George Cutter's Blog

I’d long since forgotten the distinct aromas of hospital wards; bodily fluids of diverse repugnance, sterile disinfectants, bland hospital food that lingers on the breath long after habitual consumption, and if you haven’t been able to shower for a little while, your own foul odours that remind you just how disgusting you are. My last hospital stay that ran for an extended period of time was back in 2016, for roughly a little over a week. Now, I’m back for a sophomore stay, not because of anything concerning my tumour that remains either a slither of what it once was or scar tissue left behind from its disintegration, but rather a silent heart attack. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. On Monday, I’d called 111 in the hopes of getting some medical advice regarding tight chest pains that hadn’t subsided for several days. I’d just gotten over a nasty bug and believed the chest pains to be the epilogue for that strain of sickness. I was advised to go to A&E for investigation, and after seven hours of waiting around for answers, I was informed that my heart was damaged. Later, I would learn that a silent heart attack had occurred, which had resulted in the damage of the aortic valve. I’ve remained here as an in-patient while I await a procedure to determine whether or not my caffeine-abused heart (this, it seems, was not the cause for the attack) requires a stent fitting.

Admittedly, I have always had something of a blasé approach to my health. I don’t eat particularly healthily and I rarely exercise (though my intake of alcohol and the occasional cigar has all but stopped on account of my daughter’s birth). So, in a sense, I shouldn’t be surprised this has happened. Hospital stays aren’t exactly fun; you get prodded for blood, get fed lacklustre food that probably upsets more stomachs than settles, and depending on your situation, you have to piss into a bedpan. (Thankfully, this time I’m not required to do so, but I get asked more than enough questions about my bowel movements). Worst of all, there isn’t exactly a lot you can do to pass the time. Sure, I’ve got my laptop and my books, but I hate not being productive with my time. I hate waiting even more. And this time, it seems all I’m doing is waiting; waiting for a date for the angiogram, waiting for the all clear so I can go home to my family, waiting for an idea of when I can go back to work. But what really sucks is the fact that I’m here on Mother’s Day, my partner’s first that we would’ve celebrated accordingly. Missing out on that will always be a major regret. What’s driving me even crazier is that I have no idea when I’ll be able to get back to my daughter, but I’m hoping it’s sooner rather than later. Missing her hurts worse than anything else. In the meantime, I’m managing my boredom and anxiety by catching up on my reading (Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis, Lee Miye’s The Dallergut Dream Department Store, some back issues of 2000AD) and scribbling down ideas for future stories. That always helps. Being busy with ideas has often been the best remedy for me (though I must say the copious amount of pills have worked wonders for my heart). But the best part of my day is when I get to see my daughter, if only for a little while due to limited visiting hours.

Picking her up, holding her close and looking at her beautiful eyes as they begin to exhibit a newfound curiosity for the world works more wonders for the heart than any medicine ever could.

On the 13th February, at 14:14, my daughter was born.

I never particularly envisioned ever claiming the title of ‘dad’ one day. When I was younger, say around high-school, I was under the general impression that one day I’d have kids, but by the time I was almost through with college, I was adamant that I’d never want kids. I used to hear the same sayings all the time; you’re young yet, so you’re bound to think that way; it’ll be different when you meet the right person; you’ll forever regret it if you don’t; having kids is the best thing you could possibly do with your life. I paid next to little mind to the words of advice from family throughout the years, arguably more so once I was in my twenties. I wasn’t interested in having kids. In fact, being a dad sounded like an utter nightmare to me, a life-ending catastrophe. I don’t know what it was, but I just couldn’t hack it. I was mortified by the prospect of fatherhood. Maybe it was because I’ve always had a clear-cut vision of what I’ve wanted from my life; to live as a creative, to embroil myself in the ‘art life’ by writing books and drawing pictures and following whatever creative challenge I deem fit (or even necessary) to see through. I viewed starting a family as the ultimate roadblock, and that belief was unshakable for many years.

Well, my stubborn-ass has to confess something, now; all those phrases of aforementioned wisdom regarding fatherhood were true. (Yeah, dad, you were right, I get it now, okay?). I was young, not to mention single, so to envision the life I’m currently leading was rather difficult to do; it was different, whole-heartedly so, once Ash and I got together, and I was no longer alone; and yes, I can confirm that having my daughter is the absolute best thing I’ve ever done, which gives validation to the warning that I would one day regret choosing to live my life without ever embracing fatherhood.

People always say that the moment you become a parent for the first time, it’s like a switch goes off in your head, and your entire worldview is subsequently rewritten to accommodate this life-changing occurrence. I can’t quite put into words precisely how I felt at that moment when everything changed, because it’s just so unfeasibly difficult to accurately describe. It’s all parts joyous, overwhelming, terrifying, wonderful, nerve-wracking, emotional and even absurd, to some degree. Our daughter was born via C-section (we were really nervous to hear this at first, but now, having been through it, we feel there couldn’t have been a better option), and, being unreasonably squeamish (weird for a horror guy, I know), I was wrought with the worry that I would at some point collapse during the ordeal. Thankfully, I didn’t, largely due to the fact that there was so much going on I didn’t even have the time to think about fainting. To my surprise, the operation itself was quite swift, and not even ten minutes passed before we heard the first cries of our daughter. The surgeons lowered the sheets and there she was, held up beneath the beaming white lights, covered in blood and other gunks with her tiny arms and legs outstretched, crying away. (Shrieking, really). It’s referred to as ‘the lion king moment’, only less graceful, but somehow still beautiful.

Once our daughter was wrapped up (complete with a tiny pink hat), she was placed on my chest and, quite humorously, immediately started seeking a nipple so she could feed. I’d love to say something quite poetic like ‘time just stood still’, but I’d be lying. If anything, time sped up, both forwards and backwards; I thought of life before that moment, memories that now feel somehow empty without her presence, and I thought of the future memories that are yet to come: all those roads as of yet untravelled, all those milestones not yet within reach, but waiting still. As Ash was being stitched up, I held onto our girl before cutting the cord. It wasn’t as tough as I was led to believe; it was more stringy than anything else, with minimal blood leak. For the rest of the day, I don’t think it quite hit home that I’d suddenly acquired the title of dad.

I felt a little guilty about not crying at the moment she was born. Everyone always says that the emotions will overwhelm you and you won’t be able to do anything to stop the tears from falling once you see your child for the first time. I put it down to the fact that I was worried about Ash on the operating table, worried (already) about our girl, and overwhelmed with the fact that now I had a family of my own to protect and provide for. It was almost like there wasn’t any time for tears. But lo and behold, those tears came the day after our girl was born. Ash was advised to get up and try walking (just down the corridor and back, because she had to be wary of the stitches) and I was left alone with our daughter. And as I looked at this tiny human who was already somehow so perfect, her dark blue eyes slowly creaked open and she took a hold of my finger, and squeezed it tight, as if to say: ‘I’ve got you too.’

