Apart from all that palaver above, I do have some fresh pieces I’m working on, or at least, am supposed to be working on. Nothing upcoming in print: the last year has seen very little in new short story material and what I do have is in slushpiles here and there at the time of writing. However, I currently have on my thumb drive:
At the End There Was a Man: a straight SF piece (something I haven’t written in the longest time) I’ll be submitting to the upcoming Cour de Lion’s anthology Anywhere But Earth, which currently weighs in at a smidgeon over 4400 words.
Europe After The Rain: I’ve been wanting to write something inspired by one of my favourite works of art, the incredible Max Ernst painting of the same name. When Fablecroft Press announced the submission guidelines for their upcoming anthology, with the title After The Rain , welllll……. The Dresden fire bombing, golems, Hitler Youth: I’m definitely in the saddle on this one :)
Attacking Waters: Horrible title, but it’s only a place marker until the real title is washed up by the text. Seven cowards, from different times and places scattered throughout history, meet in a Budapest backstreet bar and head out for a mythical city that can only be found when there is nowhere else to run. But when they get there, something starts hunting them…. 750 words in, so far, and no pressure to send it to anywhere specific as it’s completely on-spec, so this is one I’m doing for fun.
So, you know, along with finishing the long-overdue edits on Napoleone’s Land and Corpse-Rat King. Enough to be going on with…
Monday, August 02, 2010
OCCASIONAL WRITING, WITH MUSIC
What an interesting couple of weeks it’s been, my friends. Lots of sound and movement, signifying…. well, signifying something, I suppose.
There’s been a lot of writing work happening, although, bizarrely, very little actual writing. I started by attending Toe In The Ocean writing festival in Warnbro on the 17th, where I delivered a 90 minute SF/F writing workshop to just over a dozen attendees, many of whom had never dipped their toes (see how I work that in? See, see?....) into the genre, so it was really energising to see them wrestling with conceits they had never before encountered: once you start getting into unicorn horn physics you really have everyone’s attention…. I also spent some time in the ever-lovely company of Tehani Wessely and managed to catch up with Heidi Kneale, whom I’ve not bumped into for far too long, so it was a damn good day all round.
And it seems to have rubbed off on some of the writers who attended, as well: this morning I received an email invite to join a new writer’s group that has sprung up in the wake of the festival: The Full Time/Part Time Writer’s Group, who will be meeting once a month, starting this weekend.
Anybody who’s in the Rockingham region might be interested in the following set of details:
The Full Time/ Part Time Writers Group
The problem: For those of us who work full time, it can be hard to find the time to write, let alone talk about it!
The solution: We’ve decided to form a writing group that meets the first Saturday in every month, in the Rockingham area.
The inaugural meeting will be held 10.00am, Saturday 7th August at the Dome on the Rockingham foreshore (15 Kent Street).
Anyone can join; you don’t have to be a full time worker, just willing to have a little fun.
To get to know each other, for the first week write 100 words about yourself from a different point of view and bring it to the meeting…
Join us on Facebook: Rockingham Full Time/ Part Time Writers Group:
If you have any questions, please contact group organiser Eryn Bicker
I’ve also been heavily immersed in the creation of an online SF course for a writing institution on the East Coast, which currently involves reading scads and scads of free online SF for use as reading materials (Awwwwww, shame :) ) If you can, I thoroughly recommend heading over to Project Guttenberg, as I did, and settling in to read Mary Shelley’s almost-forgotten masterpiece The Last Man – an astonishing piece of work that deserves to be remembered far more than it is. Consider this my public service education announcement of the day :)
It’s interesting work, preparing an extended course in this manner—it’s designed to be 6 weeks in length, performed and assessed completely on-line, and powered by the Moodle engine, and as I’m determined to include reading material with each lesson it’s resulting in me having to complete a self-paced crash course in creating copyright contracts and lesson planning. Still, once it’s all finished and up on the site I think I’ll be as proud of it as anything I’ve achieved in writing so far. I enjoy teaching writing: it’s a buzz to watch concepts hit home in a student, and creating something that (hopefully) will run for multiple sessions over an extended period of time feels like I’m giving something significant back to the genre that spawned me. I think it’s time to get business cards drawn up that say “The James Gunn of Mandurah Science Fiction”……
I’ve also spent a fair amount of time swearing into a microphone whilst feebly attempting to record two stories for Coeur De Lion Publishing’s excellent podcast series ‘Terra Incognita’. Assuming the ever-brilliant Keith Stevenson can assemble something from the combination of mondegreens, mis-pronunciations and bad boy words I’ve sent him, somewhere in the future you should be able to hear Father Muerte & the Flesh and/or In From the Snow in my dulcet tones down your earphones. In the meantime, there are over 20 much more erudite and capable authors than myself in the TISF archives: go, listen, enjoy.
In between, there have been a couple of reprint sales: ASIM have picked up two pieces for their upcoming “Best of Vol.2” series— the story I co-authored with Nigel Read, Instinct, will be appearing in their “Horror” volume, whilst my poem Working for a Greener Narrative will appear in the “Fantasy” volume. I’m particularly chuffed about the latter—it’s the first time I’ve had a poem reprinted, much less chosen for a Best Of, so it’s a very pleasing achievement.
There’s been a lot of writing work happening, although, bizarrely, very little actual writing. I started by attending Toe In The Ocean writing festival in Warnbro on the 17th, where I delivered a 90 minute SF/F writing workshop to just over a dozen attendees, many of whom had never dipped their toes (see how I work that in? See, see?....) into the genre, so it was really energising to see them wrestling with conceits they had never before encountered: once you start getting into unicorn horn physics you really have everyone’s attention…. I also spent some time in the ever-lovely company of Tehani Wessely and managed to catch up with Heidi Kneale, whom I’ve not bumped into for far too long, so it was a damn good day all round.
And it seems to have rubbed off on some of the writers who attended, as well: this morning I received an email invite to join a new writer’s group that has sprung up in the wake of the festival: The Full Time/Part Time Writer’s Group, who will be meeting once a month, starting this weekend.
Anybody who’s in the Rockingham region might be interested in the following set of details:
The Full Time/ Part Time Writers Group
The problem: For those of us who work full time, it can be hard to find the time to write, let alone talk about it!
The solution: We’ve decided to form a writing group that meets the first Saturday in every month, in the Rockingham area.
The inaugural meeting will be held 10.00am, Saturday 7th August at the Dome on the Rockingham foreshore (15 Kent Street).
Anyone can join; you don’t have to be a full time worker, just willing to have a little fun.
To get to know each other, for the first week write 100 words about yourself from a different point of view and bring it to the meeting…
Join us on Facebook: Rockingham Full Time/ Part Time Writers Group:
If you have any questions, please contact group organiser Eryn Bicker
I’ve also been heavily immersed in the creation of an online SF course for a writing institution on the East Coast, which currently involves reading scads and scads of free online SF for use as reading materials (Awwwwww, shame :) ) If you can, I thoroughly recommend heading over to Project Guttenberg, as I did, and settling in to read Mary Shelley’s almost-forgotten masterpiece The Last Man – an astonishing piece of work that deserves to be remembered far more than it is. Consider this my public service education announcement of the day :)
It’s interesting work, preparing an extended course in this manner—it’s designed to be 6 weeks in length, performed and assessed completely on-line, and powered by the Moodle engine, and as I’m determined to include reading material with each lesson it’s resulting in me having to complete a self-paced crash course in creating copyright contracts and lesson planning. Still, once it’s all finished and up on the site I think I’ll be as proud of it as anything I’ve achieved in writing so far. I enjoy teaching writing: it’s a buzz to watch concepts hit home in a student, and creating something that (hopefully) will run for multiple sessions over an extended period of time feels like I’m giving something significant back to the genre that spawned me. I think it’s time to get business cards drawn up that say “The James Gunn of Mandurah Science Fiction”……
I’ve also spent a fair amount of time swearing into a microphone whilst feebly attempting to record two stories for Coeur De Lion Publishing’s excellent podcast series ‘Terra Incognita’. Assuming the ever-brilliant Keith Stevenson can assemble something from the combination of mondegreens, mis-pronunciations and bad boy words I’ve sent him, somewhere in the future you should be able to hear Father Muerte & the Flesh and/or In From the Snow in my dulcet tones down your earphones. In the meantime, there are over 20 much more erudite and capable authors than myself in the TISF archives: go, listen, enjoy.
In between, there have been a couple of reprint sales: ASIM have picked up two pieces for their upcoming “Best of Vol.2” series— the story I co-authored with Nigel Read, Instinct, will be appearing in their “Horror” volume, whilst my poem Working for a Greener Narrative will appear in the “Fantasy” volume. I’m particularly chuffed about the latter—it’s the first time I’ve had a poem reprinted, much less chosen for a Best Of, so it’s a very pleasing achievement.
Monday, July 05, 2010
SPECIAL LOYALTY BONUS BIT
Some stories sing. Some howl at the moon like the love child of Boo Radley and a Gong Show contestant. Others, well, others sing, but really, it’s only in the shower, once the wife and kids have gone out, and nobody is around to take the piss because the story happens to know all the words to Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go and insists on doing all of George Michael’s dance moves in the wet, slippery nude.
After the number of rejections the following story has received, I’ve worked out which song it’s singing, and it’s short enough that those of you who care can experience a free read of a story that never quite made it.
So, for your reading pleasure, or otherwise, a freebie:
Meanwhile, in a cubicle some way distant from the main story, a man sat back from his computer’s strobing screen, loosened his tie, and experienced the type of epiphany the rest of us have to watch the right movie to believe in.
Orders died part-way up the throats of generals. Massed ranks of slavering Orc-demons checked their watches, shuffled from foot to foot to keep the circulation going, and glanced about, calculating the chances of maybe, just for a minute, dropping their battle shields and lighting a quick fag without anyone in command catching them at it. Far above, in a sky so distant it was more velvet than blue, the intercontinental bombers of the US Air Force circled in mile-wide loops like so many hungry seagulls on autopilot. Cards were dealt. Bets were placed. Coins changed hands in silent camaraderie. All except for one lonely aircraft at the periphery of the armada, where a role-playing game called ‘Mafia’ entered its third round.
It could all resume at any moment. The war for truth. Or freedom. Justice. You know. That one.
Any moment at all.
#
No longer defined by his cubicle, so insignificant to the scheme of things that I don’t even know his name to tell you, not even really our hero, the man closed his boss’ door for the last time, took a moment to drain the last cold swish of coffee from his cup, and dropped his security pass at the front desk. A puff of air-conditioned cold pushed him from the building forever. He inhaled the smells of the street, looked left, then right, and strode away, the cardboard box in his grasp holding the few reminders he wished to retain.
In an unnamed pass, high in a mountain range at the edge of the world, turbaned teenagers passed around spliffs and tuned a radio to catch the latest scores. Men in balaclavas clung to ropes above them, calling out “There, no there, there!” in strange accents as the static receded. Deep within the most important building in the world, a silver-haired man in a suit more expensive then your life threw a red telephone against the wall and sat with his arms crossed, glowering at the world he imagined lay outside.
Queens trumped Jacks. Shields were lowered. A tail gunner looked at his crewmates, smiled convincingly, and said “I am not Mafia” as they voted.
Nothing was over, of course. Not without some sort of resolution. It would never cease, no matter what happened at this moment. But just for this moment, this one, small moment...
#
After dinner, with a newly-purchased bouquet fanned out above the lip of a vase, and a half-bottle of red between them on the carpet, the man with no cubicle shared his epiphany with his wife, and held his breath.
