Saturday, December 10, 2011

Tankbread Reviews

I got three pre-published reviews for Tankbread.

One from Jonathan Maberry. one from David Moody and one from Rocky Wood (President of the Horror Writers Association and best selling author in his own right).

They all loved Tankbread. It's the best thing about horror writers. Even though it's a cut throat market out there, they are always prepared to write a good review of some little fish's book. I hope one day I can be in their position and do the same thing for someone else.


I drank a lot of beer over the last few weeks. Firstly there was my 40th birthday to celebrate. But more importantly, before that I saw Tankbread go up on Amazon.

It has been a long term goal of mine to have a book for sale before my 40th. So I achieved that. Actually I achieved that twice.

Tankbread is also available through Smashwords, and now I have removed the reference to the Kindle edition it should go into their premium catalog which means it should be available through other sites - like Apple and Barnes and Noble some time in about a week.

I'm mildly bi-polar (it was the official diagnosis about 20 years ago) so I've crashed a bit after the birthday. It's why I haven't updated the blog in a while and why I haven't sealed the deal with putting Tankbread out in a print edition.

The ebook editions are selling, of both books. Marketing is not a full time job so I'm not retiring soon. I'm experimenting with price and the idea of imputed value. It will be interesting to see what the right price for both books are.

Of course I'm writing flat out. I have a new collection of short stories in the works the title story is 'The Tao of The Tattoo' which I am still writing.

I'm also editing an anthology for Knightwatch Press, working on various other novel ideas, managing Tankbread: The Audio Book Edition and producing another Audiobook called 'The Last Ringbearer' which is a story set in Middle Earth told from the POV of the orcs.

Monday, November 14, 2011


Broke through the trending line barrier today. Started 5 days late and caught up nicely.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

Cover Review

on Google+

You have to push yourself in writing and publishing to get the results you want. Successful writers work their arses off and do things that might be unexpected in order to succeed. Not every thing works, but somethings do.

Case in point, I now have a few fine words from New York Times best selling author Jonathan Maberry for the cover of Tankbread. He liked it.

Thursday, November 03, 2011


I started a new book for NaNoWriMo. A pulp zombie adventure in the main-stream style called 'DEAD. DEAD. DEAD.'

Here's the first 2000 (approx) words:


