C.J. Sutton's Blog

The Institute Review

Stephen King is one of the most iconic and successful writers of our generation. With the possible exception of J.K Rowling, no author of fiction is more synonymous with the novel in the past forty years. But while Rowling is defined by the Harry Potter universe, King continues to have the freedom to write whatever he pleases, reaching the bestseller lists with every new release in horror, thriller or even romance. His latest entry, The Institute, is billed as his next great read. Yet with a string of books that have failed to capture the power of his early works, can King remain relevant to a new uprising of readers? Read on…

The Institute tells the tale of Luke Ellis; an extremely intelligent pre-teen who is sent to a facility that performs experiments on children with telekinetic and telepathic powers. These powers are present on a very small scale, tracked from birth and barely strong enough to push a plate off a table. Nevertheless, the Institute captures these children and houses them in dorms resembling their own rooms. To say more would put King’s page turning tome in jeopardy, but there is also another main character (Tim Jameison, an ex-cop taking a night knocker job in a small town) that helps lead the narrative. King also takes delight in writing chapters from the POV of Luke’s captors, providing the opportunity for the reader’s opinion on events.

The good: Intriguing, multi-faceted, easy to read, thought-provoking

King creates worlds that live and breathe, and this book is no exception. The reader desires the conclusion, and King knows they’ll trudge through 500 large pages to get it. His language isn’t difficult and the subject matter isn’t hard to grasp, even though some of the scenes are rather horrific (experiments on kids, what could go wrong?). Yet this is not a horror novel. Psychological thriller would be more accurate. The powers of the children are not for superhero battles, which is a relief. They are a means to an end.

The conclusion, which I will provide no details of, leaves us with many questions to ponder. Questions about our own morality, mortality and how far we would go to save ourselves, despite the impact on others. King does this better than he has in the past. The Institute leaves us with thoughts that transcend the page and don’t rely only on fear, which appears to be a new gun in his arsenal.

The bad: Predictable at times, a far cry from horror, few memorable characters, simplistic dialogue

I love King as a writer. He is the greatest influence on my work. But at his age, he may have finally lost a level of touch with the minds of youth. The dialogue of the characters feels rather cliché. Tim and the inhabitants of DuPray appear more realistic than the children in the Institute, who use language that lacks the blunt edge of the social media age we live in. In IT we saw how King could tap into the fears and actions of a younger crowd, but the Instutite presents every stereotype possible; cool kid, joker, hot girl, twins, broad bully, alternative emo, scared little boy. For the first time, his dislike of Trump actually seeps into the narrative. Adding a political agenda is nothing new for a writer, but at times it is clear his characters are repeating his thoughts on America’s political climate.

In terms of characters, King wants you to know that he’s added diversity. Sometimes too much is said about a person, rather than allowing the reader to build their own love/hate. Often he tells, rather than shows, holding our hand and leading us into a room that is too bright for dark themes. But if we’re grading this book on being a good read, this cannot be denied. It moves at a slow pace, builds suspense, and keeps you wondering; this is because we know King as a horror writer, so surely there can’t be a happy ending…right?

While overall The Institute is not King’s best work, it is definitely a return to form. He still has the ability to delve into strange circumstances and make all the occurrences feel too real. I applaude him for this, and his career. So much so that I will now read all his works, starting from Carrie (1974), to find the definitive King novel.

