Jack Binding's Blog

It’s been a week. So here’s something nice. A list. People love lists. I love lists.

So—

My top 10 horror movies. At least, how they stand today. The list will change tomorrow.

Being a horror aficionado is a strange thing. Even though horror is more acceptable now, some people still give you that awkward little nod of the head when they find out, like you’re somehow psychologically unhinged—not normal. Well, newsflash: we’re all psychologically unhinged. I think the difference between people who dig horror and those who don’t is that we fucking know it.

Without further ado:

Okay. Hear me out. It’s 1997. You’re 17 years old and in a cinema in Southampton with a couple of mates. You’re the only ones in there. It’s daytime. You shouldn’t even be watching the movie because you’re technically underage. But hey, the English provinces—where people either care too much or not at all.

Big drums! Michael Kamen (with a little help from Orbital—it was the ‘90s). Sam Neill. Laurence Fishburne. Sean Pertwee. Jason Isaacs. Joely Richardson. Petrifying from the first scene, and then it just doesn’t let up.

We still talk about that experience to this day. Also, any movie where they smoke on a spaceship will always hold a special place in my heart.

Ignore the haters. It’s a great, surprisingly nasty movie that leaves a lasting impression.

I must admit, when I started it, I thought I wasn’t going to make it through the first 30 minutes. Creepy house. Fuck-all budget. No Tom Cruise running.

But… what a great, perfect little movie.

Scary as hell, but with real heart. Carolyn Bracken in a dual role is stunning. There’s folk stuff, beautiful Ireland, and an asylum. What else could you want?

Ever since Utopia, I’ll watch anything with Neil Maskell in it (although I must admit, I haven’t ticked Basic Instinct 2 off the list just yet). And I could’ve put Bull on this list as well, which I absolutely love—but does it count as horror?

Does Kill List count as horror?

Well, if I say it does, it does. It’s my list, right?

Anyway. Kill List is a hard watch. It’s tense and horrible, but completely captivating. And the best horror comes from people themselves, right? Not killer dolls, eh friends? (IYKYK)

That last scene. Yeah. I think about it probably once a week. You’ve been warned.

I like Edward Woodward. Used to watch him in reruns of Callan as a ruthless spy. And his turn as a pious cop here is wonderful. No other movie feels like this one. It’s just some mad fever dream. The music, the dancing, Britt Ekland, Britt Ekland gyrating*, Christopher Lee, Christopher Lee’s hair. And then, like Kill List, the end… it’s inevitable and terrible.

What more could you want?

* Apparently it was a stunt double.

I was 16 when Scream came out, which was pretty much the best age to enjoy the movie. Smart-talking teens. Red Right Hand. Playing with the genre in a way that made the audience feel super smart, which, in itself, was a stroke of genius.

But it’s not some trite self-parody. It could easily have been (looking at you, Scream 3). What saves it is the staging of the kills. It’s really, really scary. And it’s surprisingly brutal.

A clever, landmark movie.

I thought this was going to be crap. How could Brandon Cronenberg live up to his father? Would it be a soulless copy of much better movies? Is this just Hollywood nepotism? Is that even a thing? I mean Maya Hawk was pretty good in Stranger Things… Should we be berating someone for having successful parents? It’s not like they can change that or had any say in it. How do I even feel about this? Maybe I should consider it and write a post on it. Is Cronenberg “Hollywood”? Probably not.

Well, I was wrong about Brandon.

Which is odd, because I’m usually right.

This movie floored me.

I love body horror. Of all the sub-genres, it’s the one that truly disturbs me. And this had it in spades. It’s violent, weird, and by the end, completely unnerving. Also, it has Andrea Riseborough and Sean Bean. What are you waiting for?

I struggle sometimes with being a complete atheist and still getting freaked out by devil stuff. And to be honest, I usually don’t. But The Omen? Yeah.

Creepy antichrist. Patrick Troughton. Crazy baboons. Mrs Baylock. This was one of the first horror movies I ever saw. I think I was about 10. I watched it with my brother, who was 8. He had to go to therapy. Still can’t watch it.

Me? I watched the entire saga. After Omen IV, I also had to go to therapy because I’d lost faith in humanity.

Little anecdote: when I was about 14, we had a religious education lesson, and the teacher asked us to bring in a book about God. Most kids brought the Bible or Kipling or whatever. I brought David Seltzer’s novelisation of The Omen.

She said, “You should read the third one—that’s where God wins.”
I said, “You should read the fourth one—that’s where he’s born again out of a woman’s ass.”

