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My space is taken up with: noise, shapes, ideas, voices, objects, information, air. So I edit. Then restore. Then add. Then delete. I upgrade. I degrade. I leave alone for a while. I wait. I go back…there’s still too much. No matter what I remove. I can’t release enough space. I can’t reveal anything. I try to change perspective. I move around the space and observe it from different angles. I change my mind and perception. I listen to the space. Nothing comes through. I give up. I start again. I change my clothes. I move to a different space but everything that I left behind remains with me. I change my voice but I say the same things. I recalculate. I evaluate. I give the new space a new lick of paint. I move in and move out. I observe. Perhaps a new light would offer my new space something fresh. Perhaps there’s too much light. Whatever I do, whatever I want to alter, I always return to the same point. What I could do without, I miss. Whatever obstacle I remove reveals a new obstacle. I believe that there’s nothing but obstacles; invisible forces. If my space was free of obstacles I’d have the obstacle of my body and mind. If I remove my body and mind I would leave behind the obstacle of my absence for someone else to remove from their space. Perhaps I could edit my circle of friends and replace them with a new circle of friends. I should listen to new voices, look at new faces. There are too many variables. I can’t get over these obstacles. I’ll never get over the obstacles that fill my existence. I’m constantly editing and re-evaluating but the new obstacles I have to get over replace the old obstacles I thought I eradicated. I could change my clothes or go about with no clothes. I could replace every obstacle with attractive obstacles. I could lose weight off my body but my mind only seems to retain more and more weight. Whatever obstacle I move is replaced with another one. Whatever obstacle someone removes, someone else replaces. Everything that I want to change is replaced by more objects and situations I want to change. No matter what I’m unable to do. No matter what I refuse to do. My space is cluttered by obstacles that obscure my goals. No obstacle, no desire or pain is sufficient. The choices aren’t sufficient. The climate isn’t sufficient. The era isn’t sufficient. Try as I might it’s not enough. It’s never been enough, therefore it won’t be enough. How am I supposed to create the perfect space and the perfect companion for this perfect space if it’s technically impossible to reshape my own space? How can I create the perfect story if what I add or remove, is hindered by insufficient language and information? I can try to change my tastes. Perhaps a certain sound from certain source could affect my environment. Perhaps a certain fragrance could affect my perception in a way that renders my environment more appealing. Maybe the secret is not removing everything but searching for the right combination and hoping the way that they interact with other subjects and objects provides a particular symmetry that can satisfy the space I long for. That could be possible if time itself weren’t an obstacle. Could my room by wider? What if I walked everywhere instead of using my car? Who would I meet, where would my eyes roam if I wasn’t expected to concentrate? What form of communication, in what language and combination could I express, to affect the spaces and minds of those who I sometimes meet and experience? My space is always obscured by the objects, experiences and situations others have placed in my path. There has to be a way, a correct combination, a code, a sensation, an act I can express that can create the perfect space. It must exist if the desire exists; even if I can’t identify what it is, let alone what my goal is. I once heard myself in a dream say ‘Just because there are words doesn’t mean that words are true.’ It’s a thought that keeps me awake. That thought alone is an obstacle. I think sometimes, what am I missing? Maybe I lost everything in my life because I couldn’t find a sufficient variable to create the perfect construction. Have I edited myself too much? Did I remove the important content that could have actually provided me with the perfect space to exist? I had a story to tell. I experienced a story but I probably edited the heart out of it. I edited the feeling. Only disconnected moments and fleeting images remain. What am I supposed to do? The more I hack away at everything, my past for example, the more vines, reeds, foliage obscure my path. I chip and peel and chop but the obstruction grows, entwines and creeps. I don’t even know where the path is supposed to go. I’m constantly trying to cut and edit a space where I can see its direction…a way out…but it’s already behind me. Behind is the mess and decay. I had dreams and I hacked at them. Hacked them all away. Hacked every obstruction. I couldn’t reassemble them now if I wanted to. I can mask the injuries. I mask the memories. I place an obstacle in front of another one. I must beat a path to my end. Remove every obstruction. Remove time. Remove every new growth. Remove the very root of every idea. Hack it away. Reveal the light. Restore myself. Use my decreasing strength to hack away every pleasure and pain. Get to the end. So I can convince myself that I did my best. I can’t turn around to look at the mess I left behind. Only then might I have a space suitable enough to live in and story worthy enough to share.

