Saturday, September 23, 2023

A MIra - Disponivel agora (iTunes, Kobo, Scribd, Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble)



Uma coleção de 13 Contos de Fadas para Adultos - alguns deles doces e comoventes, e alguns deles simplesmente cruéis e perturbadores.

Há o conto de amor encantadora entre Mabel e Abel, um casal idoso que procura os serviços de um assassino de aluguel como teste de seu amor; o conto de cortar o coração de Felicity, uma jovem na véspera de um aborto, desejando que fosse ontem; e uma recontagem de Chapeuzinho Vermelho, repleta de terror e reviravoltas de sangue.

Uma jornada surreal, como se o filho adotivo de Albert Camus, Stephen King e o Dalai Lama tivesse buscado, com o coração partido, perturbar tanto quanto encantar e iluminar.

Por: C. Sean McGee

Tradutora: Maria Eduarda Dias

Editora: Rotting Flower






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Take Risk and Take Care,

C. Sean McGee

Friday, September 01, 2023


'Mallory' Photoshoot
Photographer: Maiara DiFranco
Art Director: C. Sean McGee
Araraquara, Sao Paulo, 2023



And grow the flower did. From Mallory’s gaping mouth, it grew. From his rotting corpse, it grew. Up through the thick lake of muck and manure, it grew. And into the bright blue sky, it grew. Magnificently, it grew. Its many coloured petals stretched out in the open sky, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.

(from the novel Self-Titled by C. Sean McGee)

                                    SELF-TITLED by C. Sean McGee

Buy eBooks from author if you like & support independant art before it cuts its own ear off -

Live as you love.

Take Risk and Take Care

Sunday, July 02, 2023

WeIRD Fiction - C. Sean McGee

10 years of art. 11 novels. 11 novellettes. 3 short stories.
An insurmountable volume of fear, shame, and regret. A part of you dies when you release a novel. You can never get that back. All i see here is what i have given up - what could have been. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Take risk and Take care,

C. Sean McGee


Tuesday, June 27, 2023

The Hubris

excerpt from the novel - Ineffable. (circa 215)
the alien's poem
"I once spent a weekend on Earth,
With two men (of Science and God)
One man convinced me I did not exist,
And the other that I was a fraud.
In both men I saw the same reason,
In both men I saw the same light.
So, I left for another dimension,
Assuming that both men were right."
                                                                                            -   The Alien


Saturday, December 24, 2022

Judas Christ - new short story

 Judas Christ by C. Sean McGee

'A Provocative and Visceral Truth'

On the eve of Jesus' crucifixion, God meets with Judas to explain the part it has written for him; about what he must do to the very man that he loves and the cost it entails. And why only he can play that role.

*** new short story

Free ebook download

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Take Risk and Take Care,

C. Sean McGee

Saturday, December 10, 2022


 A word on why we Irish make the best story tellers.

An Irishman will tell you a tale of danger and woe, and he’ll be smiling the whole time. And as such, he’ll leave you with no fear of danger or woe, for they make for terrific stories.

Tuesday, November 15, 2022

"I'm never gonna dance again. Guilty fee.....". - An Honest Diary Entry About The Fear of Writing

** The folliowing diary entry was written on January 21, 2021. One month later i would have a high dose of mushrooms which, after screaming naked on my kitchen floor that my children do exist goddamnt, their lovve is real, i woke up the next day equaninimous and quit alcohol. I also started the SELF-TITLED novel the following day, which was a delightful writing process, and has some stories which maybe are the only ones to date that i am not ashamed of (some, not all). When i wrote this entry, i had no idea what was around the corner. I had written HARROLD the month before, and nothing for all of 2020. So i was desperate and worried. This, then, is just something from my personal records. This is a dash of honesty.





At the moment I feel as if writing is something I can’t or won’t be able to do again. I know I’ve felt this a thousand times over, but it seems that each time I feel it, it seems more pertinent – more real; as if the inevitable is solidifying into an absolute truth, like a chunk of old play dough left in the sun, unmoldable, unchangeable, and quietly crumbling away. 

I’m scared to start writing – all of the time. I guess, in part, to find out if any of this were true. Absurd really as four weeks ago, in one brief sitting, I wrote the best story I have ever written – one that was not just clear, concise, and impactful, but the process was measured, controlled, technical, and really enjoyable. I never felt as good finishing a story as I did at the end of ‘Harrold’.

Yet four weeks later, the idea of opening a blank page scares me to death. It’s no different to calling back Cinthia, or any of the girls I had a great time with, and allowing something good to seed, sprout, and flower. To just let it do so, naturally.

Part of me knows that to really write – to write something that swallows the reader up – I have to commit and that means giving up control – for however long the process may be. And everything right now is somewhat controlled. Work is plentiful. Money is plentiful. Emotional stability is plentiful. And the rational part of my brain – the father especially – says, being in this state is safe. We have to keep a roof over our heads. We have to keep food in the fridge. We have to have savings. We have to have financial stretching room. We can’t fuck up.

So have I grown to look at writing as I have drugs? Something that will undeniably whip me into a frenzy of reckless abandon? Have I made that direct association? It’s not true, if this is the case. 

