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...

The Process...Part 1

I have been a writer for longer and with more sustained focus than I have been anything else. Whilst I describe myself as an artist per se, the individual facets that make up the whole are unequal, some even disjointed or fractured.

For example, I have always believed in my disability to paint. I use the word 'disability' openly and honestly. The result of a genetic birth defect which while it does restrict me in much else that I do, my peculiar digital arrangement means that I cannot hold a paint brush in the standard way and need to lean very heavily on whatever material I happen to be painting on.

Early attempts with poster and palette paints were invariably messy and painting in oils was an absolute nightmare. So instead I concentrated on drawing and became proficient at that skill because it didn't matter if I had to rest my hand on the piece I was creating. I never gave up my desire to paint though.

About the same time that I was perfecting my drawing style I became aware of another palette, a palette of words with which it was possible to create a painting not on a canvas but in someone's head.

The concept fascinated me and I began using both words and pictures (to augment my writing). It was very successful but frowned upon by both purist sections of the disciplines I had combined. Eventually I had to bow to pressure and I gave up illustrating my stories. It was a pivotal moment in my life.

For a while both skills ran parallel but something had to give and for a while it was my art. My interest was rekindled later, but by then my ideas, imagination and ability had changed. I still loved the creative freedom that was possible whenever I wielded my pens and pencils, but I could not achieve the length and depth and scope of what I could achieve with words.

I later began illustrating my stories again - book covers - that lent the viewer some kind of idea of what awaited them in the pages of my stories. Artistically I was also becoming interested in photography and this opened up another vast field of creative endeavour.

Like most things I threw myself in head- first, learning as much as I could from others already proficient in the field and, naturally, from my mistakes. Photography gave me the opportunity to be the painter I could never physically hope to be (or so I thought) and my photographs became inspiration for my writing, capturing momentary fragments of existence so that later I could commit them to writing.

The last artistic development I want to share with you, reading the first part of this blog, was accidental and involved my children (a subject I intend to return to in another part of this series of musings) who introduced me to acrylic paints.

The fast drying pigments enabled me to finally paint. I could put my hands all over my work with no problem. It was another skill I had to pick up from scratch and develop through trial and error. I am pleased to say that painting is another string to my bow and yet, despite the pleasure all of my artistic endeavours gave me, none were really comparable to what I felt I could achieve by writing.

It seemed I was always driven to create, by whatever means I found at my disposal and I took up every challenge willingly. I was yet to discover the dual nature of creativity and the price that invariably, has to be paid...

Always at the edges

Time to change the rules...

That is, if there are any rules...

That I haven't already bent, broke or destroyed.

Moving on... Part 2

So... Regardless of the teen vampires, proliferation of graphic tomes, treasure / secret potboilers* and mummy porn (WTF?! Who considered 'mummy porn' to be an accurate description of what are basically Mills & Boon novels with bondage and the words 'fuck' and 'cunt' littered throughout..?) what represents the largest proportion of books by genre in the entire store?

Actually it is hardly surprising... The writing was on the wall some twenty or so years ago but even the most astute publisher could have foreseen the popularity of the crime / thriller market. Certainly, commanding the largest proportion of bookstore space by specific genre is the crime novel and yet strangely some of the greatest historical and literary crime novelists do not not even feature on the shelves of the modern book store.

The bays and bays and bays of books devoted to stalk-and-slash murderers, devious sociopaths and demented serial killers are so full, it defies accurate analysis of the mental state of the market or the average reader. Just what is the zeitgeist here? What do our reading habits actually tell us about the current state of society and our individual fears? (for after all, reading is an individual pastime)

We are running scared, it appears. We have secularised ourselves and in doing so realised that the real monsters lurking in the shadows of our lives, towns and cities are not scaly, or slimy or horned; they are bespectacled and ordinary and called Colin. God cannot save us from the real demons abroad in society. These beasts have no pity, no mercy, no real function except to mutilate, humiliate, eviscerate and destroy and it will take more than a priest these days to stop them... Actually usually a brilliantly gifted detective, behavioural psychologist, forensic scientist or a mixture of all three.