Chapter 1

For a job like this Robby ‘Minty’ Macinnes used the Lincoln sedan. The car wasn’t as nimble or as cool as the Harley’s. But it made less noise even when it rode low on the suspension with all 350 pounds of Tim ‘Fish’ Muller pressed into the front passenger seat. Less heavy, yet no less hairy, Richie ‘Rim’ Neidman and Rolly ‘Chops’ Bishop rode in the back. They all wore the leather and oil-stained jeans that made up the uniform of The Locusts Motorcycle Club.
          Like the rest Minty did what Jethro ‘Jesus’ Williams ordered. Williams ruled The Locusts, and Minty loved and feared the man, whom he had seen beat the shit-heel narc, Mitch, to death in a Seattle bus station restroom.
          The Lincoln rolled quietly through the inner-city slum. Most of the houses here had been abandoned. The rest were filled with crazies, squatters and crack-whores. Bone-thin dogs scavenged through overturned garbage cans, snarling and snapping at each other over scraps of rotten hamburger.
          Minty killed the lights and parked the car. In the back seat Rim and Chops slapped magazines into their .45’s. Fish rocked to his feet outside the car before leaning back in and pulling a nail studded baseball bat out from under the seat.
          ‘Goddamn thing kept poking me in the ass,’ he said.
          The engine shuddered and died. Minty pocketed the keys as he stepped out, keeping the sawn-off shotgun hanging down by his side. The streets were dark around here, but there were likely to be sentries watching the streets from behind boarded up windows and from the piles of trash in the stinking alleyways.
          They gathered at the Lincoln’s trunk. Minty opened it, and the prospect sat up. ‘Get outta there Mutt,’ Fish reached in and lifted the scrawny kid out on to the road. He was scrawny, but tough. They called him Mutt because he was like a dog that no matter how much you kicked it, he would always come crawling back and lick your hand. Mutt pulled his jeans up and swept his hair back off his face. ‘Do I get a gun?’ he asked, eyeing up the hardware the others carried.
          ‘You ain’t old enough to hold your dick, let alone a real weapon,’ Rim scoffed.
          ‘That’s what your old lady’s for,’ Mutt shot back. Rim was on him in an instant, fists flying at the kid’s face. Mutt dodged and stepped behind Minty, grinning and pulling faces at the enraged Rim.
          ‘Back off for fucks sake,’ Minty growled. This was no time for these assholes to be pounding on each other. They had a house full of crack-head niggers waiting for that action.
          They stood down, leaving Minty scowling at them until he was sure the moment had passed. Chops opened a bag of electric torches and handed them out to everyone. ‘Don’t turn them on, wait ‘til you are inside,’ he warned.
Minty lifted a short crowbar out of the trunk and shoved it into the back of his jeans, feeling the cold metal press against his butt. Leading the group across the street, Minty heard Mutt yelp as Rim smacked the prospect in the back of the head with the butt of his .45.
          ‘Quiet the fuck down,’ Minty said. Jethro’s instructions were simple, niggers have been dealing crack out of this house. But, all going according to plan, their cash-courier would be lying in a gutter somewhere trying to hold his guts in while the Locusts watched him die. The crack dealers were reportedly sitting on a bag of cash that Jethro intended to acquire for himself.
          The Locusts swaggered into the overgrown yard of the wooden bungalow. The porch out front was sagging under its own weight and Fish chewed his lip looking at the weather stained boards. ‘You go round the back Fish, cover the exit,’ Minty whispered, his eyes travelling over every inch of the building. ‘Any fucker comes out; you shoot him in the face.’
          Fish nodded, hitching up his stained jeans he hurried into the gloom down the side of the house.
          Rim and Chops crept up the steps, they moved carefully, letting the boards take their weight slowly, avoiding the creaks that could alert anyone awake inside. The house loomed quiet and dark, no dogs barked and the neighbourhood seemed asleep. More likely stoned out of its gourd Minty thought.
          He waited until Rim and Chops were in position, Mutt crouched down behind him, just like a dog. The two at the door looked towards Minty, he took a deep breath and nodded, the shotgun harder than his cock had ever been in his hands.
          Rim stepped in front of the door, reared back and kicked it in. He vanished into the silent house, Chops on his heels. Minty and Mutt strode in after them. The first room of the house was awash in filth and rot. The light of their torches showed flies crawling over soiled diapers and rats had burrowed into a broken easy chair huddled in the corner.
          `Fuck me,’ Mutt said, a hand covering his mouth and nose against the stench.
          ‘Rim, check the back. Chops, upstairs. Mutt, stay here and keep quiet.’
The moved without question, Minty had been Jethro’s right hand since the beginning. Twenty long years of riding, fucking and fighting and making money anyway they could along the way. They were free though, and Minty wouldn’t change that for anything. The Locusts were his family, a loose brotherhood of bikers, whores and hangers-on. Old horses like Rim and Chops would do anything Minty asked, he was the mouth-piece of Jethro and his word was law.
