forever too many books to read

This year–like every year–reading has been a fantastic source of respite from the neverending parade of bad news and tragedy unfolding around us.

Recently I finished THE YIDDISH POLICEMAN’S UNION–a detective novel by Michael Chabon set in alternative history where Jewish people settled in Sitka, Alaska post WW2–and it was one of the best reads I’ve had all year.

At the moment, I’m flying through THE ONLY GOOD INDIANS by Stephen Graham Jones.

SGJ is probably my favourite writer of all time and someone I look up to immensely. Needless to say, I think this book is stunningly good. It’s seemingly so simple but yet so complicated and deep and powerful.

SGJ also has another novella coming out next month–NIGHT OF THE MANNEQUINS–which, naturally, I have preordered.

However, after looking over my Reading Log the other day, I decided that for the next half of 2020 I’d like to try and read more female voices.

Whether via marketing or algorithms or personal biases I end up reading about 50% or more cis-male authors and I’d just like to change that up a touch.

So, with that in mind, here are some titles I hope to read before the end of the year in no particular order.

Toni Morrison – Beloved
Angela Carter – The Magic Toyshop
Zadie Smith – Swing Time
Octavia Butler – Kindred
Hilary Mantel – Fludd
Ursula K. Le Guin – The Dispossessed
Tasmyn Muir – Gideon the Ninth
Catherynne M. Valente – The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making
Sarah Read – The Bone Weaver’s Orchard

Carmen Maria Machado – Dream House
Rebecca Solnit – A Field Guide to Getting Lost
Camile Paglia – Break, Burn, Blow
Lisa Kröger – Monster, She Wrote: The Women Who Pioneered Horror and Speculative Fiction

I’m forever making reading lists but this one is composed of people I’ve largely never read before. (Caveats-Zadie Smith was an obsession for most of uni and I read Left Hand of Darkness by LeGuin but I think at the time I didn’t get it, maybe.)

Have you read any books off this list? Anything you could recommend?

Book Trailers are Cool

Like I said over on Twitter earlier, I really enjoy that book trailers are becoming more of a thing.

A couple of years ago I saw Juliet Escoria post one for some book and thought it was a really avant garde move, and that – if I ever had the chance – I’d do it, too, one day.

This wasn’t the one I remember seeing but the one that popped up by hopping on YouTube for a second. And also that date (in the thumbnail) is my birthday of the first year I started writing… Weird?


They’re becoming more of a thing lately – or maybe I’m only just noticing now – which is great news. Book marketing needed to figure out a way to hurdle over that gap of, ya know, making people read.

Working in marketing, I know all too well that people don’t like reading anything online except bold headlines. Their eyes prefer jumping in Z’s and T’s.

I first noticed the trailers for Josh Malerman’s books, which makes sense really ’cause of how big he is and how theatrical even his book readings are.

Couldn’t find the cool little short trailer he has for Malorie now but it’s cool. Got all these trees and trippy lighting. Nifty.

And here’s two I saw this morning from Stephen Graham Jones and Todd Keisling.

The Only Good Indians – Stephen Graham Jones

Devil’s Creek – Todd Keisling

If you know any cool book trailers, let me know. I’m hoping they just get bigger and better.

Arterial Bloom Review

“Arterial Bloom injects the ‘literary’ piece into the horror genre with works that excel in well-crafted surprises, powerful senses of place and character, and works that stand out from the crowd. Contributors to this anthology are diverse in their approaches, plot development, and themes, and so under the general ‘horror’ umbrella there is no unifying purpose other than to gather works that are truly exceptional.”

The Fire of Fiction

So this is a little celebratory post* for myself because…

Just hit 10,000 words on my current WIP which I shall name – OPERATION MEZZANINE.

It is named for the Massive Attack album which I first listened to on the day I began writing this draft (March 19th). And also my girlfriend’s cluttered mezzanine where I hope to one day craft an office space… if she’ll let me.

During this whole quarantine period it’s been nice to have something to work on that’s long and can distract me for long periods of time. Plus I’m always thinking about it in the back of my mind.

This is my third? or maybe fourth? first novel draft I’ve written. The others were very bad and very unworthy of being read. And that’s okay. But I’m feeling good about this one.

