Writing Time

There's a time some evenings for writing. It's that time when I should be asleep, but can't. When the stacks of magazines, novels and non-fiction I've got lying around on my to-absorb list hold no interest. When my day job hasn't ripped every desire to type from my fingers. When it's time for me to write.

Except I have no bloody idea what I want to write about.

When I first started writing there was a list of things I wanted to achieve as a writer.

Get an academic article published.
Get a newspaper article published.
Get an article in a magazine (that people actually pay for).
Sell a piece of fiction.
Sell a short story.
Sell a script for a graphic novel/comic.

So far I've hit one of those, with another possibly in the works, but with seeming diminishing likelyhood. Neil Gaiman was published at 23, and writing Sandman at 29. Warren Ellis was writing for Marvel at 26.

I know it's a bit daft to compare oneself to other authors, but it's still terrifying. By writing in a drudge job, I'm completely removing any desire I have to work beyond what I have to. I have a half-dozen little side projects that never go anywhere due to lack of time and energy.

My job has sapped two of my only useful hobbies: photography and writing.

I want to tell stories.
I want to show pictures.

Bugger this emo shit. I want to write, and at least that's what I'm doing.

This may be a time of flux for writers, but that also makes it a time of interesting opportunity. The fact that ebooks are actually selling. That writers can release bits and pieces for free online, if they're sensible. Asimov's may be fading, but Escape Pod has a freaking huge number of listeners.

Freelancing has this romantic appeal, given the current situation. It gives the most promise for riding out the current shufflings of written media, as real jobs are few and far between. Plus the ability to flit from one subject to another is a glorious one. But no insurance. Shitty pay. Would you believe freelancing jobs are being outsourced?

I was recently checking out a freelancing website, which included a writing section. Standard deal, writers try and place a low bid on a contract. Reading their posts, basic language skills seemed nearly non-existent. Then I looked at how much was being paid. 50 cents for 200 words. $200 a week from 20,000 words. That's fucking ludicrous! Of course, it's near to a living wage in South Asia.

But not here.

Toy cameras

So, Toy Cameras are making a significant resurgence. A visit to your local, neighbourhood, hipster hangout is bound to reveal Holgas, Dianas, Oktomats and Fish-eyes, and a massive resurgence in the popularity of film. Why are these cameras so popular? Because they were shitty. They aren't light proof, often don't focus properly, expose incorrectly, and the colours are all out of whack. They're creators of "happy accidents", of low-fi joy. They're distorted, grainy, and everything serious photographers avoided for years.

In other words, they're cellphone cameras. Sure cameras has fewer light leaks, but everything else is the same. Doesn't expose properly, trouble focusing, weird noise, tendency towards lens flares. Toy Cameras are just hip right now. Beat out the curve, make art with your shitty cellphone.

Magazines are dead. Long live magazines.

Print is dying. No, I'm not going to bother backing that up, I'm pretty sure we all know and realise that. Ad sales are down, magazines are rapidly dwindling to nothing, major newspapers are folding. Hell, the Rocky Mountain News is no longer in print, and the Boston Globe isn't looking too healthy.

Magazines are dying too, but not all of them. Because, it seems, the magazines that are vanishing are the ones that use their pages solely as a way to transmit information. Magazines like Cosmo, Time, Maxim, EGM and Wired all come out regularly, and use their pages to bring as much information (though I use the term loosely) as they can to their readers, and that's it. Because of this, the paper is usually as low quality as they can get away with, and so too is the writing and content. The problem with this is that all this information is available easier, cheaper and faster online.

The ones that are arising in their place, however, are fetish magazines. Not in the kinky sense (though there are those too), but in a more traditional manner, as objects of worship. This is the magazine as an Object in and of itself. These are magazines that you don't buy for what's in them, but rather to possess them. They are high quality, of inherently niche topic, and designed to be kept. You don't throw them away in the recycling a week after you get them, rather they're closer to art books. The message isn't in the medium, the medium is the message.

The two that spring to mind (though both are occasionally NSFW), are Coilhouse and Filament. Coilhouse is home to the weird and the wonderful. Each page is stunningly laid out on heavy stock paper, with gorgeous photography and illustrations. Even the advertisements are freakishly beautiful. Filament is a magazine of intelligence and male nudity aimed at "the female gaze". Once again, it doesn't come out very frequently, and it's an object to be purchased as a thing of beauty in its own right.

A wonderful historic example of this is the magazine Gentry, which was aimed squarely at the upper-class British male, and it even came with fabric samples woven in. Once again the importance was in the object itself, as a permanent Thing.

Another excellent example (though in fiction) is Jon Armstrong's novel Grey (available for free as an ebook here). The plot in the book is by all accounts mediocre, but it's worth reading just for the outfits. It is pure clothing porn in a way I can't even begin to explain. In the novel, the main character is a devotee of the magazine "Pure H".

Then she introduced me to Pure H and everything changed again. Published every other month, the magazine is one-half meter square and printed on the most luscious and expensive paper made. It is a joy to touch and hold. But the most extraordinary thing about the magazine is that one anonymous person produces it. Although I’d heard speculation about who he might be, I preferred to enjoy his art without worrying about identity. He photographed every photo. He wrote all the copy. And each issue was a complex puzzle to be savored and deciphered.

You know what? I love this trend. I love the idea of magazines that exists as an Object itself, more than its readily pirated contents. An Object of inherent value. Magazines are dead. Long live magazines.

Websites that need to exist but don't:

http://www.moviesinwhichsamuelljacksonsaysmotherfucker.com

Someone really needs to snatch this up.

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Flash Fiction: I watch the rising and falling of her chest

I watch the rising and falling of her chest. She doesn't know I'm awake. Her gown is sheer, and she's half-illuminated by the moon. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. Her breath is slow and shallow, and I am mesmerised by the ridge of her clavicle. The faintest shadow of breasts. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I stare at her, unable to sleep. I remember running my lips along her neck, my arms around her. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember early mornings, breakfasts in bed, and furtive liaisons under the covers. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember the taste of her lips. Her lips. Her lips. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I can't wait for her wake up, for her to be mine again. The ECG beeps. I watch the rising and falling of her chest.


This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

I'm internet famous

When you Yahoo search for "Arthur Curry", I'm number 4 on the list. That's hilariously awesome!

EDIT: May 11, up to number 3!