          Chops filled the narrow stairway, his broad shoulders and long hair and beard would scare the shit out of anyone sober enough to walk out of the upstairs bedrooms. Minty joined him at the landing. Chops silently pointed at the nearest door. Minty nodded. Chops kicked the door in, gun levelled and ready. The smell in the room hit harder than the stink downstairs. Chops backed away from the door, cursing under his breath. Minty lifted his arm and pressed his nose against a sleeve. ‘Fuck me,’ Chops echoed Mutt.
          Stepping forward Minty clicked his torch on. Kids lived in this room, a battered crib stood against one wall, clothes, food wrappers and more soiled diapers were scattered on the floor and piled in the corner.
          ‘No one in here man,’ Minty declared. Something caught his eye. A blanket in the crib moved. Just a rat. But he turned the torch on it anyway. Stepping over the trash he peered over the wooden rail of the crib. Too big for a rat. Minty laid the shotgun down at the end of the small bed and reached out to jerk the blanket back. ‘Jesus fuck!’ Minty yelled and the torch fell to the floor, its beam swinging across the wall as he snatched up the shotgun. From the crib came a mewling cry.  A deep, wet, feverish sound. Like a child near death from some terrible lung eating disease.
          ‘What the fuck man?’ Chops hissed from the doorway. The crib dweller still making baby moans that didn’t have the strength to become full cries.
          ‘Fucking sick kid, fucking assholes,’ Minty growled. He didn’t give a shit about kids. But there was something wrong with this one. The biker picked up his torch and peered into the cot again. The kid’s warm brown skin had a dull grey sheen to it. Like all the life was leeching out of him. He moaned and writhed, pulling himself free of the blanket. Reaching up to the vertical rails, climbing up to stand against the wooden bars of the cage.
          Minty pulled back, the kid had maybe two teeth and he’d been chewing on something. Dried blood and shit smears stained the mattress and bedding. The baby’s hand’s curled around the bars. The thumbs were gone, chewed off along with most of the kid’s fingers. Tiny blackened stumps slipped through the bars and reached for the torch light.
          ‘Jesus Christ,’ Minty swore again.
          ‘Come on man, we ain’t social services,’ Chops looked around the hallway, the other two doors remained closed.
          ‘That’s fucked up,’ Minty said and backed towards the door. The child whimpered and began to pull itself up to the edge of the crib railing.
          They left the room, and approached the next door. Someone had padlocked it. Chops grinned and nodded, ‘This’ll be what we are looking for.’
          Holding the torch and sawn-off shotgun in one arm Minty pulled the crowbar out of his pants. ‘You do it,’ he said to Chops.
          Chops shoved the .45 into his belt and slammed the wedge end of the pry-bar into the metal hasp of the lock. Grunting slightly he pulled on it, the bolts holding the lock to the door squealed and tore free. Something thudded against the door. Minty thought he could hear a muffled moaning coming from inside the room. ‘You hear that?’ Chops ignored him and jammed the bar into the edge of the door frame. Levering it out until the door popped and almost opened. The smell coming out of this room made the kid’s room smell like a rose-garden.
          Chops forced his way into the room, what ever was blocking the door gave way and the door swung wide. The windows in the room had been long boarded up. A table where the drugs were weighed and packaged had been knocked over. White powder and little plastic bags were scattered everywhere. Footprints smeared on the floor, like people had been shuffling around, pacing endlessly in the room. Something worse than the smell in the room made Minty hang back. Chops had his gun up and the torch held level with it, like a cop on a raid Minty thought.
          They came at the big biker out of the dark. A Latino and a black woman, their mouths open wide and drooling some kind of frothy pus. Both of them were moaning, making a grown up version of the wet-lung noise the baby made. Chops didn’t say a word; he shot the guy in the face. The heavy .45 boomed like a cannon in the room. The flash cast long Halloween shadows up the walls.
          The woman was on Chops before he could adjust his aim. She grabbed his arm and sank her teeth into his tattooed flesh. Chops howled, and pressed the pistol against the top of the head. He fired immediately and the back of the woman’s skull exploded. Hair and skull fragments splattered against the floor, dark blood glowing against the snow white powder.
          Minty pulled Chops out of the way, he gritted his teeth and clutched his wounded arm. ‘Fucking cunt,’ he spat. ‘Fucking cunt!’
          ‘Did you see the money?’ Minty warily ducked inside the room. The two bodies lay still on the floor. Both of them a stinking mess. They’d been chewing on themselves or each other for a while. Big chunks of flesh were missing from the dead man’s arms. The woman’s neck was a ragged mess of bites and open wounds. Wishing he’s brought duct-tape to attach the torch to the shotgun Minty paused in front of a closet door. Hearing nothing, he reached out and twisted the handle. The door popped open, an avalanche of loose bills spilled out on the floor. Shoe boxes, shopping bags and a kid’s school backpack, all overflowing with creased bundles of cash.

