The Season of Fire and Masks

October/November – my favourite time of the year. It’s a time of monsters and explosions, fire and masks, and so what if it’s got a little commercialised over the years, it still beats the stress of Christmas and the damp squib of Easter. Maybe that isn’t very Christian of me, especially in view of the pagan associations with Halloween and that Guy Fawkes’ night is celebrating an attempted terrorist atrocity, but hell, if these two events aren’t just a little more fun than the religious ones.

This weekend I’ll be wrapping up both in 48 hours of shocks and loud bangs. Tomorrow I’m attending Chatsworth Hall’s fireworks spectacular – a night of many loud explosions above one of, if not the, finest stately homes in England. And tonight while Sarah embarks on a night-shift, I’ll be embarking on a long tradition that goes back to when I was 14: watching a double-helping of horror movies.

I was too young when the double-feature breathed it’s last at the cinema. Indeed, the only time I watched a double-movie at the flicks was as an eight year old when some bright spark decided to show Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back, back to back over one hot summer (a couple of years before Return of the Jedi). Rodriguez and Tarantino recently attempted a revival with Grindhouse, but unfortunately both films were released separately over here in the UK so the effect was diminished. I’ve kept this tradition alive in the privacy of my own home and since 1989, with a few exceptions, I’ve been watching double-feature horror films every Halloween night.

Tonight it’s the turn of Poltergeist and Society. I’ll leave Poltergeist for a later blog entry (it had a profound effect on me all those years ago and deserves a blog entry on its own) but I’ll say a little about Society. I have seen it just the twice, the first time when I was fifteen years old when I reached up on tip-toes to pluck it from the top shelf of the video-tape library in Holmes Chapel. My reasons for choosing it then - and nagging my dad to rent it out for me - came from a gushing review of the film in FEAR magazine. FEAR was a constant revelation, guiding me to many films I was ignorant of (and on occasion films that I wish I was still ignorant of, but then horror-tastes are as subjective as humour – some films just do it, others don’t). I’m not sure what I expected, but perhaps I was a little disappointed, after all Society is a political film as well as a body horror. For a fifteen year old, Society was just a little too sophisticated. To prove the point, I watched it again several years later on TV and found it more rewarding. Sure it has its camp moments, and the denouement is bonkers, but compared to the torture-porn-rubbish the modern film fan is fed these days, Society is a work of genius.

You’ll find more about the plot and reviews of Society by clicking here (it’s not my job to rehash what has already been written, and IMDB is the bible when it comes to movies), needless to say it’s a perfect double-feature movie, and a perfect Halloween offering, simply because it is so utterly daft and enjoyable. But there’s also the menace and the paranoia that good horror films wear on their shirt-sleeves. The Thing is another film that does this well, though compared to Society, The Thing is unrelentingly bleak. While Carpenter’s paranoia is “trust no one”, Society is more a case of “are these really my parents?” It wakes a few primordial fears of isolation and alienation that everyone feels once in a while when you look in the mirror and see that mask of flesh and bone staring back, giving it a prod, not because you’re unhappy with what you’re seeing, but because you can’t quite shake that feeling the face looking back at you isn’t completely real.

A week ago I discovered Society for seven quid in Zaavi, right around the corner from where I work, and I’m looking forward to rediscovering it tonight. As double-features go, Society is the perfect company for Poltergeist, a Spielberg-horror where magic and nastiness go hand in hand. One’s a social ghost story, the other a horror of mutated society. And you know, I might even squeeze in an episode of Masters of Horror between each sitting, along with a decent curry and maybe a nice cold bottle of beer…

Here’s to kicking off the Season of Fire and Masks!


(For more on the subject of great horror films, David Isaak has also posted an entry on having a good scare... I guess there must be something in the air!)

Black Hours diary entry no.13: Knocked out

After the euphoria of baby announcements (and a pretty incredible scan where the baby appeared to be performing for mine and Sarah’s benefit), The Black Hours progress has continued unmolested. At the time of writing, I am but five chapters (less than a quarter) of the way from the end. It’s a conclusion that I’m quite nervous about. I always had an ending in mind, but as the book grows evermore darker, the original ending just seems too optimistic.

I’ve faced this demon before, feeling overprotective of my characters, like Zeus not wishing to sacrifice his Perseus, before finally bowing to godly pressure. In the new book, The Hoard of Mhorrer, several characters are put in perilous situations where I’ve had to bow to instinct and play the final card, not wanting to deal them out but having no alternative without cheating the reader. I suppose it’s my own bloody fault for putting the characters in impossible positions, and maybe the characters’ faults too (sometimes they can be so wilful).