14:14 - when Niamh was born, and I was home again.

On Wednesday (3rd April) I decided it was the right time to unveil the title and front cover for my upcoming second novel, ‘The Web Tomb’ - a novel that has proven to be quite the turbulent process. As it stands right now, the novel exists as a fourth draft (fifth draft, technically, if we’re to include the ill-fated/incomplete draft zero into the mix, but more on that later), and is in the guarded hands of five beta-readers, one of whom is my fiancé who gets the pleasure of listening to certain ideas form and die throughout the writing process. Writing ‘The Web Tomb’ wasn’t at all easy, because the story has taken many different shapes since I started work on it in November, 2021, just two months after the publication of my debut, ‘The Ascension of the Seventh’. Originally, the story was a very, very different beast and harkened back to an old screenwriting project of mine from university. I still have that script, too. It’s a mess; a total, disjointed, mess, albeit one with some interesting ideas. Back in 2016, I originally wanted to write ‘The Web Tomb’ as my debut. An old notebook even shows pages upon pages of developed ideas for a loose outline. Perhaps if I hadn’t gotten sick, I never would’ve written ‘The Ascension of the Seventh’ and that long-standing idea about Death would’ve manifested into something totally different. To be honest, it’s a good thing I waited so long to take a stab at ‘The Web Tomb’, because I don’t think I was ready for it back then. Hell, even during 2022/2023 I had my doubts.

Sometime around 2022, I was hit with a major influence in a medium I never typically take inspiration from: video-games. ‘The Evil Within’, a PS4 survival-horror game directed by Shinji Mikami (creator of the ‘Resident Evil’ series), seemingly came out of nowhere for me. I’m ashamed to admit that I actually started playing ‘The Evil Within’ in 2020 during the Pandemic, but quit in the middle of the third chapter because it scared the absolute balls off me. I know, the horror addict spooked to death by a video-game, the irony isn't lost on me there. But for some reason, I decided to grow a pair and give it another go in 2022, and even though the game still proved to be a terrifying experience, something clicked and I became completely obsessed with the world and the monsters and the batshit crazy story-line. I’ve never been a die-hard gamer; I loved ‘Unreal Tournament’ and ‘World of Warcraft’ back in the day, and there are lots of old-school PS1/PS2 games I enjoyed as a teenager, but I never had that game or franchise that I’d always recommend to people. ‘The Evil Within’ remains my favourite video-game of all time, as well as one of my favourite horror stories, because the storytelling and imagination of that game is superb. (I should mention ‘The Evil Within 2’ is fantastic also, but falls short of the uniqueness of the original). Although ‘The Evil Within’ remains one of my core influences for ‘The Web Tomb’, I confess to being a little TOO influenced whilst writing the aforementioned draft zero, which is why 250+ pages ended up being cut. I wanted ‘The Web Tomb’ to be just as ambitious, just as sinister, and just as downright horrifying as ‘The Evil Within’, and as a result, my original voice fell quieter and quieter. I ended up with pages of a draft just as incoherent and disjointed as the screenplay I put together in university, with no constructive way to get it to make any lick of sense. It wasn’t a rip-off at all, but I was definitely trying to replicate the general atmosphere of ‘The Evil Within’. Being influenced by all manner of media is great, but sometimes you’ve got to rein yourself in and recognise when your own voice is trying too hard to be someone else's. Suffice it to say, draft zero for ‘The Web Tomb’ died a very quick death, and the current iteration of the book couldn’t possibly be more different, with the exception of the first four chapters which have remained pretty consistent throughout the drafting process.

Primarily, ‘The Web Tomb’ is influenced by the works of Italian horror maestros Dario Argento (‘Suspiria’, ‘Phenomena’, 1977/1985), Lucio Fulci (‘The Beyond’, ‘The House by the Cemetery’, 1981) and Lamberto Bava (‘Demons 1 & 2’, 1985/1986). If you’re a horror fan but haven’t taken the plunge into the wonders of Italian schlock cinema, quit reading this blog post right now and check out the aforementioned titles. I love Brit horror and American horror as much as the next guy, but there’s something really special about the visions of these eccentric Italians. There’s just nothing else like it; dreamlike storytelling, stellar practical effects, bloodthirsty kills and eclectic scores are a guarantee, and the more films you watch, the more accustomed you become to the distinctive voices of these directors, as well as the unique flavour that Italian horror brings to the genre. Personal favourites of mine include ‘The Beyond’, ‘Zombie Flesh Eaters’, ‘Suspiria’ and ‘Demons 2’. With ‘The Web Tomb’, I wanted to create an atmosphere that could rival the strangeness of Italian horror cinema, to envision something nightmarish and other-worldly. With monsters, of course. And spiders. Lots and lots of spiders.

Outside of fiction, I found myself thinking a lot about real-life manuscripts that are supposedly cursed. Perhaps one of the most infamous examples of a cursed book is the medieval manuscript dubbed ‘The Codex Gigas’. For the uninitiated, ‘The Codex Gigas’ is said to be the Devil’s Bible, a moniker given to the manuscript due to the full-page illustration of what many believe to be the Devil himself. Legend says the ‘The Codex Gigas’ was penned by Herman the Recluse who was sentenced to the grim fate of being walled up alive and subsequently starved as punishment for breaking his monastic vows. However, he made a bargain for his life; Herman (supposedly) pledged he could conceive a book that documented the breadth of all human knowledge in a single night, but upon realising no human could possibly complete such a task, he called upon the Devil’s aid and sold his soul in exchange for a completed manuscript. It is said by many that the illustration of the Devil is a personalised signature. An alluring tale, for sure, but whether it is true or not, we’ll never know. I opt to believe it’s true, because life is just more interesting that way. ‘The Codex Gigas’ is kept at the National Library of Sweden in Stockholm. Though I can’t say how just yet, ‘The Codex Gigas’ influenced a very specific plot point in ‘The Web Tomb’.

Though I’m at a stage with ‘The Web Tomb’ where I can consider it readable for my beta-readers, there is still work to be done with it, though I’m confident there will be no late cuts or spontaneous new chapters to write. I know for a fact I want to expand upon the last two chapters. I still listen to music whenever I’m writing, because music inspires me just as much as films and books. When I was writing ‘The Ascension of the Seventh’, I compiled a soundtrack that was very melancholic, bittersweet and a little depressing. For ‘The Web Tomb’, I’ve veered much closer to heavy metal/thrash metal/death metal for influence. Bands like Cradle of Filth, Slayer, Black Sabbath and Kreator have been quite influential to my writing this time around. Cradle of Filth’s ‘Midian’ (2000) has been on loop quite often, as has Kreator’s ‘Gods of Violence’ (2017) and Slayer’s ‘Reign in Blood’ (1986). I think it’s important to take influence from all manner of mediums, and as the months draw closer to my self-assigned release date for ‘The Web Tomb’, I’m feeling very confident that it’ll be a book that will entertain, thrill and, hopefully, terrify you.