Orc-demons stared at one another. Pilots looked up from their cards. The most important building in the world grew silent. As far as a galaxy far, far away, even as far as that, weapons were lowered. Everyone stopped, and waited, and watched.
The man’s wife reached out and ran a single fingernail down the side of his jaw.
“I love you so much,” she said, and brought his smile down to her lips.
#
A soccer ball struck the mud midway between two lines of trenches. Slowly at first, then with greater assurance, men of both sides emerged to shake hands, to hug, to swap chocolate and whiskey and photographs from home.
By the time the man and his wife turned off the lights and drew each other down onto the bed, a new game was well underway.
------
After the number of rejections the following story has received, I’ve worked out which song it’s singing, and it’s short enough that those of you who care can experience a free read of a story that never quite made it.
So, for your reading pleasure, or otherwise, a freebie:
INVADED BY AN INTIMATE STORYLINE
Meanwhile, in a cubicle some way distant from the main story, a man sat back from his computer’s strobing screen, loosened his tie, and experienced the type of epiphany the rest of us have to watch the right movie to believe in.
Orders died part-way up the throats of generals. Massed ranks of slavering Orc-demons checked their watches, shuffled from foot to foot to keep the circulation going, and glanced about, calculating the chances of maybe, just for a minute, dropping their battle shields and lighting a quick fag without anyone in command catching them at it. Far above, in a sky so distant it was more velvet than blue, the intercontinental bombers of the US Air Force circled in mile-wide loops like so many hungry seagulls on autopilot. Cards were dealt. Bets were placed. Coins changed hands in silent camaraderie. All except for one lonely aircraft at the periphery of the armada, where a role-playing game called ‘Mafia’ entered its third round.
It could all resume at any moment. The war for truth. Or freedom. Justice. You know. That one.
Any moment at all.
#
No longer defined by his cubicle, so insignificant to the scheme of things that I don’t even know his name to tell you, not even really our hero, the man closed his boss’ door for the last time, took a moment to drain the last cold swish of coffee from his cup, and dropped his security pass at the front desk. A puff of air-conditioned cold pushed him from the building forever. He inhaled the smells of the street, looked left, then right, and strode away, the cardboard box in his grasp holding the few reminders he wished to retain.
In an unnamed pass, high in a mountain range at the edge of the world, turbaned teenagers passed around spliffs and tuned a radio to catch the latest scores. Men in balaclavas clung to ropes above them, calling out “There, no there, there!” in strange accents as the static receded. Deep within the most important building in the world, a silver-haired man in a suit more expensive then your life threw a red telephone against the wall and sat with his arms crossed, glowering at the world he imagined lay outside.
Queens trumped Jacks. Shields were lowered. A tail gunner looked at his crewmates, smiled convincingly, and said “I am not Mafia” as they voted.
Nothing was over, of course. Not without some sort of resolution. It would never cease, no matter what happened at this moment. But just for this moment, this one, small moment...
#
After dinner, with a newly-purchased bouquet fanned out above the lip of a vase, and a half-bottle of red between them on the carpet, the man with no cubicle shared his epiphany with his wife, and held his breath.
Orc-demons stared at one another. Pilots looked up from their cards. The most important building in the world grew silent. As far as a galaxy far, far away, even as far as that, weapons were lowered. Everyone stopped, and waited, and watched.
The man’s wife reached out and ran a single fingernail down the side of his jaw.
“I love you so much,” she said, and brought his smile down to her lips.
#
A soccer ball struck the mud midway between two lines of trenches. Slowly at first, then with greater assurance, men of both sides emerged to shake hands, to hug, to swap chocolate and whiskey and photographs from home.
By the time the man and his wife turned off the lights and drew each other down onto the bed, a new game was well underway.
------
MY DAY JOB AND YOUR PART IN IT. MAYBE.
As part of the literary focus of my job here with the City of Rockingham, I’m in the process of creating a register of local writers, in order to build a database of writers in the Rockingham region. The City already keeps a roster of Artists, enabling us to communicate news of competitions, opportunities, events and the like. Now I want to do the same for writers.
If it’s of interest to you, and you’re in the area (or, at least, close enough to the area: remember, I once joined the Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild by persuading them that Perth was a Western suburb of Canberra......) you might want to contact me.
It is to be noted: a) all details are private and won’t be released to anyone outside City of Rockingham employees; it’s purely an internal database, and b) the intent is not to create a nuisance list or telemarketing list, rather, it’s a list of people to whom I can send such writing related info as comes my way, should I think it appropriate, so my intention is not to bombard you with a million emails a day. However, if there is a City of Rockingham event that might fit your expertise profile, you may get contacted by someone not-me asking if you’re interested. That I cannot control......
If that’s fine, get in touch. Put “Writer’s Register” in the subject line of your email, and include the following in the text: Name; Address; Phone Number; Mobile; Email address; Website; “Interests”. And I'll add you to the list.
If it’s of interest to you, and you’re in the area (or, at least, close enough to the area: remember, I once joined the Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild by persuading them that Perth was a Western suburb of Canberra......) you might want to contact me.
It is to be noted: a) all details are private and won’t be released to anyone outside City of Rockingham employees; it’s purely an internal database, and b) the intent is not to create a nuisance list or telemarketing list, rather, it’s a list of people to whom I can send such writing related info as comes my way, should I think it appropriate, so my intention is not to bombard you with a million emails a day. However, if there is a City of Rockingham event that might fit your expertise profile, you may get contacted by someone not-me asking if you’re interested. That I cannot control......
If that’s fine, get in touch. Put “Writer’s Register” in the subject line of your email, and include the following in the text: Name; Address; Phone Number; Mobile; Email address; Website; “Interests”. And I'll add you to the list.
MIDNIGHT ECHO #4 NOW AVAILABLE!
That’s right, after all the chatter and begging you to be patient, the vulture has landed!
12 stories, 3 poems, artwork by 8 talented artists, an interview with Charlaine Harris (author of the Sookie Stackhouse novels), and featuring the creepiest cover known to mankind courtesy of the outstandingly talented Perth artist Justin Randall.
12 stories, 3 poems, artwork by 8 talented artists, an interview with Charlaine Harris (author of the Sookie Stackhouse novels), and featuring the creepiest cover known to mankind courtesy of the outstandingly talented Perth artist Justin Randall.
Costing only $3.50 for a shiny pdf and only $10 if you want us to murder some flora on your behalf. It is, in my humble and entirely non-biased opinion, the single greatest collection of dark fiction in the history of mankind.
Look at those names: Jenny Blackford, Geoff Maloney, LL Hannett, Jason Crowe, Clarion South alumni and rising stars Dan Braum & Christopher Green…. Don’t you just feel your nipples hardening? Don’t you just want to reach for your mother’s credit card and sneak off to the AHWA shop while she lies comatose in front of Wife Swap clutching a half-empty bottle of cooking sherry?
You’ve really got no excuse have you?
There’s an interview with Horrorscope here if you'd like to know more about the hand inside the puppet behind the mind behind the issue, and I’ll even give you a taste of my editorial if it’ll help persuade you. Here, look:
Look at those names: Jenny Blackford, Geoff Maloney, LL Hannett, Jason Crowe, Clarion South alumni and rising stars Dan Braum & Christopher Green…. Don’t you just feel your nipples hardening? Don’t you just want to reach for your mother’s credit card and sneak off to the AHWA shop while she lies comatose in front of Wife Swap clutching a half-empty bottle of cooking sherry?
You’ve really got no excuse have you?
There’s an interview with Horrorscope here if you'd like to know more about the hand inside the puppet behind the mind behind the issue, and I’ll even give you a taste of my editorial if it’ll help persuade you. Here, look:
As I reach the halfway point of my life I have seen monks immolate themselves to protest foreign wars; passenger aircraft driven into buildings; subway air-conditioning used as a tool of religious terrorism. My mother lived through the euphemistically named “Irish Troubles”: even after a decade of living in Australia she was afraid of being in a crowded cafe with a discarded backpack. She was born during The War. Which War? The one big enough and wide-ranging enough that we simply call it “The War”. Atomic science followed. It didn’t give us Godzilla, but Russian orphans with missing limbs and swollen jaws, acromegalic and cancer-shriven. Serial killers are celebrities: we watch movies about Gacy, Bundy, Zodiac, see Jack Unterweger live on television. Serial killers as legend—Hannibal the hero, jaded Jigsaw, delightfully ditzy Dexter. It puts the cream on its hands. It pays to watch vicariously.
#
What was once feared is risible.
HELLO? IS IT ME YOU'RE LOOKING FOR?
I’m still alive.
I realise things have been deader then Dannii Minogue’s career around here lately, but things have changed significantly since last I jotted something down in this space. Reality has eaten my life. My new job— Cultural Development Officer at the City of Rockingham — takes up every ounce of my day: it’s been 17 years since I’ve been anything but a Commonwealth Government employee in my day job world, not discounting a couple of years in the middle where I was afforded the luxury of being a stay-at-home Dad. It’s not just that things are done differently in my new environment, it’s that people think differently, even when confronted by situations that are inherently the same. Whilst it’s been an education to learn just how many attitudes and processes I’ve internalised over the years, breaking out of those modes of thought and adapting to a totally new way of doing business, amongst a completely different set of personalities (people’s personalities are defined by their workspace— another adaptation I’m having to learn) is taking time.
To add to the hilarity, we currently have more than a full house—Darth Barbie has been back with us for the last three months, after having left a relationship which went bad in the way that knife fights go bad when you don’t realise the other guy is packing an M-60, and working through the scars of it has been, well, shall we say, hard for all concerned (Not for him, as far as I can tell. Just hard for those of us who give a damn.) And Aiden, whilst still in year 12, has found a steady girlfriend, who is now his fiancé, and is 15, and is pregnant, but not to him…. Oh yes, it’s a simple life we lead.
Somewhere in the haze of get up-go to work-come home-have dinner-take part in the latest crisis-watch the World Cup-snatch a couple of hours sleep-get up that my days have become, there has been writerly stuff. Not actual writing, you understand, that’s just crazy talk, but associated writerly stuff that at least keeps my fingers in the pie. My withdrawal from the writing world, forced and voluntary though various elements of it may be, seems almost complete: I managed to bump into a few old writing colleagues at the WA Museum’s breathtaking A Day in Pompeii exhibit yesterday, and it was pleasant, but hardly the fiery, passionate mental affair of days past. Perhaps I’m just growing up—it’s impossible for me to be interested in writing if I have writers and my family in the same place.
Still, writer-coolness abounds:
I’ve just attended my second Writing Race at the AWM Online, a fun online forum where an invited writer hangs out with attendees, swapping tips and anecdotes and writing like a mad thing for an hour, which is always a thoroughly enjoyable experience.
I’ve stepped up to the plate and agreed to act as a judge for this year’s Aurealis Awards , in the Graphic Novel category, comics being a long-held love that’s been shunted into the background while the SF thing became established but which is rearing its wonderful head again.
The ever-lovely Tehani Wessely has accepted a reprint of Claws of Native Ghosts for the upcoming Australis Imaginarium anthology she’ll be publishing through her bright and shiny new publishing venture, Fablecroft Publishing.
I’m involved in developing and pitching an online course in Science Fiction Writing (of which more details when it’s a going concern).
And I’ve just received through the mail the podcasting materials for an upcoming episode of Keith Stevenson’s Terra Incognita podcast.
All good, clean fun.
