Dag-Lit Central

A really grumpy blog post

2012-02-20T20:12:00.000+11:00

I was meant to have written this post yesterday.

But I didn't. And I'll tell you why. Because I was in a really bad mood.

I'm not going to tell you why I was so grumpy. That's my business and I'd rather keep it private. What it did mean was that I was in no mood to sit down at my computer on a Sunday night (when I usually post my latest update) and think of something clever and witty and utterly ingenious to say. So that's why I'm doing it today instead.

Which kind of got me thinking (I know - it's a bad habit which I'm trying to get on top of). If we're to take ourselves seriously as writers, how much should we let our writing patterns be dictated by moods? As a professional writer, should I just get over it and get on with the job?

It seems especially difficult for someone whose primary style of writing is meant to be funny (at least a little bit). because let me tell you, funny is really not so easy to do when you feel like the world is collapsing around you. At least not for me - I know there's a bunch of great comedians who seemed to only be able to function if they were clinically depressed, but that's not my style.

All the same, am I derelict in my duties as a writer for letting things get on top of me? Should I be able to keep churning out the funny, no matter how grim and grumpy I feel? When it comes down to it, am I just a great big sook?

No idea. All I can tell you is that this is my blog, and if I'm so grumpy that I don't want to write anything in it, then I won't. So there.

From Theatre to Taxes to Text - Guest Post by Pavarti K Tyler

2012-02-15T19:00:00.028+11:00

Today I'm thrilled to have another guest here at Dag-Lit Central. Pavarti K Tyler is here to share the amazing story about how she became an indie author. So take it away, Pavarti.

From Theatre to Taxes to Text

The journey of the self-defined individual isn't an easy one.

Every day we are told the rules we are supposed to follow. We are pounded with the reasons we must stay in line. Across the street, which we are never to cross, is another set of expectations. Follow your dream, you can achieve anything, you can be anything.

What we are never told is how to follow our dreams and stay in line. Eventually, one or the other will be disappointed. Eventually we are destined to fail.

For whatever reason, I was never really expected to stay in line. My father is a dreamer born into a world where achievement means everything and my mother is a free spirit, an adventurer, only allowed the path of nurse, secretary or wife. They had me later than most of their generation had their first child and for whatever reason they were always delighted to see me step slightly to the left of single file.

But the open road ahead is daunting and takes an incredible amount of work to survive on. I learned after college that for some it’s a road never destined to be taken. I would have been saved many a heartbreak had I learned it earlier. I was fortunate to find a job on Broadway. I had a theatre degree in dramaturgy (theatre theorist/historian) and to work on shows like Phantom of the Opera and Fosse was the pinnacle of success.

Even now when I tell people about working there it sounds so glamorous. Like another life. But the reality is I was miserable. Art is a business and commercial theatre is no different from any other profit-focused endeavor. I worked so hard I made myself sick. I cried and I crumbled.

Leaving theatre was one of the best decisions I made. Where it led me though was unexpected. After years of various jobs and training I am now an accountant. I have two small children and I work from home giving financial advice to small businesses and preparing tax returns. Who'd have thought? From the outside it seems so much less exciting. I'm no longer out till all hours or working with stars or opening to full houses. Now I am a rule follower and I really like staying in line.

But the dreamer my parents raised is still within me. And so as an adult I faced the same dilemma children must grapple with. Do I stay in this line or do I achieve a dream? My children are old enough they go to school. I love my work and don't want to stop. But I have a story to tell and it sings in my head, distracting me and pulling me out of sync.

Returning to art was difficult, it took a leap, a self-confidence I wasn't sure I had. But in the end these stories in my mind, this part of me that needs to skip instead of march, took over and demanded to be allowed to roam free.

Perhaps this basic dichotomy in my personality is why Indie Publishing appeals to me so much. I've stepped out of line; I don't want to just wait in another one.

Being involved in the Indie Community has been one of the best experiences of my life. I have reclaimed the artist and dreamer within me. I have made my own rules and am free to skip or run or twirl as I see fit. There are no hard and fast rules and each of us does what we can. If you need help, there are communities and groups and even some companies that will guide you, but no one can tell you the right way to do this.

For me the artist and the business woman are finally at peace, each finding the fulfillment they want. Lines and order and structure hold me in, but the creation of a new world, a new reality sets me free.

Bio: Pavarti K Tyler is an artist, wife, mother and number-cruncher and has been committed to causing trouble since her first moment on this Earth. Her eclectic career has flirted with Broadway, Teaching, Law Firms and the IRS. She is currently consulting with Novel Publicity while hard at work establishing her Indie Publishing Company Fighting Monkey Press.

Pavarti's debut novel, Two Moons of Sera is a Fantasy/Romance and was released in serial format beginning November 2011. Her next novel, Shadow on the Wall, is a work of literary fiction and is scheduled for release in May 2012.

You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter or her website.

It's time to win with ebooks!

2012-02-12T19:16:00.002+11:00

It's competition time again.

Over the next few days, until February 15th (inclusive) to be exact, I'm participating in an exciting event titled Win with eBooks.

What does this involve? It's very simple. Twenty writers have banded together and we're all offering our books up for 99c. So there's heaps of great books available at a bargain price.

But that's not all...

By participating in this event, you'll be in the running to win some great prizes, including:

A Kindle Fire or $200 Amazon gift card
A $10 Amazon gift card.

And there are lots of different ways you can be entered in the draw. Just tweeting about the giveaway or liking the FB page (http://www.facebook.com/winwithebooks) will get you in the draw. And of course, buying the books. But make sure you check out the selected books each day, because buying these will give you double points.

More information on exactly what you need to do is provided on the site.

So make sure you join in the fun. Come along to Win with eBooks, get yourself into the prize draw, and, most importantly, stock up on some fantastic reads.

The Big Decision

2012-02-05T19:28:00.000+11:00

Well I've survived 3 days of the new job so far. Hasn't been too hard, work wise. They're letting me settle in gradually, although I have a feeling things will be ramping up this week. The people are really friendly and I like the vibe there so am feeling good about it.

Meeting a whole bunch of new people can be a bit unnerving at first. However, there has been one particularly big decision which is always on my mind in these kinds of situations. It's the decision somebody like me has to think about when I'm meeting new people. The big reveal, if you like.

When and how do I reveal to my new workmates that I am a dag?

I know, you're probably thinking it really shouldn't be such a big deal. After all, isn't the whole point of being a dag that you don't care what other people think about your dagginess?

That's certainly true, however in this cold, hard world in which we live, sometimes even hard-core dags like myself have to make a few concessions. Much as it can pain me to say it, impressions in the workplace are important. You don't want to get on the wrong side of the wrong people too quickly. And also, even if I hate to admit it, work does have its serious side. There is stuff you have to do, and there isn't always time to waste.

The good news is, I'm getting the feeling that in general, dagginess will be well tolerated. I even think I've discovered a number of fellow travellers. So here's hoping for a new career in which I can be successful, professional and effective, and yet still retain my true daggy soul.

And a great week to everybody else.

Bestseller for a Day: 8 Hearts Beat as One

2012-02-02T20:05:00.000+11:00

Today is a bit of an exciting day.

My short story, The Gift, has been included as part of the new Indie Book Collective Valentine's Day anthology titled 8 Hearts Beat as One.

Hard enough to believe I've written a story about Valentine's Day, let alone had it published. And to be listed alongside the likes of best-selling authors like Carolyn McCray, Amber Scott and Ann Charles is quite a thrill.

But what makes it especially exciting is that today (I think - still struggling with time differences) the anthology is being featured as Bestseller for a Day. This means that not only is it available for free, but in addition, there are four extra books available:

Pet Whisperer...er...rrr by Carolyn McCray
Play Fling by Amber Scott
Nearly Departed in Deadwood by Ann Charles
The Mancode: Exposed by Rachel Thompson

But that's still not all. By purchasing the anthology, you'll be in the running to win a Kindle. Just go to http://www.bestsellerforaday.com/Bestseller_for_a_Day/Home.html and fill out the form and you'll be in the running.

Enjoy!

The Most Valuable Resource

2012-01-29T13:49:00.037+11:00

I start my new job on Wednesday.

It will most likely be a while before I get into a new routine. I'll be working longer hours as well as probably spending a bit more time getting to and from the office.

Which leads to one pretty big question as far as I'm concerned: How am I going to be able to make time for writing (not to mention blogging and twittering and the various other stuff we're supposedly meant to do to get the great public to consider buying our books) ?

This got me thinking (I know - it's a bad habit of mine) about the value of time. I really have come to think that it's the most valuable resource of all. Certainly more valuable than money - I'd gladly swap a bit of money for a bit more time.

So what can we do to try to bring more time into our lives. I think there needs to be a real "paradigm shift" in the way we look at things. Rather than focusing on how much money is involved, we need to focus on how much time. Maybe, instead of listing prices for things in shops, we should instead be listing times, eg:

the time it took to create something
the amount of time we'd be prepared to give up for something
the amount of time we're likely to use something before we've had enough of it

But why stop there. Maybe someone could invent a time bank, so we could invest our time wisely, rather than wasting it. Instead of exchanging shares in the stock market, we could be exchanging time. We could invest a small amount of time and then see how it grows over the years. Sacrifice a little bit of time now for a lot of time later.

I don't know how it would work. I don't know if it would work. I just know that I never seem to have the time to do all the things I want. And every day, time just seems to disappear, faster and faster.

Guest Post: I'm a scrawler by Coral Russell

2012-01-25T12:00:00.043+11:00

Today I'm delighted to welcome another visitor to Dag-Lit Central: The amazing Coral Russell.

Coral is another one of those tireless promoters of other indie authors, as well as an accomplished writer (or should I say scrawler?) in her own right.

So, without any further ado, over to Coral.

I'm a scrawler by Coral Russell

I'm not entirely sure, but I've heard stories where people who write become offended when you call them a writer. As in,

“Are you a writer?” an innocent asks.

“No, I'm an author,” says the offended.

I'm not going to profess to be either a writer or an author. I'm a scrawler. I don't know anything about writing. In fact, I probably know the least about writing than most other writers/authors. If it wasn't for wonderful people who are so free with their expertise and sharing information, I would still be at square one. My friend complemented me on working my butt off, but it's more like a stumble around in a blind panic until one of my writing friends points me in the right direction. Then, off I go until the next obstacle.

As a scrawler, I'm all about this Indie movement in writing. I write what I want. It has come to my attention that my favorite reading genre is anti-genre. If you're an anti-genre fan, join the anti-genre group on Goodreads. It makes sense that I don't really think too much about genre before I start writing something. If I want to throw something in that goes against the grain, oh yea, I'll do it. I don't mind giving away my scrawl because it comes back to me ten-fold. I'm surprised people pick up my stuff. I'm surprised when people buy it. I'm surprised I have fans who say they love what I write. I even created my own personal scrawl font, but I seem to be the only one that likes it.

One of the best experiences I had as a scrawler was when some Brazilian ghost hunters got a copy of two of my short stories and an excerpt from Amador Lockdown and we tweeted back and forth as they started and finished reading the stories. It was so much fun, lasted three hours and got me hooked on Twitter.

Scrawlers can be found anywhere in the world, from all walks of life. All you have to do to be a scrawler is believe in yourself and write.

Coral Russell reads/reviews Indie authors on alchemyofscrawl.wordpress.com Check out her Stalker Package to connect. She has written The DIY Guide to Social Media Marketing and eBook Publishing, Playing with Fire, Twelve Worlds, Peace on the Peninsula, and Amador Lockdown.

A New Beginning

2012-01-22T17:05:00.024+11:00

I've just got a new job.

It's really exciting. I'm looking forward to moving on. A new beginning. Out with the old and in with the new, and all those other cliches.

It's a bit like starting a new chapter of a novel. Actually, cancel that - it's more like finishing a novel and starting a new one.

Of course, being more of a writer than a reader, I can't help thinking about how this is a metaphor for the writing process (I know, I can make pretty much anything a metaphor for the writing process).

The old job feels a bit like a novel I tried to write but never managed to finish. I started out with high ambitions. I had a really good idea for how I wanted things to work out. Plus a bunch of characters who seemed really promising. But at a certain point, the plot just never quite worked out and I stopped liking some of the major characters. And when I got to that point, it really was best to just put things aside, stop writing, and start thinking about something else.

It might seem like a defeat but it really isn't. Sometimes it's best to realise things aren't working out and move on. Not every idea for a story is going to end up as a great novel.

Now of course, we're back to square one. Lots of potential. Lots of new ideas about how things will work out. Some new characters who seem really cool. Hopefully this time it will all come together into something great.

But in the meantime, I plan to enjoy a couple of weeks "between jobs". And maybe, the next idea for a novel will also play itself out.

Everyone in Publishing is (Slightly) Insane Right Now: Guest Post by JC Andrijeski

2012-01-18T14:00:00.044+11:00

Today I'm pleased to have another visitor to Dag-Lit Central. JC Andrijeski has popped in, all the way from the foothills of the Himalayas, with an interesting take on current attitudes to book marketing. Take it away, JC.

Everyone in Publishing is (Slightly) Insane Right Now

People are totally going nuts in the new world of publishing. As my Aussie friends would say (there’s really no good equivalent in American-speak), tons of people have totally lost the plot, and are running around in a near-hysterical panic in the midst of all of these changes.

This truth only sunk in relatively recently for me, as I kept my head down pretty much for the past 12 months, focusing first on getting myself in a position where I could focus more on the writing, and then by actively, well…writing. It’s allowed me to observe some of the craziness without getting too attached. I basically told myself I’d join the melee once I’d built my inventory enough to make it worth my while, and until then I’d watch all of the freaking out from a safe distance.

Then Christmas loomed on the horizon, and I began to feel that pressure like most writers and small publishers I know. Got to GET IT OUT THERE, got to be seen, got to get freebies and specials up on Amazon, Twitter my brains out, network, give things away, come up with a gimmick, drive everyone I know on Facebook totally bat crazy, join in promotions, pay for ads, and, and, and… (can you feel the hysteria building…?)

SELL! SELL! SELL!

All of a sudden, I found myself back trying to navigate that same scarcity mindset that sent me packing from corporate culture in the first place. You have your gurus telling you “there’s only one way to do this.” You have the fearful newbies, convinced that they only have this tiny window of time to get famous (always off their first book, or maybe their second). It’s implied of course, that if they miss that window, then it’s all over for them, they might as well go back to flipping hamburgers or mindlessly entering data into spreadsheets for some insurance company in Akron, Ohio. You’ve got people willing to treat their work like it’s a worthless, plastic trinket in the “we’re about to chuck this crap out” sale bin at Wal-Mart. You’ve basically got people reacting, reacting, reacting…and not really stopping to think if all of this fear and the mindless (often lemming-like) activity it produces is really getting them anywhere.

Then you’ve got the old pros in this business watching all of this and shaking their heads in disbelief.

Don’t get me wrong. I totally get the fear. I’ve been suckered in by it more than once myself. I’ve had that nausea-inducing feeling of dread that if I somehow “miss my chance,” I’ll be confined to the annals of obscurity for now and evermore. We’re all susceptible to this, especially at the beginnings of our careers, when we haven’t ridden through enough of these crises to be able to see ourselves or our work clearly.

But the truth is, it’s all an illusion. It’s just not real.

The only thing you can really control as a writer is whether or not you are writing. Sales? Yeah, you can play the Amazon lists lottery, learn all of the algorithms by heart and pump your books up temporarily from a clever gimmick or see them sink like a stone from a misstep. But as Kristine Kathyrn Rusch points out so astutely in this post, playing those games is really short-term thinking, and ultimately will either lead to disappointment or a somewhat deluded sense of “what works” (and likely, eventually, disappointment, when it doesn’t work the next time around)…but not to a realistic approach to building a real career as a fiction writer.

