Craig Wallwork's Blog, page 3

Caleb J Ross Does Not Have a Beard

It was his name that first grabbed me. Caleb J Ross. Here was a guy who sounded like he was already someplace, higher up the social ladder, or sitting atop some magical literary tree we all so desperately wanted to shimmy. He was established before he became known. I was impressed, but I had reservations. I have this thing about names, you see. And beards. If a person has a cool name, or a decent beard, I gravity to them assuming they’re an artiste, a unique oddity that may have the one thing that will change my life. My theory has yet to be proved true. Caleb J Ross doesn’t have a beard. But if he did, I would have probably wanted to know what shirt he wears, his shoes, so at the very least I buy a pair just like him. But I don’t like what Caleb wears. He’s too casual; t-shirt, hoodie, jeans… he dresses like a man who spends his time doing other things than walking the Mall, shopping for G-Star and anti-fit jeans. No, Caleb isn’t a fashion icon. He doesn’t have a beard. He doesn’t sing. He doesn’t do anything much, but what he does, he does well. Caleb J Ross is a writer, and man, he can write.

I was grouped with him in a writer’s workshop. He had a novel he was working on. I had started Dog Mile. The name of his novel was one word (I won’t mention it in case it’s changed or he sues me for liable – American’s have a habit of doing that). I had to look up the word. This pissed me off. Nonetheless, his prose grabbed me by the bollocks and didn’t let go. He was one of the first fledging writers I found that had the capacity to say something. Sure, there are a lot of writers out there that can write. They can string a sentence or two together and make it sound pretty. But most are coasting through the narrative, falling back on a few well-observed social reflections, perhaps a beautifully crafted sentence every now and then, but rarely do they say anything. Caleb had that potential. I never finished the novel. I dropped out of the workshop due to family issues at the time. Not too sure if Caleb even finished the novel, or if it now sits under his bed gathering dust, or its sheets act as a cradle for which a stray, hardened sock rests upon at night. But over the years I have seen Caleb’s popularity grow and grow. He has completed several novels and seen them published; from Stranger Will to Charactered Pieces, to I didn’t Mean to Be Kevin, to As a Machine and Parts. He is one of only a few authors I don’t need to worry about. He is a few boughs away from the top of that literary tree, and I know it won’t be long before he’s looking down on us all, probably with his balls on show.

Today he uploaded a video review of Quintessence of Dust. He’s being doing these reviews for a while, and it’s fucking annoying how good he is at doing them, and in turn, promoting himself and gathering a steady and loyal stream of viewers. This pisses me off too. In truth, I think I secretly I hate the guy because he’s too damn good at everything he does. Except that is growing a beard, or buying clothes. Nevertheless, here’s a link to the review.

http://www.calebjross.com/other-write...

When you’re done with all that, pop over to his site. Fall in love with him. Buy his book/s. Talk about him over coffee and remember his name, because it is a name that cleaves. http://www.calebjross.com/

Quintessence of Dust gets a Plucking

Hardboiled thriller writer Thomas Pluck was gracious and courageous (dare I use the adjective, plucky?) to allow me to invade his personal space lately with talk of Quintessence of Dust. No, I didn’t breach the boundaries of social etiquette and get in his face; Thomas allowed me to be his Guest Plucker, which kind of sounds like I should be in the scullery de-feathering a chicken.

http://pluckyoutoo.com/2012/05/30/gue...

I spent my time there talking about the origins of the stories featured in Quintessence of Dust, and how truth pervades every story a writer commits to paper. So, if you want to know what truth lay in Anal Twine, Night Holds a Scythe, Gutterball’s Labyrinth, Skin and many more, then check it out.

Thomas describes himself as the Bullet Award-winning writer of the Denny the Dent stories. His hardboiled and humorous fiction has appeared in The Utne Reader and Crimespree Magazine, and he is the editor of the Lost Children anthologies that benefit causes like PROTECT and Children 1st. He lives in the suburb of Montclair with my wife Sarah, and practices mixed martial arts and strongman training in his spare time… so you know, don’t fuck with him.

