Tag Archives: william control

i can be your monster/i can be the teeth sunk in your skin.

Okay! So first order of business is Mr. Control has a new song/video! *dance* (Note: WC’s music is way catchier than most things I listen to. This is straight up sing-along-in-the-car dance music, and I LURV it. Which shouldn’t actually surprise you, cuz it’s mah William)

Next order of business, is that in an unexpected move, I’m heading to LA in mid-October for the Das Bunker 20th Anniversary party, because someone I love is ultra squee over the Covenant live show, but the overall lineup is bananas: VNV Nation, A23, Covenant, High Functioning Flesh, my beloved Author & Punisher, my friend iVardensphere (not sure he knows he’s my friend, but whatevs. Yay Scott!), end.user, the Legendary Pink Dots and about 5billion other bands you have also never heard of, including my Aesthetic Perfection, who are performing songs off of an early album as a joke, and it makes me laugh (you know that thing where your music project evolves but everyone is still stuck in 2006. Yeah, it’s like that. FUNNY).

I am a bit amused to see VNV Nation twice in a month, as they’re bringing their Compendium show here (3 hours of snappy Ronan action!), I don’t even listen to much VNV anymore, but am still excited about this as the first show I’d ever seen in what is now “My Thing”, was VNV/Icon of Coil back in 1806.

In additional, writingly-news:

A.Y. Chao  (who is probably the single-best resource for writing workshop information) recommended the Discovery Story Magic series for character development, and I’m almost finished – started with graphing/gridding Gingerbread to identify sticky-open plot places within the character’s journey. When the rewrite of GB is done (which, at the rate I’m going is probably going to take forever, bc reasons!) I’ll go through it for both The Mourning Wolves and Ellis, Underground. In a way I’ve got the bones of it all, as I tend to understand my characters on an emotional, if not practical, level — I don’t know their favourite cereal, but I for sure know how they feel if they find themselves standing on the stoop in the middle of the night with a snowstorm blowing around them.

So far, I’ve gone through DSM, and then I did a chapter breakdown which showed me some seriously glaring holes in my structure, so yay! also: boo. But, I am nothing if not resilient. If anyone asks, the answer is Yes, writing is precisely like running into a wall 300X a day. I’ve cut my first two chapters up, changed up my inciting incident, moved what was the II to chapter 2 (or I will, as soon as I stop procrastinating through this here blog post. :D), to make it maybe the first plot point – although, maybe it’s still too early for the first plot point, but I needed to up the haps and suggestion from People Smarter Than Me was more character development in the first 2-3 chaps (I tend to be a slow writer, as in I am not a whiz-bang plot a minute go-go-go writer, so feedback is often “pretty, but nothing happened”. I have learned not to take that feedback personally, but still. Man, this business is hard).


Curse this wretched anger and hurt
Surrender all the lonely and hurt
Or is this just a ruse, shall I keep this hate to use?
It’s so hard, to say no to you

“Passengers”, WC.


what else? OH! I  finished “I’ll Give You the Sun”, which was kind of amazeballs. I thought the characters were maybe a bit too awesome for their own good – the characters were well-developed and they sure had faults, they were just very fancy? like, in the way they’d built their outlook on the world, and the way they approached it was very Inside of a Novel, however! I cried. Pretty much. Not a full, on ugly Oprah Cry like I did for The Road, cuz that was a moment that is likely to never be repeated, however! IGYTS is lovely, and wonderful because even though the characters are pretty shiny and the framework is snappy, underneath the shiny they read like really complicated, honest, sad people and OMG I LOVED IT SO MUCH.

anyway, here’s a snippet of the new first-draft-messy that I’m adding to GB:


But then Emeric smiled, and tapped his fingers to his face and Quince grabbed a tea towel and wiped some of the green goo away and for a second it was like all that time hadn’t passed at all.

But then Quince blinked, and maybe stuff got clear because a sadness slipped over his face and my own heart sunk.

Emeric just looked a little bit sheepish, and whole lot beautiful.

Quince said he was art, like straight out of the Louvre art, where everything was carved from marble and stone and people stood around and gawked and pointed, but mostly they just blushed because hot was hot no matter the medium. I had to take his word for it.

You can easily see the troubles already – two sentences starting with ‘but’, for a start. Really, sentences should never start with But, however! sometimes a girl’s gotta make a stylistic choice. That someone will, later, mark out in red pen.

What else?

in an effort to be the hippest writer in hiplandia (actually, I can’t even say that’s true b/c I had no idea magically hipster pencils existed until I went to the stationery store), when I was looking for a plain, blank journal (no lines, people! lines restrict! I dunno, I’m on a blank-page kick), and found a midori journal, and of course leave it to our minimalist friends to make a super simple but beautiful journal –I mean, it’s the plainest notebook in plainlandia, but soooo pretty) — I also found Blackwing pencils (and bought one, but I think it is too soft and next time will try the pearl AND I CAN’T BELIEVE I JUST TYPED THAT SENTENCE, BRB, I’m going to go drink my cold brew coffee in front of my edison bulb lamp while I google places to eat in Portland), because for some reason I’m into pencils, instead of pens. I suspect it’s because they come with erasers and I’m tired of crossing out the bad ideas i have. Erasers make them go away.


even though the lines are gone, you can still feel their ghosts.






