Dave Franklin's Blog

Hurrah!

Inspired by the universal love showered on The Goodreads Killer, I've expanded the original novella into three parts (or a 64,000-word novel).

When I wrote the first part, I found there was a lot of gory violence, satire and utterly over the top sex scenes that I couldn't fit in. Frustrated, I had a ponder and decided that a full-length work would be the perfect solution.

It's fair to say that American Psycho was a key influence. Whatever people think of that novel, I doubt anyone who gives it a go ever forgets it. And if a piece of art lodges in your head, I guess it must've done something right.

Of course, I worried about making my quirky little tale longer. Artists, even a two-bit one like me, are usually unsure how long their movie, book or sculpture made out of bird shit should be. There's a lot to be said for brevity. Think Fawlty Towers or a wonderful 150-second blast like Ace of Spades.

Anyway, the story's dreadful bloat means I've now written two books in eighteen months while holding down two jobs and lifting enormous weights with my penis in the gym. I'm sure there's some sort of lesson to be learned there but I think I'll just go to bed instead.

Nighty, night.

Well, really, is there any need for such indelicacy?

I've bundled together three of my novels that have been generously described by some as 'comedies' but are better considered as rants against the pain of existence and that crawling disease known as humanity.

Or something like that.

Anyway, you can now wade into Looking For Sarah Jane Smith, Manic Streets of Perth & English Toss on Planet Andong for just five bucks.

Go on, go for a misanthropic swim.

http://www.amazon.com/Evil-Arse-Soup-...

Well, 2013 is shaping up as a mildly productive year. Apart from staying alive and occasionally getting out of bed, I've also managed to publish another story, The Goodreads Killer.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Goodreads-K...

It's a little juvenile revenge fantasy that I'm sure some people will take literally. Bless 'em. I guess the story's also got something to do with perseverance and defiance - not that I really care about such stuff when there's so much sex, violence and swearing in it. One day I hope to grow out of my adolescent desire to shock. Promise, mum.

You old cow.

Back in the day, I was a great journalist who fearlessly exposed wrongdoing and won many awards. At least that was the scenario which often unfolded in my head as I bitterly slumped over my newsroom desk puffing on my crack pipe after being beaten to the front page yet again.

In truth, I was a bit of a square peg in a round hole because it didn't take me very long to figure out newspaper journalism's alarmist, self-serving, superficial, celebrity-obsessed, holier than thou bullshit. Don't go to the beach cos even if you avoid skin cancer the sharks will bite off your leg! Strap a GPS to your kids otherwise those paedos on every street corner will get 'em! Oh, look it's a cute dog that can roller skate! And wow, Lady Ga Ga's in town and she's eating a Cornetto!

Those who became news editors and the like didn't strike me as actually being much cop at their jobs but tended to be people simply willing to take on responsibility. And what's more, a fair few journos I worked with were self-important, humourless types who lacked a critical perspective. They really thought all that PR-fed stuff with their little byline on it mattered.

Hell, I know I did.

Anyway, during my time in Perth I used to go to news conferences and if the story was big enough the TV crews would turn up. On occasion I'd spot this Channel Ten journo/news anchor called Charmaine Dragun. She seemed the polar opposite to me - professional, dedicated and actually going somewhere in the world of journalism. Once I even shared a lift with her, making me realise what a tiny frail little thing she was. I said hello and she smiled and said hello back.

And that was that. Except it wasn't and I guess that ten-second journey sharing a lift provided the spark to write my latest short story Dead Man's Fall. Charmaine, you see, killed herself by jumping off a cliff. I didn't write about Charmaine in the story but it's odd how even the briefest contact with someone who commits suicide can stay in your head.

If you ever watch the excellent documentary The Bridge (about the suicides from San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge) it suggests that one of the myriad reasons that can cause people to kill themselves is to ensure they're not forgotten. I doubt very much this even played the slightest part in Charmaine's tragic demise as she was already on the telly most nights but I'm equally sure that all those who came into contact with her will also never forget her.

And apparently a million people a year worldwide kill themselves.

Dead Man's Fall is one of the stories in my collection of short fiction, Straitjacket Blues. It's on Amazon US and will shortly be available from all the other major ebook retailers. http://www.amazon.com/Straitjacket-Bl...