Added to which, there’s some interactive Battcool which you can be a part of: Lyn’s brilliant story of family and loss, The Mikarr Way, has been posted as a free web story over at Electric Velocipede. Go, read, enjoy, marvel at my darling wife’s talent.
Lyn and I will also be appearing at the A Toe in the Ocean Writing Festival, two weeks from now, where we’ll be giving a science fiction writing workshop. If you’re in the area it’ll be well worth coming down and having a look.
And, of course, the biggest writing news item of my day........ which is the subject of my next post :)
Sunday, March 28, 2010
SUNDAY YOUTUBERY
Okay, so the lyrics might not be terribly appropriate for our anniversary, but you know, it's called 5 years and it means I get to show you a Bowie clip. That's a good enough excuse :))))
MIDNIGHT ECHO: NEW EXCERPT
I was nervous during the ceremony. Although I fumbled with the ring at one point, I managaed not to drop it, and my nervousness was accepted as part of the standard jitters. During the photographs I was ushered to the side as Alice and her bridesmaids took centre stage and hammed it up for the photographer, flouncing around in their silk dresses and looking, I thought, a little tarty. Feeling spare, I moved away and leant against the trunk of a weeping willow. From this aspect, I had an even better view of Charles than I had before. His body, still caught by the snag, bobbed gently up and down with the flow of the current. I admired the neat cut across his throat and the way his body had been sliced open to allow his intestines to swim free in the murky water of the Murray.
-- Sleeping Dogs by Geoffrey Maloney and Andrew Baker
-- Sleeping Dogs by Geoffrey Maloney and Andrew Baker
Sunday, March 21, 2010
MOVING ON
New home, new environment, kids happy in school, Lyn studying, everybody happy.
All we've needed to complete the sea change was for me to find a new job.
Let's be honest, working for the Tax Office was only the base line-- it was drudge work, more often than not, soulless and uninspiring, and whilst I might have liked the majority of people I worked with, it was no longer enough-- a 75 minute train journey each way to a workplace that was in great danger of becoming just another rostered call centre was not how I envisaged my working life. I liked the people, but the work and the infrastructure has become increasingly restrictive, increasingly unskilled and droneworthy. Something had to go. I had to go.
I've been looking. And I've found.
From tomorrow, I'll be the Community Development Officer in the Arts & Culture Office of the City of Rockingham. Ill be working with a team whose responsibility it is to enable artists within the local area to access the range of skill sets, grants, and busines structures available, to help them to become self-sustaining. I'll also be part of a team making sure the public art within the region continues to reflect and emphasis the values and attrributes of the City.
Cool job, but the title will look terrible on a t-shirt.
I grew up in Rockingham, at least, I lived there between the ages of 8 and 21. When we moved there, in 1979, it was a town of 26 000 people, connected to the somewhat-distant state capital by a bus service that can only be described as sparse. Now there's over 100 000 people in the area, it has its own University campus, and is a large part of a conurbation that stretches to Clarkson 100km to the North and Mundurah 30km to the South. Art flourishes within the region, particularly public art. It's a vastly changed place from the one I left 17 years ago, but then, I'm a vastly changed person.
The truth is, I'm 39 now. I've settled into the town, and house, in which I hope to spend at least the next 20 years as my children grow up and move into their own adult lives, and grandchildren begin to arrive on the scene. I want to enjoy my life. I want to create art, and be with my family. I want the space and time to become the successful artist I've wanted to be for a decade. To support these goals, I want to be at a job that rewards me and doesn't take 75 minutes just to get home from.
It's taken me until almost 40, but I might finally have found the final piece in my puzzle-- a job that satisfies me and gives me the chance to do something concrete in a field of endeavour that means something to me. Time will tell, but maybe, just maybe, I'm set.
All we've needed to complete the sea change was for me to find a new job.
Let's be honest, working for the Tax Office was only the base line-- it was drudge work, more often than not, soulless and uninspiring, and whilst I might have liked the majority of people I worked with, it was no longer enough-- a 75 minute train journey each way to a workplace that was in great danger of becoming just another rostered call centre was not how I envisaged my working life. I liked the people, but the work and the infrastructure has become increasingly restrictive, increasingly unskilled and droneworthy. Something had to go. I had to go.
I've been looking. And I've found.
From tomorrow, I'll be the Community Development Officer in the Arts & Culture Office of the City of Rockingham. Ill be working with a team whose responsibility it is to enable artists within the local area to access the range of skill sets, grants, and busines structures available, to help them to become self-sustaining. I'll also be part of a team making sure the public art within the region continues to reflect and emphasis the values and attrributes of the City.
Cool job, but the title will look terrible on a t-shirt.
I grew up in Rockingham, at least, I lived there between the ages of 8 and 21. When we moved there, in 1979, it was a town of 26 000 people, connected to the somewhat-distant state capital by a bus service that can only be described as sparse. Now there's over 100 000 people in the area, it has its own University campus, and is a large part of a conurbation that stretches to Clarkson 100km to the North and Mundurah 30km to the South. Art flourishes within the region, particularly public art. It's a vastly changed place from the one I left 17 years ago, but then, I'm a vastly changed person.
The truth is, I'm 39 now. I've settled into the town, and house, in which I hope to spend at least the next 20 years as my children grow up and move into their own adult lives, and grandchildren begin to arrive on the scene. I want to enjoy my life. I want to create art, and be with my family. I want the space and time to become the successful artist I've wanted to be for a decade. To support these goals, I want to be at a job that rewards me and doesn't take 75 minutes just to get home from.
It's taken me until almost 40, but I might finally have found the final piece in my puzzle-- a job that satisfies me and gives me the chance to do something concrete in a field of endeavour that means something to me. Time will tell, but maybe, just maybe, I'm set.
SUNDAY YOUTUBERY
I've not been the same since libraries started stocking DVDs. Especially as they seem to like stocking DVDs of all the old comediy shows I grew up with.
Thanks to Rockingham Uni Library, we introduced Blakey to the wonder of Morecambe & Wise the other week, and I've been on a jag ever since.
Here's one of their best moments. Bring me sunshine? They always did.
Thanks to Rockingham Uni Library, we introduced Blakey to the wonder of Morecambe & Wise the other week, and I've been on a jag ever since.
Here's one of their best moments. Bring me sunshine? They always did.
MIDNIGHT ECHO: A NEW TASTE
Apologies for missing Wednesday-- things and stuff and junk arose, which I'll mention in the next post or two (it's dead exciting). Until then, enjoy:
The problem with poison is that it can grow stale. The first one hundred times, you know, it was interesting. Then you start recycling. You start tasting the same poisons you've already had. You start having de ja vu.
"I've died this way before," you think. And you have. That's the problem. There are only so many poisons in the world, and so many ways to take them.
So you start to combine them. Mix hemlock and cypripedium. The first is cold, you remember, and the second burns. You combine the two, hoping for something crazy, something that will take your head clean off, separate your teeth from your jaw. All that happens, instead, is a mild burn. The fire from before, that first fire, it's absent. All that's left is something lame, something unoriginal, something worse than pure.
-- Poison or the Knife by BL Hobson
The problem with poison is that it can grow stale. The first one hundred times, you know, it was interesting. Then you start recycling. You start tasting the same poisons you've already had. You start having de ja vu.
"I've died this way before," you think. And you have. That's the problem. There are only so many poisons in the world, and so many ways to take them.
So you start to combine them. Mix hemlock and cypripedium. The first is cold, you remember, and the second burns. You combine the two, hoping for something crazy, something that will take your head clean off, separate your teeth from your jaw. All that happens, instead, is a mild burn. The fire from before, that first fire, it's absent. All that's left is something lame, something unoriginal, something worse than pure.
-- Poison or the Knife by BL Hobson
Sunday, March 14, 2010
MIDNIGHT ECHO: NEXT TASTE
Under a streetlight, no sudden moves. Looking like a lost motorist. Give directions, he thought, like a good girl. Don't be scared, he said to himself.
She walked back and leaned over to peer into the window. Even with the streetlight, he flicked on the dome. The girl was a good yard onto the sidewalk, not getting within reach of the window. Not yet.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he started. She smiled at that. Good.
God. He swallowed. Braces.
-- Carnal Knowledge, by Don Norum
She walked back and leaned over to peer into the window. Even with the streetlight, he flicked on the dome. The girl was a good yard onto the sidewalk, not getting within reach of the window. Not yet.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he started. She smiled at that. Good.
God. He swallowed. Braces.
-- Carnal Knowledge, by Don Norum
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
MIDNIGHT ECHO: FOURTH TASTE
“This very day they descend on Paris.” The Monk stabbed a finger westward and heads swung around to follow his gesture. Odile shrank back against the wall. “Swathed in their black finery, borne on the backs of Catholic servants!” Pain flared in Odile’s head, the sickle-thorn burying deep.
“These crimes, this effrontery, can not--must not!--go unchallenged!” One of the strangers, a red-capped young man, leaned in to his neighbour. His neighbour nodded vigorously.
“The Calvinists and Lutherans have no desire to simply go their own mistaken way in peace.” The Monk’s face twisted into a snarl, baring yellowed teeth, and the thorn dug deeper with each word. “They would see us crushed in their wake, rent and devoured and shat upon the earth!”
-- The Hand of God, by Jason Crowe
“These crimes, this effrontery, can not--must not!--go unchallenged!” One of the strangers, a red-capped young man, leaned in to his neighbour. His neighbour nodded vigorously.
“The Calvinists and Lutherans have no desire to simply go their own mistaken way in peace.” The Monk’s face twisted into a snarl, baring yellowed teeth, and the thorn dug deeper with each word. “They would see us crushed in their wake, rent and devoured and shat upon the earth!”
-- The Hand of God, by Jason Crowe
Sunday, March 07, 2010
MIDNIGHT ECHO: 3RD TASTE
What did she think she was doing? She looked at her babies, snoring in their bassinets, and nearly abandoned her plan. They might not mind if we stay, she reasoned, as she got up to tuck blankets around their shoulders. They'll never know what we've lost.
A few bars of 'Happy Birthday' drifted in from the other room; her mother warming up for later.
Theresa ran her tongue around the thick scars inside her mouth, then clenched her teeth. "Mum?"Her voice was too quiet. She inhaled, exhaled slowly, tried again. "Mum?"
"What?" came Evelyn's voice, echoing from the kitchen.
"I forgot to get candles for the cake. Can you run out and get some? I'm going to give the kids a feed before everyone gets here-- and we can't have the party without candles."
-- Tiny Drops, by LL Hannett
A few bars of 'Happy Birthday' drifted in from the other room; her mother warming up for later.
Theresa ran her tongue around the thick scars inside her mouth, then clenched her teeth. "Mum?"Her voice was too quiet. She inhaled, exhaled slowly, tried again. "Mum?"
"What?" came Evelyn's voice, echoing from the kitchen.
"I forgot to get candles for the cake. Can you run out and get some? I'm going to give the kids a feed before everyone gets here-- and we can't have the party without candles."
-- Tiny Drops, by LL Hannett
Thursday, March 04, 2010
MIDNIGHT ECHO: 2ND TASTE
The usher guided a replacement couple into the newly vacant seats a row ahead of Max and his date.
Max’s date gripped his thigh, fingernails like talons. “Run,” she hissed at the new couple, but they were already concentrating on the movie. An usher swooped in at the end of the aisle and squeezed perfume into the air.
“Just inhale,” Max said. “It helps.”
His hand clamped around his date's arm. She winced in his grip, refusing to inhale the cinnamon haze that drifted onto them. "No, no, no."
She tried to stand. Max gripped her head, made her look at the freshly-vacated seat by his side. She stopped struggling, eyes wide and tired.
--The Movie, by Graham Fielding
Max’s date gripped his thigh, fingernails like talons. “Run,” she hissed at the new couple, but they were already concentrating on the movie. An usher swooped in at the end of the aisle and squeezed perfume into the air.
“Just inhale,” Max said. “It helps.”
His hand clamped around his date's arm. She winced in his grip, refusing to inhale the cinnamon haze that drifted onto them. "No, no, no."
She tried to stand. Max gripped her head, made her look at the freshly-vacated seat by his side. She stopped struggling, eyes wide and tired.
--The Movie, by Graham Fielding
Sunday, February 28, 2010
SUNDAY MIDNIGHT ECHO YOUTUBERY
In honour of our first Midnight Echo excerpt, an entirely appropriate piece of Sunday youtubery. What else but that hairpsray and pastel classic, "Hungry Like The Wulluf"?---
YOIKS, AND AWAY!
Lastly, a fond farewell to Perth writer, cartoonist, actor, and all-round fine fellow Grant Watson, who has taken his ball, his wife and cats, and his massive talent, and skedaddled to Melbourne on the flimsy pretext that he's got a job there and quite fancies the notion of a regular pay cheque and the chance to eat every now and again.
The are few people in the Australian SF community I respect as highly as Grant, so it's somewhat paradoxical that I welcome his moving several thousand kilometres away-- after all, I don't see a time or place where we'll ever meet in the flesh again because of it-- but I think Melbourne is going to be a boon for him: he's a big talent, and I firmly believe he'd just about exhausted his opportunities in the small sphere of influence that Perth afforded him. Ensconced within a bigger community, with exponentially greater opportunities to further his craft, I think he's going to bloom like a triffid in a school for the blind. And I think Australian SF fans, not to mention cartooning and theatre fans, will be the beneficiaries.
The very best of luck, Grant.
The are few people in the Australian SF community I respect as highly as Grant, so it's somewhat paradoxical that I welcome his moving several thousand kilometres away-- after all, I don't see a time or place where we'll ever meet in the flesh again because of it-- but I think Melbourne is going to be a boon for him: he's a big talent, and I firmly believe he'd just about exhausted his opportunities in the small sphere of influence that Perth afforded him. Ensconced within a bigger community, with exponentially greater opportunities to further his craft, I think he's going to bloom like a triffid in a school for the blind. And I think Australian SF fans, not to mention cartooning and theatre fans, will be the beneficiaries.
The very best of luck, Grant.
SNAPSHOT 2010
As part of this year's Australian SF Snapshot, I've been interviewed by the lovely Tehani Wessely. You can read the results here. With the Worldcon in Melbourne approaching in September there are couple of questions on that subject, but it does, as is its purpose, provide a quick snapshot of where I am at the moment.
The Snapshots have been run twice before: you can read my 2005 interview here and my 2007 interview here. It's interesting, to me at least, to see how my goalposts have moved over the last 5 years-- my ambitions and hopes are not what they once were-- not even close, really-- and I'm a hell of a lot more comfortable with the path ahead of me that I was 3 years ago.
Eventually, all the interviews that make up this year's Snapshot are going to be archived in one central location, but for now, start at Tehani's and go LJ-jumping to read those you find interesting. They finished something like ninety in the week the snapshot was running, so there's bound to be someone who takes your fancy.
The Snapshots have been run twice before: you can read my 2005 interview here and my 2007 interview here. It's interesting, to me at least, to see how my goalposts have moved over the last 5 years-- my ambitions and hopes are not what they once were-- not even close, really-- and I'm a hell of a lot more comfortable with the path ahead of me that I was 3 years ago.
Eventually, all the interviews that make up this year's Snapshot are going to be archived in one central location, but for now, start at Tehani's and go LJ-jumping to read those you find interesting. They finished something like ninety in the week the snapshot was running, so there's bound to be someone who takes your fancy.
MIDNIGHT ECHO: FIRST TASTE
For your delectation, and to provide a trail of poisonous little breadcrumbs leading towards the candy house with the smiling little old lady that is Midnight Echo #4, my authors and I have decided to give you a little snippet of each of their works in the lead-up to the release of the issue.
First up, an aperitif: something elegant, graceful, with just a hint of blood in the aftertaste--
Cromwell laughed and clapped him on the back. "Beautiful, graceful, intelligent enough to make pleasant conversation, she represents all that is good about England."
"She lives in America," Father Ignatius pointed out.
Cromwell flapped his words away with a small wave of his hand. "A small colony in Virginia struggling to do nothing more than survive on corn and tobacco. One season in my court and she won't think twice about what she's left behind. Did you see the wolf?"
"Not really. It was too dark." He felt her presence, though, even in the safety of the palace.
"I've housed it on the lower floor. The lady insisted, saying if her companion was to spend its nights outside with the common animals, then that's where she'd stay too. I've heard it's a large beast, so large it makes our forest wolves seem like puppies in comparison."
"It howled once, at the beginning of our journey. The sound put me in mind of those banshees the Irish are always going on about."
"Terrifying," Cromwell said.
"Invigorating."
-- Cromwell's Beast, by Steven J Stegbar.
First up, an aperitif: something elegant, graceful, with just a hint of blood in the aftertaste--
Cromwell laughed and clapped him on the back. "Beautiful, graceful, intelligent enough to make pleasant conversation, she represents all that is good about England."
"She lives in America," Father Ignatius pointed out.
Cromwell flapped his words away with a small wave of his hand. "A small colony in Virginia struggling to do nothing more than survive on corn and tobacco. One season in my court and she won't think twice about what she's left behind. Did you see the wolf?"
"Not really. It was too dark." He felt her presence, though, even in the safety of the palace.
"I've housed it on the lower floor. The lady insisted, saying if her companion was to spend its nights outside with the common animals, then that's where she'd stay too. I've heard it's a large beast, so large it makes our forest wolves seem like puppies in comparison."
"It howled once, at the beginning of our journey. The sound put me in mind of those banshees the Irish are always going on about."
"Terrifying," Cromwell said.
"Invigorating."
-- Cromwell's Beast, by Steven J Stegbar.
MIDNIGHT ECHO 4: THE CULPRITS
The decisions have been made. The editing has been carried out. The human cattle have been coralled. Finally, finally, I can announce the line-up for Midnight Echo #4, and oooh, there's some creepy and disturbing little monkeys crawling amongst the ruins of this one. This April, you will be reading the following stories:
As well as the following poems:
Midnight Echo #4 will be available in April. Go here for purchasing options.
- Cromwell's Beast-- Steven J. Stegbar
- Carnal Knowledge-- Don Norum
- The Moon & The Mesa-- Dan Braum
- Sleeping Dogs-- Geoffrey Maloney & Andrew Baker
- The Hand of God-- Jason Crowe
- Where We Go To Be Made Lighter-- Chris Green
- Tiny Drops-- LL Hannett
- Little Boy Lost-- Patty Jansen
- In The Walls-- Philip Roberts
- Visiting-- Richard Barber
- The Movie-- Graham Fielding
- Poison Or The Knife-- BL Hobson
As well as the following poems:
- Rabbit-- Holly Day
- Mirror-- Jenny Blackford
- The Fat Aftermath-- Jude Aqulinia
Midnight Echo #4 will be available in April. Go here for purchasing options.
JUST DROPPING BY TO TELL YOU...
Agh, it's been hectic. Sorry I haven't been around, but Real Life (tm) threatens to swallow me alive at the minute. Job searching has been uppermost-- the 75 minute travel each way to my current job is really beginning to take its toll, and I've spent much of the last 2 weeks running through the interview process for a very cool job much closer to home. I have my fingers well and truly crossed: this would be a dreamy one, should I get it. Still, we've stuff to talk about, so let's get to the postings, shall we?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
THURSDAY MORNING SICK AS A DOG YOUTUBE COMFORT MUSIC VIDEO
Sick.
Yucky sick.
Not good laying about with a slight headache eating Red Rooster and watching telly sick.
Stomach cramps and headaches and swaying about all dizzy as fuck sick.
Must have comfort music.
Stevie Wright and Steve Marriott (the best voice in rock and roll history, imho) will provide.
The greatest Australian band ever. E-VER.
Yucky sick.
Not good laying about with a slight headache eating Red Rooster and watching telly sick.
Stomach cramps and headaches and swaying about all dizzy as fuck sick.
Must have comfort music.
Stevie Wright and Steve Marriott (the best voice in rock and roll history, imho) will provide.
The greatest Australian band ever. E-VER.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
DEEP JOY
I missed out on Sunday Youtubing on the weekend, so here's something special.
Stanley Unwin.
Remarkibold. Goodlilode. Deep joy. :)
Stanley Unwin.
Remarkibold. Goodlilode. Deep joy. :)
ROUNDING UP
MIDNIGHT ECHO
Well, (claps hands) that’s that.
All the submissions have been read, all the rejections have been sent, and now that the dust has cleared, I’m left with the 12 stories and 3 poems that make up the contents of Midnight Echo #4. Assuming nothing falls over between now and April, it’ll be my delight to present you with stories from the likes of Aurealis Award winners Chris Green and Geoffrey Maloney and international man about town Dan Braum, as well as the first poem penned by the lovely Jenny Blackford in many a long year.
I’ve received well over 200 submissions from all corners of the globe (quite literally!), and it’s a good feeling to be able to look at the final list and be satisfied that the works I’ve chosen are an accurate reflection of my views towards the art of horror writing, as well as damn good pieces in their own right. Will you enjoy them? It is to be hoped. But for now, I can move on to the second-stage editorial work--- writing the editorial, shaping and editing submissions, discussing art and contracts with the appropriate AHWA Kahunas--- and start to mold the final shape of the issue.
Stay tuned, and as soon as I get the all-clear from Midnight Echo Big Banana Marty Young I’ll give you the final Table of Contents.
A QUICK GLANCE INTO A NEARBY BUCKET
With the time-intensive scutwork of submissions editing out of the way, I can finally indulge myself once more with thoughts of my own work. The Battersby Art machine has been quiet of late, and there’s a lot of product to be fed into the business end. To whit:
SO IT BEGINS….
It began in a dream.
It has taken me a million years to leave my father’s embrace, and now I am falling. I am supposed to fall forever. I am never to touch the ground again.
Eight minutes after my fall commences, I start to burn.
Those are the opening words of the Father Muerte novel.
A QUICK WORD ABOUT PEOPLE TALLER THAN ME
He likes his privacy, so at his request I don’t make mention of him too much on this blog, but I’m breaking that rule because Aiden turned 17 a couple of days ago, and you need to know just how proud I am of the young man he’s become.
I simply couldn’t wish for a more intelligent, funnier, more capable, caring (as anyone who’s seen him with Connor can testify) and just generally excellent Bonus Son, and I’m excited by the thought of what’s coming to him in the years ahead as he navigates his final year of high school and heads on to University and the world beyond.
As soon as he acknowledges that System of a Down suck the devil’s dangly bits he’ll be perfect…..
Well, (claps hands) that’s that.
All the submissions have been read, all the rejections have been sent, and now that the dust has cleared, I’m left with the 12 stories and 3 poems that make up the contents of Midnight Echo #4. Assuming nothing falls over between now and April, it’ll be my delight to present you with stories from the likes of Aurealis Award winners Chris Green and Geoffrey Maloney and international man about town Dan Braum, as well as the first poem penned by the lovely Jenny Blackford in many a long year.
