Welcome to my blog, where I write about writing, with excessive swooning over music and dashes of media marginalia. You can read more about me, etc., here.
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Over on Strange Horizons, there’s a new essay by Zachary Gillan, The Brackish Pool: Towards a Critical Practice of Reading Weird Fiction, which caught my interest. It’s a scholarly yet approachable overview and reflection on what we call “weird fiction.” I found myself nodding at some parts and overall appreciating the ways in which Gillan–using examples from the works of other authors and theorists on the genre–attempts to explain and/or reframe less what “weird fiction” is than what it does. More the how than the what. In particular I liked this:
The film historian Jeanine Basinger, in her book on Anthony Mann (1979), wrote that noir is not a genre but a “virus” which “attacks healthy genres and makes them sick, dark, discouraged, and disillusioned.” This is how we should think of the weird as well. Noir sickens, the weird weirds; both are verbs, active critical perspectives brought to bear by writers but also readers (and critics, who are nothing if not readers who write).
I think this is a wonderful way of looking at the weird; it’s steeped in something we cannot quite understand, and likely are incapable of fully comprehending outside of its immediate, oft unsettling manifestations. I highly recommend giving this a read if weird is your thing.
Just a quick note to those readers or writers who might be intimidated by pieces such as this (that is, essays that are full of literary references as a way of making their point): don’t worry if you haven’t read stories by Thomas Ligotti, critique by Maureen Kincaid Speller or novels even by those as esteemed as Toni Morrison. I’m not going to say that you will easily absorb the points being made without having read all the authors referenced within Gillan’s essay, but a good essayist–even if it’s for a dedicated audience of a genre–will get the point across of what they’re trying to convey without it being contingent that you’ve read all they’ve read. For the record, I’ve only read a few of the authors mentioned within, and even then not extensively (arguably, that’s the job of someone setting out to do what Gillan does–to synthesize). As it goes, I’m not the world’s biggest Jeff Vandermeer fan, but I can work with what Gillan is saying. There are other authors that aren’t mentioned in this piece, like Robert Aickman, whose works are absolutely to be added to this genre. I make this point because, as I mentioned, sometimes essays like this can be intimidating, and they don’t have to be; hell, if you walk away with only curiosity about some of the authors you don’t recognize then I’d say that’s a success.
Another author not mentioned is Mark Fisher. He certainly isn’t an writer of weird fiction, but rather a cultural and political theorist who released a rather slim tome called The Weird and the Eerie, which takes a guided stroll through similar territory, going so far–as you might guess from the title–as to separate the two (the weird, the eerie) into separate subgenres. His book turned me on to Aikman, but also tied in bands such as The Fall (who I adore) and even Boards of Canada into his explication. One of the points of his focus was the British movie Quatermass and the Pit, and the original television series it’s based on. I spent the latter part of 2025 watching all the Quatermass material, thanks to the Internet Archive. It’s easy to see how Quatermass is eligible for inclusion in the weird (broadly speaking–Fisher might qualify it more as “eerie”), given how there these spectrous forces from outside our world, often faceless but always nameless, whose ultimate goals are ultimately left to the imagination of the viewer (unlike, say, Star Trek, where everything is made very matter-of-fact, similar to how comic books of a particular era couldn’t have things be borne of the supernatural).
I wouldn’t say that, as a writer, I’m firmly in the mold of weird fiction, but it certainly creeps into my work, depending upon what you’re reading. While not self-consciously so, Radioland certainly affirms itself as weird fiction, as does my linked short stories Somewhere in a Dead Field, and Wesley Evonshire. It’s certainly not like I sat down one day and said to myself “I’m going to write weird fiction” but rather, in so many words, it was where my internal weather vane pointed me, and I certainly didn’t fight the temptation.
Here we are: December. As years go, 2025 was a challenge on several levels.
On the writing front, it was quite productive in some ways; I polished and finalized a very good satirical short story for submission, and did a lot of hard labour on a personal essay that I hope to have finalized and doing the rounds early in 2026. The latter packed an emotional toll, given that it’s about my murdered uncle and the sometimes discouraging relationship between myself and my father. It would be fair to say that working as hard on this as I did threw me off my game for awhile; it was using a very different sensitivity than any nonfiction I’ve written previously. My third novel, The Stars Align for Disco Santa, remains on submission since March to various publishing houses. While the essay was challenging in its content (unknotting its story from my very subjective defences), having the novel out in the world in an undefined state–especially not knowing how it will do and whether it will find a home (let alone a good home)–also weighs on me quite a bit. I tell people that it’s like holding your gut for many, many months. I would like to breathe easily again.