And that was the last time we spoke.

Note: Book #4 (Armageddon 2000) and movie #4 (The Awakening) are completely different things…

I was never allowed to watch these as a kid—and rightly so. But a mate had all the VHS tapes in his room, and even just the covers fucked me up. I had nightmares about Freddy. Which is exactly what you don’t want to do.

It took me until I was 23 to finally watch it. I’d just had surgery and was bed-ridden for a week. What better cure than the full Nightmare on Elm Street box set?

The original is still the best, but 3 comes close.

What can I say? I was flicking through channels in the early 2000s and landed on this. Nice theme tune. Cellos. Lovely. Blood-soaked metaphors and gutting in the first ten minutes. And then… I don’t know. Maybe the misty Canadian setting. The coming-of-age stuff (which I usually hate, but works here). Katharine Isabelle.

And I don’t even like werewolf shit. Usually. But this was brilliant. Kind of like Heathers, with more disembowelment.

I could write an essay on this movie. I fucking love it. I’ve seen it more than any other—even Mission: Impossible 7 (sue me).

Spoiler alert: my take is that Candyman is all in Helen’s head. It’s really a super-smart, immersive story about a woman psychologically unravelling. And as with all the best horror, the real villains are human—helped by a particularly sleazy turn from Xander Berkeley.

And Tony Todd? Gravitas personified.

It’s scary. It’s beautiful. It’s sad. The Philip Glass soundtrack alone earns it a place on this list. (I used to have the theme as my ringtone. Now it’s Peppa Pig. Such is life.)

Also, I’m petrified of being stung to death. So yeah.

Note: I don’t hate the remake/reboot/sequel whatever it is. For me it’s a solid 6/10. But I have this pet peeve when they call it the same bloody name.

Studio Exec 1: So it’s a remake?
Studio Exec 2: Kind of, but it’s also a reboot.
Studio Exec 1: So… it’s a sequel?
Studio Exec 2: Kinda.
Studio Exec 1: So it’s Candyman 2?
Studio Exec 2: There’s already a Candyman 2.
Studio Exec 1: How many Candyman movies are there? Do we call them Candymen?
Studio Exec 2: Currently three Candymen.
Studio Exec 1: Multiverse? Could be interesting. So it’s Candyman 4?
Studio Exec 2: Dude, that would just be confusing.
Studio Exec 1: Fuck it. Too hard. No numeric sequels in elevated horror, anyway. Let’s just call it Candyman, yeah?
Studio Exec 2: Agreed.

(Also see: Scream (5), Halloween, (The) Final Destination, (The ) Fast & (The) Furious, The Thing, Rocky etc. etc.)

That’s My List. What’s Yours?

If you think I missed something, maybe I did. If you think The Babadook should be here—fine. It’s… meh. If you think The Human Centipede 2 is underrated—unfollow me. But tell me anyway.

It’s been something I’ve thought about for a while, and—eight years after releasing the thing—I figured:
Fuck it, why not?

I’m not trying to sell you the same thing twice. If you already own it or read it digitally, all good.

So why do this?

Well, given my recent horror writer resurrection (if you’ve missed it, I’ve been in hibernation since 2017), I want as many people to read my shit as possible.
I’m proud of Pills. Eight years on, it still holds up.

I’ve got new stuff coming too. A couple of major works-in-progress—so it won’t be long until there’s something else to chew on, if that’s your thing.

Untethering from the evil Am*z*n empire, you say?

Hope you’re not reading this on a Starlink connection…

Truth is, if I could, I would. But there’s only one of me.
And right now, the priority is getting the work out there to as many people as possible.
Taking down the oligarchy will have to wait for another sprint.

Anyway—the physical copy looks lovely. I hope you think so, too.
And in these days of screens, streams, and infinite scroll…
There’s something nice about holding a book. Especially a bright pink one.

You can grab it here.

Why?

Well, the misaligned text has bugged me for eight years, so I figured it was time to fix it. Unfortunately, due to my top-tier local file management skills (read: not backing up properly for once), I lost the original Photoshop file.

But here’s the thing—I’m better now. I know what I like, and I knew Pills needed a cover that actually suited what’s inside. So, I made a new one.

Why This Look?

It leans into the seventies horror aesthetic—big, creepy fonts, subtle (or not-so-subtle) nods to dripping blood. But it’s 2025, not 1975, so I went with a disgusting pink. Black text, obviously.

