I’ve just realised that the titles of all the short fiction I’m currently working on (either serial or otherwise) are: Juniper Rabid, Seppuku Salesman, Leviathan Bride and The New Terrible. There’s hardly a happy sounding story in there. I need more bubblegum in my life, apparently. Where’s Jac when you need rainbow vomit-inducing jpop?
Calling H.H. Neville a real writer–like his genre of choice–would be fiction. At the rare points that he does manage to write, he fashions his work with visceral visuals, razorblade sharp style and shotgun brutality. He draws equal inspiration from Victoriana literature, fables, Japanese pop violence, grindhouse genres, neon-flavored pop culture, french new wave, and fashion trends. He is, if anything a proponent of style over substance. Who needs plot if it’s pretty?