Updated: Apr 2, 2019
Why am I writing this blog? Apparently I have to. Writing my books isn’t enough, I also need to write this blog for some marketing reasons. I wasn’t too sure what to write about so I thought I’d write about why I write.
I’ve always wanted to write books. I wrote one ten years ago. It was not good. My new books are out or about to come out, depending on when you’re reading this post. They are better than my first attempt at publication which was a steaming pile of garbage. I actually paid someone to tell me. I had to know. It was very humbling.
When you run out of hope there always proving motherfuckers wrong. That’s the main reason I started writing again.
So my new book is better, that was easy. Still, I’m not sure it’s a good book. But I’ll still write others. I don’t write for the money. You’d have to be lunatic to do that. I write as my coping mechanism. I find this world thoroughly disappointing compared to what I was led to expect as an 80s and 90s child. Some part of me still strives to make that world happen. But, how do you affect people? Talking to them seems good. But, how do you affect a lot of people? Art seems good for that. If your art is shit though it won’t touch a lot of people, you’ll have to touch yourself ‘cause no one else will.
I write because I want to. Because I talk to people and they share their lives with me. And I can see that everyone has their own shit going on. And the best way to deal with the adverse consequences of living in an insane society? Doing stuff you like. Sports and art or drugs and booze. Whatever floats your boat. I write because it makes me happy.
I stand on the shoulder of giants.
Artists, scientists, heroes of times past and contemporary, those who have shaped our world and those who helped them. Those that inspired me and educated me, and those that entertained me. I’m a patchwork of past experiences. Without them, I would be nothing. Same goes for my family and friends and most especially my editor and sister. One of the kindest most generous people to ever grace the surface of this planet. She found the time to work on completing her thesis for her PhD in Physics and help me edit my book over and over again. Without her, this book would be infinitely inferior. She is not only a gifted scientist but also an accomplished artist, one of her paintings hangs in my room. Her precious insight helped create multi-dimensional characters and she kept my mad science in check. If you’ve read the book you'll know there’s a lot of madness in there. Without her, it would be all madness. The ravings of lunatic.
My mother always believed in me whatever it is I tried, however insane the project. Her unfailing support in everything I’ve ever attempted has given me the confidence to write this book. Ten years ago she supported me when I wrote my first book. I thought it was great. I knew nothing. It was warmed up crap. No emotion. No structure. Bland characters. Terrible writing. I could go on. The editor I paid told me the only good thing about the book was that it was finished and quite imaginative. It needed a complete re-write or twelve. It also needed me to grow and mature as a person. And suffer. Really suffer. Without knowing mental anguish, you can’t create the kind of characters the suffering bastards that read your book will relate to. I was twenty-four, I hadn’t suffered enough.
Science fiction is dark. I needed to experience more to become a better writer. Tortured souls make the best artists. Lucky for me I got to suffer. I wasn’t prepared. Life kicked me in the nuts and I went down. Every time I tried to claw my way out I got kicked again. In a way, it was my fault. I refused to work for the man. I wanted to be a part of a success story start-up. Mine cost me near everything. The next one cost the traitorous asshole I worked for near everything. And so on…
I found salvation in my friends and family. And more importantly the realisation that everyone was having a tough time. Life was just raping people left, right and centre. I took that suffering and tried to make something out of it. When I wasn’t working for near nothing on doomed projects I was working on my book or out with my friends. And we did two things together. We had fun and we commiserated.
My book probably won’t sell fuck all, most books don’t. And most projects fail. But some people will read it. Probably the people that supported me. So thank you.
And I’m going to keep writing because it’s my coping mechanism in this fuckery of a life.
And I’ll keep telling stories and hearing other’s and having fun. Because it’s the best.
And when I die there’ll be a little piece of me left and maybe someone in the future will read it. And that’s pretty cool.
And the meaning of life is… Nah I’m joking, you’ll have to wait for Book 3 of the Last Human’s adventures for that gem.