Fifty grades of shale

Hmmmmm... February 14th or Valentine's Day (a day dedicated to love, romance and the declaration of devotion to someone you admire, find attractive, or perhaps simply just lust after) is just around the corner. Hubba-hubba! Does anyone else think that the kind of conduct that is not only endorsed for one single day per year, but openly encouraged is not particularly cute, but in fact creepy?

In these enlightened times, thankfully such behaviour - which the recipient of such attention would at any other time of the year consider to be be tantamount to sexual harassment, or possibly even stalking - can be sidestepped to make way for the more obvious commercial nuisance value, becoming as run-of-the-mill as Easter and as mainstream as Hallowe'en'. Valentine's Day now is more frothy, plastic, shallow and just a little bit too superficial.

So what bright spark thought it would be the perfect time to release the cinematic rendition of E. L. James' blockbusting, multi-million best selling novel and gargantuan yawn-fest trilogy 50 shades? It begs the question whether Hollywood producers actually read any of the books that they turn into their next cash cow or just go with the flow, riding the zeitgeist (or what they imagine is the zeitgeist - which in regards to the 'shades' trilogy is nothing more than a popularised consumer trend) in the belief that what does well in print will naturally do well in the cinema. Hello? Does no-one remember Travolta's Battlefield Earth?

Perhaps they succumbed to the buzz (and I'm not talking about the sound created by the vast army of rabbit wielding aficionados of the 'shades' series), perhaps they believed the same hype that catapulted said book to the top of the bestseller list, hype generated by E. L. James' (real name: Erika Mitchell) and her husband, screenwriter Niall Leonard's media and industry contacts? The cynic in me believes that the only real motivation was money.

Anyone who hasn't been living on Mars for the past few years will already know that the subject matter in the 'shades' series (I prefer to call James' trilogy the 'shades' series as it reminds me of the brand name of a supermarket toilet roll, quite like the book does) is not aligned to traditional interpretation of intimacy and human sexuality. Whilst the gender roles of the principal characters Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele are fairly straight forward (Woman: Independant, career driven, strong but vulnerable, and a VIRGIN / Man: Independantly WEALTHY, at the pinnacle of his career, powerful but secretly sensitive and very, very, very, RICH) the excessive power play and control is not.

BDSM is not as mainstream as readers of the 'shades' series might imagine. It is practiced by a large number of very responsible, intelligent, people who get enormous pleasure from either submitting themselves totally to the will of another, controlling the will of another or mixing it up from time to time. It is also - sadly - misrepresented in sensationalist magazine articles and by the media in general so that those who wish to practice are considered deviants by those who do not.

BDSM has - very occasionally - led to deaths, but these are minimal compared to those who are killed as a result of male/ female or male/male sexual assault or rape. In fact there are more deaths reported as a result of autoerotic asphyxiation than caused by partners taking part in consensual sado-masochistic sexual activities. Whilst 'shades' might have broadened the outlook of some readers who had never experienced anything more adventurous than being taken roughly from behind whilst imaging it is Johnny Depp, the James' novels do not represent BDSM or practitioners of BDSM. For the record, spanking is NOT BDSM.

I'm not going to go into the whys and wherefores of the shortcomings of the 'shades' trilogy. It's been explored many, many times before, as has the obvious anti-feminist subtext. Needless to say that anyone who is, or has taken part in consensual BDSM will realised that E. L. James is a fantasist at best (but hey, it's fiction after all so perhaps it's forgivable) but more importantly she has not got a clue. On a more literary level, the books have been likened to 'the dribbling, scrawlings a of a pre-pubescent girl', 'puerile', 'immature', 'insulting' and 'syntactically appalling'. Enough said. 

The popularity of the 'shades' series did interestingly, coincide with the launch and immediate adoption of handbag-friendly EReaders. LH, a very good friend of mine and skilled exponent of BDSM observed that "women, whose sexual enjoyment is much more cerebral than men's prefer intellectual stimulation rather than pure visual titillation, which is why the novel is the perfect vehicle for that type of sexual gratification. The EReader has allowed women to take their erotic reading material out of the traditional bedroom setting and enabled them to read such material wherever they wanted, with no-one within the vicinity being any the wiser about their choice of reading material, which no doubt adds to their feeling of concealed sexual liberation."

'Shades' was one of the first such modern 'mummy porn' novels and was discussed in hushed tones in playground gatherings, at coffee mornings in Starbucks and the like and at impromptu relationship maintenance meetings between friends. It became a thing of gossip and naughtiness and immediate accessibility, as well as sudden respectability. So it is strange that whilst 'shades' allegedly allowed women to explore erotic fiction much more easily, the charity shops of the UK are filled with copies of the 'shades' books, yet no-one I know has ever seen anyone reading it in public.

So, back to the point. If the books don't represent BDSM, and at the end of the day it's just a story about sex, is it the romance that is so alluring? The romantic la ronde as Christian attempts by degrees, to seduce Anastasia and introduce her to his range of non-vanilla sexual practices? Is it the fact that Christian Grey is in reality nothing more than a manipulative, controlling sexual sociopath? Or the fact that he is so fucking RICH he shits gold?

Realistically, if the books had been written about an ASDA checkout girl being introduced to alternative sexual practices by a penniless chav in a Burberry peaked cap, would it have had the same hold over the minds and loins of so many millions of women worldwide? What if the Anastasia was a bored, middle-aged divorced mother of three and Christian Grey was a Albanian taxi driver with a penchant for being pissed on? No? Then, maybe if Miss Steele was a plain-looking, college educated feminist who has to interview a local charity worker and is inadvertently coerced into putting a string of pearls up her arse? 

