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They're Making It Up As They Go Along
When Harry and Daniel begin writing a book without a plot, they begin to lose the plot. Even though there isn’t one to begin with.
In the pages of They’re Making It Up As They Go Along, the two authors are literally making it up as they go along. The concept for this experimental book was simple: Harry Whitewolf and Daniel Clausen would start writing a book without having any idea what it was going to be about whatsoever. Each would take it in turn to write a section; a sort of literary version of a drawing consequences game.
You’re sure to enjoy the hilarious and rollicking ride of the writers creating a purely do-it-for-fun and highly imaginative novella that is stuffed full with robots, distant planets, rotten sushi, multi-dimensional travel, philosophical musings, big dollops of comedy, and a dildo that plays Barry White songs.
In the pages of They’re Making It Up As They Go Along, the two authors are literally making it up as they go along. The concept for this experimental book was simple: Harry Whitewolf and Daniel Clausen would start writing a book without having any idea what it was going to be about whatsoever. Each would take it in turn to write a section; a sort of literary version of a drawing consequences game.
You’re sure to enjoy the hilarious and rollicking ride of the writers creating a purely do-it-for-fun and highly imaginative novella that is stuffed full with robots, distant planets, rotten sushi, multi-dimensional travel, philosophical musings, big dollops of comedy, and a dildo that plays Barry White songs.
49 pages, Paperback
Published October 11, 2020
About the author
Harry Whitewolf
24 books269 followersHarry Whitewolf is doing his own thing.
He's the author of two ragamuffin travelling tales: Route Number 11 (about Harry's five-month drunken journey around Argentina; and across the borders to Paraguay, Chile and Brazil) and The Road To Purification (which describes his mad-as-fuck pot-smoking trip around Egypt). In addition, Harry has written ten collections of distinctive contemporary poetry, including The Gulag Village Green, New Beat Newbie, and the award-winning Rhyme and Rebellion.
Whitewolf also co-edited and contributed to The Anti-Austerity Anthology, a book for charity which has been featured in The Canary and on the Steve Topple and George Galloway online show.
Over the years, Harry has performed his poetry at the Portobello Festival, the Winchester literature fringe festival and numerous open mic. nights and gigs. These days however, he prefers making fun and quirky performance vids from the comfort of his smoky flat. You can find Harry's performances on his website: www.harrywhitewolf.com
He also writes and illustrates funny children's books, that grown-ups can enjoy too, under the pen name of Mr. Wolf. Check out Mr. Wolf's books and cartoon illustrations on his website: www.booksforchildren.wix.com/mrwolf
As if that weren't enough to be getting on with, Harry's poetry has appeared in four other anthologies and you can find his wacky fiction in the unique books ReejecttIIon - a number two and They're Making It Up As They Go Along, which Harry co-authored with Daniel Clausen. Whitewolf also wrote the foreword for punk-poet Andy Carrington's kick-arse book What's Wrong With The Street!
Amongst all of that, Harry somehow finds time for his day job as an article writer and illustrator.
Harry Whitewolf was born in England in 1976. He hopes to see world peace in his lifetime, and yes, Harry believes miracles are possible.
Spread the love.
He's the author of two ragamuffin travelling tales: Route Number 11 (about Harry's five-month drunken journey around Argentina; and across the borders to Paraguay, Chile and Brazil) and The Road To Purification (which describes his mad-as-fuck pot-smoking trip around Egypt). In addition, Harry has written ten collections of distinctive contemporary poetry, including The Gulag Village Green, New Beat Newbie, and the award-winning Rhyme and Rebellion.
Whitewolf also co-edited and contributed to The Anti-Austerity Anthology, a book for charity which has been featured in The Canary and on the Steve Topple and George Galloway online show.
Over the years, Harry has performed his poetry at the Portobello Festival, the Winchester literature fringe festival and numerous open mic. nights and gigs. These days however, he prefers making fun and quirky performance vids from the comfort of his smoky flat. You can find Harry's performances on his website: www.harrywhitewolf.com
He also writes and illustrates funny children's books, that grown-ups can enjoy too, under the pen name of Mr. Wolf. Check out Mr. Wolf's books and cartoon illustrations on his website: www.booksforchildren.wix.com/mrwolf
As if that weren't enough to be getting on with, Harry's poetry has appeared in four other anthologies and you can find his wacky fiction in the unique books ReejecttIIon - a number two and They're Making It Up As They Go Along, which Harry co-authored with Daniel Clausen. Whitewolf also wrote the foreword for punk-poet Andy Carrington's kick-arse book What's Wrong With The Street!