I’ve received well over 200 submissions from all corners of the globe (quite literally!), and it’s a good feeling to be able to look at the final list and be satisfied that the works I’ve chosen are an accurate reflection of my views towards the art of horror writing, as well as damn good pieces in their own right. Will you enjoy them? It is to be hoped. But for now, I can move on to the second-stage editorial work--- writing the editorial, shaping and editing submissions, discussing art and contracts with the appropriate AHWA Kahunas--- and start to mold the final shape of the issue.
Stay tuned, and as soon as I get the all-clear from Midnight Echo Big Banana Marty Young I’ll give you the final Table of Contents.
A QUICK GLANCE INTO A NEARBY BUCKET
With the time-intensive scutwork of submissions editing out of the way, I can finally indulge myself once more with thoughts of my own work. The Battersby Art machine has been quiet of late, and there’s a lot of product to be fed into the business end. To whit:
- 2 novels need editing: Napoleone’s Land and Corpse-Rat King
- 3 stories are currently away in the world, and I have 2 more, The Possession of Mister Snopes and C to finish and send. The goal is to have completed and sent 15 by the end of the year, 12 from the partially completed work I have on hand, and 3 completely new pieces.
- 3 poems: Hart Crane, Treading Water; Wish Fulfillment; and Like A Leaf Falling need final polishes and sending out
- 3 cartoons are finished, I’ve 2 more that have been inked but not shaded, and I need at least 1 more completed after that to constitute a complete batch. The goal is to have 24 (or at least 4 batches) in circulation by the end of the year.
- And I promised myself that I’d complete a new novel by the end of the year, so I really need to get started on that as well. Still, on this score at least, you may be pleased by the following…..
SO IT BEGINS….
It began in a dream.
It has taken me a million years to leave my father’s embrace, and now I am falling. I am supposed to fall forever. I am never to touch the ground again.
Eight minutes after my fall commences, I start to burn.
Those are the opening words of the Father Muerte novel.
A QUICK WORD ABOUT PEOPLE TALLER THAN ME
He likes his privacy, so at his request I don’t make mention of him too much on this blog, but I’m breaking that rule because Aiden turned 17 a couple of days ago, and you need to know just how proud I am of the young man he’s become.
I simply couldn’t wish for a more intelligent, funnier, more capable, caring (as anyone who’s seen him with Connor can testify) and just generally excellent Bonus Son, and I’m excited by the thought of what’s coming to him in the years ahead as he navigates his final year of high school and heads on to University and the world beyond.
As soon as he acknowledges that System of a Down suck the devil’s dangly bits he’ll be perfect…..
Sunday, January 10, 2010
SUNDAY YOUTUBERY
To finish the week, a spot of self-indulgence on my behalf. My very very favourite Monkees song.
Enjoy.
Enjoy.
A WEEKEND MOST PRODUCTIVE
It started out well: Lyn rang me on Friday afternoon to tell me she was picking me up a couple of train stops early, because she was at our friend Tehani's place and they'd decided to stay for dinner. And a fab evening it was, too: I committed Australian Man Adultery (cooked on another man's barbecue without his consent), we sat and chatted far past the kids' bedtimes, and Tehani let me borrow her copy of X6, Coeur de Lion's collection of novellas by 6 Australian authors. I'd forgotten just how much I love sitting around and jawing about writing and writers. Part of the reason I've yet to really find a village for myself in the writing world-- I'm a writing geek, not an SF geek, when it all comes down to it.
And much satisfaction there has been this weekend. I've completed another 2 cartoons, and sent out another two short stories, as well as inputting line edits for half of a third (dinner calls me, or I'd be finished that one too). I've finally finished chopping down a diseased hedge that's been spoiling our front yard, spent an enjoyable afternoon drawing with the kids, and even managed to fit in a couple of good exercise sessions with the Wii Fit Plus-- love that rhythm karate, folks! Luscious and I even found the time to watch a DVD together without the kids-- looxury, bloody looxury.
The new week starts tomorrow: I intend to lose another 500g, finish another couple of cartoons, and start wading my way through the first round of Corpse-Rat King edits, as well as send out the remaining shorts in my 'In Progress' folder. But for now, it's dinner, relaxing with a nice glass of Myalup Vines Wineries port (okay, my second glass...) and resting my bones before heading into the new week.
Slainte!
And much satisfaction there has been this weekend. I've completed another 2 cartoons, and sent out another two short stories, as well as inputting line edits for half of a third (dinner calls me, or I'd be finished that one too). I've finally finished chopping down a diseased hedge that's been spoiling our front yard, spent an enjoyable afternoon drawing with the kids, and even managed to fit in a couple of good exercise sessions with the Wii Fit Plus-- love that rhythm karate, folks! Luscious and I even found the time to watch a DVD together without the kids-- looxury, bloody looxury.
The new week starts tomorrow: I intend to lose another 500g, finish another couple of cartoons, and start wading my way through the first round of Corpse-Rat King edits, as well as send out the remaining shorts in my 'In Progress' folder. But for now, it's dinner, relaxing with a nice glass of Myalup Vines Wineries port (okay, my second glass...) and resting my bones before heading into the new week.
Slainte!
Saturday, January 09, 2010
HITTING THE GROUND
It's been a good start to the year.
Not bad so far. There's a lot of year left, and some big goals to achieve (2 novels to edit and submit, ya know?). But I'm on the way...
- I've lost just over a kilogram in weight. I set myself a loss of 12 kilos for the year, so this represents a good beginning.
- I've completed and submitted Plot or Pants?, an article on novel planning to WQ, the monthly magazine of the Queensland Writer's Centre
- I've line-edited the five stories currently in my 'In Progress' folder and submitted the first of them. My plan is to have all five out in the world by the end of next week. Not a big goal, perhaps, but I only saw print twice last year, while I was focussing on Corpse-Rat King, and that's just not up to my usual standards.
- I'm up to date with reading for Midnight Echo #4, and about to start filtering the stories I kept for a second stage of reading. If you were thinking of submitting but haven't got around to it, might I suggest you do so soon? I've received 157 submission so far, of which 33 have made it to a second reading. Submissions close 31st of the month.
- I've completed 2 cartoons of the 24 (minimum) that I plan to complete and submit.
Not bad so far. There's a lot of year left, and some big goals to achieve (2 novels to edit and submit, ya know?). But I'm on the way...
SHIVERS ALL UP AND DOWN MY ARMS
The only known footage of Anne Frank, watching from a window as a wedding procession begins in the summer of 1941. I found it via an article on The Smart Set, which sums it up far more articulately than I am capable of. Much more can be found at the Anne Frank House Museum Amsterdam.
What's always been the defining nature of the tragedy of the Franks, for me, was the ordinary nature of the family: these weren't war heroes or spies or members of the Resistance fighting the brave struggle. They were simple people just trying to keep their heads down and survive an onslaught that was beyond their understanding-- in short, they were me if the same thing happened to my world. Watching this very ordinary footage, with its very ordinary teenager doing what any young girl would do with such an event happening under her window, amplifies that.
Knowing what happens such a short time after this footage was recorded makes it tragic beyond words.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
TODAY AT THE FOOD HALL
Waiting for Lyn to come back from getting her lunch.
Erin: I spy with my little eye, something beginning with B.
Lee: (makes lots of guesses. Gives up)
Erin: Don't you know the word?
Lee: No.
Erin: Daddy. Everybody knows the bird is the word.
Weird fucking daughter I'm raising.
Erin: I spy with my little eye, something beginning with B.
Lee: (makes lots of guesses. Gives up)
Erin: Don't you know the word?
Lee: No.
Erin: Daddy. Everybody knows the bird is the word.
Weird fucking daughter I'm raising.
2009 YOUTUBERY
A final tubery for the old year, the two songs of my year.
No fillum clip can I find for this one, but someone was nice enough to post the song with an image of the album cover:
And the greatest rock band in the world in all their glory:
No fillum clip can I find for this one, but someone was nice enough to post the song with an image of the album cover:
And the greatest rock band in the world in all their glory:
TWTYTW
So that was 2009.
Hmm.
Actually, as years go, 2009 was a pretty good one, a feeling prompted in large part by a massive sea change halfway through the year. 2010 will be the year of completing that sea change, all things being equal, so by the time I turn 40 in November I hope to be facing the last half of my life from a pretty damn good vantage point. However, it being the turn-over of calendars and all that, the Year In Review questionnaire must by needs be posted, so see if you can spot the hidden theme within (hint: it starts with 'Mandurah'....)
1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before? Moved to Mandurah; bought a 2-story house
2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I have goals, rather than resolutions. I set myself half a dozen goals at year’s start and I achieved four of them, so I’m pleased with that. My big goal for the upcoming year is to lose weight—I’ve got to the stage now where it’s really beginning to affect my ability to do family activities, especially with the kids, and that’s just not good enough.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth? Right at the end of the year, my good friends Sean & Terri welcomed their new daughter Asha into the world, their fifth consecutive daughter proving once again that Sean has the most feminine sperm in the Universe :)
4. Did anyone close to you die? Nope.
5. What countries did you visit? The country of the blind, where I was proclaimed King, until they realised I wasn’t one-eyed, just short-sighted, so they made me Minister Without Portfolio and set me loose.
6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009? Breakout success.
7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? May, when we moved from Clarkson to Mandurah. What started out as a decision to escape a suburb that was deteriorating before our eyes has turned into a sea change of life-altering proportions. Everything has been for the better. 14th December, when we learned the depths to which my brother has fallen.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Finishing Corpse-Rat King.
9. What was your biggest failure? My weight.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury? Stayed injury-free this year, which was a relief after last year’s run.
11. What was the best thing you bought? Our new house.
12. Whose behaviour merited celebration? My family, for grasping the opportunity afforded by our big move and pushing ahead with their own lives so beautifully. Mandurah City Council, for beginning a domestic green waste recycling program that is simple and workable enough that it should be picked up permanently and should make a big difference to our waste programs.
13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed? My brother, whose behaviour slid from being simply selfish and amoral right into the truly criminal, and whom I now have to cut loose. He’s simply run out of chances, and I cannot expose my family to him any more.
14. Where did most of your money go? The new house.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? The move to Mandurah.
16. What song will always remind you of 2009? Oh, Hark by Lisa Mitchell. Amazing stuff. Also Baba O’Riley by The Who, a rediscovery that kicked Lyn off onto a big Who jag that shows no sign of ending.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:i. happier or sadder? ii. thinner or fatter? iii. richer or poorer? Happier, fatter, and, if not richer, then at least our poverty is more organised :)
18. What do you wish you'd done more of? Progressing my work circumstances towards where I want to be, rather than where I need to be just to get by. Put simply, I wish I'd realised sooner that my work no longer fits my life.
19. What do you wish you'd done less of? Waiting.
20. How did you spend Christmas? Spent it alone with Lyn, while the kids were at relatives’ houses. We all got back together on Boxing Day and did things at our own speed.
21. Who did you meet for the first time? Several new work acquaintances. Big deal.
22. Did you fall in love in 2009? Well, does my new suburb count? Parrots in the backyard, kangaroos hopping down the street at dusk, long sculptued lawns and garden beds I mean, come on!
23. What was your favourite TV program? QI; Dexter season 3; BSG seasons 3 & 4; Serial Killer Sunday; Moral Orel; and bizarrely, televised poker, which we started watching late one night as a laugh and became sadly addicted to for most of the year.