Doesn't really work does it? 

In the end the real star of the book is not Mr Grey, but his wealth. So perhaps the decision to release 50 shades around Valentine's Day was nothing more than another cynical attempt to tap into the millions and millions in currency wasted worldwide on St.Needy's Day. The book is classed after all as a 'women's erotic novel', so the Hollywood tycoons are betting their wages that whilst lots of men know about the books and that they are about sex, not many have read it. 

The perfect film then, for us poor deluded blokes - perpetually short of ideas on how to please the little lady, short of buying the ubiquitous assortment of excruciatingly painful and incorrectly sized red and black lingerie and a glass dildo - and who allegedly (according to popular belief) generally need a field map to find the clitoris. Will the film guarantee us men who take our women to the movies on St. Sexpest's Day a night of unbridled passion and some hanky-spanky? 

From what I've heard about it so far, no. Apparently it's about as erotic as watching someone try to balance a blancmange on the end of their cock.

The wealth and power is a bit of a turn-on though...

Money = Power. Therefore, as money = power and power is an aphrodisiac, money is the greatest aphrodisiac in the world. QED.

Hollywood, I bow to your ceaseless ability to fleece us out of our hard-earned cash.

See you on the back row suckers.

I hear you Joe... Freedom of expression and freedom of speech in the wake of the Hebdo massacre

In the wake of the horrific crimes perpetrated by faith extremists in Paris at the Hebdo offices, the question of whether freedom of speech should be inviolate has unfortunately been raised once again. All too often, in modern times those exercising their right to express themselves freely have been punished in the most savage manner.

Right now I am in a quandary as to the ramifications of publishing CPR II in its original format, dealing as it does with aspects of a specific faith (Islam) that sadly, due to the crimes perpetrated by a handful of violent radicals has helped create the impression that Muslims in general are intolerant and certainly intolerant of any criticism of their faith, no matter how slight (and/or factually correct) that criticism might be. 

Personally I'm not concerned about upsetting people with my writing (Authors have been doing it for hundreds of years) and I'm certainly not bothered about upsetting a few extremists of any faith. CPR II was not deliberately written to upset anyone or any group in particular, but rather to reflect the current view of faith, and specifically in one section of the novel, the Muslim faith here in the UK (and again, sadly, elsewhere in the world.

Actually what I am more concerned about is how publishers and publishing houses will react in the aftermath to the atrocity.

 

Modern UK publishers are not known for their avant garde approach to fiction, especially new fiction. Anything that rocks the boat, risks sales; poor sales diminish publishing power in the industry and that has a knock-on effect in regards to their market share. I predict a knee-jerk reflex borne out of self-preservation that will result in the mothballing of many, many excellent stories, and novels because of their 'subject matter'.

I do truly fear that we will now enter into a published world where agents and publishers are so careful of upsetting this faith group, or that belief set that we are forced enter into, and to endure automatic censorship by default.

We have the right to free speech, according to Article 19 of the ICCPR - International Covenant on Civil & Political Rights: ("Everyone shall have the right to freedom of expression; this right shall include freedom to seek, receive and impart information and ideas of all kinds, regardless of frontiers, either orally, in writing or in print, in the form of art, or through any other media of his (sic) choice.") , however there appears to be a caveat, as Joe Strummer of The Clash (Know your Rights - Combat Rock) succinctly put it: "You have the right to free speech, as long as you're not dumb enough to actually try it."

I am pro-guidance, but anti-censorship. Censorship is a control mechanism created by the agents and agencies of a dictatorial 'nanny-state'  that bars all from dissemination of information regardless of its intrinsic value on the grounds that it might 'affect' some of us adversely, or cause 'upset and discomfort' to certain sections of society. Guidance on the other hand, is a process whereby certain rules are written down by the same agents and agencies but which allow all sectors of society to have control of their choices, and be aware of the implications of those choices.

The government enforces censorship by invoking law, and/or creating law to accommodate and reinforce censorship. However, that kind of censorship is a hat that is too big for some and too small for others. Guidance is a hat that fits all, because it allows the 'wearer' the choice whether or whether not to put it on in the first place.

I do believe in the right to free expression. I do believe in freedom of speech. But I hear you Joe.... I hear you... Though it might no longer be a case of me being dumb enough to try it, but rather, having that option removed so that it cannot ever be expressed. Dark days indeed.

Drawing on the Past : Creating a historical narrative.

                            

                      Drawing on the past: An essay on creating a historical narrative

       

It's very easy to underestimate the importance of things that have gone before us. Wrapped up as we are in the present, with our eyes firmly fixed on the future that awaits us all, just over the horizon. The fact that the horizon is a place that we will never reach is not even considered by those, straining as they are, to see what lies in wait. Every day it changes, yesterday's tomorrow becomes our today, and everything else that has passed us by is consigned to history. It seems at times that we have become too focused on the unattainable, which is unrealistic. How can we rely on anything that is in a constant state of flux?

The future is unwritten. That is an undeniable fact. There may be indicators, or signs that point towards a future that is determinable, but it is all illusion. To say otherwise is folly - anyone who has any sense must realise, as Matthew Stent (the protagonist in my CPR trilogy) states, that 'the world spins on a sixpence'. What is here with us in the now, all too often is gone seconds later, whilst other things that we expect to expire, conversely outlive us all. It is not fate that determines this, because the actual presence of fate is only discernible by studying the patterns created in the past.

Fate has been described as a predetermined path or chain of events, which directly affects one or more people, often resulting in a dramatic change of circumstance for all those concerned. Great. Except that as we are unable to see into the future, determining fate is as pointless as attempting to estimate the total number of grains of sand that exist at the bottom of the ocean.