Hmm, I've managed to finish my cyclone story that I started about, oh, three years ago.

It's called Shelter and it's got something to do with love being blind. In the sense that sometimes love can be a complete waste of time for one of the parties. Unless, of course, you fall in love with a stone. Because, let's face it, you always know where you are when you're in bed with an inanimate object. Especially if she's called Maria.

Anyhow, Shelter is about 12,000 words. It's the third short story I've completed this year, alongside Straitjacket Blues and Camaraderie. I guess the plan is to keep writing shorter fiction because I just don't have it in me to write another bastard novel and put out an anthology of six or seven stories next year.

Obviously I'll also be announcing this publishing sensation via FaceBook and Twitter. Oh, hang on, I'm not on either as you need friends for that sort of thing. Guess I'll just tell myself all about it on this blog instead.

I don't know about you but I'm already looking forward to Shelter's miniscule sales and baffled reviews. I'm sure I can rely on you for that.

Or, in slightly truer words, I've managed to write something and slap it up on Amazon.

It's a short story called Straitjacket Blues and yes, it will make you prance naked alongside spring lambs through lush fields of green toward a golden sunset before booting aforementioned lambs over a cliff.

It's been a couple of years since I published my last work, Girls Like Funny Boys. And my latest effort is only 6,000 words long. That means I've managed 250 words a month. Or a little more than eight words a day. Sorry. I'd like to offer some fantastic excuse about having a busy life, reproducing or conducting covert SAS operations deep behind enemy lines but the truth is somewhat more mundane - writing's really difficult and I don't like doing it.

Anyhow, Straitjacket Blues is available for the princely sum of 99 cents or 75p.

All proceeds to the Traumatised Lamb Society.

So, anyway, I was teaching a class of upper-intermediate ESL teenagers the other day and I asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up. I got the usual doctor and lawyer answers, the admirable desire to help people and make a difference. And as I paced and stroked my chin, I nodded and replied in an offhand, slightly despondent way: "Don't have any dreams, kids. They won't come true. Expect nothing and you will never be disappointed. Just mindlessly pursue hedonism or become catatonic instead. And if you resolutely refuse to develop the slightest shred of a dream you might - you just might - sidestep the soul-piercing agony of failure. Now, let's weep, children, let's weep for my blighted existence as I blindly flounder in this giant playground of the broken heart."

For a few moments, silence reigned in the classroom as my students' unlined faces, so rich with promise, remained fixed on me. And as a teardrop snaked down one of my battered cheeks, they blinked, turned to each other and gently struck up conversations, obviously helping each other interpret my heartfelt plea. Then they nodded, stood as one, clambered onto their desks as sunlight flooded into the room and proclaimed: "O Captain! My Captain!"

Well, all right, that's not an entirely factual account of one of my lessons last week but I did touch upon the nature of dreams and success. And it got me thinking about my confessional outburst. Why did I tell those kids I was a failure? Perhaps it has something to do with believing that the book-buying public will stamp on my face for the rest of eternity, but I guess it's also connected to living in a society where instant gratification and fantastic results are expected, if not demanded. We are constantly reminded of successful people and we want to be the same as them, you know, like tomorrow. Or in five minutes. It's all part of the undignified, head-fucking scramble to stand out from the crowd.

But to avoid those traps of envy and depression, perhaps it's important to break 'success' up into achievable chunks. For some writers simply completing a novel in the first place can seem like the very definition of success. And as I sit here, naked and smeared in my lucky chicken grease with tears of blood dripping onto my utterly stalled sixth book, I can testify that yes, just finishing the bastard thing would qualify as a resounding success. So, there you go, one form of 'success' can be measured along the lines of mastering something you find incredibly difficult, frustrating and intimidating. You know, licking the bitch into shape.

Now you're ready for the next step which - you'll be pleased to know - isn't easy either. You've got to convince the world you've given birth to a beautiful, blue-eyed baby rather than a two-headed, asthmatic spaz that's already cacked its pants. In other words, you've got to sell it.

