THIS SUNDAY AT HOME WORKING HAS BEEN PRESENTED TO YOU BY TWO DAYS AT A THREE-DAY WRITERS FESTIVAL

It's no secret to anyone who has me as their Facebook friend, but I've been suffering from a fair bit of darkness and despair recently. My writing has been non-existent. The editorial process for the children's book now known as Magrit has been a bizarre combination of slow-slow-NOW. My day job has somehow managed to increase its level of complexity while my organisation continues to make it clear how little my field of work is valued. My days were packed from beginning to end with obligations rather than pleasures, my health was up the shit, and my general gloominess and blackness of mood was affecting my wife, my kids, and pretty much anything I touched. I'd fired my agent, and couldn't face the long, hard road ahead to try and find someone to represent the Father Muerte novel. When a higher-paying job in my field dropped into my inbox a week ago-- one whose time commitment and travel commitment would have meant the death of my writing career without any shadow of a doubt-- I read through the job criteria and, even though it was beyond me, went ahead with writing the application.

For the first time in over a decade, I faced the idea of ending my writing career and not only accepted it, I didn't give a damn.

This is usually the sort of point where Luscious sits me down and gives a damn good talking-to. Only, this time, she didn't. What she did do, was tell me three things:

1. If I really wanted this new job, I had to apply for it for me, not because I felt I had an obligation to provide for my family. I already earn a decent wage. We do all right. What the family want from me is my time, not more money. If I had developed ambitions in arts administration, that was fine, but I needed to pursue this job for my own satisfaction, not theirs.
2. If I really wanted to give up writing, that was fine, too. As long as I was giving it up because it no longer made me happy. If my unhappiness was coming from my inability to write, then perhaps I needed to examine that.
3. The Perth Writers Festival was on this weekend, and I'd already booked leave to attend it. Why not do so, and see how I felt. If I still wanted to give it all away, then she'd support me in whatever I wanted to do. But I'd set myself up to attend, I'd highlighted a number of panels I wanted to see, and I had enjoyed last year. Why not go, anyway, and see what happened?

My wife, as you might have surmised, is much wiser than me. She also has better legs.

Suitably reinforced with love and support, I made my way to UWA, home of the world's most expensive toilet paper, for the three days of this year's Perth Writers Festival.

$33 a roll might seem expensive, but keep in mind that each roll

comes with an almost unlimited supply of its own shit.

What I saw ignited my passion to write, but not in the way I had expected. I had hoped for an epiphany, or at the very least, a sign that passion and the creative drive that had once seemed so important to me was a living thing; had hoped to be surrounded by a conglomeration of fiery wordsmiths, consumed by the desire to create dancing words of joy, to preach like tent show revivalists to a tub-thumping, arm-waving crowd of screaming true believers. Or, at least, you know, a sign of fucking life. What I got was an endless procession of carefully-preserved, cautious, prim middle-class white people navigating a series of carefully stage-managed questions about their book and only their books, over and over and over and......

With two exceptions. Maxine Beneba Clarke and Ellen van Neerven are women of colour, and when they spoke at a panel on short stories (a panel I attended with Luscious and Doctor Stephen Dedman, 250+ short stories between us, there to see what we could be taught by... I don't know. That's what a festival does to you. It's that or sit in the heat of the quadrangle drinking $5 bottles of water and listening to fatuous self-congratulation on the ABC radio) they were as well-coached and self-preservation obsessed as anybody else, except, EXCEPT: Maxine talked about culture, and cultural difference, and pointed out that no, the writing family isn't one big, happy wonderful ball of love. Sometimes it's fucking hard, and sometimes it's fucking hard not to fit the facial template. A black woman, saying this, in yet another panel populated by the whitest, primmest people in the world. And after all the talk of legacy, and authorial reputation, and buy my book, make me special, this, from Ellen:

I don't care about my legacy. I just want to make a difference to the here and now.

And if you think I was the only person relieved to hear someone not speaking from carefully cultivated self-interest, explain the round of fucking applause that burst out.

And then there was Omar. Omar Musa. Poet. Rapper. Novelist. Clearly Not From Here. Malaysian-Australian and very aware of what that means, especially in the arts. Omar swears. He reads in rap rhythms. He quotes the line from his novel, "I'm not here to fuck the white girl out of you" while the rest of his panel--- whitey white girls all-- freeze in such sudden "OMGOMG" handwaving panic that it's all I can do not to bark in mad laughter. He's full of fire, full of passion. He sets the tent ablaze, and suddenly it's like I've been poked in the back of the neck, hard. Fuck. This is what it's like. This is what I have, only somewhere along the way I'd forgotten I had it. Who cares about respect? Who cares about money? Who cares about spending an extra ninety minutes a fucking day on the train going to a job I don't even want to do in a town I don't give a shit about? Just like that, the job application dies in my thumb drive. I'd forgotten: I'm not an arts administrator who writes. I'm a writer with a day job. That's not wordplay. It means something.