Why? Because Pills is an obnoxious collection of stories, and that’s part of the charm. Reading them now, I’m struck by how bold and confident they are—a snapshot of who I was back then. These days, I’m a little more measured and restrained. Most days.

And honestly? They still stand up. I’m proud of them. It’s rare to look back at older work and not feel the urge to rewrite half of it, but these stories still hit hard, still make me laugh, still feel like they deserve to be read.

Also, I was listening to nu rave while designing it, so obviously, it had to be some sort of gaudy, high-voltage colour.

What’s Next?

Now that I actually have the files properly backed up (lesson learned), I might even do a physical version. Any takers?

Anyway—TL;DR: New cover. I like it. I think it fits the collection better.

What do you think?

I want to talk about music for a moment. I know this is a writing blog and all that crap, but music’s wired into who I am.

When I was thirteen, I heard Berlin by Lou Reed, and that was it. I was done for. A few years later, I joined a band. We toured the UK and Europe, put out a couple of singles, and dyed our hair every imaginable shade of black. It was chaotic, reckless, and wonderful.

Like most bands, we didn’t last. Too much booze, too many late nights, and far too many bad decisions. But even in the mess, there was one idea I clung to: music sounds worse when the edges are smoothed out.

Indulge me.

Imagine you’re at Music School. It’s exam time. They’re testing your singing ability. Leonard Cohen fails—obviously—and probably sleeps with the teacher’s wife for good measure. Meanwhile, Michael Bublé passes with flying colours.

Leonard and Michael—first name terms now—are both technically “singers.” But come on. Who would you rather listen to?

If you said Bublé, you’re welcome to smash that unfollow button right now.

Same deal with Neil Young and Steve Vai. Vai can shred like a machine, sure, but give me Neil Young’s fractured, discordant mess any day of the week. There’s life in it. There’s danger.

Roughness makes music exciting. And I believe the same is true of writing. (Yes, I just started a sentence with “And.” #dealwithit)

I’m not saying you should deliberately write crap or ignore craft. But if breaking a rule adds energy, if it makes your story breathe—break it.

No one’s going to send your novel back covered in red pen. And if they do, it probably says more about their need for control than the quality of your story.

Take The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis. It starts in the middle of a sentence.

The middle of a fucking sentence.

It’s like stepping into a conversation at a party—disorienting, alive, completely engaging.

I could go on, but you’ve made it this far, and that makes you smarter than most people on the internet. So thank you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to reread a first draft and convince myself it’s not entirely made of bin juice.

Wish me luck.

Something happened to me at the end of last year. Something not good. But that something gifted me one thing I didn’t have before – time.

At first, I wasted it. Mario Kart, bad daytime drinking habits, and a growing sense that I should probably be doing something more productive. Eventually, I shaved, put on proper clothes again, and thought about how best to use the time I’d been given.

Should I write that sci-fi concept album I’ve been promising myself since 2009, when I first heard Time by Electric Light Orchestra? Should I start a business and become an entrepreneur? Try to get a six-pack?

None of those ideas got my heart racing.

Deep down, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to write. To sit down and actually create something.

So that’s what I did.

And now, there’s a new novel that—pending beta feedback—is complete. I’m immensely proud of it. It’s dark, funny, and sad. A piece of art that didn’t exist before, now dragged from my head and onto the page.

That’s what I love about art. There’s always a before and an after. Before Orwell wrote 1984. After it was published. The book came out of his head, and suddenly, it existed in the world. Amazing.

Now, I’m not comparing my work to Orwell’s, but I do think this novel kills.

A friend recently said to me, “Jack, you really back yourself, don’t you?”

I replied, “I can’t expect anyone else to back me if I don’t back myself first.”

I’m always conscious when I say things like that, that I’ll sound like a coked-up Liam Gallagher circa 1997. But also, I’m in my mid-forties now, and I’ve discovered that with age comes an exponential increase in not caring about stuff like that anymore.

But all of this—the new novel, the momentum—wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t revisited Pills and given it a soft re-release in mid-2024. That collection reinvigorated me. Sales climbed. Reviews came in. People were reading it, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was in the game again.

Proud of my first child.

Art is always self-indulgent. It’s created because something inside the creator demands to be let out. But one of its best byproducts is connection—because let’s be honest, not all of us are great socialisers in real life. Me most definitely included.

So while Pills didn’t need reviews or chart success for me to be proud of it, I won’t lie—seeing it climb the rankings, reading five-star reviews, knowing it was resonating with people… that meant something.

It gave me the confidence to push my work further. To refine my process. To write the best thing I’ve ever written.