I suggest buying The Lost Children, because it’s full of great calibre writers, and it’s for charity too. Thanks for reading.

Quintessence of Dust now available to download for FREE

I’m writing this as the large hand creeps toward 1am in the morning, UK time. My head is clouded by Angostura Bitter, Tate & Lyle sugar, cream soda and Red Stag by Jim Beam. From what I remember of the night proceeding this moment is a fragmented account of a film starring Justin Timberlake where time is a commodity, but acting isn’t. There was, as my tongue will contest, mature cheddar cheese crisps and too much garlic in my dinner. Punctuating the monotony of the film, and the sips of Old-Fashion, was news from Pablo D’Stair at KUBOA that my short story collection, Quintessence of Dust, is now available to buy and/or download for FREE. Yes, FREE!

Don’t think for one moment I’d prefer you buy the book rather than download. It matters not. In truth, I’d prefer you to download, and then tell everyone you know to download, and so on and so on until every Kindle or e-reader in the world is polluted with my words. But if that’s not possible, then all I can ask is that you download the book and, if you’re feeling generous, and have the time, add a comment or review. I’m not even bothered if the review is good. If it's bad I will simply glean your IP address from the Smashwords site and hunt you down, whereby upon meeting you, insert a hot potato up your rectum. I have the power to do this, and the knowledge. But not the potatoes.

So please, follow the links provided. That my “refresh” button will be broken within a month to see if anyone has left a review should not influence you in any shape or form. But just so you know, I’m buying potatoes tomorrow.

Also check out the rest of the KUBOA crew, including works by...

Nigel Bird
Edward J Rathke
Mel Bowsworth
Chris Deal
Pat King
Sarah D'Stair
Corey Mesler
Josh Spilker
and J Bradley

Thanks.

Free edition: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...

Paperback: http://kuboapress.wordpress.com/curre...

Quintessence of Dust: Important Notification

Today I awoke to an email from Pablo D'Stair over at KUBOA Press who, altruistically, has cracked the literary whip in order to have the artwork for my new book, Quintessence of Dust, finished well ahead of schedule.

http://craigwallwork.blogspot.com/201...

As you can see, it's damn pretty. The font echoes the work of Saul Bass and the artwork, abstract in its design, reminded me of some of the early work by Ivon Hitchens. Suffice it to say, two visionaries I'm flattered to reference and draw parallels to in this, my first short story collection. If you like the cover, please add a comment and I'll make sure it gets to the illustrator. I'm sure they'll be please to hear your views.

The reason the cover has been pushed through so early is because I was given a little ad-space in Dark River Press's first in-print magazine soon to be released, details of which I’ll post accordingly. That issue will feature, Night Holds the Scythe, a short story taken from Quintessence of Dust. It is not a cookie cutter horror story, but it is horror, telling the story of a man trying desperately to keep his daughter awake in a world where falling asleep means you never wake up. I believe Livius Nedin of Booked Podcast is writing a better version of this story, so keep your eyes peeled.

If you're interested in buying Quintessence of Dust, and why wouldn't you?, it's a pocketbook sized, mass market paperback, and to preorder it's ONLY $2.95 via this link:

http://tinyurl.com/77s3thh

I don't even think you can buy a beer that cheap, and to be honest, beer won't be as fun as reading stories like, Anal Twine, 180 Degrees Shy of Heaven, Skin, and Morning Birdsong and the Hell Demons!

Keep checking back if you want a flavour of QoD (it's already been truncated!) to see when Dark River Press release the magazine, which I'm sure will blow you away with the author's attached (it's true, I've seen the line up!)

For now, thanks for reading and for sharing this completely self-centred moment with me.

Who the F@c*k Does Craig Wallwork Think He Is?

