This is the first book that I have read in a long while that I can truly say is addictive. Sarah Rose Etter has written a piece of work that I literally struggled to put down.
Cassie has a knot for a stomach. Not ‘in’ her stomach but born, body-tied at the centre where her belly should be. Just like her mother and grandmother. Sounds surreal? It is. But that’s nothing.
She helps her father and brother mining in the family meat quarry. She walks down corridors of wet walls, glistening red and marbled with fat. Cassie plunges her arms, elbow-deep to pull out bloodied meat the size of boulders for her father to sell.
She has visions: fields of throats and rivers of thighs. Heads are removed to watch their own bodies. Her jealousy is taken away in a removal shop, cut out like a cancerous tumour. She buys half a man because she doesn’t have enough money for a full one.
The men she meets in her real life are not good to her when they discover her knot. She’s treated like a freak, abused and left mentally dead. She’s does eventually fall in love, but things are far from perfect.
Everything in this book is disturbing and off-kilter, as if Cassie has been dropped into a Salvador Dali painting.
It’s a wonderfully layered and brutally surreal book. It takes on the agonies and trials of a young woman growing up; it could also be seen as the struggle of chronic illness.
Split into 4 parts, and rather than chapters, it’s written in very readable chunks of narrative, dreams, visions and fact lists. This format only adds to its addictive and waking-nightmare quality.
Highly recommended if you like your fiction surreal, dark and experimental. If you’re easily disturbed then this may not be for you. But Sarah Rose Etter nails it all perfectly in her wonderful debut novel.
Her next book Ripe is available soon. I can’t wait.
Like many fellow earthlings, I beat myself up on a daily basis, for many reasons. My list of internal self-hammerings is endless. If I’m honest, most of the things on there, are out of my control. But there they are, existing and judging me anyway. The sodden, grey sponge in my head doesn’t seem to recognise the absurdity of some of these mental squatters that mess up my mind with their ethereal graffiti.
Our brains (a supposed wondrous biological miracle of evolution) often fall desperately short when we really need them. With its organic logic, and lightning-quick problem-solving components they can be a master of dodge and weave. When we need its full functionality and capacity for all the things that give us joy and harmony – Bam! All current thought patterns are replaced with that of a bored Panda swinging in a car tyre.
Are our brains simply too big and complex for us mere mortals to handle? The author, Kurt Vonnegut seemed to think so. I’m with him! ‘So it goes.’
There is one recurring subject on my ever-spinning toilet roll list of regrets. It always bleeds its way to the top. The one regret that demands attention, like the constant knock of a Jehovah’s Witness as I hide behind the curtains. This regret?
Writing.
I’ve been a bookworm for as long as I can remember. I began taking my writing seriously in the mid-nineties. When I say seriously, I mean actuallywriting it instead of thinking aboutwriting. Slowly, I began to learn the craft. I read the things that did and didn’t work. I read the good stuff to learn, study and improve. I also read bad stuff to know what to avoid like the plague. Whether the latter succeeded is another matter. I’m told I do ok at knocking the odd sentence together. I must be doing something right or you wouldn’t have gotten this far.
Anyway.
As a child, I always loved horror films, comics, and books. Naturally I went down that route first with my writing as I already had some knowledge of the genre. I haven’t read any horror fiction and fantasy for over twenty years. I don’t really know why. I guess I struggle with suspending disbelief that far anymore, which is such a shame. I miss that side of me. I tend to read literary fiction these days. Novels written about the human condition. Also, a lot of non-fiction. Maybe the horrors I experienced with alcoholism killed my fantastical side. It may come back. It may not. I hope one day it does.
Anyway.
I began writing short dark fiction. At the time email was still in its infancy so I would physically mail them to the various horror zines of the time. They were a wonderful and fantastic source for budding writers like myself. They were filled with amazing artwork and short horror and fantasy stories by talented beginners and professional writers. I waited.
The rejections plopped through the letterbox like waterfalls of pulp. My early stories were not very good at all. I’ve re-read a few lately – they make my guts cringe and tighten inside. They were bad.