Amongst all of that, Harry somehow finds time for his day job as an article writer and illustrator.
Harry Whitewolf was born in England in 1976. He hopes to see world peace in his lifetime, and yes, Harry believes miracles are possible.
Spread the love.
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
October 19, 2020
Delightfully different.
I must say, from a woman’s point of view, the authors came up with an imaginative story that takes the reader on a very descriptive and funny journey from beginning to end.
A well written novella with a somewhat futuristic theme and tale to tell.
I must say, from a woman’s point of view, the authors came up with an imaginative story that takes the reader on a very descriptive and funny journey from beginning to end.
A well written novella with a somewhat futuristic theme and tale to tell.
June 4, 2022
Review to come after I’ve had a sleep…
………
A fortnight later: It was a LONG sleep, OK? I’m not a well man!
Aaaanyway… It’s no secret I’m a big fan of both Daniel Clausen and Harry Whitewolf and they’ve done it again with this latest collaboration. This short novel is a work of genius. A twisted, demented kind of genius, but still.
If you have a bizarre, Pythonesque sense of humour, this book could well be for you. Our authors do double duty as the protagonists in this wonderful adventure (or possibly triple or even quadruple duty by the end of the book… you’ll understand when you read it) and they take the reader on a seriously warped journey that dances its way across varies planes of existence. Honestly, by the end of the book I wasn’t entirely sure I was still the same me that started reading it.
I love this kind of surreal humour and I’m really hoping this isn’t Daniel and Harry’s last joint work.
Wubble.
………
A fortnight later: It was a LONG sleep, OK? I’m not a well man!
Aaaanyway… It’s no secret I’m a big fan of both Daniel Clausen and Harry Whitewolf and they’ve done it again with this latest collaboration. This short novel is a work of genius. A twisted, demented kind of genius, but still.
If you have a bizarre, Pythonesque sense of humour, this book could well be for you. Our authors do double duty as the protagonists in this wonderful adventure (or possibly triple or even quadruple duty by the end of the book… you’ll understand when you read it) and they take the reader on a seriously warped journey that dances its way across varies planes of existence. Honestly, by the end of the book I wasn’t entirely sure I was still the same me that started reading it.
I love this kind of surreal humour and I’m really hoping this isn’t Daniel and Harry’s last joint work.
Wubble.
March 10, 2023
“Improvisation is an art form best performed with a fresh meat suit, a multi-functional state of the art metallic cock, and a deep reverence for the vagaries of the universe that was born from Bum.”
-- an unknown Bummist from the planet Mub
I wasn’t sure I got it when Harry first told me the idea. But after having fought intergalactic lawyers, worn meat suits, and fought mutant literary agents together… now I get it.
At first it seemed like recipe for disaster. However, after having shown me an actual recipe for disaster, I realized that this was something quite different. It was a recipe for adventure and Pasta all'Arrabbiata, which goes great with a white wine for some reason.
Yes…literary adventure of the first order!
More importantly the book has been selling like metallic hotcakes on the planet Mub where Harry’s meat-humor is all the rage and Mubbians scream like hormonal teenage girls every time they see a picture of Harry.
An important question: Do book reviews have souls in the same way the beings of Mub have souls? Bum only knows!
I know what I must do now. I must give up my literary pursuits for a while. My hair must grow grey. My voice must become distinguished. I must invest my royalties into a top-notch pipe. And when I have evolved into my next form, we shall do the time warp again and write “They are Making it Up as They Go Along” as if for the very third time.
…
I jump in the brown carboard box, hold the bright pink joystick tight between my legs, watch as the wings extend outward and an engine grows from the back.
Where am I going?
Bum only knows.
-- an unknown Bummist from the planet Mub
I wasn’t sure I got it when Harry first told me the idea. But after having fought intergalactic lawyers, worn meat suits, and fought mutant literary agents together… now I get it.
At first it seemed like recipe for disaster. However, after having shown me an actual recipe for disaster, I realized that this was something quite different. It was a recipe for adventure and Pasta all'Arrabbiata, which goes great with a white wine for some reason.
Yes…literary adventure of the first order!