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

Tankbread Cover

Tankbread Sample

The Asian across the table from me is tearing great gobs of warm flesh from his girlfriend’s neck. Tendons and tissue hang from his mouth in bloody spaghetti strands while his jaw works tirelessly to consume. He chews her like gum.
The skull of the small dog, cooked and served on the plate between us, has me thinking the Asian is Korean. The crisped flesh with the dark ginger sauce and the crusty roasted eyes are probably a delicacy, I could be wrong or course, he might not be Korean. The cooked eyes might be garbage.
I look away from the dog head. It’s making me salivate in a way I’m not comfortable with. The Asian casually pushes the girl away. She hasn’t resisted him, cried out or shown fear. She’s Tankbread.
‘You like dog?’ The Asian’s voice is thick with juice but eloquent for one of his kind.
‘Reminds me of a pet I once had.’ I reply and let my right hand slide over the handgrip of the sawn-off shotgun holstered to my thigh.
‘Ha-ha! You had good dog yes? Now you good dog.’ Evol humour I suppose. Maybe some geek has written a paper on it. Something for the other geeks to consider as they push out Tankbread and keep us from taking that final step into extinction. The Asian leans forward, his eyes clouded, like dead fish eyes, but I can feel his intelligence shining through.
‘We do business now. You deal, you get dog.’
As far as opening offers go, I’ve had worse. Usually of the ‘Do what I say or get butt-fucked with a bayonet,’ pedigree.
‘I’m listening,’ it is true in the literal sense. I’m listening so hard I can barely think. The space behind us is filled with evols and the humans who serve them. Some of the walking dead are chowing down on Tankbread. The room echoes with the wet sound of living flesh being torn from bone. The low murmur of zombie growls muffled only by the thick wads of raw meat they are gorging on. And there’s the smell. Slow decay, the nostril-clogging stink of flesh starting to rot. You get used to it. You become immune or your nose just gives up and says screw it, this stench is normal. Fresh air is what smells odd now.
‘I’m listening.’ I’m listening for the one chance an outlaw like me can have. The early days of hunting these zombie pricks have long passed. It’s a new world order and each of us have to stake our claim and exercise our Darwinian right to exist.
‘You go to Opera House, tell them Soo-Yong send you. Bring back what they give you. Bring to me here.’
He knows I’ve understood. There is a change in his expression from the determined focus required for the formation of thought and words ,, to the more basic recognition of meat emotions. His grey lips constrict into a grin that goes well beyond mere rictus.
‘And what’s in it for me?’ I ask the age old question that was Yang to his Yin. Judas would have asked the same thing.
‘Passage, vehicle, supplies. You can run away like a bad dog.’
I swallowed. I wasn’t in a position to argue, but I could sure act like negotiating might be an option. ‘There’s some wild turf between us and the House. Whatcha got to get me there?’
‘Motorcycle, four litre fuel for bike. Two round for that shotgun. Fare for the boatman. House give you same for return. But must bring back what they give you or…’ Soo-Yong didn’t need to waste his rotting brains on spelling it out. Fuck it up, and I was worse than dead.
The evols do fine if they have time to marshal their thoughts, think things through and arrive at the same conclusion that you or I could come to in seconds. Except with them, it can take hours.
How the hell did they end up ruling the world?
I ate the roast dog while I waited, crouched in the evening shade under a tattered canvas awning. The diner, in the eastern suburbs of Sydney was run by meat, that’s live folk like you and me. They were the people who’d gotten over the crawling revulsion that the living felt for our zombie masters and worked for them. Doing shit like cooking dogs in ginger sauce for the occasional living diner like me and tending the tankbread.
All of us who are older than twenty-something still remember the war, the apocalypse, the end-of-the-fucking-world. Call it what you want, it all refers to when the dead started coming back to life and attacking the living. It’s the sort of shit we used to go to the Drive In to see. We used to go see movies about all kinds of things back in the day. Now we live in a state of cold war. Some of us have gone crazy, some of us are holed up in secure compounds and some of us are kissing dead arse. Yet we keep telling ourselves--at least we’re alive, right?
Evols, zombies, the walking dead. Early on, when TV still worked and we thought we had a chance, some geek labelled the risen dead as Extremely Violent Lucid Organisms. Evol was easier to Tweet and the moniker caught on around the world. Almost as fast as the virus, or meteor or toxic waste, or genetic engineering experiment. We still don’t know what caused the mess. When someone dies you destroy their brain or they get up again and start trying to eat whoever is close. What the geeks call the infection factor is transmitted by undead body fluids in contact with open wounds. I’ve never seen anyone survive a zombie bite.
There was a little time between my accepting the job from Soo-Yong and sitting astride a beaten up trail bike watching closely as exactly four litres of fuel was measured into the tank by one of Soo-Yong’s mob. He must have been thinking about this for a while.
The bike took some starting and evols don’t like loud noises. When the engine backfired the bunch that were hanging around set to moaning and shuffling in that way they do when agitated. I was sweating ice water throughout the next three pumps on the kick-start before the bike came to life.
Soo-Yong handed over the two shotgun rounds last, carefully wrapped in a scrap of old tinfoil. The foil was a valuable item in itself. I hadn’t seen tinfoil in I didn’t know how long. The fare for the boatman was in a stained sack on a rope, which I looped and tied over my shoulder.
I didn’t stop to wave, or make a speech; they wouldn’t have listened anyway. I tore out of the diner car park, past the burned out shells of long abandoned cars and through the streets of the evol-controlled sector of the city. The dead were walking the streets, they had no concern for day or night, and it was now well dark. They just got out and wandered around, reliving some parody of their former lives. The geeks said it was part of their re-evolution. The walking dead were reinforcing synaptic links by repetition of learned behaviour.
It still freaks me out to see them stumbling around, lining up for buses that will never come, wandering through decaying shops in silent malls, and no doubt when, whatever internal clock they are setting their time by tells them to, they go home and try to fuck their putrescent wives.