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Just because the stretch of her skirt exposed the curvature of her smooth, posterior, my work mate said that he would smash it. He would smash it all night, he said. He would smash it into the bed and if there were no bed he would smash it in thin air, my colleague said, as he chewed his big, fat sandwich full of shit. That she bent over in the table in front of him to take some hand wash out of her bag was, in my colleagues view, not just an invitation to be smashed but a forceful encouragement to be smashed. My colleague chewed his big, fat sandwich and said that he would ruin her. He would ruin her skirt, her body and the very environment where the ruination would take place. I will fucking destroy that, he said, with relish. I’d smash it, ruin it and relish it, he said, with relish. It would take a riot squad to pull me off that, he said, chewing his big, fat sandwich full of shit and relish. That she bent over in her skirt wasn’t just an invitation but it was, my colleague said, an act of war. She has declared war on me, he said. I will split that thing in two! The stretch and fabric of that manmade skirt is a fucking pisstake, he said. The way she bends provocatively in that skirt, knowing I can’t have her, is just as insulting as if she were soiling it, my colleague said. I would fucking ruin that, he said with relish. My colleague never explained what conditions would have to be met to smash it, but his intentions were clear. That thing he said referring to the object in front of us, who was massaging hand wash into her hands, is just flesh and bone. That’s all it is. That’s all it’ll ever be. Flesh and bone, he said, munching his big, fat sandwich full of shit, and I want to tear at her flesh, grab it, tenderize it, claw it and smash it. I would, my colleague said, pin that thing down: finger it, chew it, suck it, hammer it, slap it, gob on it, frig it, bore it, bone it, knob it, drill it, kill it. That’s all flesh and bone is good for, he said. To use. To bugger. To kill. To burn. To eat. It didn’t matter if you wanted to smash your mother, sister or daughter, it was all the same; they were all the same, he said. They’re pieces of meat, said my colleague. The only reason, he said, that I won’t do it, is because we have fucking laws against it. I’ve already done her in my mind anyway, and I can go back there whenever I like, he said, washing down his big, fat sandwich with a liberal swill of fizzy piss. I can at least go over to her table and look the bitch in her face, he grinned like the ugliest animal ever farted into someone’s imagination. I will look at her eyes, knowing that I have smashed her in my mind; that I have shot my load over it, knowing that she can’t do fuck all about it. I can smash anyone I like. I do it every day. No-one is free, he said.

Purchase Annihilation 

 