24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year? No, although I do hate what my brother has become.
25. What was the best book you read? Actually, I can’t think of a *really* good book I read in 2009. Most of the books I read by my favourite authors weren’t quite up to their best—I read Snuff & Pygmy by Chuck Palahniuk, for example, but neither was as good as Rant; John Cornwell’s Hitler’s Scientists isn’t as good as Hitler’s Pope; it was that kind of year. perhaps the best was Necropolis, by Catharine Arnold- a history of London's cemeteries and funerary practices that suffered from referencing too few sources too repetitively, but at least had a fascinationg central subject.
26. What was your greatest musical discovery? Lisa Mitchell- an amazing talent for someone so young.
27. What was your favourite film of this year? Where The Wild Things Are; Up; Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs; Battlestar Galactica: The Plan; In Bruges; District Nine. Word to Terminator: Salvation for the Golden Compass Memorial Biggest Piece of Shit of the Year Award.
28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? 39, and it passed by without a blip.
29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? Money in volumes I could swim through.
30. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008? Fat Guy Casual.
31. What kept you sane? I am sane. It’s the rest of you that are mad. (They think I am crazy, but is it I who am crazy.....)
32. What political issue stirred you the most? I was fairly politics-free this year. My focus was largely on domestica.
33. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009. Mandurah kicks Clarkson’s arse.
34. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
To keep in silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut
Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut
So I went from day to day
Though my life was in a rut
‘Til I thought of what I'd say
Which connection I should cut
I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going boom boom boom
"Hey" he said
"Grab your things I've come to take you home."
--Solisbury Hill, Peter Gabriel
Hmm.
Actually, as years go, 2009 was a pretty good one, a feeling prompted in large part by a massive sea change halfway through the year. 2010 will be the year of completing that sea change, all things being equal, so by the time I turn 40 in November I hope to be facing the last half of my life from a pretty damn good vantage point. However, it being the turn-over of calendars and all that, the Year In Review questionnaire must by needs be posted, so see if you can spot the hidden theme within (hint: it starts with 'Mandurah'....)
1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before? Moved to Mandurah; bought a 2-story house
2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I have goals, rather than resolutions. I set myself half a dozen goals at year’s start and I achieved four of them, so I’m pleased with that. My big goal for the upcoming year is to lose weight—I’ve got to the stage now where it’s really beginning to affect my ability to do family activities, especially with the kids, and that’s just not good enough.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth? Right at the end of the year, my good friends Sean & Terri welcomed their new daughter Asha into the world, their fifth consecutive daughter proving once again that Sean has the most feminine sperm in the Universe :)
4. Did anyone close to you die? Nope.
5. What countries did you visit? The country of the blind, where I was proclaimed King, until they realised I wasn’t one-eyed, just short-sighted, so they made me Minister Without Portfolio and set me loose.
6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009? Breakout success.
7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? May, when we moved from Clarkson to Mandurah. What started out as a decision to escape a suburb that was deteriorating before our eyes has turned into a sea change of life-altering proportions. Everything has been for the better. 14th December, when we learned the depths to which my brother has fallen.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Finishing Corpse-Rat King.
9. What was your biggest failure? My weight.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury? Stayed injury-free this year, which was a relief after last year’s run.
11. What was the best thing you bought? Our new house.
12. Whose behaviour merited celebration? My family, for grasping the opportunity afforded by our big move and pushing ahead with their own lives so beautifully. Mandurah City Council, for beginning a domestic green waste recycling program that is simple and workable enough that it should be picked up permanently and should make a big difference to our waste programs.
13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed? My brother, whose behaviour slid from being simply selfish and amoral right into the truly criminal, and whom I now have to cut loose. He’s simply run out of chances, and I cannot expose my family to him any more.
14. Where did most of your money go? The new house.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? The move to Mandurah.
16. What song will always remind you of 2009? Oh, Hark by Lisa Mitchell. Amazing stuff. Also Baba O’Riley by The Who, a rediscovery that kicked Lyn off onto a big Who jag that shows no sign of ending.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:i. happier or sadder? ii. thinner or fatter? iii. richer or poorer? Happier, fatter, and, if not richer, then at least our poverty is more organised :)
18. What do you wish you'd done more of? Progressing my work circumstances towards where I want to be, rather than where I need to be just to get by. Put simply, I wish I'd realised sooner that my work no longer fits my life.
19. What do you wish you'd done less of? Waiting.
20. How did you spend Christmas? Spent it alone with Lyn, while the kids were at relatives’ houses. We all got back together on Boxing Day and did things at our own speed.
21. Who did you meet for the first time? Several new work acquaintances. Big deal.
22. Did you fall in love in 2009? Well, does my new suburb count? Parrots in the backyard, kangaroos hopping down the street at dusk, long sculptued lawns and garden beds I mean, come on!
23. What was your favourite TV program? QI; Dexter season 3; BSG seasons 3 & 4; Serial Killer Sunday; Moral Orel; and bizarrely, televised poker, which we started watching late one night as a laugh and became sadly addicted to for most of the year.
24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year? No, although I do hate what my brother has become.
25. What was the best book you read? Actually, I can’t think of a *really* good book I read in 2009. Most of the books I read by my favourite authors weren’t quite up to their best—I read Snuff & Pygmy by Chuck Palahniuk, for example, but neither was as good as Rant; John Cornwell’s Hitler’s Scientists isn’t as good as Hitler’s Pope; it was that kind of year. perhaps the best was Necropolis, by Catharine Arnold- a history of London's cemeteries and funerary practices that suffered from referencing too few sources too repetitively, but at least had a fascinationg central subject.
26. What was your greatest musical discovery? Lisa Mitchell- an amazing talent for someone so young.
27. What was your favourite film of this year? Where The Wild Things Are; Up; Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs; Battlestar Galactica: The Plan; In Bruges; District Nine. Word to Terminator: Salvation for the Golden Compass Memorial Biggest Piece of Shit of the Year Award.
28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? 39, and it passed by without a blip.
29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? Money in volumes I could swim through.
30. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008? Fat Guy Casual.
31. What kept you sane? I am sane. It’s the rest of you that are mad. (They think I am crazy, but is it I who am crazy.....)
32. What political issue stirred you the most? I was fairly politics-free this year. My focus was largely on domestica.
33. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009. Mandurah kicks Clarkson’s arse.
34. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
To keep in silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut
Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut
So I went from day to day
Though my life was in a rut
‘Til I thought of what I'd say
Which connection I should cut
I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going boom boom boom
"Hey" he said
"Grab your things I've come to take you home."
--Solisbury Hill, Peter Gabriel
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
WHAT WILL I DO ON THE TRAIN TOMORROW MORNING?
1133 words this morning.
102 735 in total.
Corpse-Rat King is finished.
102 735 in total.
Corpse-Rat King is finished.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
SUNDAY YOUTUBERY
Just a little bit of genius from the immortal Joe Strummer to get us all through a stinking hot Sunday morning:
Sunday, December 06, 2009
SUNDAY YOUTUBERY
In honour of my wonderful childerbugs' birthdays, their favourite Punk-litery to twitch your 80s bop-memory.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
TO WHIT: UMMM
And just in case you thought this blog was about to fall permanently into mush and emotional blether, I give you this, without a word of explanation.
EIGHT ME ALIVE
Erin is 8 today.
It is too easy to lapse into hyperbole when talking about your loved ones. But it is nothing more than unvarnished truth to say that, without Erin, I would not be alive. The story of why belongs in the past, but at the time, she was the rope I clung to in order to climb back to the world. Without her, I would not have met Luscious. Without her, I would not have found a new family. Without her, I would not have seen the life I have seen over these last 8 years. She carries within her the part of me that I lost, and could only regain through her.
She is a child of caring and delight, who thinks Captain Sensible is marginally better than Pink; who sees no problem in growing up to be an artist, dancer, teacher, and nurse all at the same time, as long as she can still play basketball; who will thank a friend for coming to play by making her a set of earrings; who can make horns with her lower lip and turn her tongue upside down; and I cannot look at her without a blinding pride.
Happy birthday, my most beautiful daughter.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
HIGH FIVE!
5 years of my wondrous, joyous, wildly brilliant boy.
He can’t decide whether he’s going to be an astronaut or the Stig when he grows up, so he plans to be both. He knows that his secret Santa is Santa, and is the terror of face-painting ladies everywhere with demands to be made up as The Hulk or Four-Arms or (on one memorable occasion), two dragons fighting. When he hugs he does it with his entire body—arms, legs, and head—and he is the inventor and proud copyright owner of the noggin bonk kiss. He will be the first man to set foot on Mars, and while he’s there he’ll probably wee-write his name in the sand for a laugh.
He is unutterably, indisputably, and infinitely precious to me. I would burn the world rather than see him suffer a single moment of pain or misery.
Happy birthday, my beautiful little boy.
NATE OF THE STATION
Bear with me, folks. It’s been an odd period, these six months since we moved here to Paradise-By-Sea. Somehow, this shift in location has turned into the sea change I’ve been searching for over the last five years or so. It’s prompted changes at every level, from simple matters like the change of phone number through to re-evaluations of the way I conduct my life, my aims, my behaviours…. all in all, it’s keeping me busy.
Several friends have fallen by the wayside, either because of the increase in distance between us or the final stages of the natural atrophy that the relationships have been experiencing lately. Others have become more prominent. We’ve altered our finances. Our work situations have undergone drastic and fundamental change. We’re a family in evolution, and in many ways, I also am evolving into a different beast than the one who started the year.
Much of that evolution is artistic. Nanowrimo has proven to be a bust—I’ve managed 13000 words of the Cirque project, but my heart’s not been in it, and in the end it was too easy to put it down and not pick it up again. Perhaps in the New Year I’ll revisit it—it’s a decent enough idea, and I know where the story goes. But setting aside Corpse-Rat King to do it was a bad idea, especially with the first draft of that novel being so close to completion, and I’ve taken up the cudgels again with an aim to completing it by the end of the year.
I’ve rediscovered my interest in cartooning, and have filled a small bunch of notebooks with thumbnails and sketches that Luscious is currently prodding me to complete properly. I’m still reading for Midnight Echo #4, and looking forward to making some final decisions early in the New Year—if you’ve been meaning to submit, do so before you run out of time-- the sub period finishes January 31st, but if I wasn’t a patient man I could probably be thinking about filling the magazine now. And there are more novel projects planned, but none so close to the Oz SF heartland that I expect to be flogging them off at a Swancon near you.
2009 has been a very quiet year for me, artistically speaking. I’m still popping up here and there—you can read a brand new story, , Rabbit, Run over at Dark Recesses this month (if you really want to drive an editor barmy, start your story's title with a comma....) and The Claws of Native Ghosts has been chosen for the upcoming Australian Dark Fantasy & Horror Volume 4. Last weekend I joined the Queensland Writer’s Centre as a guest for their regular weekly writing race. I’ve also accepted a commission to provide the Centre with an article entitled Plot or Pants? on the differences between tight plotting and my own aimless methods. Compared to my relatively high profile in Australian small press SF circles over the past few years, however, I’ve been almost invisible, and things are likely to stay that way for the foreseeable future. My literary interests are moving further and further away from the things I have produced in the past. Frankly, I like the distance, and I have aims and desires that are not simpatico with the Australian SF small press, so there’s no need to be in quite so severe a proximity.