(Originally published as Ruminations #10 www.coffeewithcutter.com)

Following the neutering of Roald Dahl’s classic children's books, it seemed only inevitable that mainstream publishing would sink its teeth further into their obscene practices of censorship. Dahl was only the beginning, as many have now come to realise. Recently, it was reported that Ian Flemming’s 007 novels would be subject to revisions at the hands of sensitivity readers, and now, R.L Stine is the latest author on the chopping block. But, as you’re about to discover, there is something especially sinister about this particular case. R.L Stine is perhaps best known as the author of Goosebumps, a sprawling horror series for children. Many of the books were spoofs/knock-offs/homages to classic horror films, and these short-and-sweet books are likely responsible for introducing countless young minds to the genre. This was the case for me, at least. I remember reading Night of the Living Dummy (1993) and The Haunted School (1997) as a kid and being captivated by the playful terror of Stine’s writing. Recent reports claimed that Stine was going back to revise many of his classic Goosebumps books in order to remove language that may be deemed offensive such as references to weight, mental health, ect. But now, it has been revealed that R.L Stine actually had no part whatsoever in this revisionist tirade. In an appalling move, the publishers have gone behind the author's back to rewrite his work without his consultation. Rewriting the words of a dead man is one thing, but to hijack the works of those who’re still with us (and Stine shows no sign of slowing down when it comes to his output, which is actually quite remarkable when you look at how much he’s given us) is awfully perverse, not to mention shady as hell and a greedy abuse of power. What these publishers are beginning to show time and time again is that they couldn’t give a damn about the art itself. It seems to me that publishing is drifting further and further away from the raw, unfiltered power of storytelling. Publishers don’t appear interested in upholding and protecting significant works of the past. And why is that, do you think? For the sake of political correctness? Or are these publishers merely afraid of the totalitarian mob who seek to destroy all that they do not agree with? Whatever the motivation, it’s a worrying indication for what awaits us in the future.

I mentioned before in my Dahl on Trial blog that I’ve become hesitant to pursue a traditional publishing contract and now, more than ever, I’m dead-set on remaining a DIY/underground creator. Would it be nice to have all the benefits of a traditional publishing deal? Sure it would. Marketing is something that all self-published authors struggle with, but to be honest, it’s not worth it if the work is going to be butchered to appease a very vocal minority of sensitive sods. Because at that point, it’s no longer my work, is it? Just like how the new editions of R.L Stine’s Goosebumps will not be true to his original vision. Authors agonise over their words. Our craft is something we take great pride in. But what becomes of that craft once the totalitarians get hold of it? And what then becomes of the author's original intent?

To put it bluntly, the identity of the work diminishes entirely, and all that is left is the desecrated remains of a slaughtered vision.

In George Orwell’s 1984, there is a passage that reads:

“Every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book rewritten, every picture has been repainted, every statue and street building has been renamed, every date has been altered. And the process is continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right.”

Terrifyingly so, the new world order as depicted in 1984 is creeping closer and closer to manifesting fully within our own reality. Books are starting to be rewritten and in recent years we’ve witnessed brigades of spoiled, entitled brats tearing down statues of historical figures. You cannot rewrite the past. You cannot change history. And you certainly can’t modify the words of creators you do not agree with. There are plenty of things I myself do not like, but I would never in a million years advocate for them to be banned or amended to fit in with my own personal viewpoints or preferences. No matter how you try to frame it, these people have no moral right to hijack the words of authors. Authors have a right to freedom of expression (as do creators in any medium, for that matter), and if I was R.L Stine I’d be waging war against Scholastic for butchering with my work.

The more stories I read about this trend in publishing, the less enthusiastic I become about writing itself. Right now, I’m about nine chapters away from finally finishing the first draft of my second book (to be honest, it shouldn’t have taken this long, but the story has changed and evolved so much over that I’ve struggled to make hasty progress), and there are days when I simply can’t bring myself to get excited about writing. My passion for storytelling isn’t dead (I’ve a long list of books I want to write, all of which have titles and a bare bones idea of what they’re about) but I’m beginning to feel disenchanted towards writing because of publishing’s bleak future. If we’re not careful, if we don’t start standing up to this nonsense, the liberation of literature will cease to exist. By rewriting books, all we will be left with are sanitised interpretations deemed ‘improvements’ by the pettiest little insects our culture has ever seen. Art matters, more so than the delicate feelings of a very select few who can’t help but find anything and everything problematic. If that sounds harsh, tough. If this madness doesn’t stop, then traditional publishing is well and truly doomed.

(Originally published as Ruminations #5 www.coffeewithcutter.com)

Part I: The Idea of Faith

Growing up, I attended Catholic schools. I was raised to follow the Catholic teachings and standards following my Holy Communion when I was a young boy (I can’t remember how old I was when this ritual took place). To celebrate the occasion, my Nan bought me a 3D laser-etched crystal cube with an angel inside (“It’s your guardian angel in life,” she told me) and my parents gifted me with an olive wood cross complete with a crucified Jesus made of silver. Looking back, Catholic symbolism was all around me growing up (my Aunt, bless her soul, used to burst into random acts of song whenever we visited on Saturdays, but would only sing one line, ‘take my heart in sweet surrender’). By the time Year 9 or Year 10 rolled around, I came to the realisation that Catholicism wasn’t for me. The Bible, though an interesting piece of work regarding its immortal longevity, provided me with nothing of substantial worth (unlike my father, who reads it often and finds great solace in its passages). Catholicism was just something that I couldn’t relate to. I don’t judge anybody who does proudly identify as a Catholic or Christian (and I find the media's absurd judgement towards anyone who aligns with that religion utterly pathetic), but having grown up exposed to the traditional Catholic rituals and stories, natural rebellion was unavoidable. I do find religion (in all its forms) to be a fascinating subject rife for exploration in the realm of my fiction, though. For example, the Christian faith was a large theme of my book, The Ascension of the Seventh, albeit examined through a more critical assessment. Hell, even the title of the book contains a subtle nod to Catholic lore, albeit unintentionally. (There are no mistakes, just happy accidents – Bob Ross). Still, I’m not a religious person, but I wouldn’t call myself a full on atheist, either. A cautionary agnosistic fits the description much better, I’d say.

