Daniel Clausen's Blog - Posts Tagged "harry-whitewolf"
A Taste of ReejecttIIon -- FARQUHAR THE PHOENIX
(From Daniel -- enjoy this guest post by my friend and co-author of the upcoming book ReejectIIon - a number 2)
Finding an idea for a story isn’t too difficult. Finding a really good story idea, however, is harder than a skinhead Rottweiler from Glasgow named Reggie Kray wielding a machete.
Some ideas just come, and as much as they plead with me to be written, they seem unable to evolve beyond that simple germ of an idea. So it is with this short piece entitled Farquhar the Phoenix, which was rejected from the final edit of the upcoming book ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, the sequel to that marvellous writer and all-round good bloke Daniel Clausen’s Reejecttion – which you can read for absolutely free here:
http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...
(Hell, if I can write for a sequel when I had nothing to do with the original, I might make it as a Hollywood script writer yet!)
The short tale of Farquhar the Phoenix may not have made the cut for ReejecttIIon, but as is the habit of that particular breed of birds, it has now risen from the dead…
FARQUHAR THE PHOENIX
by Harry Whitewolf
“Oi mate! Are you a phoenix?” a spotty adolescent yelled aggressively.
“Er… no,” lied Farquhar the phoenix, as he began to quicken his step down the dark side street and ignore the bunch of youngsters who were striding towards him. “I’m a pigeon,” he said, pulling his coat collar up.
“He is!” said one of the youths. “He’s a phoenix all right!” And they began to circle Farquhar.
“Oh, won’t you just leave me alone?” Farquhar shouted. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for an old bird like me to survive in such a depressingly divisive and aggravating modern world of bigotry?”
As Farquhar said those words, one of the kids lunged forwards with a rather large knife. He stuck it deep into Farquhar’s jugular and blood cartoonly spluttered out, as the other kids all jeered and cheered their mate on. The phoenix instantly died and dispersed into ash before WHOOSH! – great flames quickly rose up and Farquhar came back to life; as was the habit of phoenices.
The teenager who had stabbed Farquhar leant in to the last of the flames with a cigarette. “Thanks mate,” he said. “I needed a light.”
“Do you mind?” asked Farquhar, very unhappily. The kids just laughed, shouted and called him names before running off.
“Oh… dear….” sighed Farquhar. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” It was the fourth time he’d been killed this week and Farquhar was fed up with it. There would always be some joker who would spot that Farquhar was a phoenix and spontaneously decide to murder him. Just for a laugh. There were plenty of YouTube videos showing Farquhar being shot, kicked, drowned, trampled on, decapitated, exploded… and any number of other ways you can kill a bird. All done to just see the phoenix rise from the dead in flames of glory; for damn entertainment. “Why can’t people just leave me alone?” asked Farquhar. “I’m not some goddamn toy!” He was fed up. Indeed, Farquhar was more than fed up. In fact, he was way past clinical depression. Actually, Farquhar the phoenix was completely suicidal.
*
As Farquhar walked down the street, he lit up a cigarette of his own. Some old woman ambled past saying, “You shouldn’t smoke you know! It’s bad for your health.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” replied Farquhar, before crossing the road and disappearing into the corner shop to buy two bottles of whisky and a twelve pack of beer that would accompany his solitary evening alone in his smelly basement flat. Like every night.
Farquhar had had enough of living. He was stuck. Completely trapped. There was no way out.
So if you ever think you’ve had it bad, remember it could be worse. You could be a suicidal phoenix.
Finding an idea for a story isn’t too difficult. Finding a really good story idea, however, is harder than a skinhead Rottweiler from Glasgow named Reggie Kray wielding a machete.
Some ideas just come, and as much as they plead with me to be written, they seem unable to evolve beyond that simple germ of an idea. So it is with this short piece entitled Farquhar the Phoenix, which was rejected from the final edit of the upcoming book ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, the sequel to that marvellous writer and all-round good bloke Daniel Clausen’s Reejecttion – which you can read for absolutely free here:
http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...
(Hell, if I can write for a sequel when I had nothing to do with the original, I might make it as a Hollywood script writer yet!)
The short tale of Farquhar the Phoenix may not have made the cut for ReejecttIIon, but as is the habit of that particular breed of birds, it has now risen from the dead…
FARQUHAR THE PHOENIX
by Harry Whitewolf
“Oi mate! Are you a phoenix?” a spotty adolescent yelled aggressively.
“Er… no,” lied Farquhar the phoenix, as he began to quicken his step down the dark side street and ignore the bunch of youngsters who were striding towards him. “I’m a pigeon,” he said, pulling his coat collar up.
“He is!” said one of the youths. “He’s a phoenix all right!” And they began to circle Farquhar.
“Oh, won’t you just leave me alone?” Farquhar shouted. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for an old bird like me to survive in such a depressingly divisive and aggravating modern world of bigotry?”
As Farquhar said those words, one of the kids lunged forwards with a rather large knife. He stuck it deep into Farquhar’s jugular and blood cartoonly spluttered out, as the other kids all jeered and cheered their mate on. The phoenix instantly died and dispersed into ash before WHOOSH! – great flames quickly rose up and Farquhar came back to life; as was the habit of phoenices.
The teenager who had stabbed Farquhar leant in to the last of the flames with a cigarette. “Thanks mate,” he said. “I needed a light.”
“Do you mind?” asked Farquhar, very unhappily. The kids just laughed, shouted and called him names before running off.
“Oh… dear….” sighed Farquhar. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” It was the fourth time he’d been killed this week and Farquhar was fed up with it. There would always be some joker who would spot that Farquhar was a phoenix and spontaneously decide to murder him. Just for a laugh. There were plenty of YouTube videos showing Farquhar being shot, kicked, drowned, trampled on, decapitated, exploded… and any number of other ways you can kill a bird. All done to just see the phoenix rise from the dead in flames of glory; for damn entertainment. “Why can’t people just leave me alone?” asked Farquhar. “I’m not some goddamn toy!” He was fed up. Indeed, Farquhar was more than fed up. In fact, he was way past clinical depression. Actually, Farquhar the phoenix was completely suicidal.
*
As Farquhar walked down the street, he lit up a cigarette of his own. Some old woman ambled past saying, “You shouldn’t smoke you know! It’s bad for your health.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” replied Farquhar, before crossing the road and disappearing into the corner shop to buy two bottles of whisky and a twelve pack of beer that would accompany his solitary evening alone in his smelly basement flat. Like every night.