Sadly, I saw this same sort of mentality in the short-term thinking of most corporate environments…grandiose “guru-izing” and “wonder child” status for those who championed whatever flavour of the month happened to bring a bump in sales that made the quarterly earnings sheet look good for five seconds on some CEO’s desk. Having worked at fairly high levels in such environments, I can tell you how utterly meaningless those quarterly statements are in terms of predicting the long-term health of most companies. In fact, you can often get those bumps by actively undermining the long-term health of a company in which you are operating. Kind of like how you can get those bumps by, say, spending a whole month (or 2 or 3) doing nothing but promoting your first book ruthlessly while not writing a single solitary word of new fiction.

The thing is, a bad cover can be fixed pretty easily and quickly. Bad content takes a lot longer, and is only improved by putting in the time and writing more books. You’ll never get that month of writing time back, so you’re probably a lot better off not freaking out about how your stuff looks from the marketing angle, and focusing on writing new stories that people will really want to read. I know for a fact that my marketing presentation needs work. I’m fixing those things as best as I can while I learn the business, but the only time I truly feel I’ve lost the plot is when I realize that all of my creative energy is going into this, rather than writing the next story.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t know your business – of course you should.

But I never want to do what 90% of the failing American corporations I’ve worked for have done, and forget what my actual product is. My product isn’t a snazzy cover. It’s not being a social networking goddess. It’s not how many Amazon lists I can jump on and off and how quickly, or how high I can get my book to rank on the free Kindle rankings.

That stuff for me is all noise, for the most part. I’m experimenting here and there, sure. I’m networking with other writers and getting some great ideas from things they’ve tried, and I’m dipping my toe into areas that seem to align with my strengths, interests, or just business sense and logic. But I never want to buy into the hype that you have to follow some formula involving cheap promo gimmicks to gain a loyal audience.

At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is how good I am at telling stories. There are enough bad novels out there that sell a few thousand copies in a month because of clever marketing, either by an individual or a major publishing company. I don’t want to be one of those writers. I want to be around in ten or thirty years because I keep getting better at my craft, and because my career and income built through a real word of mouth fanbase.

Would I love to make a few grand a day in sales? Sure, I would! Any writer who says they don’t care about this is a liar. Even if they don’t need the money, writing is a conversation, and nothing is more boring than a monologue…especially to the one delivering it.

But I honestly don’t think the way to get there, at least for me, will be to do a lot of handwaving and hysterical jumping up and down to get noticed. Maybe that really does work for some people, and more power to them, I mean it. But for me, I need to focus on the writing, and learn the rest of it as I go. For me, all of that stress and fear is counterproductive…in fact, that way lies madness.

So if you’re anything like me…chill.

Don’t believe the hype that there is only one way, and that it requires you to magically transform into Tony Robbins or Suze Orman overnight. Just keep writing. Replace covers and blurbs and marketing packaging as you learn. Don’t live in fear. Seriously.

And have more faith in yourself. Give things time to grow, don’t expect some crazy overnight success or bash your head into your monitor when it doesn’t happen. Those do happen, yes..those are the lottery winners. But you up your chances exponentially for those types of opportunities by writing more and giving more work to the public to possibly fall in love with. It drives me crazy when I see how many people give away their 200K word novel for 99 cents because they’re afraid they will be “missed.”

This is a wonderful time to be a writer – believe that, too. We have options now. We can write what we want and still make a living…especially if we allow ourselves to get any good at it. We can find our niche audiences, no longer forced to find something that a corporate sales head believes will meet that elusive “mass appeal” criteria for all readers, all the time. We can work for ourselves.

To me, that freedom to be able to write the stories I really want to write makes all of this craziness and uncertainty and the fear completely worth it.

Bio

JC Andrijeski is a bestselling author who has published novels, novellas, serials, graphic novels and short stories, as well as nonfiction essays and articles. Her short fiction runs from humorous to apocalyptic, and her nonfiction articles cover subjects from graffiti art, meditation, psychology, journalism, politics and history. Her short works have been published in numerous anthologies, online literary, art and fiction magazines as well as print venues such as NY Press newspaper and holistic health magazines. JC currently lives in India, in the foothills of the Himalayas in Himachal Pradesh where she writes full time. Please visit JC Andrijeski's website at: jcandrijeski.com or her blog at jcandrijeski.blogspot.com.

JC Andrijeski's Links

Twitter: @jcandrijeski
Facebook author's page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Julie-C-Andrijeski/119289867659
Goodreads author page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4470130.J_C_Andrijeski
Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/JC-Andrijeski/e/B004MFTAP0/
Link to Rook on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Rook-Allies-War-Book-ebook/dp/B004TXR6FG/

12 Days of New Year Blog Hop: Interview with D. Robert Pease

2012-01-13T14:00:00.033+11:00

Today, as part of the GIR "12 Days of New Year" blog hop I'm interviewing D. Robert Pease, author of Noah Zarc: Mammoth Trouble.

But before we start, I thought you may like to take a sneak peak at the trailer for this book:

Hi there, Robert, please tell me a bit about yourself.

I'm married with two fantastic kids, and live in the grey-sky world of Northeast Ohio. I've finally come to grips with the idea that I'm the least intelligent one in the house, and that includes the dog and cat.

And how about your latest book?

Noah Zarc: Mammoth Trouble is about a twelve-year-old boy from the future who travels through time with his family in an immense spaceship called the ARC. They're on a mission to rescue two of every animal from Earth's past and bring them to a post-apocalyptic world that has been wiped clean of all life. Of course it's not as easy as it sounds and things don't go according to plan.

Where can people get this book?

Everywhere books are sold online, and the local indie store. Here are some links:
Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Noah-Zarc-D-Robert-Pease/dp/0615524990/
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Noah-Zarc-Mammoth-Trouble-ebook/dp/B005H5GFNE/
Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/noah-zarc-mammoth-trouble-d-robert-pease/1104907603
iBooks: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/noah-zarc/id458650226?mt=11

Is it your first book?

It's my first published book. I've got an epic fantasy novel that I wrote before Noah Zarc. But I'm not sure it'll ever see the light of day.

If so, what motivated you to publish it now?

I've been working towards the idea of publishing traditionally for quite a few years. So there has been a lot of work perfecting my query, finding the right agents, researching publishers, etc... but just when I was about to actually start my search for an agent I came to the realization that I no longer wanted to go that route. I'm an entrepreneur by nature, having run my own web design business for the past fifteen years, so the idea of self-publishing really began to appeal to me. I switched my focus to what it would take to do this whole thing on my own. It has been very rewarding, but also a whole lot of work. I discovered that the main thing I could not do myself was the editing. So I worked with the folks at The Editorial Department to get the book in shape. That was about a four-month process. So finally after about two years, Noah Zarc was ready to go. So the short answer is, I decided to publish now because I felt the book was ready, and the market was right for self-published books.

Who is your favourite character?

I guess it'd have to be Noah, simply because I invested so much into figuring out who he was, and what makes him tick. He's a lot of things I wasn't as a kid. He's daring, adventurous and not afraid to get in trouble if he thinks he's in the right. Of course these are qualities, as a parent now, I'm glad my kids don't have. I also relate to Noah Zarc, Sr. He was really a representation of who I would be for my kids. I would go to any length at all for their safety and well-being.

What’s your favourite indie book that you’ve read in the past 12 months?

This is a hard one. I've read some good ones. But I'm going to have to pick my friend, Susan Kaye Quinn's novel, Open Hearts. I highly recommend it.

What’s your favourite book of all time?

This is pretty easy. The Lord of the Rings. As a teenager I fell in love with Tolkien's world, and more specifically, the shire. I have a new dream of going to New Zealand and living in the shire they are building for the new Hobbit movie.

Any advice for new writers?

My main advice for writers is, treat it like a business. Sure it's fun. Sure writing can be the best experience, but in the end, if you don't treat it like a business you won't be able to do it for long. This means treating your book like a product. One that you want to be the absolute best it can be. Get good critique partners. Ones who aren't afraid to tell you what works. Then, if you are going to self-publish, get a great editor. Not just one who looks for typos, but one who digs into the deep inner workings of the story. Plot, characterization, leaving no stone unturned. I don't believe anyone should publish a book without professional editing. Finally get a good cover artist. This is your primary tool to sell your book. Don't skimp.

Also realize that this is a marathon. It can take a very long time to gain traction and begin to see some real sales.

What’s next for you?

I have a sequel to Noah Zarc in progress, called Noah Zarc: Cataclysm. It should be out sometime this year (yikes it's 2012 already!) I also have another series in progress based on the Biblical story of Joseph and the coat of many colors. It's a fun fantasy about a boy in New York City who discovers a hidden dream world, which is ruled by a reincarnated pharaoh. I'm really excited about getting back to it after Noah Zarc is complete.

Thanks Robert and all the best for your continued writing.

If you'd like to know more about Robert, you can check out his website at http://www.drobertpease.com/ and his Facebook page, and follow him on Twitter.

Happy New Year from Dag-Lit Central

2012-01-09T11:18:00.000+11:00

Well, the holiday season is over, we've gotten through the festivities, and now there's a whole new year in front of us.

2012 promises to be a big year, here at Dag-Lit Central. For a start, I'm hoping to have more visitors here, talking about how their stories stand out from the crowd. After Anastasia V. Pergakis's post last week, I'll be interviewing D. Robert Pease on Friday as part of the GIR 12 Days of New Year blog hop event. And there'll be many more guests in the coming weeks.

In addition, I'll be keeping you all updated on my latest writing projects. My first novel, Magnus Opum, is currently with beta readers and I'm hoping for an April release. And I'm well on the way to a completed first draft of the sequel to Doodling, tentatively titled Scribbling at this stage. And you'll get more of my daggy ramblings about writing and the world in general.

But the really big news to start 2012 off with is that I'll be doing my first blog tour very soon. Starting off on March 5th and running through till the end of the month, I'll be visiting 20 different sites to talk about Doodling, Flidderbugs, and Dag-Lit in general. For more information on the schedule, click on the image at the top of this post. And big thanks to the wonderful people at Goddess Fish for organising all of this, and the amazing Donna Brown of Books, Bags and Cat Naps for making it all possible.

Hope your new year is also off to a great start.

Cleanse Fire: Guest Post by Anastasia V. Pergakis

2012-01-04T12:00:00.004+11:00

Welcome to Dag-Lit Central for 2012.

I'm really please to start the year off with a visit from Anastasia V. Pergakis who is popping in as part of her Cleanse Fire blog tour.

So without any further ado, over to Anastasia...

Jonathan has graciously allowed me to visit his blog today as one of the stops for my blog tour for my debut novel, Cleanse Fire: The Kinir Elite Chronicles. Thanks so much for having me Jonathan.

He told me the theme for his blog is "writing that stands out from the crowd." Way to put on the pressure Jonathan! I thought to talk about how the idea of this story came to me, since it mentions my Dad and how proud I am of his 20 year military career. However, I promised myself I would not repeat posts during this tour, so I had to rethink. I decided to give some more behind the scenes information about the world I created for this book, specifically the language I made for my elves.

When I started writing this book, I didn't have much to go on in concern to the world the characters lived in. Just a few notes here or there to get me started. As I wrote the story, more and more about the world came up either in the story or just as random information popping up in my head. When I was finished with the first draft, that is when I really sat down and filled in the blank spaces for my world.

The fun part when filling in the spaces was deciding on the language the elves, and other creatures, spoke. I thought at first to create an entirely brand new language, like Tolkien did, but that proved to be more complicated than I wanted! So, instead I turned to Latin. Why? Well, it has that ancient sort of feel that I wanted my elves to have. They live very long life spans and their world has a deep history to it. Having them speak Latin as their "Ancient Language" fit. After all, Latin is our "ancient language" too.

I'm sure that I fumbled up some of the Latin phrases in my book - as in they are most likely far from accurate. But, hey, it's a fantasy book in a world other than Earth, so I can just say "It's accurate for them." Still, it was fun looking up translations and figuring out what words and phrases they would actually use with the ancient language.

My favorite "Elven phrase" I came up with is the Kinir Elite motto. Many military units in real life have such a motor or phrase that tells people who they are. So it was fitting that my unit have one too. "Primus. Semper. Ultimus." Short and simple. Loosely translated it means "First. Always. Last."

I also like the phrase they use when going into a mission, "Vivo Liber. Morior Bonum." Translated directly it's "Live Slow. Die Fast." which basically means to live a long satisfying life but don't suffer in death.

There are more words and phrases sprinkled throughout the book. And more will come to light as the series continues. It's interesting to me to create new worlds, including languages. In Book 2 of the series, Blood Trade, I have a new race of creatures coming into light and I'm having fun creating a few phrases for their language as well.

What about you? Do you create your own languages for your stories? Why or why not? Do you just come up with a few phrases or an entire language?

~ * ~ * ~

Cleanse Fire Blurb

Complete the mission, no matter what…
Captain Derac Vidor has served Kinir for nearly twenty years. It’s his life, his blood, his soul. And then his Commander betrays everything Derac holds dear. Now he has to focus on his own life and his team instead of saving the citizens of Kinir.

Treason is only the beginning…
Fueled by rage, the team chases the source to their Commander’s betrayal – a powerful wizard bent on revenge. The wizard seeks to destroy the Kinir Elite, in both mind and body. No place is safe, even among their allies.

The past holds the key…
Derac’s tragic past may be the key to saving the team. But can he face the gruesome nightmare in time?

Purchase Cleanse Fire

Join the Kinir Brigade by signing up for our newsletter! Get exclusive deals, access to special giveaways, and inside information about the series! Join the Kinir Brigade now and receive the first five chapters in your email! And don't forget to visit our Facebook Page and Website too!

Author Bio

Anastasia knew she always wanted to write. She began at a young age, writing those little stories about the apple tree in the yard. Though her love of stories stayed with her through her poetry stage in high school, she didn’t begin writing novels until she was almost an adult. That’s where she found her true passion.

Her characters visit her dreams – and sometimes during the day – to share their stories with her. Anastasia is merely the writer, but the characters are really the storytellers.

Anastasia lives in Columbus, Georgia with her husband and son. A stay at home Mom, she loves spending time with her son during the day, then writing furiously at night.

~ * ~ * ~

GIVEAWAY

I’m giving away an e-copy of Cleanse Fire! Leave a comment on this post to enter into the random drawing. I'll draw the names at the end of my tour, January 31, 2012. If you want more chances to win a copy, visit our website to follow our tour! The more comments you leave, the more chances you have to win!

All commenters will also be added to the drawing for a chance to win a signed hard cover. Drawing for the hardcover will be on January 31, 2012, the end of my tour.

You can also get more chances to win by tweeting or posting on facebook! Just leave a link to the tweet or post in a comment below!

**All Winners will be announced on the Kinir Elite Website on February 1st**

A Daggy New Year to All

2011-12-28T20:41:00.002+11:00

Well can you believe it? 2011 is almost over.

And what an amazing year it's been. Hard to believe that this time last year:

I'd never self-published a book.
I didn't even own a kindle.
I'd never been on Twitter or Facebook. I hadn't even heard of Goodreads.
I certainly had no plans to start up a blog.

And now, a year down the track, here's what has happened:

Not only did I self-publish an ebook. I did it twice.
I read more books on my kindle than I do otherwise
I've met an amazing group of fellow writers and reviewers out in the world of social media
I've had my blog going for around seven months now. Even managed to pick up a few followers on the way.

On the way, I've had some amazing experiences. Seeing my books start to sell out in the big wide world has been amazing. Discovering readers out there who really enjoy my writing and seeing the great reviews for both Doodling and Flidderbugs out in the blogosphere and on my Amazon pages. And getting nominated for the Goodreads Choice awards, which certainly was a most unexpected pleasure. Seeing my book alongside those by people like Tina Fey and Ellen deGeneres was seriously exciting.