There is a synchronicity - a form of continuous coincidence - that is evident by studying the events of the past. We know this because unlike attempting to divine the future, we are able to review things that have already happened because they have become events. We are able to notice aspects that become obvious retrospectively; we can look at those factors which are no longer possibilities or even probabilities, but the truth in cold, hard fact. In examining the past we can identify influences, determine inferences and in doing so create a clear, linear map that touches the lives of everyone who has ever existed, ourselves included. Only by referring to the past can such patterns and links be observed.

It might be said that some amongst us are able to do the same in the here and now, to be able to interpret the same patterns in the immediate. Absolutely, that is also fact. However, those able to perform this feat are nothing less than magicians, able to distance themselves from life and the world, everything and everyone at will, in order to take the requisite time out to study it. These mystics do not lead normal lives because normality itself relies on expectation and expectation exists only in the nebulous shadows over that futuristic 'horizon'.

So what relevance has this to writing? Everything. Understanding the nature of the past, the present and the future allows us as writers to create power in the words of every tale we tell. As writers, the world we create on paper exists beyond the rules that mere mortals must adhere to and for the time in which we create, we become gods - complete with the positive and negative attributes of such deities.

We give life, we judge, we become destroyers of worlds, of lives, of love and of lovers; we are ourselves loving, compassionate, fickle, vengeful, cruel, passionate, remorseful, forgetful, and forgiving. We test our creations, burdening them with unrealistic goals, stifling their achievements and constructing impenetrable barriers to thwart success and deny heroism.

We are also able to travel through time, backwards, forwards, even sideways...

                                                           ********* ********* *********

I used to admire certain writers of historical fiction. One writer in particular, George MacDonald Fraser (I cannot call him the creator of Harry Paget Flashman V.C., the eponymous hero of the Flashman Papers series of novels, as that accolade belongs to another writer by the name of Thomas Hughes). Fraser was my North Star. I looked at his work and marvelled at the richness of his story-telling, the ease with which characters were seamlessly woven into the fabric of the narrative and the breadth of knowledge and information contained within and wondered how anyone could ever match his peerless storytelling.

Many have tried since the first of the Flashman books was published (Flashman : Herbert Jenkins, 1969) copying the style, or rather the feel of the Flashman novels but never achieving anything other than the creation of pale imitations of what have become internationally respected as Fraser's masterworks. The difference as far as I am able to discern between his writing and that of those who followed him, is that the Flashman novels are character driven, set against a historic backdrop that is made instantly accessible to readers, some of whom only have a smattering of historical interest.

Harry Flashman is an immense character, a huge beacon that gives the reader more than just a glimpse into the past, it is illuminated for us. History becomes the plot device and the character becomes it's foil - suffering the high and lows of outrageous fortune as he attempts to swagger, lie, swindle, cheat, fornicate through (or run away from) every major event in Victorian history, from the genteel playing fields of Leicestershire to Rorke's Drift and beyond. I was and still am, in awe of George MacDonald Fraser.

                                           

In approaching the writing of Tobias, the companion novel to the CPR trilogy, I had the unenviable task of delving into history to make sense of the world, my protagonist - the wily and manipulative Wiccan high-priest Tobias Greylock - inhabited during the 1950's, 60's and 70's. I had never considered writing a historical novel previously, believing it to be almost impossible to recreate everything that was part and parcel of the time. In my mind I believed that if the great writers of Hollywood could get history so totally and utterly incorrect, with all their unlimited resources, what chance did I have?

Which was why previously, until I wrote CPR: Conditional Positive Regard, I had always concentrated instead on inventing worlds where history did not need to matter. Writing Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror and Speculative fiction leaves the writer free from the constraints necessary for the discipline of writing a historical novel. Except... I quickly realised it does not. It is just that the constraints are different. The rules however, are the same.

Every character needs, in order to be believable, a history. It is essential. Instinctively we don't trust anything that we do not or can't understand, and this is echoed in literature: where every one of the great literary characters - even the darkest outsiders - have a history. It is after all what defines them; what allows them to arrive at a specific point in the narrative. Once a true history is established (or rather, created) the character - whether it is is male, female or something else - literally comes alive and begins to interact with all the other characters.

This is true in all genres, including historical fiction. In fact, in some ways the job is made so much easier for the historical novelist because of the proliferation of information available to provide a workable plot framework. Some prudence might be required however, as one historical account can differ significantly from another. Not every historian believes Hitler was a monster, for example, or that Alexander the Great was actually that great.

With this in mind I set to work, creating the narrative which is now Tobias with initially, a little trepidation, imaging that the all the knowledge required to create a plausible historical novel would be too difficult to compile and turn into something engaging. I was wrong. I remembered Flashman and returned to them to see if there were common rules within those pages that might assist me in my task. Reading them again was an absolute pleasure, despite my more clinical approach to the prose. The result? Read on...

                                                        ********* ********* *********

So where was I? Ah yes, gods and time travel. 

Writers are the only people alive who can truly see into the future. Not because they possess any weird mystical power of prophecy but because they are the creators of their own universe, their own worlds and the characters that inhabit them. They must aspire to become godlike.

Not only do they need to know where each of their characters comes from and how they came to be, but also what they are capable of in the present moment and what will happen to them in the future. Condemning them to a cheesy fate that is both predictable or expected does not follow the model of the real universe we live in.

