Andy Futuro: the horror and the music
The Champion Series
Presenting the fiction of:
Andy and I represent two ends of a spectrum, in one sense. In another, we’re both pursuing the things we’re passionate about. For me, that includes essays about line techniques for our fiction and building communal efforts to find our audience. In doing so, I’m following my own advice, which is that fiction is a hard sale on Substack. Draw them in with nonfiction. However, Andy proves the power and possibility of focusing on art alone.
Art: fiction and electronic dance music. Horror fiction to be specific.
Let’s talk about the pure artist, Andy Futuro.
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Now, the Champion series:
Anna: Hey, Lisa, could you check with the landlord and see if we can get a blackout period for the cameras? I've seen some leases where the cameras go off for certain periods, usually at night.
Lisa: Hi Anna!
First, would you mind using the term housing provider? “Landlord” is an old-fashioned term, and it’s a little disrespectful to someone allowing you to stay in their property. Some people consider it a hate slur.
Anna: Oh. Yeah, sorry. No problem. Wasn’t my intention.
Lisa: Thanks! Let me check about the blackout period.
Provider, Andy Futuro
One of Andy’s recurring motifs is the horrific as the new normal. If there’s a theme that speaks to the everyone’s experience of the first quarter of the 21st century, this is it, and perhaps it also explains the broad appeal of his often experimental and literary horror. People relate. It speaks to us about the world we live in, through the warped mirror of tomorrow’s possible evils.
He moves us away from the comfort of the horrors that kill us to the discomfort of the horrors we learn to accept.
It’s not enough to say that Andy writes horror and horror sells. Horror abounds. Andy does something uniquely Andy and disquietingly relatable. In addition, while I consider Andy’s work literary and experimental in form, the writing itself is always accessible.
He’s become a case study of mine as I wrestle with the question of how to keep the reader without losing your soul. To work backwards through my recent points, students of literature often want to sound lofty and complicated, like the works they appreciate—but when those authors speak of their work, it surprises us to find they often made their choices as the most straightforward and clear way to tell the story they wanted to tell. I see this quality in Andy’s writing.
We’ve already discussed his relatability, but what do I mean by “something uniquely Andy”?
In Notes recently, someone asked how writers avoid recycling ideas as she fretted over the concern that she keeps returning to concepts similar to what she’s done before. Andy knows this isn’t a concern. There is a familiarity that crosses between certain stories, but what they have in common are traits we come to identify with Andy in this period of his writing—like Picasso’s blue period. He need not worry about changing it up too soon nor holding onto it too long. He need only tell his stories in the best way he can. His present period is defined by forms that read like artifacts left behind.
What I’m about to share is not usual for the Champion series, but some time ago I asked Andy to share his writing process with us. He says:
First of all, I don’t know shit. Now there’s a clickbait title.
Maybe after I’ve finished a hundred novels I’ll know a little about writing.
Still, I have to get something down, so here are some brief, freeform reflections on how I go about the act.
I hope it can be useful.
When I write a story, I can’t let myself think, I want this to be good or bad. I can only think, Does this succeed at what it is trying to do?
If I care too much about whether people like one experiment or another, I will chase the experiments people like. And I’ll lose the desire to experiment.
And while I need to serve my readers, I think that there are experiences other than liking or disliking something.
That maybe you don’t have to like something, or not like all of something.
Maybe you can just find it interesting.
And while you’re interested, you let go of the judgements and gain more of an experience.
Whether you like the experience or not.
And that is what I seek out in the art that I enjoy, be it music, paintings, video games — an experience.
With an experience, there’s no sense in thinking, What should happen? Instead I think, What could happen?
I try to keep that mental space open. In the space of possibilities, ideas inevitably emerge, and the ones that inspire the most curiosity are the ones I follow.
So then it becomes important to write. To not get bogged down with commas or sentences or even chapters.
To just write and get words on paper. Regardless of where they go. And not worrying if they’re good or not. Or what tense they’re in. Or if they adhere to a popular formula or not.
I don’t worry about structure at all, except that it’s fun to play with. After all, I’m not trying to craft a specific, predefined outcome. I’m trying to open myself to the possibility of what can emerge.
And so I let the words fall where they may.
In practicing the basic skill of generation, I can improve. I can generate more, and raise the quality of the generations.
If I’m concerned about being good, or worse — perfect — then what I’m really trying to do is avoid discomfort.
I’m trying to forestall the emotional response I will have when someone dislikes my experiment. Which is inevitable.
But, aha, it’s just an experiment. It’s not good.
People are free to like and not like it. And even if they dislike it, well, they still experienced it.
If I try to be good, I’m actually trying to find certainty
Certainty that I will be liked
That my time wasn’t wasted
That this will pay off financially
That my skills are useful.
That I am respected.
That I can be what I want.
That the people who mocked me will eat their words.
But there is no certainty.
There is only the infinite unknowable of possibility.
It’s harder, but kinder to myself to accept possibility.
Then I can focus on the writing.
And enjoy it.
Enjoy the flow of it and let it go where it may.
And not try to control it in some way that was popular in the past.
Maybe that will work to chip away at the doubt.
But it would also lessen the enjoyment of writing.
So I choose the possibility.
Which means accepting the unpleasant possibilities.
And also the pleasant ones.
Like, maybe today I just have a really fun day making something.
And maybe a few people will like it.
And maybe I’ll be the next big name.
And maybe not.
Maybe someone will call me a hack or a poseur or a wanna be.
And maybe I am.
There’s no point in fighting it.
The doubt never goes away.
It can’t.
All I can do is exhaust myself with mental gymnastics to try and avoid it.
Which only adds misery to unpleasantness.
It’s not about silencing the doubting and fearful parts of myself.
It’s about crowding them out with the confident, decisive, and creative parts of myself.
To do that I have to write.
And I have to share.
And sharing is embarrassing.
And, of course, we avoid embarrassment, because it’s uncomfortable.
So, I want to be embarrassed.
I want to flush red with shame at the stupid thing I said, or the chapter that fell flat.
I want wring my pores of sweat when the chorus calls out, You suck!
Yeah, probably.
Or maybe not.
If I can sit with my embarrassment, I can increase my tolerance for being embarrassed.
And be able to sit with even more embarrassment next time.
And then my brain won’t perceive it as threatening.
Just some noise, an annoying little buzz.
I don’t have to pay attention to it.
I can just go back to work.
And share some more.
And readers will like some things more than others.
And again, I have to resist calling them good and bad.
Everything can be its own thing.
Everything can be its own experiment.
I don't need to ascribe an artificial trajectory to my style.
I can’t judge my progress in terms of how liked I am.
But how willing and able I am to put myself out there.
I’m not a good writer.
Nor do I want to be.
I also don’t want to be a bad writer.
I just want to be a writer.
And a composer. And a maker. And a doer.
A person who values creativity.
A person who lives his values.
A few stories by
to get you started:
Ignoring the monastic aspects of writing, storytelling is a shared experience between the author and the reader. The reader contributes in the telling of the story, and as the author needs inspiration—an emotional connection with an idea—in order to create, so does the reader.
Readers want to be inspired to spin visions from our words, and the aspect of Andy’s stories we most want to replicate is his ability to provide that inspiration.
—Thaddeus Thomas
You, too, can champion an author on Substack.
Andy is one of the first people I read and interacted with here, and outside of being the EXACT kind of sci-fi/horror I dig, he's also an incredibly kind and gentle person. He does not deserve the torment his cat lays upon him...
Really glad to see Andy highlighted. He is one of my favs here on Substack.