More importantly the book has been selling like metallic hotcakes on the planet Mub where Harry’s meat-humor is all the rage and Mubbians scream like hormonal teenage girls every time they see a picture of Harry.
An important question: Do book reviews have souls in the same way the beings of Mub have souls? Bum only knows!
I know what I must do now. I must give up my literary pursuits for a while. My hair must grow grey. My voice must become distinguished. I must invest my royalties into a top-notch pipe. And when I have evolved into my next form, we shall do the time warp again and write “They are Making it Up as They Go Along” as if for the very third time.
…
I jump in the brown carboard box, hold the bright pink joystick tight between my legs, watch as the wings extend outward and an engine grows from the back.
Where am I going?
Bum only knows.
January 4, 2021
Entertaining romp. Authors Harry Whitewolf and Daniel Clausen embark on a joint novel, agreeing to take turns guiding the narrative. The only rule seems to have been to make it to some kind of endpoint, and I’m still unsure if that has happened or not. Ever present is a shared appreciation for the silly side of the absurd and a mischievous deconstruction of the novel writing process. Equal parts intrepid and bewildered, our guides attempt to make sense of nonsense while we go along for the ride.
A fun escapade initiated by writers with a shared sense of humour and willingness to explore silliness in all its glory.
A fun escapade initiated by writers with a shared sense of humour and willingness to explore silliness in all its glory.
October 22, 2020
PENILE DELIRIUM SEMINAL TREMENS
You may survive this story, not a novel, at most a novella, of no science fiction at all but of the corrugated exploration of the mental states and realms of two gentlemen who are anything in life but gentlemen and whose writing has nothing to compete with the grossest tabloids. It is just gross, and it has to be just gross. Grossness is the first quality of this story, and the authors just throw one or two grosses of sharp nails on the road for no one to be able to follow them. The two of them have a private trip to their deepest anal characterized misbehavior you can imagine, and if you enter the story, you will then have all the details, and details there are galore.
The central character is of course the only member of the male body that has any value for them, either attached to the body or detached from it and transportable in your pocket or better in your hands. You must not touch it too much, your o-chinchin, otherwise, being erectile it stands up and starts dancing some fish slapping dance, then it gets detached and plays the dildo, which means it can open doors, see through walls, call for the past or the future, create events in any form and under any identity. In other words, it is the most glorious and divine artifact of the human body of flesh, bones, and blood. I dare not use the words they use. It would make my own sheet of paper blush, flush and redden like a poppy in a cornfield.
When you have been able to step over and beyond this gay picnic in the shadow of some penile trees, you can maybe wonder what this world made up of several universes piled up one onto the others represents, and in it, you can navigate like a draft in a corridor. You can maybe wonder if these characters – all except maybe one or perhaps two are males – have an aim in life, a target in the world, a purpose in death, and a scheme in their heads that contain a brain as big as a pea and hardly more. And the best thing this pea of a mind can do is splinting peas to make a neuronic purée of splint peas to be spread on the stale bread of the sushi bar where everything or nearly everything happens.
And this is only the torso and hips, undetached one from the other, of the story. The legs are running, the arms are flipping, and the soul is flying. Is it really flying or is it actually diving and delving, soaking itself in the seminal fluids of the various climaxing reproductive limbs that will reproduce nothing because they are as sterile as the two guides that self-declared themselves competent?
And the whole thing will end with an assessment from a teacher from a world we cannot know. Which world in this universe, or which universe in this world? But she – the teacher – because the teacher is a “she” of course – let’s remain post-modern please – will declare that this novel is pure heretical ranting.
“And I won’t mention your obvious erotic fantasies about me and some homegrown incest issues. […]
Despite all explanations from the two authors Harry and Daniel. “In fact, [Merb] had disguised himself as a folded-up American called Harrison W. Hitewolf, who you may remember from the elevator. Anyway, to cut a long story short… When Merb disappeared in the narrative of the plot, he actually went off wandering in Japan. One day, he found a [penile object] on a riverbank. Being the expert scientist that he is, Merb was able to mutate the [penile object] over several years until it became artificially intelligent. Over time, Merb raised an army of [erectile] Johnsons. And to cut a long story even shorter… […] Merb and his army of cutthroat [penile objects] have created their own inciting incident box and are following us through space and time, destroying everything in their way.”