Farquhar had had enough of living. He was stuck. Completely trapped. There was no way out.
So if you ever think you’ve had it bad, remember it could be worse. You could be a suicidal phoenix.
Politics Wins! A Story Cut from ReejecttIIon for Political Reasons
This story just got cut from “ReejecttIIon - A number 2.”
Still, writing about politics has got me in the mood to “stump” for my book. I feel like a good stump speech should be like a nascar race -- lots of drinking and people going around in circles. Thus, I submit this reejectted story for all the middle class Americans who just want politicians to be sensible again -- to solve their problems the way our forefathers did, by sitting on top of monster trucks with javelins and trying to knock each other off or impale each other. It’s like ol’ Frank used to say, you can’t make meatballs without squeezing a bull’s testicles, and wherever you find an omelet, it’s like trying to walk on eggshells.
Well, I’m not a man trying to walk on eggshells. But I do have the courage to squeeze a bull’s ball if it means getting some shit done, especially a fine meatball spaghetti. Which is exactly what this country is about -- making shit! Omelets, meatballs, or synthetic bull’s testicles (none of mine are imported from China!)
What it all comes down to is this -- you should read the first “Reejecttion” book here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t... or here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... -- if you love your country or you have nothing to do with the next hour of your life.
As for the sequel -- “ReejecttIIon - a number 2” for president 2016!
The Untimely Demise of Frank Hand
(a political memoir by Frank Hand’s Mustache)
Long after the mustache had gone out of fashion, he had a big, thick, dirty one.
Legend had it that his mustache was cloned from hair plucked from Tom Selleck’s mustache which had been genetically modified to give off the impression of ruggedness.
He wore T-shirts and jeans. He prefaced everything with, “I don’t want to make a political statement, but...”
He made jokes that weren’t quite jokes. And he talked with an accent that made him sound slightly Mexican. But he wasn’t Mexican. Not one bit.
He was dirty. None of his advisers knew how he got that coat of dirt. His critics claimed that he would coat himself with special dirt imported from the Egyptian desert. They also claimed that he was an East Coast liberal that had been coached to act the way he did by a Berkeley-educated anthropologist.
Frank Hand, when accused of these things by a conservative radio host, stroked his mustache and said, “The East Coast. I have a cousin up there who wants to get into the radio business. You oughta help a feller out.”
Not sure what Frank was talking about, the radio host stopped in his tracks a full five seconds. Five seconds of dead air. Legend has it that the radio host’s head exploded right there on the spot.
Legend also has it that when Frank Hand saw the mess of the exploded head, he said, “Somebody oughta do something about that.”
Confused about how to handle Frank Hand, the conservatives employed two candidates, the smartest conservative they could find, and an oil baron who employed the slogan, “I’ll drill that economy so hard, she’ll scream jobs!”
To which Frank Hand replied, “Sure, you guys are gonna do that, because that’s what you do. But what about the other guys?”
And finally, after ten years in office, when people had a general sense that things were improving for some at least, a new conservative opponent finally said on national television, “Frank Hand is a demon.”
And then, Frank finally made his first political faux pas when he said, not really paying attention to what had been said, “Somebody ought to do something about that.”
That was the end of Frank.
Legend has it his mustache moved on and flourished as a city councilman somewhere in Arkansas.
Still, writing about politics has got me in the mood to “stump” for my book. I feel like a good stump speech should be like a nascar race -- lots of drinking and people going around in circles. Thus, I submit this reejectted story for all the middle class Americans who just want politicians to be sensible again -- to solve their problems the way our forefathers did, by sitting on top of monster trucks with javelins and trying to knock each other off or impale each other. It’s like ol’ Frank used to say, you can’t make meatballs without squeezing a bull’s testicles, and wherever you find an omelet, it’s like trying to walk on eggshells.
Well, I’m not a man trying to walk on eggshells. But I do have the courage to squeeze a bull’s ball if it means getting some shit done, especially a fine meatball spaghetti. Which is exactly what this country is about -- making shit! Omelets, meatballs, or synthetic bull’s testicles (none of mine are imported from China!)
What it all comes down to is this -- you should read the first “Reejecttion” book here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t... or here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... -- if you love your country or you have nothing to do with the next hour of your life.
As for the sequel -- “ReejecttIIon - a number 2” for president 2016!
The Untimely Demise of Frank Hand
(a political memoir by Frank Hand’s Mustache)
Long after the mustache had gone out of fashion, he had a big, thick, dirty one.
Legend had it that his mustache was cloned from hair plucked from Tom Selleck’s mustache which had been genetically modified to give off the impression of ruggedness.
He wore T-shirts and jeans. He prefaced everything with, “I don’t want to make a political statement, but...”
He made jokes that weren’t quite jokes. And he talked with an accent that made him sound slightly Mexican. But he wasn’t Mexican. Not one bit.
He was dirty. None of his advisers knew how he got that coat of dirt. His critics claimed that he would coat himself with special dirt imported from the Egyptian desert. They also claimed that he was an East Coast liberal that had been coached to act the way he did by a Berkeley-educated anthropologist.
Frank Hand, when accused of these things by a conservative radio host, stroked his mustache and said, “The East Coast. I have a cousin up there who wants to get into the radio business. You oughta help a feller out.”
Not sure what Frank was talking about, the radio host stopped in his tracks a full five seconds. Five seconds of dead air. Legend has it that the radio host’s head exploded right there on the spot.
Legend also has it that when Frank Hand saw the mess of the exploded head, he said, “Somebody oughta do something about that.”
Confused about how to handle Frank Hand, the conservatives employed two candidates, the smartest conservative they could find, and an oil baron who employed the slogan, “I’ll drill that economy so hard, she’ll scream jobs!”
To which Frank Hand replied, “Sure, you guys are gonna do that, because that’s what you do. But what about the other guys?”
And finally, after ten years in office, when people had a general sense that things were improving for some at least, a new conservative opponent finally said on national television, “Frank Hand is a demon.”
And then, Frank finally made his first political faux pas when he said, not really paying attention to what had been said, “Somebody ought to do something about that.”
That was the end of Frank.
Legend has it his mustache moved on and flourished as a city councilman somewhere in Arkansas.
