Dave Franklin's Blog, page 2

Stuck with my brain

Just watched Avatar, a movie that couldn't have been any more predictable. I've long believed political correctness is ruining art and Avatar would appear to offer further evidence. These days it seems you have to portray a different culture positively - even if it's a fictional alien one. From the moment our hero arrives on the planet, the local culture is shown to be rich, textured and vital. Yawn. There never was the slightest doubt our hero would get seduced by their mysterious ways and end up fighting on their side against those horrible humans. For a movie so bursting with colour, Avatar was utterly black and white.

I couldn't help comparing Cameron's effort to one of my favourites, Planet of the Apes. In that movie, Taylor (Charlton Heston) ends up on a brutal alien world. It's quite clear that the locals are mainly bloodthirsty fundamentalist thugs. The simian culture is still evolving, still suspicious and filled with superstitious, negative elements. And boy, does that make for better viewing.

Another reason Apes is resonating is it's such a good example of a leap of imagination. It's all about racism and, to a lesser extent, the clash between faith and science. And how is this depicted? By setting it millions of years in the future where everything's been turned on its head and humans have become a subservient species. I deeply admire artists who can make such leaps of imaginations, partly because it's a trick that seems beyond me. At the moment my latest novel - about a cyclone - has stalled. I want to introduce a supernatural, horror or time-travelling element but am well and truly outside my comfort zone. I'd love the cyclone to be a metaphor or an allegory or some other word I don't quite understand but I just don't seem to have the confidence or nous to make it work. To compound my misery I've just reread Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5 in which he effortlessly and wryly weaves a timetravelling/alien component into a story inspired by the horrific firebombing of Dresden. Why can't I do that?

Well, probably because Vonnegut's a better writer, although it might also have something to do with most artists only having one or two tricks up their sleeves. For me it's alienation - I can write about it in a funny or a serious way. And that's it. Look at AC/DC, still banging out the same album more than 30 years after Back in Black. And why not? Why try to fix something that ain't broke? They've got a worldwide audience and deliver what is expected time after time. And let's face it, reinvention is a bloody tricky thing. Some artists can do it eg Kid A or Achtung Baby! but most play it safe, either by design or an absolute inability to be able to do something different. Their brains just don't work that way. And so my cyclone novel will probably end up about some pitiful, idiotic bloke whose failure to get on with women is down to a bout of really rotten weather.

Hey, that doesn't sound too bad...

ANNIEE and my buttocks

I don't even know why I've started this blog given the fact I don't really like bloggers, especially if they just bang on about their daily life. I guess I'm just a miserable hypocrite doomed to become what he hates. But hey, aren't we all? The internet, of course, is probably Man's most brilliant method yet for wasting time (soap operas come a close second). It's a virtual universe bursting with nitpickers, the overly analytical, axe-grinders, soul-barers, the parasitical, knee-jerkers and other kindred spirits. Everyone's got an opinion and everyone thinks they're right. Abusive rubbish can be published in the blink of an eye, giving credence to one of my cherished beliefs that people just wanna kick each other and will find whatever excuse they can to do it.

Blogs, of course, can often be nothing but exercises in navel-gazing. I'll go further: many are the cyberspace equivalent of manure, the perfect medium in which weeds can flourish. Bloggers frequently seem to be wannabe writers who lack the talent, belief and gumption to do something properly creative. For let's be clear about one thing: if you can write an email then you can bloody well write a blog.

Too many people lack insight, a critical perspective and a sense of humour. Well, this is what my outraged ego, basic misanthropy and siege mentality tells me as I cower under my bed. And so bloggers instead often record the excruciating minutiae of their daily lives - I'll never forget one idiot's post about his grandad buying him some nasal hair clippers, an event so noteworthy that there was even an accompanying photo (although disappointingly not in use). Such blogs are the 21st century's answer to carving your name in a tree trunk, a dismally unimaginative attempt to inform the world of your existence.