Jesus. Of all the things to forget. I'm not a panellist. I'm not someone who makes appearances. I'm not interested in your approval. I'm a fucking writer, and I say things that other people can't say because they don't have the words, or the courage, or the torpedoes to damn. By the time Omar, in answer to a typically bland and innocuous question about reaching out to the mainstream demographic, answers with the beautifully atomic bomb-like "Fuck the Average Joe. I'm not here to create art by referendum." I don't know whether to have his babies, get it tattooed on my chest, or just run screaming for the nearest laptop.

Jesus. All that time spent banging on about fucking the demographic, about drowning the washed-out, diluted, pissant shadows of Tolkein down the toilet where they belong. All that chest-beating about vision, and voice, and forcing them to read what I write and not the other way round, and I forgot it all.

And after that, two days of the Festival was like a fucking purgatory I had to wade through to get that message beaten right back to the rear of my eyeballs so I don't damn well forget it ever again, as wave after wave of lily-white AM radio voices paraded before us to beg for our approval.

Day three of the festival was spent at home courtesy of day two of the festival. Writing.

I was lost, and now I'm fucking well back.

FETISH FRIDAY: NICK MAMATAS

I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

This week, we welcome our first international friend, international man of mystery and all-round bon vivant, Nick Mamatas:

As someone who is known, to the extent that I am known at all, for dark fiction and incendiary blogs and essays, perhaps I should be less forward in my fetish for buttercream, but here it is. To go "out there" I prefer initial fortification via creature comforts--a nice piece of cake, for example. I spent quite a few years in the beginning of my career living hand-to-mouth, learning to "starve better" as my how-to book puts it, and small treats work best to keep me motivated and awake when I am writing. I don't drink much (and never at home) or like coffee, and don't have a dedicated office or a nice couch to stretch out on, so snacks do it. They're inexpensive and provide a cheap sugary high; as I am a night-writer, most productive between 9pm and 4am, I need to stay alert.

I suspect that some Friday Fetish entries will involve an item or object that recalls either writerly success or an instance of horror. I'm not inspired by success stories (clearly!) and, frankly, the horrors of the world  are never far off from the front of my mind. A little piece of cake with buttercream frosting reminds me that small rewards are more likely than large ones, and that there are small pleasures to be had...like, say reading a short story. Without it, I'd probably commit the sin of writing for catharsis--when the writer achieves such a purge, the reader never will. Cake is a reminder of good things, and a link to the ordinary world--a requirement for horror and the fantastic.

Nick Mamatas is the author of several novels, including Love is the Law, The Last Weekend, and the forthcoming I Am Providence. He's published over one hundred pieces of short fiction in venues as diverse as Best American Mystery Stories, Asimov's Science Fiction, and New Haven Review. His short Lovecraftian fiction was recently collected in The Nickronomicon, published by Innsmouth Free Press, and his how-to guide to being a failed writer, Starve Better, is still available. Follow him on Twitter at @nmamatas

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY DOES APART AFTER DEATH

Here's one that I got as far as pencilling and inking to the best of my ability. My not-very-good ability.

This is why I'm an author. That and my utter inability with a guitar.... a paintbrush.... science......

FETISH FRIDAY: KEITH STEVENSON

I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

I'm a bit of a loser when it comes to fetishes that help me get into a creative state, because early on I cultivated an ascetic stance to writing. I don't have a favourite pen, or chair, or computer or view out the window simply because - as a working stiff - I have to wedge my 'writing time' into whatever spare moments I can muster. 

I write on trains, trams, buses and planes (though never behind the wheel). I write on sofas, in airport terminals between flights, in draughty bus stops, in bed with my eyes shut. I write with a laptop, with a pen in a notebook, on a post-it note. I feel smug that my writing does not depend on some talisman that, if lost, will mean the loss of my writing mojo. I don't need to sit or stand or be somewhere to 'get into the creative space' because if I had to wait for that to happen I'd be a slower writer than I already am (and I'm glacial at present). 

There are, however, two things that I fervently believe in when it comes to my writing. Firstly I believe in the power of my subconscious to mull away at problems in the background and throw up an elegant solution whenever I need it and, related to this, I find that writing in the early morning, when my brain has not yet hard-wired itself into reality lets me follow my instincts as I write. Secondly I believe in always finishing a particular writing session mid-sentence or mid-scene so I have the impetus to get right back into the story when I pick it up again. 

Keith Stevenson's debut novel, Horizon: an SF thriller, is published by Harper Collins Voyager Impulse. He blogs about the science and ideas behind Horizon at www.horizonbook.com.au 









Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY ASSEMBLES BEHIND SOMEONE'S BACK

I'm just saying: I nailed every single expression in this one. Every. Single. One.

What's sad is, I highly doubt I'd have the skill to deliberately recapture them this well if I tried to pencil and ink the thing properly.

"Don't lie to me, Doris. I can smell machine oil!"

