Jekyll2023-12-21T14:17:32+00:00http://hvp.github.io/feed.xmlHarrison V. PerryWarped and TornAnd England Goes On2022-09-09T00:00:00+00:002022-09-09T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/and-england-goes-on<p>And England went on,<br />
that land of Queens and Jesters,<br />
who conquered and betrayed,<br />
who stole and gave,<br />
and pillaged and ploughed and made it all the same.</p>
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<p>And England went on,<br />
that nation who remains,<br />
who stood fast in the face of horror,<br />
blown to bits but resolved to endeavour,<br />
yet never did share its splendour.</p>
<p>And England went on,<br />
that nation of discoverers,<br />
who bled and burned for truth,<br />
who uttered to the deaf ears of power,<br />
and still dangled by the noose.</p>
<p>And England went on,<br />
the nation that yelled at the stage in the rain,<br />
who hissed and booed at a poor show,<br />
and cheered and cried at another,<br />
but never did turn a ticket down.</p>
<p>The Queen is dead. <br />
Long live the Queen!</p>
<p>And England goes on,<br />
voiceless and unseen.</p>And England went on, that land of Queens and Jesters, who conquered and betrayed, who stole and gave, and pillaged and ploughed and made it all the same. And England went on, that nation who remains, who stood fast in the face of horror, blown to bits but resolved to endeavour, yet never did share its splendour. And England went on, that nation of discoverers, who bled and burned for truth, who uttered to the deaf ears of power, and still dangled by the noose. And England went on, the nation that yelled at the stage in the rain, who hissed and booed at a poor show, and cheered and cried at another, but never did turn a ticket down. The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen! And England goes on, voiceless and unseen.The Curse of the Man o’ Letters2022-08-31T00:00:00+00:002022-08-31T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/the-curse-of-the-man-of-letters<p><strong>I’ve taken a lot</strong> of time away from prose writing in the last few months. I’ve written some philosophy, but my soul is telling me it’s, to one degree or another, a bit of a waste of my time.</p>
<p>I don’t understand myself, not really. I’ve tried the Substack thing out, but couldn’t help finding myself drifting back to my own server and site. It seems I like the neon-fungi lit cave of my own place. Here’s where I can really be me. And who is that?</p>
<div style="text-align:center"> <img src="https://user-images.githubusercontent.com/3270420/187770844-8b7199a7-6368-4a9a-87f9-213486583df9.gif" /></div>
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<p>I’ve tried a lot of stuff in my life. I thought I wanted to be a firefighter, a footballer, a skateboarder, a games programmer, an astro-physicist, an AI researcher, a philosopher, a rapper, a jiu-jitsu instructor… I’ve wanted to be all that. But none of it ever paid. I make my money writing software, but I’m not in the games industry.</p>
<p>Despite all my adhd-powered whims, I have always written fiction. It has never left. I am, and always will be, a novelist and storyteller. It’s one of those things that is deep in my bones. When I am writing fiction, I am not alone; I am in a space before the world wakes and there is no noise, no bickering, no-nonsense.</p>
<p>But it doesn’t <em>pay</em>.</p>
<p>And there is me, the anti-money man, realising that yes it is a gruesome good, but money is a good nevertheless. All it really is is a means to an end. I live in the city I grew up in. The city my family lives in. To move is anxiety, to stay is the rent trap. But let’s not idle here for too long. My belly is very much full and there is plenty of tobacco to smoke.</p>
<p>And so I am drawn in two like a man between the horses. Part of me wishes to throw in the towel, to go ham on programming, to make my million bucks in the financial world, and be happy and heavy and suicidal.</p>
<p>But the voices, man. These voices find you. I don’t know where they come from, but there are these characters that live in my head, pleading to me to tell their stories. And I am their humble servant. Whether I create these characters or not is not for me to say. But I know very much what the work takes, and so, with every piece of writing, I can at least smile at the work and know I did my bit, <em>my</em> absolute best.</p>
<p>I have never, ever given any pursuit as much time as I have writing.</p>
<p>Orwell, a dear friend who I never got to meet, wrote,</p>
<blockquote>