Things go wrong all the time. Plans fail. Armies are defeated. Cities - even empires - fall. Things sometimes go right too. Fortunes are made. The guy gets the girl. Everyone lives happily ever after. Sometimes. So if you are NOT writing historical fiction, be like the gods, throw a dice or toss a coin to determine the outcome or future of your characters occasionally; be unpredictable, just as the future is. If you ARE writing historical fiction, it's all in the past anyway, so write what you want, provided you abide by the principal rules below.

1. Define your character. Describe his/her origins. Be certain of their strengths and weaknesses. Be certain of their path from cradle to the grave and the influence / effects they have on every person they come into contact with, just as you would if you were reading about them from a history book, but obviously with a more literary flourish.

2. Define the period your character exists in. Describe the environment, the political climate, the characters who were prevalent at the time (or news stories, significant events, etc.) The most significant details in a historical story are often those that would have been overlooked at the time they occurred because they would not have warranted any more thought than was absolutely necessary. Here the idiom, the devil is in the detail, must be your watchword.

3. Define the attitude. Charlotte Bronte was not a feminist, she was a female. Acceptable behaviour in one time period is completely unacceptable in another and vice versa. Understanding the attitude can only be achieved by understanding the mores and norms of society at the time. N.B. These mores and norms were subject to revision periodically as fashion or public opinion dictated.

4. Define the language of the day. Congruence in terminology and phrase is essential for the correct vocalisation of any given time period. Edwardians did not think music was 'groovy' and happy punk rockers did not refer to themselves as 'gay'. Here, the devil is in the diction.

5. Define the popular culture. What were the books, the films, the songs of the day? Who was popular? Who wasn't? What type of food was 'in'? What did people drink? What newspapers did they read? What TV programs were popular? Which celebrities were in demand? Where did people go to enjoy an evening out? (Just like today, but obviously much, much cheaper)

And that is about it, except...

Remember, only the future is unwritten.

The present, is being written about as you sit reading this. We exist now. What we do not know about our world we can very easily learn, by switching on a radio, turning on the TV or picking up a newspaper. We can write about today. Tomorrow it will be history.

The past has already been written about and will continue to be written about until all the historians and revisionists agree fundamentally upon every aspect of the past. We can write about the past because we have all the knowledge and learning required at our fingertips in the form of books and other media. 

Do take care whilst surfing however...

                     

 

A tale of two blurbs...

It was the best of blurbs, it was the worst of blurbs...

Haven't we all picked up a book at one time or another and based our decision on whether to purchase it or not, on the blurb? That tiny condensation of the gist of the tome; that sneak preview into what we should very well expect from the book, is certainly a factor that personally features high on my list of reasons to go with one book in preference to another, or not, (although it must be said that author and genre do feature higher than the copy on the back cover / inside dust jacket).

All those 'done to death' introductions that were tried, fried and rehashed several thousand more times in the eighties are certainly a turn-off for me now. I don't care if Sharphaven 'was just another sleepy New England town' and I care even less if it is followed by the word 'until'. I truly believe that the majority of back cover copy is churned out by a 'blurb generator', a weird steam-powered contraption that has been in use constantly since the early 1950's and hasn't yet run out of clichés.

Here are just a few opening lines from back cover blurbs that this mechanised menace has churned out. Followed by one you can complete yourself by just filling in the blank prompt boxes.

Ex-SAS operative and now, MI5 special agent, Marcus Griffin has forgotten more about warfare than has been written...etc, etc...

(No, he hasn't! The premise itself is patently preposterous! If it were even part-way true Marcus Griffin would be suffering from the worst case of PTSD-induced amnesia on record and would hardly be the best candidate to be put in charge of aspects appertaining to national security would he..?)

Haunted by guilt after a terrible family tragedy, Writer Marcus Griffin turns his back on the world and vows to write one last book before retiring...etc, etc...

(Hello?! You want to avoid terrible family tragedies? Then don't become a writer, obviously, considering the world appears to populated by the unluckiest bunch of professionals that ever put pen to paper; and besides as everyone knows, writers don't retire they just get remaindered...)

Marcus Griffin wasn't like other boys. Given special powers by a powerful...etc, etc...

(Really? We know where this one is going before the end of the opening sentence. Give us something original and not some half-assed boy-wizard half-human hybrid seeking revenge on a dark shape-shifting necromancer. You'd think with all those special powers something unique could be conjured up instead of the lame shit that keeps being churned out time and time again...)

When attractive archaeologist Christina Fellatio discovers a mysterious artefact buried in a ruined ancient city...etc, etc...

(Yawn! How many mysterious artefacts are there left to be discovered, seriously? Why do they all possess incredible power and why are they all protected by secretive, shadowy cabals? The only thing missing from this formulaic blurb is the appearance of... Oh, no, wait... Here he is...)

'Only ex-SAS operative Marcus Griffin can save her...'

(Yeah, yeah, he had to pop up somewhere...Though with his memory loss I'm surprised he could remember the way...)

Beautiful, sophisticate Christina Fellatio had never considered being a sub to a multi-billionaire dom before, that is until...

(Oil tycoon Marcus Griffin tied her to a four poster bed and brought her to brink of an earth-shattering orgasm with only half-a-kilo of lard and a broken chair leg? Yeah, OK. Hmmmmm...)

Now it's your turn!

Create Your Own Blurb

Strange things happen at .................................................... especially when there is a 

........................ Sexy .....................   Christina Fellatio is on the hunt for a .................... to be her .................................. So when ex- ............................ Marcus Griffin suddenly appears, it seems her ......................... have come true/been answered* That is, until ................................... Johannes Rictus arrives with his array of ..................................... and faithful, loyal ...................... Soon a ............................... begins that threatens the very ............................. and both ............................ and ................................ find themselves ........................... for their very .........................