But the rejection letters were unbelievably kind, friendly, supportive, and offered lots of constructive advice for improving my writing. I took it all on board and carried on. I learned with each failure. I’d love to brag that I learned quickly, but it took some time. My writing gradually improved. After about a year of constant rejection, advice and perseverance, I got my very first acceptance letter. Then I got another, and another, and another. Apart from the odd rejection here and there, most of the stories I wrote were accepted into the zines. The tides were slowly turning for me.
Most Zines could only pay very little money (by cheque in those days), if any at all. I didn’t care about payment. Simply seeing my words in print amongst the other writers I admired was payment enough.
Networking.
I joined the British Fantasy Society and began physically meeting and talking to the people whose novels and short stories I had on my shelves. They normally organise a Fantasycon once a year in a hotel somewhere. I highly recommend anyone to join them if you write horror/fantasy/sci-fi fiction. You will meet the cream of the crop of British writing. They are the most kind, generous, decent, and supportive of people. The things you’ll learn from them are pure gold dust. You’ll also make good, like-minded friends. The British Fantasy Society is still going strong. Give them a Google and check them out. So yeah, I had all that going on.
There’s the writing autobiography you didn’t ask for or want. Sorry about that.
Things were looking good for me as a writer if I carried on – extremely good!
And then . . .
All the writing stopped. Virtually all the reading stopped too. Ah, Alcohol was the culprit? Nope. I hadn’t even developed that particular nightmare addiction at this time. So then, what?
I met a girl. I moved down south. I got a job. We got married. We had a wonderful son and life together. So why no writing?
I let life get in the way.
I was so busy living, and getting on with my new life. My promising writing career became a rapidly lengthening shadow. I loved and adored my new life exactly as it was. My bubble. A bubble that I wasn’t keen on stepping out of, or letting people into. I didn’t realise at the time how incredibly bad and toxic my way of living was. After 5 years that bubble burst. During those 5 years – no writing. Zilch! The rupture of that life had absolutely nothing to do with the word-vacuum. I simply didn’t write. That’s it. Nobody to blame but yours truly.
True writers and artists never let life get in the way. Life becomes their art. Life feeds their art. Life is their art. Their art is their life, be it professional or not.
Writers write, painters paint, musicians play, sculptors sculpt – and nothing, but nothing gets in the way of creating. It’s the way of anybody in the arts. It’s always been the way. A part of you feels bereaved if it goes away. It’s in the blood, the bones, the heart, and the soul.
Art is life.
So, at fifty-six years old – where does that leave me now? Do I, could I consider myself a writer?
Not so long back, in my journal (my only constant source of written words since 2005) I wrote this admission to myself: ‘as much as I adore the idea of being a writer, and the fact that I’m not half bad at it – my life’s output has been worse than dire, to be totally honest with myself. I could never, ever call myself a writer. Ever! I guess I’m merely an avid reader of interesting books who can string some good sentences together now and again, which some people like.’
I wrote that to myself to let my creative brain off the hook. To stop it beating itself to a pulp and melting down with guilt.
I didn’t become the published writer that I wanted to be. But I lived a life!
I lived it as creatively as I possibly could with what I had at the time: music (I’m a drummer), art (I’m a decent artist when needed), and literature (see all the above). I strive to live my life as decently as I can, without knowingly hurting anyone. I’ve not had the best or easiest of lives, but I’ve certainly not had the worst.
But I do write. Writing that has no deadlines or pressure to be published or read. It doesn’t demand an audience or payment. It dawdles, Idles, and turns up whenever and wherever it wants. I make my own rules, bend them about and take a lot of liberties (especially with my ridiculously bad grammar).
What I write is important, to me.
So, what does all this have to do with alcoholism, addiction, or sobriety? Absolutely nothing.
When you’re sober, everything in life isn’t all about hardcore sobriety 24/7. Hopefully that’s all running nicely in the back of your mind like trusted software.
You must live a life – your life. I’ve just made it sound easy. It’s not. It’s hard. It’s simply easier when you’re not trashing your system with poison.