Not too long ago, I stumbled across a quote that summarised the idea that every individual must allow themselves to believe in something higher than themselves. I was surprised to find myself agreeing with this philosophy, despite having abandoned Catholic ideology. In today's day and age, now more than ever, it is very easy to find yourself lost and adrift. Through my experiences with depression, illness and survivors guilt, I found myself growing increasingly more bitter, jaded, and lost, although a lot of the time I wouldn’t actually express what I was feeling, with the exception of detailing my innermost thoughts and turmoils through my fictional characters. I didn’t have anything to believe in, nothing to help guide my emotions through the turmoil I was experiencing. When I was first diagnosed with my stomach tumour back in 2016, I returned to the idea of Catholicism, but this was a very short-lived revival. Writing has always been something that has helped me process my emotions, to the point where Ascension could be viewed as a piece of semi-autobiographical therapy as opposed to straight-up fiction. This philosophy – of placing a belief in something beyond your own sense of being – led me towards the concept of Buddhism. Of all the religions out there, Buddhism has long been the one and only religion to attract my passive enthusiasm, but I would go on to spend years without taking the time to read into its teachings and core philosophies. I’ve felt lost for a very long time, like I’ve been drowning. Long have I been searching for something, something bigger than myself, something I could believe in, heart and soul. Following a rough few days of wrestling with a depressive episode, I spoke with my girlfriend about my curious desire to try practising Buddhism. She thought it was a good idea, I think she could tell that I was struggling with some sort of emptiness. I took to Google and discovered that the closest establishment I could find that could show me the ways of the fourth largest religion of the whole world (as many as 506 million people practise Buddhism) was the Manchester Buddhist Centre. I decided it was high time to put the philosophy of believing in something greater than myself into practice.

Part II: Mindfulness & Breathing

On the 19th April, I visited the Buddhist Centre for a guided meditation. This was my second visit, my first being on the 5th to take a curious look into what the organisation could offer. Upon entry, I was met by busily stocked shelving units of Buddha statues, books written on the practices and philosophies of the religion, and countless other little mementos. I approached the counter and, sounding like a clueless fool, tried to convey that I was searching for something and that Buddhism might guide me down the correct path of this new journey I was curious to explore. He understood exactly what I was trying to say and told me that guided meditation was the advised starting point for this journey towards enlightenment. I took the time on Tuesday to attend a guided meditation session, entitled Mindfulness & Breathing. Of course, during my first visit, I bought a few books that would serve as a worthy introduction to the religion:
The Heart of Meditation: Discovering Innermost Awareness – The Dalai Lama
This Difficult Thing of Being Human – Bodhipaksa
Buddhism: Tools for Living Your Life – Vajragupta

I approached the Buddhist Centre that afternoon, curious to experience a guided meditation. In the past, I’ve tried meditation as recommended by David Lynch, who is an ardent practicioner of Transendental Medition and a devoted advocate of the practice. I was promptly led towards the meditation room where the session would take place. Immediately, I was overcome with a tremendous sense of peace. Instant serenity. I don’t know how, but I felt calm and relaxed the moment I stepped into the room. Chairs arranged in a gentle curve occupied the room, positioned before rows of mediation mats, each with its own cushion. I wasn’t sure if these mats were reserved for the more initiated practitioners, so I parked myself down on one of the chairs and took in my surroundings as the room steadily began to fill with people of varying ages. A shrine, complete with a lifesize golden Buddha, flowers and candles was situated at the front. Even though the mediation had not yet started, I felt at peace with myself, which is something I almost never feel. Before the mediation began, the host read out an excerpt from Meditation: Calming the Mind by Bob Sharples:

“Don’t meditate to fix yourself, to improve yourself, to redeem yourself; rather, do it as an act of love, of deep warm friendship to yourself. In this way there is no longer any need for the subtle aggression of self-improvement, for the endless guilt of not doing enough. It offers the possibility of an end to the ceaseless round of trying so hard that wraps so many people’s lives in a knot. Instead there is now meditation as an act of love. How endlessly delightful and encouraging.”

The guided meditation lasted roughly around forty minutes. Against all my best wishes, I didn’t succumb to a state of relaxation throughout. The mediation was divided into four breathing exercises, designed to bring mindfulness to your thoughts and breathing, and while I can say that there were instances in which I felt calm and relaxed, I spent a lot of time allowing my thoughts to spiral and traverse elsewhere; negative thoughts, rambling thoughts, thoughts of how I was going to put this blog post together. I can’t help it. My mind is never quiet. I think more time was spent telling my unquiet thoughts to shut the hell up so I could focus on the task at hand. It didn’t help matters much either that the man sitting to my right made it a habit to crack something at the end of each segment of the meditation. Honestly, I don’t know what he was cracking. His jaw, his neck, I couldn’t tell you, but it sounded like somebody was running a hammer across a xylophone made of broken bones. How spine-curdling off-putting! Once the mediation was drawing to a close, the host finished with another fantastic excerpt from a poem by Rumi:

Do not look back, my friend
No one knows how the world ever began.
Do not fear the future, nothing lasts forever.
If you dwell on the past or the future
You will miss the moment.

At the end of the mediation, several members of the audience bid farewell through the action of namaste. I didn’t, largely because I would’ve strangely felt like a fraud for doing so. I’m still a rookie to the world of this religion and its philosophies and believed that actioning a namaste was solely reserved for those fully initiated into Buddhist practices. Perhaps I’m looking too much into this, though. Afterwards, as the room began to clear, I asked the host if I could snap a photo of the excerpts read during the mediation. I confessed that while I found the guided practice interesting, I couldn’t quite achieve complete mindfulness due to my temperamental thoughts. What she told me next was quite inspiring in more ways than one. She told me that although everybody looks as though they’ve achieved complete mindfulness and serenity during a meditation, chances are they’re battling back against negative and intrusive thoughts as well, though some may be more proficient than others at making peace with them due to practice. She told me that whenever negative thoughts come, do not fight against them or trouble yourself with trying to extinguish them. Instead, allow yourself to sit with them, accept them, and then move past them. She compared it to ducks on the surface of a lake; on the surface, ducks look calm and serene, but underneath the water, their webbed feet are working hard to ensure they do not sink. Mediation is like this, and I thought it was a clever comparison to make. I believe this was a decent start to what I hope will be a very rewarding journey into the Buddhist way of life.

(Originally published as Ruminations #2 www.coffeewithcutter.com)

Almost every member of the human race, I believe, has a tendency to romanticise the past. I’m not sure why, but I suppose there is something about the past that is safe. It’s cemented as a moment or era in time, without the possibility of change, without the possibility of return. Unlike the future, which is forever resigned to linger in the hazy depths of the unknown, the past is something that is clear and unchanging, for better or for worse. I have a habit of reflecting back on the past, maybe too often. Music, I find, plays a large role in summoning memories of former lives. It’s one of the many awe-inspiring powers that the medium holds. Shinedown’s If You Only Knew resurrects memories of how I felt when I entered my first relationship with my college girlfriend (over ten years ago now, wow…) and even though that relationship ended terribly, I still love that song and allow myself, for three minutes or so, to remember what it felt like to be sixteen and experiencing (what I believed) to be love at that naive age. Skillet’s One Day Too Late transports me even further back, to high-school, because that was the song a friend and I selected to use as the soundtrack to the Powerpoint presentation we were assigned to create for our Leavers Assembly. To this day, the lyrics of that song still feel relevant, and it reminds me of that universal feeling of leaving school and, as a result, saying goodbye to a lot of friends you grew up with. Futures, Jimmy Eat World’s fifth (and best) record, left an undeniable impression on me from the ages of eighteen to twenty-one (I recommend each and every one of you listen to the song 23 if you’ve never heard it), and it's an album that always takes me back to one of my favourite ‘eras’, if you will, of my life: my university years as a Creative Writing student. But of all the albums that have earned a permanent place in my heart over the course of my life, the one that provokes the most emotion out of me is Hammock’s Departure Songs, an epic double-album of shoegaze/ambience.