<p>All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>And when asked Neil Gaiman <a href="https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/164500973851/george-orwell-wrote-that-writing-a-book-is-a">rejected</a> the notion at scale, saying,</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Do I agree with Orwell? Not really. Generalisations like that tend to be incomplete and unsatisfactory ways of describing the world.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I agree, at least for myself, that this is how it is.</p>
<p>I am vain, selfish, and lazy. I honestly couldn’t put it any better. And so here I am, fighting the pull of the horses, a neurotic mess of doubt, wanderlust, and the up-and-down enthusiasm for the imaginary people that live in my head.</p>
<p>Welcome to my world.</p>
<p>Please leave your coat and shoes at the door. There is a seat by the fire and coffee in the pot; if you smoke, smoke. Now, let me get down from my soapbox and tell you a story … and maybe one day these bitter words of mine might pay the rent.</p>I’ve taken a lot of time away from prose writing in the last few months. I’ve written some philosophy, but my soul is telling me it’s, to one degree or another, a bit of a waste of my time.我的中文非常不好2022-06-08T00:00:00+00:002022-06-08T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/%E4%B8%AD%E6%96%87%E8%AF%9D<p>我是学习中文—
这个是不易.</p>
<p>谢谢!</p>
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<p>Wǒ shì xuéxí zhōngwén—
zhège shì bùyì.</p>
<p>Xièxiè!</p>我是学习中文— 这个是不易.I Guess I’m a Philosopher Now?2022-05-10T00:00:00+00:002022-05-10T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/i-guess-im-a-philosopher-now<p>Today my new story—my debut story!—finally hits the, erm, virtual shelves? And I
can’t quite believe it’s here. The odd thing is it isn’t science fiction. The
story sits in a genre I can’t seem to escape from, one that I guess you’d call
<em>philosophical fiction</em>.</p>
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<p>Recently, a friend and I were discussing philosophy. It was one of those
conversations where we were practically torn apart by our partners, who insisted
it was late and everyone must be getting off.</p>
<p>We spoke a lot about the history of philosophy—both of us are very interested in
existentialism and absurdism; how both of us can’t seem to grasp some of the
headier ideas floating around—especially when it comes to consciousness; how,
rather often, a lot of philosophical ideas are hidden behind walls of dense,
barely penetrable, or poorly translated text.</p>
<p>My friend’s main point though was that a lot of philosophers wrote fiction—that
a lot still do, that it’s one of the best ways to spread philosophical ideas.
And I knew this, to a degree, but it wasn’t until he said this that I really
took it onboard.</p>
<p>I’ve got so much shame and insecurity in me for flunking, mostly, out of
academia. I’m sure if I found a big pot of gold under my bed I’d sign myself up
for a philosophy degree, but that’s never, ever going to happen.</p>
<p>So, what do you do when you want to discuss those sorts of ideas? When you want to work through
those sorts of ideas?</p>
<p>Well, I, at least, write fiction.</p>
<p>Since I was young, I’ve always asked myself, ‘Why am I, I?’ Why am I
experiencing everything through me, and not someone else? It seems to me it
would make more sense that we experience everything that experiences
simultaneously. I don’t know why, though. </p>
<p>Nonetheless, if you’ve ever wondered why you are you and not someone else, I’m
sure you’ll enjoy the ride in <em>The Big Immovable, I</em>.</p>
<p>You can get it on Kindle here:
<a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B09XFDXS33">https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B09XFDXS33</a> </p>
<p>or you can subscribe to the magazine here:
<a href="https://www.afterdinnerconversation.com/subscribe/yearly">https://www.afterdinnerconversation.com/subscribe/yearly</a> there’s currently a
flash sale happening! </p>
<p>Fingers crossed, there may be a podcast version coming out soon.</p>
<p>If you enjoy the story, or want to discuss it, please do come back here to this
post and drop a comment in the boxes. I’m very keen to hear all your thoughts!</p>Today my new story—my debut story!—finally hits the, erm, virtual shelves? And I can’t quite believe it’s here. The odd thing is it isn’t science fiction. The story sits in a genre I can’t seem to escape from, one that I guess you’d call philosophical fiction.Thoughts on Eastercon 2022 [Hope In Strange Places]2022-04-20T00:00:00+00:002022-04-20T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/thoughts%20on-eastercon<p>I’m currently sitting in my hotel room, on my rather large bed, with an electric
fan going back and forth blowing the heat about. I’m tired, confused, and
feeling a little hopeless.