I self destruct/panicked dreams/a lonely bed

in an effort to clean up ye olde hard drive, I found this:

You, your arms black, hot as asphalt beneath a three-pronged sun, beat down. Invisible, music in your ears and your head, loud as any drum and the beat, thump and thump and this is the body and you are invisible in all of your black, liquid, see-through vodka and gin and perfume. Your mother in spring, summer, smelling like Anais Anais, and Henry Miller, he loved us all once. He wrote everything down so we would not forget.

The inside of your mouth is made of metal and the sun, three-prong glint and smile, it has edges too and you wanted that, an outside sharp as any well-cared blade. You have three names and God. You never say it out loud anymore, but he’s gone, too.  His is a name spelled backward, the stars in your heaven are five-pointed and upside down and they mean nothing, they are your button and your badge and when I look, when we see you there is a story, last page blank and I have a pen and maybe, maybe there is a way to write the words in foreign languages. Maybe there is love and maybe there is forgetting. Could we forget love? Could there be something else. The last paragraph ties it all together and this is storytelling, this is how we bring it back to the start. This is how everything begins.

It was a dark and stormy night; it was about music and slavery. I have two arms. They are not enough, but yours, black as pitch as tar as the inside and grey would be the colour, they are one of the reasons you fear the sun even as she settles in behind a cloud and the wind, the skin your outside a protector burns, goes down to red beneath the black and it is not enough, this coat, this armour, for it melts, just like ice, like snow, and we are cold. We say we prefer the cold, but we are liars.

There is warmth and my hand on the black, it is there I can feel it, above muscle and tendon and flex, release, the liquid you disappear inside the glass and we can no longer feel the ease of our joints – pins and needles rust due to lack of wear and movement. I stretch out my fingers and you, your hands are smaller than mine and yet you could wrap yourself around me, your two arms, and maybe I would disappear then, like stars in the black, gone down to sleep, enveloped by the asphalt, melted down into the road, the way. This is the only way to get; this is the only way we get from here

To there.

and the road, sticky tar black on the bottom of our shoes. Hold us there and stuck we wave to each other as if we are each leaving and yet we stay, and the black, I watch your arms, the black fades down to grey beneath the sun, three-pronged sun changes, adds one more and


I have no idea what I was going to do with it, but it is a poem, a story for Lucifer. Apparently. Like most of what I seem to write, it’s an exercise in words more than story. But, I found I didn’t mind reading it.


I spent a few hours yesterday analyzing Character, trying to get into Haven’s head. I know her, but it’s more of a construct, than a person. It was good learning, that was the main problem I had with my Alice story (Ellis, Underground) I had this world, and everything was set within it, but Ellis had no form. She was ghost, smoke. Impossible to hang onto.

This book, Gingerbread (Working Title, sadly!) is teaching me a many thing of this art of writing.

So far, it is at 12, 824 words.

signatureGoodnight +

London Town

Hate, I would forever lie
I would fake all the times
That you broke me down misery
Hate, covered in broken glass
My skeleton bones will last
Far beyond flowers and dust
So where would I be?

Love, the feeling I’ve lost control
Failing so beautiful
When you left me there, misery
Hate blacken my artery
Harden my every fiber of grief stricken love
So where would I be?

Sadness in London Town
I walk the streets of Leicester Square
Sadness in my own heart sound
I walk till dawn then disappear.

-William Control

this is why my heart breaks…

Dec 9. Which means this is day 30 of 30 Days of William Control. Yesterday, while sitting in the bleachers watching derby (Kill Jills VS Gas City, my Jills did not fare so well. Injuries and toss-abouts galore), I started thinking about getting a “this is where pessimism comes to die” tattoo. Which is how you -know- there’s been nothing going into my ears this month but our Darling Wil*.

This is where we feel love, find life, kill time.

This is where our pessimism comes to die.

Here you can trade your flesh for currency.

Which is fairly darklovey and romantic, until the flesh as currency part, but I suppose that’s subjective, too.

There is also this:

He reminds me of ELLIS UNDERGROUND, and of other, royal things and Umbrellas, and makes me want to start needlefelting again. Perhaps not just him, but there’s been a niggle, lately, of wanting to start sculpting, and there’s a list as long as my foot (I have a very long foot) of things that I want to make/build. I think this? Is a Very. Good. Sign.

*unless I’m writing, because we know I only write to Johnny Hollow.

I will always love you the most.

for some reason, yesterday, when I was roaming the house singing along to my William at unreasonble volumes, the poem “dance like no one is watching, love like you’ve never been hurt” popped into my head. Poem. Mark Twain quote, whatever. You know the one, it’s been taped onto everything from t-shirts to coffee cups.