FETISH FRIDAY: JASON NAHRUNG

I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

There was a time when I carried a little ‘dice idol’ around on writing excursions – a miniature Thoth. Then I realised that the simple act of opening the laptop lid was sign enough it was time to write. At home, I occasionally burn incense in a nod to mood, and Thoth still sits there on a shelf, watching over.

But when it comes to writing, you sit, you write. And try to look after the health of your back, neck and your hands as you do so!

Most of my writing is done on commuter trains these days. There’s no room for fetishes, even if I wanted them.

When it’s time to write, you write.

If there’s one thing that is useful, though, for me – and everyone is different, of course, we all have different processes – is music. Sometimes just to take the edge off the malarkey going on around me; sometimes to set the tone.

For instance, when writing ‘Watermarks’, a story that came out in 2014 set in a flooded Brisbane, I played Crater Vol. 1 by Android Lust a lot. That and Wendy Rule’s The Lotus Eaters. I used Wendy’s album a hell of a lot when working on Salvage, too: the sea theme made it a natural fit.

When writing my vampire novels Blood and Dust and The Big Smoke, the playlist crossed as much territory as those two novels: Midnight Oil and Aussie garage rock such as The Angels for dusty highways; thumping action soundtracks such as Rammstein and AC/DC for kicking arse; dismal albums suitable for grungy urban scenes from the likes of the Sisters of Mercy and John Foxx. (Vampire aficionados: check out the Music from the Succubus Club compilation; the Lost Boys soundtrack; the Forever Knight soundtrack for the quieter moments.)

Nine Inch Nails, Gary Numan’s Jagged, Depeche Mode’s Black Celebration and Attrition are among those that have filled out the sonic backdrop, depending on the mood.

I know some folks find it hard to write with music at all; others find music with lyrics intrusive. But for me, as long as the music is well known, it just fades off into the background, helping me zone out of the real world and into the story world. 

Jason Nahrung grew up on a Queensland cattle property and now lives in Ballarat with his wife, the writer Kirstyn McDermott. He works as an editor and journalist to support his travel addiction. His fiction is invariably darkly themed, perhaps reflecting his passion for classic B-grade horror films and ’80s goth rock. His most recent long fiction title is the Gothic tale Salvage (Twelfth Planet Press), with his outback vampire duology Blood and Dust and The Big Smoke coming soon through Clan Destine Press. He lurks online at www.jasonnahrung.com.

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY FEELS THE LOVE, SHERWOOD STYLE

Sometimes, the image explains itself. Sometimes, it requires a caption. Sometimes, the caption is too bloody convoluted for its own good.

This is one of those times.

"Feeling the arrow strike him, Robin acted without thought, and instantly 

loosed an arrow at his attacker..."

FETISH FRIDAY: LAURA E. GOODIN

I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

This week, I think it's fair to say, the bar has been officially raised :)



 

American-born writer Laura E. Goodin has been writing since childhood.  Her stories have appeared in numerous publications, including Michael Moorcock's New Worlds, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Adbusters, Wet Ink, The Lifted Brow, and Daily Science Fiction, among others, and in several anthologies.  Her plays and libretti have been performed on three continents, and her poetry has been performed internationally, both as spoken word and as texts for new musical compositions.  She attended the 2007 Clarion South workshop, and is currently completing a Ph.D. in creative writing from the University of Western Australia.  

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY UNDERSTANDS THE JOYS OF PARENTING......

Sometimes, this parenting lark just has no winners, no winners at all......

"Tell me about the Tooth Fairy, Dad."

Being a rooster has its tough moments.

FETISH FRIDAY: MEG CADDY

I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

Most of my friends, coworkers, and family know I’m obsessed with pirates. Check my internet search history and it comes up with things like ‘frigate breadth’ and ‘carracks vs caravels’, and ‘how to cook salamagundy’.  I’m doing an Honours thesis on pirates in pre-modern England, and I’m working on a pirate novel. My favourite historical figure is the wild and wonderful Grace O’Malley.

I think I am drawn to pirates because I am their complete opposite. I am indoors-y and bookish, and my adventures are mostly confined to the page. In spite of my love of ships, I am most assuredly not a sailor.

A dear friend of mine – an American artist named Kristin Lane – is familiar with my pirate obsession, and she encourages it shamelessly. A few years ago, she asked me what flag is flown by the pirates in my novel. I described a red flag with a black rose, modelled off the Tudor rose. To my delight, some months later Kristin sent me a small canvas panel with the design painted on it. She had also added a little something of her own, saying:

“The red is easy to see from a distance, but the black wouldn’t be so contrasting. The white not only draws the eye and makes the design more readable, but also serves a purpose. White is fresh, new, pure, and unused. The longer the flag flies, the more weathered and discoloured it gets. I took this principle from early martial arts training. Before they started dyeing the belts you only had one which would get dirtier and dirtier the more you trained. This is why we go from white belt to black belt.”

I keep the flag on my desk. It reminds me of the journey my pirate captain must make. When she starts to sail she is untried, uncertain, and unprepared for the responsibility of a ship and crew. By the end of the novel, she must know where she stands on the deck, and she must know what she stands for. The centre of her flag must go from white to black.