And the end is a real dysenteric flux of a diabolical diarrhea that drowns everyone on the spot. That is an ending worth millions of films by Andy Warhol when his factory was working full time. And the Merb of this army of penile and erectile objects can order them to finally shoot. “’Ready… Aim… Fire!’ cried Merb, and an explosive concoction of urine and sperm covered Mibble, Mucilla, Harry, and Daniel.”
These two authors should stop mutually playing with their family jewels. That could maybe pacify them a little, and if they don’t, we will go on playing to and fro with their words.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU
You may survive this story, not a novel, at most a novella, of no science fiction at all but of the corrugated exploration of the mental states and realms of two gentlemen who are anything in life but gentlemen and whose writing has nothing to compete with the grossest tabloids. It is just gross, and it has to be just gross. Grossness is the first quality of this story, and the authors just throw one or two grosses of sharp nails on the road for no one to be able to follow them. The two of them have a private trip to their deepest anal characterized misbehavior you can imagine, and if you enter the story, you will then have all the details, and details there are galore.
The central character is of course the only member of the male body that has any value for them, either attached to the body or detached from it and transportable in your pocket or better in your hands. You must not touch it too much, your o-chinchin, otherwise, being erectile it stands up and starts dancing some fish slapping dance, then it gets detached and plays the dildo, which means it can open doors, see through walls, call for the past or the future, create events in any form and under any identity. In other words, it is the most glorious and divine artifact of the human body of flesh, bones, and blood. I dare not use the words they use. It would make my own sheet of paper blush, flush and redden like a poppy in a cornfield.
When you have been able to step over and beyond this gay picnic in the shadow of some penile trees, you can maybe wonder what this world made up of several universes piled up one onto the others represents, and in it, you can navigate like a draft in a corridor. You can maybe wonder if these characters – all except maybe one or perhaps two are males – have an aim in life, a target in the world, a purpose in death, and a scheme in their heads that contain a brain as big as a pea and hardly more. And the best thing this pea of a mind can do is splinting peas to make a neuronic purée of splint peas to be spread on the stale bread of the sushi bar where everything or nearly everything happens.
And this is only the torso and hips, undetached one from the other, of the story. The legs are running, the arms are flipping, and the soul is flying. Is it really flying or is it actually diving and delving, soaking itself in the seminal fluids of the various climaxing reproductive limbs that will reproduce nothing because they are as sterile as the two guides that self-declared themselves competent?
And the whole thing will end with an assessment from a teacher from a world we cannot know. Which world in this universe, or which universe in this world? But she – the teacher – because the teacher is a “she” of course – let’s remain post-modern please – will declare that this novel is pure heretical ranting.
“And I won’t mention your obvious erotic fantasies about me and some homegrown incest issues. […]
Despite all explanations from the two authors Harry and Daniel. “In fact, [Merb] had disguised himself as a folded-up American called Harrison W. Hitewolf, who you may remember from the elevator. Anyway, to cut a long story short… When Merb disappeared in the narrative of the plot, he actually went off wandering in Japan. One day, he found a [penile object] on a riverbank. Being the expert scientist that he is, Merb was able to mutate the [penile object] over several years until it became artificially intelligent. Over time, Merb raised an army of [erectile] Johnsons. And to cut a long story even shorter… […] Merb and his army of cutthroat [penile objects] have created their own inciting incident box and are following us through space and time, destroying everything in their way.”
And the end is a real dysenteric flux of a diabolical diarrhea that drowns everyone on the spot. That is an ending worth millions of films by Andy Warhol when his factory was working full time. And the Merb of this army of penile and erectile objects can order them to finally shoot. “’Ready… Aim… Fire!’ cried Merb, and an explosive concoction of urine and sperm covered Mibble, Mucilla, Harry, and Daniel.”
These two authors should stop mutually playing with their family jewels. That could maybe pacify them a little, and if they don’t, we will go on playing to and fro with their words.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU
April 16, 2021
Seeing as there is a video included in my review I shan't post it here, check out the review on my blog instead. https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2021...
Want to read
October 17, 2020This sounds amazing!! :)
October 20, 2021
I had to contract Covid to finish reading this, but I did. Harry and Daniel do Naked Came the Stranger or Atlanta Nights -- those collaborative story lines that illustrate the creative process by showing contrasting styles.
And brush up on your Bond and Rocky Horror pop cultural references.
And brush up on your Bond and Rocky Horror pop cultural references.
October 8, 2021
It is a silly story. I laughed a bit.
Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews