Richard Wright

I appear to be thirty-two years old. How the hell did that happen?

My birthday this year fell on Thursday, and was most pleasant. Despite this being the first birthday of my thirties which I’ve actually spent in the UK, therefore potentially something of an anti-climax, it was pleasant enough. Wine was flowing, Kirsty whipped up the most amazing rack of lamb to feast on, and I even had a Spongebob Squarepants birthday cake to follow. It was a quiet affair – I spent most of the day writing – but a good way to ease into another year. Of course, a traditional gloom of reflection fell over me at points, which I’m finding to be the way of things as my twenties fall further behind me. It’s much easier to look at your failures than your successes, but isn’t that always the way? When you achieve something, it’s done, and it slips into the ordinary structure of your life after some initial delight. When you fail to achieve something, it stands out.

All of that was offset considerably by my looking forward to a very exciting year, which is off to an excellent start – more on that below.

And, if you must know, the presentation of a Spongebob Squarepants cake was only slightly tongue-in-cheek. I love the Sponge, and delighted in feasting on his spongy carcass.

Because Kirsty and I had a rare day free together, we also caught a movie – Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto. I’m not one of those who mixes up a person’s politics with their art (I would be denying myself too many pleasures, were that the case), and am a bit staggered by the way the film’s been reviewed in various places. I thought it was superb, although it is being misrepresented on two fronts. The first comes from Gibson, the producers, and the publicity machine, all of whom give the impression that this is a movie about the end of Mayan culture. It isn’t. While it’s set during a period in which ancient Mayan culture was in decline, and the environment gives several suggestions about why the culture may have died out, the story itself has no such epic intentions. Rather, it’s a pretty simple story about a simple man who is captured for sacrifice, escapes, and has to race home to save his wife and kids from death. Simple. A chase movie, with an entirely refreshing, non-westernised cultural setting. On that front, it’s bloody brilliant. While there are several ideas we have seen before, they’re handled so well that you don’t mind.

Whatever you think of Gibson, he’s an extremely talented director, and the film is beautiful to behold (whether in the jungle, or atop a Mayan temple). The pace is blistering, the characters convincing (including the nominal villains), and the story told with a fine eye for detail. Yes, it’s bloody, but no more so than Braveheart was, and there was nothing I found to be gratuitous (i.e., everything flowed from the story, rather than existing just to shock). Yes, there are historical inaccuracies all over the place, but no more so than Braveheart.

And no, there’s bugger all anti-semitic about it, sub textually or otherwise, except in the way that people who really want there to be will probably find clever sounding ways to manage to do so (if anything, the closing notion that the coming of Christianity spells doom for the people Gibson’s just spent two and a half hours and enormous effort making you feel for completely contradicts many of the gibbering arguments that this is somehow a Catholic propaganda film. This, of course, is the second major misrepresentation of the movie.

I would say it’s well worth seeing, but take an open mind and see what’s there, rather than what other people tell you is going to be there. Discuss that sort of thing when you’ve made your own mind up.

The year is also off to a good start for my fiction. Not only is Choices now available and starting to ship (UK or US), but last night I had an acceptance on a second novelette, that could see print as early as March/April this year. More news on that when contracts are signed and the publisher is ready to announce, but here’s hoping this initial sales momentum continues for a while.

There are also publishers waiting for first look at a three novellas, all of which could make exciting sales for me, and reading for you, if things go well (it’s far too early to be getting excited about those yet, though at the same time it’s really nice to be having these conversations at all, most will have an outcome by the end of the first half of 2007, I suspect). I could do a lot of teasing about those three novellas, but I’d hate to work you up and then have everything fall through, so you’ll just have to wait.

Right now, I’m working on one of those novellas and three short stories, all of which should be done and under submission by the end of January. I also have the first novel of 2007 well underway (which is cheating somewhat, as much of it was written at the end of 2006, but there you go). If you remember my insane wish list of what I want to have complete by the end of the year (four novels, twelve novelettes/novellas, twenty-six short stories), then it’s not a bad start.

Oh – I’m abandoning the wordometer for the year, for two reasons. Firstly, it will make no sense to anybody who missed that post, and I can’t be bothered explaining from scratch every time I show it. Secondly, it’s all based on averages, which isn’t very helpful in assessing where I’m at. What I’ll do instead is close each month with a summary of what is complete, and you can keep an eye on me that way.

Yes, I finished NaNoWriMo successfully. A certificate thingy will be displayed as soon as I upload it to the server this evening. I’m not whooping and cartwheeling quite yet though, because although I’ve cracked the 50,000 word mark for November, there is probably at least 30,000 words still to go before the book is complete. Give it a couple of weeks or so, I think.

As you’ll doubtless have noticed, as per my previous worries, the parental visitation of which I spoke before has shunted me write out of my steady progress on Craven Place, leaving me struggling a little desperately to find momentum again. Watch this space to see how it goes.

With a little focus, things should get back on track in the next day or two. Here’s hoping – that was too good a start to the month to waste!

Time can be a popular devil. Drop your guard for, say, a visit by your parents, and suddenly all sorts of things are slipping into that chink to make use of it. Not the least of it all is a cold that, while not causing me terrible suffering, is fogging my head up no end, and refuses to be cured.

I suppose these things are sent to try us. Onward we go…

Well, the whole NaNoWriMo experiment is still going well enough that I’m ahead of the target word count. So far, I’m a little short of 25,000 words, and am just about to embark on chapter fifteen. The NaNo goal is a novel of 50,000 words, so I’m effectively halfway there, although the finished novel will be longer than that by about twenty or thirty thousand words. If I keep this wordage up, I’ll definitely meet the NaNo goal, although finishing the whole draft will be a tighter affair.

You can also have a look at this unnecessarily detailed report, breaking my progress down by day.

The secret of my success? I know the story inside out. As I’m novelising my own film script, I have a very detailed outline to follow. I’m not sticking to it rigidly, as the fun is in the expansion and variation that a novel brings opportunity for, but I’m not exactly starting from scratch. Craven Place also wants to be told, frankly. As the movie never left post production to the best of my knowledge, it wants to find a new way to get inside your head, and a novel suits it just fine.

So, what’s it about? It’s a sort of ghost story, or possibly a locked room murder mystery, depending on which character you ask (the reader will know by the end of the book, though the characters may not). In many ways, it’s a haunted house yarn, although readers of Conan Doyle (or latterly, the likes of John Dixon Carr), will find much to enjoy too. Here’s a quick head’s up.

In rural North Wales, on the Menai Straits, sits a farm called Craven Place, with a history of mysterious violence dating back to the burning of the witch who lived there hundreds of years ago. Now self-styled ghostbuster Nicholas Eldritch has drawn associates there to celebrate the completion of his new book The Spectred Isle. His wife Tanith Pearce, a professional psychic, will accompany him, as will his daughter Celia, a hard-nosed sceptic with little time for her father’s flights of fancy. Last to the party will be Maxwell Fletcher, reporter for The International Inquisitor, and professional exploiter of exactly the sort of history Craven Place offers.

On one stormy night, there are vanishings, murders, and manifestations. It will fall to the enigmatic Matthew Hopkins, a vagrant with a dazzling mind and an uncertain background, to put his soul on the line, pull the pieces together, and discover the horrifying truth at the heart of Craven Place.

Reading that back it gives me a little thrill. One point of note – those who have read The Flesh Remembers will be wondering whether Maxwell Fletcher knows a certain Dexter Lomax. He does indeed. Dexter might well have turned up himself, were it not for certain distractions in Amsterdam that have him otherwise occupied.

I’m enjoying revisiting and fleshing out Craven Place very much. As novels go, it’s very different in tone from both Cuckoo and the recently completed Thy Fearful Symmetry, which is enormous fun. It’s also interesting to note how much the experience of filming the script (over two and a half weeks back in February 1999!) has influenced the writing. I can’t type Nicholas Eldritch without hearing the plummy baritone employed by actor Ed Stern, for example. It’s an interesting marriage of nostalgia trip and new work, and I hope you get the chance to read it some day.

It also includes the line Nessie In Horny Threesome Shocker! which no editor on earth will make me take out.

***

Christmas is coming, and you’re wondering what gift to get me, aren’t you? You’re too kind. The thing that will make me happiest is if you read something I’ve written. You can either buy something, or download something for free.

And if you do the latter, you can make me really happy by passing it on, or pointing people to the webpages to have a look themselves. Here are your Christmas options, then.

Choices
You all need Choices. Choices is a sixty-thousand word anthology of stories from Pendragon Press that will chill you, but not necessarily repulse you. It is not a book for gorehounds, but those who prefer stories that will gently unsettle. Sixty thousand words split into six stories by Stephen Volk, Eric Brown, Paul Finch, Gary Fry, Andrew Humphrey and Richard Wright.

The cover price will be £7.99. If you pre-order the book now, this not only drops to £7, but your copy will also be signed by all contributors, and hand numbered by the publisher. You have to be quick though – the publisher states that the book is currently with the printer, so pre-ordering time is running short. Order it in the UK here, or in the US here.

Dark Terrains
Collecting my previously published short fiction, along with two exclusive new works, this new book brings together stories from the last nine years, many of which are next to impossible to find on the market today. Inside, you’ll meet the ultimate narcissist, a bulimic possessed, the ghosts of Christmas presents, the jealous dead, zombies, psychopaths, angels, demons, and more. You’ll also get to read the prologue of Thy Fearful Symmetry, a novel not yet released, and see an exclusive missing scene from that story – and every tale in the book is illustrated by the redoubtable Simon Wright. Welcome to my Dark Terrains.

Getting this one is as easy as pie. Go here, and download it. Tell your friends to do so as well. If you’re a paper fetishist, who absolutely must by a hard copy, keep your eyes open. We’re a couple of weeks away from your being able to buy the paperback.

The Flesh Remembers
Hack reporter Dexter Lomax makes up the preposterous for a living. When he investigates a series of mysterious craters forming across Northeast England, he expects to exploit a well-orchestrated hoax to maximum effect. What he doesn’t expect is for suicidal beggars to thrust weirdly compelling video tapes into his hands, to be targeted by two opposing groups with deadly agendas, or to be in the centre of a true life drama that starts with the discovery of dozens of skinned corpses on the Town Moor. Drawn on by his lethal curiosity, Dexter is forced to journey further than even he had imagined possible, in pursuit of a story he might never dare write. For once , all he has to report is the truth, and it’s driving him slowly mad. Come what may, the flesh remembers…

This original novella, with a cover by Jackie Donnelly and introduction from Mark Lancaster, is also completely free to download here. You could also buy the paperback in the US or UK, or indeed, at online bookstores all over the world – search and see.

Cuckoo
Greg Summers is an ordinary man in a mundane job with a contented wife and a future snug enough to struggle for. Greg knows the answers to the questions. Until one day he returns home to discover that his wife no longer recognises him, that his wife is in fact married to another man called Greg Summers. Perhaps it is an elaborate hoax, a conspiracy to unnerve and derange him. Yet that wouldn’t account for the stray memories that arrive from nowhere and seem to belong to an entirely separate man. A man called Jameson. One of these men is a lie, and neither wishes it to be he. On the run from a creature that cannot exist, his comfortable truths irrevocably shattered, Greg suddenly finds his knowledge of the world suddenly questionable. If he does not know himself, what can he trust himself to know? Greg Summers and Richard Jameson are about to discover that the fight to survive is all in the mind.

My first novel, released by Razorblade Press in 2002 but now sadly out of print. You can still grab a copy from private sellers on Amazon and Amazon.co.uk though (from as little as £2.50 – how can you knock that!).

Go. Read. Enjoy. It’s you I write these for.

***

Finally – some things making me very happy, in no particular order. Snow Patrol, Rumsfield’s departure, Stephen King, Democrats in the Senate, the prospect of a Clinton in the next electoral race, and the ladies in my life. So there.

Craven Place, and the whole NaNoWriMo experiment, is going extremely well, at this early stage. I’ll say no more, for fear of jinxing it, but here’s the running stats.

Secrets and Lies

Among the stories in the free Dark Terrains collection is a piece called Bulimia Daemonica, among my favourite of what’s presented there. As you can see on my website, the story was first published in 2002 in an anthology called Son of Brainbox. The concept behind this book was to present some high class horror fiction, alongside essays from each of the authors featured that explained the ideas that fed into the fiction – the inspiration behind the story. Both the book and my contribution were reviewed well (here are two examples), and Bulimia Daemonica even picked up an Honourable Mention in the Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror that year.

The essay I wrote to accompany Bulimia Daemonica in Son of Brainbox, was called Secrets & Lies. While the story is collected in Dark Terrains, the essay is not. Instead, you can read it here. If it intrigues you, go grab the book and check out the story. You won’t regret it.

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Bulimia Daemonica was originally inspired by a painting by Duncan Long which I saw online (I forget its name – sorry Duncan!). In terms of the story you’ve just read, the image was pretty much the moment when Jenny reaches out to touch her skeletal reflection in a strange blue land – underwater in the story here. You know the bit I mean.

What do you mean you don’t? You’re not reading the explanation before the story are you? Hell, what are you doing? Go on – go read the damn story! Think I sweated blood over it for the good of my health?

Been and come back? Good. Then I’ll continue.

At first, when I saw the picture, I thought of the disease Anorexia Nervosa. Between the mirror and the skeleton, it was an obvious starting point. Yet the more I thought about it, developing the story in snatched moments, the more I realised that what I really wanted to write about was the distant cousin of that condition, Bulimia Nervosa. There are several reasons for this, but the first and foremost was my experiences with a girl I dated many moons ago. You’ll forgive me if I don’t give you her name – I’ll call her Caroline for the sake of this telling.