Follow me on this journey, if you will – C. J. Sutton

Result: 3.8/5

This Strange Hell – Chapter 1

Purchase link – mybook.to/thisstrangehell

A Solitary Man

The suited man dashed through the dark Melbourne streets as the building burned behind him.
The heat of the flames could still be felt on the parts of his skin not covered by crisp navy attire. Sirens echoed into the night, approaching. Shadows danced across the concrete jungle, mocking the man as he searched for an escape from the crackling tower.
The man used tight alleyways to navigate away from the chaos, the smell of rubbish and old piss an alternative to the accusatory eyes of late-night pedestrians. Rats scurried alongside the man, urging him onward, joining his army of the damned. And then as planned he broke out onto a street so populated that he differed not from the rest of the Friday night creepers.
Beneath a neon sign advertising beer and cheap thrills, the man assessed his clothing. Knees had blackened, shoes were scuffed with white lines and his jacket was charred at the shoulder and breast. He removed his suit jacket and walked along the street, disposing of the expensive clothing in a dumpster when a break between spotlights shrouded his activity.
“Can I have that?” asked a homeless man, sticking a bearded head out from a blanket on the pavement. The man nodded and continued walking, wishing he had a beard to cover his face in mystery. He stole a leather jacket hanging from a chair outside a kebab shop, no soul noticing the crime. His hair, in a bun atop his head, began to fray as the strands attached to thick beads of sweat. Cars raced by at sickening speeds despite free bodies swaying on the road, neither human nor machine paying attention to the traffic signals. The man searched for a yellow vehicle, and then stuck his hand out when a sedan appeared unoccupied. The car stopped, and as he moved his arm a split formed at the shoulder.
“Where to?” asked the taxi driver, his window down. A strange odour wafted out of the gap, but the smell of burning building still dominated the man’s senses.
“As far away from here as we can get.”
The driver nodded, and the man escaped the street. Without asking, the man closed the window.
“We can’t go down town, some building is blazing. Heard it on the news, saw it with my own eyes, sir I did.”
The man shrugged.
“Happens all the time. Just take me an hour north.”
The driver raised an eyebrow.
“I need a destination, sir…”
The man’s pupils darted, the ever-watchful eyes of the Melbourne night accusing him of a long list of crimes. A teenager slammed both hands on the bonnet of the taxi and puked a vile green substance across the windscreen, chunks of decay taunting the driver. He opened his door and threw his hands in the air, drawing attention to the vehicle and those in the vicinity. The man evacuated as a pair of youths grabbed the driver and tossed him onto his drenched bonnet, a waterslide to asphalt.
The man could see the black plumes of smoke against the midnight sky, a darkness unchallenged. He could feel the heat, remember its power, surrender to its touch. In a swell of bodies, he felt something hard in his jacket pocket. He withdrew the pink lighter and dropped it onto concrete, crushing the firefly beneath his shoe.
The competition for a taxi was too fierce, and the man could not use an Uber. He needed an escape from this madness. Scores of tipsy heads wobbled down the stairs to the underground train station. The man followed.
“That’s my fucken jacket,” roared a deep voice, “my fucken jacket ya bastard!”
The man used his sober feet to descend the steep stairs and manoeuvre through the flailing limbs. He was thin, which assisted in the movement; but he was also tall, and his head popped up amongst most. When he reached the platform, a hand reached out and grappled the collar of the jacket. Fists followed, but the man had already faced his fight tonight. He twisted out of the jacket and waded through the overwhelming heat of the mob, feeling exposed without some form of protection atop his white shirt. The man slipped into the disabled bathroom and collapsed onto the toilet, wondering if his own vile green substance would fountain from within his stomach.
With burning arms, the man lifted himself onto his feet and stared in the mirror. One of his ears was black from the smoke, a cut above his right eye had smeared a horizontal line of blood across his eyelid and he could smell burnt hair. He turned on the tap and washed his face thoroughly, hoping to erase all memory from the night, the screams of the dying and the thuds of those who jumped from twenty storeys high.
A thundering roar from outside the door signalled an arriving train. The man had no idea where the transport would take him. He dashed out onto the platform and launched into the train, managing to find a seat facing opposite all entry points. His body shivered not from the cold, but from the exposure. The man removed his rubber band and let the dark locks fall free, covering the singed ear and cut brow. Not until the train moved did he look up.
“Look at this, they are saying fifty people dead.”
“I heard seventy. Surely nobody could survive that.”
“Watch this man’s head explode on impact…wait…wait…there it is!”
The voices were of a volume that rapped on his skull. Every passenger had their phone in hand, witnessing the horror that occurred down town. Some covered their mouths with hands, others wiped at tear-streaked faces, and pockets of drunken youths smiled at the delight of death in proximity. They pushed their closest ally to watch a seven-second video of death. The screen became a gateway into the burning building, the flames dancing off the faces of the viewers. The man realised he was the only passenger without a phone in hand. He withdrew his Smartphone, turned it off and ejected the sim card. With all eyes on mayhem, he snapped the card between his fingers and tucked the remains into the gap between seats. He then stared at his black screen, not needing a feed to see the candle-like faces of the dead.
“My brother lives there!” shrieked a female no older than sixteen, a red Vodka Cruiser attached to her palm. “Let me off, let me off!”
She banged on the doors of the train, red sugary substance spilling down her arm and onto the floor like a steady stream of bright blood. Each hit increased in force, her eyes white with fear. Losing her footing against the wetness beneath, the female smashed the glass against the handrailing and caused a shower of shards to spray across the hearty travellers. One of the youths from the group enjoying the show on the screen shielded his face, and then approached the white-eyed female.
“You got glass in my fucking eye, you slut.”
“Fuck off, my brother is in there,” she protested, waving her phone at the youth. He wore a blue bandana over his throat like a German Shephard and had slits cut into his eyebrows.
“I don’t care.”
He snatched her phone, opened the door to the next carriage and tossed the sparkling rectangle out into the night. She wailed, dropped to the floor and slammed her head repeatedly against the railing. Two males from her group charged at blue bandana like bulls to red, and the train descended into an organism of punches and kicks. The man moved closer to the door and found a way out at the next stop, slipping on the red substance and almost falling onto the tracks. A hand reached out and grabbed his forearm, and he winced.
“Steady brother,” said a woman with a shaved head. The man nodded.
When she walked away, the crowd followed her direction to a row of trams curtained by buildings. The man slowly rolled back his left sleeve to notice a blotchy burn mark seeping yellow ooze. He quickly curled the white sleeve back to his hand and continued onwards. The next train arriving in four minutes was an express line to a town he had never heard of. The man tossed his phone onto the tracks, emptied his wallet into the nearest bin and crossed his arms in wait.
His black hair veiled his face.
His dark eyes veiled his heart.