A month ago, you sat down unemotionally and did your best writing. The only story you were actually proud of – the only one that, when passing it on for someone to read, you weren’t swept up by feelings of shame. It was the only story (bar one paragraph admittedly) that was written right, especially the ending. 

So why the aversion to writing?

I would love to go back and re-write everything I had written from A Rising Fall onwards. I look back at how I wrote and I get shivers of disgust. And I could re-write them, and feel better today, but what good would that be? In ten years I’ll look back and want to re-write them again, because I will have changed, my writing will have changed, my tone will have changed, and I will tell myself that I can see those ideas with better clarity. But that will happen every ten years. It’s not the clarity, voice, vocabulary, or tone that makes any difference, there will always be an underlying feeling (and it is physiological too), that I could say better what I said in the past. How is that any different to my brain tormenting me with dumb shit I said when I was 12 or 17 or 27, and trying to give the better come back in my head whilst scrubbing my hair in the shower? The underlying issue is not the story, the writing, or how it was told – at that time ! – the underlying issue is a complete absence of self esteem (which ironically is probably why I write in the first place).

So maybe this is not a note to Cian now, this is a note to you – Cian – five years from now.

“Stopping sifting through your fucking past and I promise you, I’ll stop sifting through mine.”

Those first novels were written by a young man with no formal training, teaching, or experience, trying to figure out an artform alone. And for his own enjoyment and need. It was never about being a writer or writing for people. It was always this damn itch in my head that needed my head to be torn open, just to get at to scratch. Pandora’s box. But those books are an evaluation of Cian – then. For that reason alone I shouldn’t be delving in the past. I was a different person back then, and I was learning a craft without any guidance – I don’t even bloody read, so there is no author’s voice that I can emulate, echo, or follow. I’m learning to talk in a cave by myself. What creates the frustration and shame then, is knowing that there is a young, immature, impulsive and pretty unstructured version of myself still wandering around out there – still making first impressions. This is the part that is vexing. Every book creates this parallel universe, where I someone reads just one thing I have written, they’ll have a perspective of Cian (and his story telling) that is totally askew from past or proceeding works. Having no desire to sit down and repeat on type of story for my career (not wanting to paint a fruit bowl for 50 years), this will always be my predicament. Every story I write is a reflection of myself now, at this point. And telling the story I want to tell right now. And so the writing will be indicative of how I am communicating – with myself and the world around me – at that given moment. And yeah, the first 9 novels especially, were rushed. They were manic. They were unstructured. They were laden with errors. Because so was I. Were it a painting, they could be my happy mistakes. Clumps of paint that, once again, were indicative of Cian – AT THAT TIME.

So there is no point whatsoever, not only in going back to re-write my first ‘learning’ pieces, but going back at all, and judging unconvincingly. 

The fact is, Harrold was an evolution. It was a maturity. C. Sean McGee grew up. AM I scared then that, like sparring, it was just a one off; a singular lucky moment where all the stars aligned in my head, life, immune system, and I was capable – in that exact moment – of being patient, calm, relaxed, and flow like water taking every right step from beginning to end? And just like how – every now and then – I sparred with grace, technique, and joy, it was never an assurity that I would always spar that way, and that because of my mind, more often my body was rigid, my thoughts were heavy, my legs were heavy, and I sparred forcefully, brutish, fearful, and ugly; just as I have written time and time again.

Am I thinking I have to be impassioned? That I have to be swept up by the tidal wave of inspiration to be able to write – and more so, to map out a story that will be meaningful for the person who reads it? Because this isn’t true. We weren’t swept away when we wrote Harrold. We felt no different than we do now. IN fact, this, more than anything, meant that what we wrote was solely down to our skill. Just as we had sparred with poise and technique (enjoying the process), so too with Harrold, did we go into the writing without that all encompassing wave of inspiration, and instead, we told a story – with poise and technique.

We don’t have to be inspired. 

We need only sit down to write.

**** new novel has been undereay since Feb/Mar 2022. A filthy dystopian tech nightmare. Writing is coming along, but much slower than usual. A lot slower than usual. It will be worth it. 

Take Risk and Take Care,

C. Sean McGee


Friday, January 28, 2022

Realeased - {self-titled} - existential zen fables for grown-ups

 [self-titled} by C. Sean McGee

A collection of 29 Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups - some of them sweet and endearing, and some of them just down right mean and unsettling.

There is the gorgeous and heart-warming tale of Charlie, the little raindrop who is scared to jump off the cloud and be who he is meant to be; the endearing love story between Mabel and Abel, an elderly couple seeking the services of a hitman as a test of their love; the heart-wrenching tale of Felicity, a young girl on the eve of an abortion, wishing it were yesterday; and a re-telling of Red Riding Hood, one full of terror and bloodsplattering twists.

A surreal journey, as if the lovechild of Albert Camus, Stephen King, and the Dalai Lama had sought, with a broken heart, to unease and frighten as much as delight and enlighten.

P.S. You die at the end.

cover art: Stein Roger Sordal (Sordal, Green Carnation)
everything else: C. Sean McGee

Buy eBooks from author if you like & support independant art before it cuts its own ear off -

Live as you love.

Take Risk and Take Care

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