I love the cover art for Departure Songs; I love its mystery, I love its sense of serenity that hides an aura of sadness. It struck a chord with me the moment I first discovered it. Tracks like Cold Front, Ten Thousand Years Won’t Save Your Life, Together Alone, (Tonight) We Burn Like Stars That Never Die, Words You Said…I’ll Never Forget You Now, and Frailty (For the Dearly Departed) are among some of my absolute favourites on the album, and whenever I revisit Hammock’s magnum opus I’m taken back to my university years, when my life was very, very different. Whilst I was studying Creative Writing, I was working a part time job at a local pub as a pot washer, which was a thirty minute walk from my parents house (I didn’t live on campus, as it was only a twenty minute bus ride from my town), and I balanced my time between working on short stories and short films for assignments (one of which served as the basis for my book, The Ascension of the Seventh), going out on the weekends, carelessly pissing money up the wall on booze, and socialising with the university’s film society, a small community of like-minded individuals who shared my passion for film. All the while, I remained focused on my dream of one day becoming a published author and wrote weekly film reviews for a local newspaper. It was a great time, and I’ll always hold those three years dear to my heart. Every night, after a shift at the pub (it would always end with me cleaning down the kitchen left in a shit-tip disarray, and sometimes locking up the place if it was a really late shift), I walked home with Departure Songs playing through my headphones. Listening to Departure Songs at night amplifies the raw power and mystical beauty of that album. It’s impossible not to feel something.

Back then, when I listened to songs like Ten Thousand Years Won’t Save Your Life or Words You Said… I’ll Never Forget You Now, they didn’t spawn memories of the past or emotions of the present. I’d think of the future, because something inside of me knew that those three years spent in university, studying Creative Writing and working my shitty pot washing job and hanging out with my film society clan, would be the years I would always look upon with great fondness, because I knew they couldn’t last forever. In no time at all, it would all have to end. And then, in the blink of an eye, it did come to an end, and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel a little lost for a long while after. To my mind, those were the golden years, full of optimism and anticipation for the future where anything at all was possible. I quit my job as a pot washer in the weeks leading up to graduation and found work in a call centre (never, ever, ever subject yourself to call centre work, it will destroy your soul), parted ways with practically all of my university circle (save for two whom I still keep in contact with), and then, in a cruel twist of fate, was diagnosed with a fierce stomach tumour that altered the course of my life and distorted my once positive, happy-go-lucky self into something more cynical and nihilistic. I’ve struggled with bouts of depression in the years since my illness, and the physical/mental toll it has taken on me over the years has begun to catch up, and fast. I don’t normally like using the word depression. I think it gets thrown around a lot these days, but nevertheless, I can tell you with confidence that it’s what I feel. Life tends to feel heavy, for me. It isn’t what it once was, and I couldn’t expect it to be, after everything. Circling back to Departure Songs: I would often think about the future of my life during those walks back home late at night. I would envision myself as an older man, a much older man, elderly, sitting on my front bench or porch overlooking some peaceful countryside landscape at night, reflecting on my youth and all that I’ve seen, accomplished and lost throughout the course of my life. That’s what the album has often provoked me to feel; a future vision of melancholic reflection of a life well lived, whilst potentially preparing to say goodbye to it all before the inevitable closing curtain. I guess I’ve always had something of a fascination with endings, even before my illness struck.

I think the reason for this romanticised perspective I hold towards my university years is because those three years were the very last years before my illness, the calm before the storm. Those were the years where the future was looking at its most optimistic; it was before my tumour turned everything upside down, it was before I understood what it felt like to experience survivor's guilt after the passing of a friend, it was before depression became a mainstay, it was before I made peace with the potential of dying young. It was the last time life felt normal. Unburdened. I’d listen to Departure Songs during hospital stays, before I knew whether or not the experimental drug would save me or prove futile against what was growing in my stomach. During those nights, my vision of that elderly man on his front porch at night began to grow ever more unlikely. It still is, I suppose. We never know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Nowadays, Departure Songs is even more profound and mystical than it ever was before. It reminds me of those three years of a life left behind, but I’m happy to say I can still see that older version of myself, sitting on that front porch, and whenever I do, it reminds me that the depression isn’t winning, and that the tumour failed to win, and that there are still greater days yet to come. I still struggle, but I know I’ve got it good. Things are good, and I wouldn’t have my life any other way (save for a lottery win, that would be nice), and I remain hopeful that the depression I experience, and the mental turmoil that still remains, will not last forever.

Originally published as Ruminations #7 www.coffeewithcutter.com

You often hear writers say that writing is a lonely job. And it is, really. You spend countless hours sitting on your own, hammering out word after word, page after page, with no help from anybody else. It’s just you and your thoughts, for better or for worse. I don’t think I’m too far off the mark by saying that writers are, by and large, introverted folk. I’ve been somewhat in the middle ground between introversion and extroversion throughout my life, but I’d argue I’m more introverted than extroverted. I tend to feel most comfortable when I’m by myself, sitting in a coffee shop or in my study/nerd-cave with my headphones in (usually listening to some variation of metal). Writing is a lonely hobby; it can be maddening, pull-your-hair-out frustrating, but at the same time, it’s the closest I can get to a legal hallucinogen. When I was working on The Ascension of the Seventh, I spent so much time writing in coffee shops, dreaming of the day when my manuscript would become an actual book. Hours upon hours were spent in solitude; writing, editing, re-writing, deleting scenes, adding new scenes, and then…

… it was time to go out and actually promote it.