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Where Ideas Come From

As an author, the question I get asked most by friends, family and readers is “Where do you get your ideas?”. Often the question is asked as though it’s a deep secret, expecting that I have a mystery vault where I hide away story ideas stolen illegally or that I sit down for hours on end willing something to pop out. But the truth is, ideas are natural thoughts that start with the smallest seed. Here is an example:

For my upcoming novel This Strange Hell, the story begins with a suited man running from a burning building. I was driving to work with a horizon of skyscrapers and I just pondered how devastating it would be to flee a burning building of that magnitude. Over the next 8 or so hours at work, the image of a man wearing a crisp navy suit running with a backdrop of falling bodies on fire became vivid, almost lifelike, as though I had seen this happen three years ago. But I’ve never been anywhere near a burning building. I typed that opening sentence when I got home and when I stood up 3,000 words later, a story outside of that scene had blossomed. I found myself asking the simple questions as the words filled the screen:

Why is he running?

What does he look like?

Is it night or day?

Some writers will map out a story in documents before they begin writing. I can’t do that, as I believe it would dampen the excitement of watching your characters go to work. On those days where the writing clicks, you can see the scene unfold in your mind. You know what’s to the left, what’s to the right and what’s about to happen next. The process is a surreal experience that churns out a story, and every author is different in their approach to a new tale.

I once read a quote that said every person passes 100 story ideas on their way to work, and a strong writer notices 5. With This Strange Hell, only 1 story idea was triggered that day and it was the only aspect needed to craft the 88,000 word story.

Ideas are natural, not forced. If I was put on the spot at random and asked to tell an original story, I would struggle. But when the mind wanders in the shower, or late at night in bed, or on the commute to work, solitude sees the cogs move.

My debut novel Dortmund Hibernate had a unique process. I deliberately wanted to tell a story about an asylum full of the criminally insane. I didn’t start writing until about three years later, and by then the nine inmates had grown in my mind like a baby in the wound. Their stories prior to incarceration were fairly formed, and while they did change when the writing began I still felt like these people existed before me. My protagonist was discovering an animal-obsessed murderer, an accountant serial killer, a sadistic drug lord and the like for the first time, and I had a grasp of the world and their crimes. But not even I knew the two major twists when I started writing the book. I was as shocked as the reader, and this is why I love writing fiction.

My general response to “Where do you get your ideas?” is that I have a dark mind that can picture mayhem, but in all honesty I don’t have an answer. They just appear. The seed might be planted by a stray word in a conversation or an image I pass on the street, and that makes any task a possible story thread.

Top 10 Films Of All Time

As an author, I am often asked about the books and writers that have inspired my fictional stories. There are dozens of authors that have impacted my works, but often I find myself answering the question with films. Dialogue, characterisation and plot is not confined to the book, and I would argue that cinema has played an equally important role in my storytelling. To demonstrate this, I have listed my top 10 films of all time. This list took quite a while, and could easily have been a top 50. But the challenge was accepted, and here they are. Please feel free to comment with your own top 10, or to discuss the choices I’ve made. Enjoy!  

10. The Silence of the Lambs (1991)

Anthony Hopkins has such presence as Hannibal Lector in a mere 15 minutes of screen time, teaching me that less can be more when creating an intimidating central character. Of all the movies on this list, The Silence of the Lambs had the biggestimpact on my debut novel Dortmund Hibernate. When we see a fresh-faced Jodie Foster enter that corridor of depraved, unhinged and violent men, the cages do little to calm our nerves. The fact that they can toss bodily secretions at her and cause such fear, without restraint, makes the corridor unsafe for anyone deemed healthy and sane. Despite Hannibal’s past, we can’t hate him. He eats people, yet we want to see more of his story. This is brilliant filmmaking and characterisation that continues to spawn sequels, prequels and television shows. The perfect Saturday night movie. 

9. The Beach (2000)

Perhaps the most controversial addition to this list, The Beach is the film that ignited mythirst for independent adventure. Both book and film provide a sense of rawexploration that transcends the page and screen. When Moby’s Porcelain kicks in and the pure blue water off Thailand’s coast hits your eyes, you’re no longer on your couch. Leonardo DiCaprio wanted to move away from the spotlight after Titanic, and the key themes in the story almost mirror his life. We feel that sense of delving into the unknown, because our lives are so far removed from finding a hidden civilisation without technology. In Thailand, the people either worship or despise the film; those working in tourism utilise it as a marketing tool, while locals believe it draws in Hollywood and sends all the wrong messages. But the film itself is genuine, filled with hope and despair, as we watch the world’s biggest star seek something unique in untouched paradise.   

8. Gladiator (2000)

I was twelve when Gladiator was released, and all I knew about the film was that someone’s head was chopped off at some stage. I put off watching the movie for a few years, but when I finally sat down and pressed play I was blown away by its grandeur. The heart of the film is so simple, yet so powerful: General becomes slave, slave becomes gladiator, gladiator defies empire. Russell Crowe announced himself to the world as more than just a brute. His underlying anger pulsates from beginning to end, and it all feels so personal. The scale of the battles, complete with a roaring crowd and litres of spilled blood, are like watching your football team on a Sunday afternoon. You’re rooting for this man as he shows up the young emperor, and with his death we see the complete arc of redemption.   

