I asked for a typewriter for my birthday when I was around 13, and to my eternal gratitude, my parents got me one. It was a nice big chunky grey Smith Corona model. I would write at the kitchen table in-between painting my Warhammer undead army, as my mum cooked tea. Then, when I was 15 my dad managed to swap my typewriter for a Brother word processor. It was a huge thing, and had a little screen that displayed TWO WHOLE LINES of text. The fact I could now write and save and edit stories on/within one machine, rather than type, correct, re-type, was brilliant. I think my dad didn't just improve my writing life when he got that Brother, but saved several rainforests from being turned into paper for my efforts.

I let my writing slip during my late teens and most of university as (yes, you guessed it) life got in the way. But it's okay - I had the chance to indulge my other two passions: music and film. Then, in around 2005, maybe 2006, I was living on my own for the first time ever. I couldn't get a TV signal, so I steadily worked my way through my entire VHS collection. I also, and I can't remember quite what sparked it, decided to crack back on with my writing, properly. I spent several hours a night working on a novel (which is currently floating about). Once I'd finished it, some friends read it and gave their honest opinions. I reworked it. I sent it off. By the time I received my very first letter back about it, I was living with my friend Katy. I showed her the envelope and said to her "This'll be my very first rejection." I opened it, started reading it, and my brain exploded.

I'd sent fifty pages worth to Anthony Knott, at Bloody Books (they'd recently published Joseph D'lacey's debut novel). He replied with a lovely letter saying he found it "original, unusual and extremely well-written" which as you can imagine, for the first professional response/critique of my writing, was INCREDIBLE. I sent him the full manuscript, and we then held an email conversation for a while as he waited to hear from his boss what he thought. SPOILER he didn't like it as much as Anthony, so it didn't get published. But this was okay. Better than okay. I had received an unbelievable boost to my self-esteem and knew - knew - I wasn't wasting my time.

So, I ended up back in Scunthorpe in 2009. This was, for various reasons, the worst time in my life. BUT, I made use of my ridiculous amounts of free time to write, write write. I started getting published, first in free zines and online, then in paid anthologies. I had, by all accounts, a pretty mental hit rate for a new writer; typically getting two acceptances a month, for over a year. First token payments, then semi-pro rates. Then, thanks to a steadily growing network of super supportive writers, I ended up in the M is for Monster anthology, alongside top notch writers such as Simon Kurt Unsworth and John Palisano. From this, I received an invite to write a story for Phobophobia, which also features Simon, as well as Adrian Chamberlin and Jonathan Green. I attended my very first book signing, in London, and signed books for people who had never heard of me haha

I was suitably over the moon to be a part of this, and it was THE best night of my life. If I have kids, I can't promise they'll take this mantle - sorry, future-wife-who-I-haven't-met-yet. JOKING. Make babies with me, whoever you are.

Jonathan and Adrian took part in the signing, too, and they (as well as the other writers, such as Greg James) were really nice and friendly. I had a chat with Jonathan, in which I (probably acting like a starstruck spaz) blurted the fact I couldn't believe my luck, that someone at my level was involved in something with writers of Jonathan's calibre. He, basically, told me not to be daft, that (and here's the thing) if I was deemed good enough to be in a book with writers who class themselves as professionals, or are certainly seen as professionals, then surely that means I must be a professional too? TOO and indeed SHAY.

"A professional writer spends more time writing than they do talking about writing."

So according to Brian Keene and Jonathan Green, I am a professional writer. This is a very nice thought. I rarely (in fact don't think I ever) initiate a conversation about my writing, though I am of course very happy to talk about it HINT HINT. However, I don't think I can comfortably think of myself as one until I have sold something at a pro-rate level. But that's just me ;)