Author Archives: Colin F. Barnes

Colin F. Barnes writes science fiction that's more Pew-Pew than deep-dive physics and fantasy that is more Dresden Files than Lord of the Rings. The first novel he read as a child was Dune. Sadly, his name is not a killing word. He wanted to be Han Solo growing up—and kinda still does. He's sold over half-a-million books, and his mum says he's the bestest boy—or maybe that's her dog.

The Whale – A Heavyweight Film

Brendan Fraser is fantastic. That much is obvious. I’m really pleased to see his return to Hollywood. I would love to see him in more films. This more-gritty version suits him well, I think. If you’ve not seen it, The Whale — an A24 production — is a stellar film that really deserves a viewing. Despite my glib title for this post, it’s surprising just how much weight and gravity this film carries for such a small story.

Continue reading “The Whale – A Heavyweight Film”

The discomfort zone of crowds

Crowd of people

I’ve always been socially awkward. As a small, young human, I was shy. Everyone seemed so eager to inform me of this as though I didn’t know. As though their highlighting the fact would somehow stop me from being me. We are who we are. I don’t believe in change; not really. We can pretend; we can find ways to cope, but deep down, in our cells, we are what we are.

I don’t like crowds much. Not in a panic-attack, anxious way. I feel for people like that; it must be awful. Thankfully, mine is far less worrisome. It’s more of a dislike than anything else. I don’t see the appeal. I generally don’t like all the noise and bustle and awkwardness. Who do you talk to? How do you talk to them? Why would they even want to talk to you? They’ve got their own shit going on.

Continue reading “The discomfort zone of crowds”

Writing is a dark lonely shack

It’s ragged, frayed about the edges. Its eyes are watery and often stare into the distance, focusing on nothing, focusing on everything. It lives in an old shack, immersed in the dark. Somewhere in that gloom, the smell of age and death permeates. Rats crawl unseen below the floorboards. Birds clatter about on the roof shingles. They seem distant and sound like people I used to know. They don’t stay long, taking to wing in the night.

Continue reading “Writing is a dark lonely shack”

A new start or: ghosts lost in the woods

Ghosts in the woods

So I’m back, blogging (if it’s still called that), and social media-ing.

Life isn’t linear. Progress isn’t always an upward trend. Nothing stays the same. These are all true things, especially regarding my relationship with blogging and social media. As some of you may realise, I join and leave Twitter frequently, change my website every now and then, write blog posts regularly for a while, and then delete the whole damned thing.

Continue reading “A new start or: ghosts lost in the woods”