Writer – Clan Witch & Word Refinery

Long December

When the Pages are Stuck Together

I was supposed to come back a few days after my last post. Well, I hold up my hands, it’s been more than a few days since May, but before the calendar year is out. Take it or leave it. I’m giving both. So here is something for this dark day. Pure human, untweaked, unsanitised, no washing out the blips because they are MY WORDS. Do folks even do this anymore? I’ve read so much that’s run through AI before it’s posted (it’s catfishing using words instead of pictures). I query those pristine lines when I don’t know for sure, and the text feels off. But more often than not, I know, I feel it in my bones; the lies, the manipulation. And I’ve seen those sanitised, helped-off-the-messy-floor words from folks I know—they run a thought through a processor then post a stream that’s void of human voice. Why? Does it make their thought more eloquent, make them appear smarter (appearances are the substance for some), or does the trickery furnish validity to a voice? The truth is, it kills it. Nullifies the tone and heart; the AI shushes your truth with buttered-up bullshit that lacks humanity. It lacks grit! It doesn’t make these fearful folks seem more put together. It dumbs the real down. Faux intelligence and faux art—these are not enhancements, it’s just disrespectful bullshit. Can you tell I’m not a fan of AI in art or writing?

I’m here, tapping the glass as though I were speaking a stream, and my notes have their own life, a voice unsanitised. I’m far more comfortable with the letters on the board than those stumbling from my lips when my vocal cords shake, voice cracks, or paces in a little silence between executing the words. Sometimes they (I) fail because who is really listening anyway, like those who never really read. They see a quote, hear someone else’s summary and think they know the experience or read the book (no, the synopsis or quote was not the book). I’ve noted the curious look in wavering eye, the way the pupil changes when the stream bursts happen to flesh ears. I’m frequently told I’m poetic or passionate, but I feel the ponder addition of a little ‘crazy’. Sure, all three are true. Anyway, even in the digital print now, it’s still me right here, you can fucking well trust that. I sometimes wonder when they ask. Like the pleasantries of how are you and what’s the weather like, they don’t care; it’s just noise. And I’ve never understood that. When it’s asked, and it matters, I don’t know how or what to give. Which edit should you get? Which version can your palate take before you grab the pitchfork and execute me? They’re all real, just naturally diluted with fresh water because I know how heavy full-strength is. My being has been attacked since dawn, learned defence behaviours I’m intimate with. I’ll carry that without any of the huffing and puffing ghosts of complaints from the so-called help. Learn to listen beyond the mirror. There’s always a filter, some knobs to turn and tweak, and a few buttons to release the script. And no, it’s not inauthentic as those who bay for blood in some self-righteous regime may cry. It’s self-preservation built from experience. Experience of challenging what I know the outcome will be (maybe it won’t this time. Maybe they’ve grown. Maybe it’ll be different than I think), misreading signals, thinking their eyes or title or ‘closeness’ meant safety, but it never did. Never does. Because behind every question there’s expectation, and I’ve sometimes missed when they want their answer, not mine. Anyway, that’s all by-the-by, but I’m haunted in Winter. A bag of fucking ghosts murmur; my body thrums in ways that have the floorboards quaking. I’m unsteady, a little weak, like I’ve forgotten to eat. But I’m routinely feeding others, so I must’ve had a bite. Maybe I just sniffed it and told my brain that was enough. The scent is enough. Like teasing about love, I can pretend I know what it feels like to receive that, but I’m a magnet for liars. I take them in like strays and orphans, make them a bed and make them safe enough to play jump rope with my intestines. They’re twisting, and I need to send them away. Maybe I need an organ transplant; the recovery is perhaps less painful.

Fuck. It’s a ‘Long December’ (Nah nah nah nah. Nah nah nah nah nah nah. Nah nah nah nah, yeah).

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2022: The Year of Birds

Hogmanay nears, as does what can barely be avoided — the annual consolidation, the ‘review’ as we step over the next threshold.

It’s been another year of tumultuous news and events stabbing the air in-house and in close proximity. Health issues have arisen in many, some near and dear, some farther but no less dear to me—several with fatal implications, where time somehow runs faster on the clock. My heart has shattered a few times. Such is the way it goes.