I didn’t know that Caroline was bulimic when I first met her, nor when I started seeing her more intimately. One tearful, drunken night though, it all spilled out. I did a little reading the next day, mostly so that I didn’t say anything tactless or stupid to her in an unguarded moment, and what I discovered was radically different from what I thought I knew. That was when I realised that this was a disease that was deeply misunderstood by society in general.

First among the incorrect assumptions many people have, including myself back then, is that Bulimia Nervosa stems solely from a body image problem. For some sufferers this is a without doubt a factor, but it’s far from the whole story. As far as Caroline was concerned, the issue of weight and attractiveness barely touched on the problem. A whole range of complex issues come into play that made some related conditions seem simple by comparison. Most interesting and shocking is that the act of vomiting, perhaps more properly thought of as voiding, is an act of will. Hard for many of us to consider this fully, but this act of purging is actually an act of control. The relief many bulimics feel upon release is profound, and deeply settling (however briefly that sensation might last). I come closest to appreciating it by considering my own habit as a smoker. A cigarette – foul and unpleasant though it is – gives me an immediate sensation of relief and confidence, of control. Of course, this wears off extremely quickly, and then I need to do it again. The voiding of the bulimic follows a similar pattern.

I was also made aware of all the little rituals individual bulimia sufferers construct around this act – it’s almost religious in its intricacy and personal symbolism. Precisely what you binge upon before the voiding becomes important, and has much to do with the ease with which the particular foodstuff can be regurgitated, and how it tastes when it comes back up. The ways in which they try to cover the sound of the vomiting is also a factor, regardless whether there is anyone to hear, and the best time and place to commit the act also become significant. What remains important throughout is the ritual, because that’s another form of control, a way of imposing order on life. For many, it really is the core of their existence, to which everything else is secondary.

Another thing that fascinated me was the secrecy involved in the disease. Though most bulimics know full well what they are doing (it’s a difficult thing to fool yourself about), it’s almost as though the condition is something very special that they cannot share. While they might feel a sense of misery regarding their condition, still they hold it dear to them. Part of this is a fear of what people will think of them. Part of it too is the fear of losing this special thing, of having to stop if anyone found out. It’s addictive behaviour of the highest order. I knew precisely when Caroline voided. I had suspicions sometimes, but she was a past master at covering her tracks, and did so with me even though she’d told me of her condition. Partly ongoing shame I think, but partly a huge sense of protectiveness that wanted to keep me away from her special act.

I broke up with Caroline some six months or so after we got together, for reasons entirely unconnected with this story (actually, she ditched me for another man – crazy, I know, but there you go). She was undergoing counselling when we parted company, but that had been ongoing for the best part of a decade with no results. How do you treat someone who feels as though their disease is the only thing keeping them sane? I wonder where she is now, and how she’s doing, but part of me is scared to find out. A vast part of the inspiration for this story comes from my wondering about her.

Of course, the second part of the story deals with theatre – musical theatre in this case. As you may or may not know, I’m an actor as well as a writer. No profession I know attracts such addictive personalities as acting (though writing comes a close second). Probably this relates to the fact that unless you’re fairly compulsive, this is a profession you’re not going to get very far in. I thought that musical theatre might support this tale better than the alternatives. My own experience of that art is limited, except as a spectator. My preference is for musicals that blend singing and fine acting – Les Miserables is probably my favourite musical of all time. When I’m chronically depressed, this show picks me up through sheer emotional intensity. Take the finest emotions, enhance them with powerful music, and you have an opportunity for catharsis that is second to none.

Bulimia Daemonica is all about catharsis, when it comes down to it. I should point out here that I’m not a sufferer of Bulimia Nervosa, I merely have an informed layman’s knowledge. I realise full well that what I’ve said above, and in the story, generalises overly in places, and is too specific in others to cover everyone’s personal experience. One of the constant dilemmas I come up against in writing horror is the nature of taboo. Does writing a piece of fiction about a real life horror such as Bulimia mean I’m trivialising and exploiting the pain of real people? I usually come away in favour of writing the story. My fictions aren’t textbooks, nor are they intended as public information brochures. I hope I can at least raise the level of a reader’s understanding though, even if it’s only through mixing a portion of truth in with the fantasy. Bear in mind that sufferers of Bulimia Nervosa don’t usually have so clear a moment of epiphany and resolution as Jenny does in this story. In my fake world, the condition is shed far more easily than in real life.

Enjoy the story. Then have a think about it. I hope you both enjoy it, and find some of it profoundly troubling.

***

Oh, and here’s the art that accompanies the story in this collection, by Simon Wright. It appeals to me, that an image inspired a story that inspired an image.