Every novelist wants to sell in Dan Brown-like numbers and if they tell you they're much more interested in critical respect, just laugh and maybe slap them. But if you go through the pain of the creative process and you don't sell in big numbers then it's hard not to come to the conclusion you've failed. And after 22 years of writing novels, my five titles don't really sell. They kind of lie there, forlorn and unloved as if they've got some sort of disease. A bit like me, really.

So I must be a failure. Right? But again, it's important to take stock and not start traipsing through the dingy streets in a hairshirt, ringing a little bell and bellowing "Unclean!" Remaining a smidgen outside the bestseller lists doesn't mean my books suck. The rational part of my brain will always try to remind me there's no tangible link between units shifted and quality. Let's face it, if that were the case then the best books of the last few years would be Twilight, Da Vinci Code and Fifty Shades of Grey. Of course, I'm sure there is someone who believes just that but I also suspect such an individual routinely self-harms aboard a spaceship piloted by Princess Di. No, success should never be measured by sales alone.

And anyway, my books do sell. In teeny-weeny numbers. Month in, month out. Shit, last month's sales were impressive enough to almost buy a couple of Mars bars. And every sale is a triumph. Let me repeat that. Every sale is a triumph. After all, whatever book that has been bought (which is now an entity being caressed in a reader's hands) used to be nothing more than a bunch of barely formed ideas stagnating in my head.

And if I stand back and think about it, it's amazing anyone even managed to find one of my books out of the millions available, let alone look at the blurb, take a peek inside, and choose to hand over their cold, hard cash. For when someone buys one of my sordid little efforts, they are putting their faith in me. They are silently whispering that I have the power to create a fascinating fictional world in which flesh and blood characters seamlessly interact. They believe I can stimulate and engage their imagination, that for a short while I will enrich their life. Every purchase is a nurturing act, even if the buyer simply wants profanity and a few tit jokes.

And with the arrival of the e-book revolution, I am now selling in America, Canada, the UK, Korea and other markets I could never have reached just a few years ago... This is success. No groupies, but still success. And so what if I have to laboriously remind myself of such a feeble fact by composing this self-indulgent twaddle on a blog no one reads? It's still success.

So what am I saying here? And how's it relevant to you? I dunno. Perhaps all I'm trying to say is 'success' can be measured as a series of baby steps. The stuff you do over a lifetime. Try not to fantasise about instantaneously arriving at an end result - the picture in the paper, the fans, the money, the three-in-a-bed with the Olsen twins - because the vast majority of us will never get there. Instead just concentrate on completing that first step. And stop giving yourself a hard time. Some things take a while. Oh boy, they can take such a long time.

The truth is I will never have Dan Brown's sales figures. We all know this. My books appeal to a niche crowd (ie slobbering blokey perverts) at best. I will never sit atop a huge pile of money laughing at my critics and the other sad fucks in the rat race. But I have written five novels, some people have bought them in a different country and some people even like them. In fact, I've never received a bad review from anyone who's actually paid for my little encyclopaedias of dysfunctionalism.

And so maybe I shouldn't have told my students to quit dreaming. Maybe I should've, er, encouraged them or something. Maybe it's feasible to claim some sort of success if you listen to your heart, plough through adversity and try to build something.

So whatever your dream is, don't give up. You must pursue it, step by step, and occasionally take stock of what you've achieved. Goddamn it, go and contribute and then wait for that wheel to turn. And OK, maybe it will only run straight over your foot but that's still better than being one of those people out there who do nothing but sneer, who attack and try to destroy. Please don't be one of them.

OK, kids?

Personally, I doubt it's ever affected mine too much because I try to derive my ideas and responses from real life. Plus, I'm emotionally dead. Mind you, I'm still holding out that the next time I hear I'm Too Sexy will be the moment I finally find the courage to pursue my modelling dream and do my little turn on the catwalk.

Artists, however, love the notion they can change lives, that their philosophy will be absorbed. And perhaps repeated exposure to art does have a cumulative effect. Then again, perhaps not. The Beatles sang all you need is love yet we still seem to insult, abuse and kill each other with monotonous regularity.