Meat live here too; the survivors who refuse to give up their nice north Sydney homes in suburbs like Roseville. They’re usually in well barricaded apartment buildings or parks. They keep some livestock, a sheep or a goat. I even saw a cow once, calmly chewing it’s cud in a rooftop garden. With no fence or tether to stop it stampeding over the edge and falling 13 floors to the empty street below. The city dwelling meat are hard-core survivalists and they tend to keep to themselves. I guess they know they are one failed crop away from cannibalism.
I rode through a silent city. Zombies, both solo and in small packs caught on to the noise of the bike and started following. There was never enough Tankbread to go around and most of these were feral zeds. A steady diet of ‘bread kept the evols who could get their hands on it intelligent and almost civil. Regardless, I usually walked, scuttled or scurried from shadow to bolt hole when I had to travel. The dead are everywhere and they have a taste for human flesh.  There’s been as much speculation as to why the dead attack the living as there has been about what caused them to get up in the first place. All I know for sure is that if they are eating tankbread, they aren’t eating me.
Many small communities in the great Sydney ruin would let me stay for a day or a night in exchange for some news or whatever job needed doing. Never longer; food was always a problem and they didn’t like extra mouths to feed.
Crossing the Sydney harbour is always risky and I don’t do it often. The bridge was blown back in the early days. No one thought ahead far enough to realise that evols don’t need to breathe. Whatever need was driving them on would push them into the water, along the septic bottom and up the other side.
They came out of the dark water, clambering and falling over the abandoned tables and chairs of the restaurants and cafes that lined the waterfront to scale the harbour side barricades.
I remember the screaming. It seemed constant, people just screamed and screamed during those dark times. We called it The Great Panic and I never got used to it. Though I miss the noise now that the world is so quiet.
The dead got through all our defences of course, they always did. Every one of us that fell became another one of them. The siege mentality and a need to secure a large number of civilians made the Sydney Opera House an obvious choice. So it was there, at the living heart of the greatest city in Australia that we made our final stand. The slaughter stopped at the barricades on those iconic steps.
Some survivors call it The War. It wasn’t a war. It was a fight to survive. We haven’t won it yet, and I don’t see how we ever can. In time we will die out, Tankbread or no Tankbread. We have a limited usefulness and if the evols haven’t figured it out yet they will eventually. Like they seem to with everything else.
I rode down the Pacific Highway, passing empty shops and dead faces. There was nothing worth scrounging from here anymore, it had all been stripped years ago. First, anything that could be used as a weapon, then food and finally anything that would burn, could be used as shelter or traded for food. The dead don’t need to eat to survive like us living folk, but they have a hunger. Tankbread soothe that, like a nicotine patch for a heavy smoker.
At the corner of Pacific and Freeman I came up on a roadblock. There were no dead around and this wasn’t their style. I stopped the bike, acting casual as I glanced around, looking for movement. The zombies following me hadn’t caught up yet, but they were coming.
The intersection had been sealed off with wrecked cars. I waited, the bike idling away underneath me, burning through the precious few litres of fuel I had.
With a flash of movement he appeared first on a balcony of the apartment building on my left. I kept looking around because he might have had buddies lining me up for a shot. A minute later a thin figure with long grey hair and beard appeared on the other side of the cars. He wore a business shirt that might have been white once and a filth encrusted tie. ‘Hey mate,’ he said in greeting. I switched the bike off and stroked the butt of the shotgun on my thigh.
‘Evening,’ I couldn’t hear the evols coming up behind me yet, but I could feel the skin between my shoulder blades crawling in anticipation.
‘Say,’ the guy wiped his matted hair back from his eyes. ‘Got any food to trade mate?’
‘Nope.’ It was true. I didn't have shit, the roast dog was the first decent meal I’d eaten in days. The man licked his lips and glanced back at the open door way of the apartment building.
‘You gotta have something,’ he paced up and down on the other side of the blockade. ‘We are dying here man. Rats got into my supplies. There’s no more cans you know? No fucking cans!’
‘It’s hard all over. How about you shift this car and let me through?’
‘Wait, wait, I got something you want. Yeah I got something every guy wants. Wait right there.’ He darted back into the shadows and re-emerged with two kids in tow. One a girl, maybe fourteen years old, bone thin, small breasts, and long dreadlocked hair adorned with bottle caps and shards of shiny plastic. She wore a long singlet and her legs were pockmarked with sores and scabs. The other kid was an even younger boy. As thin as the girl, his hair hung down past his shoulders too. He wore nothing but a pair of stained underpants that he held up with one hand under his swollen belly.
‘Gimme some food and you can fuck my girl. She’s a great cock-sucker. Just a can, some meat. Anything man and you can do her all night,’ He pulled the girl forward and swept her hair back, tilting her face up so I could get a clear look. ‘Maybe you like boys? You can fuck him too if you want. He kinda looks like a girl anyway.’
‘I told you man, I don’t have any food.’ Now I could hear them, the slow gait and moans of the dead. A whispering hiss of dry flesh shuffling down the street towards us. When the dead move they attract others, and crowds form quickly, which can mean certain death if they corner you.
‘Listen,’ I hissed at the bearded man. ‘You hear that? There’s a parade of evols coming up behind me, and if you don’t clear the way they are going to be all over you and your kids and then food is going to be the least of your problems.’
He started pawing the girl’s breasts, doing the hard sell, I pushed the bike’s kickstand down and climbed over the barricade.
The guy snatched at the sack over my shoulder. It had nothing for him in it, just my fare across the harbour. I pulled it out of his reach and yanked the car door open. Twisting the wheel I pushed back, rolling it slowly out of the blockade and opening up enough space to ride through.
‘Please, we are fucked, completely fucked!’ Shirt and Tie was crying, tears streaking white in the grime on his cheeks.
           ‘Dance for the man baby, show him you’re sexy.’ He pushed his daughter at me. She started twisting and moving in a listless way. I got the car moved and jogged back to the bike. Dark silhouettes appeared from the darkness down the street. I kicked the bike to life and rolled through past the family. ‘You might want to get out of here,’ I called as I rode past. I didn’t look back again and focused on putting distance between me and the following dead.