And because Pills played such a key role in getting me here, I want as many people as possible to read it.

So, from March 13 (Pacific Time), Pills will be free on Amazon for five days.

Yes, I know. Bezos is a billionaire. The world is on fire. I get it.

But here’s the thing—if you grab it while it’s free, it actually costs them in data. So in a way, you’re making Amazon take a loss.

And if you do pick up a copy, please, please, please consider leaving a review. It only takes a minute, and it makes a huge difference for an independent writer like me.

Unless, of course, you’re the guy who gave me one star because of that dead dog scene, assuming I must be a sadistic animal hater.

If so, I’d like to assure you that my Maltese terrier and my toy poodle are both alive and well. For now.

Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0713VBS6L/

And to everyone who has already read it—thank you from the bottom of my black heart.

I’ve been writing for ten days straight. A ghost in my own house. I exist only for coffee in the morning and whiskey at night.

But it’s Sunday afternoon, and I stop. Why? Because draft number two is complete. Pending a read-through, the structure is there. Sure, there are bits of prose to polish and minor inconsistencies to iron out, but this is it.

I step out of my writing room—aka the spare bedroom—blinking in the afternoon light. Tears stream down my face before I even realise it.

“The fuck’s up with you?” my significant other says.

“I just said goodbye to some people,” I reply.

She shrugs. “Wanna watch Moana with your son?”

I do not.

I researched this. It’s a common phenomenon: post-draft depression. Writer’s emptiness. Creative comedown. I like that phrase. It fits.

We create these worlds, immerse ourselves so deeply that they’re more real than our surroundings. Faces only we know. Conversations only we hear.

I can see why people write sequels. Although this one isn’t getting a part two.

It’s been a long time since I wrote anything substantial. Did I feel like this before? I can’t remember. What’s changed? Has middle age softened me? Am I just exhausted? Or is this my first symptom of some terminal illness?

Then I concluded—completely unfounded, of course—that I feel this way because what I’ve written is good. I should be feeling like this. If I’m not, then maybe what I’ve written doesn’t have enough heart.

Now, all I want to do is keep writing.

And now I understand why Stephen King took so much coke. I don’t need more words. I need more hours in the day.

On a completely unrelated subject, I feel like taking up smoking again.

Following up on my last post, I’ve got some exciting news: I’ve just finished the first draft of a novel. The idea had been percolating in my brain for years. I guess I just needed that little nudge in order to lock myself away and write it.

As first drafts go – and I’ve had a few of them now – it’s pretty good. Sure, there are subplots that need cutting. One character inexplicably changes names midway through. I use certain words and phrases too much, but that’s what the editing process is for, right?

So, here’s what I do:

Leave it a week. Those assholes who say crap like put your first draft in a box for a month or longer and come back to it with fresh eyes either don’t know what they’re talking about or have way too much spare time on their hands. For me, it’s about momentum. A week is long enough to grow some objectivity, but it doesn’t matter how long you leave it, you’ll never be objective about your own work. So keep at it.

I’ll read the thing through – warts and all. No editing. One sitting.

Then I’ll work on the structure – does it make sense? Do the arcs work? Is there fat I can trim? One of the beautiful things I find here is that there is usually some really good stuff that has unconsciously woven itself into the plot. If I can pull that out and double down on it, then I will. For me, particularly with the stuff I write, that is where I can get the best horror elements.

After that, I’ll do a second pass, where I work on characters and dialogue. This builds it out. Makes the world 3D. It also shows me any weak or superfluous characters or plot points that I might have missed on the last pass.

Finally, I’ll go over it and improve the prose. I’m not a flowery writer. I’m not flexing my vocabulary. I like to be direct. I’m trying to make a connection, after all, so this is the fun part in which my voice really comes out and I get conversational.

I repeat that last part several times and then it’s time to pass it over.

Beta readers. Yeah, I’ll need them. If you’re interested in reading something dark, twisted, and truly unsettling, I’d love to hear from you. I’m not sure when it’ll be ready, but if you have the time and inclination to partake in that part of the process and help a writer out, then I’d love to hear from you. Caveat: it’s really fucking dark. At the moment, it’s darker than anything in Pills. I only want to give you nightmares if that’s your bag. I cannot pay for your therapy.

Can’t wait to share more with you. If you’re up for reading something truly dark, drop me a message.

In July 2024, I was half-drunk in a bar in Bali getting a $10 tattoo on my wrist. My hair was bleached. My Hawaiian shirt had one button too many undone.