Guest Post - Clone Co. (from ReejecttIIon - a Number 2)
[This is a guest post by Harry Whitewolf, my co-author for ReejectIIon - Number 2.]
The good thing about cutting pieces from ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, my upcoming collaborative book with author Daniel Clausen, is that you get to read them here for free. Here’s the latest short story.
And remember you can read Clausen’s first Reejecttion book [http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...] or [https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905...] for free! It’s short and brilliant, so what are you waiting for?
Harry Whitewolf.
CLONE CO.
by Harry Whitewolf
The receptionist was Daisy Duke from The Dukes of Hazzard. “Welcome to Clone Co.” she said. “How may I help?”
“Hello, yes, I’ve been given a gift voucher I’d like to redeem please.”
“Is this your first time shopping at Clone Co.?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’ll get one of our assistants to go through the options we offer. If you’d like to follow Mr. T, he’ll take you to see Dave.”
Mr. T then appeared and said abruptly, “Follow me, fool!” and the customer followed the gold-draped man into a small office where Dave was sitting behind a large desk. “Please, take a seat, Mr…?”
“Dibbit.”
Mr. T walked out with the sound of clunking jewellery as Mr. Dibbit sat down. Dave started laying out all manner of brochures on the desk, whilst saying, “Now, what are you looking for? Do you know what sort of clone you would like?”
“No- this is all new to me. I have a voucher for eight million credit chips, so if you could just show me what you have within that price range, that would be great.”
“Certainly Mr. Dibbit. Well, we offer lots of different types of clones here at Clone Co. Would you perhaps be interested in cloning an old pet? A dog or a canary, for instance?”
“No, I’ve never had any pets,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“How about a dinosaur? A pterodactyl would be within your price range.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What about a dodo?”
“That’s a no no."
“Well there are plenty of human options as well. Would you be interested in cloning a dead parent or an ex-girlfriend? Or someone you once had a crush on? We can, of course, make any personality alterations that you may require.”
“No, I don’t think I want to clone anyone personal to me.”
“Would you like to clone yourself? Lots of people like this option -especially men. I mean, just think -finally you could know what it’s like to give yourself a blowjob!”
“Hm… Not for me, no.”
“O.K, so maybe you’d like to clone a celebrity?”
“Yeah… I think that sounds good.”
“Excellent! One of our most popular choices!” Dave began rummaging through the catalogues on the desk. “Have you got anyone in mind?”
“Not really. It just depends on who I can afford.”
“Certainly. Well, I’m afraid our A-Class Celeb Clones will be out of your league, but there are still plenty of other options. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a brochure entitled ‘Famous Fucks’ and said, “Could I interest you in a celebrity shag? For eight million, you could have the weather girl from Channel 87.”
Mr. Dibbit looked a little embarrassed. “Um, no- I don’t think that’s really my style,” he said.
“O.K. No problem. How about celebrities you’d like to punch in the face?” Dave replied, picking up another catalogue and flicking through it. “Our special offer at the moment is Justin Bieber. That’ll only cost you six million. What do you say? Would you like to have a Bieber clone you can use as a punch bag on a daily basis? I’ve heard it does wonders for releasing tension.”
“No, I don’t think so. Could I buy George W Bush? I’ve always fancied giving him a bloody nose.”
“Hmmm… I’m afraid he’s a little out of your price range. How about Ben Affleck?”
“Mm, no.”
“Charlie Sheen?”
“Nah. Haven’t you got anyone more recent?”
Dave replied, “I’m afraid that for your price range, it’s mostly people from over a century ago. Hey- how about Queen Elizabeth II? I always fancied punching her in the face myself.”
Mr. Dibbit looked like he was losing interest. “I’m not sure I really want to punch anyone in the face actually,” he said.
Dave started rummaging through more brochures, saying, “No problem, no problem…. Let’s see- what else have we got? How about someone more historic? Would you like Napoleon to do your dishes for you? Attila the Hun to do your laundry? Jane Austen to wipe your ass?”
Mr. Dibbit carefully considered these options. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a clone who could do some household chores for me, but I’m not too keen on those you mentioned. Who else could I get? I was hoping for someone a little more glamorous. Elvis, perhaps.”
“Oh, Mr. Dibbit, I’m sorry, but Elvis Presley costs a lot more than eight million, and anyway, he’s in our Elite Class of clones. He’s not one we sell to the general public I’m afraid. No, if you want to see Elvis, you’ll have to go to one of the concerts. I believe there are fifteen happening tonight…. Let’s see… Yes… Here we are… There are four Early Elvis gigs and eleven Fat Elvis ones tonight.”
“Oh, right.”
“Look, I’m sure we can find you someone just as satisfactory to take home with you. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a list of celebs you could buy for under ten million. “What about Keira Knightly? She’s very cheap.”
“Nah,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“Phil Collins?”
Mr. Dibbit shook his head.
“Nietzsche?”
“No.”
“Lemmy? Lassie? Fonzie?”
“Mmm… No… How much did you say Justin Bieber was again?”
“Six million. I could throw in Pol Pot for two mil, if you like.”
“Yeah, go on then. I’ll take a Bieber and a Pol Pot”
“A very wise decision Mr. Dibbit!” said Dave and proceeded to get the paperwork together.
The good thing about cutting pieces from ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, my upcoming collaborative book with author Daniel Clausen, is that you get to read them here for free. Here’s the latest short story.
And remember you can read Clausen’s first Reejecttion book [http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...] or [https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905...] for free! It’s short and brilliant, so what are you waiting for?
Harry Whitewolf.
CLONE CO.
by Harry Whitewolf
The receptionist was Daisy Duke from The Dukes of Hazzard. “Welcome to Clone Co.” she said. “How may I help?”
“Hello, yes, I’ve been given a gift voucher I’d like to redeem please.”
“Is this your first time shopping at Clone Co.?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’ll get one of our assistants to go through the options we offer. If you’d like to follow Mr. T, he’ll take you to see Dave.”
Mr. T then appeared and said abruptly, “Follow me, fool!” and the customer followed the gold-draped man into a small office where Dave was sitting behind a large desk. “Please, take a seat, Mr…?”
“Dibbit.”
Mr. T walked out with the sound of clunking jewellery as Mr. Dibbit sat down. Dave started laying out all manner of brochures on the desk, whilst saying, “Now, what are you looking for? Do you know what sort of clone you would like?”