Now don't you go thinking that I'm inferring my blog is superior. That would be upsetting. It's quite obviously just a collection of random thoughts, a way of amusing myself and passing the time as I wait for progress to restart on my (stalled) sixth novel. I hope I'm not falling victim to that disease I saw manifest itself so frequently in the world of journalism: people falling in love with their byline, no matter how big a pile of pants it was attached to. Honestly, journalists are capable of gazing at their published articles as if they've just come up with The Origin of the Species.

So why am I writing this blog? Perhaps you're hoping for some tips on how to become as unsuccessful a writer as me. You know, insights into the creative process. Well, don't go holding your breath as I think it's utterly irrelevant how writers get their words down. End results are the only important thing. And so if you treat creativity as an office job and start work at 9am, write for three hours, have a lunch break and then continue until 5pm, fine. Ditto if you go on one of those hideously overpriced rainforest retreats where you can be inspired by nature, simultaneously practise yoga and creative writing, and gently critique all that hippy tripe produced by those other gullible fools alongside. And if you adopt a more disorganised approach (such as hanging upside down from a beam drunk as a skunk while dressed as Marilyn Monroe) then fine. Just get the fucking words down. Because here's the only truth: If you want to be a writer, you have to bloody well write. I'd wish you luck but I don't need the competition. In fact, I'm hoping all the other novelists in the world die so I get a following by default.

But to get back on track blogs are clearly connected to ego. There's something addictive to seeing your name published, even though it doesn't mean you've written anything worthwhile. This sort of behaviour can express itself in many ways, such as spraypainting your moniker on a wall (I believe the youngsters refer to it as tagging). Such pedestrian crudity is lamentable but even that's preferable to those select band of idiots who go in for personalised number plates.

Let me elaborate. On my way to work I walk past a bright green Bug emblazoned with the name ANNIEE. I've already developed a quite irrational hatred of the machine, especially as it looks like an upsidedown wedge of lime on wheels. The mere sight of it provokes an urge to drop my pants and rub my naked buttocks against it, although I haven't done so yet as a) it's probably illegal and b) it may trigger some latent sexual fetish that mutates into bonnet fondling and unspeakable activities with exhaust pipes. I guess it's possible that one day I'll bump into its owner, the human monstrosity known as Anniee, engage her in casual conversation and then petulantly demand an explanation. Maybe there's a practical explanation for her crassness, such as her being an amnesiac who can never remember where she parks (or even what her car looks like) thus requiring her name on it to help speedily locate it. However, I suspect Anniee would instead proudly declare the numberplate to be an expression of her individuality. If she did, homicidal violence and a blood-spattered Bug would probably follow.

Why? Well, being an individual has nothing to do with personalised number plates. Or with having an outrageous haircut or wearing snazzy clothes. An individual is someone who puts in place a pattern of behaviour that can be loosely termed as DOING SOMETHING. Slapping your stupidly spelt name on a lump of metal doesn't make you an individual any more than trotting out your banal thoughts in a blog does.

So stop reading the unhealthy ramblings of this Welsh weed and go and start doing something, you passive human speck.

And you know what? It doesn't matter if you fail.

Franklin 15, Rowling Love

I just had a look at JK Rowling's profile. If a negative review can be seen as one or two stars then nearly 100,000 readers have given her the thumbs down.

So, there you go: I'm doing much better than JK Rowling.

Celebrating Phil Collins

I can remember reading about a celebrity - I forget which one but it might have been Phil Collins - who was in a hotel having breakfast when an autograph hunter came up to him. He happily obliged before the 'fan' ripped it up in front of his laughing mates and told him he was a tosser. Such a naked display of contempt doesn't make much sense but it does illustrate the strange, irrational relationship that some people have with art.