44 years old. Not exactly growing old gracefully. At least I didn’t have a cigarette hanging from my lower lip.

This scene was a stark contrast to my beige life in Sydney, with its nice Victorian house a short ride from Bondi Beach, two designer dogs, German car, double cuff shirts and tailored suits.

But, fuck that guy.

There’s letting loose while on holiday. This was a few steps further.

As metaphors go, this one was pretty heavy handed, but then again, maybe that was the point.

I hadn’t written since Pills came out back in 2017. Sometimes life just gets in the way. Sometimes there are more pressing things than self-indulgent art to waste your time with. [INSERT BULLSHIT EXCUSE HERE]

A few weeks later, I’m sat in my therapist’s plush office, bathed in ethereal white light. “What makes you happy?” she says.

“Coke,” I say, not missing a beat.

She rolls her eyes. I’m paying to crack jokes that are not appreciated.

A few minutes of silence pass. “Writing,” I concede.

“Well why don’t you write then?”

Why the fuck not?

Six months later I’ve almost finished a new novel. And it feels great.

My hair, unfortunately, is more or less back to its usual mousey brown with flecks of grey.

What do I love more than writing? Giving myself nightmares—and last night, I outdid myself.

I’m cranking out about 3,000 words a day on the new novel. It’s flying. Today, I wrote a section so scary, I think it’ll haunt my dreams tonight. I guess we all have our unique ways of making ourselves happy. Giving myself nightmares happens to be one of mine.

It’s hard to blog when I could be writing fiction instead, but today, I can carve out the time. Today, I need to step out of that world I’ve been in for the last few months and work on something different.

As much as I love conjuring horrors for the page, there’s another kind of nightmare I’ve been stepping away from: the social media cesspool. Until recently, I spent far too much time on Twitter (and no, I’m not calling it X—my dignity is worth more than that).

Once upon a time, Twitter felt like a community of writers and weirdos sharing ideas and cat videos. Now, it feels like a haunted house where every door leads to a shouting match with trolls or, worse, M*sk trying to convince me he’s a genius. An innocuous tweet about Pills? Met with “Shut the fuck up libtard #MAGA.” I open the app, and it’s James Woods off his rocker again or conspiracy theories my seven-year-old son could debunk.

So I thought, screw it. I jumped ship to Bluesky.

Initially cynical (cynicism is my default setting), the amount of genuine people who wanted to connect and talk about the same weird stuff I’m into surprised me. Even though my follow/follower count is minuscule, it consists of actual people with actual interests—most of whom I’d be happy sink a pint with (or schooner if you’re in Sydney).

Bluesky reminds me of what social media used to be—real people sharing thoughts, creativity, and a bit of banter without the constant static of bots and rage-bait. It’s refreshing.

If you’re tired of drowning in the Twitter mire and want to find your people again, give Bluesky a shot. Worst case, you’ll stick it to M*sk. Best case, you’ll remember why social media used to be fun.

And I haven’t been called a libtard once. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough.

Well, it’s been a busy time in my life. There have been many changes, mainly for the good, but you didn’t come here to read about my personal life – this isn’t Livejournal and it’s not 2005 anymore.

In terms of writing, I finished the first draft of my new novel. It started great and lost its way as I carried on with the story. I kind of wrote myself into a corner, so I let it sit for a while, put it to the back of my mind and came back to it with fresh eyes. And guess what? The second draft is full steam ahead. This is my favourite part of the process – taking something apart and putting it back together again to make it (hopefully) better.

The first draft was very dark. In fact, it might be the darkest thing I’ve ever written. Now, if you’ve read Pills, you’ll know that means it’s pretty messed up. But it’s also flowing well – the characters are alive; the settings are bold and I think it works. It is also quite scary, but there’s something that I thought it lacked. There were gaps.

It’s strange where inspiration comes from, because the thing that got me over the hump was helping my son with a school art project. I cannot really delve into specifics as I’d be in spoiler territory, but we were working on a sculpture together and then it hit me. All of a sudden, I had this creepy, nasty little hook that completed the story. And it came from a sweet school project. I guess that juxtaposition of sweet and evil is something that highlights the horror.

Anyway, now I have to rejig, incorporate new elements, resurrect dead characters I shouldn’t have killed off the first time around say goodbye to some that perhaps outlived their useful life in the first draft.

I love this process. I don’t care if anyone reads it, I don’t care if anyone likes it. Doing this shit is what keeps me sane.

What’s the strangest place you’ve ever found inspiration? Let me know in the comments.