And so to The Black Hours, where it’s now become “two weeks until disaster”; the chapter where everything comes to a head. I’ve become quickly attached to the characters in the book, perhaps sooner than I did to those in The Secret War and The Hoard of Mhorrer. These are characters that wouldn’t look out of place in 21st century London, let alone Queen Victoria’s London. Characters that you can cheer for. Characters that are fighting for you and me, and here I am, spoiling the party.

And there’s another reason too. It might sound a bit pretentious, but perhaps by writing this I’m excising certain fears – or fuelling them. Let’s face it, in many respects things aren’t that great right now. Apart from a world recession, there’s the spectre of climate change (somewhat more insidious than the collapse of global markets, but potentially more disastrous); there’s still the threat that some fundamental nutcase will decide to blow up a football stadium or jumbo-jet in the name of Allah, and there’s that niggling fear that we haven’t had the long overdue pandemic, overdue since the beginning of the 20th century.
The Black Hours is a culmination of all of that. Biological, fanatical, financial and political. And drawing to the end of the book has made me realise that there is no happy ending, just one with a little bit of hope because several people decide to sacrifice themselves to at least give ‘the many’ a fighting chance.

Now I don’t want to bottle the ending because I’m worried about the future; and I am concerned, perhaps not to the degree that I have sleepless nights, but I have caught myself staring into space thinking “will things ever be this good again?”
So far The Black Hours has been uplifting, because in the tradition of the action thriller, the good guys get knocked down, but they soon get up again. But I’m not sure how long this can continue without me lying to the reader.

Sometimes, the good guys just stay down.

Some personal news about swelling

To quote Professor Farnsworth yet again, "Good news everyone... next year, Family Curran is swelling by one member (or maybe more, you know it could just happen)." Yep, Sarah’s pregnant, and before anyone asks, it was planned. Planned months ago as it happens, so it isn’t a surprise to us. But I’m under no illusions, and everything, and I mean everything, will be disrupted. Including the writing.

But here’s the thing, and it’s perhaps why I should be changing my middle name to “lucky bastard” (though I do believe in making your own luck): I’m in a great position writing-wise. With one book published, a second out in January, and a third that’s practically writing itself and will (notice the emphasis on “will”) be in a final draft by the time the big event i.e. fatherhood, occurs in April, I have no real concerns about the next six to twelve months.

Now it might appear pretty damned fortunate to be embarking on a book that’s writing very naturally during a time of upheaval, but it was by design. Sarah and I had planned to start a family around this time last year, and I didn’t want to be knee deep in the same slog that I experienced with Mhorrer. If we’d had a baby 12 months ago, then Hoard of Mhorrer would still be gathering dust somewhere, and not scheduled for a January 2nd publication day - I can say that with some certainty. My follow-up book was, as it is with many writer’s second books, not so straightforward.

That’s not to say The Black Hours isn’t a challenge. It is. It’s a completely different novel to what I’ve written before (there are no supernatural nasties in this one) and it follows several character viewpoints with a more omnipotent narration than the traditionally singular adventures of The Secret War and The Hoard of Mhorrer. Also, the plot to The Black Hours isn’t Machiavellian. Sure there are surprises and a couple of major plot twists, but The Black Hours is a straightforward thriller, and the momentum of the story isn’t “who, what, where” it’s more “why.”
And the research has been easier too. Unlike the first two books where I was scrapping about for research, Victorian London in the late 1890s has been extensively written about. You could play “pin the tale on the donkey” in Sheffield’s main library, and 9 times out of 10, you’d skewer the spine of a book on Victorian England.

Finally, I’m writing in a comfortable sub-genre: the fin-de-siecle, as enjoyed by the likes of HG Wells, and more recently Simon Clark, Stephen Baxter and a slew of Hollywood writers who revel in destroying world landmarks for the sake of entertainment. I’ve always wanted to write a book about the end of the world, or the end of a microcosm like the British Empire - The Black Hours allows me to do it with gusto, with adventure, but tempered with the fear that this could happen right now, you know?

So day-job aside (so far aside that I’m nudging it out of the window) I’m in a fairly good place. The idea of fatherhood is exciting in a brilliantly nervous way, and I’m looking forward to it perhaps more than being published next year (hey, it’s my first time being a father, okay?). And besides, fatherhood doesn’t mean the end of writing, it just means a cessation of major projects (The Traitor of Light will be shunted to the back end of 2009 – baby permitting).

