BarryHutchison.com

It’s just over a week or so until Invisible Fiends: Raggy Maggie is published, which means it should start appearing in bookshops any day now.

For those of you who don’t know, Raggy Maggie is a creepy, porcelain-faced doll who belongs to an even creepier little girl called Caddie. Utterly unhinged and incredibly dangerous, Caddie is the villain of the book, torturing and maiming everyone she meets under the ever-watchful eye of her dolly.

Over the last few weeks I’ve spotted a few creepy-looking dolls on my travels. I’ve snapped some photographs of some of them on my phone, and thought I’d post them here for you to see. If you have any creepy dolls in your house, take a photo and send it to me at barry@barryhutchison.com and I’ll post the pictures here on the site.

Anyway, here are a few to get us started.

I bought this one in a toy shop today after my 11 month old daughter, Mia, took a shine to it. The photo doesn’t actually do it justice – in real life its expression is bordering on the demonic, but every time I tried to take a picture I failed to capture its true evil nature.

The label on the box just said “Bath Doll”, presumably because any right-minded person would instinctively want to drown the thing at the first possible opportunity.

Right, now on to the really creepy ones. Apologies for the quality of these pictures. My hands were shaking too much to get good ones.

This picture was taken at the Callander Toy Museum, just outside Stirling in Scotland. They’re all pretty creepy, but its these two who really went out of their way to scare the living crap out of me:

Action Man used to have moveable eyes that allowed him to look left and right. The big fella at the back there can see into your very soul! I mean… Jesus Christ, look at him! You can’t say you’d be surprised if he started moving, can you? Horrified, yes, but not in the least bit surprised.

And I can’t help but think that the girl on the left looks like a young Margaret Thatcher. If that doesn’t send a shiver down your spine, nothing will.

At the same museum, I took this photo. It’s a bit blurry because I couldn’t even bring myself to look at this lot while snapping the picture.

Brace yourself.

I mean, where do you start with this crowd? The big lass in the middle is an obvious contender for Creepiest Thing in the Room, but the taller one with the red dress and the face like a bulldog chewing a wasp looks like she hates every living creature on Earth.

And what about the sailor, with that cheeky little smirk? I can imagine him whispering “I been a vewy naughty boy” as he repeatedly plunged a knife into your neck. In fact, every doll in the picture looks capable of cold-blooded murder. It’s not a glass case they should be in, it’s a lead box. Buried deep underground. And doused in Holy Water.

So there you have it, a few of the creepy dolls I’ve come across lately. None of them are anywhere near as disturbing as Raggy Maggie, but you’ll have to read the book when it comes out to find out why.

Remember, if you have any creepy dolls in your house, take a photo and email it to me and you could see it up in a gallery on this very site, along with your name. The scariest doll might even win a prize.

Maybe.

But no promises.

Dear Barry,

Now, don’t freak out, but I’m you, writing this letter to you from the futu–

Hey, I said don’t freak out! You’re always freaking out, kid. The first thing you have to learn is that the world isn’t out to get you. It might feel like it right now, but it isn’t. The world hates everyone equally, it isn’t picking on you in particular. It’s just the way the world works.

So, stop freaking out for five minutes, sit back, and read this letter from your future self. Trust me, you won’t be nearly as panicky by the end.

Because let’s face it, you panic a lot. You’re scared of most things, 10-year-old me. Scared of things other kids your age don’t seem bothered by.

Oh, sure, a lot of it is normal stuff. You’re scared of big dogs. You’re scared of wasps. You’re scared of squirrels. The usual. But you’re scared of other things, too. Like goldfish. And kettles. And Sesame Street.

Yes, I know all about your fear of Sesame Street. It was my fear once, too, remember? It’s not all of Sesame Street, of course – that would be mental. It’s one particular aspect of the show that frightens you. It’s just one detail.

It’s the fact that only Big Bird can see Mr Snuffleupagus.

You were fine until that episode when Big Bird started doubting himself. When he started thinking that maybe Maria and Gordon were right – maybe Mr Snuffleupagus didn’t exist. That’s when you started worrying that, if Big Bird was crazy, that meant you were crazy, too, because you could see Snuffy as clear as day. Every time Snuffleupagus appeared on screen after that, you’d turn away, convinced that by looking at Big Bird’s imaginary friend, you were sending yourself deeper and deeper into a psychosis from which you could never hope to recover.