Question: When do you become the authority on a subject? Maybe too broad a question, so let me scale it down. When do you gain enough experience to have the authority to pass it down? I’m sure if you’re a lumberjack, then the process and techniques involved in *felling a tree, I imagine, are quite simple to follow and, with practice, master. Same could be said about riding a horse, shooting heroin, mastering the perfect punch, walking a tightrope, and various other mindless activities and professions. The only two things that can’t be passed down, regardless of how much exposure you’ve had to either, or how good you are at them, are, in no particular order, falling in love and writing. There, I said it; we can’t teach writing. Well, we can, but to be great at [writing] the skill has to be there to begin with. Much like love, you need to really feel it within every part of you. Yes, corny as it sounds, writing has to make you nauseous, cause you to do stupid things, and become obsessed to the point of madness. Even then, you’ll end up getting your heart broken. Writing is, for want of a better term, a sickness, and while many profess to know the secret to assuaging the illness, many do not. What worked for them, will surely not work for you.

The reason. That’s the simple part. We’re all different. I’ve begun to hate this methodology that abiding by a set amount of rules will enable you to write the perfect novel. There are lists and lists out there with the same old crap, crap that I refuse to write here in case someone, anyone, reading this decides to follow. I promise you I will not go down that road. But that is not to say these rules shouldn’t be read, but just as quickly as you’ve digested each, they should be pooped out of the system. Don’t believe anyone who says they know the secret to writing. They don’t. Writers are magicians. They trick you. Slight of hand. They mislead you into believing the impossible is possible. They mystify you with words, deceive you with syntax. They’ll convince you that what they say and do is magic, when really the only magic they posses is the ability to influence you.
I’ve fallen foul of this myself. I’ve believed that adverbs is a mortal sin, that I should never, ever use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose". That when in doubt, strike the adjective out. That I mustn’t do anything with the story/novel, unless I revise, revise, revise. It’s occurred to me that I’ve actually broken the promise that I wouldn’t write down any of these writing tips, so please disregard all I’ve said from the line, “I’ve fallen foul of this myself” and pick up again from this point.

Back with me? Okay, let’s move on. I’ve also, at one stage or another, given my own tips on bettering your writing. How pretentious! Me, with only a novel, short story collection, and various publications in anthologies, journals and magazines under my belt, telling you, a complete stranger how to write. Fuck me. No, it’s wrong of me to say such things. I don’t know what will work for you. I don’t know what technique suits your style. I certainly don’t know how best to get what’s in your head out onto the paper, least not without the aid of a gun. Those seeking ways of improving are clearly spending too much time reading about how to be a better writer than writing to be a better writer. That sounds like advice. It’s not. It’s an observation. To veer away from the misunderstanding I maybe giving advice here, be clear that I have no interest in such things, but I will add that a whore makes her money being a great fuck. A lousy whore needs to fuck more or get out the business. I’m sure I could make that more concise and it would be quote worthy, but to be frank, that would be leaning too far toward advice again.

For me, there’s little I can’t learn from reading. Some books inspire me, some depress me, and not in a good way. Some are so depressing it makes me want to write something better. Most are average. I then sit and write. Some days I write crap. Some days I write crap that has potential. Some days I write average. But every now and then, I write something good. It’s not tips or advice that’s done this, it’s me. It’s my brain. It’s all the accumulative hours spent tapping at the keyboard. It’s stealing lines from other books, lyric, dialogue from a movie, rearranging the words, adding my own slant on it, and then re-packaging it. Most of what we do as writers is the equivalent of Mexican food: the content is the same, it’s just the way it’s presented which differs. There’s no real secret about this, and what annoys me is there are many so called “experts” out there making money off other writers under the pretence that being under their wing for five weeks will make them a better a writer. All that will do will give you access to a great editor. I’d recommend investing that $500 in getting a professional editor to look at your novel. Then you’ll realise how good or bad you are. Which leads me finally to the most depressing part of this little blog entry: Most of you cannot write.