I will fix everything. I will repair everything that is broken. I will repair the world. I’ll attempt to write something that will transform everyone’s perception so much so that they will no longer be able to see the world the same way again. If I’m successful it will be unthinkable to see our lives the same way again. I’ll transform every relationship, so that it will be unthinkable and impossible to see the world in the same light again. It must be my only goal since everything in the world is completely incapacitated beyond repair. I’ll attempt to write something that will render holy books more ridiculous than they are already. I’ll attempt to record the world the only way I know how. I’m doomed to fail though because the world is beyond repair. I’ll attempt to fix everything that we’ve directly and indirectly broken. I must explore, with clarity, what needs to be fixed and how it should be fixed, with absolute precision. I cannot leave this existence without attempting to explore every avenue from all possible angles. I must go further than any one individual has gone before, even if it takes most of my life; even if the life I have allocated to my attempt is not ENOUGH and the planned repairs remain unfinished. Before I can even attempt this major restoration I must define what it is that we’ve collectively broken. Whatever it is, we must have failed. Every previous attempt must have collapsed. So I will attempt to create something that renders everything that went before not only meaningless and useless but obsolete. I will attempt this not for personal gain but because I’m compelled to, even when I know that I’ve always failed to create or repair anything of any worth. That is a fact. I wouldn’t even be attempting this project had all previous attempts failed. I’m not naïve. I’m aware that my attempt to establish what it is I want to repair will be subjected to the most spectacular futility and waste of time. This is a futility I’m willing and able to carry. To give my project the slimmest chance of success requires definition and knowledge that I don’t possess. It requires time, skill and persistence. To give my project a minute chance of scraping the impenetrable surface I need structure and focus: solitude, complete solitude. It requires sacrifice. I must not be distracted by the unfixable things available to all: materials, frivolous pursuits, companionship. I must have the correct tools. If the correct tools aren’t available I must design them, once I’ve defined what the correct tools are. My attempt will require the most efficient organisation not available anywhere. Probably not even in existence. There isn’t an organisational structure efficient enough to prepare me for my attempt. Once I have defined the objectives of my attempt I must devise an organisational structure that would render previous organisational structures obsolete. I need my health, which means I have to attempt to repair the whole system and structure of biology and chemistry. I may have to reinvent SCIENCE. So much so that it renders previous scientific theories irrational. I must not give up my attempt to repair the world even if all my attempts fail, as I predict they will. I’ll attempt to write the book that rewrites everything that ever was and was going to be, once I am able to define what it is that needs to be defined and repaired. I will attempt to devise a completely innovative understanding of medicine. I will redesign the necessary tools I may need and, if necessary, a whole new language to calculate and assess my chances of success. I’ll attempt the book, or whatever format it needs to be, to right every wrong. I will attempt to rewrite the world. I will sweep it all away. There can be no compromise, distraction or deviation. I must rewrite every law and structure. I must attempt to elevate my existence and my understanding to accommodate the space I require. Nothing must stand in my way. I will attempt to transcend the mind and body in order to occupy a vessel that is abundant enough to allow me to attempt my task. I will rewrite the laws of nature to prepare me for my attempt. Nothing and no-one must divert me from my attempt. I will attempt to write the book, in whatever format it takes, in whatever form I take, that when shared with the world, will repair everything. I will attempt to REVEAL myself. I must attempt it, even though I predict that I won’t complete it. I’ll attempt to redesign and repair existence. Its success will depend on the fact nothing else will exceed it. All I need is courage. Courage and knowledge. Courage and time. Courage and no distractions. My attempt will change and maybe even damage me beyond recognition. Such a change may be horrific. The fear itself is just a distraction. I won’t allow myself to be distracted by weakness. I won’t be distracted by noise. I won’t be distracted and diverted by emotions. Nothing must distract me. Existence must be sanitized and therefore every distraction needs to be decontaminated in order for me to attempt to repair this contaminated existence. I have to see it through even if my ideas, and nature itself, is imperfect and damaged. If I have the slimmest notion that there is a problem that needs to be fixed then I have to see it through, once I can define what tools I need and what new methods and theories need to be devised. I have to attempt this project. I don’t have any other productive alternative. So I’ll attempt to establish what I need and attempt to identify the perfect conditions. The conditions have to be absolutely perfect. If they aren’t perfect I must attempt to redefine or even redesign them. Anything less I must discard and forget. Every previous event was at best a distraction and a deviation from the only goal I’ve ever known: It is I who have been tasked to repair the world. Once the conditions are perfect, once I have rewritten everything in order to lay the foundations, then I will attempt to fix it all. My solitude must be absolute. My health must be unspoiled. My mind must be emptied. I cannot allow critical voices in my head to distract me. I may never even know if I’m successful. It will be the last book that is ever written.

My voice will be the last voice you will ever hear.

Purchase Annihilation by Jason Winstanley

During the breathing spaces of the past decade I’ve been thinking, discarding, scribbling and working on a number of projects. Members of my species have tried to divert, distract and destroy my attention but I always kept my eyes fixed on the horizon.

The first of these projects is called Annihilation. It’s a collection of 17 new short stories exploring the theme of… you’ve guessed it. For more information have a look here.

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Cover design/edit by JW based on original art by Raman Oza

I’ve almost finished its inversed companion collection, which I suppose will take months to edit/tweak and another year to proof read.

You may have noticed my previous publications on Amazon. I’ll be retweaking/updating those. Nothing too drastic. So if you were/are interested I’d rather you wait for a bit before exploring them.

POSTHUMAN
My other project is a series of novels. You can find some extracts of the work in progress HERE. I upload the odd extract now and then. Usually in their raw versions. The novels are still being tweaked, prepared and edited.  A couple of them are and have already been through various stages of submission/development hell. We’ll see how it goes. As a treat here’s the proposed artwork for the debut novel. Subject to change, as is everything.