But listen, it’s fine. By the time you’re twelve, everyone on Sesame Street will be able to see Snuffy. Big Bird isn’t mad, which means neither are you. Although that whole being afraid of imaginary friends thing… you might want to hold on to that.

The residents of Sesame Street being able to see a large brown elephant isn’t the only positive thing that’ll happen in your life over the next few years, though. There are other things. Even better things. And that’s why I’m writing to you now.

I know you want to be a writer. I also know you haven’t told many people, because you’re worried they’ll laugh at you. Trust me, just go ahead and tell everyone you can. Go on, do it now. I’ll wait here.

…

Done it? Good. I probably should’ve said that yes, most of them will laugh at you. Sorry. That doesn’t change much, either, over the years, it’s just that people get more subtle about it. At ten, they’ll laugh to your face. When you’re seventeen and tell people you want to be a writer, they’ll laugh about it behind your back, instead. Don’t worry about it – even when that English teacher makes fun of you in front of the whole class in secondary school. He’s just bitter. And he dies of a massive heart attack just a few years later, anyway, so the last laugh’s on him.

There will be those who do support you. A few friends. Your family. But mostly people will try to shoot you down, and make you believe that your dream isn’t possible. Don’t listen to those people. Never listen to those people.

Because you will get there. It will take a while, and you’ll have to sacrifice a lot along the way, but you will get there. It’ll take years of working at jobs you have no interest in, just to pay the bills. You’ll hate every moment. You’ll feel like you’re getting nowhere. And then your first child comes along.

Yes, I said “child”. And yes, I said “first”.

Because, although you’ll never lose your dream of becoming a writer, you’ll have other dreams, too. You’ll fall in love, have children, and in them you’ll find new hopes. When your first child – a son – is born you’ll feel it’s time to set aside your own dream and find a real job you can stick to for more than a few months. You’ll take a job in a call centre, and you’ll think that this is how you’ll be spending the rest of your life. And you’ll die a little bit inside every day.

By the time your second child – a daughter – comes along, you’ll be a published author.

I mentioned sacrifices, and there will be many. For years, you’ll struggle to get by financially, often barely scraping by. You’ll have to borrow and beg just to keep your head above water. You’ll live on – sometimes well below – the breadline, never quite sure where your next pay cheque is coming from. The week that a publisher makes an offer for your first book series, you will have spent living on one packet of supermarket own-brand noodles a day. You’ll celebrate by treating yourself to some cheese. It’s quite tasty, but a bit dry.

But that’s the moment everything changes. When you get the offer, I mean – not when you eat the cheese. Don’t get excited, you don’t become rich overnight. It’s been a few years now since that happened and I – you – are still not rich. But you’re happy. You’re getting to do what you’ve always dreamed of, and you’re enjoying every minute, and you’re surrounded by people who don’t laugh at your dream – who’ve never laughed at your dream – and you love them all even more than you love writing books.

We’re 32 now, when I write this letter. I don’t know what’ll happen next month, or next year, or ten years after that. But I do know one thing. You’re not scared any more. Not of spiders. Not of Sesame Street. And not of people laughing when you tell them you want to write stories.

Still quite scared of squirrels, though, if I’m completely honest, but I’m sure you’ll learn to cope with that.

So, 10-year-old me, I hope you’re not freaking out any more. I hope this letter helps you overcome the near-crippling anxiety you’ve felt on a daily basis for as long as you can remember. And I hope you’ll pick up a pen and write a story right now. You’re good at it, no matter what anyone else might say.

See you in 22 years.

You, aged 32.

PS – If, when you’re 15, you’re standing by the side of the road and you see a bus coming towards you with very wide wing mirrors, for God’s sake, duck.

First up, here’s a review of Mr Mumbles from Weirdmage’s Reviews. It’s a good ‘un. I particularly liked:

I have to end this with a little note. As you may have noticed this book was published by HarperCollins Children’s Books, and on the back cover there is a label that says 9+. This should in my opinion be treated like video-game labels, not fit for children under nine, but with no upper limit of how old you should be to enjoy it. My + is 27, and I see no problem in recommending this to anyone who likes a good scare regardless of age.