*delete as applicable

Seriously though, publishers know that the average attention span of the casual book browser is proportional to the amount of time the browser spends in rapture whilst watching a party political broadcast on behalf of ANY party - about 5.5 seconds. They know that they have so little time to impress that often the first sentence is the deal-clincher. For that reason alone they have the most amazing array of copy editors - skilled in both linguistics and word-weaving - who are able to lay down an excellent introductory line and grab the reader by the literary bollocks.

That's great if you've lined up a five-figure publishing deal where everything, including a goodly proportion of your artistic integrity, is handled and managed by the publishers. But what about those who are self-published? The following are the first lines of blurb from genuine self-published novels.

Janet knew her cat was a special cat, but did not know just how special.

Join Ben on his zany, madcap adventures as a sheep-herder in the dusty, Australian countryside.

How do you solve a murder that is unsolvable? With Tenacity.

No disrespect to any of the authors who thought the above blurbs would help sell their books (and I dare say one, or maybe all of those featured, might be fascinating, incredible reads) but there's no WOW factor there to help hook the browser. When writing a blurb the question every time has to be: What's the hook? Or, put another way: what is it about the book / my book that will make everyone who picks it up, want to buy it, take it home, read it and tell their friends about it?

Use power words in the first sentance. 

What's a power word? Go into your nearest bookshop and take a look at the blurb in their current best-sellers section. You'll find plenty of them there and almost all commercially published books will use attention-grabbing words in the first sentence. Make a list of the words that draw your attention. Which ones are intriguing? Fascinating? Alluring? Stimulating? Make a list and utilise the ones that work best with your story. 

Sure, some books have / rely on a fabulous cover photograph / design / illustration. Others just rely on the blurb, and there are a few out there with a combination of both. Is your cover strong enough to sell the book? Yes? Then that's the first part of the battle won... But you also have to make sure the blurb is just as powerful. If the answer is no, you have to make sure the blurb compensates for that and is very powerful. 

Just as publisher do, self-publishers have to employ the same trickery. Yes, I know your book is fantastic, but you don't have to convince me. You have to convince everyone else, and that in itself is going to take even more thought than the plot of your latest potential best seller.

CPR: Conditional Positive Regard - An interview with author Trak E Sumisu. Part 1 - Who is Matthew Stent?

RSS: Having read CPR and been introduced to the main character, Matthew Stent, I have to ask what or who inspired you to create him?

Sumisu: Now, I have to be careful what I say here. I can state that he is drawn from various sources.

RSS: Why do you say you have to be careful? It does sound a bit enigmatic... Are you saying that people you know will recognise themselves in him?

Sumisu: There is no definitive source for Stent, he is a composite of lots of people I have met and had the pleasure - and occasionally displeasure - of working with. In much the same way as Stent is bound by certain ethical restrictions, so am I.

RSS: I've read that you have practiced as a therapist, did you draw on personal experience when writing about Stent's therapeutic sessions?

Sumisu: I qualified as a therapist and spent a good deal of time treating various clients; again, no one character in the book is a literary representation of a specific person. In much the same way as we are all made up of various facets, so too are my characters, including Matthew.

RSS: So is Stent's way of offering therapy very different from your own?

Sumisu: Absolutely. I don't personally believe a psychotherapist could survive for long if they conducted themselves in the way Matthew does.

RSS: What were your greatest challenges in creating Matthew Stent?

Sumisu: First and foremost I needed him to be believable. There had to be a moral code to which he adhered that, paradoxically, was poles away from where the rest of society sees themselves and especially where we would expect a psychiatrist or therapist to be. I found that quite hard because whilst there had to be this sensational element there also had to be some humanity in him. Essentially, he is a good person.

RSS: Certainly for the first part of the book he keeps this 'good' quality fairly well hidden, were you worried that this would put your readers off?

Sumisu: It was a consideration, certainly. But CPR is a transgressive novel and I feel I would not have been doing the genre justice if I did not show him 'warts and all'. The first part of the book sets him up as a - at times - loathsome, manipulative, immoral person and if the reader takes that essence of him away with them then I have achieved what I set out to do. It makes what happens in the second part all the more powerful, I believe.

RSS: There's another question I want to ask, about the voyeuristic element of the book. Through Matthew the reader explores some fairly shocking sexual themes, are you just playing to the current fashion of erotic fiction?

Sumisu: Let me say I view the often complex sexual side of human interaction as something we are all involved with at some stage in our lives. Sex is important. Writing about sex might be considered as erotic tittilation, especially at the moment, but my intention was purely to illustrate how integral it is to everyone we meet and know. Just because they don't go on about it all the time doesn't mean that it is pushed to the back of their minds.

RSS: Which is why it is quite graphic?

Sumisu: That depends on your viewpoint. The depiction could be considered graphic, in the same way as it could also be considered realistic. It's all subjective.

RSS: But it is shocking in places? Was it your intention? To shock?

Sumisu: No, as I said, it's all subjective. The real intention was to make the sex as realistic as possible, if it shocks then perhaps that says more about the reader than the narrative...

RSS: Stent seems completely alone in the world, is this correct?

Sumisu: To a certain extent it is about where Matthew finds himself in society, but on a much broader level it is a comment about where a lot of us find ourselves today. There is a level of isolation and loneliness, whether self-imposed or otherwise, that we have all experienced. It's that level of isolation that makes empathy so difficult for many of us to access.

RSS: That is a theme you explore through Stent isn't it? Empathy.