Tankbread News

Tankbread is ready to go to print. I've got some great feedback on it from various sources and I have been hitting up various famous horror writers for a one-line cover review - something like 'This book does not suck!' Got some heavy-weights agreeing to give it a shot. Nice.

I'm going to post the first chapter (or two) here as a sample.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Not My Daisy

With Not My Daisy we return to the realms of insanity. It's a recurring theme in the collection and one that seems to have an inexhaustible wellspring of stories for me to write.

The idea of a man who is clearly insane from the get go allowed me to explore what fears a serial killer has. He isn't some all powerful destroyer and corrupter. He is a terrified and anxious individual who is doing what he can to keep his world safe and pure. Of course along the way a lot of innocent girls are going to suffer horrific deaths at his hands.

Loose Lips

A complete change of pace for the collection, 'Loose Lips' is a previously unpublished bizarro story. I've been a fan of all manner of insane writing for a long time. Jeremy C. Shipp is one of my favourite bizarro authors and his writing can be somewhat mild compared to others like Cameron Pierce. Lips is a change of pace for the collection, and the first of the non-horror stories therein. It is however still a strange tale and that's why it is included.

In The Weeds

The next story in 'The Man Who Could Not Climb Stairs and Other Strange Stories' was first published by Altair Books Australia in the 'Leaves of Blood' anthology this story was written around the idea of plant based horror. I immediately thought of biological warfare, and the sort of crazy things they might have come up with during the Vietnam War era. It was suggested at the time by the editor that the building in the story was an under-utilised horror element and I intend to revisit The Botanical Warfare Facility in a future story.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

The Birth

First published by now defunct magazine 'The Willows,' this story was an homage to HP Lovecraft and the weird Universe he created. It's a pastiche but many great writers have done that, each one adding to the Cthulhu Mythos with their own macabre tales.
All the usual elements are there. An intellectual male, strident in his belief in science, finds himself in a situation that cannot be explained or perhaps survived.

I've always loved HP Lovecraft's stories. Mostly because they don't generally have happy endings. That in itself creates a sense of realism that is lacking in most fiction.

Too often there is the expectation that good will triumph over evil, that the good guys will win. But horror doesn't require that. One of the best elements of horror is when we realise that in fact, we can never be the same again. There can be no return to the safe ignorance of before. The reader, like the protagonist, is transformed by their experience.

Extinction Event

A bit Ray Bradbury, a bit Twilight Zone. The idea for Extinction Event came from the title. Extinction Events are mass extinctions, caused by asteroid impacts, pandemics, climate change etc. So what if you wanted to host one?

The personality quirks of Lionel are there to add an additional dimension to the horror. It makes his personal experience even more terrifying. It also gives credence to his fears...

After Lights Out

I'm going to write a series of short story essays. Kind of an author's notes for the stories found in my short story collection.

The first story is 'After Lights Out.'

Set in a private boys school, this story explores the issues of discipline and the generation gap that exists between adolescents and the senior teachers. My family went to boarding school. My brother was a senior when I started at Nelson College. It was very Lord of The Flies. I could write an entire book about it - but it might end up banned. I only went to boarding school for one year. After that my parents decided to move me and my older sister back to a co-ed school in the city we had moved to from the farm I grew up on.

Violence is common in boarding schools. Angry young men in a strict hierarchical system it's quite Darwinian. I broke another kid's leg in a fight. 

Because it's fiction I take the story of After Lights Out to a different level. I like the idea of insanity from the madman's point of view. I think there is a definite sense of clarity in irrational acts. It goes beyond justification - the truly crazy are doing exactly what they know to be right. It's an evangelical state of mind. Everything becomes black and white and the consequences are irrelevant - because the absolute knowledge that you are right.

So we are treated to a clear descent into madness, or senility or is it just the kind of discipline that the youth of today really need? It's the complete calmness of the protagonist that is the unsettling element.

The Man Who Could Not Climb Stairs and Other Strange Stories

I set myself a goal that before my 40th birthday I would have something substantial of my won published. I managed that by self-publishing (currently through Amazon) a short story collection of 21 tales of the weird and the strange and the horrific. 'The Man Who Could Not Climb Stairs and Other Strange Stories' is available as an ebook for Kindle (which means it's available through the Kindle device and all the free apps for reading the Amazon ebook format.