It occured to me that “love like you’ve never been hurt” is actually really dangerous advice. I may not be any sort of expert in relationships (you’d think I was, given the amount of relationship advise I end up giving. This is the side-product of being a People Observer, and also having Some Sense, I suppose), but “loving like you’ve never been hurt”, just seems rather naive. Also, idiotic. Also leading to inevitable heartbreak. I could blame all of the dark-underground, seedy underbelly love is a dangerous lady influences in my life, which, right now, are mostly a by-product of all of the William, but! My wee dark goffy heart in all of its velvet and dark alleys just thinks there’s something to be said about learning from mistakes, and growing and knowing when the path is full of sharp things. I’m not saying you shouldn’t walk on it anyway. Just don’t be surprised when the bleeding starts.


{listening: william control (Seduction. Dismemberment. Salvation. Destruction/Strangers/Omnia Vincint Amor)}

I’m entirely obsessed with William Control. Entirely Too (not really), although, yes. Just yes. And there’s a line in “The Velvet Warms and Binds”: “I want a violate act of sin” Violate. Instead of Violent. Two separate meanings, yes, but why one over the other when the separation just isn’t that wide and/or vast and yet because it’s a word being chosen over the other, it becomes terribly important to recognize the difference between violate and violent. One is kinder than the other. Or more concerned with outcome or even more personal. I’m stuck on it, either way. I’m finding the use of violate more interesting. It’s stumped me, this idea of dismissing and disregarding the laws of sin. I’ve actually been thinking about this for days.

Clearly I don’t have important things to do. But then if you don’t find this important? You confuse me.

(and oh, look, while trolling williamcontrol tumblr tags, after all the vampire RPGS and OMGWC notes, there’s my post. About SAM and WC and Enemy List and Ultrasound. I’m a nerd. Also, I have been listening to nothing but WC on the portable listening device..for 20 days. TWENTY. I’m a creepy old lady fangirl).



failing so beautifully.

listening: William Control “London Town”

Set myself up back in the office. It’s actually my favourite part of the house but I don’t spend much time here. I’ve come to realize after this long apart, my Ellis and I are having trouble finding each other again so we do what we do when we must: we begin Again. Begin does not, however, mean start over. It mostly just means retrace. So that’s what’s happening. I’m retracing with Ellis and William and Johnny and some rather horrible weather.

notes. glittering + pale.

drugged up on a london city street

amused. Amused I joined the OWW and clearly? have not learned a thing. Exhibit A: review #2 of the 1st chapter of Ellis, Underground:

You have the most unique voice I have read thus far in this group. My opinion: tone things down, get a hold of the run on sentences, and say what you mean in your own unique way. If you do this, then I truly believe you will do great things.

-I’m sorry, is there an echo in here? Anyway. Yes. We have Heard. This. Before. I need Natural Me and Succinct Me (there is no succinct me) to get on board and work in a partnership, or something. Or I need to hire a ghost writer to rewrite all of the crazy (I really like the crazy). Anyway, I joined the workshop over 10 years ago and lo’, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Have some of my darling William Control:

Come with me to the other side

Come dance with me in the dead of night  

You say you want to live in the darkness?

I’ll set you free.

I think that’s a threat, more than a promise.



if money was my object, i’d bore you with a subject involving love.

this, dear readers, is another William Control post. I know you’re surprised (you’re not), but after one album that morphed into two, a live show and 3+ hours non stop of tracks from Noir and Silentium Amoris, I have Wilde and Poe and Ascots and frilly dark jackets and velvet and the Marquis on my mind. All things that nudge and tug at the grey of my heart, that’s there, in the way of –

So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.

dear Oscar. Listening, and I was easily reminded of a story (a poem) I wrote once, a hundred years ago (How is it that time flies?) with Elizabeth Bear on the same/similar subjects all sprinkled through and through, so maybe the necrophelia does make it sound dirtier than it really is, but it is love, also. And Gothic, if there’s nothing better than Byron and Shelley, Byrne and Sands (there may not be, really).

Nor, are there better things than decadence and deSade and falling under instead of -for-. It’s music for winter. For December and later still and the dark and time and rooms with faeryDoors.

sins of the father/sins of the flesh tonight.

She misses the deathwatch beetles and the way they scattered across the floor.

But she goes in. Through the door, not the faeryDoor, plain, burned copper and flat wood and Hansel behind her, her shadow now. Dark to whatever there is of her that’s light. She feels his fingertips on her back and wonders why they feel so familiar.


It means something when the art someone has made is kin to the art you make. I make. It’s a bit like tugging open a door to a room you expect to be empty and finding it full and familiar. It means there’s someone else in the world that understands how that other part of your brain works, how that third chamber of your heart, the valve, opens and closes (specifically). And you’re here, and there’s candles burning.

And in the distance, the Manchester sunset.