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<p>Eastercon has a long history that I’ve very little knowledge of. Many people
tell stories from cons that happened before I was even born. They give anecdotes
of encounters with authors I read when I was first getting to grips with science
fiction. Those are the authors who to me had transcended beyond the here and now
and into the science fiction canon. Those are the authors whose ideas and
stories got read and discussed and debated. And now I’m here, realising that
yes, they were real people, that they went to the same events, that they maybe,
just maybe, are not so different from me. </p>
<blockquote>
<p>So why do I feel so bad?</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The Informal Short Fiction Markets Discussion: 20 or so writers, all huddled
into a circle, sitting on hotel chairs and listening as the moderator starts the
session off. They tell us they’ve sold stories, been given their ‘5 quid’ for
each of them, and then sigh, a wry smile on their face.</p>
<p>Soon it’s an open discussion. We talk about tools for submitting, we talk about
the one day rejection; one person is adamant that receiving the infamous form
rejection means the story was never read, another shares they received insults
in a rejection letter. When someone asks about the feasibility of
self-publishing a short story collection, the moderator shares, rather openly,
about liking the validation that comes from selling a story, even if it’s just
‘5 quid.’</p>
<p>It feels like a group therapy session. We’re all struggling with this addiction:
we want to get published, we want to be read, we want people to know our name.
We’re damn special and it’s an injustice our voices haven’t been heard. What do
those editors know anyway?</p>
<blockquote>
<p>The grimness sinks its teeth into me. Will I ever reach the level of those
authors I read as a teenager?</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Eventually I summon the courage to add to the discussion. I ask, ‘Do you read
all the magazines you submit to? It feels to me there’s a lot more people trying
to sell stories than there are people reading them.’ It gets a laugh.</p>
<p>The moderator says no, not all of them. You can’t do it. They’re busy writing stories. The ones they have read
are, much like in my case, the ones that have stories in them written by
friends. </p>
<blockquote>
<p>Grimness takes a bite.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It feels like we all want to speak, and nobody wants to listen. Is that the
right way to look at it? All of us are clamouring to be heard, to transcend into
that science fiction canon.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>I’m as bitter as bad coffee.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>From the corner of the room someone asks, right at the end of the session,
‘You’ve all spoken a lot about Anglophone markets, but do any of you have
experience with non-English speaking ones?’</p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>They talk about wanting to break into the Anglophone markets, to write and sell
in a non-native tongue. The moderator briefly comments on this, and all in the
group agree, we want to hear those stories, don’t stop trying.</p>
<p>Once the discussion ends I go over and speak to the person. They are from
Brazil, recently moved here, to the UK, and are looking to get stories in the
English mags, get a book out in an English speaking publishing house.</p>
<p>Our conversation soon departs from writing. We talk a lot about Rio. We talk a
lot about the martial arts culture way back in the early 90’s, when jiu-jitsu
folks were going around beating everyone up. We talk a lot about surfing, the
surf culture, how hard it is to get a spot on the wave. We talk and talk and
talk—and I realise, holy shit, this is it, this is why Eastercon is so valuable:
it brings like-minded people together. It’s a community.</p>
<p>My bitterness does linger, though, and it finds a second-wind in the early
morning Notable Agent talk the next day. I’ve been to a handful of agent talks
over the years and they always go a little like a war film, where the New Guy
arrives at the front, meets their grizzled sergeant, who is chewing on a big
cigar, and is quite quickly told that whatever you’ve heard is wrong, it’s way
worse than that.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>We’re tin-helmet troopers in a war for your attention, agent!</p>
</blockquote>
<p>As the agent talk goes on, there’s a lot like, <em>I have to have no doubts; I have
to absolutely love it</em>. And I look side to side at my fellow writer friends and
we’re scared, in the trenches, realising—again—that we’re in a war, so to speak.