7. Inception (2010)

Like most people, I wasn’t completely sure what happened when I first saw Inception. Maybe I’m still not completely sure. But the complexity, soundtrack, performances and original idea combine to create something we’ve never seen before. Complete originality is rare these days. At the core of the film is love and family and its importance above everything else. When you put Christopher Nolan, Hans Zimmer, Leonardo DiCaprio and a slew of underrated stars into a blender, the result is quality. Levels and levels of quality. The final three minutes may be one of the great film scenes. You’ve been on a journey that in truth has spanned over lifetimes, and now you’re returning home. And as that top spins on the table and you’re hugging your children, whether it is all real or a dream is irrelevant. The deepest film on this list.  

6. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002)

While the middle movie in a trilogy can often be filler (not including Empire Strikes Back, of course, which only just missed out on a placing here) the second entry into Peter Jackson’s adaptation of Tolkien’s world showed us the impact on everyday people in a mystical battle between good and evil. Hobbits, orcs, elves and dwarves captivated our imagination in The Fellowship of the Ring, but The Two Towers demonstrates the impact on the people of Rohan as Sauron seeks to wipe out the world of men. The entire film builds up to one of the biggest battles I’ve seen on screen, and in the background you have the humanisation of Gollum into Smeagol as Frodo struggles with his burden. To talk about the soundtrack, landscapes, acting or dialogue would be to praise the entire series. The Two Towers is the strongest entry into the series because it has this certain World War II flavour to its story arc, as evil descends on an honest population too defiant and proud to surrender. 

5. Braveheart (1995)

The bagpipes alone are enough to conjure up the emotion in Braveheart. After we watched this in class, students were banging on their desks chanting “Wallace! Wallace! Wallace!”. For all Mel Gibson’s faults, the man knows how to make a movie. The violence, pain and brutality of the English is there for all to see, for Mel does not hold back. Full scale wars with chopped limbs and horses colliding are fantastic for scope, but the tragic beginning and heartbreaking finale make everything that happens in between even more enjoyable. We love cheering for an underdog, and William Wallace rises from a boy on a farm to the leader of a nation in the space of the movie. And that speech before riding into almost certain death, if not so overplayed, would remain Mel’s acting triumph.  

4. American History X (1998)

Such an important film during my teenage years, the high school I attended decided not to use the film in our studies due to the violence and themes. But my cousin, the same age as me, couldn’t stop talking about the film she was watching in her English class, so I rented it and watched it alone. I attended a multicultural high school, and American History X delves into issues that remain in our society 20 years after release. Edward Norton, muscled and angry, is outstanding. He can portray both  racist and a changed man with ease. The curb stomp, teeth chattering before being smashed into oblivion, stays with you. But it is the key messages that resonate, as a changed man can still be punished for his past. Easily the best film to delve into the repercussions of Nazi Germany 50 years later, American History X is a must watch for all teenagers despite the adult themes.  

3. Shawshank Redemption (1994)

Shawshank has this interesting power over its viewers. Many don’t feel compelled to watch it, seeing it as simply another prison drama. But almost everyone who views this film will be a different person by the final credits. Freeman’s narration is perfect. He could narrate a dog emptying its bowels with precision and emotion. It can often be hard to describe why this film is so good. Essentially, it’s a prison break by an innocent man, detailing his life inside the walls with his fellow prisoners and a greedy warden. But something rises out of the cells and above those fortified walls. Every scene is memorable, every performance captivating. Whether it be Brooks and his fate, or the young prisoner shot by guards for wanting to help the protagonist, or even the great escape through shit; you can’t look away. This could easily have been number one, and would likely feature as number one on more lists than any other film.  

2. The Dark Knight (2008)

This is the greatest example of good versus evil in the history of cinema, with perhaps the strongest acting display by a man no longer with us. I don’t like superhero movies. I believe the current film climate of cinematic universes is destroying the screen and the moviegoing experience. But The Dark Knight is not really a superhero film. No super powers, just chaos and anarchy in a city pushing further into the darkness. Heath Ledger’s performance, in my eyes, is the greatest of all time. A deeply troubled man that manages to stay one step ahead of everyone, he is fuelled by Batman’s capabilities. As he says to the masked crusader, “You complete me”. We had heard of The Joker well before this film, but Ledger took the key features and created something that has changed pop culture forever. But it isn’t just his character that makes this film so powerful. It’s an ongoing battle against a figure without a weakness. And we can all relate to that. 

And Number #1 – The Departed (2006)

Scorsese finally won an Oscar for Best Director for his epic crime saga featuring heavyweights such as DiCaprio, Damon, Nicholson, Wahlberg, Sheenand Baldwin. After I watched The Departed for the first time, recently graduating out of high school, it became my favourite film. Thirteen years later it is still my favourite film. In my books, dialogue is so important. Much of my dialogue is inspired by this film. Whether it be Nicholson’s crime boss intimidating his crew or Leo’s five-minute speech about how he feels being undercover with a mass murderer, no word is wasted. “Fuck” is dropped 237 times, and not a single “Fuck” is out of place. Leo’s strained voice and constant state of panic draws us in as Damon’s arrogance draws our anger, and as rat tries to find rat we find ourselves laughing infits with the incredible one-liners delivered in serious situations. I don’t think any film will ever top The Departed, especially with the current state of cinema, but if it does I know I’m in for a treat.