By this time next year I’ll be 40, and if half the birthday cards at the newsagent are to be believed, I’ll have just started my life. So perhaps it’s just a mid-life crisis, or perhaps I’m just cleaning out my closet, but one phase of my life has most definitely ended, and the one that is beginning has different colours.
So bear with me while all this stuff gets flung about in the washing machine of my life. I’ll undoubtedly emerge one sock short, with a shirt that wasn’t the colour it was when it went in, but I’ll be clean and smelling slightly of lemon, and that won’t be a bad thing.
Several friends have fallen by the wayside, either because of the increase in distance between us or the final stages of the natural atrophy that the relationships have been experiencing lately. Others have become more prominent. We’ve altered our finances. Our work situations have undergone drastic and fundamental change. We’re a family in evolution, and in many ways, I also am evolving into a different beast than the one who started the year.
Much of that evolution is artistic. Nanowrimo has proven to be a bust—I’ve managed 13000 words of the Cirque project, but my heart’s not been in it, and in the end it was too easy to put it down and not pick it up again. Perhaps in the New Year I’ll revisit it—it’s a decent enough idea, and I know where the story goes. But setting aside Corpse-Rat King to do it was a bad idea, especially with the first draft of that novel being so close to completion, and I’ve taken up the cudgels again with an aim to completing it by the end of the year.
I’ve rediscovered my interest in cartooning, and have filled a small bunch of notebooks with thumbnails and sketches that Luscious is currently prodding me to complete properly. I’m still reading for Midnight Echo #4, and looking forward to making some final decisions early in the New Year—if you’ve been meaning to submit, do so before you run out of time-- the sub period finishes January 31st, but if I wasn’t a patient man I could probably be thinking about filling the magazine now. And there are more novel projects planned, but none so close to the Oz SF heartland that I expect to be flogging them off at a Swancon near you.
2009 has been a very quiet year for me, artistically speaking. I’m still popping up here and there—you can read a brand new story, , Rabbit, Run over at Dark Recesses this month (if you really want to drive an editor barmy, start your story's title with a comma....) and The Claws of Native Ghosts has been chosen for the upcoming Australian Dark Fantasy & Horror Volume 4. Last weekend I joined the Queensland Writer’s Centre as a guest for their regular weekly writing race. I’ve also accepted a commission to provide the Centre with an article entitled Plot or Pants? on the differences between tight plotting and my own aimless methods. Compared to my relatively high profile in Australian small press SF circles over the past few years, however, I’ve been almost invisible, and things are likely to stay that way for the foreseeable future. My literary interests are moving further and further away from the things I have produced in the past. Frankly, I like the distance, and I have aims and desires that are not simpatico with the Australian SF small press, so there’s no need to be in quite so severe a proximity.
By this time next year I’ll be 40, and if half the birthday cards at the newsagent are to be believed, I’ll have just started my life. So perhaps it’s just a mid-life crisis, or perhaps I’m just cleaning out my closet, but one phase of my life has most definitely ended, and the one that is beginning has different colours.
So bear with me while all this stuff gets flung about in the washing machine of my life. I’ll undoubtedly emerge one sock short, with a shirt that wasn’t the colour it was when it went in, but I’ll be clean and smelling slightly of lemon, and that won’t be a bad thing.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
NANO PROGRESS
11 times 1667 equals 18 337.
Which is rather more than the 13 717 words I've completed so far this month. I've had a couple of days away from the computer here and there, so my targets are down, but I've always been quicker towards the end of a project than I am at the start, so I'm not that worried. Nano is, of course, just a guide as far as I'm concerned. My object is to complete a saleable novel, not to complete 50000 words. But it is a good way of getting your arse applied to the seat, and I'm in dire need of that.
I had 5 goals at the start of the year. Losing weight to 95 kilograms isn't going to happen, but completing Corpse-Rat King and starting a second novel will be achieved, and a month ago I would not have said it was likely. It's likely, in fact, that I'll have completed Corpse-Rat King and completed a second novel.
And for that, you can colour me pleased.
Which is rather more than the 13 717 words I've completed so far this month. I've had a couple of days away from the computer here and there, so my targets are down, but I've always been quicker towards the end of a project than I am at the start, so I'm not that worried. Nano is, of course, just a guide as far as I'm concerned. My object is to complete a saleable novel, not to complete 50000 words. But it is a good way of getting your arse applied to the seat, and I'm in dire need of that.
I had 5 goals at the start of the year. Losing weight to 95 kilograms isn't going to happen, but completing Corpse-Rat King and starting a second novel will be achieved, and a month ago I would not have said it was likely. It's likely, in fact, that I'll have completed Corpse-Rat King and completed a second novel.
And for that, you can colour me pleased.
ONE FOR THE FLIP SIDE
Now, I know I've been rabbiting on about how brilliant life is in Mandurah, about the wonder of the foreshore, and the delights of seeing wild emus and kangaroos from the train on the way home, and the relaxed and happy lifestyle we've created for ourselves and the kids. So it's perhaps only fair that I present an anecdote to prove that all is not perfect in this Paradise by the southern beaches.
Sunday night at the Silver Sands hotel drive through. The Liquorland down the road from us is closed.
No beers on display in the tiny, pokey, bottleshop.
Only a "staff only" sign on the freezer room door to indicate the presence of any beer in the building.
The following conversation ensues:
SALES BLOKE: Yeah, mate?
LEE: I'm after some beer.
SB: Yeah?
LEE: Have you got anything a bit out of the ordinary? I'm in the mood for something a bit different, you know? A bit exotic.
Long pause while shoppie stares off into the distance, no doubt mentally trawling through the miles of freezer rooms shelves weighted down with beers from every corner of the globe, searching his prodigious memory for the perfect bottle of the most exotic brew available to man. After several seconds of contemplation--
SB: Carlton Cold?
One six pack of Heineken later.........
Sunday night at the Silver Sands hotel drive through. The Liquorland down the road from us is closed.
No beers on display in the tiny, pokey, bottleshop.
Only a "staff only" sign on the freezer room door to indicate the presence of any beer in the building.
The following conversation ensues:
SALES BLOKE: Yeah, mate?
LEE: I'm after some beer.
SB: Yeah?
LEE: Have you got anything a bit out of the ordinary? I'm in the mood for something a bit different, you know? A bit exotic.
Long pause while shoppie stares off into the distance, no doubt mentally trawling through the miles of freezer rooms shelves weighted down with beers from every corner of the globe, searching his prodigious memory for the perfect bottle of the most exotic brew available to man. After several seconds of contemplation--
SB: Carlton Cold?
One six pack of Heineken later.........
THIRTEEN LOTS OF THREE
I'm 39 today.
We've kept it low-key this year. Lyn's faith is such that she's uncomfortable with making a fuss about birthdays, and whilst I take up the baton and organise the kid birthdays (My Facebook friends can tell you about how sweary I became recently whilst organising Connor's McDonald's party last week...) for myself, I'm not so fussed. I picked out my own present a month or so ago-- massive gag cartoon collections from Punch and The New Yorker-- and a certain level of skintness has meant that, rather than head out to dinner as is our normal wont, I'm about to be fed a massive plate of home-made butter chicken, crack open a beer (in honour of the way I generally feel these days, we're trying out something called 'Fat Yak' ale), and then trough my way past a bowl of amazing slow-cooked peach & apple cake with custard.
Yum :)
However, one tradition remains untouched, and that's my moment of birthday morbidity. To whit, my annual list of far more famous and talented people who I have outlived. This year's offering involves pirates, porn stars, junkies and suicides, which should tell you the sort of company I'm keeping these days :)
Ta, as they say in the classics, da:
We've kept it low-key this year. Lyn's faith is such that she's uncomfortable with making a fuss about birthdays, and whilst I take up the baton and organise the kid birthdays (My Facebook friends can tell you about how sweary I became recently whilst organising Connor's McDonald's party last week...) for myself, I'm not so fussed. I picked out my own present a month or so ago-- massive gag cartoon collections from Punch and The New Yorker-- and a certain level of skintness has meant that, rather than head out to dinner as is our normal wont, I'm about to be fed a massive plate of home-made butter chicken, crack open a beer (in honour of the way I generally feel these days, we're trying out something called 'Fat Yak' ale), and then trough my way past a bowl of amazing slow-cooked peach & apple cake with custard.
Yum :)
However, one tradition remains untouched, and that's my moment of birthday morbidity. To whit, my annual list of far more famous and talented people who I have outlived. This year's offering involves pirates, porn stars, junkies and suicides, which should tell you the sort of company I'm keeping these days :)
Ta, as they say in the classics, da:
- Blackbeard
- Charlotte Bronte
- Harry Chapin
- Dimebag Darryl
- Ted Demme
- Lolo Ferrari
- George Gershwin
- Florence Griffith Joyner
- John-John Kennedy
- Sam Kinnison
- Mario Lanza
- Sonny Liston
- Louis XVI
- Anna Malle
- Marie Prevost
- David Rappaport
- Charles Kingsford Smith
- Johnny Thunders
Sunday, November 01, 2009
SCENES FROM A MALL..... OR FROM A WRITING DAY, TAKE YOUR PICK
The problem with being part of the internet generation: it makes the whole "You hang up, no you hang up..." part of the conversation look ludicrous! 
And they were never seen again: Four children who have never watched Blood Beach wander away to play while we work.
Biffie! Pip! The view is over here, guys! 
No, really, I mean it. You hang up!NANOWRIMO DAY ONE
Day one of Nano completed, and a couple of hours down the foreshore with Lyn, her best friend Terri, and the sort of view out the cafe window that people in ludicrously large sunglasses who call themselves names like 'Pip' and 'Biffie' spend millions trying to find, and.... well, it's a start anyway. After over a year working on Corpse-Rat King, especially when I'm so close to the end, shifting gears to starting a fresh work that's so completely different is a wrench and a half, but I churned out some wordage, and, well, weeeeeeee.
November's a birthday-heavy month and the desire of my workplace to fuck me over at any available opportunity is going to present some challenges, but all things being equal (excepting, of course, odd numbers), I may have 2 completed novels by the end of the year.
Which will be nice.
And so to the word meters--
1754 / 50000
3.51%
MOVING ALONG
Fine, thanks. How are you?
Corpse-Rat King is lurching towards a conclusion. I've completed 95 000 words and have one longish section towards the end to knit togvether and the first draft will be completed. Say another 2 or 3 thousand words tops, and then I can let it stew until January before I go back and begin carving it up into tiny little pieces and painting them different colours.
Oh, and I've joined Nanowrimo again this year. The project this time round is a novelisation of my TV script Cirque, which garnered some positive comments from last year's WA Film Corporation script competition without managing to win. If you're of a mind to join the program (or already have) and want to buddy up, I'm entered under the name leebattersby, and my page is here.
Elsewhere, domesticity reigns. Mandurah in spring is a groovelicious thing: we pressed the nostalgia buttion big time the other weekend by packing the kids up and catching the ferry over to Penguin Island, prompting me to tell anyone who'd listen about how the last time I'd gone over, back in 1990 when I was still living in Rockingham, I'd walked across on the sandbar; how there were no boardwalks and we could clamber over all the rock faces that are now sealed off for the bird sanctuary; how I'd stayed at the camp buildings that stood where the penguin feeding area stands now; how we'd sat under the caves that are now sealed off beause of the falling risk.... in between my old man stories we spent a gorgeous afternoon beachcombing for shells, sharing lunch with the enormous skinks that invaded the picnic area, and embarking on the glass-bottom boat tour to Seal Island to watch seals play in the surf and a solitary dolphin bully a stingray out of its meal.