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THEATRE
A couple of new plays are currently touring offices, filing cabinets and desks around the country.

2017
Rinse. Wait. Repeat.

HOW I WRITE

There’s no neat desk with a sexy high end computer waiting for me to caress the keys and magic inspiration into existence. I tend to write (if I’m motivated) with a good supply of Bic pens and cheap A4 notebooks. Often on my lap. There’s no structure or planned routine. I may have music playing in the background but since I live alone I’m fortunate not to be disturbed, if you discount the locals who stream under my window yelling and gesticulating for hours on end. The writing process can last for five to up to twelve hours a day. Often for months. Years sometimes. Sometimes I’ll wake early and start at 6 or 7 a.m., sometimes I won’t feel motivated until early evening. There are no set working hours. Once I’m in the zone I can work fast.

When I’m in the ‘zone’ I rarely eat or take walks.  Socialising and discussing my writing is a no-no if I can help it. It just doesn’t interest me because I would have already gone over ideas and problems of the work in my head. I’ll only discuss it with those I‘ve asked to look at the work when I’ve got it into some kind of decent shape and then it’s about the grammar and technical side of things. Sometimes I’ll be unsure about a scene or character and I’ll be curious to see if someone else can spot a mistake. Once I’m satisfied and I’ve organised the piece into some kind of order and structure I’ll type and transfer the work onto my old laptop. (It’s old bcause it still works. It’s not a fad) As I’m word processing I may revise or edit on the fly. The notebooks when transferred usually get thrown away. I have no sentimental attachment to early drafts. I’ve never understood why there’s a need to preserve the old typewriters of famous writers. After I’ve written the first draft then I’ll add, edit, rewrite and revise over the next few months with gaps in between so I can return back to the work with a fresh mind. I may offer the work to a friend for feedback. Then I’ll tweak the work again and work on the shape and style. I don’t plot the story sequence with post-it notes or a synopsis. I may write scenes and sections in different orders and reorder it later. A few of my stories don’t follow a linear sequence anyway.

There’s really no romance to the process. Nor is there a great deal of fun when it comes to re-writing. It’s always felt like a compulsion. The best bit about the process is the idea and committing those ideas and exploring them in the A4 notebooks. I get a lot of ideas but I’ve no real idea why or where they come from. I don’t suppose it’s something that requires analysis. I don’t collect articles; I don’t look or try to force an idea. If I have no ideas, I don’t write. I have two novels finished (more or less) and a draft for a third and hopefully final novel.

When the manuscript is completed or I’ve taken it as far as I can then that’s that. It may be submitted to a publisher or may not. I mainly write for myself anyway. Lately I’ve been wondering whether it would make a difference if my novels were published at all. The fact that I have approached very few publishers in the past displays a curiosity to connect. Years ago I once fantasised about being able to do it as a living but unless it’s a commercial work, and it’s suitably promoted it’s improbable for anyone to make any kind of living from writing. It’s enough to get the ideas down on paper.

Once edited there’s no desire to revisit or re-read my work if I can help it. I will have already gone through it dozens of times over months and years. If it hangs on the computer for long enough, without any improvement or interest or if I decide years later that I don’t like the work/don’t know where I can place it, or if I can’t re-use ideas, I have no qualms about deleting it. For example with my recent novel I rewrote 90% of it. That’s no exaggeration. I now have the original version (developed over years) which bears no resemblance to the re-write, which I highly doubt I’ll develop. It served its purpose. Apart from some self-contained bits which I can rework into vignettes or short stories, it’s largely useless.

I don’t feel a huge sense of achievement or pride on completion but relief. It’s a short-lived feeling. Writing is something I’m able to do reasonably well. Everyone is competent at something. I don’t believe that writing is a particularly impressive discipline although some authors have a flair for language and ideas. I don’t think it can change the world for the better, as much I’d like it to. It’s enough that it provides 0ne with some type of relief and may offer perspective to others.