How Superheroes Ruined Cinema

The moviegoing experience is ingrained in our culture. To enter that dark space holding an oversized bucket of popcorn, with the giddy excitement of what may take place on the giant screen, captures the hearts of every age group. Booming sound, unexpected twists and fitting conclusions are a staple of the medium, but the very core of great cinema has changed. This is because of Marvel films and the overflowing effect of the cinematic universe system.

Superhero movies were common before Marvel established a roadmap of constant films in a cinematic universe. But they still followed the path of a beginning, middle and end. Now, movies exist to set up other movies and reward ‘fans’ who link what happens on screen to other materials such as comic books. Gone are the days where the full story occurred over a two hour admission. And, unfortunately, this is where the money is for actors, directors and writers. Quantity over quality.

You will struggle to find many A-grade actors who haven’t sold their souls to the cinematic universe. Leonardo DiCaprio may be one of the last surviving actors without his name featuring on a Marvel, DC or Disney flick. Original films that don’t feature comic-book characters or an already-established fanbase lack the safety of guaranteed profits, so those working in the industry gravitate towards these cinematic universes which sign them up for multiple movie deals. But as they watch their bank accounts bulge, it is the movie-goer that suffers. If you don’t like these cinematic universes? Bad luck, because you’ll be forced to watch independent films that lack the budget of these CGI-laden eye-busters. If you do? No point getting angry when an entry doesn’t satisfy you, because there will be more in its universe.

Many may think that this is a faze, but Marvel and their competitors have mapped out the next 5-10 years with films. Where is the originality? Where are the new ideas? Rather than change the race, gender or sexual orientation of an already-established character, why not create new characters? Have we reached a point where there are no new ideas? Of course not. Writers are coming up with fresh stories to tell all the time. They hold risk, and Hollywood is a business like anything else involving money. High risk. But high risk means high reward. Risk has produced the greatest films.

Star Wars came out in 1977 and few knew what the hell was happening. A pure form of originality. Big name actors declined to be involved because they feared a bomb. George Lucas was passionate about his project and success soon followed. But fast forward 40 years, and how likely is such an attempt? Which actors would lend their name to a film not even they truly understand? Is it ironic that something as original as Star Wars has now fallen in-line with Marvel’s cinematic universe, road-map style filmmaking? Nothing successful is safe. For when we do get an original masterpiece, fans call for sequels and prequels and minor characters getting their own film.

The solution? Books. Independent books. Books that not everyone has read. Books that have received high praise in smaller circles. This has a two-fold effect. More original stories are written, and cinema then rewards creativity. What satisfaction is garnered from entering a cinema, knowing the characters before they appear and simply seeing them set-up a future movie where you’ll have to fork out more money for? Change is needed. And as movie-goers, we can push this change.

I’m not going to tell you to not go and see a Marvel film, or a cinematic universe film. Far from it. But please, don’t forget films with creativity. Don’t avoid a film with an interesting premise because it feels foreign compared to the comfort of a superhero tackling a common enemy. Reward originality. For the more attention received and the more money gained from these films, the more chance we have of falling in love with something new.

I look forward to your thoughts.

The Day I Disconnected

It’s no secret that the Smartphone has become our gateway to the world. Not a bus, or a plane, or a boat…a small rectangle. We’re transfixed to social media because it provides us with what we want, when we want it. Whether you’re alone or with others, the most natural thing to do is to pull out your phone and start browsing. Technology is built to cater to your needs. This especially true in public settings. Waiting for a coffee, arriving at a pub before your mate, lining up at the supermarket; these are opportunities to delve into the phone as to not appear awkward. So when I was in the pub waiting for my wife to finish work down the road, I ordered a pint and sat outside with the hustle and bustle of a Friday afternoon swell. I pulled out my phone, started reading an article and BOOM…phone dead. With naught but my frothy cold pint as company, I looked up.

Being about 4:45pm, nobody was drunk yet. Here were the after-workers having their first Friday drinks, still dressed in their business or trade attire. As I scanned the courtyard, nearly everybody sat with a craned neck. The couple next to me, a bowl of fries between them, only looked up from the screen to dip their golden chips into the aioli. Their mouths moved, but eyes were on the scroll. The man with his back to me was rocking his baby in a pram with his feet, one hand on his pint and the other on his phone. I stuck my tongue out at the baby and we smiled, the only souls seeing beyond the gadget. If anyone wonders why the divorce rates are so high, the greeting (or lack thereof) this man gave to his arriving and heavily-pregnant wife was a billboard to the cause. Society is so heavily invested in reality TV: The Bachelor, Married at First Sight, Big Brother, First Dates, Gogglebox. This is essentially people-watching. So rather than watch antics through a screen, the antics in the pub became that much more authentic.