Even if it doesn’t go anywhere I’m making it as weird and personal as I can which should be a lesson I’ll try to keep putting into practice Post-Quarantine.

(*I told myself I’d post on here at least once a week last month but so far I’ve been negligent, however, I have lots of *actual* fiction writing done. Which is a good trade off. )

Mouths filled with words

Stories are strange.

So, my story Mouths Filled with Seawater will be published at the start of next month (not, as I thought, next week) and since it’s my first big publication I thought I’d write something about it.

I reread the first draft just now and I honestly didn’t hate it. This is not to say that it’s perfect (can they ever be?) or that I had things down as they should be. But structurally there’s something solid about it.

In my memory the story came together quickly, written in the local library here in Dundalk, free-associating like a disgraced actor in a detective’s office – (question: is this how all stories are formed, consciously or not?) – from things that were in my immediate psychological and physical vicinity.

The setting is a shimmery, out-of-focus version of my hometown. The psychologist-type figure was named for my friend Aidan studying beside me for his course in Queens. And the confused and obsessive narrator is as much me as all characters are their authors – more or less.

“Mouths…” in its first incarnation was written during Richard Thomas’ Contemporary Dark Fiction class in late 2017.

At the time I’d returned to Ireland after four years of living in a small town in Japan. It was a jarring experience in some ways and in other ways it felt natural and inevitable.

It was abroad that I’d started writing. I’d always wanted to write, had written stories before, but in Toyama all my friends were creative in many jealousy-inducing ways. The good writers though spurred me to keep working harder. (Shout out to Tom & Lily <3)

Joining the class in 2017 almost felt full circle ‘cause my first writing class had been with Richard over on Litreactor in early 2014. It was encouraging comments like below that made me feel like I could actually write something half-decent to begin with.

Now, back in Dundalk, I was without my peers but still writing and dealing with reverse culture shock. Being a fish out of water, in my own home.
Having spent so long surrounded by Americans and New Zealanders and Canadians and, of course, Japanese my language had changed. The way I interpreted things was off.

Not wrong, but different.

In Japan, I’d done away with Irish/Dundalk slang to avoid confusion. Japanese phrases were sprinkled throughout my vernacular. And I spoke purposefully slower for my high school students or my English-speaking Japanese friends. Now, at home, I was surrounded by my fast-talking, quick-witted, slang-obsessive friends. And it was exhausting.

Sometimes I’d go home to my parents’ house after a few hours with friends just ‘cause I was so tired from trying to keep up with a regular conversation.

me and tom working on our best simon & garfunkel routine

Darina, my narrator, feels uncomfortable, too. She’s confused. She’s alone. She doesn’t speak the language of her peers, emotional or otherwise. And she’s trying to find some way to belong. She doesn’t handle anything well. Old relationships don’t work, if they ever had. And she retreats into a world of dreams and half-truths.

In a way I was writing out my own worst fears about my relationships and my life.

Though I wasn’t obsessively stalking anyone, I went to all the same places she did. I saw a cool art exhibition so into the story it went. I’d gone to the swimming pool and had a strained conversation with a staff member while I struggled to interpret social cues. I didn’t have a therapist but every Tuesday night at an ungodly hour I logged onto Skype and talked to strangers halfway across the world about stories.

It’s only writing it all out now that I realise how much that story actually means to me, and how glad I am now that it’s my introduction to the publishing world. It’s strange to think all those parts of me were buried there, waiting to be found or not.

Not much has changed from the original first draft. Not the intent or the feeling. Ray Bradbury suggests stories should be written quickly, to provide them with a good skin.

But it’s a different sort of skin than I’d have imagined. It functions almost like a cloak. An ill-fitting one. It obscures aspects of itself and there are raw, exposed parts I hope no one ever notices.

It’s 2 and a half years later and Ireland is home for me, properly, once more. But I hope I can write more stories like that and that they continue to surprise me years later. I hope I’ll always find meaning in those buried places, and I hope they give meaning to other people, too.

Mouths Filled with Seawater will be published on April 3rd in ARTERIAL BLOOM from Crystal Lake Publishing.