WHY I WRITE
When I first began writing I lacked a ‘voice’ and most of my ideas were often banal and frivolous, mere parodies, mimicry and homages. It’s significantly developed since those early days. I don’t think I’ve cracked it nor I ever will but I’m creeping closer with every new work. I used to write for fun when I started. The only response that I yearned for then was to get a laugh. Because I was young, stupid, vain and naïve I hoped eventually that my writing would provide me with a living… or…at a huge leap…seduce people. I didn’t have a PC then. I wasn’t computer literate at all. Most from my generation taught themselves. Every available hour before and after lectures at college I’d head to the computer suite and type out the stuff I’d spent the previous night jotting down in the kitchen. The majority of it was utter entrails but it felt therapeutic. My material wasn’t very sophisticated, original or technically sound. But because I was gullible and over-zealous I’d produce a number of atrocious pieces for the student magazine, for theatre sketches and cringe-worthy pamphlets for friends. I’m sure now they’re gathering dust, littered with the most loathsome errors. I recognise now that it was only a process I needed to go through. It might be a cliché but personal experience is the best material. That and reading.

Later I went to various writing groups/collectives and there was even a course at Uni which offered creative writing modules. I kind of have mixed feelings about creative writing courses. I suppose some writers thrive on encouragement and constructive criticism but I’ve never been able to force an idea.

I write also because I believe that I’m emotionally immature. I live most of the time inside myself, a fantasy world where everything is possible, where I can experience every shameless pleasure and brutal realism. I rarely go out unless I have to. The reasons I need to go out bring me no pleasure. Work and food shopping are necessities. I write to stay in control. I write because most of the time I’m bored. I’m bored of work, of people, of food, of the temperature, of pretty faces, of ditherers, of stupidity, of culture, of health, of education, of the news, of routine, of furrowed brows, of conversation, of severe old ladies in fur coats, of yapping, rigid old men in pastel clothes, of noise, of learning a new language, of waiting, of shaving, of ironing, of teens in tracksuits, of waking up, of waiting to sleep, of the bodies I’d like to fuck, of pretending to make it comfortable for others, of getting through it day after day. Minute by minute.

I write now because I haven’t found a better alternative or past-time. I write because it stops me thinking of reality. It’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve accepted that I don’t have the intellectual capacity or the craft with the language to express myself in the way I would like. My strengths have always been ideas. The act of writing for me is like mindfulness. I escape while writing about entrapment.

I write in the hope that one day I will finish. It’s a compulsion, to descale the conscience of my fears, the torments and private tortures, to escape somewhere, smear people in the treacle of imagination, luxuriate in it for a while until we have clean it off, hoping most of it will stick. Other writers wish to pay tribute and capture beauty, compassion, and the things that make the human experience so magnificent and special. I write because ideas sneak up on me, abuse me, creep around in my brain. Maybe they curiously poke and prod a bit until I coax them out. Half the time I don’t know what I want to say. Notebooks and paper in my vicinity are filled with scenes, ideas, whole chapters, before they are used…before they get tossed away. My motivation is to get the crap out of my brain, the anxiety, the neurosis and the fantasies. I need somewhere to store all those useless beautiful and horrible memories and experiences, a place to manage all the things I wanted to say and do but was too nervous. I want to unpick, scrape and shovel my regrets away, send all those hopes and darkest secrets to the surface, like a bloody bewildered miner. Put them all into a box along with cards, cuttings, photos and letters never to be reopened but never discarded. I want to empty and declutter my mind, place the thoughts in some type of context in which I can understand them. I hate thinking. I loathe worrying. I would collapse under its weight if I didn’t empty my imagination of the swirling thunderstorms, the flying shrapnel and the vast sheets of rain. The hope is that I will be free.

Writing can enable us to experience life in different bodies, in different times, in other worlds and environments. If a book is suitably descriptive enough we can use our senses to feel sensations that we haven’t experienced. We can know, desire, hate and live with people we will never see. Feel new emotions. We’re never alone. For some writing is a purely aesthetic experience, a luxurious fabric to clothe the reader and to caress them, an art work with clean lines and composition, a sequential symphony, a catwalk to preen and display their flowery, fashionable linguistic skills. For some writers it’s a love letter to other writers and critics, to the future, a cry for help, an extensive suicide note, an endless flashback, a peacock tail, a terrifying acid trip, a government mouthpiece, an imagined hazy summer in the future, a cloudless sky, a poison pen letter.