As the sun began to set behind the buildings, a pair rolled up to a table of ten. They were nervous. The man’s leg was fidgeting and the young woman scurried off to the bathroom to leave this poor lad stranded before the crowd. Instead of approaching the group, clearly acquaintances of his lady friend, he pulled out his phone and leaned against the brick wall mere metres away from them. When finally she re-appeared, they were awkwardly introduced to everyone. Cringe-worthy stuff. But with an audience of phone-watchers, the norm set in and the drinks flowed. The company he’d avoided for two minutes would be his company for the next four or so hours. Yet on the other hand, not one of these ten people had stood up to urge him over when he was alone.

I’m not here to preach technological celibacy or to urge you to look up from your phones. I look at my phone as much as anyone, because authors need to be ever-present on social media (and we like to know if a new review has popped up under one of our books). But our reliance on the screen in social settings is quite the eye-opener. Did it happen overnight, or gradually over the past decade? Do we grow bored with normal conversation because that which is on the screen is performed without the possibility of physical embarrassment? They’ll build a university course out of this topic, just watch.

So as I type on my laptop, looking at my screen, with my phone by my side and the television on in the background, I ponder what would happen if the internet shut down and everyone was forced to revert to the old ways. Maybe we’d all run home and lock ourselves in our bedrooms waiting for the return of the web.

And maybe we’d just shrug our shoulders, have a laugh and order another pint. Just an observation.

 

 

Writing Fear – Jo Fenton

All in my head by Jo Fenton

I’ve always been afraid of so many things, it’s hard to list them all. The first ones that come to mind are wasps, enclosed spaces and upsetting people. All of these are brought into The Brotherhood in some way.

The fear of upsetting people has been at the root of many difficulties over the years, and was probably a key factor in being bullied through childhood and into early adulthood. This fear is the cause of many of Mel’s problems in The Brotherhood. She wants to please Dominic, the sect leader, but she’s also intimidated by him. His anger makes her nervous, and then she says or does something to make the situation worse.

Another of my fears is hunger, and this is also mentioned several times in The Brotherhood. There are several instances where the food is very badly cooked. There is never any choice, and later on, Mel is dependent on others to ensure she doesn’t starve. The lack of food when she most needs it influences many of her actions, and she behaves in a way that she would normally find repulsive, just to survive.

When Mel first arrives at the Abbey, her only fears are of what she’s leaving behind, and of displeasing Dominic. It takes a while for the underlying menace to penetrate, but she gradually begins to realise that some of her new friends are living in fear: of the wardens, the group heads, and of the strange disappearances that occur from time to time. Her fear grows as she makes friends. Her affection for others causes her to fear for their safety as well as her own. Her abuser manipulates her by using his knowledge of her affections, and ultimately she is faced with horrendous decisions. How far will she go to save the ones she loves, and will fear get in the way of what she has to do?

Fear is a key element of The Brotherhood. It’s used to enforce rules, but also to ensure that the members don’t leave. Dominic tells the members that the world outside is vulnerable to the coming apocalypse, using his status and charisma to persuade his followers that he tells the truth, and they are only safe with him. He also plays on Mel’s fears of her ex-boyfriend to prevent her from leaving.

Abuse is a key theme in The Brotherhood. Abuse victims live in fear of what will happen. The threat of violence, of withdrawn privileges, or of indignities to be suffered, is a source of much of the fear within the book. I hope it was dealt with sensitively, and that any readers struggling in an abusive relationship will seek help to remove themselves from that situation. No one should have to live in fear.

Several parts of the novel were hard to write, as getting into the heads of the characters was traumatic at times. I had to embrace the fear while I was writing, and know that if I felt it, my readers were more likely to feel it too. Even so, I had a safety net – it was all in my head.

I just want to finish with a quote from my favourite Dick Francis novel, Proof: ‘Fear in a fearful situation is normal. Absence of fear is not.’

The Brotherhood is available now on Amazon

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Slippery Simmonds – Dortmund Hibernate

Here it is. The explosive opening to my debut novel Dortmund Hibernate, a psychological thriller.

Available to buy now on Kindle and in paperback – click here

Slippery Simmonds

Let them talk, Magnus. Let them spill. It is all just an exchanging of words between one person and another.