I couldn’t agree more with that, and judging by the amount of positive feedback I’ve had from adult readers, it’s not just children enjoying the series.

Now, Raggy Maggie is published on 5th of August, and press copies are only just being sent out. So, I have no ‘proper’ reviews to tell you about, but I think the following is more revealing that any review could be…

Yesterday, I started reading Raggy Maggie to my son, Kyle. The first few chapters have one or two unsettling moments, but in general aren’t too bad. We made it to about chapter six before calling it a night, despite his protests that he wanted more.

Tonight he got more. We read up to chapter eight and I put the book down. Chapter eight, however, ends on a BIG cliffhanger, and he begged me – literally – to read the next chapter. Eventually, I gave in, and we read chapter nine. That was two hours ago.

He’s still awake. And still terrified.

I’ve tried everything to get him to go to sleep, but he’s too scared to close his eyes. While I was through comforting him, his baby sister started crying in the next room. He grabbed onto me, shaking with fear, telling me not to go in case it was a trap.

I told him that if the book was scaring him that much, we should stop reading it. But no, he wanted to continue, he wanted the next chapter right then. And the next one. And the one after that. He’s more scared than he has ever been in his life, but he doesn’t want it to stop!

I call that a result.

And possibly a serial killer in the making.

There I am, earlier today, playing a quiz machine in a well known family restaurant chain while we await our main course. I’m playing the game with my eight-year-old son, Kyle, but of course I mean I’m pressing the buttons the nanosecond I know the answer, while he sits patiently by, hoping to get a chance to contribute in some way.

Anyway, we’re motoring on fine, one question away from winning five shiny £1 coins. It’s a tense moment, but – thank the gods – an Entertainment question comes up. I’m good at Entertainment category questions. Actually, I’m only good at Entertainment category questions, so this is a good sign of some riches to come.

Up comes the question:

Q. Which actor did NOT appear in the 1972 movie ‘Sleuth’?

And the three possible answers:

1) Michael Caine

2) Roger Moore

3) Laurence Olivier

I’m excited. I know Michael Caine was definitely in it, and I have a Try Again left, so even if I guess wrong the first time, I can choose the other answer I know, by default, must be right.

I’m so confident, in fact, that I choose 3) Laurence Olivier, even though I’ve got a hazy memory of him being in the film (which I saw, once, when I was twelve). Sure enough, the screen flashes red, and I’m told to Try Again.

My finger moves up the screen and hovers over 2) Roger Moore. Just as I am about to press it, though, a woman at the fruit machine next to me leans in and says, “It’s Michael Caine.”

“No,” I reply, pointing to the question. “It’s which actor was NOT in Sleuth.”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding encouragingly. “Michael Caine.”

From the corner of my eye I see question time limit ticking down. “Michael Caine was in it,” I say. Suddenly, I’m not sure, though. Suddenly, I’m doubting myself. “Michael Caine was in Sleuth, wasn’t he?”

“He was in the remake, not the first one.”

Tick, tick, tick.

She’s right, he was in the remake, but he was in the original, too, I’m sure of it.

Only I’m not sure any more. And there are three seconds left. Panicking, I jab a thumb against 1) Michael Caine. The screen flashes red. GAME OVER fills the monitor.

I look over to the woman on my left. She nods.

“See?” she says, and then returns to her fruit machine as if nothing had happened.

I frickin’ knew it was Roger Moore, as well.

There are many aspects to being a writer that people never think about. Most people think it’s all glitz and glamour, piles of money and partying until 4am with the cast of Hollyoaks each and every night of the week. Of course, it is like that, but there are other sides to it, too.

Like writing. Between the calendar shoots and the cruises and the time spent counting up literally tens of pounds of cashing pouring in every month, we have to find time to think up words, then write them down in an order which makes some form of coherent sense. Oh sure, it sounds easy to most people, but working down a mine for 14 hours a day in the dark sounds easy to most people. That’s because most people, I’ve found, are idiots.

Writing is hard. Harder than working down a mine. Harder than fishing in force 9 gales in the North Sea. Harder than trying to stop an oil leak that’s threatening to kill every living thing in the ocean and bankrupt your company. You – like most people – assume that writing is a doddle, because all the average writer’s day involves is a bit of daydreaming, a few taps on a keyboard, then three hours of relaxing in front of the Playstation, but…

…

Actually, I’m not sure where I was going with that.