Now I've got even bigger plans for 2012. I'm hoping to have my first novel, Magnus Opum, released early in the new year. This will hopefully be followed by a sequel to Doodling, with the tentative title Scribbling (makes perfect sense). I'm well on the way to a completed first draft, but it's going to need a bit of work to get it up to scratch.

But what I'm really looking forward to is my first blog tour. It's tentatively scheduled for March so make sure you stay in touch. It should be a whole lot of daggy fun.

So, as the year winds down, I'd like to wish all my friends, readers and followers (I know you're out there) a safe, joyful and completely daggy new year, and hope 2012 brings all that you wish it to.

The Festival of the Books

2011-12-20T16:00:00.005+11:00

Well, all the excitement from the Indie Book Blowout is now calming down. But that's definitely not the end of the festivities. Because Christmas is not the only festival happening right now. It's time for Hanukkah, and the Festival of the Books.

For me, it feels like a really good fit for Dag-Lit Central to be participating in a Hanukkah event. The theme of this blog is "Writing that stands out from the crowd." After all, Hanukkah may be one of the most important events in the Jewish calendar, but growing up in the outer suburbs of Melbourne, it wasn't exactly a well known cultural event. So celebrating Hanukkah instead of Christmas (well more like in addition to Christmas - we were kind of flexible in that way) was definitely something that stood out from the crowd. It was another way to feel a bit different, or special, however you wanted to look at it.

Nowadays, Hanukkah seems pretty mainstream. There are big events in the park every year, and even big Menorahs in the middle of the city. And at my kid's school, they always sing a few special Hanukkah songs as well as the Christmas Carols. I think it's great that events like these can become accepted as a major part of society.

So tonight, and every night as we light our candles and remember the events we're commemorating, I'll be thinking about what it is that makes us special, and also what it is that brings us all together.

And what better way to celebrate than with some books.

Which leads us to the best bit.

By participating in this event, you get the chance to win. On this blog alone, I have three prizes packs available, featuring both of my ebook novellas:

- Doodling - the strange adventures of a man who's fallen off the world (because it's moving too fast). Douglas Adams meets Lewis Carroll. And it was a Goodreads Choice nominee in the humour category
- Flidderbugs - a political satire/fable about a bunch of insects with some very odd obsessions. It's also been getting fantastic reviews from readers

Just leave a comment below. Tell me something about what Hanukkah means to you. Tell me something about what books mean to you. Tell me something about being different or being special. Tell me anything you think of about this wonderful, festive time of the year and you'll be in the running. Just make sure to leave your email, so I can contact you if you're a winner.

But wait - there's even more prizes to be won

Check out the blogs of the other participants listed below for more opportunities to win:

Stephanie Abbott writing as Emma Jameson, author of Ice Blue (a cozy mystery): Blog and Twitter.

Danielle Blanchard, author of Death Wish (paranormal romance): Blog and Twitter.

Justin Dennis, author of Through The Portal (YA fantasy): Blog and Twitter.

Lisa Grace, author of Angel in the Shadows and Angel in the Storm (YA fantasy): Blog and Twitter.

Craig Hansen, author of SHADA (YA thriller): Blog and Twitter.

Larry Kahn, author of The Jinx (thriller) and King of Paine (suspense): Blog and Twitter.

Emily Ann Ward, author of Finding Fiona (YA Sci-Fi) and Passages (YA short stories): Blog and Twitter.

And don't miss out on the Grand Prize Draw.

Have a very happy Hanukkah, whether it's something you do every year or something you've never even heard about before.

Indie Book Blowout - Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-12-14T15:22:00.000+11:00

Well, we're now into the final countdown till the arrival of Christmas and the end of the year. But before we get there, there's one big event, and it's happening right now.

The Indie Book Blowout - Twelve Days of Christmas is running from December 12 until 24th. Over 100 authors have gotten together to make their books just 99c for the duration of the event. So make sure to peruse the list - there's sure to be something you'll like. But that's not all.

The Indie Book Blowout isn't just an opportunity to find some terrific books. There are also heaps of chances to win fantastic prizes, including Amazon gift card and a new Kindle. Just check out the information in the site for details on how to enter.

But that's still not all.

12 authors participating in the Indie Book Blowout are offering you an additional chance to win. Just go to our special prize page to see the books available and enter into the draw to win a Kindle Fire or a $200 Amazon Gift card.

So all the best for the approaching holiday season. Enjoy all of the books on offer, and good luck for the prize draws.

Guest Post - Darlene Jones

2011-12-11T11:06:00.000+11:00

Today I'm delighted to announce another visitor to Dag-Lit Central. Darlene Jones will be talking about her novel, Embattled, and how it stands out from the crowd. So take it away Darlene...

In part, Jonathan Gould defines Dag-Lit as something that: “is hard to fit into a box and likes to find its own space, is full of surprises, but always works out in the end, and is serious, but doesn't take itself too seriously.”

It is in the spirit of Dag-Lit that I write the following about my first novel.

You’ve written a book and the first question everyone invariably asks is, “What’s it about?”

“Um… er… it’s…” Who knew defining your work would be harder than writing it? “Well, it’s not a thriller, or a mystery, or a bodice-ripping romance.”

“Adventure?”

“Sort of.”

“Historical?”

“No, no.”

“Vampires? Monsters? Paranormal stuff?”

“No.”

“Well, what’s it about?” You sense an edge of impatience creeping in.

You frown in thought. How to describe a cross-genre novel? It's not easy. And where is it written that your creation has to fit some preconceived notion of a novel genre anyway? You take a deep breath and plunge in. “It’s the story of a woman whose life is taken over…” No, that’s not going to cut it.

You try again. “It’s an adventure slash love story with a bit of “soft” sci-fi magic, about a woman who is chosen to “fix” stuff in the world, and about the two men who love her.

Frowns tell you your inquisitive audience doesn't have a clue as to what you’re talking about. You can't fit your novel into a “genre” box. It's a unique mix that works with serious aspects, but a touch of humor too.

Suddenly, inspiration hits. For the men, you say, “sci-fi adventure.” And for the women you say, “love story with a bit of magic.” Then you hope like heck they’ll be curious enough to buy it and hope like heck you’ve written it well enough that they’ll like it, want to buy the whole series, and will tell all their friends about it, word of mouth being an author’s best friend.

EMBATTLED by Darlene Jones

Em sits at her desk, her hands soaked in blood. No wounds, no pain, and no idea where the blood came from. The reds and greens swirling across her computer screen scream jungle battle. She’s certain she was there. Fighting through the jungle to stop a battle, storming into a courtroom to save the accused, facing a firing squad of armed ruffians…
Are her “three wishes” coming true?

And, Yves? He is there to arm her with special powers, to send her into battle, to watch over her. His first assignment as a supreme power is to clean up the mess on Earth without going down there himself. Meeting his superior’s expectations is a huge challenge. Falling in love with Em threatens to ruin everything.

Available from:

Amazon
Smashwords

Bio

A long time ago, I lived in Mali. Every single day, I wished I could wave a magic wand to relieve the heart wrenching poverty. My experiences there led to the writing of this story. Some aspects of EMBATTLED reflect my desire to wave that wand and make the world a better place—if only wishes could come true. And of course, every novel needs its love story, so along with the sci-fi magic, I’ve added the requisite romance.

I now live on Vancouver Island, Canada and spend winters in Mexico. I write, read, and body board when I’m in Guayabitos. I love my granddaughter, the views of the ocean from my desk, and chocolate, which should be its own food group.

Contact Darlene at:

Her website - http://www.emandyves.com
Her blog - http://emandyves.wordpress.com
Twitter - @darlenejones47
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/#!/djones47

A great big experiment

2011-12-04T20:44:00.002+11:00

Today, a volcano erupted in our backyard.

Nothing too big and frightening. It was actually one of those little science experiment volcanoes, the ones where you mix vinegar and bicarb in a bottle and then watch it fizz out and all around. It was pretty fun. The kids thought it was fantastic (and given I'm just a big kid, I guess that counts for me too).

What basically happened was a chemical reaction. Two ingredients, neither particularly volatile, were mixed together and all of a sudden - foom!

Thinking about this little experiment put me in mind of the business of writing and selling books (I know - what doesn't?). I'd love to figure out how to get the same sort of reaction for my writing. I wish I could find a way to combine some simple marketing ideas in such a way that they produce a massive explosion of sales, pushing my books way up into the heights of the Amazon rankings.

Oh well - at least it sounds like a pretty good metaphor. And as regular readers will have figured out by now, there's nothing I like better than a good metaphor. I could go on about how this experiment is a bit like writing in general - how a story is made up of a bunch of different ingredients which combine together to form something exciting and new.

Because, let's face it, writing is really just one big experiment. We never quite know what we're doing as we write. And once it's done, we never know how others will respond to it. That's both the beauty and frustration of it.

Till next time, hope all your writing experiments produce the reaction you want, and don't explode in your face.

A long awaited treat

2011-11-27T20:37:00.000+11:00

Last week was a pretty special one. I finally got to fulfill a long-standing ambition. I got to see Cold Chisel play live.

You folk on the other side of the world probably would have no idea what this is about, so I guess I better explain. Cold Chisel are the great Australian rock band. They cut a swathe through the Aussie music world in the late-seventies and early-eighties before self-destructing. In little more than 5 years, they released 5 albums, all gems, and developed a reputation as amazing live performers. All just a little before my time.

Sure they've reformed a couple of times previously, but I was never organised enough to take advantage. When I heard they were touring this year (first time since the '90s), I made sure to score tickets.

And what a night it turned out to be. Things opened with the support act, You Am I. They're not exactly unknowns - they've been around nearly twenty years, hold some sort of record for albums debuting at no. 1 on the Aussie charts, and have toured with The Who and The Rolling Stones. But you could tell that most of the audience was from an older generation and here for the Chisels only. The applause was polite but quiet. Not that that deterred the band who ripped into their set with relish, oblivious to the lack of attention they were receiving.

Then time came for the mighty Chisels. For two hours, they ruled the stage, reeling out hit after hit. Nearly thirty years after their first break-up, it was amazing to hear that the power, the energy, not to mention the musicianship, was all still there. And the crowd lapped it up, singing along to every song.

It was definitely worth the wait.

Three days later, I'm still finding myself breaking into Chisel songs and reliving the experience. What it's really done is underscore for me the value of the creative life. What this band meant to so many people is quite extraordinary.

I don't ever expect to be in a position where I can touch anywhere near as many people as Cold Chisel have. But in the short time I've been putting my books out, I'm amazed at how the creative act of writing and putting out a book can enable connection with other people.

And You Am I also inspired me. They showed me that even if you're not getting the appreciation you deserve, it should never stop you going out, doing your best, and loving what you do. Because part of the joy of being creative is the act of creation itself.

So that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'll keep working at getting my writing out because that's what I love to do. And at those moments when I do get a response, and do make a connection with another reader, then that will just make it doubly special.

And I can't finish this post any other way than posting up a clip from the concert. This is Cold Chisel in intimate acoustic mode doing one of their classics, When the War is Over. If I can win a few more fans for this great band, especially from outside Australia, then I'll feel that I've done something worthwhile. So enjoy.

Close but no cigar

2011-11-22T20:37:00.001+11:00

A couple of weeks ago I put up a post about the way people in the indie writer community go out of their way to help each other out - The Free Economics of the Indie Author World.

In the last week, I've had the opportunity to see first hand the amount of time and energy the community is prepared to put in to support one of their own.

Last week I had the good fortune to have my novella, Doodling, selected as a semi-finalist in the Goodreads Choice awards, humour category. I'm not quite sure how it happened. I was barely even aware that the awards were on. I cast a vote for myself in passing (why not?) and then promptly forgot about it.

So I was well and truly amazed when I received an email from Goodreads telling me my book had been nominated. I couldn't believe it. There was my little, self-published book, up there on the page with books by names such as Tina Fey, Ellen deGeneres and Penn from Penn and Teller. Pretty mind-boggling for me. I felt like I really was in the big league now.

So, the first thing I did was I went to the community, and my friends on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads, to see if anyone was willing to help out. I don't have a massive following myself, having only entered the world of social networks a few months ago. But the response was amazing. The support and encouragement really showed me the value of this community.

In particular, I'd like to single out Donna and David Brown who went beyond the call of duty in their support, even going so far as to:

Invent a new hashtag on twitter - #votedoodling
Design some fab banners which I was way too slow to put up on my sites:

Even create an amazing promo video:

In the end, Doodling didn't make it to the final round of the awards. Still, I feel like I've really achieved something just by being nominated. And that could only have happened because of the support I received. So I'd just like to pass on a big Thank-You to all the members of a community which I'm really honoured to be a part of.

And if you want to see more of the extraordinary work Donna does promoting indie writers, check out her amazing event, Adopt an Indie.

Shay Fabbro - Guest Post

2011-11-12T11:15:00.001+11:00

This is one busy week at Dag-Lit Central. I'm pleased to announce my third guest for the week, the Queen of Squee herself, the amazing Shay Fabbro.

Today Shay is going to talk about the things authors should or shouldn't put in their novels. And she's giving you a chance to win a copy of her ebook "The Chosen".

So without any further ado, over to Shay.

What should and should not be put into novels

For today’s post I thought I would tackle the issue of what authors should or should not be obligated to put in their novels. A lot of this is going to be more relevant to only certain genres but I hope this post will give authors something to chew over.

The idea for this post has been brewing for quite some time, mainly because of reading other random things on blogs, Facebook posts, Tweets, etc. The purpose of this isn’t to offend anyone, although logic and simple statistics says that I will most likely offend at least a few people but that’s a chance we all take every time we open our mouths or write something down, isn’t it?

This first is something I actually saw on FB earlier in the week and found it fascinating. It’s a subject that I find to be a little uncomfortable to approach. When I have to teach reproduction in my freshman biology classes I have such terrible anxiety that I will break out into giggles when I have to say certain words or that I will stutter when I say them. Anyone see Scrubs? Elliot Reed and her total terror of saying sex words? That’s me, only not as dramatic ;)

Anyway, the topic of sex in books has been something that most authors have struggled with, unless they write in a genre that uses that, like romance or erotica (see earlier comment about some of these things only being genre specific). The topic on FB was whether certain genres should or shouldn’t include sex scenes. My answer was “If the author feels it necessary to the story, then yes.” But an author shouldn’t feel obligated to throw in an obligatory sex scene just because someone else says they should, or because Hollywood movies seem to do that. For me personally, I don’t feel comfortable writing sex scenes so I won’t use them, regardless of whether someone ELSE feels it would be appropriate. I would rather have a little romance, some hugging, kissing, and let the reader imagine what they will. Do the characters have sex or don’t they? As far as my story lines go, whether they do or not isn’t relevant to the plot.

The other subject I want to touch on is whether writers should or shouldn’t include characters of certain skin color, religions, or sexual preference. I actually had someone leave a comment on my old website lambasting me for refusing to include gay/lesbian couples in my Portals of Destiny series. *cue jaw hitting the floor* I was astounded that someone would dare to tell me what sort of characters I HAD to include in my books. I refuse to play the politically correct game and feel like I have to create characters to please each and every person on the planet. If a characters sexual orientation, religion, skin color, etc has relevance to the story, then by all means WRITE THEM! But readers shouldn’t begin reading a book expecting that each and every one is going to be a perfect balance of all things PC. Not gonna happen. If a reader is looking for something specific in the way of characters, sex, etc then they should read a genre that matches what they are looking for, NOT expect every author to write to their specific preferences.

Find me:

Twitter: @ShayFabbro and @DrShayFabbro

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authorshayfabbro

Website: http://shayfabbro.com/

Giveaway details

Shay is offering to giveaway a copy of her amazing science fiction ebook, "The Chosen". Just leave a comment below to be entered in the running.

And please make sure to leave your email address so she can get in touch with the winning entrant.