Given all the above, it should come as no surprise that 2025 was perhaps the most challenging year for my confidence as a writer. I’ve had a good run since 2014, but I’m experiencing a lot of doubt these days, and this impacts my ability to push myself. I feel in some ways that a break might be in order, to get perspective and perhaps to take pressure off myself. I sometimes worry that Radioland, my second novel, did me no favours. It wasn’t The Society of Experience, which, while not a blockbuster, made a mark on readers and writers alike. Released during the tail-end of the worst of the pandemic, I have no clue who bought Radioland and whether it resonated with anyone. I’m not sure it was a comparably good seller, which isn’t necessarily surprising for a book that, while not nihilistic, is unapologetically dark and weird in nature. There’s a cliché about the sophomore novel, and I was well aware of this while I was readying it for publication; the cliché being that they tend of disappoint, or zag when readers are expecting it to zig. On more insecure days, I worry its overall lack of impression might’ve marked me as a novelist publishers might not want to take a chance on. So yeah, there’s that hanging around the periphery of my thoughts. It’s also entirely realistic to just accept what comes, and carry on. The good news is that I’m generally a “brush yourself off and get back on the horse” person.
It wouldn’t be much of a year-end encapsulation if I didn’t also mention the terrible situation with the United States under its current administration. The ridiculous tariffs sent a swift blow to the economy, and I felt it in my psychotherapy practice, what with people being less likely to open their wallets until there was a sense of stability. I’m managing that well enough, but what I can’t get over is how entirely avoidable all of this was. Not that Kamala Harris was a fantastic candidate, but people ended up choosing petty self-interest over any sense of common good, and now we get to spend the next three years dealing with a political self-own that is many times greater a disaster than UK’s Brexit. I could go on, but I feel I’d be preaching to the choir on this one.
In happier news, there were wonderful discoveries of music this year, and I look forward to spending the holiday break catching up on Shazam’d artists I’ve picked up on my travels. I also look forward to increasing my proficiency on guitar and maybe cracking open a couple of good books along the way. The rest will do me good, as I hope it does to you.
My best to you xo
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Update:
Of course, within a week of writing this, I had a very persuasive idea for a new novel (this would be #5 I think?) and sat down one day and churned out 1,200 words in the space of two hours. So, yeah, it looks like it’s hard for me to step away from the craft…
When the vast majority of bands call it a night, whether officially or more quietly, you can be sure that–failing a Greatest Hits tour–you won’t be hearing any original material from them in the future. So, when I was listening to the Riley & Coe program on BBC6, I was surprised to hear a track that sounded very similar to a band I was very much into in the late 90s. And, sure enough, when Marc Riley confirmed that this was the first release from Leicester-based band Prolapse in TWENTY-SIX YEARS…I was thrilled. Helped that it was a solid track, too!
The album I fell in love with back in the day was The Italian Flag, and when I gave their new album, I Wonder When They’re Going To Destroy Your Face, a listen, I was relieved and delighted with how they’ve retained their energy, their anger, and their left-field sensibilities.
With everything going on in the world, it’s hard to find hope these days, and I gotta say this is one of the highlights of my year.
Happy to announce I’ve been asked to be part of the Drunk Fiction reading series this month! I’ll be joining authors Brooke Lockyer, Selena Mercuri and Andrew Robertson. The event will also feature the launch of host Emily Weedon‘s novel, Hemo Sapiens (incl a Q&A). I’m going to be reading from Radioland, and copies will be available for sale (and I’m happy to sign your book if you pick one up!). This is happening Tuesday September 23rd in Little Portugal, at The Caledonian (856 College St). Hope to see you there!
I don’t know about you, but it’s been an active summer over here. Getting out, making the most of the weather, even when it’s been ungodly hot. This is partly due to summer traditionally being a slower time of year for psychotherapists, so let’s just say that I’ve been putting in more reps at the gym and visiting my favourite local places more often.
The only thing I haven’t been doing actively is writing fiction (or writing of any kind, other than texts to myself). Part of it, though it wasn’t intentional, is perhaps to take a breather. It’s a bit hard to communicate how writing has taken up a lot of emotional, mental and psychic energy, this year in particular.
I handed off Book Three to my agent in February, with all the angst that comes with this. The not-knowing, now in its seventh month, the having to work with the unknown around whether it will find a home, not to mention how this would inevitably affect me and my confidence as a writer.*
On top of this, I pushed to make some major revisions to a very personal essay, dealing with my uncle’s murder/guitar, and inevitably my childhood. I’ve never really worked on something like this, as raw as this, and I’ve found myself struggling to find my voice within the piece, discovering that I’m possibly holding myself at arm’s length away from it, no matter what progress I feel I’m making otherwise.
There’s also a fourth novel that I’m about 100 pages into, and I like it, but I’m struggling to fall back into it, and I can’t help but feel that the unresolved nature of Book Three’s future is adding some distortion to the proceedings. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m afraid of writing, but there’s a wariness. It feels as if I need to work to sort out my relationship with writing: why do I want to do this? What do I want out of this?