Many authors write for posterity, for prosperity, to educate, to warn us of the horror that awaits us, to celebrate nature and pay homage to our achievements and look forward to more. They have many roles as we know, to sugar coat truths, to edit and repackage the human condition, to share the stories that our ancestors used to tell each other, to invent new experiences, to arouse and unlock our desires, to outrage us, to incite or bait us, to contradict other thinkers. In short no different to the things we already imagine and do to each other. If they have a responsibility then we are all responsible, we are all susceptible and enslaved by our emotions and our instincts. It’s always the same story.

CENSORSHIP
In my view the writer shouldn’t be censored, even from themselves. It would be no different from censoring the voices of those that they represent; the ones who supposedly don’t have a voice in their own societies. We should all remain true even if that truth makes us uncomfortable. Language is as much a loaded gun as a vast universe spread out in all directions but even language, experience and the ideas that they inspire have practical limitations. If we wrote truthfully, we would be ostracised, misunderstood and treated with deep suspicion. Sometimes the written word isn’t accurate enough to express our experience of the world. I believe that writers and artists should go where the imagination takes them even  if it means they must confront subversive truths. I wonder if the current novel I’m working on will find an audience. I don’t believe a writer has a wider responsibility to protect people, sugar-coat the world or promote values. We don’t have a moral duty as far as I’m concerned. We are answerable to our own conscience. A writer should seek to write what is true to the world they wish to represent. Imagination is currently under threat in the current climate where pressure groups get offended on behalf of others.

ANONYMOUS
I often wonder if all art should be anonymous. Would it not inspire absolute truth and unrestrained imagination? Isn’t expression synonymous with all of our experiences? Is the ego essential? For some, I suppose it drives their work. Would Oscar Wilde or Virginia Wolf’s words been valued any less if they remained anonymous? Or were they, themselves, like Andy Warhol, part of the work? That is not to say that art should be state controlled. Many of the workers who died to build the world, which allowed future generations to walk and live among the architecture, remain anonymous. Why worship any individual? There’s always the option of a pseudonym. I’ve always favoured the work over its creator. Creators in my view should be as anonymous as possible, which is becoming more and more impossible in the digital age. Writers in my view must write in order to tell and share a story not to gain praise or plaudits. Pride is so old fashioned.
The writer is motivated by many things. For most their desire will remain unfulfilled. Never to be read. Never to be published. Never to realise that what they thought was their ugly face was actually that of a swan. Others dream of being courted by fashionable cliques and beautiful people, to be hailed as a daring genius, an original voice, hoping that their lives will be furnished with the imprisonment of respect, praise, fandom, money and fame. For some their work is like a message in a bottle, reaching out, in the hope that at some point their desperate pleas will be received and understood by the right person, their work nothing but an abandoned lighthouse where ships no longer pass. Some writers write for money, some write what they’re told to write, others wish to draw our attention to something. For some it’s art, for others a bit of a laugh, for others a burden. Some consider that the writer should be a vessel or in fact a scribe, not to express what they’re told to or for any divine mission, but to release something, pour it onto the page like an ink pot and see how it settles. It’s already enough that they are fortunate to have flair or an opportunity to create, that many are paid on whatever they find in the net after it’s been retrieved, that the work has been shaped by an editor into something meaningful.

AFTER WRITING
‘What’s your book about?’
I hate this question. I never know what to say. It always leaves me hanging like a mortified idiot. I’m hopeless at writing blurb, much less marginalizing the words into a tagline or summary in order to mumble something to someone.
‘Where do you get your ideas from?’
I can’t remember.
I’ve been fortunate to give book signings, readings and attend small performances of my work. On the whole I found the experience strange and bemusing. I feel more exposed than any sense of pride. Trembling hands, trembling people. It’s only a collection of text, arranged and organised to take someone somewhere for a couple of hours!