Tahlia Newland - What makes me stand out from the crowd

2011-11-09T20:00:00.051+11:00

This is a big week for visitors to Dag-Lit Central. I'm proud to introduce my second guest for the week, the amazing Tahlia Newland. She writes young adult/adult urban fantasy with a touch or more of romance in it and a focus on challenging readers’ perception of reality. I have an ebook copy of her short paranormal romance, ‘The Drorgon Slayer’s Choice’, to give away, and A Matter of Perception, her anthology of urban fantasy & magical realism stories, is available on ebook - for the special release price of 99c until the 14th November. ‘Realm Hunter,’ a Diamond Peak novella, will be released in December.

What make me stand out from the crowd

When Jonathan first asked me to write a blog post on this topic, my first thought was that it was the hot pink tutu and lime green gumboots that made me stand out, then I realised that everyone else was wearing hot pink tutus too and they were standing on fluffy foot stools with loud hailers shouting, ‘look at me. Look at me!’ Suddenly, I felt short and my gumboots seemed a little cumbersome compared to their high heeled diamante shoes. Some of them even sat on step ladders and had a cluster of spruikers gathered at the bottom handing out leaflets to passing people. How could I stand out amongst that lot?

I sat on the edge of the gutter and stared at all the people buying books from the brightest, noisiest, tallest authors. I was tempted to stick my thumb in my mouth, curl into a small ball and rock, but I didn’t. I stood up and walked right into the middle of the throng. “I love your pink tutu,” I said to the nearest author. And who did your awesome Mohawk?”

The author frowned, ran his hand over his head, checked his hips, glanced behind him then pointed at his chest. “Are you talking to me?” he asked.

I grinned and nodded. He grimaced, picked up his stool and scarpered (That’s Aussie for knicked off ie ran away.)

Whoops, I hadn’t meant that to happen. The only explanation for his behaviour was if he didn’t see the pink tutu or the lime green Mohawk. I giggled and looked around and realised that everyone else probably didn’t see themselves quite the same way as I did. The giggle turned into a chuckle and the chuckle morphed into a laugh.

A girl wandered over, tucked her fingers into the tops of her jeans and narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Why are you standing there laughing?” she asked.

“Because everything isn’t what it seems.”

“What is it then?”

I waved my arm in a wide arc. “It’s all just a passing dream.”

“Huh?”

“Yesterday has gone, tomorrow hasn’t come, and as soon as I say now, it’s passed. Where is everything, if it’s not a dream?”

She shrugged her shoulders, frowned, and shook her head, but she didn’t go away. She thought for a moment, then she grinned. ‘Where’d you get the awesome Mohawk?”

“My mother did it for me,” I replied.

I’m the one asking tricky questions. I’m not the only one who sees the circus, but I’m one who might be able to help you see it. Oh, and watch out for the shadow with the flaming eyes standing over your shoulder, you might not be able to see it, but I can assure you that it’s there.

About A Matter of Perception

Do you see what I see? Take a bunch of supernatural beings, a battle of magical light, a mysterious hole in the pavement, a dream of a future past and a pair of rose-coloured glasses, mix them with a little romance and a smidgen of philosophy and you might be left wondering if it isn’t all just a matter of perception. This thought-provoking collection of urban fantasy and magical realism stories includes ‘The Drorgon Slayer’s Choice’ and ‘The Boneyard’, a semi finalist in the Aussiecon 4 Make Ready fantasy/scifi competition of 2010.

Author links - if you read Tahlia’s books could you please help her out by posting a short review on Goodreads and Amazon. Thank you.

http://tahlianewland.com

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Tahlia-Newland-author/188047104605893

http://twitter.com/#!/TahliaNewland

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5283573.Tahlia_Newland

Giveaway details

Tahlia is offering one ebook copy of her short paranormal romance, ‘The Drorgon Slayer’s Choice’, to give away. In order to enter the draw, all you need to do is:

1. Go to her Facebook page and like it
2. Leave a comment below saying why you'd like to read the book.

Please make sure to leave an email address in the comment so Tahlia can be in touch with you if you win.

R.B. Wood - Writing that Stands Out from the Crowd

2011-11-07T00:01:00.063+11:00

Today is a special even here at Dag-Lit Central. I'm proud to be hosting my first visitor, Mr R.B. Wood. He's dropping in here as part of his Magical Mystery Blog tour to talk about what he believes makes a story stand out from the crowd.

So without any further ado, over to Mr Wood.

Writing that Stands Out from the Crowd

When Jonathan agreed to host an article as a part of the Magical Mystery Blog tour celebrating the release of my book, The Prodigal’s Foole, he suggested that the subject for this essay be “Writing that Stands Out from the Crowd.”

I thought “Wow. What a phenomenal subject. Let me thing about that for a while.”

I spent a lot of time researching the subject, more so than I did when I first started the construction of my book.

What I realized is there are a lot of opinions on what constitutes exceptional writing.

So instead of citing writing methods like Snowflake or 1-3-1, Let me tell you what I find necessary for stand out storytelling.

Characters

Human beings are wonderfully flawed and complex creatures. Characters should be rich in development, motivations, and history. I spent nearly a year developing the main characters for The Prodigal’s Foole. I can tell you which character broke her arm when she was five (thus leading to the first instance of magic occurring in her life). I know their fears and their triumphs. I know how they each make love and I know their triggers. They’ve become, in some sense, very real to me.

Make your characters three-dimensional. It will be obvious to your eventual readers if you do.

Plot

I have to quote Stephen Covey here. “Begin with the End in Mind.” Where do you want to go? What journey do you want to take your characters on? What will they learn? What kind of story do you want to tell?

That last question is key. Be in love with the story you want to tell. If for no other reason than you will write, edit and revise so many times before your book is finished, that if you don’t love your story, you’ll never finish.

I’ll give you a quick example. Arthur Conan Doyle killed off Sherlock Holmes because, quite frankly, he was done with the character. The Public was furious, so the author brought him back (being a good business man). But if you read the Holmes stories post the great detective’s penultimate fight with Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, I think the stories are lesser in scope and impact.

My opinion, of course. But I feel the same way about bringing Spock back after Wrath of Khan and the Star Wars prequels. Fucking Jar-Jar Binks.

Anyway. Map your story out, How you do this doesn’t matter, whether you’re a pantser of a plotter—know where you want to go.

Research

Do your research. If you are writing about Victorian England, read about the era. And no, I don’t mean twenty minutes on Wikipedia. A decade ago, I met a wonderful old gentleman. In World War II, he had been gunner of a tank in the African campaigns. I spoke with him for hours about many things, including his life in the war.

Read the prologue of my next book (included at the end of TPF)--I hope I captured our conversations and his experience. Unfortunately he passed away some time ago so I’ll never be sure.

But my point is this. The three things in my opinion that lead to a stand-out book are Character depth, a great story idea, and research.

Tie those things together, than you can worry about structure, grammar and those other things.

My two cents.

R.B. Wood

R.B. Wood is a technology consultant and a writer of Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction and quite frankly anything else that strikes his fancy. His first novel, The Prodigal's Foole, is available now from Pfoxchase Publishing and other fine eRetailers. Mr. Wood is currently working on the second book of his Arcana Chronicles series and is host of The Word Count podcast.

His Website/blog: http://www.rbwood.com

His Facebook Fan Page: http://www.facebook.com/rbwoodwriter

His Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/rbwood

Links for The Prodigal’s Foole

Amazon (Paperback): http://www.amazon.com/Prodigals-Foole-Novel-Arcana-Chronicles/dp/1936827336/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320359140&sr=8-1

Amazon (Kindle): http://www.amazon.com/Prodigals-Foole-Arcana-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B005WKF71U/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/97139

Omnilit: http://www.omnilit.com/product-theprodigal039sfoole-615647-140.html

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12918243-the-prodigal-s-foole

Special Offer

R.B. Wood has very generously offered to give away an e-copy of The Prodigal’s Foole to the most thoughtful response to his post.

Please leave your comments below - and make sure you include your email address so he can get in touch with you.

The Free Economics of the Indie Author World

2011-11-01T14:00:00.052+11:00

Today I'm going to say a few things on a subject which I really know next to nothing about. But then again, not knowing about things has never stopped me talking about them. So the subject of today's post is economics.

I know, most people wouldn't find economics to be the most interesting subject, but I'm fascinated by it. So much of our life is governed by it. Politicians, bankers, business-people are constantly spinning stuff about it and let's face it, most of us don't really have any idea whether what they're saying is right or wrong. I even wrote a poem about it which I posted to this very blog, titled The Hunters.

Now I'm hoping that nobody who has actually studied economics reads this because they'll probably tell me I'm totally wrong in every way. But I think there's a few things about economics that can be learnt by the way the indie author community works.

My understanding of economics is it basically goes back to the ideas of Adam Smith back in the 18th century. His model of the free market was all about individuals pursuing their own self-interests. The baker only baked bread because he could make money, but thanks to him the village had bread to eat. The blacksmith only pursued his trade because it was profitable for him, but thanks to him horses were shod. And so on. Everybody was basically in it for themselves as an individual, but all of these individuals working together for their own benefit ultimately create a community.

Now I'm not going into the rights and wrongs of these ideas - I know it's all hotly contested and I wouldn't say I know anywhere near enough to offer an educated opinion. The one comment I will make is this seems to be a lot like the way the indie community works.

We writers are primarily involved because we want to sell books, but because we know we can sell better if we work with other writers, cross-promoting communities appear. And then there are all those bloggers. They're not putting their blogs up for charity. Many of them are writers themselves, looking to increase their recognition. But even the ones who aren't have their own reasons for trying to generate traffic to their blogs. The result is that both writers and bloggers end up benefiting.

As a result of all these individuals looking to achieve their own ends, an amazing community has sprung up. A community of people who are open, friendly, and willing to do what they can to help fellow-community members. A true free market of indie authors and their colleagues.

Of course, in any community there are always those people who go out of their way to make that extra effort on behalf of others. I want to finish off this post by paying tribute to one of those people - my friend Donna Brown. Her fabulous event, Adopt an Indie Writer, begins today. Please join in, make yourself at home, and become part of the wonderful world of indie authors.

Welcome to the House of Fun

2011-10-24T00:00:00.069+11:00

Welcome to Dag-Lit Central, AKA the House of Fun.

In all of the locations to visit during the Trick or Treat for Ebooks, this is undoubtedly the least frightening, most utterly un-scary place on the whole hop. I guess you could say that I'm the little kid in the clown suit among all those witches and ghosts and ghouls - although come to think of it, I personally find clowns to be far more frightening than any of those other things.

But un-scary or not, I hope you'll have a bit of fun while you're here.

Today I'm going to be talking about bugs. I know, bugs can sometimes be pretty frightening. The big hairy kinds that walk over you while you're asleep. The horrid, nasty flying things that crowd around you in cold, clammy places. Not to mention the nasty bitey, stingy ones that attack you on hot summer days.

No, the bugs I'm talking about are not scary bugs at all. They're called Flidderbugs and they're most definitely the silliest sort of bugs you could ever meet. Rather than doing proper "buggy" things like biting, stinging and otherwise frightening and bothering people, they spend most of their time having endless arguments about really pointless things - a bit like us actually.

Flidderbugs, of course, is also the title of the ebook novella which I'll be giving away during the course of this blog hop. A number of readers have compared it to Dr Seuss (even though it's not illustrated and it doesn't rhyme), while others have described it as "fun, thought-provoking, and well written", "refreshing and attention-grabbing", and "apparently light, but profound".

So if you've had enough of the spooks and spirits, grab yourself a copy of Flidderbugs. How? Just leave a comment beneath this post. Scariest comment wins a free copy. Funniest comment wins a free copy. Buggiest comment wins a free copy. Hey, I'm feeling generous - all comments will win a free copy.

Then check out the list below for all the other fantastically frightening blogs to visit during this hop. But before you do, please take the time to explore Dag-Lit Central a bit - there's lots more fun stuff here.

All the best, and a fun-filled Halloween to you.

Final note - if you're leaving a comment, please, please include your email so I can respond with details for how to download your free copy.

The True Superheroes of the Writing World

2011-10-16T19:24:00.005+11:00

A couple of months ago I did a post about supermodels. The gist of this was that it was utterly ridiculous for a group of people to be given the status of "super" merely for walking up and down wearing expensive clothes on their bodies and vacant looks on their faces.

This got me thinking a little bit more about who else we give the prefix super to. Obviously, the major recipients of this title are heroes. And superheroes really are great aren't they. For someone who writes humor, the idea of characters with a particular "power" that makes them extraordinary is fantastic writing fodder. I've had several goes at it myself. One of the favourites of all the comedy sketches I've written is about Procrasto-man, a superhero who never quite gets around to saving the day. I also had a go at creating a clutch of dysfunctional superheroes for a writing assignment in a short story class - which you can read on this very blog. And who can forget the wonderful Bicycle Repair Man sketch by Monty Python - an all time classic.

Silliness aside, what other sorts of people could we think of as super? In my supermodels post, I talked about superteachers and superdoctors. All very good and worthy. But what about us writers? We do extraordinary things all the time. We create whole worlds that never existed before. We control the fates of people in those worlds utterly. And, with the stroke of a pen or the click of a computer keyboard, we're always able to save the day.

But if we're going to call any sort of writers super, I reckon the most deserving candidates are all of the indie writers out there. We're the ones who have to be faster than a speeding publishing industry. We have to leap the tall barriers of the cultural gatekeepers in a single bound. We need x-ray vision to see through all those typos and grammatical errors in our manuscripts. And we're constantly battling against mega-villains, like The Agent, The New York Publisher, and the Mainstream Media Reviewer.
So to all you indie writers out there - grab a cape, stash on your utility belts, and put your underwear on top of your pants. And lets keep on fighting for truth, justice, and the indie way.

And, just to finish off, and because I want to, here for your enjoyment is that classic Monty Python sketch.

Of friends, memories, and old English teachers

2011-10-09T20:03:00.000+11:00

Today was a pretty special day for my family. My dad just celebrated his 80th birthday.

It was quite a big deal. Just about all of his friends were there as well as a bunch of family. It was amazing to see all of these people in the one room. These were people I had grown up with, but whom I hadn't seen for years upon years.

As I looked around the room, I couldn't help thinking about all the memories that were brought back seeing all of those familiar faces, not to mention the ubiquitous slide-show of family photos that now seems to be a standard fixture at all events of this nature. Recollections of lazy summer evenings, dinners and long-gone holidays were all brought back.

But there were a few faces in particular that had special significance for me today. My mum used to teach at the school I went to so among the friends present were a bunch of teachers. And not just any kind of teachers - these were my former English teachers.

So, of course, this meant that I got to casually sidle up to them and calmly mention that, "as it happens, I'm now a published author." I have to say that it felt kind of cool (in a daggy sort of way). As long as they don't actually go and buy the books. That would be terrible. No doubt I'd get an email the next day with the text of the books and lots of red crosses all over it. And we just couldn't have that.

Definitely best to mention it in passing, and then quickly move on before they can ask for more information, so I can bask in the pleasure of thinking that maybe I didn't turn out too bad after all.

There's always next year

2011-10-03T19:46:00.001+11:00

Last weekend was the Australian Football League Grand Final. It's a bit like the Australian Football equivalent of the Superbowl or the F.A. Cup. But what made it especially exciting/nerve-wracking for me was that my team, Collingwood (the mighty Magpies) was playing - and going for back-to-back premierships.

For those not in the know, Collingwood is the biggest and most strongly-supported football club in Australia - which means of course that they're also the club that is most disliked by everybody else. But there's one thing that Collingwood is better at than any other team and that is losing Grand Finals. No other club has made it such an art form. No other club has found so many creative ways to steal defeat from the jaws of victory (with the possible exception of St Kilda - but that's a whole other blog post).

So there they were, actually managing to go against tradition and come out on top last year. Admittedly, they did try their hardest not to - they actually managed to draw the game last year after being in a winning position, but came back for the replay the next week and won (admittedly, they were playing against the aforementioned St Kilda).

