eN

new book almost finished

eN - a filthy tech dystopian nightmare, coming soon

take risk and take care

c.seancgee

R.I.P. Matt Giovinazzo

RIP Matt

At a loss for fuckin words. We were all lucky enough to chase a dream with him. Everyone of us burned our wings together.

Matty was the sweetest and most grounded person you'll ever meet. Cared about every bloody person around him. Threw himself in front of a bus for absolutely everyone.

He was quiet if you didn't know him. When you were lucky enough to be a friend you were whipped with such striking honesty and cut throat wisdom. He was as sharp as any axe and as tough as they get. And there was nothing but kindness in his heart. A pure fucking spirit.

A savage drummer.

We never spoke since the band imploded and that hurts. Love ya Matt. Rock in peace, brother.

Thanks for being the gentle beast you were.

Hypecenter Drury Hotel, Chicago, 2003

Matt, Dev, Brad, Marty (Hollowpoint Mgt) Adam, Slade, Nicole, Dave, Cian

 

"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.

ON WRITING:

 

21-1-21

 

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.

“Stop 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 If 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

http://cseanmcgee.blogspot.com

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Dark Side of the Moon - REDUX (2024)

- 2024 REDUX -

*re-approached, re-edited, and re-written - 11 years later

*lots of brand new, dark dystopian filth inside

Dark Side of the Moon (Rock Book Vol II)

“Self-help and those stupid proverbs, they do nothing. Soul food? It’s like trying to cure starvation with a sugar cube. It might taste sweet on the lips but once it dissolves, the emptiness is still there.”

Set to the music and lyrics of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, this is the story of Theodore the disenfranchised rabbit; working tirelessly on the moon to dig a hole from one side to the other to let the sun through; playing in a mundane rock band and having sex rampantly but without much zest.

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take risk and take care,

c.seanmcgee

"i write weird books'

Dark existential fiction that is just as rich in philosophy as it is strange and uncomfortable.

From the reclusive mind of Irish writer, c. sean mcgee, weird and wonderful stories that delve into the perverse and ever lurking shadow of humanity.

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Ireland

 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.

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

 

A MIRA

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

MALLORY

'Mallory' Photoshoot

Photographer: Maiara DiFranco

Art Director: C. Sean McGee

Araraquara, Sao Paulo, 2023

 

MALLORY

[ 

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

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Live as you love.

Take Risk and Take Care

C. Sean McGee

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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

https://linktr.ee/c.seanmcgee

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