“No- this is all new to me. I have a voucher for eight million credit chips, so if you could just show me what you have within that price range, that would be great.”
“Certainly Mr. Dibbit. Well, we offer lots of different types of clones here at Clone Co. Would you perhaps be interested in cloning an old pet? A dog or a canary, for instance?”
“No, I’ve never had any pets,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“How about a dinosaur? A pterodactyl would be within your price range.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What about a dodo?”
“That’s a no no."
“Well there are plenty of human options as well. Would you be interested in cloning a dead parent or an ex-girlfriend? Or someone you once had a crush on? We can, of course, make any personality alterations that you may require.”
“No, I don’t think I want to clone anyone personal to me.”
“Would you like to clone yourself? Lots of people like this option -especially men. I mean, just think -finally you could know what it’s like to give yourself a blowjob!”
“Hm… Not for me, no.”
“O.K, so maybe you’d like to clone a celebrity?”
“Yeah… I think that sounds good.”
“Excellent! One of our most popular choices!” Dave began rummaging through the catalogues on the desk. “Have you got anyone in mind?”
“Not really. It just depends on who I can afford.”
“Certainly. Well, I’m afraid our A-Class Celeb Clones will be out of your league, but there are still plenty of other options. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a brochure entitled ‘Famous Fucks’ and said, “Could I interest you in a celebrity shag? For eight million, you could have the weather girl from Channel 87.”
Mr. Dibbit looked a little embarrassed. “Um, no- I don’t think that’s really my style,” he said.
“O.K. No problem. How about celebrities you’d like to punch in the face?” Dave replied, picking up another catalogue and flicking through it. “Our special offer at the moment is Justin Bieber. That’ll only cost you six million. What do you say? Would you like to have a Bieber clone you can use as a punch bag on a daily basis? I’ve heard it does wonders for releasing tension.”
“No, I don’t think so. Could I buy George W Bush? I’ve always fancied giving him a bloody nose.”
“Hmmm… I’m afraid he’s a little out of your price range. How about Ben Affleck?”
“Mm, no.”
“Charlie Sheen?”
“Nah. Haven’t you got anyone more recent?”
Dave replied, “I’m afraid that for your price range, it’s mostly people from over a century ago. Hey- how about Queen Elizabeth II? I always fancied punching her in the face myself.”
Mr. Dibbit looked like he was losing interest. “I’m not sure I really want to punch anyone in the face actually,” he said.
Dave started rummaging through more brochures, saying, “No problem, no problem…. Let’s see- what else have we got? How about someone more historic? Would you like Napoleon to do your dishes for you? Attila the Hun to do your laundry? Jane Austen to wipe your ass?”
Mr. Dibbit carefully considered these options. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a clone who could do some household chores for me, but I’m not too keen on those you mentioned. Who else could I get? I was hoping for someone a little more glamorous. Elvis, perhaps.”
“Oh, Mr. Dibbit, I’m sorry, but Elvis Presley costs a lot more than eight million, and anyway, he’s in our Elite Class of clones. He’s not one we sell to the general public I’m afraid. No, if you want to see Elvis, you’ll have to go to one of the concerts. I believe there are fifteen happening tonight…. Let’s see… Yes… Here we are… There are four Early Elvis gigs and eleven Fat Elvis ones tonight.”
“Oh, right.”
“Look, I’m sure we can find you someone just as satisfactory to take home with you. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a list of celebs you could buy for under ten million. “What about Keira Knightly? She’s very cheap.”
“Nah,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“Phil Collins?”
Mr. Dibbit shook his head.
“Nietzsche?”
“No.”
“Lemmy? Lassie? Fonzie?”
“Mmm… No… How much did you say Justin Bieber was again?”
“Six million. I could throw in Pol Pot for two mil, if you like.”
“Yeah, go on then. I’ll take a Bieber and a Pol Pot”
“A very wise decision Mr. Dibbit!” said Dave and proceeded to get the paperwork together.
Review - Road to Purification (Or, Return of the Great Father)
The Road To Purification: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash
Full disclosure: There is no way I can give this book a fair review. Harry and I have written a book together called “ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2.”
As advertised in the title of the book, you will meet hustlers, you will experience hassles, and hash will make up a great part of your journey. Whether true purification is reached in the course of this journey is another question. I tend to think of true purification as something rather elusive. For Harry, though, the course to purification should have exotic locales, check marks next to items on one’s F***it list, and experiences with the devil in its/his/her many shapes and forms. Is this true purification? From experience, I can tell you that travels and writing are only part of the process of purification...
The C.S. Lewis quote at the beginning of the book makes the personal challenge a little more clear: Harry must avoid the twin pitfalls of becoming a base materialist (with no belief in the magic of the world) or a unskeptical magician (who becomes too enamored with the devil). This is what Harry thinks his challenge is. Maybe he’s right. But there are others. He still has to charm the reviewers. He still has to learn the being an indy writer and being an Egyptian merchant are similar occupations. (“You buy this book, yes? It will make you attractive to the ladies!”)
Harry / you must also avoid the pitfall of becoming absorbed in oneself and becoming one with the pain of heartbreak. For a travel book about Egypt, there are large stretches of time where the book is about Harry and his overwhelming pain. Egypt is the the thing that pulls Harry out of himself, but also forces Harry back into himself. In a world of hustlers and hassles, why expose oneself to the world -- where hassles and hustles are smaller versions of the intense pain of heartbreak?
The minor heartbreaks of hustlers and hassles make up a great deal of the events of the book. However, so do moments of joy and respite. The book is about one person’s life in a certain place and time, and these events are simply and beautifully told.
There are, however, bigger villains in the book. These villains are some of the most captivating elements of the book.
One of these villains is the “Great Father.” A hustler whose clutches Harry happens to fall into early in the book when he decides to have coffee with a local hustler named Abdullah. Abdullah takes Harry from one place to another until finally Abdullah delivers him into the perfume shop of the “Great Father” -- a place that for Harry embodies evil.
*
Something is wrong. Very wrong. The mood has suddenly become dark. Much too dark for a book review. The reviewer suddenly isn’t his co-writer friend that he thought he knew so well but instead a great bear of a man, with a designer T-shirt, trendy jeans and Reebok trainers. Casual. Cool. But also a hustler with dark eyes that try so swallow him up and turn himself inward. Into his own loathing and fear.
Somehow, Harry finds himself back in the perfume shop of the Great Father.