The agent gets <em>40</em> novel submissions per-week, half of which are <em>pretty good</em>.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>We gulp. We check our rifles. And we head to the bar.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I soon find myself in the talk on kēhuàn—Chinese science fiction. Giddy.</p>
<p>My fiancée is half Chinese and half English. She, like the speaker, had spent
her childhood in China, and then came over to the UK later in life. When your
culture comes from two very different places, forming an identity can be
difficult to say the least. You lose your roots. Your first language slips away
to your second. The way you think, even, changes too.</p>
<p>We try to speak as much Mandarin as we can at home. I’m <em>very</em> slowly learning
it. We have dreams of maybe one day moving out to China, just like my fiancée’s
father did all those years ago.</p>
<p>And I must confess, I can’t think of a single Chinese work of fiction I’ve read.
I am a huge fan of Zen and Taoism and have read a lot of the <em>Tao Te Ching</em>, and
done my best with <em>The Gateless Gate</em>, Wumen would be proud! (And then probably
give me a slap!) So it was amazing to <em>finally</em> get an insight into what’s going
on in China in terms of sci-fi. And there’s a lot.</p>
<p>We learn about the history of it all. We learn about its themes. Its
contractions and expansions. Its battles with diversity of voices. All of it. It
leaves me stunned and carrying the weight of a rather large reading list.</p>
<p>At the end of the talk I linger at the front. I must speak to this person who
has opened my mind so much. I ask, so nervous I’m near to shaking, how someone
who is struggling to learn Mandarin might learn Mandarin, how someone might use
these kēhuàn stories as a way to get his characters (Hanzi) in order.</p>
<p>They ask, ‘Well, what level are you at?’</p>
<p>And I think, Do it, you’ve got to stretch yourself, so I say, ‘<em>Wǒ de zhōngwén
fēicháng bù hǎo</em>.’ Literally: My Chinese is very not good.</p>
<p>It gets a laugh—and a reply in Mandarin that goes over my head and that I have
to play off with a giggle and a quick shift back into English.</p>
<p>We talk, I get some hints, there’s another reading list coming my way, and, as
the next talk’s audience begins filling in, I say, again, being brave here,
‘<em>Wǒmen zǒu ba?’</em> - Shall we go?</p>
<blockquote>
<p>My heart’s pounding. Did I screw it up? Am I being weird for trying to speak
Mandarin?</p>
</blockquote>
<p>They say, ‘Sure,’ and we go out to the lobby. It’s alright. I think it’s gonna
be alright. We talk some more, but I soon speed off, there’s someone else
lingering too, who wants to get their copy of <em>Sinopticon</em> signed.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Rushing down the hall I’m fresh-faced, excited, my bitterness is thoroughly
blown away.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>As the Con goes on I realise more and more that the panels and talks are like
ports, ports for us weary sailors to come and drop anchor at, from which we then
head over to the taverns, share our tales of adventures, show each other our
scars, and have a good old time.</p>
<p>Let me know how you all found it, and see you in Scotland!</p>I’m currently sitting in my hotel room, on my rather large bed, with an electric fan going back and forth blowing the heat about. I’m tired, confused, and feeling a little hopeless.What a Pleasure It Is2022-04-19T00:00:00+00:002022-04-19T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/what-a-pleasure-it-is<p>What a pleasure it is for the sun to wake me through crooked blinds,<br />
for the cat to leave throw-up on the carpet,<br />
for the tiny bites on my toes!<br />
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<p>What a pleasure it is to wait thirty seconds for the water to run warm,<br />
to sit on the toilet seat and find it cold,<br />
to brush my teeth with a frayed toothbrush.</p>
<p>What a pleasure it is to discover that my push bike has been stolen,<br />
that the bus takes 30 minutes to arrive,<br />
that there are no spare seats and I must stand.</p>
<p>What a pleasure it is to be heavy with work,<br />
to be asked to read a document,<br />
to re-write a program—again.</p>
<p>What a pleasure it is to go home and find the fridge empty,<br />
to have to go to the shop for bread,<br />
and that they only have white.</p>
<p>What a pleasure it is for the toaster to die,<br />
for it to trip the breakers and force us to use the candles,<br />
for us to have to wait two hours for an electrician.</p>
<p>What a pleasure it is to eat white bread in the dark,<br />
for the cats to try and steal bites,<br />
for the bread to leave us stuffed full.</p>
<p>What a pleasure it is,<br />
that I do not have to fight and die and kill,<br />
for it all.</p>What a pleasure it is for the sun to wake me through crooked blinds, for the cat to leave throw-up on the carpet, for the tiny bites on my toes!Give Me Italics2021-10-01T00:00:00+00:002021-10-01T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/give-me-italics<p>I said it was hers.</p>
<p>Italics is a bit like sugar: it’s sweet and tastes amazing but is so easy to
over consume. I notice there’s a subset of writers who are drawn to italics. I
think I picked up the habit from Pynchon or Crichton—I can’t remember! But its
power stuck with me. Look at what it can do to the above sentence:
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<p><em>I</em> said it was hers.</p>
<p>I <em>said</em> it was hers.</p>
<p>I said <em>it</em> was hers.</p>
<p>I said it <em>was</em> hers.</p>
<p>I said it was <em>hers</em>.</p>
<p>As we move through each word, rendering one in italics, we create an emphasis.