“You’re here to listen, right? Well open your ears, doc. You’re a doc, right? Doctor of Psychology, some bullshit like that? Yeah, fancy degree. Young doc though. Anyway, this story ain’t about you. It’s late one night. I’m sitting in my house fiddling my thumbs when these kids, right – fucking teens – are trying to boost my Jaguar parked in the driveway. My fucking driveway! What’s a man to fucking do about this? Teens, fucking scum. All they do is sniff out pussy and steal people’s cars. So I run outside to scare them off, right, flap my arms like a fucking seagull taking flight, and they shit themselves. The group, four, try to dash off into the night; two get away, but one falls. A brave young soldier tries to help his friend away from the Jaguar…which is now fucking scratched. I’m angry, doc, I admit it; got me a bit of a temper at times…so I boot the soldier in the face and yank the arm of the fallen one so hard it pops out of its socket… POP! I drag them inside by an arm each…both at the same time…and they’re too dazed to kick up a stink. I feel calm again, in my sanctuary, my realm of reality where I belong. I glance around at my fish swimming in their aquarium…my birds pecking at their seeds…my spiders wrapping flies like Christmas presents for the morning…my rats writhing over one another to nibble the cheese…my snakes uncoiling as they sense my reappearance…and my prize, my anaconda, all alone in her playpen, waiting patiently for something to do… someone to eat. I tie these two boys onto kitchen chairs and slap them awake. WAKE THE FUCK UP! I want them to see where they are…who they are fucking with. As a zoo keeper I never did care for the human race and I still don’t. You’re all so goddamn…emotional. These lads are crying, wetting their red fucking cheeks, whimpering for me to let them free. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, mister; please let us go, please. We’ll never say a word we swear, sorry, sorry…’ Shut the fuck up. They don’t listen. I go over to my spider tubs and withdraw Horrus. I tell the boys, I tell them the next one to speak has to deal with Horrus. ‘Sorry mister, sorry, so sorry. We won’t do it again. Please, please, please…’ Fallen boy it is. I cup Horrus in my hand. I grab the boy’s brown tuft of hair from behind and place my spider pal into the boy’s nostril. I tell the boy if he exhales through his nose, I’ll spread cheese on his cock and let the rats have a feast. He listens. Horrus disappears, up the nose he goes. Itsy Bitsy spider up the water spout. Nothing happens. But then the boy’s eyes begin to water…foam erupts from his mouth…blood shoots out of his nose like a tap turned on too high…and I realise I’m on the floorboards in hysterics…I can’t stop fucking laughing… like…like…like I am now! Soldier boy is as pale as my bare arse. Fallen boy falls again, smashing his head against the table and cracking his skull. Dead. Horrus scurries out of the nostril and I put him back in the tub. He knows how to do his job. I turn to soldier boy…he’s not pleading anymore. No sorry misters, just wide eyes and a flash of anger. His teeth are clenched, fists are balled…he wants a fight. I like that. I respect this boy now. So rather than stick a spider up his nose, I figure he deserves a worthy end. I drag the kitchen chair with him still strapped against it over to the playpen. I unlock the hatch. I untie the soldier boy and I shoulder-barge him in there. It’s just the two of them…human versus beast… boy versus nature…poetic. I grab a Heineken, sit on my rocking chair and watch through the glass pane as the soldier loses all of his courage…and Annie lashes out at his throat. Let’s just say, twenty minutes later and all I can see are white legs sticking out of Annie’s mouth like toothpicks, a bulge in her throat. She circled, she broke all of his little bones through constriction and then unlocked the jaw for a good old swallowing. I enjoyed the show, clapped at the conclusion, jacked off twice. Two cops came around a week later, asking questions about the disappearance of a pair of brothers last seen on the night they tried to steal my fucking Jag…I think those other pricks that got away finally found the courage to dob me in. I invited these upstanding gentlemen into my home…did you ever read 1984 by George Orwell, doc? There’s a scene near the end where Winston faces his worst fear…rats. They place a rat in a box and the only way it can escape is by chewing through Winston’s face. Unfortunately, Winston gives up…but I didn’t give the cop an option. Well, let’s just say the rat didn’t disappoint; it gnawed through the coppers chest while he was alive, ripped up his innards and found a way out through his throat; took the Adam’s apple clean out like a fruit-bobbing contest…winner! Cop number two: I strapped him to a table, put seeds in his eyeballs and POP! No more vision, well done birds. To cut a long story short, doc, my crew killed another six kids and three cops before one blue uniform got away. And here I am, captured and caged. Locked in Dortmund Asylum telling my story to the new fucking doc. Can’t say I don’t enjoy it…but I’d prefer to have my Annie here keeping me company. Dr. Magnus Paul? Nice nametag. The last swallowed his own tongue when talking to Jasper James…or was that the nurse? We hope you do one better…hahahahahahahahahaha…nobody does. He’ll get inside your head…he’ll do to your brain what my rat did to the cop. And all you’ll have left is physical freedom…and physical freedom is severely overrated when the mind is bound to us.”

Magnus glanced at his watch, blinked twice and lifted from his chair. He left Claude Simmonds, A.K.A Slippery Simmonds the animal-obsessed murderer, cackling in the darkness alone.

Available to buy now on Kindle and in paperback – click here

About

Psychologist Dr Magnus Paul is tasked with the patients of Dortmund Asylum – nine criminally insane souls hidden from the world due to the extremity of their acts.

Magnus has six weeks to prove them sane for transfer to a maximum-security prison, or label them as incurable and recommend a death sentence under a new government act.

As Magnus delves into the darkness of the incarcerated minds, his own sanity is challenged. Secrets squeeze through the cracks of the asylum, blurring the line between reality and nightmare, urging Magnus towards a new life of crime…

The rural western town of Dortmund and its inhabitants are the backdrop to the mayhem on the hill.

It’s Silence of the Lambs meets Shutter Island in this tale of loss, fear and diminishing hope.

Available to buy now on Kindle and in paperback – click here

Writing Fear – Tom Halford

Paranoia by Tom Halford

“The only thing we have to fear is…fear itself — nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Fear is frightening.

