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Sunday, March 14, 2010

Nosebleed Cinema

The primary focus of Nosebleed Cinema would thus far appear to be dedicated to various musical endeavours, and whilst such comment is both infallibly correct and indefensible, the initial motivation behind my purchase of the domain name was to provide an eventual storefront for my novel - upon its completion. 

An accurate indication of the delays involved (the most telling of which must surely be the lack of dedicated time afforded solely to the manuscript) is that this domain was actually bought more than three years ago and simply parked, a lazily thrust stake in the ground to mark intention at the very least. And, seeing as the novel is still incomplete, ‘the very least’ is a claim it's most assuredly upheld.

The first paragraph of the novel proper was recorded circa. March 12, 1999; the basic idea formulated a couple of months beforehand courtesy of Kerouac’s inspirational Book of Dreams; a statement not meant to imply that this particular book of his is an inspirational work in the grander sense of that word’s context, merely that to me it subjectively whispered possibilties; a deeply set undercurrent as opposed to a surging wave’s collapse at one’s feet perhaps.

Prior to deciding to write a novel, poetry was all I’d seriously attempted (if anybody at all’s still truly serious about poetry these days) and the occasional section of prose and cut-up works. 

Several copies of these terrible little booklets were actually self-produced under the name of Proud Teeth and sold through Cashel Mall’s Wyrd Gallery back in the mid-90’s for the princely sum (total) of fourteen dollars, which might only’ve equated to a mere seven copies, but such an audience was seven more people than those who I’d previously managed to coerce through the natural duress of friendship to read my shitbox ramblings and nod according glances at it. 


The cover art was constructed in the old-school fashion of the newspaper where I was employed at the time: with paper, scapels, a hot-wax roller, and a photocopier. The pictures were harvested from a series of royalty-free clipart books that were scattered around the paste-up room for use in advertisements.

[ ... Awkward segue alert ... ]

So, after having completed Irvine Welsh’s Filth within about a week of having my first hip replaced (once my cognitive stamina was allowed to return after some hefty morphine use), I was left with a further seven weeks of prescribed recuperation and little to keep myself amused, which seemed to offer the perfect opportunity to make a start on some serious writing.

But that was then.

Significant progress has of course been made throughout the ensuing years and Nosebleed Cinema will soon be an entity unto itself; devoid of any ability to cause me cold sweats and aching hair follicles. 

Emily’s currently in the process of editing each completed chapter as I move onto the next (this is the novel’s fourth draft) and the result, once any and all quirks have been thoroughly discussed and altered accordingly, will be the final product: another chapter struck off the list.

Progress to date (as calculated only a few minutes ago) currently sits at 48.23%, which is far more respectable than initially feared; especially when considering that the run from here to completion should be relatively swift (‘swift’ seeming an ungainly word to employ after eleven years of often painstaking progress). This feat certainly won’t be done to the detriment of various other projects mind you, but as far as seeing the book finished by year’s end goes, it’s not an impossibilty. In fact, it’s not this at all (and never has been) but rather implausibility which may eventually prove the most dominant factor in it’s perpetual delay.

Research has already been undertaken with regards as to whether this will be a self-published affair (with my narcissistic self) or whether publishers will be accosted and favours offered. Printing it myself through a local firm is remarkably cost-effective, although (upon last asking) there were physical limitations relating to the size of the book they could actually produce; in fact, one company replied to my quote request by asking me to confirm the number of words, suggesting that perhaps I'd meant to put 40,000 in my submission form, and not 400,000 ...

This largely masturbatory total is continually being whittled down however, with large chunks being brutally edited; anything that’s not working is discarded. Several months ago, at the last count (an admittedly terrible practice!) it was down to approximately 377,000.

I think it was originally allowed to accrue such hefty wordage on account of me subconsciously adhering to Noel Gallagher’s philosophy with regards guitar solos. Now, this is quite possibly not the most accurate account of the conversation which I saw discussed in a documentary, but when he was approached by the producer of a song who enquired as to which of the song’s seventeen solos would be the one they’d be keeping, his reply was something along the lines of, “What the fuck do you mean? All seventeen!” 

The sheer presence David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest exudes by simply sitting on our bookshelf is very possibly another contender ...

Anyway, I’m planning to post a brief chapter on here in the next couple of weeks or so.

There'll be no free Dr Pepper.