“Harry,” the Great Father says. “We meet again. Last time, you left so quickly. It is destiny that you have found me here in this book review. You have experienced a great tragedy in your life, yes?”
Harry looks at the Great Father skeptically, looks him straight in his devil-black eyes. Everyone has had a personal tragedy. He is just fishing. Why is he here again? How did he get into this book review?
“You are lost in a great darkness.”
“No, mate. Not again. I won’t do this. It was shitty enough the first time.”
“You have written a book. This book has many problems. One, it stands in the shadow of other great travel books about Egypt. You just go around smoking weed. Your book is lazy. Like a lazy pot smoking book. Also, you don’t make sexy time in the book, even though your readers want to hear about sexual conquests. Blah, blah heart-ache, blah blah where is my girl? Then you go and smoke weed like lazy man. This is okay, I have a perfume that will make your book better….also you will take a tour with me in the desert. This tour will help cleanse your soul. And there is a man that lives in a small town I know who can ghost-write a better book. Very cheap. You will be Harry, the great adventurer and lady’s man of Egypt. The perfumes and the trip. Only LE 16,000.”
“Wait, I came here for a book review.”
“Yes, I know. Book review. No problem. First you buy the perfumes to cleanse your book of slow pacing. Then we find the great ghost-writer of the desert. He helps make a real protagonist who can woo ladies and ride a motorbike everywhere. Doesn’t need to get in argument with 20 taxi drivers in the course of 250-pages. Makes the book less repetitive. No need to name the book ‘How to Look Foolish and Stupid while arguing with Egyptian Taxi Driver.’”
“You thought the book was repetitive?”
“Yes, like lazy pot-smoking book.”
Harry is starting to lose his grip. Stay focused, Harry, get what you want. “La, la, la, I came here for just book review.”
“No, la, la, la, Harry. Your are a true Egyptian now. We will sit together and meditate. We will cleanse the spirit and find the truth about your book. Repeat after me, ‘The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development is connected to the pot addiction…’”
“Okay, wait, now, you’re just putting me on.”
The great father sprays Harry with perfume. Some of it gets into Harry’s eyes. For a moment, he is blinded. He struggles to get his eyes into focus. For a moment, the great father becomes Daniel Clausen laughing a hideously in slow motion with devil horns on his head. Then his eyes refocus and he sees the Great Father again.
“Harry, you must repeat. This incantation must be repeated exactly as I say it.”
Harry somehow finds himself repeating the incantation. “The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development’s connected to the pot addiction…” The entire time he’s thinking: don’t give him more than LE200, don’t give him more than LE200.
But the entire time that Harry’s chanting he sees his money disappearing from his pocket. His vision blurs and he sees Daniel Clausen laughing a villainous exaggerated laugh in slow motion, counting the Egyptian money. Then the Great Father comes back, “Keep chanting...must buy all 16 perfumes...trip to the desert...the third eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone….”
*
Harry wakes up in his room in London. It’s another rainy day in London. It must have been a dream. There was no review with the Great Father attempting to get his revenge. In the end only LE200 was paid for one bottle of perfume and a meditation. He had not been had.
He walks in his living room and finds perfume bottles everywhere. The Great Father is also sleeping on his couch. On his book shelf he sees his book. Although, this is not the sensitive tale of self-discover he had written. He picks it up.
“The Great Harry of Egypt” it reads. He is riding a motorcycle up a pyramid with a sword in his hand. Two ladies are hanging on to Harry from the back of his motorcycle.
The Great Father doesn’t open his eyes, but he says, “I tried to give book away with bottles of perfume, but no one wanted it. But it’s okay, Harry. Today you will drive taxi and bring me more customers. We will sell your book and my perfumes, eh, Harry. Or should I call you Abdullah?”
From a laptop somewhere far away, Daniel Clausen laughs a slow-motion villainous laugh.
*
Postscript:
Harry and I sit down for a coffee in London. It has been about three months since he has managed to get the Great Father out of his apartment and found a suitable method for disposing of the new versions of his novel.
“Well, I have to admit,” Harry says. “I felt powerful riding the motorcycle up the pyramid. And working for the Great Father has given me a new respect for how to hustle in this crazy world.”
“See,” I say. “This review wasn’t all bad.”
“Yeah, but what did you really think of the book?”
“I already told the reader earlier. The book was very good. I finished it in four days on top of my busy work schedule and felt the better for it. I take the piss out of all the books I like.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Take care, Harry. I’m off on my next book reviewing adventure.”
And with those words, I proceed on to the adventure of reviewing Neuromancer!
Full disclosure: There is no way I can give this book a fair review. Harry and I have written a book together called “ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2.”
As advertised in the title of the book, you will meet hustlers, you will experience hassles, and hash will make up a great part of your journey. Whether true purification is reached in the course of this journey is another question. I tend to think of true purification as something rather elusive. For Harry, though, the course to purification should have exotic locales, check marks next to items on one’s F***it list, and experiences with the devil in its/his/her many shapes and forms. Is this true purification? From experience, I can tell you that travels and writing are only part of the process of purification...
The C.S. Lewis quote at the beginning of the book makes the personal challenge a little more clear: Harry must avoid the twin pitfalls of becoming a base materialist (with no belief in the magic of the world) or a unskeptical magician (who becomes too enamored with the devil). This is what Harry thinks his challenge is. Maybe he’s right. But there are others. He still has to charm the reviewers. He still has to learn the being an indy writer and being an Egyptian merchant are similar occupations. (“You buy this book, yes? It will make you attractive to the ladies!”)
Harry / you must also avoid the pitfall of becoming absorbed in oneself and becoming one with the pain of heartbreak. For a travel book about Egypt, there are large stretches of time where the book is about Harry and his overwhelming pain. Egypt is the the thing that pulls Harry out of himself, but also forces Harry back into himself. In a world of hustlers and hassles, why expose oneself to the world -- where hassles and hustles are smaller versions of the intense pain of heartbreak?
The minor heartbreaks of hustlers and hassles make up a great deal of the events of the book. However, so do moments of joy and respite. The book is about one person’s life in a certain place and time, and these events are simply and beautifully told.
There are, however, bigger villains in the book. These villains are some of the most captivating elements of the book.
One of these villains is the “Great Father.” A hustler whose clutches Harry happens to fall into early in the book when he decides to have coffee with a local hustler named Abdullah. Abdullah takes Harry from one place to another until finally Abdullah delivers him into the perfume shop of the “Great Father” -- a place that for Harry embodies evil.