But hey, that's a little negative, even for me. Hell, there must be instances where a work of art has resulted in individuals taking an abrupt left turn. Take that 80s band The The (who sadly missed the chance to call themselves the much punchier An An). One of their songs was an anti-war track called Sweet Bird of Truth. Lead singer Matt Johnson later spoke of getting a letter from a military pilot in which the pilot told him the song had been so affecting that he could no longer be part of the war machine.

Johnson saw it as proof of the work's validity, of how art could influence human behaviour for the better. Of course, the song may well have played a part in the pilot's decision to quit but let's face it any number of factors could have come together for the guy to realise that dropping bombs on little brown people in foreign lands is, well, a bit crap.

But I love the idea that Johnson thought his song had resulted in a personal sea change. What artist wouldn't be thrilled that their creation could be perceived to wield such life-affirming power? Of course, the flipside is that art can also be perceived to damage, poison and destroy, a classic example being a pathetic Catcher in the Rye-obsessive slaying a musical great. Is it possible that a book could be so powerfully written that it drives a reader to murder?

Nah, course not. Art doesn't have that sort of individual psychological clout. And let’s be clear about one thing - creativity is never negative. The likes of Tipper Gore and her well-meaning but utterly misguided cohorts might deplore such heart-warming ditties as Cannibal Corpse's Hammer-Smashed Face but I just see a bunch of tongue-in-cheek blokes getting together and making music. Cannibal Corpse may well sing about extreme violence but that doesn't mean they practise or advocate it. This is not a hard concept to grasp. They're just playing characters and letting off a bit of steam, yer know?

Then again, people have terrible difficulty separating art and artist. God knows why. I know I've had to put up with my fair share of readers who think they know me through glancing at my novels, as if there's absolutely no difference between me and the self-destructive idiots I create. The idea that I use my characters to show where such dodgy attitudes/behaviour can lead never seems to enter their outraged, over-earnest little heads.

Still, I'm not the first to be a tad baffled by the response of some people to his or her work. Just think back a few years to those trials in America where the likes of Ozzy Osbourne and Judas Priest were accused of recording stuff that made fans kill themselves. Let's face it, teenagers have always fantasised about ending it - it’s de rigueur for a gawky sixteen year old with no prom date - but they don't blow their brains out because of a song, no matter how often they play it backwards, in the same way grown men don't quit the air force because a song has a degree of relevance to their circumstances.

But although some people can end up with pretty inflated ideas about a work's influence, it's also not unusual for an artist to start plodding down the same road. I doubt many of them have Oscar Wilde's observation 'All art is quite useless' above their beds. This is hardly a surprise given that artists often beaver away for hundreds (or even thousands) of hours convinced of their work's importance. My art is my passion, it's what I was born to do, I just love it, they will twitter. Gimme a fuckin' break. For the most part it's just something strangers dip into in between eating, working, fucking and sleeping. (For the record, I hate the whole process of writing, with the publication of my books invariably resulting in yet more shame and humiliation being heaped upon my spindly shoulders. If you really wanna grasp how I feel about writing watch/read The Shining in which failed, self-loathing writer Jack Torrance chases his own tail, fruitlessly pursuing something he hates, and utterly unable to abandon the dream in case the next novel proves to be The One.)

Of my five books, there's only been one time I've really gone into a novelist's head - English Toss on Planet Andong's Denzil Dring, a lurid hack who's convinced he's nothing less than a mightily underappreciated literary genius. He dreams up an idea about Nazi gun-toting sharks that can breathe air, have grown legs and can walk on land, certain that completing the book is as vital as solving Third World Hunger. In other words, he's disappeared up his own arse.

Anyhow, Denzil was my attempt to laugh at myself and my occasionally over-earnest endeavours, to make sure I didn't get too carried away with this whole writing business. And on the whole I don't. Hence, this blog post. I'm well aware that some people will read my work, perhaps even enjoy aspects of it, and it won't make a blind bit of difference to anything. They will carry on as before. I can handle that.

It's just I'm worried Denzil Dring might be a better novelist.

It's time for another piece of meandering, self-indulgent dross that some readers might generously describe as a post, somewhat delayed by being located in a country whose authorities childishly restrict internet access.