Artists are, of course, heroes - even if you don't like their work. Without them I'd have to spend my free time trying to develop an interest in Aussie Rules or cars or something. And although I can't say the majority of Phil Collins' output does a lot for me I would never entertain the idea of trying to publicly humiliate him or giving him the cold shoulder if we happened to end up in the same lift. In fact, I'll go further: there's a ten-minute track on a 1984 Genesis album called Home by the Sea about a haunted house that's an absoulte pearl. Every time I hear it Phil Collins enriches my life. Christ, I never thought I'd write that.

So why is Mr Collins capable of attracting such bucketloads of derision? After all, he's not a criminal. Neither has he personally wronged his listeners. He might be a really likeable bloke. Whatever the case, having preconceptions about a stranger based on their art is patently misguided and pathetic, especially if it's agenda-based. People with agendas are always the clumsiest and easiest to spot.

But here's the truth: people often can't distinguish between art and artist. They believe that if a piece of art is bad then the person behind it must be a contemptible idiot, the sort of scumball who deserves to be spat upon in the street. (The anthesis is also true where favoured artists are seen as God-like). This is not a rational reaction, especially when the critics of someone such as Phil Collins can't actually prove that the artists they prefer are better in any way at all. Art, you see, is paradoxical.

Even so, art is still perfectly capable of short-circuiting the more rational side of my brain. A few years ago I reviewed the Brisbane premiere of Wolf Creek for a magazine, an event which was attended by the film's killer John Jarrat. Now Wolf Creek is one mother of a horror film and seeing Mr Jarrat at the post-movie soiree cordially sipping his white wine was oddly unnerving. After all, a few moments before he'd been indulging in the not altogether dishonourable pastime of drugging, raping and slaughtering backpackers. In fact, the woman I was with wouldn't go near him, as if he were going to whip out a knife, plunge it into the base of her spine and turn her into a head on a stick. It was a classic case of failing to distinguish between character and actor, art and artist.

And then the other side of the coin is that it's always fun to rubbish artists. My mum likes to say that if you've got nothing nice to say about someone then you shouldn't say anything. But if you don't have negative opinions about artists you run the risk of being a very bland conversationalist. A case in point is the American stand-up Bill Hicks. Boy, do I love listening to his rants about Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer sucking on Satan's cock, even if I know such bile for a couple of fellow artists - two people expressing themselves and trying to build something just like Hicks - is absurd in the extreme.

Hell, I've lost the thread of this post now. Perhaps I'm trying to say if you find one thing by an artist that you like - maybe a single song in a 30-year career - then celebrate that artist's existence. Forget about all their other misfires for in that one moment when they get it right and connect with you they've given to you in a way that no critic ever can.

*Obviously none of the above applies to James Blunt. If you ever meet him, please kick his face in.

Girls don't like misogynists

Girls Like Funny Boys has been released as a cheap ebook on Amazon US & UK.

Now this novel is getting one fun ride. I think people expect some sort of cutesy book about a funny boy when in actual fact it's a tale about an immature, self-centred boy laced with sexual obsession, rape, porn, masturbation, dismal sex with Asian hookers and inappropriate Bert Newton appearances.

In other words the book - especially the prologue - is a study in misogyny. My intent was to capture the intensity, ugliness and selfishness of male sexual desire and how a character such as Johnny sees Gina as a collection of bits 'to be hunted down and possessed' rather than as a real person with real feelings.

The reviews are already so mixed that it's pointless reading them. Then again, anyone who takes notice of a review is a fool. Nothing can be proved about art - its merit is just a personal response. Awards, sales, the critics, what your best mate or mum thinks - all meaningless. A 'good' book is simply a book you like while a 'bad' book is one you dislike. Have you seen that Metacritic website? It gathers together an arbitrary handful of newspaper reviews for a movie or CD or whatever and then somehow turns them into number out of one hundred. What hilarious horseshit.

Although obviously I am the exception and can provide convincing evidence (with the aid of some plasticine, an etch-a-sketch and a Rubik's Cube) that all my books are great.