Where could you end up if the only way were down?
An alien invasion requires catering…
A school master has an answer to the problem of insolent boys…
Halloween in a town where it’s terror or treat…
A stowaway to the stars holds humanity’s future in his hands…
A pregnant man has an insane mid-wife…
In a distant future lumberjacks murder trees on the edge of space…
A doll collector who will do anything to keep his girls pure…
A coroner conducts an autopsy and opens a gateway to Hell…

The print version should be out by the end of October.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

I'd rather be read than rich!

When Amazon's top sellers are the cheapest e-books even the main-stream publishers are taking notes.

Consider that with Amazon if you sell an e-book through them at $2.99 you get $2.00

At $0.99 you get 35 cents.

If a top seller sells 75,000 copies a month at $2.99 and 3780,000 copies at $0.99 he makes a comparable income of over $128,000 a month (less tax) the key difference is that at $2.99 he makes that by only selling 75,000 copies, and at $0.99 he sells over 370,000

All writers will tell you they would rather have readers than income. Most of my published work never earns me a dime - but a recent check on BrokenSea's Doctor Who series download stats shows we have over 2000 downloads a week. Not bad for minimal promotion on our part.

My self-published books this year are going to be sold for $0.99 cents. That's a couple years worth of work for each of them and I value it at a lot more - but I have a job. I don't need to sell books to eat or pay rent.

I'd rather be read than rich!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Inside the cordon

I went into the Christchurch city cordon yesterday, right into the heart of the ruined city. My job was to retrieve personal items from our office building.

There is NOTHING as creepy as being in an empty office building that has been turned over by an earthquake and abandoned for 6 weeks. The smell is really bad (rotting food mostly). It is also quite dark as all the power is off.

I wore a hard-hat and had an LED headlight and the only other person in the building (we have to travel in pairs) was 4 levels below me. This building housed over 800 staff two months ago and they all left in a hurry.

Going up the stairs (in the pitch dark) and going through open plan offices it is eerily quiet. All I could keep thinking is, 'I now know what the zombie apocalypse will really be like.'

As a writer I have never been so inspired, as a resident of Christchurch I have never been so heartbroken to see the destruction.

Writing is good therapy, so I am writing a zombie short story using the earthquake as a vector for the outbreak and some other ideas.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Amazon Reviews

It occurs to me, reading the Amazon reviews of books that I might buy - anything in the 4-5 star strata is automatically ignored. Those people have ignored the faults in the book.

The 3 star raters are apologising for not drinking the Koolaide and loving it.

But the 1-2 star reviewers. Those are the people who read critically.

The ones who hated you since Kindergarten - well they stand out and can be ignored. But this is the reviews you should be reading. They are the ones that note the faults, the flaws and the stupid editing you did.

I often click Yes this was helpful in the reviews - because it is from our critics that we learn. It's a kind of tough-love for a lot of writers.

The recent ROFL of the internet community over Big Al's review of The Greek Seaman is a classic example. The author should have read the review, and gone back and used it to critically edit her own work. Instead she got into a flame war that destroyed her credibility as a writer and invoked an enthusiastic popcorn-munching crowd of specators revelling in someone publically humiliating themselves, over and over again.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

To Publish or to Be Published

That is the question.

I'm facing an intriguing dilemma. I've been reading a lot of differing points of view and considering the opinions of many.

Self-Publishing evangelists like Joe Konrath do the hard sell on how to self-publish and be successful at it. But he also doesn't mention the fact that he did very well through traditional publishing before switching to the self-publishing model that he now espouses.

Joe's interview with Barry Eisler - who turned down a $500,000 contract with his publisher to self-publish is held up as a wonderful example of the truth of self-publishing. What this doesn't mention is that Barry made enough money writing books through traditional publishers for them to offer him $500,000 for his next book. Nice that he could afford to spurn that.

Consider that the publishing house spent a lot of money creating the Eisler brand - his jumping ship and going self-publishing is not as gloriously rebellious as he makes out.

So if I work hard and fluke getting an agent, who flukes getting a publishing contract and they all take their big slice of whatever retail price they set for Tankbread and i get about 14% of that at the end but they pay for everything.

Or I can self-publish.
ISBN numbers are around $250 Australian (closest to NZ$)
Formatting and producing an ebook or a POD through a service like Lulu is either free or next to nothing.
Cover art is coming courtesy of Billy Tackett and I'm paying for that.
The rest is begged and bartered. Editing, proof-reading, marketing etc.

Writing the book is easy - like getting accidentally pregnant - but once the book is "born" you have to raise it - just like a child and that takes a lot of time, patience and energy.

Problem #3: Traditional Publishing Is Not Dead

They call it "Brick and Mortar Publishing" for a reason.

Publishing is a global industry. It's nestled between porn and legal drugs for the amount of money it generates every year.