Idyllic? Bloody paradise, mate.
Lyn and the kids find the perfect spot to start building a hut, whilst I go looking for coconuts with which to start building a radio.
Hello, laaaaaaaaaaaadies.
The side of human/animal interactions that PETA doesn't tell you about-- a skink with a shoe fetish. Tragic, just tragic.
Minemineminemineminemineminemineminemine....
PORTRAIT OF THE ARTISTS AS A FOUR YEAR OLD BUTT
Question: What do you get if you give the kids the camera to amuse themselves while you’re sitting in the car waiting for their Mum to come out of the house?
Answer: This. Lots and lots of this.
RAMSEY CAMPBELL TO JUDGE THE NAMELESS COMPETITION
The AHWA and 'Nameless' competition director Stephen Studach are thrilled to announce that the ‘Nameless’ competition will be judged by multi-award winning master of dark fiction Ramsey Campbell.
In honour of Mr. Campbell’s involvement, the competition’s deadline has been extended to the 13th of March, 2010.
Read the story here. Come up with a conclusion and a title! Make your $10 donation and enter the competition here.
Competition prizes include a $500 winner’s cheque, and a prize pool of horror goodies:
The six best endings will be featured at HorrorScope - The Australian Dark Fiction Weblog.
All proceeds from this competition go to award-winning author Paul Haines, to assist Paul and the Haines family, while Paul undergoes treatment for cancer.
In honour of Mr. Campbell’s involvement, the competition’s deadline has been extended to the 13th of March, 2010.
Read the story here. Come up with a conclusion and a title! Make your $10 donation and enter the competition here.
Competition prizes include a $500 winner’s cheque, and a prize pool of horror goodies:
• A manuscript version of the story signed by as many of the writers involved as can be tracked down.
• A copy of The Australian Writer’s Marketplace 2009/2010.
• A copy of The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror 19th annual collection (edited by Datlow, Link & Grant.)
• Free 1-year membership, or 12-month renewal, to the Australian Horror Writers Association.
• Books: Signed limited editions – Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge; Wild Things by Douglas Clegg; Prodigal Blues by Gary A. Braunbeck.
• A boost to any personal horror library – Development Hell by Mick Garris; Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hill; Infected by Scott Sigler; The Nature of Balance by Tim Lebbon; The Dark Descent edited by David G. Hartwell; a pre-loved copy of The Books of Blood (vols 1-3) from Marty Young’s own collection.
• A first edition of The Last Days of Kali Yuga, Paul Haines’ forthcoming collection of stories; published to impeccable standards by Brimstone Press, and slated for release in December 2009.
The six best endings will be featured at HorrorScope - The Australian Dark Fiction Weblog.
All proceeds from this competition go to award-winning author Paul Haines, to assist Paul and the Haines family, while Paul undergoes treatment for cancer.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
SO VERY CLOSE YET SO VERY VERY FAR.....
Outside the Bunbury art gallery there's a seating area, covered by a pergola whose roof is slanted at something like 60 degrees. I point at it as we cruise past.
ME: Check it out. Rodin's "Ski-jump"
AIDEN: (Deadly serious) Why would he need a ski jump? He's got wings.
I swear, I had to pull the car over so we didn't crash.
ME: Check it out. Rodin's "Ski-jump"
AIDEN: (Deadly serious) Why would he need a ski jump? He's got wings.
I swear, I had to pull the car over so we didn't crash.
Merde, I have dropped mah beret!
Sunday, October 04, 2009
IN NEWS ABOUT ACTUAL WRITERS
Ellen Datlow has posted the Table of Contents for her upcoming The Year's Best Horror Volume 1. I'm pleased to cop a couple of mentions in the Honourable Mentions list, and over the moon to see Lyn's name there as well amongst pals like Chris Green, Geoff Maloney and Michael Greenhut. And high fives all round for my buddies Paul Haines, Richard Harland (Told you, Richard!) and Ian McHugh for placing within the book itself-- three reasons why this is likely to be about the only spec fic book I buy next year.
Check out the full list here.
Check out the full list here.
DEAR MR KING, THANK YOU FOR SUBMITTING....
If you've been watching the net over the last week or so, you may be aware of the rather large shitstorm that's sprung up around the wretched and twisted form of one Richard Ridyard, a filthy little plagiarist of the first water. if you haven't, here's a good place to start.
I've had the pleasure of reading no less than three of Mister Ridyard's efforts during my editorship of Midnight Echo #4, and rejected each one of them before knowing of the dirty trick this little weasel was perpetrating, although I had the even greater pleasure of writing to him again once the news of his plagiarism broke and giving him a second, more creatively worded, assessment of his talents (It also means that, basically, I rejected a Stephen King story at first sight. Snurk.)
Anybody so low as to rip wholsesale from other writers is a worthless little turd-- it's not like 98% are getting paid living wages for what we do. Anybody inbreddumbfuckstupid enough to steal from the likes of King deserves to have their gonads squelched to stop them breeding.
And as this little tosspot has so quickly removed himself from consideration of the normal decencies, feel free to email him here and pass on your appreciation. If you'd like to read more on how the writing sphere has taken this carefree little moppet to their hearts, Angel Zapata has come up with a pretty decent list of blog posts. You'll be amazed at how he's gotten around: here's the post.
I've had the pleasure of reading no less than three of Mister Ridyard's efforts during my editorship of Midnight Echo #4, and rejected each one of them before knowing of the dirty trick this little weasel was perpetrating, although I had the even greater pleasure of writing to him again once the news of his plagiarism broke and giving him a second, more creatively worded, assessment of his talents (It also means that, basically, I rejected a Stephen King story at first sight. Snurk.)
Anybody so low as to rip wholsesale from other writers is a worthless little turd-- it's not like 98% are getting paid living wages for what we do. Anybody inbreddumbfuckstupid enough to steal from the likes of King deserves to have their gonads squelched to stop them breeding.
And as this little tosspot has so quickly removed himself from consideration of the normal decencies, feel free to email him here and pass on your appreciation. If you'd like to read more on how the writing sphere has taken this carefree little moppet to their hearts, Angel Zapata has come up with a pretty decent list of blog posts. You'll be amazed at how he's gotten around: here's the post.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
SEND YOUR NAME TO MARS
NASA is offering to send your name to Mars on a microchip.
That way, when the aliens land, they'll know who to enslave.
That way, when the aliens land, they'll know who to enslave.
MORE ARCHAEOCOOLNESS
A disabled pensioner uncovers a stash of Anglo-Saxon gold and silver three times as large as the Sutton Hoo find.
I don't know what's cooler-- that he'll cop a share of the 1M pounds plus reward, or that the British Museum maintains a 'flying squad'.....
I don't know what's cooler-- that he'll cop a share of the 1M pounds plus reward, or that the British Museum maintains a 'flying squad'.....
Thursday, September 24, 2009
SNIPPETAGE
BIT THE FIRST: SCIENCE, THE LAND OF 2ND-HAND COMEDY
Just when you think paleoscience is a field populated by old guys with their long, receding silver hair tied back into ponytails that weren't even fashionable when they were supposed to be, and whose language and interests are as dry and dusty as the fossilised turds they spend half their lives digging out of some godforsaken desert (Actually, I don't really think that. I've always wanted to be a paleontologist, always always always, and frankly, I'm just bitter and jealous because it never happened), comes this wonderful bit of comedic happenstance to help you realise that these guys just have to be as brilliant and cool as their jobs.
The thagomizer. Use it in conversation today.
BIT THE SECOND: WTF QUESTIONS
For no reason at all, whilst driving in the car with Connor this morning, in the midst of no conversation at all, out he pops with this question:
Daddy, do penguins do popoffs?
Where's the chapter on that, Christopher Green, you bastard?*
BIT THE THIRD: I KNEW HIM WHEN HE WAS JUST A FOLK SINGER
Anyone who's been paying attention will know that I've been pimping one Jason Fischer as the next great thing in Australian SF.
He's just won first prize in his quarter of this year's Writers Of The Future.
Prophecy ful-fucking-FILLED, baby!
Boy's gonna be a legend, mark my words.
*Christopher Green refers, of course, to the well-known Australian parenting author, not the uber-cool, long-haired, mad as a cut snake, Gene-Simmons-boots-wearing Melburnian SF author, who is a pal and almost 100% guaranteed not to be a bastard. Although he may be Mafia.
Just when you think paleoscience is a field populated by old guys with their long, receding silver hair tied back into ponytails that weren't even fashionable when they were supposed to be, and whose language and interests are as dry and dusty as the fossilised turds they spend half their lives digging out of some godforsaken desert (Actually, I don't really think that. I've always wanted to be a paleontologist, always always always, and frankly, I'm just bitter and jealous because it never happened), comes this wonderful bit of comedic happenstance to help you realise that these guys just have to be as brilliant and cool as their jobs.
The thagomizer. Use it in conversation today.
BIT THE SECOND: WTF QUESTIONS
For no reason at all, whilst driving in the car with Connor this morning, in the midst of no conversation at all, out he pops with this question:
Daddy, do penguins do popoffs?
Where's the chapter on that, Christopher Green, you bastard?*
BIT THE THIRD: I KNEW HIM WHEN HE WAS JUST A FOLK SINGER
Anyone who's been paying attention will know that I've been pimping one Jason Fischer as the next great thing in Australian SF.
He's just won first prize in his quarter of this year's Writers Of The Future.
Prophecy ful-fucking-FILLED, baby!
Boy's gonna be a legend, mark my words.
*Christopher Green refers, of course, to the well-known Australian parenting author, not the uber-cool, long-haired, mad as a cut snake, Gene-Simmons-boots-wearing Melburnian SF author, who is a pal and almost 100% guaranteed not to be a bastard. Although he may be Mafia.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
MIDNIGHT ECHOING...ING...ING...ING...
The reading period for Midnight Echo Issue 4, edited by yours truly, has officially opened, and will be open until January 31st next year. (January 31st being well known to horror buffs as Mostly Hollow's Eve, when all the witches of the world ride forth to get their hair done and have a pedicure).
Sub guidelines can be found here, but the cool bits can be summaried thus: 1c per word to 5000 words for fiction with a maximum payment of $50; we also take poetry, artwork AND serial art; and I get bored with Cthulhuain slavering tentacle monster stories :)
Midnight Echo is the magazine of the Australian Horror Writer's Association, whose annual membership fee covers subscription to the magazine, so as well as getting paid you are guaranteed to be read by the entire membership of the AHWA, which (to the best of my knowledge) is certainly over a couple of hundred and may be as high as 4 or 5 billion, if you include intestinal parasites.
And if you don't think being read by billions of intestinal parasites is cool, well........... you're probably *not* going to write what we're looking for. If, however, the idea makes you wonder where they put the water cooler, it's time to get writing :)
Sub guidelines can be found here, but the cool bits can be summaried thus: 1c per word to 5000 words for fiction with a maximum payment of $50; we also take poetry, artwork AND serial art; and I get bored with Cthulhuain slavering tentacle monster stories :)
Midnight Echo is the magazine of the Australian Horror Writer's Association, whose annual membership fee covers subscription to the magazine, so as well as getting paid you are guaranteed to be read by the entire membership of the AHWA, which (to the best of my knowledge) is certainly over a couple of hundred and may be as high as 4 or 5 billion, if you include intestinal parasites.
And if you don't think being read by billions of intestinal parasites is cool, well........... you're probably *not* going to write what we're looking for. If, however, the idea makes you wonder where they put the water cooler, it's time to get writing :)
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