I wouldn’t call myself a natural salesman. My father is, though, and has been for many years, but I haven’t inherited his skills. I grew up going to comic-cons and would often feel inspired meeting creators in Artist’s Alley. I still find it inspiring now, seeing creative folk self-publishing their own creator-owned works and reaching out to an audience without the backup of a mainstream publisher. I’ve met quite a few well-known figures at conventions in the past (Frank Miller, Tobe Hooper and George A. Romero being memorable stand-outs), but it’s always inspiring to meet with writers and artists who’re navigating these turbulent waters by themselves, creators who're just beginning to forge their own legacy. As a kid, I often used to visualise myself sitting behind my own table at events and selling my own work, and last year, I was lucky enough to get my first taste of what that felt like. Realising that I would have to go out and essentially become a salesman for my book, I did some research as to where I could sell copies of The Ascension of the Seventh, and out of the three requests I sent out, only one replied with an acceptance. But as is often the case, I only really needed one acceptance to get the ball rolling. I’ve since attended four second-hand book fairs; from Northampton to Bakewell, to Manchester to Buxton, and each experience has provided me with an interesting insight into the perspective of being on the opposite side of the convention tables after so many years of being on the outside looking in. (Edit: whilst re-editing this blog, I’ve attended a three more events). I must admit, I was a lot more nervous than I thought I would be. It can definitely be quite jarring going from sitting alone with a story that belongs only in your mind, to then being catapulted into a public setting as a salesman with a whole world to sell to people who've never heard of you.

One thing I learned quite quickly was that when you’re sitting at your table, you can’t afford to stay silent, because nine times out of ten, people will just walk straight past you as if you don’t exist. When you're unknown, you have to work a lot harder to make a sale. I swiftly equated the process to fishing; rather than wait for them to come to you, it's down to you to lure them in somehow. Sure, sometimes you get ignored, and that always feels a little frustrating, but it can’t be helped. When people are looking around and stroll past my table, I’ll call out a “hi there, how’re you doing?” or “hello, could I interest you in something different today?” Sometimes this works, other times it doesn’t. (One time, somebody approached me quite quickly, but not to buy a book: she wanted to know where the toilet was.) You’d be surprised how many people nervously approach me as if I’m some kind of maniacal murderer or something. But once they’re at my table and holding a copy of my book, that’s when it gets easier. It’s quite strange, because as soon as I start pitching the premise of my book, my extroverted nature comes out and I don’t struggle at all. Most of the time, after chatting about the story and the inspiration behind it, I land a sale. I’m good at that bit. It’s getting them to spare a few minutes out of their day to listen to you that's the hard part. When people voluntarily approach without a call, that feels fantastic, and I don’t think I’ll ever get over how great it feels to sign a book for a new reader. Although there are often a lot of folk who couldn’t care less about what I'm doing or what I'm selling, it’s always worth it when somebody shows an interest, and, even better, when readers personally identify with the characters in the book. It always makes me feel happy when I hear I’ve written something that connects with somebody on a personal level.

So, in many ways, maybe the business of writing books isn’t as lonely as I’d once believed.

(Originally published as Ruminations #3 www.coffeewithcutter.com)

Like any other kid, I loved watching cartoons. After a long and often very boring day at primary school, I would rush home to catch an episode or two of Danny Phantom (2004-2007) on Nickelodeon. Created by Butch Hartman, the show centred around the titular lead, Danny Phantom (real name Danny Fenton), a fourteen-year-old boy who gains ghost powers after being caught in an energy blast whilst investigating a portal between the human world and the ghost world (presumed inactive). Each episode saw Danny Phantom face off against an array of supernatural baddies (Vlad Plasmius, Phantom’s primary rival throughout the show, was always my favourite), and it was the zany action, colourful cast of characters and comic-book visuals that immediately snagged my attention. There were a lot of cartoons I enjoyed as a kid. I used to really like The Fairly Odd Parents (2001-2017, also created by Butch Hartman), which followed Timmy Turner and his magical fairy Godparents (the Crimson Chin episodes were always my favourite). Shows like Spongebob Squarepants (1999-ongoing), The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy (2001-2006), Digimon Adventure (1999) and, of course, the 90s Spider-Man (1994-1998), were largely influential to me as an impressionable little kid, and it was these cartoons in particular (along with regular viewings of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers and Doctor Who) that inspired me to start creating my own comic-book series, entitled The Adventures of Springer-Man, beginning in 2003 with a scrappily drawn (and barely written) story that was shamefully ripped off of the plotline of the original Spider-Man game on the PlayStation1.

Comic-books were my first love, and I can pinpoint (roughly) where this love began. Every Saturday, when I was a very young kid, my family and I would visit my Nan and Aunt. This was always the highlight of my Saturdays. As a little gift, my Aunt would always seek out and buy magazines for my sister and I. Placed under the coffee table for us to find, every week without fail, would be a new magazine that typically came with a free gift of its own, crudely sellotaped to the cover. I believe I started with Thomas the Tank Engine Magazine before gradually moving onto Action Man, which in turn was succeeded by The Beano, then Spider-Man, then Doctor Who Adventures. I always enjoyed reading The Beano the most. Dennis the Menace, Minnie the Minx, the Bash Street Kids and Roger the Dodger were the best additions to the always zany line-up, and The Beano’s immortality on the British pop- culture subconscious is a testament to the mag’s never-ending appeal. I hope to introduce it to my own children someday. This early exposure to comic-books, coupled with my regular escape into the imagination through cartoons, was an essential part of my childhood and kickstarted my creative inclinations. I knew I wanted to draw stories. Taking influence from superheroes like Spider-Man and Danny Phantom, along with the slapstick silliness of The Beano, I commenced creation of The Adventures of Springer-Man (my father coined the name), in the pages of exercise books that my mother would pick-up from the post office. I soon decided that these exercise books contained too many pages for just one single issue, so I scrapped the longer ‘episodes’ and downsized. Three sheets of paper was all I needed; I’d fold them over and staple them together, which would grant me eight pages to work a short adventure into.

It became my favourite thing to do in the whole world.

Writing and drawing comic-books took priority over everything. Nothing else mattered, nothing else could even come close. I’d spend hours and hours writing and drawing Springer-Man comics. There is something really pure about creating art when you’re a little kid. There aren’t any rules, nor are there any expectations to be perfect. The drawings didn’t have to be in proportion or refined, the stories didn’t have to have narrative consistency (a hilarious blunder can be found in the series: in issue nine, Springer-Man’s father is blasted into oblivion by a supervillain who has grown giant-sized, only to then reappear, alive and well, in the very next issue). It was an act of pure creative expression, without the need to worry about the rules of creating high quality art to be held under close scrutiny of an audience. I didn’t care about all that. I just loved what I was doing. Retreating into the imagination was, and still is, an essential activity for me to partake in, for my own sense of sanity. Some things never change, I guess. To this day, I still have the ‘original’ series (consisting of thirteen issues) and a bunch of ‘special bumper sized anthology’ issues (non-canon stories, if you will) that bring back such fond memories of childhood. Flicking through those old pages reminds me of the pure joy that comes with creative expression. At the end of the day, a creator should primarily create for themselves, and if they happen to find an audience along the way, well, that’s just grand. I’ve been obsessed with storytelling ever since I started chronicling Springer-Man’s wacky adventures, and it’s something that has become integral to my sense of self.