And so last Saturday, they fronted up again after reaching the heights of success last year. Of course they didn't win. Not for lack of trying, but they came up against a ruthless machine called the Geelong Football Club - one of the greatest teams ever. What they discovered was they were no longer the best, and it was going to take a lot of work to get back up there again.

Seeing my football team being brought back to earth made me think about the experience I'd just had with my book sales. As I mentioned in my post last week, I had the most amazing run of sales a couple of weeks ago and found myself high up the Amazon "ladder". But it didn't last too long, and things have definitely slowed down now.

And, like the mighty 'Pies, I'm not just going to sit back and accept it. I want to climb back up the Amazon charts, and I'm going to work really hard to get there. Because the eternal cry of the Collingwood supporter might be "there's always next year" but I don't want to wait that long.

I'm going to finish this up by posting some highlights from the Grand Final replay last year - the one that we actually one. I hope you enjoy it. I know I will.

A brief spell in the clouds

2011-09-25T19:30:00.003+10:00

I spent a brief spell high up in the atmosphere this week.

No, I don't mean that I was literally up in the sky. What happened was I had the most amazing run of sales for my ebook novella Doodling. For a while I was absolutely stunned, figuring the sales numbers Amazon was throwing at me were just some sort of error in the system.

Turns out that I was basically in for a stroke of luck. My friend Natasha Larry, the author of the YA fantasy novel Darwin's Children had her book featured on the site Pixel of Ink. Most likely, while looking at her site, they discovered mine and decided to feature me as well.

And that's when things started happening. I suddenly found that my book was leaping off the shelves (or the online equivalent) at Amazon. In a couple of days I tripled my total sales and suddenly found myself not only in the top 1500 books in the kindle store (out of over 750,000) but in the top 50 for both books and ebooks in the category of humor.

It was incredibly exciting. I could barely stop myself logging into the Kindle Direct site to see how many more I'd sold in the last couple of minutes. And to think that all those people actually wanted to buy a copy of my book. It was an amazing feeling.

Things are returning back to normal now. Sales have slowed and I'm gradually slipping down the rankings again. But for that brief couple of days, it was fantastic to see my book fly up into the higher reaches of the kindle store. And now that I know it really is possible, I'm determined to make sure it happens again. Not quite sure how at this point, but I'm going to make it happen.

Strange synchronicities

2011-09-18T19:37:00.000+10:00

I spent a large part of last week working on what I hope to be my next release. It's called Magnus Opum and it's a kind of epic fantasy, but definitely as seen through a dag-lit filter. I like to refer to it as Tolkein meets Dr Seuss.

While I was working on basically cleaning up the text in preparation for getting it out to readers and then editors, I couldn't help noticing some strange synchronicities between the supposedly fanciful stuff I was writing and what is currently happening to me in my all too real (at least as far as I can tell) life.

The basic theme of Magnus Opum is perception. How the various characters see each other is pretty much the main thing that drives the story. And different chapters look at different ways that characters understand (and misunderstand) each other based on their perceptions and then act accordingly.

What really struck me as I was going through the text was how much these ideas resonate in real life. We really are driven by our perceptions. And quite often we make all sorts of assumptions and react in fairly illogical ways based on them. Reading a chapter in which two characters have a completely different understanding of what seem like a fairly simple set of instructions, I couldn't help thinking about some recent situations where I'd been given a set of instructions, I'd thought I was following them, then discovered not only that I wasn't but that the person who'd instructed me thought that I was quite deliberately choosing to get them wrong. This person had a fixed perception of me and couldn't see past the assumptions they'd made based on that perception. And this perception was so strong that I was not in any way able to convince the person otherwise (unlike the characters in my book who actually do sort it out - I really love a happy ending).

It's funny because Magnus Opum was never intended as something quite so serious and deep. It's really a fun story, a bit of a romp if I can paraphrase a review from one of my previous releases. But I feel like I've hit on something quite rich and I'm confident that it gives the story quite a bit of strength.

I'm really looking forward to getting it out.

It's time to play the music. It's time to light the lights

2011-09-12T19:00:00.062+10:00

It's time to pay tribute to one of the greatest influences on my writing. And it's not another writer. It's not even something that sits within the general genre of books. It's the Muppet Show.

In my opinion, the Muppet Show is one of the greatest artistic achievements of the 20th Century. It's clever. It's wonderfully funny. And it has heart. A few months ago, I posted on the idea of how something could be "joyously dumb" and yet smart as well. Well I reckon that could sum up the Muppet Show. The jokes are often dreadfully corny, and yet there's something amazingly clever about the way the whole thing is constructed that works so well.

As a writer, I can see how the show brings together so many elements with such great success. The basic concept is great - a bunch of puppets putting on a vaudeville-style show to a bunch of other puppets in the audience - with all the backstage drama that entails. The writing itself is sharp - the pacing is snappy and the jokes fly. But the most amazing thing about it, the main element that makes it work so wonderfully, is the amazing range of characters.

Most live-action shows would kill for a group of characters as strong, as clearly-defined, as engaging and as entertaining as those on the Muppet Show. Just think of a few of them: Kermit, Miss Piggy, Fozzie Bear, Animal, the Swedish Chef, Beaker... The list just goes on and on. Each one clearly recognisable. Each one playing their part. It must have been a writer's dream to create dialogue and situations for them

And once all of those elements are put together, something undefinably great was created. Maybe not directly satirical but incredibly subversive in the best possible way.

I watch old episodes with a real sense of wonder. And my lasting hope is that the writing I produce can have the same effect, even though I'm working in a different medium. If I could produce something half as entertaining, half as funny, half as clever, half as subversive, and with half the heart of a typical Muppet Show episode, I'd be happy.

I just want to finish off by sharing a clip which seems to me to sum up the spirit of the show. It's a Muppet tribute to Ingmar Bergman - a piece of high art in the greatest "joyously dumb" tradition. And just look at the expression on Sam the Eagle's face as things start to go haywire. Most live actors would struggle for that level of expressiveness.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mqv_qYBgEk0

I hear that there's shortly to be a revival of the Muppet Show. I really hope they can do justice to the original.

Big news hatching

2011-09-03T11:19:00.004+10:00

This weekend is a big news weekend!!

The first major announcement to make is that the Flidderbugs have just hatched.

Flidderbugs is my new ebook release. It's a story about a strange race of insects who live on a very distinctive tree - the Krephiloff tree. And like the Flidderbugs themselves, the story is a bit tricky to classify. It's kind of a political satire and kind of a modern fable. But if that sounds a bit complicated, it's also just a funny story about a bunch of 'bugs with some most peculiar obsessions.

It's available via Amazon, Amazon UK and Smashwords - and will soon be up on most other ebook retailers as well - and it's just 99c (or the nearest equivalent pound amount).

Check out my Flidderbugs page if you'd like to learn a little more about it and especially what reviewers are already saying.

The other news for the weekend is that I am participating in a major ebook event:the Indie Book Blowout.

Myself and over 100 other writers are involved in this event, organised by the Indie Book Collective. All of us are making their book available on Amazon for just 99c from now until Monday.

So if you're on the lookout for something to read, please check it out.

For anyone participating in the GoodEreader ebook of the week promotion, please leave your email address in a comment below. First 5 comments will receive a free copy of Flidderbugs.

Roll up, roll up: the indie author circus is coming to town

2011-08-28T19:27:00.001+10:00

I went with my family to the circus the other day.

Not one of those big Cirque de Soleil type spectaculars. This was a small-scale one, the kind that's been wandering through the cities and towns of Australia for something like forty years. Although I have to say that even an old-school type of circus like this has gone all disco. None of that old-fashioned oompah-oompah sort of circus music - it was all doof-doof, at ear-shattering volume. I guess that's just a sign of the times we live in.

Anyway, while I was sitting and watching the performers (with my hands over my ears), my thoughts turned to writing (as they usually tend to, I have a rather oddly-focused one-track mind). And that's when it occured to me that we writers are just like circus performers in so many ways.

I actually made the connection while I was watching one of the jugglers, and being amazed by his ability to keep so many balls up in the air. But as an indie writer, that's just what I seem to be doing all the time. There's the actual writing ball - that's the easy one. Then there's the editing ball and the proofreading balls. Not to mention the formatting and typesetting balls. But hardest of all to keep up is the marketing ball. That's definitely the one I always seem to end up dropping.

But then it hit me that we're a lot more than jugglers. We're also a high-wire act, carefully balancing all the elements that make up a story - the plot and the setting and of course the characters - and hoping that we can make it to the end of our story without toppling over. And we're also trapeze artistes, swinging back and forward, somersaulting high in the air, without the "net" of a big publisher to support us if we fall.

So roll up, roll up. The indie author circus is coming to town. Marvel at the amazing, gravity-defying tricks we manage to pull off. Be amazed at what we can pull out of a hat. And hope that we don't end up falling on our faces. Because being an indie author can be a difficult thing to pull off - and none of us wants to end up looking like a clown.

The Hunters

2011-08-21T11:11:00.000+10:00

This is a poem I originally wrote some years ago, but current events being as they are, it seemed pertinent to wheel it out again.

This poem is also a bit special to me as it marked my first ever public performance as a writer when I read it out at a spoken word night in a local pub, with wonderful musical accompaniment by my friend Bongo Trev (what a pair of young bohemians we were back then).

A note on the use of the word crook in verse 3 - in Australia it's often used in a slang way to mean sick or unwell.

The Hunters

The morning light shone clear and bright, a new day had begun.

The country slowly roused itself, awak’ning to the sun.

The calm could not be shattered, no the peace it was complete.

Until 3 hunters bold appeared, guns pointing at their feet.

The first one to the others says, “We now begin our quest.

In all our years of hunting this will be our greatest test.

We do not shoot at game today, nor birds so wild and free.

The enemy that we pursue is the economy.

“From what I hear about our prey it’s taken quite a toll.

And everybody tells me that it’s way out of control.”

But one more thing he added as they leapt over a brook.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to kill, I hear it’s pretty crook.”

The second nodded and then said, “This monster I have seen.

It towers like a dragon and its legs are long and lean.

Its appetite is ravenous, its colour, it is red.

Its claws are sharp and pointy, it has horns upon its head.”

The third one shook his head and said, “This is not what you seek.

It really is a little thing, it seems to be quite weak.

But do not be deceived by looks, do not believe your eyes.

For it will gnaw and gnaw at you and cut you down to size.”

The first one raised his voice and cried, “This quarrel is absurd.

And as I am the leader I shall have the final word.

A target large it will provide, you cannot fail to hit.

If you just set your sites upon the budget deficit.”

And as our heroes traveled round, they so to their delight.

Much evidence about them of the beast they hoped to fight.

The homeless and the broken lives, the unemployment line.

But of the fiend that caused all this, there never was a sign.

So when a year had passed of this, the leader spoke his mind.

“I fear our quest is futile and this brute we’ll never find.

For like the Loch Ness monster and the serpents of the sea.

There isn’t any such a thing as the economy.

“The only reason I can find for all this devastation.

It’s not caused by some fancy beast, it’s just imagination.”

The others both agreed with him and then went home to bed.

And on the morrow they took up accountancy instead.

The morning light shone clear and bright, a new day had begun.

The country slowly roused itself, awak’ning to the sun.

The calm could not be shattered, no the peace it was complete.

As 3 accountants boldly slept and dreamt of balance sheets.

In Another World...

2011-08-14T19:45:00.000+10:00

Last week I put up a post about books and merchandising. I thought this week I might post a story I wrote a few years ago which pretty much summed up my feelings on the whole idea of books as multi-media merchandising phenomenons.

No prizes for guessing who the main subject of this story is...

In Another World...

Simon P. Bradshaw coughed as he descended the wide, stone stairway. Winter always did this to him. That and the musty air down on the lower levels of the castle. In years gone by he had tried to avoid being at home during the colder months, instead migrating like a bird to warmer locations. But all of the attention and publicity, the sheer bother of it all, had put paid to that many years ago. It was easier to just stay put and do your best to survive.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs at last, he strode across the cold flagstones of the sitting room, making directly for the bar on the far side. A drink was definitely now in order. He opened the cabinet and perused his collection of rare vintage sherries, eyes resting carefully upon each before making a decision. A Casa del Vaga, 1857. One of only twelve still in existence. That seemed to fit the bill.

He poured the light amber liquid, savouring the bouquet as it swept up into his nose. Then, after re-corking the bottle, he sought out the most comfortable of the plushly appointed chairs, each of which had originally graced the palaces of European royalty, and sat. As he raised the glass to his lips, his eyes fell upon the wide tapestry that covered the opposite wall. Meeting the eyes of the figure at the centre of the tapestry, he mouthed a silent toast and then took a sip. The figure before him did not move, did not return the toast, but that did not matter to Simon P.Bradshaw. That figure had already done more than enough for him.

Like most of the accoutrements that now filled the castle, the tapestry was not an original fitting. It had been woven by an old friend over twenty years ago, in order to commemorate his purchase of this 400 year old architectural masterpiece. It disturbed Simon a little that he could no longer remember what her name was, but then again so much had happened in the intervening years that it was really not so surprising. The tapestry depicted a young boy, probably around eleven or twelve. The detail in the design indicated that the boy was rather pale and thin, but he was dressed in robes that were rich in colour, a dazzling mixture of scarlets and violets and blues, and decorated with tiny stars, crescents and other intricate shapes.

Paul Mephiglio was the boy’s name, and Paul was the one Simon had cause to thank for everything. For the riches he had accumulated. For this majestic castle he was now privileged to call his home. And for all the other amazing events that had befallen him, the television appearances, the opportunities to meet famous and important people, even the dalliances with so many of the world’s most desirable women.

Simon downed the last of the sherry, coughing again as the final drop contrived to go down the wrong way. Then he stood and walked slowly across the room. The chilled air was playing havoc with his arthritis. He reflected with a grimace that there were some things beyond even his means. The ridiculous amounts of money he’d invested in numerous attempts to have a central heating system installed within the castle had made not the slightest impact on the damp and cold that infested these frigid chambers.

Arriving at his study at last, Simon took a seat before the broad, mahogany desk and reached down to turn on the small bar heater that sat by his feet. At least in this more confined space there was the opportunity to feel a bit of warmth. He stretched out first one leg and then the other, relishing the heat as it seeped into his bones. Then he flicked the switch on the computer and the screen slowly quivered into life.

This was a routine that Simon practiced regularly, regardless of the season. Maybe not every day, but he certainly began to feel restless if he did not go through the motions of following these steps for more than three days running. Unfortunately for the last couple of years this was as far as he got. Occasionally his fingers would begin to skim uncertainly over the keyboard and the words would begin to pile up on the screen. But even on those days, it wouldn’t be long before, with a grunt of frustration, he would hit the delete key, sending the screen back to its original state of pristine blankness.

This day was not proving to be any different. Though his fingers floated over the keyboard, not once did they slide down to the keys beneath. Simon tried to focus his mind on the matter at hand, tried to will the creativity out of himself, but to no avail. Bereft of any new ideas, his eyes roamed from the keyboard to the screen, and then to the shelves and walls that surrounded him. Here, as so often happened, his eyes remained. But the gaze that he sent out around the room was not unanswered.

From seemingly every corner, eyes stared back at him. They were the eyes of the same thin boy in the brightly coloured robes that adorned the tapestry in the sitting room. Here they were on a small action figure. There they were on a large plush toy. And there they were repeated again and again on posters that covered all of the walls. Posters for movies and video games. Posters from out of fan magazines. And posters that did not seem to serve any purpose at all, apart from just being posters.