But it’s not just about emphasising. What the italics does is create <em>space</em> in
the writing. It leaves this gap for interpretation, drawing the reader into the
narrative, almost like there’s an ambiguity of meaning, or as if we’re
off-loading more of the meaning creation to the reader. I won’t go into meaning
much more here, as I want to write about it separately later, but I think
italics is a crucial element in squeezing out as much meaning from words as
possible.</p>
<p>But all this comes with a word of caution. It is very easy to overindulge.
Rereading old drafts of stories and novels, I find myself often wincing at my
zealous use of italics. So be careful!</p>I said it was hers.An Interview with Greg Chivers2020-11-04T00:00:00+00:002020-11-04T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/an-interview-with-greg-chivers<p>Greg and I sit in a smoky bar. I offer him a cigarette and he declines, telling me, “I gave up smoking on my 30th birthday. I’d recently taken up boxing, and the two were incompatible.” He goes on to tell me he doesn’t mind my smoking, and that it reminds him of days long gone.</p>
<p>He orders a Cuba libre, asking for the darkest rum they have, and I get a whiskey sour. Above the bar a muted TV clings to the wall. Tarantino’s <em>Jackie Brown</em> is playing.
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I smoke some, then crush out the cigarette and ask him the big question, even before our drinks arrive. “Why do you write novels?”</p>
<p>He smiles, says, “I write novels because I have something to say. I don’t necessarily know what it is when I sit down to write, and it won’t necessarily be what a reader takes away from the novel, but there’ll be something brewing in me, and it will find expression as the story unfolds.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“For me, The Crying Machine is about bodies - about how they make us who we are.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“For me, <em>The Crying Machine</em> is about bodies - about how they make us who we are. Like many people of my generation, I grew up with the idea that the mind was the true self, and the body was just something we rode around in, but I think that idea is damaging and profoundly wrong, and as far as I can tell, recent neuroscience backs me up - to a large extent, the mind, or self, is formed in response to sensory input, which all comes through the body. If you change the body, you change the input, and a different self is formed. It’s an idea I explore through my protagonist, Clementine, who’s coming to terms with a new body, and struggling to form a new self. She’s going through an accelerated version of the journey most humans spend their lifetimes on, but she’s doing it consciously, which gives interesting opportunities for reflection.”</p>
<p>Our drinks arrive. I take a sip of mine and try and look smart. I think about all the philosophers I half know, about embodied cognition, about anything. I try and recall the passages from his novel that had me thinking of dualism, or what it means to be human. I remember Clementine finding the monastery—the nuns asking if she’ll take the lord as her saviour, and her saying, ‘With all my heart.’ She has heart, this half-robot girl.</p>
<p>Greg is looking at me now. He sips his libre, and I start to panic. Sam Jackson is muted above the bar, a cigarette between his lips. I take out another cigarette and I ask, “So how do you go about researching? You must have to do a lot of research.”</p>
<p>“I don’t need to do a massive amount of research before writing,” he tells me, setting his glass on the bar, “because I have a huge back catalogue of material from my day job making science and history documentaries.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“When something’s interesting, it lodges in my brain, waiting to be used.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“When something’s interesting, it lodges in my brain, waiting to be used. The main research task for <em>The Crying Machine</em> was creating Jerusalem. For that I leaned heavily on Simon Sebag-Monetfiore’s ‘Jerusalem: A Biography’.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“I created a city of the future by mashing together all my favourite bits of the city’s past, from the Bronze Age and the Crusades all the way to 19th century missionaries and the Six-Day War.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“I created a city of the future by mashing together all my favourite bits of the city’s past, from the Bronze Age and the Crusades all the way to 19th century missionaries and the Six-Day War. It seemed fitting, because the modern day Jerusalem is very much a product of big history. Of course that’s true of any city, but the past is really in your face in Jerusalem.</p>