One day, when I was in Year Six, I decided to reach out to an audience. I didn’t feel too comfortable sharing my Springer-Man creation with my classmates (with the exception of my own close-knit gang), so I decided to create a beta character to test the waters, a character whom I did not have much emotional investment in. One Saturday at my Nan’s house, I started drawing a comic-book about a monkey named Turk (clearly stolen from Tarzan’s best bud), who must protect his beloved treehouse and banana collection in the heart of the woods from two evil hunters. It had all the makings of a Beano strip, fused with elements of Home Alone (1990) and crass toilet humour. Unfortunately, I misplaced my original copy of Turk #1. It was the only issue I ever created for the short-lived character. Once it was finished, my father took me to Staples to make photocopies (black and white, because it was cheaper) and I then went on to sell them in the playground to my classmates for 25p. I made ten copies and sold all of them, earning an honest £2.50. What an immensely satisfying feeling that was. Turk #1 became a playground hit, and I started receiving notes from my newfound audience (passed along in secret) in the classroom, requesting I reserve a copy of the teased second issue. It was all going so well…until the headmistress caught wind of what I was doing.

I was summoned to her office (a place I’d done well to avoid up until that point) to explain why I was, in her perplexing words, ‘stealing money from other students’. Did she take me for a thief? I honestly explained that I was selling my home-made comic-books to those who wished to read them, and that I wasn’t forcing anybody to hand over their loose change for a comic-book about a mischievous monkey with explosive farts. (Maybe the subject matter didn’t help matters either, as this was a strict Catholic school). Nevertheless, the headmistress was convinced I was in the wrong and that I was exploiting my fellow classmates, and ordered that I surrender my hard-earned money to the school. Whether or not the headmistress returned my hard-earned £2.50 to the classmates I’d ‘robbed’ or kept it for herself, I couldn’t say. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter, though. Suffice it to say, my playground business ventures selling my photocopied comic-books ended right there and then, and Turk, the one-hit wonder, never featured in another issue ever again. Regardless of the disappointing outcome, it was a valuable venture that taught me the importance of connecting with an audience, and as a creator, there is no greater feeling. Back in 2017, I briefly returned to my Springer-Man character and outlined ten adventures that would serve as a modern reboot, but the project stalled when I began work on other things (a short film that never reached completion as well as a few short horror stories). Maybe I’ll return to Springer-Man again someday, as the character holds a very dear significance to me.

Because I spent much of my childhood drawing stories and even penned a couple ‘books’, too, in little A5 notebooks. The Haunted House and The Map That Leads to Evil were my earliest attempts at writing straightforward prose (but even then I’d draw the occasional cartoon to illustrate a scene), and in high-school I entered into short stories competitions to practice ‘serious’ writing. Nevertheless, my heart was always fixated on drawing stories through the comic-book medium. Strange, then, to have found my footing as a novelist, but even in my writing today (especially in my second novel that is currently in the works) I try to convey my narratives through a more visual sensibility as opposed to literary. I think in pictures, and I’ll dwell endlessly on a scene or a chapter for days or weeks or even months, playing it over in my mind, repeatedly, like a scene in a movie before finally translating it into prose. I’ve never known it any other way. Perhaps I’ll try my hand with comics again one day, because I truly love the form and I always will, because you never forget your first love.

And I still smile whenever I read The Beano, even after all these years. It reminds me of home.

(Originally published as Ruminations #4 www.coffeewithcutter.com)

I’ve only seen one film by Ingmar Bergman: The Seventh Seal, from 1957. It tells the story of Antonius Block (Max Von Sydow), a knight caught in a perilous landscape plagued by the Black Death. On a beach, Antonius meets the personification of Death (played magnificently by Bengt Ekerot), who has come to claim his soul. To cheat Death, Antonius challenges him to a game of chess, a game that continues throughout the narrative of the film. Death, like a true gentleman, agrees to Antonius’s challenge. Shot in stark black and white, The Seventh Seal is an extraordinary piece of cinema with haunting visuals and a multilayered story that is rich with subtext. I cannot recall if I saw Bergman’s film before or after I made my first student short film back in university, but I can tell you with confidence that it has influenced me tremendously. Some films completely change you as a creator. Like Bergman’s Seventh Seal, David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977) transformed my view on cinema and showed me that film could achieve much more than the standard Hollywood blockbuster. When I was nineteen, I wrote and directed a student short film called An Afternoon With Death as an assignment for my Contextual Studies class. The short followed a young lad named Ron who is dying of brain cancer. He is visited by Death in his apartment who warns him of his upcoming demise. Death tells Ron that he is fated to become the next Death. It clocked in at around six minutes and, although it was fun working with friends on my very first film project, the film didn’t turn out very well. The editing was clunky, the audio was all over the place, and the dialogue was a little corny. Nevertheless, the three of us were proud of what we’d made together, and I believed that this particular fable was done and dusted, never to be revisited. Sadly, An Afternoon With Death has since become a lost film. All of the footage has vanished.

Some ideas have a habit of sticking with you, even when you believe you’re finished with them. They attach themselves like leeches to your cerebral cortex, sucking everything out of you until you’ve no choice but to obey whatever it is they want from you. Though it’s a foul sounding analogy, in reality it’s actually rather beautiful. I love ideas like that, the ones that just won’t die. In my third year, I couldn’t shift the urge to revisit the idea, so I decided to improve upon the faults of the original short and rewrote it (this time with the theme of Christianity added into the mix, at the expense of the brain tumour subplot) and decided to enlist the help of drama students looking to broaden their creative collaborations. After all, if I was to become a filmmaker one day (that dream has since died, but never say never), I’d have to learn how to work with actors who were not friends of mine. Entitled Moribund, the short was filmed in the function room of the old pub I used to work at (The Old Mill, in Alsager), as well as an abandoned barn and St Mary Magdalene's Church. (Awkwardly, I was asked if the film was a celebration of Christianity. It wasn’t, not even a little bit, so I told a little white lie to get permission to film there. I don’t feel bad about that. You do what you must for your art). Unlike its predecessor, Moribund is not a lost film and still exists, in all its low-budget glory, on my old YouTube channel, though its status remains private and has done for years now. It was written and directed under my real name, and although I’m rather proud of the film (imperfections and all), I doubt I’ll be re-releasing it anytime soon. With Moribund completed in 2016, I was certain that I would leave behind the concept. I’d already made it twice. Surely, there would be no conceivable point in making it a third time?