In our ever-advancing technological world it is less than reassuring to realise that there are people who do not conform, will not fit in and who defy everything except the intellectual expertise of someone who understands them. I don't mean someone who understands society, but who understands those that are not of society; those who do not share the norms and mores of the majority. It frightens us, terrifies us; more specifically, it always has.

Shamefully, there are a growing number of writers - desperate, creative souls - who, in order to be accepted by the mainstream flow of both book publisher and book-seller are willing to sacrifice their intellectualism and creativity in order to deliver up something less than adequate to fulfil a need demanded not by the readership but a publisher exploiting the readership. Yet, surely it is the writer who should dictate the terms of that need, not the readership, not the publisher and not the agent.

The storyteller has, historically, always exploited current trends but in doing so always delivered their own unique tale. Trends come and go. Crime is in. Vampires are on the wane. Pseudo-eroticism has been legitimised. Sci-Fi has been hidden away for far too long. True literature has been stifled except in the case where it serves no other purpose than the continuation of grandiose titular awards.

We need to move on. To damn the eyes of the agent. To publish and be damned. To stand or fall by the strength of our narratives and to deliver new feasts for the reader so that they, like the authors may experience something new, something bold and often something altogether more dangerous...

* Treasure / secret potboilers are thriller off-shoots that are so formulaic that readers are often uncertain from the blurb on the back cover whether they have read that particular story before or simply another one that sounds exactly the same. Generally the plots are the the same, i.e.:

Beautiful / handsome / rugged archaeologist / crypto zoologist / historian finds a priceless / unusual / mysterious artefact and finds herself / himself in terrible danger that involves her / him / the fate of the human race and needs to enlist the help of her / his old friend who is ex-SAS / a mercenary / a skilled weapons expert and together they must fight against an unseen foe / a mysterious brotherhood / a shadowy cabal who have sworn to keep the secret safe at any cost, even at the cost of humanity. See Dan Brown wife's book: The DaVinci Code.

Moving on...Part 1

Contemplating the peculiar state of affairs in my local Waterstones, where, from time to time, I do nothing more than assess the market as perceived by this particular retailer; made manifest in the manner in which their shop is laid out.

Apologies to anyone reading this, say, in Wells or Loughborough where their own branch of Waterstones is not as expansive as the one in my own fair city (which is complete with third floor Costa Coffee franchise outlet, don't you know...) but I dare say that any cursory look at even the smaller stores will give an indication of which direction Waterstones anticipates the book market to be headed.

Gone are the genre specific racks of books which made browsing in the old style W.H.Smith stores such a pleasure, but then gone are the publishing houses who turned out genre specific books for genre specific aficionados. I am not saying that such genre sections are missing in Waterstones, far from it, but they just aren't the same...

Best sellers are at the front of the shop, naturally (commercially that makes sense) alongside recommended reads (recommended by whom? Please remember that Richard and Judy are hardly the cornerstone of literary review) and strangest of all a whole bank of e-readers. I kindle you not. What exactly are you trying to tell us Waterstones? That you would rather have some of the market these machines are capturing instead of losing out entirely by only catering for traditionalists? (again it makes absolute, obvious commercial sense)

Where are the classics? Relegated to a side annexe, the last place you would visit upon deciding to leave the shop.

Where are the new writers, the Independant publishers and self-published novels? Right at the back of the store hidden away from everything. Even the counter staff were unable to locate one particular novel I enquired after, but there it was, hidden away at the back of the shop, isolated and unloved. I did at least find it. Yep, fuck you Amazon!

There is a whole bay and six whole shelves dedicated to manga and other types of graphic novels. An indication of the popularity of this form of literature amongst the masses or a warning about the increased level of illiteracy in the Country? At least, mercifully, teen fiction is still well catered for. They are still reading, thank goodness.

Vampires have all but taken over the horror section, with more than a slight edging in by a growing band of werewolves and the odd zombie. Teen vampires - please keep to the teen fiction section. There is no place for budding breasts in tight sweaters on 12-year olds and pubescent blood-letting in the adult section; not with it so close to the erotica section for Christ's sake...It's only a hop, skip and jump away from from full-blown paedophilia.

Two-faced Charlatan

Another year slides in and the murkiness associated with the previous trip round the Sun becomes less prominent with each new day that passes.
My focus is still a little way off but my direction is certain.
2013 here I come.