The point I’m trying to make is that sometimes writing is hard. Emotionally hard. Take the last few days, for example. Yesterday, I submitted INVISIBLE FIENDS 4 to my editor at HarperCollins. That’s always a happy time, and I felt compelled to celebrate by waggling my Barney Rubble as vigorously as I could.

Look, here I am doing just that.

You thought ‘Barney Rubble’ was some kind of euphemism, didn’t you? Shame on you.

Although the photo was taken on my phone in poor lighting, you can see the elation on my face. Another book had been written. Another mountain climbed.

Quite soon after I finish writing a new book, though, I start to feel a bit like this…

Quite a contrast. I don’t always hold a skull when I’m feeling unhappy, by the way, I just did it here for effect. Symbolism, an’ that.

So what is it that brings on this emotional slump? I have no idea. Maybe it’s just the inevitable crash that follows the Barney Rubble waggling high of getting a book written. Maybe it’s the realisation that I am about to be confronted with another blank page which I have just a few months to turn into a 45,000 word horror book. Maybe I’ve got Bipolar Disorder. Whatever the reason, the slump always happens.

Fortunately, it only last about 20 minutes, then it’s back to the parties and the money and the soap starlets, so no real harm done. Nevertheless, I hope this gives you an insight into the life of a writer, and helps you to realise that it’s not all fun and games. Sometimes you look miserable and hold a polystyrene skull for a bit, too.

If you’ve been following this blog, you’ll know how excited I was when I headed off on the Spill the Ink tour with HarperCollins, visiting eight cities in five days, and talking to huge numbers of kids all across the country. Well, I’m just back from another tour, and between you and I, I was looking forward to that one even more.

I’d never been to Orkney before, but all that changed last Sunday, when I hopped on a plane at Inverness and flew to Kirkwall, the largest town on the Orkney mainland, ready to begin my three day tour of Orkney’s North Isles. The plane I got on at Inverness was the smallest I had ever been on in my life. But it held onto that title for under 24 hours, because next morning I got on this…

The plane carried a total of eight passengers, plus the pilot. I was very excited when I got on board, but became slightly concerned when everyone else on board donned a pair of noise cancelling headphones prior to take-off. Sure enough, as the aircraft lifted off my eardrums almost imploded, and I was forced to spend the first 30 seconds of the flight with a finger jammed tightly in each ear.

After that, though, things quietened down a bit, and I was able to enjoy the stunning views from around 500 feet. I wasn’t able to relax fully on that first flight, though, as a terrible realisation struck me just after I took this photograph.

The realisation was this: If the pilot suffers a massive heart attack and dies, I’m the only one who can reach the controls. I would become auto-pilot my default, with the lives of everyone on board (aside from the pilot, who’d already be a gonner by that stage) in my hands.

Fortunately for all involved – especially him – the pilot didn’t drop dead, and the flight was over all too soon. Still, I was made to feel very welcome on Sanday, the first island I visited, and the event went really well, with the kids creating some really terrifying characters based on their deepest, darkest fears.

Next day, I headed to the airport, ready to zoom off to another island adventure. Unfortunately, fog had crept in, meaning the flight was delayed for almost an hour and a half. Luckily I made it to the next island – Westray – with a few minutes to spare, and the airport’s fireman/taxi driver whisked me off to another event at the school.

Before going to Westray, though, the plane touched down to drop off some passengers at a smaller island just beside it. This island is called Papa Westray, and the route between the two is officially the shortest plane journey in the world at just 1.7 miles. From the point the plane starts its engines in Papa Westray, to the point it switches them off in Westray, is almost exactly 2 minutes.

Here’s the view from my window as I was landing in Papa Westray (or Papay, as the locals call it).

And yes, the big shape up the top right of the picture is the propellor.

So, after flying to Papa Westray, then over to Westray, I did my event and hopped on a boat back to Papay again. I spent the afternoon running a workshop with four brilliantly creative pupils at the local primary school, then headed back to the airport, ready to fly back to Kirkwall.

Uh-oh.

