George Cutter's Blog

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.

(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.