It's fiction, luvvies

I once read part of a John Grisham interview in which he said he would never write about children and animals getting hurt. I guess he's a mass market novelist and it's his job not to offend as many people as possible.

I, however, being such an obscure novelist that my mother once returned one of my efforts on the basis she had never heard of the author, can disregard any such sensitivities to the marketplace. Let's put it more bluntly: I like writing about children and animals getting hurt. In fact, I hope to one day write about a busload of children crashing into a zoo and exploding.

Of course, I never understand people who get upset by art. They really are baffling. I mean, if you're going to get offended then get offended by the real world, what goes on in it and how people treat each other. Don't get all huffy about things that aren't real and stuff that hasn't actually happened. That just makes you a silly-billy.

Right, back to my latest scene about a dog being chucked into a concrete mixer.

My great dream...

...is to morph into a typical Aussie bloke who goes down the pub with his mates to talk about sport, wink at the barmaid and eat a pie on the way home before watching more sport. Alas, such fulfillment seems beyond my grasp. Instead I stay indoors writing novels that hardly anyone reads. And those luckless fools who blunder into contact with my diseased ramblings are frequently unamused, disappointed or appalled.

Unfortunately, writing - or as I prefer to think of it, my horrific journey of absurdity - is not showing the slightest sign of giving me a respite to pursue my pie-eating dream. I'm trying to win a war with language but I lose battle after battle and sometimes - just to shake things up - I massacre my own troops. And now after two decades of effort, I'm starting to understand why artists - whether successful or otherwise - go mad, become alcoholics or blow their brains out.

And, of course, the funny thing is it's all voluntary. No one is holding a gun against my head demanding I write another novel. Whenever I stick my head out of the window I don't see scantily-clad parades of pretty girls holding up placards that read: Write another book, you Welsh hunk, and you can ravish us.

Although I may have dreamed this.

The future's so bright I gotta wear shades

To Dare a Future - my worst novel - has been released as an ebook on Amazon. One reviewer called it a "drunken, stumbling mess" which seems quite fitting as it was actually created by a drunken, stumbling mess. It's a cheery tale about legs being snapped and children getting splatted. Anyhow I've plunged my hands into its bloated corpse and pulled out its black heart to hold up glistening to the light. In other words, I've cut 25 per cent of it. I say it's my worst novel but it's not bad if you're thinking of wandering into McDonald's with an AK47 and SHOWING THEM ALL HOW MUCH YOU MATTER.

So, onto happier things - I've got my first fan on Goodreads. Considering my first novel was published almost a decade ago, I believe this means I'm due my next fan sometime in late 2019. If I continue to attract such slavish attention I've worked out that I should have seven fans by the time I'm 100. I think that's enough to organise some sort of get-together, although rest assured I would never give it such a grand title as 'convention'.
Still, I must confess I have already started picturing my shrunken self in a piss-stained wheelchair dribbling on one of my books as I read aloud to a small but rapt audience.

See you there...?

'I've got the gush!'

My unwiedly, barely stable literary empire - constantly under attack from the politically correct, the humourless, my own apathy and those silly lifeforms who get offended by things that have been made up - has expanded even further to include ebooks. Where will it all end? Probably in a prison cell next to a six-foot-six convict in a blonde wig who likes to be called Barbara.

The cost of this bold new publishing venture is quite reasonable - your daughter's virginity, although Amazon will also accept the more traditional payments of a few bucks/quid.

Those gooey, heartwarming tales English Toss on Planet Andong, Manic Streets of Perth and Looking for Sarah Jane Smith can be sent to your Kindle or phone. A free application can also be downloaded to enable them to be scoffed at on your home computer.

Visit http://www.amazon.co.uk/s?_encoding=U...

To Dare a Future and Girls Like Funny Boys will be added soon.

I look forward to meeting your daughter.

Ways to Waste Your Time #217

I've written a few chapters of a new novel. It's a supernatural thriller about a cyclone, although I may lose the supernatural elements. And the bit about the cyclone.