The fog from the morning, it seemed, had returned. And it had brought its friends. Rather than just facing another delay, I was confronted by the worst case scenario. The plane was cancelled. And with no other boats due that day, I was stranded on the island without so much as my toothbrush, let alone a change of clothes. What’s worse, I didn’t have my laptop, and I’d finished the only book I’d brought with me while waiting for the flight that morning. I was also due to appear at another school on a different island in the morning, and I’d have to do it wearing the clothes I would have to sleep in.

With the only B&B on the island full, I was driven to the local hostel, where a shared room with a couple of other fellas awaited. Dinner, it seemed would be a packet of crisps from the shop. Still, it couldn’t be helped, and if I was going to be stranded anywhere, then at least it was somewhere with some spectacular scenery. And some puffins.

But then something spectacular happened. Louise – lovely, wonderful, spectacular Louise – from the Orkney Library Service, who had organised the tour, chartered a fast boat to come and collect me from the island! It arrived quickly and got me back to Kirkwall well before dark, and it was flippin’ exciting to boot.

Look, here’s me climbing aboard.

If I had one concern about the trip it’s that one of the blokes piloting the boat looked a bit too much like Richard Dreyfuss in the movie JAWS for my liking. They were both great guys, and it’s not really a criticism, but if you’re going to make a living ferrying people around in small boats, it’s probably not wise to bear a striking resemblance to a famous movie character whose small boat gets attacked by a massive killer shark. I’m just saying.

Next day I set off at stupid o’clock on a much bigger boat to do my final event for the kids at the primary school on Stronsay. In the time it took the boat to get there and back, and in the few hours I had to kill before the event and waiting for my delayed flight back to Inverness later that evening, I got 6,600 words of INVISIBLE FIENDS book 4 written. A result all round, I feel.

So that was that. My trip to Orkney. It was great fun, and I’d love to go back. Which is handy, as I’m going back to do some more events in September. Hooray!

Many, many, many thanks to Louise Graham at Orkney Library for all her hard work getting me to and from events (including picking me up one morning at 6:30 a.m.) and to everyone else on Orkney and at Scottish Book Trust, who made the visit possible.

Just back from my tour of the northern isles of Orkney. Flippin’ knackered, so will report fully tomorrow. Off to bed now. Night!

Next week, I’ll be setting off on an 8 city UK tour, with fellow HarperCollins authors, Kate Maryon and Sorrel Anderson. Don’t believe me? Check out the poster below.

See? Told you.

As well as the lovely posters, the good people at HarperCollins Children’s Books have set up a blog, where everyone on the tour – and I mean everyone – will be posting updates, letting the world know how it’s all going. You can follow the action at SpilltheInkBooks.com, as well as here on BarryHutchison.com and on my Twitter feed.

Hoping to put up a new video blog tonight, but it’s taking forever to upload to YouTube and it has failed the last three times. If it doesn’t go this time I’m calling it a night before I smash something valuable with something very heavy.

First up, HAPPY STAR WARS DAY! May the Fourth be with you all.

Now…

Two days ago – Sunday 2nd May – was the 8th birthday of my son, Kyle. Like me, Kyle’s a bit of a video games fan, and he decided he wanted a birthday cake in the shape of Sackboy, the main character in the PS3 game, Little Big Planet.

Unfortunately, you can’t just pop out and buy a cake shaped like Sackboy, largely because pretty much nobody has the first clue who or what Sackboy is – or, at least, nobody apart from the people who own Little Big Planet. As a result, Sackboy cakes do not exist.

Now, being naturally lazy, I’d have just gone to Tesco and had a picture of Sackboy printed on icing and slapped on a Madeira cake. Bosh, job done.

But Kyle’s mum, Fiona, had other ideas. Somehow, in between looking after Kyle (then 7 years old), Mia (8 months) and me (32), she found time to whip up this…

The world bit at the bottom was a bit of an afterthought, but doesn’t the cake look fantastic? What’s more, he looks fantastic despite the fact I accidentally took a big chunk out of his arm, and Fiona had to patch him up with a dusting of cocoa powder. Whoops!

I almost felt bad sliding the sharp, steel blade of the knife into the poor little blighter’s smiling, unsuspecting face, but man, it was worth it. That was one tasty face.

In other news, I made a return visit to Banavie Primary School today to speak to the kids and sign a lot of books. One girl there had read Mr Mumbles several times, and tells me it’s her favourite book in the world.

Eat that every other author ever!