*
Something is wrong. Very wrong. The mood has suddenly become dark. Much too dark for a book review. The reviewer suddenly isn’t his co-writer friend that he thought he knew so well but instead a great bear of a man, with a designer T-shirt, trendy jeans and Reebok trainers. Casual. Cool. But also a hustler with dark eyes that try so swallow him up and turn himself inward. Into his own loathing and fear.
Somehow, Harry finds himself back in the perfume shop of the Great Father.
“Harry,” the Great Father says. “We meet again. Last time, you left so quickly. It is destiny that you have found me here in this book review. You have experienced a great tragedy in your life, yes?”
Harry looks at the Great Father skeptically, looks him straight in his devil-black eyes. Everyone has had a personal tragedy. He is just fishing. Why is he here again? How did he get into this book review?
“You are lost in a great darkness.”
“No, mate. Not again. I won’t do this. It was shitty enough the first time.”
“You have written a book. This book has many problems. One, it stands in the shadow of other great travel books about Egypt. You just go around smoking weed. Your book is lazy. Like a lazy pot smoking book. Also, you don’t make sexy time in the book, even though your readers want to hear about sexual conquests. Blah, blah heart-ache, blah blah where is my girl? Then you go and smoke weed like lazy man. This is okay, I have a perfume that will make your book better….also you will take a tour with me in the desert. This tour will help cleanse your soul. And there is a man that lives in a small town I know who can ghost-write a better book. Very cheap. You will be Harry, the great adventurer and lady’s man of Egypt. The perfumes and the trip. Only LE 16,000.”
“Wait, I came here for a book review.”
“Yes, I know. Book review. No problem. First you buy the perfumes to cleanse your book of slow pacing. Then we find the great ghost-writer of the desert. He helps make a real protagonist who can woo ladies and ride a motorbike everywhere. Doesn’t need to get in argument with 20 taxi drivers in the course of 250-pages. Makes the book less repetitive. No need to name the book ‘How to Look Foolish and Stupid while arguing with Egyptian Taxi Driver.’”
“You thought the book was repetitive?”
“Yes, like lazy pot-smoking book.”
Harry is starting to lose his grip. Stay focused, Harry, get what you want. “La, la, la, I came here for just book review.”
“No, la, la, la, Harry. Your are a true Egyptian now. We will sit together and meditate. We will cleanse the spirit and find the truth about your book. Repeat after me, ‘The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development is connected to the pot addiction…’”
“Okay, wait, now, you’re just putting me on.”
The great father sprays Harry with perfume. Some of it gets into Harry’s eyes. For a moment, he is blinded. He struggles to get his eyes into focus. For a moment, the great father becomes Daniel Clausen laughing a hideously in slow motion with devil horns on his head. Then his eyes refocus and he sees the Great Father again.
“Harry, you must repeat. This incantation must be repeated exactly as I say it.”
Harry somehow finds himself repeating the incantation. “The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development’s connected to the pot addiction…” The entire time he’s thinking: don’t give him more than LE200, don’t give him more than LE200.
But the entire time that Harry’s chanting he sees his money disappearing from his pocket. His vision blurs and he sees Daniel Clausen laughing a villainous exaggerated laugh in slow motion, counting the Egyptian money. Then the Great Father comes back, “Keep chanting...must buy all 16 perfumes...trip to the desert...the third eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone….”
*
Harry wakes up in his room in London. It’s another rainy day in London. It must have been a dream. There was no review with the Great Father attempting to get his revenge. In the end only LE200 was paid for one bottle of perfume and a meditation. He had not been had.
He walks in his living room and finds perfume bottles everywhere. The Great Father is also sleeping on his couch. On his book shelf he sees his book. Although, this is not the sensitive tale of self-discover he had written. He picks it up.
“The Great Harry of Egypt” it reads. He is riding a motorcycle up a pyramid with a sword in his hand. Two ladies are hanging on to Harry from the back of his motorcycle.
The Great Father doesn’t open his eyes, but he says, “I tried to give book away with bottles of perfume, but no one wanted it. But it’s okay, Harry. Today you will drive taxi and bring me more customers. We will sell your book and my perfumes, eh, Harry. Or should I call you Abdullah?”
From a laptop somewhere far away, Daniel Clausen laughs a slow-motion villainous laugh.
*
Postscript:
Harry and I sit down for a coffee in London. It has been about three months since he has managed to get the Great Father out of his apartment and found a suitable method for disposing of the new versions of his novel.
“Well, I have to admit,” Harry says. “I felt powerful riding the motorcycle up the pyramid. And working for the Great Father has given me a new respect for how to hustle in this crazy world.”
“See,” I say. “This review wasn’t all bad.”
“Yeah, but what did you really think of the book?”
“I already told the reader earlier. The book was very good. I finished it in four days on top of my busy work schedule and felt the better for it. I take the piss out of all the books I like.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Take care, Harry. I’m off on my next book reviewing adventure.”
And with those words, I proceed on to the adventure of reviewing Neuromancer!
Arrival at Gotsubo (ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2)
[The following is an excerpt from an extended book review of Lester Goran’s book “Bing Crosby’s Last Song.” The book review is written more like a creative essay / short story than a book review. The review is part of the book "ReejecttIIon - A number 2" and can be purchased on Amazon.com].
A novel about a bunch of ordinary never-do-wellers, scratching around, getting more wrong than right. Many of the scenes take place in bars with characters telling each other stories that expand the universe of the novel.
If I were to write something like this, it would take place in Nagasaki, at Gotsubo. Samantha the English teacher would be trying to teach the owner, Kentaro, Spanish, and people would be telling stories about Sam-the-boxer, how he broke Gavin’s jaw while he was still a learner for reasons that may or may not have had to do with his philandering lifestyle. How Sam eventually lost half of his brain in a surfing accident in California, and how all this came up about a year or two after most people moved away from Nagasaki and then one person returned.
It would go something like that.
But I would never write something like that. Lester Goran always thought there was something sacred about these happenings, the interconnectedness of people and the stories told from person to person. He also believed in universes populated by pubs and bars.
I’ve had alcoholics in my family. I find such places shallow haunts -- as unsacred as Gloria Scone and her New Age religious nonsense. Bars and pubs are for people without imagination. I’m not sure that people actually care about the other people they drink with. They might. There might be sacred happenings in between sips of white wine.