Like my captain, I’m new to the business; my debut novel is being released this year. The canvas panel, with white blazing in the centre, reminds me of how far I have to go. I have a lot to learn, and a lot of work still to do. Moreover, the flag helps me to deal with all the things that are so daunting to a newcomer in the world of professional writing. The flag enables me to see the late nights, early mornings, weeks of solitude, rejection letters, deleted drafts, and rewrites not as failures – but as weathering. Evidence that I can sail.

Meg Caddy has a BA in English Literature and History from the University of Western Australia, and is currently writing an Honours dissertation on pirates. In 2013, her YA fantasy novel Waer was shortlisted for the Text Prize, which led to a contract with Text Publishing. Meg was the 2013 Young Writer-in-Residence at the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre. Her short story ‘Amphibian Summer’ was shortlisted for the Questions Writing Prize, and her poetry has been shortlisted for the Ethel Webb Bundell Poetry Prize. In 2014, her poem ‘Tiddalik’ was published in the 2015 Poetry d’Amour anthology.

For the past five years, Meg has been working with children of all ages. She is passionate about storytelling, cooking, pirates, and lizards.

Website: www.megcaddy.com

Twitter: @MegCaddy1

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

Review: The Bloody White Baron

The Bloody White Baron by James Palmer

My rating: 0 of 5 stars



Unreadably bad. Palmer is clearly a writer with a passion forMongolia, and a political point to make, but his long asides and diatribes, coupled with footnotes that vary between simple references and long, unsubstantiated opinion pieces, turn this mess of a book into an utter farrago. Ungern-Sternberg is clearly a compelling character, and there's bound to be a fascinating biography of the man out there somewhere, but this isn't anywhere near it. Did not finish.



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Review: The Four Just Men

The Four Just Men by Edgar Wallace

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



Written in 1905, this remains a gripping and exciting character piece that examines the effect of political terrorism on a passive populace. While the characters of the police who pursue the titular four are never more than loosely drawn, those of the men themselves are the clearest fascination, and the gaps in their characterisation just encourage the reader to fill them in by himself.

The plot whips along, the tension palpably increases as the annointed hour of the act moves ever closer, and while the climax has a whiff of the deus ex machina, it's allowable in the realms of what is, clearly, a pulp novel that outstrips its boundaries.

It's exciting, stirring stuff, with the added benefit of -- quite unconsciously-- being a fascinating glimpse into the bigotry and superciliousness of the Edwardian Englishman.



View all my reviews

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY FINDS A JOKE AS OBSCURE AS ITS SUBJECT

Yeah, so...... literary pretensions...... it's a thing......

"45 minutes after she says it, James Joyce's English teacher decides that "Time's up,

finish the sentence you're on," isn't the best way to get him to finish his exam"

FETISH FRIDAY: DAVE LUCKETT

I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

I don't think anything of a material nature gets me writing - no music, no pictures, no objects or artefacts, nothing like that. But I can't work out what's going to happen in a story until the character starts talking to me. 

I've got a plot kinda sorta stewing at the moment. It's actually been asked for by Omnibus - a historical set very very early - bronze age. Dyan Blacklock sent me a newspaper article on a burial in Sussex from about 2200 BCE, and thought it might inspire something. The man had died apparently from a sword-cut. He had been buried with a very rare, very beautiful bronze dagger, so he was an aristocrat. But the illustration didn't say anything much to me. I researched the date - and whaddaya know, 2200 BCE is pretty much on track for the last major building phase at Stonehenge. They raised the five big central trilithons about then. Thing is, those stones weight about 25-30 tonnes apiece, and they moved them mostly overland about 24 miles to the site. Nobody knows exactly how, but it woulld have taken a huge number of bodies, for that time and place.

It was that that got me thinking. I think maybe my character will be the bloke responsible. This would have to be someone who could enforce a peace in a very warlike age, but he couldn't be simply a warlord. He had to organise a workforce of six to eight thousand, which means about twenty times that number of farmers to feed it. Given crop yields and population density then, we're looking at most of central and southern England being directed to a single purpose. Huge.

So I think I know what the character will be - a warrior who becomes a builder. But he hasn't said a word to me yet. I have no idea what he's like - his voice, his speech patterns, his word choice. That will lead on to posture, gestures, behaviours, thought. But until I can actually hear him speak, I don't know what these will be. And here's the thing. Without those, I don't know what will happen to him, because I don't know how other people will behave to him.

So it's that voice that is my fetish, if you want to call it that. I suspect that he might sound upper-class, for those times - for there certainly was a class system. I suspect that causes conflict - but I don't know how. He isn't talking to me yet. I can't write a word until he does - if he ever does.

We'll see, I suppose.

Sometimes it happens straight away. More often not. Sometimes it's inconvenient. I've actually had the experience of a character walking up behind me, tapping me on the shoulder, and the following conversation ensued:

"I'm not going to do that," she said.

"It's in the plot."

"Don't be silly. I wouldn't do that."

