A Day in the Writing Life
I tend to wait until the creative juices are flowing before I even attempt to write. There’s no point trying to force things along, in my opinion; it doesn’t work and ultimately can do more harm than good. I wonder how many writing projects get abandoned halfway through because of frustration? If the evidence on my hard drive is anything to go by, I’d say it’s a fairly common occurrence.
When the time is right and the words are flowing I’ll work all hours of the day and night. I lock myself away in my office, smoke a lot of cigarettes, drink a lot of coffee and growl at anyone who attempts to engage me in conversation. There’s nothing worse than composing a brilliant sentence in your mind, only to lose it to the ether as someone wanders in to tell you some meaningless drivel about something they saw on TV the other day. When I’m writing I need you to stay the fuck away. You have been warned.
I don’t do it to be nasty. You have to understand, I’m in another place; holding the fates of a dozen made up people in my hands; working out how to move them from one situation to another: How they will react? What will they be thinking about? Will the circumstances remind them of another point in their life? What effect will the surrounding environment have upon them? What colour are the curtains? What does the place smell like? It’s impossible to create another world while someone is talking at you.
Of course, there are many different stages to composing a novel, and not all of them involve such deep troughs of concentration and solitude. It’s only really the first draft – the initial explosion of ideas – which requires me to segregate myself from the rest of the planet. I can pass for an almost decent human being during the editing stages, as the creative requirements are not quite so intense.
And not all of the work is done at my computer. A lot is composed in my head in advance, and this will generally involve a lot of pacing back and forth and muttering. One advantage of this method is I can claim to be working at any time – even when I’m lying on the sofa with my eyes closed. Sorry, I can’t go shopping, can’t you see how busy I am? Tee hee hee.
I’m supposed to be working right now. I’m at the planning stages of the sequel to House of Fox, and I really ought to be making some headway. Trouble is, I’ve got so much going on that my concentration span is down to about twenty-five seconds. As previously stated, there’s no point trying to force the issue. When the time is right to put pen to paper I’ll know, and the words will flow like wine once I’m back in that wonderful creative zone.
The House of Fox blurb:
After a drunken night on the town, four friends awake to find themselves in the House of Fox, the ultimate brothel in the universe, where every sordid fantasy becomes reality.
But all is not as it seems.
The House of Fox harbours many dark secrets, and factions are plotting against one another.
The four newcomers must choose their friends carefully and take care not to lose their minds on the thrill ride of perversion that will carry them to the ends of the Earth and beyond.
The Great Voyeur in the Sky is watching . . .
The House of Fox excerpt:
“Jane!” Dylan called from the stage.
She kept her gun trained on Donna a moment longer, relishing the fear that had wiped away that look of smugness, and then turned to face him. “Dylan the Dick.” She readjusted her aim, pointing the muzzle at his crotch. “Soon to be Dylan the Dickless if you give me any trouble.”
He smiled. “I’m sensing you have some anger management issues, young lady.”
Jane did a double take, incredulous he could be quite so dumb. “Oh what a great idea, Dylan: Hey, let’s make jokes at the expense of the lady who has a gun trained on our prize shlong. That’ll certainly prove you aren’t the moron everyone claims you are.”
“Have people been saying I’m a moron?” He rolled his eyes. “Not that old chestnut.”
“It’s a well known fact you have more dong than ding.” She cocked her head to one side. “Which is what got us all wondering – how could someone as retarded as yourself possibly manage to put this little insurrection together? It’s patently obvious you’re merely the puppet, so if you want to spare yourself an eternity of agony, start naming names. Who put you up to this, Dylan?”
“Funnily enough, the person who put me up to it also provided me with this.” He held out his hand to show her a silver device sandwiched in his fist. “If my thumb lets go of this button, a V bomb will take out this entire level and we’ll all spend eternity in agony.”
Jane took a step back and waved away the encroaching militia. Her bravado died pitifully inside her chest. She should have known it was too good to last.
“Looks like the moron stole a march on the Fox Girls.” Dylan waved the silver device in the air. “Guess that makes you pretty stupid, huh?”
“Put it down,” Jane shrieked, raising the muzzle of the gun level with his head.
“Put it down? Okay, I’ll put it down.” Dylan bent forward, making as if to drop the device on the floor.
“Stop!” Jane backed up another step, panic bubbling at the realisation she’d fucked everything up. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“You think so? Do you know what a V bomb is, Jane?” Dylan’s twisted smile mocked her to the core. “It’s a very powerful piece of black witchcraft that essentially turns every vagina within a hundred yard radius into a hydrogen bomb. Your little ginger quim will explode with the force of ten Hiroshimas, blowing you and everyone else within a mile into a billion pieces in the blink of an eye.”
Jane stared at him, trying to work out if he was bullshitting or not.
SJ Smith is a neurotic recluse who lives in North Wales. It has long been his dream to become a full time filth monger.
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