Many years ago, he had actively sought out these souvenirs himself. They seemed, to him, to be physical expressions of the wonderful success he had achieved. But after a short time he no longer had to make the effort. Friends began to do it for him, thinking he would be amused to see the newest incarnation of his creation. And as time went on, it wasn’t even his friends. It was everybody in the whole damn world. Every man and his puppy who felt the need to mail in the latest manifestations of his boy wonder, no matter how grotesque. When he’d originally signed the contracts with the corporation men they had assured him that he would have right of veto over any product he did not approve of, but the horse had long since bolted in that regard. Now all he could do was gawp in horrified fascination at the abominations that had been manufactured in his name. Paul Mephiglio sugar-rich breakfast cereal. Paul Mephiglio toothpicks. Paul Mephiglio bin liners…

Simon forced himself to look away, to avert his eyes from their hypnotic gaze and return his attention to the computer screen. It hadn’t always been this difficult. There had been times when he’d even managed to cobble another book together, not that it mattered; the public had no interest in anything he produced if it didn’t have the words Paul Mephiglio in large type on the cover. But now there was nothing. He might still be here but inspiration had definitely flown south for the winter. And even as he struggled to keep his focus on the screen, still he could feel the eyes that peered out from the Paul Mephiglio commemorative beer steins, the Paul Mephiglio limited edition chess pieces and the Paul Mephiglio celebrity steak-knives, as they looked down at him, passing judgement.

Suddenly anger overwhelmed him; impotent fury at the permanent stasis that had overtaken his creative life.

“This is your fault?” he raged at all of those pale, freckled schoolboys. “You’ve taken everything from me. You’ve left me with nothing.”

There was a crash. As he shouted, he had lashed out with his feet, accidentally kicking over the heater. Groaning with the agony of it all he bent over, struggling to turn it over before it burnt a hole in the priceless Persian rug that lay underneath. But as he sank to his knees there was a knock on the door, and then it was thrown open. It was the cleaning lady.

“Mr Bradshaw please don’t strain yourself, I’ll get it.” She leant down beside him and carefully righted the heater. Then she helped him back into his chair where he sat, panting softly as he recovered his breath.

For a few moments there was silence. Gradually Simon became aware that the cleaning lady’s attention was no longer on him. Her gaze was instead travelling around the room, taking in all of the Paul Mephiglios in their many and marvellous guises.

“Quite a collection,” said Simon, feeling that he needed to break the silence. The rapt attention she was bestowing upon the assorted renderings of the character he had invented was somewhat unnerving.

Eventually her eyes completed their sweep of the room and returned to him.

“It must be wonderful,” she said.

“Oh it was at first,” he replied.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It was brilliant at the start. All the ideas flowed so easily. It was an absolute joy just to sit at the computer and write. And then, when the books started coming out, to be so popular, to win all of those awards. It was more than I could ever have imagined. But do you know what the best part was?”

“What?” She was staring at him and yet here eyes seemed somehow to be far away.

“When I started hearing from the readers. Getting letters and emails from kids telling me how much they loved the stories. How they’d never even considered that reading could be fun until they picked up a Paul Mephiglio book. Telling me which bits they liked best and who their favourite characters were. And always asking questions, wanting to know what was going to happen in the next book. It was the most amazing feeling. To think that my characters, the fruits of my imagination, could become so important to these children. It was as if just by reading my books, these kids had actually brought Paul Mephiglio and all his friends to life.”

He paused for a moment, savouring the memory. The cleaning lady continued to peer intently into his eyes, saying nothing.

“But it couldn’t last like that for long,” he went on. “Do you know, for the first couple of years, I made sure to reply to every single letter or email personally. But after a while, there was no way I could cope with the load. I started having to employ a whole bunch of secretaries just to reply to all my fans. And it kept on getting bigger and bigger. Every time a new Paul Mephiglio book came out it became such a big deal you’d think it was the second coming or something. Then the movies started coming out, and let me tell you those movie people never wanted to ask me questions about Paul Mephiglio. Oh no, they just came out and told me. ‘Paul would never do this; Paul would never say that.’ Like they knew my character, the one I’d created from the sweat of my brow, better than me. And then, before I even knew what was going on, Paul Mephiglio was everywhere. Paul Mephiglio dish-towels, Paul Mephiglio electric toothbrushes, Paul Mephiglio iron-on tattoos.

“And that was really the end of it for me. That amazing relationship I had with my readers, that feeling that I was conducting an individual conversation with every one of them, was gone. Now there were all these other people involved. Producers and directors. Marketers and corporate executives. Suddenly it seemed like everybody in the world owned a piece of Paul Mephiglio except me. And that was the worst part of all. It was like losing a child. It was feeling as if the real Paul Mephiglio, the one that I had given birth to, was gone for good.”

It was only as Simon finished that he realised how much his voice had risen throughout his speech. The cleaning lady lowered her eyes and looked away. Suddenly Simon felt embarrassed. What right did he have to complain to this woman? Here he was, the resident of one of the finest castles in the British Isles, surrounded by wealth beyond even his imaginings. And here she was, a menial helper with no recourse to the good things he enjoyed. Obviously life had been far less kind to her than it had been to him. It was churlish, offensive even for him to carp about such issues in front of her.

He forced himself to grin. “But you know when it all comes down to it, I guess it’s been pretty good.”

She looked up again. “I thought it would have been.”

Simon laughed. “It’s a funny thing. I wrote that first book just to amuse the kids of a couple of mates. I had no aspiration to actually be a writer. Not that I was that happy with what I was doing at the time. Being an admin officer at a bank wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs. Still I only started sending it out to publishers because my mates insisted. I had no idea it would turn into such a big deal. An international cultural phenomenon, that’s what people called it. And they’ve been arguing about it ever since. Filling the columns in the book review pages. Churning out acres and acres of PhD theses. What was it that made Paul Mephiglio such an astonishing success? There’s probably a million times as much been written about my boy by other people then what I wrote in the original books. And none of them has ever been able to nail it. Not one of those experts and academics and reviewers has been able to provide a clear and rational reason why my Paul Mephiglio should have taken off the way he did. To be honest, I’m not even sure myself. Right time, right place maybe, I don’t know.”

He chuckled again, so lost in his reminiscences he was barely aware of the other presence in the room. “And it all grew out of such a simple idea. A little boy who discovers one day that he’s really a wizard. Who would have thought of that?”

“I did,” said the cleaning lady.

“You did?” Simon looked up with a start.

“I did,” she repeated. “Many years ago I had an idea for a story about a boy who discovers that he’s a wizard. I had it all planned out over a series of books. I even finished writing the first one.”

“And what happened?”

“Well I sent it to every publisher I could think of. For a year, all I got were rejection letters. But then, suddenly, I seemed to be getting somewhere. I found an agent who liked what he read. Said it had real potential. Said he’d do whatever he could to get it to the right publisher.”

“And he didn’t do it? He let you down?”

“Not exactly. What happened was about two weeks later the whole Paul Mephiglio thing started up.” She paused for a second, glancing quickly around the gallery that surrounded them. “Well that changed everything. My agent said there was no point trying to flog another book about a boy wizard. He told me not to give up, to try and write something else, but I just didn’t have the heart to. I’d already put so much into that first book.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Simon, looking at the cleaning lady as if he was seeing her for the first time. By what twist of fate had they reached their respective destinations, he as an extraordinarily wealthy writer of novels for children and she as a cleaning lady? After all, he too had received his fair share of rejections at the start. He had also damn near written it all off as a lost cause before that final joyous acceptance. How simple could it have been for their roles to have been reversed and for her to have been the one who received all the riches and acclaim?
She shrugged her shoulders. “It was hardly your fault. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. Anyway it’s getting late now. I think I’d better be heading home.”

Shaking his head to clear the image of the cleaning lady sitting in his seat in his study in his castle, he replied. “Yes of course. Thanks for all your help.”

“That’s okay. See you tomorrow Mr Bradshaw.”

Simon P. Bradshaw turned to watch his cleaning lady depart. “See you tomorrow Joanne.”

Selling your soul: Books and merchandising

2011-08-09T00:00:00.024+10:00

One of our local papers has been running a big Harry Potter promo over the last few weeks, obviously in line with the new movie. I was watching the kids as they were sorting through all the various merchandising guff (mainly collector's cards but also other stuff like wands) and thinking about the relationship between books and merchandising.

The main thing I'm always wondering is - is the merchandising necessary? Can the book (or movie) stand by itself or does it need to have all of this other stuff associated with it, most of which truly is junk that will be tossed away pretty quickly. It's not a new thought - I actually wrote a story about it a couple of years ago (which I might just post up here). But it makes me wonder about whether any creative entity (book or otherwise) can be a viable financial product on its own or it needs the assistance of all these other revenue streams.

But then again, maybe I'm better off just stopping my wondering and going with the program. Maybe I need to start looking at merchandising opportunities for my books.

I have to admit it's not that easy. Doodling, my first self-published title is about a man who falls off the world and goes wandering through an asteroid field meeting a bunch of oddballs on the way. The merchandising ideas don't exactly spring to mind. Maybe I could have Doodling mobiles that hang from people's ceilings, complete with each of the asteroids in the story and a little Neville (my main character) floating around them. On one of the asteroids there's a group who worship toasters, so maybe I could sell "Toaster People" toasters. Or why stop at toasters (the Toaster People didn't). I could end up with a whole range of Doodling kitchen appliances.

I'm thinking I may be better off waiting for my next release, Flidderbugs - it's a kind-of political satire about a bunch of insects. Now that sounds much easier doesn't it. There's heaps of things I can think of. Flidderbugs fly-swatters. Flidderbugs bug-catchers. Flidderbugs insect repellant. Even a Flidderbugs version of that Beetle game that my kids love - the one where you spin a spinner and build a beetle.

So what do you reckon? Is merchandising an essential part of the marketing equation these days? As a reader, what sort of merchandising would make you want to buy a book? As a writer, what merchandising opportunities would work for you?

Summer Giveaway Hop

2011-08-01T00:00:00.016+10:00

For all of the week starting August 1 will be participating in the I am a Reader, Not a Writer Summer Giveaway Hop. I will be giving away copies of my ebook Novella, Doodling.

Doodling is an absurd comic fantasy about a man who falls off the world (because it's moving too fast) and the strange adventures that then befall him. I like to describe it as Douglas Adams meets Lewis Carroll. And it's getting great reviews. Check out the links to independent blog reviews on the right hand column, or have a look at my Amazon page to see what readers are saying about it.

So what do you need to score yourself a copy? It's easy. All I'm asking is for you to place a comment underneath this post leaving your email details and I'll be happy to pass a copy on to you. Smashword coupons is my preferred model but if that's not convenient let me know and I can forward you direct.

While you're here, please stay and look around. I've got lots of other samples of my writing, such as short stories and silly rhymes, on display here.

And hoping to see you back here in the future.

Revenge is Sweet

2011-07-24T17:41:00.001+10:00

This is the story I referred to in my post last week that almost got me mistaken for a supermodel.

It was originally published in The Age newspaper in April 2001 (you'll see that some of the references are a bit dated). They ran a funny short story competition and published the three place-getters and mine - go figure.

Anyway - try to picture it with a photo of Claudia Schiffer alongside the title. I thought of adding one myself but didn't want to be pinged for copyright infringement.

Revenge is Sweet

Mavis ran into the house, slamming the door shut and then locking it behind her.

“They’re out there again,” she cried as she ran around the house, pulling down all the blinds.

“Who?” asked Kev, following slowly after his wife. “The police? The secret service?”

“The supermodels,” panted Mavis, only just beginning to get her breath back.

“Damn supermodels,” exclaimed Kev.

“I hadn’t even got past the front gate and there was Claudia, camera at the ready, crouching down behind the bougainvillea.”

“Bloody Claudia,” fumed Kev. “Can’t she ever leave us alone?”

“That was barely the start of it,” continued Mavis. “No sooner had I got out to the street when there they all were. Elle hiding behind the big gum tree outside number 7. Cindy ducking down behind the O’Donnells’ hedge.”

“What about Naomi?”

“Up in Tommy McGinty’s cubby house with Jerry and Linda.” Mavis shook her head. “It’s getting so as you can’t even walk down to the milk bar without having a supermodel or ten shove a camera in your face.”

“No respect for privacy,” muttered Kev. “It’s as bad as what I just saw on the telly.”

“What? Don’t tell me Tom and Nicole were on again.”

Kev nodded, a resigned expression on his face.

“And what were they saying this time?” demanded Mavis.

“Well Tom said that he thought our marital problems are due to me having a passionate affair with Madge from bingo, but Nicole just reckons we’re both living a lie and our whole marriage was a sham from the start.”

“Typical,” grumbled Mavis. “We have one little tiff down at the fish and chip shop and next minute the whole world knows about it.” She looked at Kev plaintively. “I can’t take any more of this. I have to get away. I need a holiday.”

Kev sighed. “If only it were so easy. But wherever we go, the Royal Family are sure to track us down. Just like last year, at the caravan park in Merimbula.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Mavis, rolling her eyes. “I’ll never forgive the Queen for saying she thought my dresses were dowdy.”

“And what about when Prince Charles made all those jokes about my nose.”

“But the worst was that Fergie, always following me into the shower block, teasing me about my weight.” Mavis shuddered at the recollection. “It was so humiliating.”

Kev held out a hand to his wife. “Sorry honey, I guess we’ll just have to stay put. But let’s try to see the bright side. Think of all the things we’ve got. A house in the suburbs. A crippling mortgage. A couple of dead end jobs. While all they’ve got is fame, wealth and celebrity. When you look at it that way, it’s no wonder they all want a piece of our lives.”

The day I nearly got mistaken for a supermodel: a whinge about branding

2011-07-18T20:25:00.000+10:00

I just want to start by saying that my post last week was the most successful one I’ve done, and to thank everyone who took the time to post comments back to me or respond via Facebook.

Today I’m going to go the opposite way completely and have a bit of a whinge (for my friends across the Pacific, read whine, moan, complain, rant, etc…).

Anyone who read my post last week may wonder why I’m contradicting myself and going all negative. My response is that I’m not contradicting myself at all. Last week I said that I planned to try to make my book marketing a fun experience. And to be honest, there’s nothing quite as enjoyable as a good old whinge. It helps to let out the stress and leaves you feeling energised and refreshed (well it does for me).

The subject of my whinge today is supermodels. Honestly, whose idea was supermodels? The idea that a group could somehow be elevated into the super domain just for walking around wearing expensive clothes with blank expressions on their faces seems utterly ridiculous to me. Surely there are far more worthy candidates that merit a prefix of super; superteachers or superdoctors or maybe supercharityworkers. But I’m starting to get off topic here – I think this is turning into a possible subject for a future post.

Anyway, the thing that really gives me the proverbial about supermodels is when you see that one of them has released a new fragrance, or a new fashion range. All of a sudden, they’re not just a supermodel. They’re a successful businesswoman as well. And the media gushes about how amazing it is that they’re not only utterly gorgeous but they also have a great head for business.

Give me a break. Let’s not get into the squillions of dollars they’ve already earned on the catwalk which they can use for starting up a new business. There’s something even more important than that which they’re taking advantage of. They already have a brand. When you see their names splashed up all over magazines, the first thing you think of is fashion and beauty. It’s no great stretch for them to spin off another product associated with that brand. And let’s face it, the products with their names on them are always things like perfume or underwear or other fashion related stuff. The sort of things the public already associates them with. I’d like to see one of them try to market something completely different, like hardware or automotive parts or artificial limbs. Then we’d really know whether they had a head for business or not.

This whole supermodel situation encapsulates for me the difficulties for us indie authors. If you don’t have the brand recognition, it doesn’t matter how good your product (and for me, read book) is. Supermodels already have that brand. What can we as authors with no public profile do to create our own brands and generate that recognition for our name in the minds of the general public? To be honest, I’m not really sure. But there’s one thing I’m hoping that will help me out. My stories are pretty true reflections on my view of the world. And my main marketing strategy is to just try to be me and have fun doing it. Hopefully that will start to tie things together.