"What? You have to do it. It doesn't work, otherwise."

"It doesn't work, as is."

"Now, look here. You're just a figment of my imagination. You do what I tell you to do."

"Get lost, boofhead. You'd never have made a writer, anyway."

So I noodled around for another way. It took me a week, but she eventually approved an alternative, and it led to a different plot twist, and it worked better that way, anyway.

So. The character has to talk to me. That's my fetish.

 

 

Dave didn't have an author pic to share, so here are a few novel covers to give you an idea of the range of which the man is capable. Dave was first published in 1994, won two Aurealises in 1997 and 1998, got on the Premier's Award list three times, and has published twenty-two novels, ephemera and trivia and a couple dozen short stories. 

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY MOCKS THE AFFLICTED

You think the Bubble Boy has it bad? How could you possibly face life as a Bubble Fish?

"He's not a puffer fish, he's allergic to water."

IF I LIVED IN BALDIVIS, I'D BE HOME NOW

This is it. Everything is packed. Everything is put away. Everything's been disconnected.  Tomorrow the truck comes, and the Batthaim is no more.

We've been here over five and a half years. It's the longest I've been in a single house since I shared a two bedroom duplex with my Mum and younger brother when I was a teenager, 23 years ago.

My bonus son, Aiden, reached adulthood and embarked on his own life from here. Miss 13 graduated Primary School here. Master 10 was home schooled here. We've had grandchildren, boarded adult family members and childrens' friends, struggled with major illness. I sold my first novel here, and my second and third. Luscious became an educator, and fought tooth and nail to advance her tertiary education. Our kids learned to swim in this house, to ride bikes, to read and write. We've lived here, when all is said and done, really lived, that sort of life you promise yourself when you move to a seaside town from the city.

It's a white elephant of a house. The gardens are too big and the weeds have never been under control. The reticulation is a bitch to operate. There's not a right angle in the fucking place. You can't reach the ceiling in the foyer to clean it. The taps screech and scream and not one of the washers we've fitted over the years has solved it. The patio was designed by a five year old with crayon poisoning, so that the rain pours down onto the seating area instead of away from it. We don't get terrestrial TV, The mortgage is too high and we've struggled to afford it and maintain any sort of standard of living for the kids. I've grown to dislike it terribly. I'll be glad to see the back of it.

And yet, it's been our home. Really our home. It's been a significant part of our lives. No matter where I've been since, the house I lived in with my parents between the ages of 8 and 13, before it all went to shit and they divorced, is the one I think of as my childhood home, the place where my memories really began. This will be that house for my children, I think: when they look back on their childhoods, this will be the place where their memories really begin. And now we're leaving it behind.

It's for a better deal, there's no two ways about it-- the place we're moving to is closer to my work, close to Miss 13's secondary college, closer to all the places we choose to spend our time when we're out and about, deep in the heart of Rockingham-- my old town, my home town. It's more compact, less sprawling and unwieldy. It's more manageable, more affordable, newer, better built. The gardens are smaller. We'll have more money, more time, more leisure. There's no down side to this move.

But still, this is our home. The Batthaim. And now we're leaving it.

We're going to need a new name.

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY ADDENDUM: CHARLIE HEBDO

So: two days ago, three murders burst into the offices of the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo and gunned down two policemen and 10 members of staff. At least another 11 have been injured.

There's a lot of talk around the content of the magazine, the cartoons it published, the religion of the assailants, the nature of terror and of terrorists. Truth is, right now it's all hearsay and speculation. The full reasons behind the attack will not be known until the gunmen are apprehended and interviewed, and even then, it's likely to be veiled by a thundercloud of polemic and grandstanding-- on all sides of the argument-- for longer than it'll take to convict and sentence them.

In the meantime, here's what I know: journalists and artists were gunned down, in their place of work, and it's likely that they were murdered because somebody didn't like the nature of their art.

So let's be clear: If your response to a work of art is to kill the artist, you are not a soldier, you are not a freedom fighter, you are not a terrorist or a religious zealot. You are a murderer, pathetic and tawdry like all murderers. And you should be treated accordingly. No soapbox to stand on, no flag to wave. Who gives a fuck what Martin Bryant wants to say? Or Ivan Milat? That's you: you're scum.

Now, here's a thing, or for me, at least, it's a thing: way back when, I wanted to be a cartoonist. It was a serious ambition, until I came to realise that I could be an author, or a cartoonist, but not both-- I did not have the time to hone my skills in both departments well enough, and writing was a more immediately applicable use of my practice. But there's always been that desire, and in the meantime, I had accumulated a collection of a couple of hundred scribbles and thumbnails, put aside until I had the skills to translate them to full drawings properly. The skills never arrived, the thumbnails endured, that's why Thumbnail Thursday began.

The idea that I might be brutally murdered because of a drawing is one that resonates along my bones, and I haven't quite been able to shake it for the lat couple of days. I know there are acts of brutality and awfulness that occur across the globe, every day of the year. I know that somewhere, someone will be lining them all up and readying a response that says "Oh, this one or that one or this one over there is worse." I believe you. I'm sure you're right. But this is the one that's still shivering for me.