Porn = $14 billion a year.
Book Publishing = $23-28 billion a year
Pharmaceuticals = $235 billion a year

Which is a lot of money. For the last few hundred years all this money has been tied up in standard print inventory for the main publishing houses. They are the ones who select mostly really good saleable stories, edit them rigorously and then market the hell out of them.

This is an expensive process for a story. Investing a lot of money on a book project means that publishers are very picky about what they consider. Which is where agents came from. Agents are now also very picky about what they consider - which is why the self-publishing industry and it's evil twin vanity publishing - have evolved. That and technology for both production and sale of books.

A lot has been said about how traditional publishing houses are dying out - book stores are closing, publishing houses are also closing. But a lot of them are not. A lot of books are still being bought and read and new best selling authors are being discovered every day.

Best selling authors are discovered much like Columbus discovered America - they've always been there - doing their thing - and it wasn't until someone with a lot of money to invest realised that they could make huge profits out of them that they got any attention at all.

So traditional publishing isn't going to die out. Ebooks will change the way we expect to buy books, but the Big NYC Publishing Houses will continue to produce product and maybe they will eventually embrace the idea of ebooks to the point where they will stop pretending that a revolution on the way books are produced and consumed isn't actually happening.

Problem #2: Your editor is a worse writer than you are.

Someone edited Twilight
I am a fan of Reasoning With Vampires – the blog that analyses the publishing equivalent of Godzilla – that is the Twilight saga.

The posts pointing out just how awful Bella and her sparkly pals are secondary in importance to the analysis of why the writing (and editing) of these novels is just so bad.

Twilight is a great example of filling a market with shit – because people will buy it because they don’t care that it is shit.

As a writer I study Dana's blog because it tells me why I should structure my sentences in a certain way. Why I should use punctuation in a certain way and why good editing is essential.

I do a lot of editing. I edit my own work (over and over again), I critique other people’s work (and have been asked to leave some critique groups because I give objective feedback not constant praise and gushy circle-jerking hugs over complete crap).

I've had some positive feedback, people who recognise that as an editor I don't know you, I don't care about you and I'm not telling you what is wrong with your story or chapter because I am an asshole. It's because I don't care about anything but the words in front of me and the story those words are trying to tell. 

A self-published author told me recently that my edit of the first chapter of his current novel project picked up things that a $1200 professional edit did not.

I start asking myself if maybe I should be offering my editorial services for a fee. 

But back to Twilight, someone was actually paid to edit those novels. They ignored the atrocious writing, punctuation abuse and other obvious faults and rubber stamped the manuscript for publication. 

Actual editing had nothing to do with the publishing process of Twilight. Marketing was the only department that had any input on that job.

Editors are essential. Finding one who is worth the fees they charge is a challenge - but no book should be published by anyone without a decent edit by an objective third party.

Problem #1 with Self-Publishing.

Your story is shit.

Some people can't actually write. 

Of course this isn't you. Your mum loves your novel. Your writing group think it's great (as long as you say the same about their sample chapter). Vanity publishers are falling over themselves to make special offers that will make publishing your opus a breeze! They even want to give you FREE copies of your book with every publishing package you buy! 

All his praise and attention leaves amateur writers completely blind to the fact they can't write for shit.

 We all know a lot of people who call themselves "writers" or "authors" and yay for them. But think of all the things you do on a daily basis - do you refer to yourself by something you do, but don't get paid for? 

Every time a "writer" declares themselves as such - inquire as to their publishing history. If they haven't got a publishing history they shouldn't be calling themselves writers any more than a teenage boy should be calling himself a "masturbator". 

Not actually being able to write is however no barrier to a writing career earning real money. The important step that is so easily skipped over - is learning how to write. It's up to the individual how they learn to write. Take a class, get a degree, read hundreds of books, and write every day. All standard advice from famous authors for hundreds of years.

The key thing is that no one just writes – you learn it like any other skill and keep learning it until you stop doing it.

I have a lot to say.

I resurrected this blog (last posted December 13, 2006!) to post on the process of creating what I hope will be my debut novel, Tankbread.

I wrote an initial post about the current self-publishing vs traditional publishing debate - but 3000 words later I figured I should probably break it up into specific posts. This is the introduction. More posts to follow...
The internet has been abuzz with chatter about traditional publishing models compared to self-publishing. No one has yet identified the true issue - which has nothing to do with how you are published - but what you are publishing.
 The traditional publishing system has the weight of millions of dollars behind your novel. This makes it highly likely that more potential customers will see your book on store shelves.

The problems start when you start noticing the number of those stores that are closing down. Going out of business. No longer being available as a place for your publisher to put your product.

Ebooks and Print On Demand (POD) are the solution - but therein lies the problems with all publishing.

Next post Problem #1 with self-publishing.