Sumisu: Definitely, that and other unrealistic aspects of psychotherapy such as UPR - Unconditional Positive Regard - which is supposed to be a basic tenet for person centred counselling.

RSS: For readers who aren't as familiar with such terms, what is Unconditional Positive Regard and how does it differ from CPR - Conditional Positive Regard - the title of your book?

Sumisu: UPR is the state of being that counsellors are told to aspire to where they remain totally unaffected, emotionally, by the testimony of their clients, whatever that might be. For example a counsellor might have to listen to a client describe very distressing, repugnant elements of their life that would naturally cause someone else to be adversely affected...

RSS: But a counsellor would not be affected in the same way?

Sumisu: That's the theory. From my point of view and experience, it is totally unrealistic. It is largely unachievable. How we respond to someone is conditional, based on things like how we are feeling at the time, if we agree with what they are telling us, the way they dress, the way they behave... Even a seemingly inconsequential factor, like the weather can affect how we respond to another person. Matthew Stent is a dedicated professional and realises that UPR - because it is unrealistic - disallows him to be congruent, or honest - another basic tenet of person centred counselling.

RSS: Yes, you appear to be critical of Carl Rogers' approach to counselling in your book...

Sumisu: Not at all, I merely point out that the things Rogers ascribes to being essential to becoming a counsellor are things that even he could not attain, which obviously throws some doubt on the effectiveness of PCC (Person Centred Counselling) as a viable therapeutic tool.

RSS: Are you concerned that your book will put some people off considering going for counselling?

Sumisu: Not at all. There are certain types of counselling I don't think are right for everyone. Some counsellors have this idea that with their practice 'one size fits all' which is ridiculous. We are all individuals and require individual consideration. My character shares this more enlightened view and tailors his therapy to suit his clients. 

RSS: I see. Can you sum up Matthew Stent in one sentence?

Sumisu: That might be difficult but I'll try... Matthew Stent is a product of our times, a man who imagines he is in control of the factors that shape his life but like so many of us is up shit creek without a paddle - rudderless, alone, and at the mercy of fate.

RSS: Trak it's been great talking to you and finding out a bit more about your creation. Thank-you very much.

Sumisu: It's my pleasure.

A true Christmas ghost story - Part II

He was positive.

I asked him again, just to be sure; to make sure I had not misunderstood him. He was adamant. The woman in the house, the one who gave him the box was the same woman in the photograph. A little older, for sure, but definitely her. He was not mistaken. He had a very good eye for faces, he told me.

It didn't make sense. I handed him the box and told him, "stay here."

I had to make sure the house was secure.

Conducting a thorough search of an empty house is one of the easiest things in the world. Every room was empty and every cupboard in every empty room was similarly empty. There were no wardrobes in any of the bedrooms for anyone to secrete themselves in and no other furniture to hide behind. The house was, in essence, an empty shell and was therefore, devoid of life. I still had to check though.

Walking through the emptiness was disconcerting, inasmuch as I half-expected to be confronted by some spectral form reaching out towards me, or the disembodied, semi-transparent visage of the woman in the portrait looming out of the shadows at me. I saw nothing. Not even the wispy shadows that had plagued me in the house during the last few days. I heard nothing either.

Once I was certain I was totally alone I began backtracking towards the main entrance, closing each of the doors behind me. I must confess, the living room - that permanently cold, eerie place - I only peered into, even so I was adamant that nothing remained in it as I finally closed the door on that too. I set the burglar alarm and backing out into the more welcoming light of day locked the front door and let out a sigh, which, I do not mind admitting, was one of relief.

Matthew was staring at me sheepishly, his face a little more florid than it was before. It puzzled me, so I enquired if anything was wrong.

"No, nothing," he said smiling, indicating to me, who had known him a long time, that he wasn't being entirely honest. I let it go though, because, like myself, he had just had an experience which could be described as being not exactly normal, however I will draw the line - at this stage - at saying, paranormal. So I imagined, he too merely wanted to leave the house far behind him. Our job, ostensibly, was done. It was time to reap the rewards.

The box, I kept. It was placed under the drivers seat, contents intact and it remained there as we unloaded and off-loaded the contents of the van at various locations around the city, including the local auction house. With Matthew assisting we made very short work of the normally back-breaking practice and it was obvious to us both that we'd be finished well before 4pm.

The last stop was my lock-up, a large storage room annexed to the shop where I would take my time to research each of the more interesting pieces before deciding what prices to put on them. I would do that for everything, everything that is, except the box. It was my intention to go through every scrap of paper it contained, study every photograph and then... Then, I would hand it over to the estate agent for him to deliver it up to the solicitor so that it could be returned to the last remaining relative of Alice Freemantle.

Matthew waited until the last piece was carefully stowed away before making a move. I appreciated his dedication and diligence and rewarded it with a grateful smile and two twenties.

"You sure?"

I nodded. "There'll be another bonus once I start to shift this lot. In the meantime, thanks for the help and have a drink on me. Merry Christmas."

He grasped hold of my hand and pumped it vigorously, "Thanks a lot. Merry Christmas to you too."

We did not exchange cards. Not many antique dealers bothered anymore, instead we simply exchanged pleasantries directed towards wishing each other the compliments of the season. Yet, there was something else... Matthew seemed reluctant to leave.

I had noticed something earlier when I had returned from locking up the house too. He had a peculiar look on his face, as though he wanted to say something but was unable to, perhaps even afraid to, which was absurd because he had nothing to fear from me and there was little that he could say that I would be offended by.

"What's wrong?" I asked cautiously.

"Nothing." He grinned sheepishly, but it did not fool me and I think he sensed that too because he suddenly sighed and added, "Who was the old bird in the photo?"