<p>I light my cigarette and think fondly of all his descriptions of the city. I remember how easily he transported me there. I remember thinking he had to be real brave to set a novel in Jerusalem.</p>
<p>So, I ask him, “Why Jerusalem?”</p>
<p>“Where else are you going to discover the nature of God?” He smiles again, takes a neat sip of his drink.</p>
<p>There <em>is</em> a lot of God in the novel—I take a drink of my whiskey sour, it’s good and sharp and cuts the nicotine nicely. Greg used the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antikythera_mechanism">Antikythera mechanism</a> to embody God, eh? Dangerous, dangerous stuff. There’s a ghost in the machine, or is there? I figure Greg to be a <a href="https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/ryle/">Gilbert Ryle</a> fan, so I think to ask him about more philosophy, but then I see him, he’s getting loose on his libre and I don’t know if we can handle more God talk. I steer away. “Your style,” I say, “what about your style? It has to come from somewhere.”</p>
<p>“<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elmore_Leonard">Elmore Leonard</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dashiell_Hammett">Dashiell Hammett</a>,” he says into his highball. “I was delighted when one reviewer compared the novel to The Maltese Falcon ! (He also compared it to Lock, Stock…, which was less what I was going for, but hey ho). Of course it’s not a straight crime story, so there’s a liberal dose—” he gestures a seesaw—” of mysticism courtesy of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Herbert">Frank Herbert</a> and the Old Testament.”</p>
<p>The bartender asks us if we want more drinks. I nod and she takes away our empty glasses. There’s the crack of a pool break behind us and I tremble a little bit. Greg’s novel had me thinking a lot and I’m still a little nervous sitting here next to him. Elmore’s his favourite, I think to myself, damn.</p>
<p>Robert De Niro and Sam Jackson are talking about Melanie on the TV.</p>
<p>I smoke some more, ask, “What was the routine like?”</p>
<p>“I wrote the novel while I was working full time in quite a demanding job, so my writing schedule was pretty strict.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“I’d get up, feed my kids breakfast, then write from 8AM to to 8:40AM before doing the school run.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“I’d get up, feed my kids breakfast, then write from 8AM to to 8:40AM before doing the school run. Then I’d go to work and write from 9PM to 11PM after putting the kids to bed. It was really hard, so I don’t do that any more, <strong>but that’s how I wrote this book.</strong>”</p>
<p>The second round of drinks arrive. My nerves have settled a bit. I think up more questions, thousands more, but then I think better. I ask the bartender to unmute the TV. Greg and I sit back and watch the rest of <em>Jackie Brown</em> together.</p>
<p><strong>END</strong></p>
<hr />
<p>You can order Greg’s novel <em>The Crying Machine</em> from <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Crying-Machine-Greg-Chivers/dp/0008308772/">here (amazon)</a>, <a href="https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-crying-machine/greg-chivers/9780008308773">here (waterstones)</a>, or your favourite local book store.
I highly recommend you <a href="https://www.gregchivers.com/blog">check out his blog</a> too!</p>Greg and I sit in a smoky bar. I offer him a cigarette and he declines, telling me, “I gave up smoking on my 30th birthday. I’d recently taken up boxing, and the two were incompatible.” He goes on to tell me he doesn’t mind my smoking, and that it reminds him of days long gone.Trying to Pick Books to Read2020-10-24T00:00:00+00:002020-10-24T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/trying-to-pick-books-to-read<p><strong>I’m really struggling</strong> at the moment. I read Les Miz and enjoyed that a
lot—somehow, I found the time. But right now, work seems to have consumed so
much of me. I’m exhausted by it. I think this is a great problem of the modern
author. Pretty much everyone has to work two—or more—jobs. Trying to keep this
balance is difficult. I love reading. It seems to me that reading develops your
imagination, your empathy, and your knowledge of the world. We learn through
fiction, for all good fiction is grounded in abstract truths from reality. And
the more we read, the better we are at doing it. I often wonder what is the
upper bound on an imagination. How <em>big</em> can a single person dream? The answer I
come to is psychosis. From my perspective, psychosis is your imagination taking
over your perception of reality. When you read, and you forget you are reading,
merely just generating visuals and sensual details and narrative—are you not in
a state of psychosis? How do we even go about controlling our imaginations?