There is a small bar area at Gotsubo, right in front of the booths, where parties of five or more usually sit and wile away their time with talk. The talk is in Japanese, and is of no concern to Lester.
But as soon as he meets Kentaro, the owner/ bartender, it’s like I’ve become a ghost to them. Kentaro and Lester talk on and on into the hours, free cups of sake and shochu for all of Lester’s stories, and though Lester is the one talking most of the time, he finally finds me and tells me, “I can hear him perfectly. Why don’t you speak like that? I can barely hear a word you’re saying. With him everything comes out loud and clear. He could have been Irish!”
“Tell me a story,” he says. “Tell me something that happened at this bar.”
I suppose there are a few. The time I took my brother here. The time, right after I first got here, when one of the new guys was trying to decide whether to stay or whether to leave the country.
“There was this time, I met the ghost of my dead writing teacher…”
But I can tell I’m boring him because he naturally starts to talk to Kentaro again.
A novel about a bunch of ordinary never-do-wellers, scratching around, getting more wrong than right. Many of the scenes take place in bars with characters telling each other stories that expand the universe of the novel.
If I were to write something like this, it would take place in Nagasaki, at Gotsubo. Samantha the English teacher would be trying to teach the owner, Kentaro, Spanish, and people would be telling stories about Sam-the-boxer, how he broke Gavin’s jaw while he was still a learner for reasons that may or may not have had to do with his philandering lifestyle. How Sam eventually lost half of his brain in a surfing accident in California, and how all this came up about a year or two after most people moved away from Nagasaki and then one person returned.
It would go something like that.
But I would never write something like that. Lester Goran always thought there was something sacred about these happenings, the interconnectedness of people and the stories told from person to person. He also believed in universes populated by pubs and bars.
I’ve had alcoholics in my family. I find such places shallow haunts -- as unsacred as Gloria Scone and her New Age religious nonsense. Bars and pubs are for people without imagination. I’m not sure that people actually care about the other people they drink with. They might. There might be sacred happenings in between sips of white wine.
There is a small bar area at Gotsubo, right in front of the booths, where parties of five or more usually sit and wile away their time with talk. The talk is in Japanese, and is of no concern to Lester.
But as soon as he meets Kentaro, the owner/ bartender, it’s like I’ve become a ghost to them. Kentaro and Lester talk on and on into the hours, free cups of sake and shochu for all of Lester’s stories, and though Lester is the one talking most of the time, he finally finds me and tells me, “I can hear him perfectly. Why don’t you speak like that? I can barely hear a word you’re saying. With him everything comes out loud and clear. He could have been Irish!”
“Tell me a story,” he says. “Tell me something that happened at this bar.”
I suppose there are a few. The time I took my brother here. The time, right after I first got here, when one of the new guys was trying to decide whether to stay or whether to leave the country.
“There was this time, I met the ghost of my dead writing teacher…”
But I can tell I’m boring him because he naturally starts to talk to Kentaro again.
Fathers and Sons (ReejecttIIon - A Number 2)
The following is an excerpt from an extended book review of Lester Goran’s book “Bing Crosby’s Last Song.” The book review is written more like a creative essay / short story than a book review.
The review is part of my new book -- ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2. You can purchase a copy here: http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
I tell Lester as I sit in his bar that Boyce Racklin reminds me of my dad. He couldn’t stop helping people. He was a saint, a folk hero -- but to his family, he was always a more ambiguous character. Too much of a do-gooder to do himself very much good.
Lester sees right through me. “You’re writing this damn slop to avoid writing about your dad, aren’t you?”
And my mom. But that’s not the point.
The story of how Boyce Racklin became the mythologized “Right” Racklin is on page 14 of the book.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Lester, “I won’t give it away. But I can’t help the feeling that this is my dad you’re writing about. One Christmas I find all the toys in my house gone. It turned out that my dad had donated them all to some children who had no gifts for Christmas. The kids got gifts and I got robbed.”
Lester doesn’t seem amused.
Fathers and legacies. Was Boyce Racklin a hero up until the end? Did he jump into the river to save some girl or was it a suicide? That’s the question.
“A million indignities follow the man or woman who gives himself to the poor,” I tell Lester. He still doesn’t seem amused. He also seems unimpressed with the rate of my drinking.
“I thought you were going to write this review essay about me. Here you are talking about yourself.”
“I learned from the best,” I quip and get what has to be, at best, my second or third smile of the night.
“I want to change venues,” I tell him.
“I want to go to Gotsubo in Nagasaki. My old hangout.”
He remains quiet. Who knows if he can even exist in a place beside some conjuring of his old haunts in Oakland. Perhaps there is no place for him where his spirit can rest other than the places he created for himself in his fiction.
The review is part of my new book -- ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2. You can purchase a copy here: http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
I tell Lester as I sit in his bar that Boyce Racklin reminds me of my dad. He couldn’t stop helping people. He was a saint, a folk hero -- but to his family, he was always a more ambiguous character. Too much of a do-gooder to do himself very much good.
Lester sees right through me. “You’re writing this damn slop to avoid writing about your dad, aren’t you?”
And my mom. But that’s not the point.
The story of how Boyce Racklin became the mythologized “Right” Racklin is on page 14 of the book.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Lester, “I won’t give it away. But I can’t help the feeling that this is my dad you’re writing about. One Christmas I find all the toys in my house gone. It turned out that my dad had donated them all to some children who had no gifts for Christmas. The kids got gifts and I got robbed.”
Lester doesn’t seem amused.
Fathers and legacies. Was Boyce Racklin a hero up until the end? Did he jump into the river to save some girl or was it a suicide? That’s the question.
“A million indignities follow the man or woman who gives himself to the poor,” I tell Lester. He still doesn’t seem amused. He also seems unimpressed with the rate of my drinking.
“I thought you were going to write this review essay about me. Here you are talking about yourself.”
“I learned from the best,” I quip and get what has to be, at best, my second or third smile of the night.
“I want to change venues,” I tell him.
“I want to go to Gotsubo in Nagasaki. My old hangout.”
He remains quiet. Who knows if he can even exist in a place beside some conjuring of his old haunts in Oakland. Perhaps there is no place for him where his spirit can rest other than the places he created for himself in his fiction.