It’s funny to read the above, because I started it with saying that I was having a really active summer sans writing, and proceeded to list a series of writing-related issues; clearly my mind is still carrying on the business in some automatic or unconscious way. Ugh. In any case, I don’t think it’s a bad idea to take a breather, for some perspective. God knows I wish more writers would do this.
* there have been a few rejections but all have contained personalized feedback…which is rare. Everyone seems to generally like it, which I didn’t encounter when either of my two last books were being submitted around, so I’ll take what I can get.
Hi folks, I’m back from the break (and a bit of a vacation to boot). Today I was rummaging around She Said Boom on College Street for blues vinyl when I happened to come across the album After Work by John & Sylvia Embry. Something about it caught my attention and I managed to remember their name the next time I was at my laptop*. I did some research and listened to a couple of tracks and was really impressed. I find the Chicago blues scene to be intimidating…and geographically confusing (“Oh, that’s West Side blues” the fuck?), so I’ve been reticent to dive in. But hot damn is this some great stuff.
And yes, I’m buying that album.
* you might ask: why didn’t you take a photo w/ your phone or use your phone why didn’t you use your phone; this is because I hate looking like one of those people who use independently owned stores in order to do research for shit they end up buying on Amazon
So, it may not be exactly as I might’ve dreamed (talking about, you know, one of my novels), but I was thrilled to be included in a very excellent Guardian piece by Ioan Marc Jones discussing men who have a habit of making every conversation about themselves, in particular the author’s own attempt to better understand and reform his bad habits in this regard.
It’s a strikingly personal piece, and I think it has resonated with a lot of people, particularly women, who have had to sit quietly while yet another guy turns the focus to their thoughts and opinions rather than work better toward listening and creating actual conversation. I’m grateful to have been able to speak as a psychotherapist with more than a little understanding of this phenomena.
About a month ago, while I was attempting to respond to an email at work, I saw the LED notifier go red on my BlackBerry Key2–never a good sign–then watched the display switch off. I tried everything, but I’d been preparing for this day, and sure enough, when this workhorse of a smartphone wasn’t able to move past the boot screen without crashing, that day had finally come: it was dead. Not only that, but, more importantly to me, this would be the last BlackBerry I would likely ever use.
Since stepping into the smartphone world in 2008 with my purchase of a BlackBerry Bold 9000, I have used nothing but BlackBerry phones. I loved the physical keyboard and the infinite customizability of its other unique feature, the aforementioned LED notifier in the top right corner of the screen. And yes, from a more workplace-oriented perspective, the BlackBerry email server was like a secret fucking weapon–you got your emails the very moment they left the the sender’s fingertips. Working in film/TV postproduction, where getting a hundred emails a day was not rare, this was like a stock market investor being able to get ticker results before anyone else. I was dialled in, in a way that was perfect for me and my work/lifestyle. And it did everything that the iPhone did (or least that I cared about). I had never felt jealousy about iPhones, no matter how shiny or aesthetically primped the model. They were other people’s phones; phones that had nice aesthetics and a solid OS, but with standard accessories, like charging cables, that fall apart after a year due to cheap manufacturing.
And yet being a BlackBerry devotee was not an easy alliance, not least because of the strategic missteps that the parent company, then called Research In Motion, made in its effort to stem marketshare bleed to its biggest smartphone competitor, Apple, and their omnipresent iPhone. I remember, before purchasing my Bold, seeing the iPhone display in the Rogers store and how it had a working display that you could pick up and experience first-hand; by comparison, I literally had to ask the salesperson if I could look at his Bold [/snare drum/] just to see how it worked. Then there was the disastrous roll-out of the BlackBerry Storm, their first without their signature physical keyboard. It was a dog. Side note: I’ve had people come up to me over the years when they saw my BB, hearts swelling, sharing stories of their own relationship with this phone (at least one person bought me drinks based on this alone); however, recently in Mexico, a server who was reminiscing about using a BB also shared their heartbreak over their subsequent experience with the Storm. It was that bad, and it severed many BB relationships and ceded marketshare to Apple for obvious reasons. I’m not going to get into the story of BlackBerry, the company. It’s pretty heart-breaking, considering they were a made-in-Canada tech behemoth. The movie is great fun though, even if it’s not exactly the most complete telling of the BlackBerry story.
Truth is, I had a close relationship to this thing. It did what I needed it to do, in a way that allowed me to have just a little more tactility in a tool. Of course, with practically all smartphones being interchangeable glass plates of various dimensions, having the physical keyboard seemed even more rare and precious. It also became kind of frustrating. Since it was an Android phone I was able to use practically any popular app. Here I was with a Key2 manufactured in 2018 in 2025 without any major change in speed or interoperability with each new app update. But the Android operating version itself was fixed to the BIOS on the hardware of the phone itself, and thus it couldn’t be upgraded past a certain version number (this may not be entirely exact, but the gist is correct). Apps I relied upon became less and less reliable or didn’t run at all after a random update. I saw the end coming earlier this year and began to do some serious research for an eventual replacement. It was gross, like when you see a friend’s pictures of their old dog being introduced to the new puppy that’s going to replace it when its dead, and an unnecessary puppy at that.
