You Spank It and It Cries

Wounded by a succession of personal tragedies and cowering before looming global disaster, I've unconsciously decided to blow up my life and begin it anew. This is the first transmission from a newly conjured person, and I hope that this place will be the crack through which my scribblings can leak out from my private files into the wider world.

Part of my motivation is that writing, genuine writing, is a robot-proof occupation, as I don't beleive that people, genuine people, will ever want to voluntarily read stories manufactured by robots. But the other, far more burly part of my motivation is pure compulsion, an itchy need to solidify my thoughts into words, and to experience the pleasure of watching them mutate as they wriggle out onto the page.

It seems that I tend make stories about bands of well-meaning criminals obsessed with dignity, fertility, and catastrophe - sharp shards of hope shivved into the future's flabby flanks. The low-brow high-brow and the high-brow low-brow, with nothing in between.

The genesis of my fiction thus far has come primarily from hypnopompic dreams and other states of delirium, but I approach the technical work methodically and industrially, and I hope that I will be able to share a great deal of it with you in the years to come.

W.W.