Which leads me back to the title of this post, ie the funny bit:

The very first thing I ever had published was as a result of a funny short story competition run by The Age, the major Melbourne broadsheet newspaper. It was about an ordinary suburban couple being stalked by a bunch of camera-wielding supermodels. But what was really funny was that next to my name, in the spot where they usually have a photo of the writer of the article, they had a picture of Claudia Schiffer instead. Not the truest reflection of me or my writing. To be honest, I’m not sure that it did my brand any favours. But then again, if it gets people to read my stuff, maybe I should have a supermodel on all of my book covers.

Time for a new plan

2011-07-12T14:26:00.001+10:00

I read something interesting the other day. Apparently most independent authors sell on average 4 books a month. Did you get that? 4 books a month. And when you consider that most of these books are priced between $2.99 and a meagre 99 cents, that’s not a lot of royalties to be earned. Doesn’t look like too many writers are going to be quitting their day jobs any time soon.

The good news for me is that I’m actually managing to do better than that. The bad news is, not by a lot. At this stage, any plans for instant stardom are most definitely on hold.

So what is an indie author to do faced with such a distressing statistic? Especially one with barely any knowledge about marketing and a pretty minuscule social network to this point. Do I go off into a corner, put my head in my hands and wail inconsolably at the hopelessness of it all? Or do I put my nose to the grindstone and dedicate every waking hour to the single-minded pursuit of publishing glory, to the exclusion of all else?

I’ve decided that the answer is going to be neither of the above. I’ve come up with a novel marketing strategy:

I’m going to have fun!

I’m not going to tear my hair out and whine and whinge about how hard it is. And I’m also not going to drive myself to the edge of exhaustion over it. I’m going to try and enjoy myself.

When I go out on social networks, I’m going to have a laugh with people. See if I can make them smile, and see if I can make myself smile as well. Whatever promotional activities I hold, I’ll try to add in some sort of fun element to make them as appealing as I can. Whatever space I’m in I hope to make an enjoyable space, whether it’s Twitter, Facebook or this blog. Enjoyable for other people, but most especially enjoyable for me.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try my best. And it also doesn’t mean I’m not going to be smart and organised. But if I’m not enjoying myself as I go, I’m either going to collapse into a miserable heap or turn into a manic head-case.

Maybe I’ll be successful. Maybe I won’t. From now I’m suspending all my expectations. I know my book is good (I've had enough wonderfully positive feedback from readers to tell me that) so I want to give it every chance it deserves. And if that's going to be a long haul, I need to make sure I can maintain my motivation without going crazy.

Because ultimately, the reason I chose to write was because I really enjoy it. If I don’t extend that fun into my marketing, then I might as well not bother.

Would you let them make a movie out of your book?

2011-07-06T20:53:00.001+10:00

I know it's probably not something I'm ever likely to have to worry about, but I do occasionally wonder about what I'd do if someone came up and offered me lots of money for the film rights for one of my books.

You'd think that working out the answer would be pretty easy. Why wouldn't I just say yes on the spot? After all, it would likely offer a far more lucrative stream of income than the books on there own. And besides, heaps of people who've read my book have commented on how they thought it would work really well as an animation.

But I'm still not convinced that it's exactly what I want, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, I'd be concerned about doing justice to my story. I know that sounds like a terribly arrogant thing to say. But so often, I've gone to see movies based on books I love and been terribly disappointed. Even highly regarded adaptations, such as the Lord of the Rings movies, failed to me to capture the spirit and complexity that make the books so wonderful.

The second reason is more personal. Partly it's a reflection on how much of myself I put into my writing. I have a strong sense of ownership of my storylines and my characters. But I love the way that as I start to pick up readers, I can share that ownership with them. It's been an amazing thing to hear from readers about how they've embraced my characters, even finding new dimensions to them I hadn't thought of. It's real bond, directly between myself and the readers.

But a movie would change that. I'm fully aware of how many different people it takes to make a movie. Directors and producers and actors, plus probably a bunch of other writers to adapt the prose into a screenplay. Maybe it's just the control freak in me but I hate the idea of losing control of my characters to all these people, and having them come between me and my readers. And I can speak a little bit from experience here. I've done quite a bit of writing for theatre (comedy sketches) and have also studied scriptwriting for both film and television, so I have some idea of what can happen to an idea from its original form to the final work.

The final reason is to do with the idea of imagination. To me, books are the most imaginative medium there is. Readers are free to conjure up visions of the worlds of the novel and its characters. Each might have a different idea of how a character looks or sounds, or exactly how a location appears. But once it's made into a film, imagination goes out the window. You have someone else's vision imposed on you, and it may be hard to replace that in the future.

So these are the reasons I made a pact with myself quite a while ago. My stories are mine and mine alone to share with my readers. If ever a film producer came to me offering big money for the rights, I'd thank them kindly, say how flattered I am and then show them the door.

At least that's what I tell myself. Sometimes, when I think of what I could do with the money and how it could enable me to live the writing life I've dreamed of, I have a feeling that I might be prepared to be a little bit flexible.

Joyously dumb: My writing and pop music

2011-06-26T20:09:00.001+10:00

If you've taken some time to look at my "What is dag-lit?" page, you may have noticed that one of the ways I used to describe dag-lit was "joyously dumb. But what on earth is that meant to mean? It's a bit tricky to explain but I'll try.

Believe it or not, it actually has more to do with music than pure writing. Pop music to be specific. I'm a big fan off pop music. And this is where it gets a bit tricky, because there are lot's of different definitions of what pop music actually is.

When I'm referring to pop music, I'm talking generally about music that's not classical or jazz. It might be rock'n'roll or reggae or have a blues or country sort of edge to it. I tend not to put things into categories so much. I usually refer to it all as pop music.

I suppose that like anything, musical appreciation is subjective. Not everybody likes the same sort of things. And I certainly don't like all "pop music". I'm especially not fond of a lot of the production line, machine-like stuff that seems to be all over the radio these days (then again I might just be showing my age).

Pop music isn't clever like classical or jazz. It doesn't have lots of fancy chords or tricky time changes or all those other complicated things that can be picked apart by music scholars. As a form of music, it's pretty dumb. But to me that's part of its appeal. And when it's done well, it has a kind of magic to it that just takes you away into another world completely. Makes you tap your feet and hum away, and leaves you in a good mood for hours. And that's what I mean when I refer to the joyously dumb.

But there are certain musical artists who (to me at least) are able to achieve even more. These are the writers and performers who can marry pop music with great ideas, themes and lyrics. One of my personal favourites is R.E.M. A couple of great Australian (New Zealand?) examples are the wonderful Crowded House and a more recent Melbourne-based band called Augie March. These bands write really intelligent and intriguing lyrics to music that has all the joyous dumbness of the greatest pop music.

So, at last, getting back to the subject of my writing. What I've just described is exactly what I want to achieve as a writer. I don't want to write sophisticated literature that will be picked apart by academics at universities. I want to write stuff that moves people, and takes them away to a joyous place, like the best pop music. But I want to do more than that as well. I want to be just that little bit smart, to leave my readers thinking a bit as well as feeling good.

But I guess that that, just like music, is totally subjective. I'll leave it to my readers to let me know if I've succeeded.

Superfriends

2011-06-19T16:35:00.003+10:00

In the Halls of Justice, a meeting was taking place. The Superfriends, that bold collection of Super Heroes who protected the city from evil, were gathering together. Not the traditional Super Heroes, like Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman. They had all gone corporate long ago. Now there was a new breed, a new type of Super Hero, more relevant to life in a changing millennium.

As usual, Stressedman chaired the meeting. He stood up on the podium, a short figure in a blue and red suit with a large S on the front. His costume was almost identical to the one Superman had worn, but it could not disguise his slight paunch, and no amount of dry cleaning would ever remove the sweat stains from beneath his armpits.

Stressedman did not much like being in charge, but as no one else was prepared to take on the responsibility, he was always stuck with it. He cleared his throat several times to get the attention of the other Super Heroes, then began.

“I’m afraid I have to open this meeting with some rather distressing news,” he said, in a voice that could not disguise his unease. “I have here a letter from the city council informing us that as of next week, we are to be evicted from the Halls of Justice.”

Angryman leapt to his feet. “The bastards!” he cried. “They can’t do that to us.”

“I’m afraid they can,” replied Stressedman. “I have the letter right here,” and he held up the eviction notice for all the Super Heroes to see.

“Just give me that letter,” shouted Angryman. “I’ll rip it into a thousand pieces. I’ll destroy the city council. I’ll.....”

“You’ll sit down and let me finish,” interrupted Stressedman, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt.

It must have been convincing enough because Angryman returned to his seat. He clenched his fists and sat, glaring fiercely up at Stressedman. With his bright red suit and fearsomely decorated mask, he was an altogether terrifying sight.

Stressedman paused for a moment, wishing the butterflies in his stomach would fly away. Then he continued. “According to this notice, we have just twelve days to vacate the premises, and if we don’t, they’ll remove us with due force and change all the locks.”

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” said Guilty Woman. “This is all my fault.” She was sitting next to Angryman and also wore a mask, although hers was far less terrifying and was only worn so she could avoid direct eye contact with other people.

“It isn’t all your fault Guilty Woman,” said Stressedman.

“Yes it is. Everything’s my fault.” Guilty Woman began to cry softly.

“Just calm down Guilty Woman,” said Stressedman. Watching someone cry made him uncomfortable.

“Well I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” said Captain Self Absorbed. “I’ve just invested in a nice little condo down by the beach, so this whole eviction thing doesn’t bother me at all.”

“Well that’s all very well for you, but what about the rest of us?” demanded Stressedman.

“I can’t be expected to solve all of your problems. I’ve got my own best interests to consider first.”

Stressedman groaned. “But we’re the Superfriends,” he insisted. “We have to stick together, to look after each other.” Captain Self Absorbed just shrugged. In despair, Stressedman looked to the two members of the League who had not yet spoken. Sitting alongside each other, inseparable as always. The Dysfunctional Twins.

It was Depressed Girl who responded first. “What does it matter if we get evicted?” she asked dully as she stared down at the floor in front of her.

“What does it matter? It matters a lot,” cried Stressedman.

“I don’t understand,” said her brother, Anal Retentive Boy, dusting a piece of fluff from his shoulder. As always the neatest of the Super Heroes, his suit looked like it had been ironed five times before he put it on, and another three times afterwards.

“What’s not to understand you moron,” shouted Angryman. “We’re being kicked out of our home.”

“Your home,” corrected Captain Self Absorbed smugly.

“But I don’t understand,” repeated Anal Retentive Boy. “What about city bylaw thirty-five, section ten, sub-section C, paragraph five, point one?”

“What about putting your stupid face in a bucket of boiling water,” returned Angryman.

“Quiet all of you,” cried Stressedman. This bickering was starting to put him on edge. “Now Anal Retentive Boy, tell us all about city bylaw thirty-five, section ten, sub-section C, paragraph five.”

“Point one,” added Anal Retentive Boy.

“Whatever,” said Stressedman.

“City bylaw thirty-five, section ten, sub-section C, paragraph five, point one clearly states that the Halls of Justice shall be donated in perpetuity to the League of Super Heroes in return for their continued contribution to the fight against crime.”

“And here we have the problem in a nutshell,” said Stressedman. “I’m afraid our current efforts in the fight against crime leave a lot to be desired.”

“Oh god, it’s my fault,” said Guilty Woman. “I knew I hadn’t been capturing enough villains lately.”

“Actually Guilty Woman, your biggest problem isn’t so much that you’re not capturing enough villains,” said Stressedman. “The problem is that you let them all go again.”

“I know,” replied Guilty Woman, “but I can’t help it. I just know those poor villains are going to have to go to jail and I hate to think that I’m the person responsible for sending them there.”

“You’re an idiot Guilty Woman,” shouted Angryman. “A complete basket case.”

“If you want to talk about basket cases, perhaps we should consider your recent performances Angryman,” said Stressedman.

Angryman leapt to his feet again, sending Stressedman recoiling back in shock. “There’s nothing wrong with my recent performances,” he screamed. “Nobody captures more villains than I do.”

Stressedman swallowed hard to regain his composure. “The fact that you capture a lot of villains is not in dispute. The problem lies in the way you capture them.”

“What’s wrong with the way I capture them?”

“Do the words excessive force mean anything to you?”

“Excessive force?” exclaimed Angryman in disbelief. “If anyone claims I use excessive force, I’ll smash them in the face.”

“We don’t need to claim you use excessive force Angryman,” said Stressedman. “Just look at the evidence. Court injunctions from three police districts preventing you from operating within their precincts. Fifty-seven charges of assault leveled against you by villains you’ve apprehended, and that’s just from the last two days. Plus haven’t you seen the newspapers lately? All those reports about Super Hero Rage.”

“Bloody journalists,” shouted Angryman. “I’ll murder them. Every last one.”

“You’re not going to murder anyone. Just sit down.” As he watched Angryman reluctantly seat himself again, Stressedman could feel the tension starting to build up inside. He tried chanting the relaxation mantra his analyst had taught him but was interrupted halfway by Captain Self Absorbed.

“Is this meeting going to go on much longer? I’m appearing on Oprah in half an hour.”

Concentration shattered, Stresedman reached for some hair to tear out, but it had all gone long ago. “If you spent less time appearing on television, maybe you’d have an opportunity to help us fight crime,” he snapped.

“My time is important,” replied Captain Self Absorbed calmly. “I’d hate to think I was spreading myself too thinly, what with charity dinners and promotional appearances at shopping malls. Not to mention my gym routine.”

“Going to the gym is more important than fighting crime?”

“Hey, this body didn’t just happen.” Captain Self Absorbed stood up and posed for the other Super Heroes. His muscles rippled and bulged beneath his brightly coloured costume, fluorescent blue and covered from head to toe with multiple copies of the word Me.

“Sit down Captain Self Absorbed, we’ve all seen your body before,” ordered Stressedman. An angry red rash was starting to glow on his forehead and his fingernails were digging into the palms of his hands. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, then turned to look at Depressed Girl. “Well what about you Depressed Girl. Our records show that you haven’t captured any villains for almost three months now.”

For the first time all meeting, Depressed Girl looked up. Her pale face contrasted dramatically with her black hood, flowing black cape, and black suit emblazoned on the front with a black letter D. Presently she spoke.

“What’s the point of capturing villains? What’s the point of fighting crimes?”

“But we have to protect the good citizens of the city,” protested Stressedman.

“Why?” intoned Depressed Girl. “What’s the point of protecting citizens? What’s the point of getting up in the morning? I don’t know why I bother. Sometimes I even think about ending it all, but what’s the point of that? I’m immortal.” Then she returned her gaze to the floor.

“What that girl needs is a good thumping,” muttered Angryman.

“No, what you need is to shut up and listen to me,” retorted Stressedman. He was fast approaching breaking point but forced himself to continue. “According to my records, only two of us have actually been contributing to law and order in this city. Myself and Anal Retentive Boy.”

“That’s right,” Anal Retentive Boy confirmed proudly. “Sixteen felonies, forty-seven major misdemeanours, and two hundred and fifty-three point four minor misdemeanours detected, pursued and apprehended in the previous fortnightly period.”

“And while we’re on that subject,” added Stressedman, “can I yet again request that you curtail your zeal and show a little discretion out in the field.”

“What do you mean, discretion?” Anal Retentive Boy straightened up his collar, a confused look on his face.

“Try to concentrate on the big crimes and the real villains. Not every offence is serious enough to merit our attention.”

“Surely you can’t be serious,” cried Anal Retentive Boy, horrified. “The law is the law and all offences must be corrected.”

“Yes, in theory, but I have a message here from the State Correction Authority. They tell me that thanks to you, their jails are now so full of litterbugs, jaywalkers and gum chewers that the entire prison system is about to collapse.”

“You’re an utter imbecile,” shouted Angryman. “Gum chewing isn’t against the law.”