Sometimes it feels like you can have a cannon for an imagination, but you also
have these tiny feeble arms and shoulders that cannot lift the cannon up or aim
it at something sensible.
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<p>Reading helps.</p>
<p>The trouble comes with making a choice: What do I read next? I’ve found when
someone buys me a book—something happening a lot more now!—I tend to queue up
that one. Quite often it’s been bought because the person thought of me when
reading it. I don’t know, it’s just sort of cool. It makes me feel less alone in
the world—not that I am alone, of course [hey Lills 😉].</p>
<p>I’ve rambled enough.</p>
<p>JUST GO READ MORE.</p>I’m really struggling at the moment. I read Les Miz and enjoyed that a lot—somehow, I found the time. But right now, work seems to have consumed so much of me. I’m exhausted by it. I think this is a great problem of the modern author. Pretty much everyone has to work two—or more—jobs. Trying to keep this balance is difficult. I love reading. It seems to me that reading develops your imagination, your empathy, and your knowledge of the world. We learn through fiction, for all good fiction is grounded in abstract truths from reality. And the more we read, the better we are at doing it. I often wonder what is the upper bound on an imagination. How big can a single person dream? The answer I come to is psychosis. From my perspective, psychosis is your imagination taking over your perception of reality. When you read, and you forget you are reading, merely just generating visuals and sensual details and narrative—are you not in a state of psychosis? How do we even go about controlling our imaginations? Sometimes it feels like you can have a cannon for an imagination, but you also have these tiny feeble arms and shoulders that cannot lift the cannon up or aim it at something sensible. Reading helps.An Interview with a Wizard2020-10-12T00:00:00+00:002020-10-12T00:00:00+00:00http://hvp.github.io/an-interview-with-a-wizard<p>Questions by Peter Vincent-Jones - <a href="http://magicalrealismbrighton.art/introduction/">find him here</a></p>
<p><strong>Do you have an ‘attitude to reality’?</strong></p>
<p>Yes.</p>
<p><strong>Do you seek to engage with reality, or to distort reality?</strong></p>
<p>Both. I use the latter, like a lens, to focus on the former. It is much like
an astronomer who uses a lens to study the stars, or a biologist with her
microscope, or—closest to me—a computer scientist with his simulations.</p>
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<p><strong>Do you consider your future world(s) ‘real’ in the sense of being plausible,
and governed by ‘rational’ science such as the ‘laws of physics’ (accepting that
such laws are not fixed but change and develop with new scientific
discoveries)?</strong></p>
<p>I am a materialist—for the moment. And my stories are grounded in my
understanding of physical laws and mathematics and cause and effect. I’ve spent
a great deal of my life studying these things and use that to govern the worlds
I make. I do extensive research for the science in my stories, but eventually
there comes a point when reality breaks under my distortions. It needs to feel
plausible, coherent, and transparent.</p>
<p><strong>Does your writing contain elements of fantasy or related genres?</strong></p>
<p>In some ways it is <strong>all</strong> fantasy. I like invoking my own universe—my locations,
both spatially and temporally, are uncertain—because it allows me to present the
reader with a warped and torn reality. One in which they have no preconceived
interpretation of. One in which the human experience can be lived without
distortions from their reality.</p>
<p><strong>What does warped and torn mean?</strong></p>
<p>Warped and torn is how my mind, soul, and life feels when I stare out my window
or read the news. You need to be insane in this world to think things are going
well. I nearly went insane when I was young because no one was listening to me—I
was pointing out all the bullshit, and no one really had a clue if I was making
sense or not; warped and torn is my heart crying out for love; warped and torn
is me trying to express myself. I hope to be understood. But the trouble is, you can sound like a bit of a tit! A bit
pretentious or an arty-pontificator! But I’ve done my homework, man. The world
is fucking nuts!</p>Questions by Peter Vincent-Jones - find him here