I've wanted to do something, and my initial response has been: I want to draw. It seems a stupid, small thing, but I want to make a little note that says: hey, French artists for a magazine I didn't know existed, and which I had never read! Me too! I've held a pencil. I've made the image. I have my art.

Art must always win.

For two days, I couldn't think of a thing: I'm out of practice, and pretty much, I couldn't think of anything profound enough to pretend that I had a place amongst the myriad of genuine artists who were publishing their responses. Until I realised: that's not the point. My whole thing has been the thumbnail, the scribbled outline on a post-it note or scrap of notebook paper. So I decided I would post a blank page, torn out of my notebook. That would symbolise my response. And then I came up with this:

 

 

 

So, that's my response. From me to Charlie Hebdo.  

 

And now, here's a thing: it's not enough. Art must always win. Against guns, against threats, against the brutality of human ignorance. Because art, no matter how basic and untrained, no matter how slapdash and mundane, is an expression of beauty, of the desire to translate human thought and personal philosophy into an object that adds to the flow of human progress.

 

Murder removes: art adds.

 

So here's a post-it note. Draw something on it, please. Post it on your own blog, or Facebook page, or tumbler or whatever social page you use: stick it to your fridge, or a lamp post, if that's what you have.

 

Add some art, to help cover the loss of the future works that have been taken from us. Draw something for Charlie.

 

 

 

 

FETISH FRIDAY: ALAN BAXTER

I'm running a new series of guest posts throughout 2015: Fetish Friday. Don't get all sweaty in the pants—I’m going back to an older definition of the word, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the ritual of creation, some part of their surroundings—physical or mental—that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without which the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

I don’t believe in writer’s block. 

I believe in procrastination, and writers are Procrastination Masters. And yes, that needs to be capitalised. But we tend to procrastinate when things are proving tricky and often it’s necessary to find headspace to properly ruminate on whatever that particular tricky thing is at that particular time. Trouble is, the kind of rumination necessary is something that can’t be done easily with the forebrain. It needs to percolate away in the hindbrain. At least for me, my subconscious is far better than my active mind at figuring out story nuance or just what the hell it is I’m writing. So I need to distract myself and let the old brainmeats permeate. 

Lots of things work – mowing the lawn, walking the dog, going for a swim – anything that occupies my mind enough, but not so totally that it can’t stay busy in the mental basement. Those tasks that require engagement but not concentration free up the subconscious to work out writerly issues. And for me, by far the greatest of those is riding my motorcycle. It needs my awareness - I have to watch the road and watch the traffic (because the safest way to ride is to assume that every bastard out there is trying to kill you), and I can enjoy the scenery. Meanwhile, the dark and dingy basement brain is busily whipping its captives with barbed wire flails, extracting story juice. Whenever I know that a story or book requires some thought or I feel a bit lost and entangled in plot and characters, I hop on the bike. Or I put the story aside until I get a chance to go out for a ride and let that word baby simmer. And that’s only one reason my bike is a fetish item. It’s also super fast, hella fun and just damn sexy as hell. 

I mean, come on - Look at it! VROOOOM!

Alan Baxter is a British-Australian author who writes dark fantasy, horror and sci-fi, rides a motorcycle and loves his dog. He also teaches Kung Fu. 

He lives among dairy paddocks on the beautiful south coast of NSW, Australia, with his wife, son, dog and cat. His latest work is the dark urban fantasy trilogy, Bound, Obsidian and Abduction (The Alex Caine Series, HarperVoyager). 

Read extracts from his novels, a novella and short stories at his website – www.warriorscribe.com – or find him on Twitter @AlanBaxter and Facebook, and feel free to tell him what you think. About anything.

Are you a creative artist? Fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process? There's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY LOVES IT INTERRACIAL

Ah, Daleks. Is there anything they can't make funny?

Answer: nope.

On a side-note, I think I nailed the pregnant Dalek tummy. Which has to be an important life skill, right?

"But. Father. I. Love. Him"

MY GRANDFATHER'S AXE

This is Spike.

When all's said and done, he's just about my oldest friend. I've known people longer (waves: Hi, Seanie!), but Spike's been my constant companion for verging on 22 years. Other friends have moved away, or moved on, but Spike's been by my side, and in my garden, for literally half my life.

I bought him when I was living in a shared house, just after I'd finished Uni, in early 1993, when I was 22 years old. He sat in a pot, and every time I moved digs, he came with me. Then, when I bought my first house, I planted him properly.

When I moved from that house, I took a cutting, Spike's a succulent, so basically, he's as pod person as a plant can get. Hack off a limb, and you grow a whole new Spike: all you need is potting mix and water. He's my kind of plant: inde-fucking-structible. Spike grew anew. When I moved again, I took another cutting. And again. This time, he's been in the ground almost 6 years, and he's doing bloody well for himself.

