… and I’m spent!


Yes, mixing my filmic metaphors, but you get the idea I’m sure!

Wow, what an odd feeling.

So what happens now?  Will my creation go on a rampage, terrorizing the villagers until they rise against me with torch and pitchfork, or will it just hunker down on the sofa with a bag of Doritos and enjoy the postmodern repartee between Michael and Franklin on GTA V? For me, I ‘m hoping for a little rampage.  I can handle a few pitchforks.

So, what next?

My wife has challenged me to write a love story, so I’d better get cracking on that.  I’m three chapters into a more traditional detective novel which I started for NaNoWriMo in November.  I have a nasty gothic fairytale fully outlined which is as creepy as shit.  I’ll nibble away at all of themy, sort of like a tasty cheese platter.  My reading is the same, I’m about to begin a history (‘Alan Turing: the Enigma‘ by Andrew Hodges), really hoping something actually happens in ‘A Man in Love‘ by Karl Ove Knausgaard, and re-reading ‘The Collector‘ by John Fowles.

But mostly I will be writing, not just horror, and not just fiction either!  Just to prove that I’m no one-trick pony, here’s a “poem” I composed a few years ago when my wife returned to fulltime work.  Having not one clue about the rules of poetry (if such a thing even exists) it was a bit of fun, and I’m keen to do more:






The wife has just gone back to work,

and though she’s never one to shirk domestic duties,

they’re now all mine.

But I reckon they’ll take a lot less time now that I’m doing them.


My days are filled with tv shows, ironing wrinkles out of routines that need re-defining,

ill-conceived, ill of logic, lacking efficiency:

a red rag to the bull of my impatience, I can see where the problems lie.


Example: the cats will tell us when they’re hungry,

otherwise, feeding them daily wastes energy,

like I’m a cog in some cat-food-dispensing machinery

See, I’ve saved so much time already!


With training, surely the kid can fix his own lunches?

Learn to peel oranges, butter sandwiches, tie his shoelaces?

So what if he roars “But I’m only fwee!” and pulls faces?

One day he will thank me, you both will, you’ll see.


Tracksuits! The answer to all of life’s problems;

Comfortable, practical, drip-dry in seconds.

polar-fleece pants and flannelette overshirts in checks or dark colours that don’t show the dirt.

I’m getting a pair for you, me and the kid; they’re cheapest on eBay so I’ll put in a bid.


I reckon I’m getting this down to an art form,

there’s a book in this house-husbandry gig, and before long

the publisher’s cheques will be flowing in nicely.

Oprah will phone, but I’ll let her down gently.


Because all this was never about the glory,

Domestic Revolution was never the story.



Erik Kaisson, 2012

The only rider to this applies to my wife and she knows what it is!  (picture me sweating a little).

Thanks to the handful of readers who purchased the first two-thirds of my first novel.  It’s gratifying in a weird way to have killed the reluctance to allow anybody to see what I’ve written.  It was like  professional embarrassment at bringing a cake, half-baked, to a birthday party.  On the other hand, you might be prepared to eat it anyway (and risk the running squirts) if the cake is very dark, very rich, and very tasty.

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