Marcus Blacksmith is a person of two distinct halves. A thing probably true of many writers. Especially, I think, ones whose genre tilts to the darker side of human nature. The Hellish imaginings of those twisted minds are best kept to the page. Or the screen. The regular, everyday Marcus, still has a full time job and writes when he can. He has been, and done, many things in his life, the vast majority of which are perfectly legal. The other stuff he mentioned, in confidence, are stories for another time. Possibly a memoir, a confession of sorts, if you like. But, I digress, I must continue sharing those halves with you…

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     Marcus lists, among his past occupations, working in a nightclub, a sex shop, a paint factory, being a valet parker, night porter, landscaper, tradesman. This list is by no means exhaustive – but you get the idea, he’s moved around a bit. Done a few things, lived in a few places. He’s settled now, in northern Gloucestershire, with his wife and daughter.

 As well as writing, his other interests include music, which he was introduced to properly when visiting a friend from primary school. On his friends turntable was David Bowie’s latest album, Aladdin Sane. Marcus was twelve at the time. Looking back, he says, it must have triggered something inside that kept him offbeat. Outside of the herd. He was never the same again and counts Bowie as his all-time favourite icon. Going to gigs and watching bands is still one of his favourite things. Usually with his daughter, who shares his eclectic music tastes. And he still visits the mosh pit, when it’s that sort of band. His other interests include reading, mostly non-fiction. Old and creepy buildings and anything weird and carnival side-show.

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     That is the regular him. The one that loves his family, his wife’s home-made sourdough and extraordinary vegetarian cooking. What I can tell you, with the utmost confidence, is that the other one, the writer Marcus, is somewhat different. For behind the placid, self-effacing exterior, there operates a dark and twisted mind. Much like that of the crazed, cymbal-playing Jolly Chimp. A version of that maniacal toy that haunts the darkest corners, the deepest shadows and the dankest cellars of his imagination. A version that, when you least expect it, will spring forth in a terrifying clatter of chattering teeth and banging cymbals. Wishing fervently to drag you to some irresistibly dark and twisted landscapes.

 

Go in darkness

~ B ~