Archive for April 17th, 2017|Daily archive page
Today’s guest on the blog is fellow KGHH author Christopher Long. Welcome, Chris!
But Once a Year
By Christopher Long
We spend a lot of time talking about time. It’s a very human thing to do. For a start, we’ve made up a lot of sayings about it and we’ve set them down in stone. We’ve decided it waits for no man. It flies whilst we’re having fun. A wise man even once said it flies like an arrow, while fruit flies like a banana. For me, recently, time hasn’t tormented me by refusing to wait, flying or comparing itself to the aerodynamic properties of fruit. Instead, it has become a backseat driver. It’s been leaning over the driver’s seat and whispering in my ear. It keeps mentioning something about the date.
You see, we’re only a few days away from my birthday and, up until now, I’ve always liked my birthday. There are presents, cake, some attention. What’s not to like there? Only, this year, I turn 37. Which has led to me realising that 37 is pretty damn close to 40.
Not that 40 matters, right? Age ain’t nothing but a number. Except, of course, the numbers do run out. For us, anyway. There is a high score I’m playing towards and I’m not allowed to know what the final tally will be. No one ever tells you which particular level or boss will use up the last of my credits. Which is probably for the best. I dread to think what it would be like to live with me if I knew the exact date when I reached my own, personal GAME OVER.
I know, I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? The guy who writes ghost stories has an issue when it comes to death. Well, clichés become what they are for a reason. I’ve been morbid since I was small. Although, don’t get me wrong; I didn’t turn 7 and start worrying about The Big 1 0. I’ve just always had a moderately unhealthy awareness of my own impending death. I can handle it most days by, spiritually speaking, sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting very loudly. It works to a certain extent.
The impending threat of 40 is more to do with the stories locked in my head. When I started writing, I was driven by a dream of being really successful by 18. That slipped to 20 and 25 quite easily, as I began to understand the work that’s really involved in most people’s formative writing years. Then, the target went to 30 and I was fine with at as well. 35 raised an eyebrow, but 40…oh man, 40.
I’m starting to look around at the older members of my family and do the maths. It’s not fun maths either. 40 means I might be approaching a halfway point. If I’m lucky. The point of positively no return and I’ve got so many stories left to tell. I’ve got some stories in my head that I’ve not even got around to tackling yet. Big stories that I’ve been gestating for decades. Stories that feel like they require my full attention and possibly a paid advance so I can really settle down and put them on paper. Stories that have grown with me, become important little parts of myself that I want to share with the world one day, when I’m ready.
Please don’t think this means I’ve got problems with the stories I’ve had published. I love the stories I’ve had published. I really do. They’ve made people laugh or feel worried about what might be just outside their window. That’s brilliant. That’s what they’re for. It’s just that they’ve not been evolving in my head for 30 odd years.
There’s that whispering from the back seat again.
So, where do I go from here? Well, I keep writing for start. I blow out as many candles as I can out of the ones that get put in front of me. Also, I guess never stop dreaming. As tacky as it sounds, it’s the key here. As much as we talk about time, we pray for our hopes. Writing is just like any another creative or artistic endeavour. You hope for success, for notice. You want people to see it. You want people to enjoy it. Ideally, you want to become known for it. Sure, that is a sentiment dripping with ego, but it’s also true. That hope of success is ours to keep safe. It’s the one candle we never want to blow out. We never want to let anyone else blow it out either. We light it ourselves at some important moment in our life and then we watch it. We tend to it. It might flicker or dwindle, if we take our eye off it. It might occasionally look a little low, but it’s our light. Our flame. Our hope. We hold it close and safe.
Some of us lit that candle back when we were kids. Some only realised we had it waiting in us later on. Some people didn’t find it until they passed 40 and moved further on around the board. Which really makes me sound like I’m a whinging idiot.
All of which really says one thing. I’m having a little panic. Nothing more. We all have them. This is just my first birthday related one, that’s all. I’ll get past it. The presents will be unwrapped, enjoyed and put up on a shelf. The months will move on and I’ll keep writing.
Here’s one thing I’ve decided I’m going to do. A little present to myself. At some point, after the party and the presents, I’m going to cut myself a slice of cake and slip away. I’ll find a quiet corner somewhere, get a blank sheet and paper and start to write one of those stories I’ve never dared try yet. I probably won’t write it all. I’ll get just a few pages down and then I’ll keep them safe. At least then I’ll know I’ve started something, ready for the future.
Christopher Long is somewhere in his mid-thirties and he’s not coming out of them until he’s good and ready. He has been writing stories ever since he found out such practices weren’t frowned on in polite society. He has tried his hand at children’s stories, science fiction, fantasy and occasional poetry. Most recently, Chris has been writing ghost stories. Originally, he self-published them onto the Kindle; until he was signed by Kensington Gore Publishing. With them, he has released six novellas, three collections and one novel. He has also had stories featured on the “Shadows at the Door” website and in their first anthology.
Chris currently lives in Rugby with his wife, Sam. They are very happy together, although Sam has warned him about setting any more of his horrific and terrifying tales close to or in any part of their home. As of yet, she hasn’t noticed one of them is set primarily in their back garden.
Learn more about Chris and his writing from his website.
Thomas Singer wrote many horror stories in his time. Not all of them were popular, but some of them made waves. Some of them gained notoriety where it counted. Some of them terrified just enough people to gain Singer a cult status.
For his many prolific years of work and his near ceaseless devotion to storytelling, there have always been rumours about stories he was holding back from his devoted followers. Stories he didn’t want unleashing into the world until he, himself, had left it far behind. Stories too strange or twisted for general consumption. Stories that may well hold a secret or two in their crooked grasp.
Now, after Thomas Singer’s rather unusual and untimely death, Kensington Gore Publishing is proud to release his final five stories. Compiled and edited by Christopher Long, who briefly knew the author, these final stories of Thomas Singer each come with introduction and also an afterword from Singer himself.
Are you ready to see just what Thomas Singer wanted you to read only after he was dead and buried?