Months later, on September 1st, 2016, I was diagnosed with a rare stomach tumour. To be precise, it was a mesenteric inflammatory myofibroblastic tumour, with mesenteric lymph node involvement. Quite a mouthful, I know. No wonder I always forget the name. Thankfully, a miraculous trial drug reduced the tumour and saved me from an early grave. The first project after my diagnosis and subsequent recovery would be another short film, a possession story called Inhabitant with lots of gory nastiness akin to a classic Lucio Fulci film. The project never saw completion for a multitude of reasons (something I will always regret), and after this failure, I found myself creatively lost. I’d experienced something really traumatic (and nearly fatal!) and I was clueless as to how to work through what I was feeling. I began to understand that whatever I was going to make next would have to be a personal project, something that could only be achieved through an emotional reflection of the life-altering ordeal I’d just been through. It felt like no better time to revisit my old concepts once more, but this time I promised myself that this would be it, the truest possible exploration of these ideas that had stuck with me for so long. Immediately, I decided that it wouldn’t be a short film, nor would it be a feature length movie. After the failure of Inhabitant I decided that filmmaking perhaps wasn’t the right avenue for me. September 2018 was when I began to work on an outline for my first novel (then entitled Chapter VII, before changing to The Seventh and the Last, only to then change one final time to The Ascension of the Seventh). It would incorporate all the plot beats of the two preceding shorts (Christianity, brain tumour, a destiny of becoming Death), along with more subplots and deeper themes, all explored through an autobiographical viewpoint. First and foremost, I prioritised the very real humanity of the characters. All of the gothic stuff, all of the horror stuff and the violent stuff was fun, of course, but none of it would matter without a relatable human perspective at the heart of it all. I wanted to break hearts, to get people to reflect on their own mortality, to think about how it could all be taken away in an instant, without warning, without mercy. Work on the first draft would not commence until the 2nd January, 2019, and the project reached (self)publication on the 7th September, 2021. The story follows Toby Whitman who, after a brain tumour diagnosis, is visited by Death who forewarns him of his upcoming fate in which he is destined to become the Seventh (and the last) incarnation of Death. The journey of writing and self-publishing Ascension taught me a lot about my writing style and creative process, and after it was all over I couldn’t help but feel a little sad that the journey with these characters, whom I’d grown to know better than some people I know in real life, was finally finished. At long last, I’d settled on a definitive telling of this fable. Although Ascension is completely different to The Seventh Seal, the influences are alive and well within the text. Bergman’s film is a hugely important source of inspiration to me, and I would absolutely recommend it to anybody. It’s one of cinema’s greatest masterpieces.

(Originally published as Ruminations #9 www.coffeewithcutter.com)

I grew up reading Roald Dahl’s books. His wondrous imagination, his distinctive characters and his wildly inventive plots appeal to me today just as much as they did when I was little. He’s regarded as one of the most beloved children's authors of all time, and rightfully so. It’s hard to pick a favourite, but I think Matilda (1988) must take the top spot, followed closely by Charlie & the Chocolate Factory (1964) and Fantastic Mr. Fox (1989). By now, you may have heard the news regarding Roald Dahl and Puffin’s decision to re-print the author’s iconic titles with an array of revised corrections to appease modern day audiences, with many words being cut from the text (‘fat’ and ‘ugly’ being the most prominent examples) and whole new passages added (that Dahl himself did not write). All this is due to the fact the publishers are frightened of Dahl’s original texts causing offence because of how long ago they were written, and so they’re now taking it into their own hands and employing sensitivity readers (if you ever feel useless in life, take solace in the fact that at least your line of work doesn’t require you to be a soulless killjoy) to edit or remove words or phrases that may offend the softies. It’s a devious practice to do such a thing, especially to books written by authors who’re no longer with us. What gives Puffin the right to edit Roald Dahl’s words to fit their own attitudes? What justification is there for this brand of censorship? (It should be added that they’ve since backtracked and have decided to keep the original editions in print, along with the new butchered versions).

I’m fiercely against censorship. Hell, as a writer I bloody ought to be. I don’t think censorship leads to constructive discourse. I think it suffocates creativity and renders a piece of art less authentic, especially when the motivations behind it are political correctness. It was hugely disconcerting to see Puffin take such a shameless attitude towards what they’re doing, because publishers are supposed to be protectors of the words put together by authors whom they welcome into their ranks. Which publishers will think it is a bright idea to adopt similar practices moving forward? What further works of fiction will fall victim to this revisionist mentality? (Well, Beatrix Potter and Ian Fleming, it seems!) Salman Rushdie, author of The Satanic Verses (1988) and an outspoken critic of censorship, released a statement expressing his disdain for the absurd rewriting of Dahl’s work, and here’s hoping more authors express pushback as well, especially those who’re firmly embedded in the mainstream. I remember when the industry first announced the arrival of sensitivity readers. I couldn’t have been the only person to wonder if this would be the beginning of the end for mainstream publishing, could I? It may sound dramatic, but my fears are beginning to manifest into reality, and Dahl himself is on the chopping block. I don’t find anything to be remotely offensive in Dahl’s books. They’re a little dark and a little crude but that adds to their charm, and this may surprise the loons over at Puffin as well as those who’re supporting this nonsense, but children love these stories just the way they are, as do the adults who read them when they were children. Did it never occur to these ideological buffoons that there is a reason why Roald Dahl’s books are so beloved by generation after generation? His stories and characters are timeless and to butcher his words in order to appease today's PC sensibilities is utterly shameful and should not be celebrated. Recently, we’ve seen this happen with various Dr. Suess books, and even one of Dav Pilkey’s books, The Adventures of Ook & Gluk (2010), which has been removed entirely from the market, as if it never existed at all. It’s a frightening pattern, for sure, and one can only wonder just how far this will go.

We’re living in very worrying times, and our days are no doubt becoming all the more insufferable due to the uprising agendas regarding the rapidly evolving cesspit that is modern-day political correctness. Things are starting to feel very Orwellian, don’t you think? In George Orwell’s 1984, those who step into ‘wrong-think’ become ‘unpersoned’, and these totalitarian attitudes are becoming stronger within our own society. Those in control are seeking to rewrite the past (another subject of Orwell’s novel), but as we all know by now, those who do not learn from the past are destined to repeat it. We’ve seen it happen to all forms of art in recent years, not just books. Songs with lyrics deemed offensive have been rewritten and classic films are constantly being subjected to scrutiny. But here’s the thing, all these works are of their time, and to judge any piece of art by today's standards is utterly foolish behaviour. If something offends you, move on to something else. If everything offends you, well, maybe you’re the problem. Censorship does not belong in art. To put Roald Dahl’s books on trial like this is so stupid it actually gives me a headache, and reading the opinions of those who’re trying to justify this nonsense seriously makes me question their logic. These are children's books, for crying out loud. And the scary thing is, this is only the beginning. It’s time to stand up against this madness and say enough is enough. I’ll forever cherish my copies of Roald Dahl’s books, and I will one day pass them down to my own children in order for these stories to live on untainted, to exist as Roald Dahl intended them to. I’ll pass on these castrated editions, thank you very much.