Anyhow, Elisabeth Sladen - the woman who played Sarah Jane Smith - has died. You may recall that she 'starred' as the perfect female in my debut novel, Looking for Sarah Jane Smith,. Then again, you probably don't. Back in 2001 I contacted the BBC and her agent to get permission to use a still from Pyramids of Mars on the front cover. After sending her the first chapter (and a deeply apologetic letter in a bid to counter what can only be described as the relentless filth of my writing) she allowed the image to be used. Or perhaps she just wanted the hundred quid I had to stump up, confident that the book would disappear into obscurity. Somehow, though, I doubt such an accusation is true. I prefer to think of her as a patron to my art, even if there's no truth in that statement whatsoever. Delusion has always been my favoured method for struggling through this torment called life.

LFSJS has now become my best-selling ebook and some would say it's my finest effort. Well, I don't know about that but I wish all books were so easy to write. It only took nine weeks to complete, a vitriol-spewing exercise that centres on three sexist idiots. God knows what Lis Sladen thought of it - it really is one hell of a backhanded compliment to be held up as a paragon of virtue in a sea of bile - so you can imagine my surprise when she graciously sent me a signed copy. She even included the phrase 'Best Wishes' instead of the far more fitting 'Seek psychiatric help, Franklin. Now.'

My mum and dad once met Lis Sladen at some garden party. I'd like to label this a one-off brush with celebrity for my slightly befuddled parents but it's simply part of a long-standing pattern in which they get to natter with B and C-listers. I picked up the phone once at their home and Daniel O'Donnell was on the other end. Another time I opened the front door to find Roy Hudd had come round for tea. The Krankies have given my parents a lift home. Occasionally they hit it big by holding an Oscar or hanging out with a snooker world champion. This is the sort of life they lead while the best I can manage in trying to compete with their star-studded encounters is briefly sitting on Val Doonigan's lap. And yes, I don't even remember who Val Doonigan is.

So, anyway, my parents met SJ and sent me a photo (which surprisingly is not of her pouring petrol on my book). I guess I will always keep that slightly blurred photo, along with the signed copy of LFSJS.

Goodbye, Sarah Jane. I hope you liked my mum and dad.

the Manic Street Preachers once sang. Well, they'd sure as hell change their tune if they ever saw my local one. It's a moth-eaten demountable full of drably arranged books, mad old women who scream if you inadvertantly pick up their newspaper, and such cutting-edge entertainment as series 8 of Are You Being Served? And yes, you're quite right I've got the hump with the place because it doesn't stock any of my masterpieces. I even donated five copies of Girls Like Funny Boys - a novel by a Brisbane writer set entirely within Brisbane - and they still wouldn't put it on their stupid smelly shelves.

And so in a fit of pique that surely equals any act of Shakespearean revenge you may care to name, I went out and bought an e-reader. I was even cackling as I bought it. If my local library doesn't want me, then I don't want it. And instead of having to choose between 34 James Patterson novels and trying to steal an old woman's newspaper, I now have the world's virtual library at my fingertips.

Have you bought an e-reader? They seem to be all the rage these days, much like Lady Ga-Ga, upheaval in the Arab world, and sleeping with roadkill in a bid to lessen the bone-aching loneliness of modern life. Best of all, I can actually find my ebooks as they're available from all major online retailers. It does provide a crumb of comfort to my tortured artistic soul as I pour my heart out to the squashed possum in my arms before retiring to bed. And guess what? Sales are already promising - Looking For Sarah Jane Smith actually touched Amazon's top 5000 the other day. Who would've dreamed such wild success was possible? Certainly not those mouldy old spinsters at my local library who may die in a suspicious fire any day now!

Anyhow, to celebrate my growing good fortune - and to help my other books ease away from their ranking of 350,000 - I'm offering a 50% discount on all of my e-books. Just email bidp@babyicedogpress.com.au with the title of whichever book you want in the subject line and I will issue you a coupon for the book website www.smashwords.com No time limit. (Demountable-dwelling librarians, unless they come round my house and beg, excluded).

The ebook revolution - and what a fantastic thing it is - means my books should live forever. And if I'm hit by a bus tomorrow (a fond fantasy of mine) then even in the year 3011 someone somewhere could be reading about snake-wielding bandits, Dr Who-quoting parrots and Cliff Richard-loving childkillers.

Now, isn't that heartwarming?