Regardless of how much time and energy you put into that project, you’ll never be that good. Whoever said every person has at least one novel in them should be shot. You don’t. At best, you have a decent short story, if you’re lucky, but the majority of writers out there have little to say and even less skill to say it. Sorry. But that’s the truth. Some may class myself in that unsympathetic summary, and maybe they’re right, but at the moment, I’m getting enough interest thrown my way that I’m willing to keep pushing for a little longer. I feel sorry for editors though. I truly do. Having to sift through the stacks of toilet fodder that someone, in a moment of absolute psychosis, believed was worthy of labelling a novel must be soul-destroying. I doff my hat to each and every one of you. I couldn’t do it. So yes, fledging writers of the world unite and give up. Honestly. It’s not worth losing your marriage over or missing out on seeing your kid ride their bicycle without the stabilizers or taking their first steps. Seriously, it’s not. This business is only for the insane, the selfish, the broken and the delusional. Be a good person and make the world a better place. Don’t think your writing will.

Back to the question: I personally have no idea when you’re allowed to say these things. I have no concept of when you’re good enough to be that arrogant you can pass down advice. Unlike their ability to wax lyrical on how to improve your writing, no author teaches you when you keep your mouth shut and when to open it.

Now there’s a course I may sign up for.

*Felling (taken from: http://www.woodlands.co.uk/blog/pract...)

The first cut is the sink cut (front of tree) which controls the direction of the fall. It’s done in two parts using the bottom of the guide bar. The cuts should not be more than one quarter of the tree’s diameter.

Cut downwards at an angle of 45 degrees (60 degrees if downhill) ensuring the guide bar is at 90 degrees to the intended direction of the fall. This cut may be less than 45 degrees if felling over raised obstructions so that the hinge may break earlier.

The second part of the sink cut is horizontal and must meet the 45 (or 60) degree cut exactly.

Start the felling cut (back of tree) by aligning the guide bar slightly above the bottom of the sink cut, ensuring that you are standing to the side of the tree when making this cut. Stop cutting when there is a parallel strip of uncut timber not less than 1/10th of the diameter of the tree. This is the “hinge”. The tree should now start to fall, so move quickly out of the way to your safe place.

If the tree does not fall, do not cut further into the hinge. Use a felling lever or wedge. To use a felling lever, stand firmly with both hands on the lever, knees bent and back straight, lift upwards using your leg muscles. To use a wedge, insert the wedge into the felling cut opposite to the felling direction and drive it in using a sledge hammer.

Bookcases and Braces

When I was 11 years old I had to wear braces. Like most kids I hated them, but what I hated more was visiting the orthodontist. In the run up to having the brace fitted I had to have four teeth removed, on two different occasions. Back then they put you under with an injection. They’d sit me down in the chair, ask me much I weighed, and then inject me in the hand. I remember that cold feeling as the anaesthetic rushed through my veins, and the intoxicating smell of various dental compounds like Formo-creasol, Metacresylacetate, Eugenol, Acrylic Monomer and just the odour of the drill excavating enamel. Black out. Waking with blood in my mouth, the pain, and the disorientation. Ice-cream. Soup. Usually in that order. Then there was the fitting and the tightening of metal plates, and wire. The aching gums and the mortification that came with smiling, or talking. It was a horrible experience and I hated every minute of it.

However, if I went through that process now, I’m sure the trauma would not appear so bad. I would be awake for the teeth extraction, and the smell of the dental surgery is one I have come to accept as a normal part of my year. The aching gums and indignity of wearing a brace would have lost the gravity it had in my youth because peer pressure and vanity is not paramount to me now. In truth, I have considered having another brace fitted, to finish the job that was started some 29 years ago, but like I said, vanity isn’t high on my agenda at the moment.
I mention this because the act of having a brace instilled a real hate for the dentist for many years. After leaving school I didn’t attend one again for 16 years, and when I did, I needed valium to get me through the experience. Luckily, my dentist was patient with me, talked me through the procedures and explained all the noises I would expect to hear during the treatment. Now, I’m fine. Still can’t say I look forward to visiting the dentist, but I’m not bothered when the little blue card pops through the door. (mental note – find out when you’re next appointment is)