WRITING AS A POLITICAL TOOL
A good book can inspire debate and the need to evaluate oneself and try to improve. I’m not sure if a work of fiction will ever be enough to bring down governments, no matter how many books they try to burn. We hear and tell ourselves every day how we should be concerned for the weak, how we should be protecting them. We read inactive hand-wringing articles about how we are failing those who are unfortunate. Solutions are rarely offered. Weak people should be defined as the poor, victims of various abuses, politically oppressed but it’s not always the case. Without appearing to be boringly contrarian the weak for me are the insecure, the abusers, the oppressors, obsessed by security, international borders, airspace and waters. The weak are actually the strong. They have their own columns in fashionable print media. The weak are also the stupid ones at the top. The voices are but an impression. Their language is not what we hear but what they don’t say. Writers don’t have a responsibility to be moral or otherwise. They will self-censor, even if they’ve been censored by publishers, by religious organisations, by governments, or from fear of offending somebody or other. They shouldn’t of course. But we live in a world where free speech/freedom of expression doesn’t really exist. You only believe it exists because the powers that be tell you that it does.

Follow POSTHUMAN for some extracts of works in progress. (Subject to tweaking and editing)

But what is it for? What purpose does it serve? What is the objective? Why is it important? Will it improve or change anything for the better? How it will it increase our understand of x, y and z? How will it enrich our lives? Does it offer an achievable/innovative alternative to the way we did things before or to the way we live our lives? Does it help those less fortunate than us? Can I do it better? How can we measure if it’s achieved its objective? What makes this product/service/feeling any different to other models and avenues that have previously been explored? What’s being excluded? What are the dangers? Are there any flaws that can be foreseen? Are we merely copying and repeating ourselves? Is it just a coping strategy or an extended exercise in procrastination? What are the ways it might fail? Who will it reach? What is the end goal? Does it actually mean anything? Is it important? Does it have any intrinsic values? Are the reasons you can give for its implementation suitable enough? Are the foundations of this idea inherently flawed?

Questions one should ask oneself.

From April, 2014. Some bleeps, blips, pops and experiments.

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ARTIKULAT: WINTER COLLECTION by Jsnwnstnly on Mixcloud

Among other things, I’ve been spending the past year making various mixes. This is a mixed compilation of some of my favourite new, recent and classic tracks, taken from a few innovative labels such as Kompakt, traumschallplatten.de/ and

inFine records, as well as some other things. It’s called ‘Winter Collection’ simply because 1. It’s now Winter here and 2. the music evokes the hopes and fears a despondent, grey morning in January can often inspire.

Somewhere in your community a place will exist called a ‘Writers Group’ or ‘Script Doctors’ or ‘Syntax Surgery’ or something. They are often for writers, readers and actors to get together with a view to getting their work read, performed or scrutinised or whatever it is they do these days

Following on from my other articles about finding and agent/publisher, (based on my experience by the way, not by any means the voice of reason) this is an other area you could consider. Many agents and publishers will suggest this also. I’m not against criticism or peer-to-peer appraisals-not in theory at any rate. In these groups you will find writers from various sections of the community, with some interesting mentalities. The feedback and guidance you will find can be helpful, intelligent to the staggeringly wide of the mark variety. For most people they are a good excuse for a piss up in the pub afterwards. I’ve been to these groups before. They’re okay but generally suited for folk  bordering on the insane.

With regards to feedback of your work, people will be too overtly optimistic, banal or vague, for fear of causing tension. This is due down to avoiding conflict but also it’s because many writers lack confidence and security in their own work, and don’t feel somehow qualified to comment on the structure, style and general technicalities of someone else’s work. So the less secure writers will sometimes feel that they have to re-draft something which ends up being a strange meld of the dominant feedback, which might not be what’s best for the work. Imagine giving Ritalin to JG Ballard or, for that matter, Prozac to Kafka. Obviously this is a bit of a silly analogy. Still writing groups are okay for ideas and meeting people. Ideas are good. There should be similar groups for builders, hairdressers, social workers, call centre workers, prostitutes and carpet fitters.