Covid hit my house with a bang. I was pregnant, and the baby, Averey, died inside my womb when I had the worst symptoms. Since our second bout in July, long Covid symptoms have persisted, including with my young children. The year that we hoped to grab some social normality has demanded much push.

One of the many benefits of home educating (not home-schooling) is that the pressure and stress on children not to ‘fall behind’ on a prescribed curriculum and being ‘marked’ by ‘poor attendance’ due to health issues beyond control is absent, avoiding undue pressure on my kids’ mental health, to which almost anyone who has been schooled and has health issues can relate. All public services in the U.K., including schools, seem to be on a steep downward slope, faster than ever before. The unrest is palpable. That being said, home educating isn’t all skipping through the daisies! Many days have their challenges, and being the literal full-time parent and educator is tiring — and that was before the long-covid fatigue. Still, we get each other through, and the alternative isn’t an option.

As always, writing has been a constant. Separate from my creative writing, it’s been my introvert-central-management system since childhood. Sketching is too.

Professionally, I have had the pleasure of editing works by some fantastic writers this year — some serious jaw-dropping, inspiring talent. One of the last short stories I edited had me reaching for my inhaler! That author painted a vivid anxiety, paranoia-ridden piece in their protagonist — I felt it all! The subversive angle of the work while playing off the backdrop was skilfully moving. I was in awe. In the massive catalogue of literary genres, the immense skill some horror writers portray is hugely underrated, all due to that simple label ‘horror’. You’ll find the asthma attack-inducing story in KJK Publishing’s The Horror Collection: Sapphire Edition.

This year Ruthann Jagge and I joined forces and created Brazen Folk Horror to share our collaborative works. We have been sharing weekly updates there and have many more ideas for the future. As with this site, readers can subscribe to receive those updates directly in their mailbox. The debut collaborative novel under our exclusive in-house imprint, Delevan House, releases on the 1st of February 2023, and the second book in that series is underway. I’ve shared before about how I adore working with her. We’ve each had much to contend with this year. At times, we’ve both been swimming against a ferocious tide, but we have prevailed and have created something unique from Scottish and Celtic folk inspiration. You better believe my girl and I are indeed Brazen as fuck.

Getting back into academic study has been challenging to make space for, but somehow It’s been working out, in sacrifice of sleep! I passed my first module and started my second towards my English Language and Literature degree. The second part has been immensely inspiring. I am enjoying it far more than I anticipated. It’s ignited old and new passions for my own language, those that I’ve been surrounded with and the broader scope of the world. I’ve been evaluating how this entwines cultural and individual identity. This leg of the course has lit a few fires.

Onto the books published under Clan Witch this year:

Asylum Daughter — my psychological horror novella set in Glasgow, Scotland. I’m proud of how this piece turned out. I loved writing it and got to exorcise the asylum.

The Crash of Verses by Rafik Romdhani — this is Romdhani’s second published collection. His poetry is among my favourites of recent years. If you have not read him, pick up this book. He is an exceptionally skilled modern poet.

Incesticide: Collected Horror — my second collection of short horror fiction. It includes nine stories featuring urban folk horror, a touch of splatterpunk and fairytale horror twisted with BDSM, among other assorted flavours for those who enjoy a taste of different things.

Clan Witch: Found Shadows, my collection of free verse poetry and drabbles. This brings together small pieces scattered with other publishers and some never before published poems. Not all truth and not all fiction.

There have been other written pieces published throughout 2022 in the form of short stories, poetry, articles, forewords and copy for other titles.

What about the birds? Birds have been a significant and symbolic component in my year. Before the baby was born, magpies started frequenting my garden. They never had before. In truth, I was never a fan of the species. (Largely due to a childhood memory or a magpie killing sparrow chicks in a neighbour’s garden. It was such a brutal attack, not for a meal or anything. It seemed to enjoy causing the suffering and instigating horror in the flock of sparrows screaming at the beautiful beastly creature.) Other corvids, such as their cousin, jackdaws, yes. But never the magpie. Of course, going through pregnancy and loss again, this felt strikingly symbolic. For the longest time, there would be one—a dark omen. One for sorrow… as the months have passed, groups of them now frequent the garden along with the smaller birds, which have their daily routines flying in for a feed and natter. Adopting ex-commercial laying hens scheduled to be slaughtered has been tremendously healing. We brought them home less than two weeks after our loss. Building for them and supporting their transition to domestic retirement felt like a productive and helpful use of grief energy. Then the hens have taken in robins. The birds have been inescapable and have become a significant feature of Delevan House too.