When Aiden moved out of his shared house recently, and into a new place with his fiance, I took a cutting, and gave it to him so he could have his own Spike. And I took the opportunity to do the same for Blakey and Cassie, so now all three of my bonus kids have Spikes of their own. And now I'm on the move again. 

So, 11 houses later, (including, at one stage, returning to an old house after 6 months, so he was simultaneously in garden and pot!), here's Spike once more, pod-personned up and ready to go:

The Spike abides.

DUTY, LOSS, SPACE AGE POLYMERS AND CHICKEN EYES

It's arrived: my story The Glow of His Eyes, the Depth of his Gaze has been posted at the Cosmos Science Magazine website.

It's a rare foray into hard science fiction for me, and anyway, don't you just want to know what it's got to do with chicken eyes?

Go, read, enjoy.

WELCOME TO FETISH FRIDAY!

I'm a geek for the artistic process, and for artists. I love reading biographies, I devour How-To's and Behind-The-Scenes volumes. As much as I love the act of creation, I also love the psychological, social and thought processes that go into that act.

So this year I'm going running a new series of blog posts: welcome to Fetish Friday.

Now, before you get all sweaty in the pants area, let's be clear: I'm going back to an older definition of the word fetish, and asking artists to show us something that helps them with the act of creation, some part of their surroundings-- physical or mental-- that eases the path into the creative state, whether it be a location, a piece of music, person, picture, a doohickey, whatnot, curio or ornament without the creative process would be a whole lot more difficult.

Let me give you an example:

This, here, is my shower. If you've read any of my fiction, anything longer than a flash piece at any rate, that story has driven me to this shower at least once.

The vast majority of my fiction is unplanned. I start with an image, a character, a setting--- something minor and singular-- and unwind from there, moving from problem point to problem point until everything builds to a giant tangle of problems, and then... resolution, climax, denouement, and fade. Which is fine...... until I write myself to a problem I can't solve. If I can't solve it, then neither can my characters.  

Which is when I retreat to the shower. Maybe it's because I'm to cheap to shell out for a proper isolation tank, but once the screen is between me and the word, and I'm alone with the steady thrum of water battering my head and shoulders, and running down my face in such a wave that I can't even sense the walls around me, that's when my mind realises nobody's watching, slips its leash, and goes for a right old wander. And that's usually when I hit upon the solution that nobody was looking for. 

Fiction is like football: it's all about creating angles, and finding gaps that nobody was expecting. When I'm isolated from every possible distraction, when my body temperature is plummeting below the ambient heat (or rising through the frost layer, in the tracky-dacks months), and when I'm alone in my cocoon of calming water, that's when the angles open up. When I'm in need of a breakthrough, when I've written myself into a cul-de-sac and can't find the gaps in the surrounding walls, I retreat to the shower.

Some stories I can measure by the number of shower I have to take...

So there's my fetish revealed, and that's what's happening across the course of the year. In coming weeks you'll hear from a range of creative artists as they discuss their own particular creative fetishes. If you're a creative artist, and you fancy joining in and letting us know about that special item, object, location or cosmic state of being at the heart of your creative process, well, there's always room for another lunatic in the asylum: email me and make your most excited Horshack noise. 

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY RETURNS YOU TO YOUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING

Enough with the celebrating the birth of Jesus schtick, back to our normal service......

"I don't care what he's done, this is affecting my TV reception!"

HERE'S LOOKING UP YA!

The drinks are cooling, dinner's on the simmer, and I'm about to close down my innahnet for the duration.

I've decided against resolutions for the coming year: truth is, it's been hard, at times, to keep my nose above water this year, and the idea of doing anything other than trying to get my personal and professional lives on track in 2015 does not appeal. So, rather than set up a wishlist I'll spend a year feeling bad about not achieving, here's a short list of things that'll be nice to have happen, and a list of things I was glad to have happen in 2014.

1. Lose some weight. No targets, no plans. I'll be in a new town, with new opportunities to be active. If I lose some weight as a result, I'll be happy.
2. Give precedence to my writing. There have been too many distractions this year. My career has wallowed, and I've lost impetus. I'd like to recover that, and get back to the only thing I'm good at.
3. Spend more time with my family. I'm moving 15 minutes closer to work. I want to make good use of that extra 30 minutes a day.
4. Get out to some more Lego events.
5. Be happy. I've spent too long this year under stress, and miserable because of it. I'd rather not do that again.
6. Sell more work: whether it's a new novel, more short stories, a film script, I'm not going to care. I've been happiest when I've been running my career for my own amusement. I'm going back to that.

As to the year just gone, here's a few of the good things:

1. I was invited to present a workshop at the Perth Writer's Festival, a career highlight and proof that I could think about entering the wider literary world with a straight face.
2. My family blossomed in ways that brought me to tears on occasion. 
3. I sold a few short stories, and every one was to a new market.
4. We sold our expensive, hard-to-maintain white elephant of a house and bought a new, smaller one nearer to my work, which should ease our financial pressure in 2015.
5. I found a group of largely like-minded Lego fans and made it to a couple of group meetings, giving my hobby a social dimension it has previously lacked.
6. I had a good year for passing on my experience, with a number of workshops and public appearances under my belt.