2008 – 2025. Not a bad run.
I’m adapting to my first glass plate (official term: “slate”) phone, a Samsung S24 FE. There is no way, in case you’re curious, I would get another BlackBerry only to have to go through the same thing again; plus, being a very exclusive niche, they’re too expensive on the second-hand market.
It’s been a lot. I’ve had moments of frustration that I now realize are either me re-learning a familiar-but-modern operating system, or borne out of the genuine loss I feel for that familiar embodied interface. That most personal of tools. I’d describe the process of migrating to Samsung (which also uses Android) as like when I migrated from Linux to Apple, conceding at the time that I needed to stick with industry standards (see: film/TV). I went from having something I could tweak to my heart’s content to something that was a two-dimensional version of that…only way more convenient because of this very same fact. It was easy to use and I didn’t have to think about what was going on in the background. Fifteen years later, I’m typing this on a MacBook Pro, in case you’re wondering what the verdict was. I will say, I truly dislike the anonymity of the slate form factor, though I will concede that the “keyboard” is sufficiently responsive to the speed of my typing (and less pressing means less finger exhaustion).
It’s more than conceivable that there could be another keyboard-based phone in the style of BlackBerry released in the future–Gen Z is apparently a fan, which shows their good taste–it just wouldn’t have that name anymore (BlackBerry makes operating systems for cars now). Whether I would go back, however, is a question I don’t think I’ll be considering any time soon.
I have a conditional relationship with the Canadian flag. On the one hand, it’s the country I was born in, one which certainly came into its own culturally around the time I was born. It’s difficult to believe that prior to 1965 there was a much different (certainly more colonial) one. It’s a flag that, like any great design, makes the best of simplicity: two red bars and a leaf.
There’s the flag of one’s country and then there’s the nationalism that naturally gets attached to it. I’m averse to nationalism, though I recognize that in some situations it’s completely necessary, especially for existential survival.
In the winter of 2022, the so-called “freedom convoy” occupied downtown Ottawa. They were ostensibly against vaccine mandates (whether or not this was well-informed) and what they perceived to be the authoritarian impulses of Justin Trudeau and his government in terms of how they were handling the pandemic. They rolled into Ottawa, lining the streets with eighteen-wheelers and set up camp. And from there they basically held the nation’s capital hostage, terrorizing locals with the constant honking of air horns and making life hell for people there for the better part of three weeks. The significant piece about this was their ubiquitous use of the Canadian flag as part of their quasi-rebellious identity. During and after the occupation, if you saw someone driving with the Canadian flag on their car, there was a very good chance they supported this convoy movement (which, among other things, has its origin in white supremacist and Islamophobic movements). I hated seeing the Canadian flag as a result because I naturally associated it with stupidity and hatred, no matter how ambivalent I felt about Trudeau or the lockdowns. I had a tank top I sometimes wore on very hot days when I was out for a run, which had a maple leaf–not the flag, but just a red stylized leaf–and even that became difficult for me to justify for fear of being associated with the racist idiots.
And then Donald Trump came into power in 2024 and soon directly targeted Canada’s sovereignty. Suddenly, with our identity and existence threatened, the Canadian flag became a rallying point. Nationalism, something we don’t often reach for, became vogue. Like, in ways I don’t think I’ve seen since the signing of the Constitution in 1982. We took on the “elbows up” ethos of hockey, the national game (if you don’t count lacrosse, which is actually the national game). “Made in Canada” became (and remains for understandable reasons) a thing. And yet I feel I have a sort of cultural whiplash around the flag now flown, earnestly, by so many.
Nationalism, especially nationalism for sake of nationalism (which is what you see south of the border), can get ugly fast. It can be easily weaponized against imagined others, which doesn’t require a deep imagination to see how that can apply to the very people–immigrants, temporary foreign workers and racialized new Canadians–who actually help support this G7 country. It can become a bludgeon in the hands of those with dark hearts or small minds, as we’ve seen not only in what has transpired south of the border, but in countries such as Turkey, Hungary and most notably in Nazi Germany.
And yet, as I mentioned earlier, it’s naive to think that we, especially in the face of one of the strongest nations in the world literally threatening to annex us, to eliminate our sovereignty, would not reach for nationalist expressions. And the paradox is that, for all of nationalism’s ills, when faced with an existentialist threat from a much powerful neighbour, if we don’t define ourselves, if we don’t set out to reify our sometimes nebulous national identity, then someone else will.