I’m getting by in life day by day. I don’t wake up in the morning to stay sober. I wake up to see what life has in store. It’s by far a perfect life, but it’s a life. I do what I can with the best I have, because that’s all I’ve got.
I write what I can, where I can and when I can. But I do write. Yesterday I began a short story. I hope I’ll finish it someday. If I do finish it and I think it’s worthy, I’ll research a few writing markets, send it off and see what happens.
My wonderful son turns 20 years old today. On the phone we say how proud we are of one another. We keep in touch every week and finish every conversation with, Love You! I’m happy enough with that.
Many of us have been here many times. Too many times. We imposed it ourselves. Our addiction demanded it. But we broke out, We ran free! We began living every day like our last. No more stumbling. No more tears. No more poison. No more fears. Just . . . Life. Then something came . . . again.
L O C K D O W N !
But this is for everyone. We are not alone. This time.
This newly isolated world. All in this together. As we clap the NHS. As they treat the sick and dying. The lost and crying. When breathless souls are flying. To their own higher power. Staying at home, not going out or about.
We stand together. Six feet apart. The depth of a grave. Too far for a hug. Or a kiss. Or just the hold of a beloved’s hand. Living together. And miles apart. But one thing in common. We have One beating HEART!
I was talking to a friend about fantasy fiction this week. It got me thinking about my own fiction writing from many, many moons ago. When I first started in the early nineties, I was writing horror and fantasy. Last night I came across this ancient effort of mine from 1997. At the time, I loved it. It even got published in a small press magazine. But now, after so many years, how do I feel about it? I must admit, it makes me squirm and cringe a little. It’s overly romantic and emotional, clichéd, saccharine, and faux erotic. It’s also not well written. Friends who had read it, liked it at the time and asked me to expand it into a book. My answer was always no. Thank God. Maybe I’m being a little hard on the old writer me. Maybe not.
It’s kind of nice reading it again after all these years. It shows a newbie writer trying out ideas for the very first time and seeing where it goes.
As a reminder to myself, I thought I’d put it here, warts and all. It’s untouched (as much as I would love to edit it to death) and as it was when I finally sent it off.
So, what’s this post got to do with recovery and addiction? Absolutely nothing. It’s a bit of positive self-reflection. We don’t always have to be talking hardcore recovery all the time.
If you want to read some cream of the crop fantasy and Sci-fi authors: Freda Warrington, Storm Constantine and Justina Robson’s books are stunning!
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The Fallen
Silent now, was the shore. Only the distant ebb and flow of the tide was to be heard. In the darkening sky, the clouds were beginning to pass and fade. The full image of the moon, whose rays shone over the vast beach, was now unveiled. Soon it would cover the eternal waters, repeating the rituals of nature, centuries old. The moon beckoned the shimmering sea back and forth like a father would to a child, offering promises of gifts. Only a parent as wise as this could offer the gift of life, love and all the mysteries of nature itself.
The obedient child obliged, slowly guiding the life within its celestial waters. The life, which also saw the child as an ancient guardian, a master that provided food and all the wonder the birthplace of the earth could offer.
Ancient as the game was between parent and child, it still offered new mysteries, fresh wonders of new birth and death.
Death.
For now, the child had been tainted crimson with the bodies of thousands of floating, silent warriors.
From the window, high in her stone fortress, the Scorpress watched these wonders as she had done for decades before. These wonders once held her mind captive. Now, tears welled from her depthless, red eyes.
Silence. The death-screams of her armies now gave way to the sound of the sea. Aside this, only the Scorpress’ grief could be heard. She tore her eyes away from the window and walked slowly to her throne where she slumped, staring at the timeworn stone floor. Her tears washed like tides. Her brave armies had fallen. All was lost. Thousands of warriors bobbed like apples in their watery grave. Others lay strewn on the beach outside the fort, their wounds staining the white sands the colour of berry wine.
Soon her enemies would smash their way inside. They would take her outside, parading their long-awaited prize in public and slowly, ever so slowly, slay her. The Scorpress rose and walked to the great oak table to pour herself a tall goblet of wine. She took one last look at herself in the looking glass.