That sounds like a silly thing to say. How can fear be frightening? Being chased by a stray Doberman with rabies is frightening. Nearly being struck by an oncoming transport truck is frightening. Having a stranger hold a knife up to your face is frightening.

That’s not really my point, though.

Being chased by a stray dog, nearly being hit by a transport truck, being threatened with a knife–these things don’t happen to most people on a regular basis. I’m guessing that they don’t happen to most people at all.

But worry is always present.

That’s what is actually frightening–to live in a state of anxiety when the world is a pretty good place.

My book Deli Meat is about paranoia and about conspiracies. There’s a serial killer and a cult wreaking havoc in the small border town of Plattsburgh, New York. At any moment, a person might be abducted or killed. It’s kind of like a lottery that nobody wants to win.

This sense of fear and anxiety is based on real experience. While my wife and I were living in upstate New York, two convicts broke out of a maximum security prison. These were not men you would want to run into in a dark alley. Both were serving time for murder.

You can look it up if you Google 2015 Clinton Correctional Facility Escape. Ben Stiller is making a TV series based on the incident.

Our apartment was only about a fifteen minute drive from the prison. For about two weeks, no one knew where the convicts were, so naturally, we assumed they were around every corner.

It was a time of extreme paranoia. A lesson that I learned is that one of the most frightening things is how such a situation changes the way you view your surroundings. We enjoyed living in Plattsburgh quite a bit. For those two weeks, however, the quiet border town where we were raising our kids transformed into the set of a horror movie.

The likelihood of us actually bumping into one of the escaped convicts was very slim. In our minds, though, it felt like we might see them at any moment. Our fear and our anxiety changed the way we viewed our surroundings.

Here’s an excerpt from Deli Meat that I hope demonstrates my point:

Effie wondered if the police had investigated this landing. Whoever was committing these crimes could easily put people aboard one of these boats and take them to a house along the shoreline.

Effie thought about how drastically fear changed one’s perspective. Even though she sat before calm waters under a broad blue sky, what she saw was a potential crime scene, an escape route for a violent criminal.

The threat to one’s self is frightening, but it’s living with fear that grinds a good spirit into something meaner; it’s paranoia that melts beauty into something ugly.

That’s why fear is so frightening.

It’s not what’s there.

It’s what might be there that keeps us up at night.

Deli Meat by Tom Halford is available to pre-order now for a September 17 release – click here

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Writing Fear – Jane Bwye

Fear: The Necessary Ingredient by Jane Bwye

Thank you C.J. for giving me this opportunity to expose my fears. Although, like you, I have dubbed my first book, Breath of Africa a psychological thriller, it is only that in parts. Looking at the blurb on yours, I doubt I would be able to pluck up the courage to read it – although, when in the right mood, a part of me might be tempted!

As a child, my first fear was a dread of the telephone. I would avoid answering it if I could. I hated the thing. The thought of speaking to an object, and actually getting a reply from it was utterly alien. Of necessity, I have overcome that fear, but when leaving a message on voice mail, I still act as if I’m talking to a machine instead of a person.

I was a mouse, afraid of speaking up in class in case I made a fool of myself. At parties, I hid away, watching others dance and chat. I’ve always been a one-to-one person, terrified of the limelight, and as an adult would be a bundle of nerves every time I had to stand up and speak to a group of people, however small. This was getting ridiculous, especially when in my seventies, I had to promote my books at peril of displeasing my publishers, the patient Crooked Cats! So, I did something about it and joined Toastmasters, completing a couple of their courses. Although I still get the heebie-jeebies, the difference amazes me.

I’ve actually come to enjoy giving talks on various subjects, and I hit the high spot when I was recently interviewed by a respected local personality on radio:

But, to get back to books. Fear, at whatever level, is a necessary ingredient in any novel; it is an easy way to generate compulsion to read on.

Throughout Breath of Africa, the villain Mwangi, a Mau Mau oath giver, has a psychological hold over several of the characters, despite their upbringing in the Christian faith. He causes the death of two people, and seriously frightens others.

…(She) lay on her back, eyes closed, breath coming in barely perceptible gasps. Her face was taught and strained. Then her eyes popped open, wide with fright. She stared past Caroline’s shoulder. She half rose in the bed, tangled hair wild about her face, and her mouth opened in a silent scream…

Fear of sex, the result of attempted rape and the attentions of a relentless stalker threatens the tender love story in Grass Shoots. There is also the aftermath of the extreme Kenya election violence of 2007 – for the two books are based on fact – and terror amid robbery with violence. And a mysterious cave harbours a close tribal secret, watched over by generations of sorcerers who keep constant watch against intruders.

… (he) took up the rear, grasping the “rungu”… The soft light of the risen moon bathed the wilderness, and his eyes scanned the ground as they traversed the cliff, ears attuned to the shadowy scrub for tell-tale signs of movement. He fingered the ‘panga’ in his belt. Even as they reached the narrow ledge leading to the cave, he knew that the predators were following, and the knife-edged machete would serve as a last-ditch weapon..

My website: http://janebwye.com/