Interview with the Writer

Interviewer: How did you get into writing?

Writer: When I was in my mid teens, I started playing with words; you know...just small things like saying them, moving them around in my mouth and cutting them out of newspapers…trying to spot them in the street; that sort of thing. I was really drawn to them. Also I was drinking a lot at the time.

I would have alphabet soup three times a week, and just swirl the letters around with my spoon. Before long, I was making alphabet-shaped ice cubes and mixing them into my gin. Even then, I still considered it social. I mean, man…you know…everyone was doing it…like all my friends. We would get together and there would be talking and sounds and words…sometimes all night. It got so, that there were times when we didn’t sleep.

Interviewer: And when did the sentences start?

Writer: The thing about words is, you never know when enough is enough. You think you’re just doing eight individual words one after the other…you don’t realize you’re doing sentences until someone points it out. By then, it’s too late. You start trying out different combinations just to feel the effects. At this point, I could still have got out clean…if it wasn’t for Tom.

Interviewer: Who was Tom?

Writer: One night, there were a few of us together, just a small scene: Robbie, myself, Talking Sam. Jimmy the Lip. We were in a speakeasy on Broadway and Main doing some punctuation. You know, some apostrophes, a few ampersands, nothing heavy. About 1:00 A.M., in walked Tom carrying a leather satchel. Reaching into the bag, he brought out some books and laid them out on the table in front of us. I remember, it was dimly lit in there but I could just make out the titles: Kerouac, Bukowski…Ginsberg. None of us had seen anything like it. Sure, we had all heard the stories, but we were still relatively inexperienced.

Interviewer: What happened then?

Writer: The first time you do some Bukowski, you think your head will explode. It comes on like a mainline freight train It’s not everyone’s scene though. Then, your first time becomes your second time, and, before you know it, you’re carrying little pages ripped from novels, stuffed into your pocket, and taking them out at lunchtimes in the toilet: the beginning of the downward spiral.
The years begin to disappear like a heartbeat and suddenly you’re in the alleyways of the backpacker areas looking for cheap copies of whatever’s new, whatever’s current, you know, Sophie’s Choice and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time; things like that.

After a while, when money got real tight, I started reading these really cheap books and thinking to myself, hey, maybe I could write something. Maybe I could produce this shit myself…you know, just enough to support my habit.

Interviewer: Was that when you turned to crime?

Writer: Yeah, initially I was just writing out some whodunit plots, reading up on some Ruth Rendell….playin’ with the genre, you know. Eventually, I finished a short story called The Blood of Revenge is Sweetest When it’s Red and Dripping. I printed at home myself using some wood blocks and started hawking it door to door. And that was where it all began.

Interviewer: That’s a fascinating story. Is there anything that you wouldn’t try now?

Writer: Speculative fiction, man...won’t go near it. Too many hallucinations, too many metaphors, uh-uh…no way.