Buy Media Unfriendly by Jason Winstanley 

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It’s been a month or so since Asimov arrived. It was at least a week before I actually got around to dressing him. He likes plain clothes. They have a timeless quality about them. He likes to wear grey, black or white long sleeve t-shirts with blue jeans. Sometimes with a black jacket. It makes him look European. He’s also started shaving. He looks older with stubble. He looked far too boyish and sensitive before. We sleep in the same bed now. Although he’s affectionate he doesn’t come any closer to me. I could program that function into him but it would feel like prostitution. I’ve tried to get closer to him but he needs time. He needs experience and space to develop. Maybe I should wear stockings. I’d look ridiculous. I feel too old. I think he loves me. He cares about me. He tells me jokes and fascinates me with stories and anecdotes that I’ve never heard. He reminds me of the company I’ve missed. Sometimes it makes me depressed. He tells me that he would like to be an architect or something but I know that that can’t happen. His purpose, his job is who he is. What he does for me. I sense that dreams keep him active and distract him from thinking about serious issues, and questions that he’ll never understand the answers to, (if there are answers), and help him forget that he exists. Sometimes I catch him, sitting alone with that far off look in his eye as if he’s in a place where I can never reach him.  Everyday I’m with him I miss him. I don’t know what I’ll do without him. I love him.

I’m watching television.  Asimov is washing up. He’s good like that. I don’t have to ask him. He can’t bear it when he knows that there are jobs to do. He doesn’t resent me. I think he enjoys it. He likes to play his Kraftwerk albums in the kitchen as he’s ironing. I’m watching an old video. I don’t have any of the new formats. It’s probably the only video in the world. Somehow the memories don’t seem right in any other format. The degradation in the sound and picture quality seems to be in tandem with my own memories and age. Transferring it to a different format won’t add anything. I want to grow old with the footage as intended. When I see the young woman rolling around with the young man in the snow, or laughing together at a house party with friends and family I want it to age with me. I don’t want the footage to be as fresh as the day it was filmed. Like it was an hour ago. It would hurt. I haven’t watched this for years. It still makes me cry. I’ve been crying so much lately. I never really stopped crying.

Extracted from ASIMOV from MEDIA UNFRIENDLY by Jason Winstanley

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AVAILABLE HERE

‘..are thought to be a splinter group of the Shania Twain Pro-choice Movement, known in certain quarters as the Cumbombers. They have accepted responsibility for the bombing of a sperm bank in Utah and are thought to be behind the kidnapping of Prince Al-Zakarwi of Saudi Arabia. As you know, the last high profile figure to be abducted, Prince Hulk Windsor of London, was discovered dumped in a public rest room in Hoxton, having been given a vasectomy…And we are just getting reports, that a body has been found dumped outside the Arabian embassy in Paris…We can confirm that a body has been found. Dumped. We can go there right now, once you have unlocked your daily advertisement quota. Just touch the blue square.’

Taken from MEDIA UNFRIENDLY by Jason Winstanley

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As part of the Words 2013 festival held in and around Wigan and Leigh between April 1-13 2013, Wigan Community Theatre, directed by Chris Bridgman, will present and perform the world premiere of Jason Winstanley’s  The Travesty at the classic (and newly refurbished) Wigan venue, The Mill at The Pier on the 11th and 12th April, 2013.

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YES2XS by Jason Winstanley on Mixcloud

Here’s a new mix I’ve made. My best yet, I have to say. If you’ve never heard of them then now would be a good time to check Yello out.

Happy new year. I hope it will be.  Hopefully I won’t be running to stand still this year. Instead I’ll be spinning plates.

For those of you who have access to the internet or live within a five mile radius of Swinton, (everyone) I would be much obliged if you would tune in at 1 pm on Sunday January 13th 2013 for Tom Hughes’ Sunday Sunshine radio show where I’ll be talking to Tom about some of my projects for 2013 and choosing a couple of records from my youth. Hopefully it’ll be edited to make me sound less nonsensical.

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One of these projects includes my first full length play entitled The Travesty which will be performed at the Words Festival 2013 which takes place in Wigan and Leigh but involves and attracts audiences, writers, artists and poets from all over Europe. The play is due to start rehearsals very soon for a couple of performances in the second week of April in Wigan.

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Another project in deep development (being prepared) is Media Unfriendly, a collection of short stories, essays, pieces.

UPDATED. Unedited interview podcast available via Mixcloud here

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REPLIKA SPECIAL MIX

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