What could I tell him? The truth? That, if he was certain that the person who had handed him the box was the same woman in the photograph then he had conversed with the dead? That he had been given a gift by a ghost? Was that possible? More to the point how would he react, being like myself, incredibly superstitious? What was it they said about receiving gifts from the spirit world..?

I put the thoughts out of my mind. They did not sound rational or sane in my head, so I imagined they would seem to be even more bizarre to him. Matthew did deserve an answer however... In the end I decided on an altogether easier option, though it meant lying to him, which as a trait I detested in myself more than I did in others, but felt that I had very little other choice.

"She's the sister of the woman who gave you the box, the one who lives next door."

"Really?" He shook his head slowly. "To be honest she fucking freaked me out, creeping up on me like that. It was like she appeared out of nowhere and her hands..!"

He stopped. I wanted him to continue and so prompted him a little more forcefully than I would normally of considered doing. "What about them? What about her hands?"

"They were so fucking cold." He simulated a shiver (though to be honest, it may not have been simulated at all, it was hard to tell) "Why don't they turn their fucking central heating on in the winter. It's mental."

I did not pass comment and realising that our conversation on the subject could not realistically go any further he raised a hand, once again expressed his best wishes for me over the Christmas period and moved towards the door. "See you next year then."

"Sure," I waved him off. "Thanks for all your help today." And with that he was off, to spend his wages (and his bonus no doubt) on a very fine bottle of single malt whisky for himself and a meagre present for his wife with whatever was left. Shortly after there was a roar as his van moved off and then there was nothing but the silence of my store and the occasional creak as the new furniture settled into its new surroundings.

It was the last time I ever saw him alive.

Several hours later, as the long winter evening darkness began to reclaim the murkier corners of the lock-up and threatened to engulf whatever fading light remained, I retrieved the box and by the pale yellow artificial glow of my desk lamp began to examine it more carefully.

It was a writing slope, possibly late Victorian, though more likely Edwardian, in a dark, burnished mahogany; veneered obviously. The corners of the box were shouldered in brass as was the escutcheon and the decorative inset name plate on the top of the piece. Once opened, the box, cut at an acute angle, created a slope suitable for the purpose for which it was designed and was covered in a luxurious gold embellished crimson Moroccan leather.

Writing slopes like this always had several hidden compartments which could be reached by sliding a small locking latch at the edges of the slope. It was within the lower (hidden) compartment that the bulk of the letters - beautifully tied up with a thin red silk ribbon - and the photograph of Alice Freemantle were located. I took them out and placed them carefully on the desk next to the box. Next I checked the top compartment and found only a small, folded piece of vellum bearing an almost illegible scrawling handwritten message. I put that with the other documents.

The better boxes had other more secretive drawers secured by a long brass pin disguised as a screw head, though this particular one did not. It did however have a true secret compartment, designed to conceal the most precious of items - especially passionate love letters or valuables - from curious or prying eyes, located beneath the pen tray. Having had several such items in my possession over the years it was simply a matter of trial and error, pulling on each of the dividing walls in turn, before a spring-loaded panel shot open to reveal its contents...

There were three envelopes, folded neatly into slim rectangles, two of which had apparently never been opened, each bearing a heavy wax seal on the reverse and one that had been opened, though empty and addressed simply to: 'My sweet Alice'.

Discarding the opened packet, I placed the other two on the bundle of correspondence with the intention of opening them and reading whatever was written within, but it was getting steadily darker and the lamp was insufficient to illuminate much more than the smallest section of my already cluttered desk. I forced myself up out of the chair and made a resolution to investigate the letters further the first thing in the morning.

I was unprepared for what I found in them.

New Short Story - You Used To Call Me Toni

You used to call me Toni

...I can't blame anyone but myself for what happened. I mean I could, though it would be pointless really. It has been said enough times, that we have to own our actions, each and every one of us, and so I have to own mine, even though I realise that it will undoubtedly deliver me into the hands of an uncaring legal system that cares not for the whys and wherefores of the situation, only the facts.

The facts are plain enough. The facts are lying inert and lifeless on a cold stainless steel table in the mortuary. One of the facts is his name: Eric Steadman, though that is not always the name I knew him by. In the past he went by several other aliases. They all meant the same to me. Most of the time I would call him Eric and Eric is how he would identify himself to me. After hearing what I have to say you might feel that, in some ways, Eric deserved what happened to him, that he brought it on himself.

Yes, it was true his behaviour was appalling, but he didn't deserve to die that way. No-one does, do they?

When he arrived that afternoon, I believe I was down to my last two customers. The doorbell sounded as he strode in and honestly, I did not initially recognise him. Not at first. He sat down on the couch next to Mr Gilliver and the weird looking student, whose name I seem to have forgotten and appeared to pay me no never-mind. I continued with John Stretton's flat-top and watched him surreptitiously in the mirror.

He did seem familiar, in that way that certain men do. He was tall, square-jawed and had the athletic frame of someone predisposed to manual labour. I wondered if he was a builder or someone who worked outdoors, with their hands. I mention that because he was very healthy-looking, tanned. Perhaps I had seen him nearby, working at a building site, or a garage, or... As I said he did seem kind of familiar.

When I had finished Johnny's trim I showed him the back of his head in the hand mirror. He liked it, he said, and obviously I was more than pleased. Yet, as I replaced the mirror on the hook I noticed that the guy - the last guy who had come in - was staring at me. He had this weird, crooked smile on his face that was more like a sneer than a smile. It completely creeped me out, but I held my tongue. After all, it had been a long day, there was a possibility I had just imagined he was regarding me more peculiarly than others do.