Review - New Beat Newbie
Disclaimer: I wrote a book with this guy; so, I can’t even pretend that I don’t have a bias toward his artistic talent.
Long ago, I wrote a short story called “The Lexical Funk.” At the time, I thought I knew exactly what it was, but didn’t understand that it could take many forms, one of the most obvious was beat poetry. From the very first poem, that’s exactly what you get -- funky beat poetry.In the very first poem, Harry writes, “Join a new determination to speak from the soul with words high on wit and wonder./ Stop the devils dragging us under.”
That’s exactly what how I feel about writing and the necessity of writing.
As I read poems like “Mother Nature”, I’m sure that this book needs its own bongo drum. In fact, I’m so sure that this book needs its own bongo drum that there should be a warning on the cover that says, “Bongo drum sold separately.”
Much of this poetry would go very well with a Jazz quartet.
Warning: the book has a social message!
Is it preachy? Yes, but let yourself be preached. You’ll like it.
Poems such as “Hard Luck Hardback” made me nostalgic for the almost-but-not-quite bygone days of used book stores and used books. (I don’t own a Kindle yet, but the day is fast approaching.) Poems such as “Two Steps” made me admire poets, and make me want to give them a dollar. “The Poet Pops his Performance Cherry” was a poem that connected with me because it expressed intimately that pure writerly moment, a subject I have been exploring as well.
This short poetry collection was an awesome way to spend an afternoon.
Long ago, I wrote a short story called “The Lexical Funk.” At the time, I thought I knew exactly what it was, but didn’t understand that it could take many forms, one of the most obvious was beat poetry. From the very first poem, that’s exactly what you get -- funky beat poetry.In the very first poem, Harry writes, “Join a new determination to speak from the soul with words high on wit and wonder./ Stop the devils dragging us under.”
That’s exactly what how I feel about writing and the necessity of writing.
As I read poems like “Mother Nature”, I’m sure that this book needs its own bongo drum. In fact, I’m so sure that this book needs its own bongo drum that there should be a warning on the cover that says, “Bongo drum sold separately.”
Much of this poetry would go very well with a Jazz quartet.
Warning: the book has a social message!
Is it preachy? Yes, but let yourself be preached. You’ll like it.
Poems such as “Hard Luck Hardback” made me nostalgic for the almost-but-not-quite bygone days of used book stores and used books. (I don’t own a Kindle yet, but the day is fast approaching.) Poems such as “Two Steps” made me admire poets, and make me want to give them a dollar. “The Poet Pops his Performance Cherry” was a poem that connected with me because it expressed intimately that pure writerly moment, a subject I have been exploring as well.
This short poetry collection was an awesome way to spend an afternoon.
Micro-Author Interview Harry Whitewolf
I recently had the opportunity to interview Harry Whitewolf as part of my “author micro-interview” series.
Harry is the author of amazing travel books like “Route Number 11” and “Road to Purification” as well as poetry books like “New Beat Newbie”.
New Beat Newbie
What does being an indie author mean to you?
As far as I can see, there are only two things that make being a professionally published author better than being an indie author: 1) You get a healthy advance and aren’t living on skint street, and 2) You don’t have to get too involved with the whole bullshit marketing malarkey. Whereas there are many things about being an indie author that tip the balance in favour of that. Mostly, it means I have complete control over what I put out: I get to edit the finished book to my own satisfaction, I get control over the book cover and presentation, I get to choose my own deadlines, I get to give two fingers up to the establishment, and I get to be involved with the great community of the indie scene – interacting with both readers and writers. I’ve always been an independent guy in life, doing my own thing, so I like doing the same with my books.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
One of my favourites would be this passage from my debut book Route Number 11:
“A multicoloured, mirrored mosaic clad mannequin sits on the bar with her legs spread open. Her head adorned with silk scarf and sunglasses. Pictures by local artists cluster the walls at jaunty, forgotten angles. Small, splintered stools are sat upon by Chilean locals, drowning themselves in pisco sour.”
The reason I’ve chosen that is because it was the first description I wrote about my South American trip on returning home – long before I decided to write the book it would end up in – and it paved the way for my newly developed writing style that I’d use in Route Number 11, and subsequent poetic writing.
What question would you like to see in future interviews?
The question: What question would you not like to see in future interviews?
What else do you love to do besides write and read?
Smoke, wank and pray – not usually at the same time.
Harry is the author of amazing travel books like “Route Number 11” and “Road to Purification” as well as poetry books like “New Beat Newbie”.
New Beat Newbie
What does being an indie author mean to you?
As far as I can see, there are only two things that make being a professionally published author better than being an indie author: 1) You get a healthy advance and aren’t living on skint street, and 2) You don’t have to get too involved with the whole bullshit marketing malarkey. Whereas there are many things about being an indie author that tip the balance in favour of that. Mostly, it means I have complete control over what I put out: I get to edit the finished book to my own satisfaction, I get control over the book cover and presentation, I get to choose my own deadlines, I get to give two fingers up to the establishment, and I get to be involved with the great community of the indie scene – interacting with both readers and writers. I’ve always been an independent guy in life, doing my own thing, so I like doing the same with my books.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
One of my favourites would be this passage from my debut book Route Number 11:
“A multicoloured, mirrored mosaic clad mannequin sits on the bar with her legs spread open. Her head adorned with silk scarf and sunglasses. Pictures by local artists cluster the walls at jaunty, forgotten angles. Small, splintered stools are sat upon by Chilean locals, drowning themselves in pisco sour.”
The reason I’ve chosen that is because it was the first description I wrote about my South American trip on returning home – long before I decided to write the book it would end up in – and it paved the way for my newly developed writing style that I’d use in Route Number 11, and subsequent poetic writing.
What question would you like to see in future interviews?
The question: What question would you not like to see in future interviews?
What else do you love to do besides write and read?
Smoke, wank and pray – not usually at the same time.
The Great Harry Whitewolf Giveaway
My good friend and author Harry Whitewolf is having a Kindle giveaway of all his books on Amazon.
Here are two of my favorites that I recommend for download:
https://www.amazon.com/ROAD-PURIFICAT...
https://www.amazon.com/Route-Number-1...
If you get a chance, please download a copy!
Here are two of my favorites that I recommend for download:
https://www.amazon.com/ROAD-PURIFICAT...
https://www.amazon.com/Route-Number-1...
If you get a chance, please download a copy!