Life and creativity can be inseparable, at least elements of each. Twisting tendrils that reach out to be touched and woven into new patterns.

I am wrapping up, as I didn’t intend on doing this kind of update this year! There you have it, a wee mixed-bag summary of 2022. I best be off again, I’m currently hauled up with an unwell small. Her feverish chattering dreams spill out into the dark in a torrent, and I wish, as many parents do — I wish I could soak up the fever and take all the pains away, for always. But life has so much more of that in store. I will have to be content with holding her for as long as I can and as long as she needs.

The darkness is drawing in, approaching the longest of nights, and I wish for what I always do here and the world over, peace.

Natasha )O(

Incesticide: Collected Horror

NEW RELEASE

Incesticide: Collected Horror has almost emerged! Due to some interruptions within the industry and the panic rumour mills spinning, I decided to get things placed early to ensure the print edition launched in time with the digital. Well, this strike was swift, and the print editions are now (quietly) available ahead of the official release of December 14th.

The collection features nine unique short stories, each followed by a few words on how they came to be.

I painted the artwork for the book. Taking loose inspiration from the book’s namesake – Nirvana’s Incesticide cover art by Kurdt Cobain. I was delighted with how the painting turned out, and have created some exclusive products featuring the print available on my Etsy store.
Thank you to everyone who had preordered. I hope you enjoy my little morsels of horror.

If you fancy a listening to me reading a story from the book, Fuckin’ Maggots is featured on my Youtube.

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Proper English

I adore the creativity and diversity in language.

English particularly causes such passionate debates. Many folks have definitive rules in their minds—especially those of us working in literature—regardless of which wrung we stand.

I am a massive fan of dialects in life and literature. It’s something that took me a long time to appreciate. As a child, I was taught that regional dialects were a bastardisation of English—they were regarded as dirty. And my young brain felt this to the core—I was stupid or dirty to speak it. This conditioning ran deep, to the point my ears winced towards hearing my own tongue spoken. Growing up in east Glasgow, I was in perpetual horror about how we spoke—our nature, our dialect and culture. I hate that I bought into this attitude hammered in by teachers from such a tender age—devastatingly poor teaching. It prompts self-hate that poisons roots. It’s archaic; the flogging for the so-called incorrect use of English has created ruin in countries like my own. It’s wiped out beautiful languages, demolishing roots of nations and cultures that should have been embraced. The Celtic nations around England have felt this deeply.

In writing, clever use of dialect, particularly in dialogue, adds character authenticity—showcasing communicative repertoire as displayed in real-life. And I am not against it in the narration either, if it fits the work, showcase that diversity with confidence.

Not all readers will ‘get it’, unless it’s a dialect they have experienced. Here, there is a preference for proper English, i.e. Standard British, American or Canadian English. Where the use of non-standard variants, dialects and colloquialisms are branded as errors and bad English. This labelling displays a lack of understanding, ignorance and/or prejudices, or simply the increased reading challenge can create a defensive attitude in a reader. People often feel stupid when they don’t understand something they think they should, so instead of putting the work in, the go-to is to attack the writer for their use of improper language. I’ve struggled too but taking in a piece that incorporates real-life diversity colours literature in a way that standardising the use of English can never do. Writing, storytelling, communication is an art-form — it’s not a flat pack piece of furniture that must be constructed one way. This is especially true of fiction writing. Embracing linguistic diversity is how we can travel the world together without leaving the reading nook. This is how we learn. And no one is above that. Language and how we communicate are ever-changing, and why shouldn’t they?

Gatekeepers of English, who respect and guard the practice of Standard English only, don’t understand or appreciate the beautiful complexity of diversity in language.