Johnny paid for his cut and left; he tipped me exceptionally well. I turned the 'OPEN - Welcome' sign round on the door after he'd gone so that it was apparent to anyone arriving late for a haircut that we were closed. Then, I swept up the detritus from the heads of my last three customers into a small pile by the sink and invited the student into the chair.

I still can't recall his name. I'm sorry. It might be because of everything that happened afterwards or maybe I don't remember because he never told me what it was, or perhaps I never asked. Anyway, all he wanted was a trim. Nothing special, a bit off the top, a bit off the sides and a square neck. He was done in seven minutes exactly.

How do I know that? Because I could see the clock on the wall above my last customer of the day reflected in the mirror. I could see him too, still watching me, slyly, from time to time over the top of a copy of this month's FHM he was reading. His eyes followed me. It made me very uncomfortable, yet still I said nothing.

The student left then, leaving the seat vacant for Mr Gilliver who only wanted a shave. It was his normal weekend treat.

I like to think he came, religiously, to me every Friday because he was seeing some special lady on Saturdays and Sundays, which was why he liked to be trim and clean shaven. His wife had died some seven years back from ovarian cancer or some other such horrible disease. It was such a shame. He took it really badly at the time.

I always did my best for Mr Gilliver. He had nursed his wife from when she was first diagnosed right up until the day she died. He was devoted to her, but now she was gone, I imagined he felt lonely just like the rest of us do from time to time, perhaps more so. I figured that if he had found someone new to share his life with, God knows he deserved it. That's why I always made sure the razor was sharp and the water was hot and he got the closest shave I could manage.

Afterwards he would smile at himself in the mirror, admiring my handiwork and say, 'Son, you've done a grand job.' He always tipped well too.

When Mr Gilliver left that left just him and me.

He walked over and sat in the chair, his heavy frame causing it to dip slightly, then waited with his hands in his lap for me to attend to him. I put the paper collar around his neck, put the nylon cover over him to prevent any hair from falling onto, or even into his clothes and adjusted the seat with two short pumps on the foot lever, so that I could cut his hair without stooping. It's very important - in my profession there are a lot of barbers with serious back problems because they don't have their clients at the right height. Constantly bending over someone can cause real problems.

I stared at him in the mirror, a vague thread of recognition starting to form in my mind.

"What's it to be sir?" I asked him.

He looked at me as though I was a piece of shit he had picked up on his shoe.

"Take it all off." He said.

That was all he said, but in that instant I remembered him, who he was and where we had met. Sometimes it's like that. Someone says something and there is this element to their voice, some inflection that brings the memories flooding back.

I began shaking, not noticeably, but I was acutely aware. His eyes never left me. They were pale blue, flecked with darker blue or grey. I noticed that one of them was slightly bloodshot, though I couldn't imagine what might have caused it.

I think I might have been lost in thought because he spoke again, this time more impatiently, prompting me to make a start.

"Are we going to do this or not?" He asked me. "I haven't got all fucking night!"

That was how he spoke to me. Me! A customer addressing me as though I was some low-life on a street corner! It was then that I realised exactly who he was and, more importantly, that he hadn't changed. In his mind everything was exactly the same. He imagined that I was the same. He really did; that was why he spoke to me the way he did.

Everything started falling into place.

My head began to spin as fragments of memory that I had purposefully pushed into the furthest reaches of my mind began to reassemble. Faces, places, dates, times, names, all came spinning back towards me, filling my head with unbidden recollection. I remembered him. I remembered his name was Eric.

I am unsure if he noticed that spark of recognition that threatened to engulf me and tear my body apart with the shame and humiliation that had begun to assail me for the second time in my life. Could he see it, I wondered. What was it that he saw reflected of me in that mirror? Because all I could see, was him. Him and that day, which, until he had walked into my shop had mercifully seemed so long ago.

My body convulsed. In the mirror was the sole orchestrator of my shame and terror and degradation. The perpetrator of my anguish. The architect of my suffering. Here was the demon from my past, made manifest in the sun-kissed, rugged form of a stranger with pale blue eyes. They bored into me, searching for something. Another opportunity to whet his sadistic appetite on my naked, broken body?

He stared at me now, eyes full of rage, a cruel smile on his lips, just like before. Exactly like before.

"You don't remember me do you?" He growled. Like a dog. Like a ravenous dog, getting ready to tear it's prey to pieces.

I tried to remain calm. I tried to recall what it was he used to say, the jibes and the taunts, designed to embarrass me, to ridicule me and my desires which I know were different from my peers, yet unworthy of his bile and vitriol. My name is Anthony Shapiro and even back then I knew I was worth more than his sadistic barbs.

"Yes." I replied. "You used to call me Toni..."

I slit his throat from ear to ear.

I can't remember how the razor got in my hand. I recall seeing it hanging limply from my hand though in the mirror, as I watched him thrash around, impotently in the chair.

He tried to get up out of the seat but I had severed his carotid, the major artery into his head and the blood loss was rapid and far too great. It went everywhere. I saw it pumping like a geyser from the gash in his neck. It was a very neat, very deep cut that had not only sliced through his blood vessels, but through his windpipe too.

He gurgled like a student who had been beaten half unconscious because of his sexual orientation and was too weak to rise up against his tormentor.

His eyes were filled with the same fear that might be evident in the eyes of someone who had been bullied and victimised to the point of suicide for being something that they were unable to alter or control.

I watched him become quieter, the rage that had consumed him for most of his life passing from his body until, in death, he looked serene and just like any other of my customers stopping by for a haircut - except, obviously, for the blood...