We’ll see what happens in 2009, but already - for me - it’s looking like a momentous and exciting year…

Hysteria: an explanation

Apologies for my earlier outburst. It had to happen. I couldn’t contain it any longer. Truly things aren’t that relaxed right now (the antithesis of Paul Whitehouse’s “Brilliant” character in The Fast Show). The day-job is going arse-end upwards to the point that it’s been the most stressful time here in the ten years I’ve worked for this employer - the finance world isn’t exactly making things a bed of roses, and it all looks a bit bleak. Family wise is also a bit fraught, so there’s no escape there either. But mostly, Friday was just a shit day.

In fact, the only reprieve at the moment is in the writing, where it continues to calm me down, encourage me and give me the chance to escape what is in effect hysteria-city. It’s been suggested to me that I’m taking on too much, writing included, well the writing is the only thing keeping me sane so that will be staying for the time being. It’s just a shame that I don’t have the same control over everything else that I have over my writing. Confidence included.

So. Like everyone else I’m riding it out. The good thing is that I have my writing to withdraw into. But the bad thing is that I have my writing to withdraw into. Because it isn’t wholly a good thing to rely on something so solitary as writing to be the focal point of happiness. Writing is addictive. It won’t damage your health like smoking, drinking or drugs, but it will cripple your social skills. It will turn you into a hermit, ostracised by friends and family if you spend too much time at the desk rather than the real world. So. So. So… I’ll drag myself away from this comfortable environment and just deal with it.
Everyone else is.

So, Aliya asked whether everything was going well. The writing is, and I guess that’ll do for now, as I work on getting the rest of my life into line too.

A brief interlude

o

o

AAAARRGHHHH!!!!


Right. Now I’ve got that out of the way, back to the writing…

Black Hours Diary entry no 12: Superstitions and Risks

Over two years ago now, I blogged about how well The Hoard of Mhorrer was writing. It was the 1st draft, and I was scooting through it with all the ease of an Olympic ice-skater on, er, ice. Little did I know, the surface would go all-cobbly twelve months later, and I would lose my footing quite spectacularly during the 2nd draft.
Now, I’m a foolish, superstitious writer at best (I’ve wished upon falling stars, I even wear a lucky Celtic cross when I write, and don’t get me started on those silly rituals I undergo when I submit something for publication) so I feel like I’m tempting fate by saying The Black Hours is writing well (I’ll just whisper it, that’ll be okay, won’t it?). But it is going well.
Very well.
And it is the 2nd draft, and the 2nd draft is where those fucking enormous plot holes appear, the size of the ozone layer - yet plot holes in The Black Hours are so far pretty tiny. Pin-pricks, actually.
And the writing reads a whole lot better than previous books, which is personally gratifying (I stand by my writing-mantra of bettering myself with each project).
It all adds up to a big serving of ‘confidence-pie’ complete with a big-dollop of ‘self-belief-custard’ on the side.

So, and with another whisper, when I finish the 2nd draft earlier than anticipated (I’m on chapter 12 at the moment, so I should get it done before December) I’ll be taking the unprecedented move of letting someone read it at the 2nd draft stage. Or perhaps more than one person.
You see, I do feel confident, but I’m not feeling too objective because it’s such an easy write. I feel I’m too close to the project. I might be missing something on Tone. Or Plot. Or Character. A second or third pair of peepers would be valuable even now. (I have in mind who; it would be just a question of whether they have enough time on their hands). Yep, there is a danger that I’m letting external opinions influence the book at an early stage, perhaps too early, but that’s the risk, and I’m a big boy. I can take their opinions like an adult, or throw my laptop out of the pram. But the benefits… well, if it reveals a flaw that I’m not aware of, it could save a few months of work. It could even save the project.

Or, alternatively, if the response is wholly positive then I might be ahead of myself by several months and Pan Macmillan will get a copy of The Black Hours around Spring 2009 instead of late Summer. And the closer that happens, the closer I get to seeing a third book on the ol’ publishing schedule.

Now that is worth the risk.

Matt Curran earns 0.03 pence every second

Or thereabouts.*

I guess, it’s not as good as £5 every second, but I’m still proud of how much I’ve earned through my writing last year. And hey, it’s only £4 and 99.07 pence less than JK Rowling from my writing, so I’m not doing too badly, especially for a debut author!

Roll on January 2009.

Twice.


*Note: not exact figures. I’m not that daft you know.