Happy new year, y'all. See you next year.

A CHRISTMAS THING FOR YOU, FROM ME

It's getting towards the end of the day. The Blu-Ray pile has Snowpiercer and two Quatermass movies, freshly purchased, waiting to be unwrapped and watched. The beer is in the fridge. I'm about to start putting together the special dinner platter for Luscious and I that marks the point where I wish you all a Merry Christmas and book the hell out until the other side of the festivities.

So, before I go, to say thanks for popping in every now and again and reading my bewildering blether, have a short story on me. It's not even remotely festive.

Enjoy, Merry Christmas, and see you on the other side.

Perry hadn’t slept in three days. Not since he’d worked it out. Not since the last piece of the puzzle had presented itself, like a full-colour, 3D blow to the frontal cortex and he’d finally, after twenty years, fit the whole thing together. The World Government was real. He’d found them. The masters of humanity: identified; tagged; nailed down. Incontrovertible proof that, despite all the conspiracy theories, despite all the crazy people and the pop culture mockery and the Hollywood hand-waving, there was a secret cabal that ruled the planet. The faces in his folder. The names on his list. They all checked out. They all left trails. It had taken him twenty years, twenty years of playing the game, being the spy in the network, moving up the corporate and military and Government ladders until he could talk to the right people, stalk the right people, track the right people. And find the right people. All in his folder. All on his list.

Three days. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t stopped moving. Constant movement had become his watchword, his way of avoiding surveillance. He knew too much for safety. Who they were. How they did it. Mind control.  Perry snorted into his coffee. All those theories, all those lunatic fringes, all those message boards. All correct, without the strength of character to prove it. The Government, the real Government, could do control people’s minds. Were already doing it. Had been for years. Perry glanced around the diner. The only question was how. It wasn’t via the air. He had disproved that theory early. But it could be via contact, via subliminal messages in the TV, could even be something they put in the food. Through food. Jesus. He stared down at the coffee, then dropped the cup in sudden panic, watching the brown dregs as they pooled on the tabletop. Jesus. Through the food. He scrambled out of the booth and strode towards the exit. If they were doing it through food then movement was no longer a protection. It was a weakness, perhaps his only one. Anything prepared by a stranger was suspect. He had to get home, had to barricade himself against the world and work out what to do. He would need to source food, as fresh as possible, prepare it himself to be sure. Avoid processed meals, avoid anything tinned. Wash it himself, prepare it himself. That was the only way to be sure.

There was an ATM nearby. Perry steered towards it, peered at himself in the mirrored surface above the slot. Tired, haggard eyes stared back. He took out everything he had, made sure to keep the receipt. Leave no trace behind. That was the key. He turned the collar of his coat up, shrunk inside. A fresh food marketplace. A new kitchen knife. Supplies. Paid in cash. Talked to nobody. Said nothing. The hot weight of his file under his arm, tucked in against his ribs. Hidden. Safe. Took it out as he strode towards his flat. This, this was the evidence that would bring everything down, would expose the secret masters for what they really were, he thought, tearing it into pieces as he walked. Once this got out the world Government, the cabal, would topple. He dropped the folder into a bin, kept walking, his mind made up. Tomorrow, he would find safe avenues for release, people untouched by the global corporate message, and give them the information, see it released to the public in a million ways. He smiled, relieved now he had reached the endgame, and threw his money into an empty lot.

His flat was cold, dark, all his surveillance equipment undisturbed. Perry nodded in satisfaction. They hadn’t found him, not yet. They were still unaware of his pursuit. He put the food away, crumpled up the ATM receipt and flicked it onto the living room floor along with his empty wallet. Then he moved about the flat, making sure everything was in place: pulling out drawers, overturning furniture, slashing cushions with the new knife. Everything was as it should be. Perry released the breath he had been holding. He knew from long experience that this was the most dangerous time. The job was done but not finished. He could not afford complacency. After tomorrow, the world would be changed. There would be danger then. Those whose downfall he caused would be hurt, and would know his name. But for now he was safe, and undetected. Eat only the fresh food, he thought, draining a glass of beer from the fridge. Stay awake one more night. Be alert until the morning. Then, he nodded as he sat down at his computer and deleted the hard drive, then the secret masters will be exposed. Peace could come to the world, and eventually, to William Perry.

There was nothing left to do but wait. Perry put a can of soup on to boil, then returned to the hallway outside his flat. He made sure it was empty, closed and locked his door, then kicked it off its hinges. Twenty years of careful planning would soon be over. The lie at the heart of the world was exposed. Humanity would thank him, in time, when the cabal was thrown down. People could live free, released from their mind-controlled, drone existences. He stepped inside and lay down amongst the wrecked furniture in his living room.

Tomorrow, he thought, as he plunged the knife into his chest, again and again, tomorrow he would change the world.