Her human form always pleased her more than the others she could conjure. She discarded her robe, made from the flayed strips of skin of her enemies. In the dancing flames of the many candles burning around her, her dark skin glistened smooth like highly polished crystal with blood-red flashes across her stomach and tiny breasts. The contrast of pigments hypnotised all who were privileged or cursed to see her naked. Long, straight hair, black as cancer, poured down past her sleek back, gently brushing the floor. The only thing which belied her human shape was the long, muscular, leathery tail. It arced upwards from the base of her spine. At the end of which shone the deadly, hard ivory tip the size of a bull’s horn. It could gently caress a lover to the heights of passion and in the same breath, kill without warning. She lifted the tail over her head, the tip gently stroking the side of her face. Its warmth and smoothness gave her some ease.
Gritting her teeth she let out a deafening blood-scream, whipping her tail around at lightning speed, smashing the looking glass into razor shards which crashed to the floor around her. In her continuing rage, she destroyed in her path – unaware that the soles of her bare feet were being slit to ribbons by the razor-sharp debris. Tables, chairs, paintings; nothing was exempt from the scorned queen.
She fell to the floor helpless and breathless amid the havoc she had wreaked on everything she had once cherished. The stone floor was cold on her face, little pools of blood grew beneath her tattered feet. She whispered to herself, “I have failed my people.”
The door of the great room opened. Slowly, her breath calm, she raised her head. Standing in front of her was Ethis, her lover. Staring into one another’s eyes, they shared the un-spoken conversation of defeat. The black-robed figure slowly walked to his queen. He knelt next to her and began gently dipping his hand through the river of hair. His touch was soothing, as it always had been. There was no need for words, just a caress and a soft breath spoke volumes for the two lovers.
Raising their heads, they heard the inevitable thunderous booming, reverberating around the empty castle. They were here. Their enemies had begun smashing an entrance inside, desperate to claim their trophy. It would be a matter of mere minutes before they were both found. The Scorpress quickly turned to Ethis, her eyes dazzled with urgency.
“They will soon be upon us my love,” her voice quaked. You know what we must do. Ethis nodded. They rose from the floor and gently embraced each other with a new calmness. It was almost as if, in the light of what they were about to do, they had all the time in the world. Facing each other, their cheeks now traced with tears, she blessed her lover’s soft mouth with a long, deep kiss. Silently she whipped her tail over her shoulder, its glassy tip plunging into her lover’s back, puncturing his skin as she pumped her lethal poison into his blood.
Ethis felt nothing. The Scorpress’ arms took the full weight of the lifeless body. Tenderly, she laid him on the floor. Then one last kiss.
“I love you,” she whispered into his ear. Once more, her tail arced over her shoulder, she placed its tip carefully between her own lips. Eyes closed; she drank. The deadly, warm, white liquid dripped deep into her throat. Her body rolled like a rag doll onto her lover. They both appeared as if asleep, in the wake of passion, tranquil and at peace. The Scorpress had finally won, denying her enemies their glittering prize.
A little more creativity before I post the big stuff.
* * * *
When your life is pitch black, Light it up, I know, It’s hard, So hard, To find your own flame, When it’s been gone, For so long, Because of this, Or that, But it’s there, It always is, But the hardest part, Is the search, For something, That the world, Tries to snuff out, Day, After day, After Groundhog Day, But you have everything you need, To find your own light, Just follow your own map, Under your skin, It’s in your DNA, It runs in your veins, It’s inside your heart, It swirls in your soul, It shocks your synapses into life, It pushes, Pulses, And gushes your blood, It flickers your lids, Over the flash of your eyes. It, has, always, always, always, been, there, because, your, light, is . . .
It’s been a while. There will be a real and actual blog post at the weekend. But until then, a little bit of creativity that fell out of my head. Dedicated to and inspired by my colleagues and friends on the front line every day, bravely and passionately helping others fight their addictions. I’m so proud to be part of the family. So proud.
A bit more bored-on-the-bus noodling. An un-edited splurge. A brain-burp. Not really a poem. Not really anything. But might be something to someone. Or not.
Stumbling Towards Hindsight 