About the time I had the brace fitted, I had joined high school and was thrust into a world where academia became juxtaposed with Chinese burns, dead-arms and being a human spittoon for most of the older kids. Worse than all this was English lit. I hated English. More than writing, I hated reading. My teacher would give us these foxed, dog-eared books and we would all take turn in class reading a paragraph or page. You could literary hear the sweat rolling down our legs. There is a scientific condition that occurs when a person is placed into a moment of panic and the brain shuts off cognitive function making you momentarily blind. It happens a lot to men who are given the task of retrieving a utensil, or any other arbitrary object, from a kitchen drawer, a demand placed upon them by their partner. For some reason, though the object is in plain view, a man will be unable to see it. Same in shopping aisles when instructed to fetch a box of Sugar Puffs or instant mash. This is why, when it came to my turn to read a paragraph, my brain would shutdown and draw a veil of darkness over my eyes. This feeling was one that resonated through my school days. Even if I read to myself at home, I found the words grew small and meaningless. The content of the books were as dull as the pages that had been faded by age and fingering.

Like the dentist, I grew to hate English. I didn’t smile when I entered the class, much the same way the dentist had forced me to never smile while wearing the braces. The Penguin classics, they were as uncomfortable in my mouth as the many wires that traversed by teeth. English taught me to hate English and everything associated with it. I figured so long as I could string a few coherent sentences together, I could get through life and abdicate literature in its many varied form to people in corduroy and leather elbow patches.

The day I bucked up enough courage to visit the dentist was the same year I picked up a book. Both were monumental moments in my life; the first because I was unfettering myself from an adolescent fear that would, eventually if not conquered, see to it I would be toothless and in dentures by my mid-forties. The second was monumental because I willingly chose to read that book out of pleasure and entertainment, not, as before, for educational gain. That book was To Kill a Mockingbird and remains, to this day, one of my favourites. After that, I read another and another. Soon, I was getting through a book a month, then one every couple of weeks. When my wife and I used to spend our Christmas in a lodge in York, I would get through three or four books in a week. I began to enjoy reading.

It’s timing. I posted a link on Twitter today from the Independent newspaper detailing how reading is important, but how some novelists found books to be off-putting when they were forced upon them as children/young adults. It put me off, and had I not picked up To Kill a Mockingbird 29 years later, I would have never have decided to become a writer. To this day I find myself becoming very frustrated with classics (though Amanda Gowin hates that term). The prose does not appeal to me. Just as LOTR does not float my boat, I appreciate that many people do love that kind of fiction. Likewise, many people these days sing the praises of Cormac McCarthy and Bret Easton Ellis, two authors who’s reputation renders me baffled to say the very least. But hey, there are 7 billion people in the world, and to think that each will enjoy the same book is foolish (especially when a large portion of those cannot read due to them being too young or with learning difficulties). Yet, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I did enjoy English at school. Had I gone to a different school, had a teacher that instilled the joy of literature in me, or had peers that were supportive and as passionate about words at the writers they were reading, would I have been the writer I am today? Would I have been better? Would I even be a writer?

Part of writing for me is overcoming the fear of literature, just as I wanted to overcome my fear of the dentist. I needed to face my fear head on and see if it was as scary as my mind had built it up to be.

My daughter is three years old and loves books. She can’t read but as memorised many and so sits on the couch and reads them aloud to both myself and my wife. To witness this bloats my heart. She is what I wanted to be, a person consumed by the magic of literature, of stories and words, who loves to hear them spoken aloud by herself or others. When she reads I want to cry, and I hope with all my heart she continues to love books and does grow scared or indifferent toward them. While I’m sure our tastes will differ in the years to come, I know the power a book can have, and how it can take you from depression to happiness in a single sentence.