“Well it should be,” retorted Anal Retentive Boy. “It’s a filthy habit.”

“I know,” moaned Guilty Woman. “I keep trying to give up but I can’t.”

“Well it’s not a problem I’ve ever had,” trumpeted Captain Self Absorbed.

“Basic intelligence is not a problem you’ve ever had,” roared Angryman.

All the Super heroes, except for Depressed Girl, were on their feet, yelling at each other. Stressedman leapt up and down on the podium, waving his arms and stamping his feet, trying to regain control of the meeting. When it was obvious that all his efforts were in vain, he let out an enormous scream. The pandemonium instantly ceased as the others all turned to stare at him.

“Right, I’ve had it with you,” he cried in a voice shrill with hysteria. “For the last five years I’ve covered your arses. I’ve worked twenty-four hours, seven days a week, I’ve handled all our administrative and legal matters, and I’ve made sure all our bills were paid on time. Well I just want to let you know that as of this moment I’ve had enough. I’m not going to be a Super Hero anymore. I quit.”

Stressedman got down off the podium and began walking towards the door. The other Super Heroes stood silently as he marched past, watching in shock as he reached into his utility belt and removed a small bottle. The bottle he always took out before he went into action, full of the pills that were rumoured to be the source of his super powers. As he shook out a handful of pills and gulped them down, Anal Retentive Boy finally broke the silence.

“If you aren’t going to be a Super Hero, why are you still taking those pills? You’re not going to need super powers anymore.”

“Super powers?” Stressedman laughed a cold, humourless laugh. “There are no super powers in these pills.”

“Then what’s in them?” asked Captain Self Absorbed.

“Painkillers. I think I can feel a migraine coming on.” And having at last revealed his secret for all the world to know, Stressedman departed forever from the Halls of Justice.

Goldilocks and the Fashion Police

2011-06-05T10:53:00.000+10:00

Once upon a time, there was a lovely little girl named Goldilocks. She had long hair of gold and a kindly heart. Goldilocks was always trying to help her friends. Whenever it rained, she made sure to carry a spare umbrella, just in case someone else had forgotten theirs. And if anybody accidentally bought too much food at the grocery store, she was happy to carry some of their bags home for them. Yes, everybody in the town loved Goldilocks. There was only one thing wrong with her. She had no fashion sense.

Every time Goldilocks went out, the townspeople gasped at what she was wearing. Stripes mixed with flowers. Knee length socks under boots. The townspeople could not believe the atrocities against fashion which Goldilocks was committing. They tried to drop hints to her, left copies of Cleo and Cosmo under her doorway while she was out, but it was to no avail. Goldilocks continued to wear short skirts over denim overalls and green stockings with orange shoes.

Finally the people could take no more. They organised a town meeting to discuss the situation.

“This cannot go on,” cried the mayor. “We can’t let her continue flaunting the rules of fashion while we try to go about our daily business.”

The rest of the townspeople all agreed, but no one could come up with a plan of action. They all loved Goldilocks too much and didn’t want to offend her.

Then one man stepped forward. A small man, dressed all in black, that nobody had ever seen before. He stood up on the podium and said, “what we need to do is call in the fashion police.”

“Who are the fashion police?” asked the townspeople eagerly.

“The fashion police enforce the rules of fashion,” replied the man. “If they ever see anyone breaking those rules, they put them up against the wall and shoot them.”

At first, the townspeople were somewhat dismayed by this. Without Goldilocks, who would be there to help them rebuild their homes when the cold winter winds blew them over? And who would give food to the orphans when there was no one else to provide for them? But the man said there was no other alternative.

“Think of the effect she must be having on your children,” he insisted. “How would you feel if they all began to dress like her?”

The townspeople knew he was right. Without any delay, they called in the fashion police. Goldilocks was tried, convicted of crimes against fashion, and shot, all in the same afternoon.

Now things are very different in that little town. Whenever it rains, nobody will let you share their umbrella. And if you’ve done too much shopping, you’ll just have to carry those bags home yourself. But these seem like a small price to pay. Because since the fashion police came to town, nobody has ever been out of fashion again.

Note: I wrote this story for a short story class after sitting in a train listening to a group of girls criticising the clothes other travellers were wearing. Some of the quotes were taken direct.

Blog Tour De Troops

2011-05-27T20:00:00.002+10:00

Welcome to the next stop in the blog tour de troops. I’m welcoming you from down under – Melbourne Australia.

Before I begin, I just want to make sure that you’ve already checked out Jennifer Provost’s post. And when you're done here, pop over to Kat Lively.

We Aussies have a lot in common with Americans. We both value a lot of the same things. So when I’m offering thanks to the American troops, I’d like to add a special note to any Australian troops out there as well.

I’d also like to talk a bit about the book, Doodling I’m offering up today. It’s a humorous fantasy about a different kind of freedom. The freedom to get away from the hustle and bustle of our fast moving world and live life at a nice, relaxing pace. At least that’s what the hero of the story, Neville, wants to do when he stops trying to keep up and decides to let go and fall off the world.

As the story progresses, Neville discovers that it’s not so easy to escape from the world. Maybe there’s a message in there about taking responsibility, and the fact that we are grateful for people who are prepared to make sacrifices.

Then again, maybe it’s just a funny kind of story. I’ll leave it up to you to decide. And if you don’t want to take my word for it, check out the review at Eulana.

While I’m in gratitude mode, I also want to thank the fine folk at the Indie Book Collective for making this fantastic event possible, and for the rest of the great work they do.

But don’t just sit there. Please post a comment and I’ll get a copy of Doodling out to you. And don’t stop here – make sure you head off to visit Kat Lively next. And then keep on going. There’s lots more free books available, plus a chance to win a kindle for yourself and a troop as well.

One final note to any commenters – please excuse any delays I have responding as I’m most likely in a totally different time zone. And please leave your email so I can pass on the book details to you.

Thank you to all commenters for supporting me and the troops. As this event has now officially closed, I won't be responding to any further comments.

The Strange Case of Arthur Fribble.

2011-05-22T19:35:00.001+10:00

Arthur Fribble’s strange condition began to become apparent while he was in primary school.

His grade one teacher was the first to notice it. She had asked the class the simple question, “what colour is the sky?” and Arthur had correctly replied, “blue.” After being congratulated for this response, young Arthur sneezed. Just one little short sharp sneeze, the teacher recalled when questioned about it many years later.

As the condition developed, it soon manifested itself in many of Arthur’s activities, both in the classroom and the playground. Successfully completing a short spelling test was enough to cause the boy to break out in spots, while if he ever kicked a goal during a lunchtime football game, his eyes would begin to water, his cheeks would puff up, and he would burst into a series of urgent, uncontrollable sneezes.

The high school years were difficult ones for Arthur. Teenagers can be cruel, and Arthur’s classmates could not resist ridiculing him at every opportunity. But curiously enough, after these sessions of teasing, Arthur’s condition always seemed to clear up. It was only after the other kids had left him alone for a while, and his self confidence had begun to return, that it would reemerge. He might perform well on an exam, or summon up the courage to talk to a girl he had a bit of a crush on, and instantly all the symptoms, the rashes, the runny noses, the bloodshot eyes, would reappear.

As poor Arthur left school and headed out into the big, bad world, things were not looking bright for him. After failing his final exams, he struggled to hold onto a job and soon found himself friendless and miserable. It seemed that there was no hope left. But thanks to a chance encounter with the famed immunologist, Dr Rheinstrom Bergstrom, things began to change for him. It was Dr Bergstrom who recognised the strange pattern of Arthur’s condition. As long as Arthur’s life was going nowhere and he was achieving nothing, just getting by from day to day, then he was alright. But as soon as things started to pick up, and Arthur began to get back on his feet and move forward with his life, then the condition would reassert itself. From these observations, Dr Bergstrom was able to make his extraordinary diagnosis:

Arthur Fribble was allergic to success.

I last saw Arthur about six months ago. Although things still weren’t easy for him, I was glad to hear that he was doing a lot better. He had begun a university degree and he proudly informed me, while only sneezing six times, that he had managed to pass all exams so far. But I was most pleased to discover that he had actually begun going out with women. He told me that every time he went on a date, he made sure to bring cortisone cream, anti-histamines, and a couple of condoms.

Just in case he got lucky.

Two Poems about Bob

2011-05-14T18:01:00.004+10:00

One of my ambitions is to write a book of poetry titled "Bob".
These are the first two I've completed so far...

Careful Bob

Old Careful Bob took lots of time
to build his house just right.
He drew a lot of detailed plans
which took him half the night.

He checked that all the bricks were straight
and none of them were slopin’.
And all the windows faced outside
and all the doors would open.

He made sure when he turned the taps
that out the water rushed.
And when he pulled upon the chain
the toilet would get flushed.

He decorated every room
with good taste and restraint.
But to be sure it looked just right
he used five coats of paint.

Yes Bob took so much special care
with everything he’d done.
The only detail he forgot
was such a little one.

And when the house was finished
Careful Bob was filled with pride.
He took one long, last careful look
and then he went inside.

But at that fateful moment
big dark clouds came rushing in.
And as the rain poured down
old Bob was soaked right to the skin.

That’s when for poor wet Careful Bob
the penny it did drop.
It’s not much use to build a house
without a roof on top.

Invisible Bob

When Invisible Bob went out in a crowd,
he didn’t say much and he wasn’t too loud.
He kept to himself and he didn’t intrude,
as he hated for people to think he was rude.

Yes Invisible Bob was so quiet and polite,
that he soon found himself disappearing from sight.
Other people looked through him, like into thin air,
and acted as if he was not even there.

But Bob did not like being treated this way,
especially when he had something to say.
He wished that a plan or a scheme could be found,
to make people notice that he was around.

So Bob began acting to try and stand out,
he dressed in bright colours and started to shout.
He jumped in the air and he yelled into ears,
and he hoped that this way, he might soon reappear.

Now people could tell there was something amiss,
they’d never heard noises that sounded like this.
Was it traffic or birds or a great swarm of bees?
Was it thunder, or merely the wind in the trees?

Then a young lady finally opened her eyes,
and her eyebrows rose up as she gaped in surprise.
She cried to the rest of that nearsighted mob,
“My goodness, I think it’s Invisible Bob!”

And from that day onwards, no one could misplace,
this soft spoken man with the smile on his face.
As people who notice him always agree,
that Invisible Bob is now easy to see.

The House Call

2011-05-07T12:59:00.006+10:00

It was the first house call I’d made in a very long time.

I’d been in general practice for fifteen years but things had gotten a little slow. Changes in demographics, people said. A new generation of young folk moving into the area, with a preference for big faceless medical clinics rather than a small, friendly local practice. I didn’t know much about that. But I did know that for the first time ever I was starting to have trouble making my ends meet.

A good friend had suggested locum-ing as the solution. “Hours aren’t great but it’s good money,” he advised. “If you do it for a couple of months, you might not have a life but you’ll clear up those debts, no problem.”

So here I was, knocking on a strange door in a strange block of flats in a suburb I didn’t often find myself, particularly not at eleven o’clock at night. As I waited for a response, I tried to prepare for this novel experience. Practising my bedtime manner. Repeating over and over in my head the different ways I could introduce myself. Introductions had long since ceased being a requirement of my regular work. Every one of the small roster of patients I saw had been on my books for over ten years. Obviously this was part of the problem.

As there was no reply from inside, I knocked again. Eventually I heard a faint voice coming from somewhere on the other side of the door:

“It’s open. Just come in.”

I turned the handle, pressed open the door and stepped into the flat. I could see straight away that it was a male’s apartment. The floor was littered with old newspapers, football magazines and empty beer cans. I made a mental note of this to myself. The name of the patient I was here to see was Pat, an epithet that was highly non gender-specific. Now I had a better idea of whom I was to be treating.

But when I arrived in the only bedroom within the flat, I was surprised to find the occupant of the bed was in fact a woman. She would have been somewhere in her late forties or early fifties, with shoulder-length brown hair and a friendly, although rather worn-out, face. However the most striking thing about this woman was her size. Lying flat on the bed, her sheets rose almost two metres above the level of the mattress, giving the appearance of a head sticking out the entrance of a brightly coloured igloo.

Stepping into the room, I tried to appear relaxed. “I’m here to see Pat,” I said cautiously.

She nodded and then opened her mouth to speak, but before any words could come out she sneezed loudly.

Relaxing at her affirmation, I pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. I introduced myself and then opened my briefcase to take out my consulting pad and pen.

I checked my notes. “And you’ve had a problem with a lingering cold?” It was half question, half statement.

She nodded again. “For almost a month now. It just won’t go away.”

“I see.” I quickly considered the best way to take this further. Most likely the underlying problem wasn’t the cold itself. But how to break it diplomatically? It had become such a sensitive issue in these politically-correct times. I decided to follow my instincts; something about her told me she was an open sort of person and direct was the best way to go. Besides, in her condition she’d probably heard it many times before.

“I’ll see what I can do. I’m afraid your weight is probably a factor in the difficulty you’re having trying to throw off this infection.”

I paused, waiting to see whether I’d caused any offence. Fortunately my first impressions were correct. Far from being upset, she actually grinned. It was the reply that followed that threw me for a six.

“I’m not overweight.”

“You’re not?” I tried to make my response more of a polite comment than the exclamation it probably turned out to be.

“No,” she chuckled. “It’s okay, everybody makes that mistake. I’m definitely not overweight. I’m actually pregnant.”

Pregnant! That changed everything.

“This is a real concern,” I said. “It may be best to get you to a hospital for some proper checks. When are you due?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t know.”

“But you must have some idea. How long have you been pregnant for?”

“Twenty-seven years,” she replied casually.

“Twenty-seven years?” I repeated. “But that’s ridiculous, Pat.”

“I’m not Pat,” she said. “I’m Julie.”

“But I’m here to see Pat. Has there been a mistake?”

“No. No mistake. You are here to see Pat.”

“Who is Pat then?”

“He’s my son.”

“Well where is he?”

She pointed at her stomach. “Right here.”

At that point, I was just about ready to get up and leave. As far as I could tell, she needed a psychiatrist, not a doctor. It was only her beseeching and imploring, coupled with some fairly serious sniffing and coughing, that convinced me to stay. And that’s how I got to hear the extraordinary story of Julie and her twenty-seven year-old unborn son, Pat.

Pat was not Julie’s first child. Her daughter, Emily, had just turned three when she received the joyous news that baby number two was on the way.

At first, everything seemed to be going as per normal. She went through the regular battery of tests and ultrasounds, all of which showed that the baby was developing quite naturally. She did suffer from a slight case of morning sickness but that had cleared up by the end of the first trimester. Therefore she was not at all concerned when she hadn’t felt even the slightest twinge of labour three weeks after the due date had passed. After all Emily had been late as well. So although her obstetrician strongly recommended that she be immediately induced, she strenuously opposed any such interventions.

“The baby will come when the baby is ready,” she had said in response to anybody who offered her advice or opinions.

After another month, with the obstetrician now reduced to a nervous wreck, she finally consented to another ultrasound. To everyone’s great relief, this revealed a perfectly healthy, though somewhat cramped, two month-old baby. And although she had originally planned to defer on finding out the gender of the child until after the birth, she figured that she’d waited long enough. As a result, she was delighted to discover that her second child was almost certainly a boy.

By the end of the first year, and with no further sign that the child had any inclination towards coming out, Julie decided it was time to bestow a name. She choose Patrick as it had been the name of her much beloved paternal grandfather. She even approached the local church about having the boy baptized, but to her great disappointment they would not agree to performing the ceremony on an unborn child, even one who was now over a year old. In disgust, she cut off all ties with the church, the first, but unfortunately not the last, schism her unusual condition would precipitate.

As Pat grew, Julie tried to give him as normal an upbringing as possible. A good education was particularly important to her, but finding the right institution did turn out to be problematic. He was briefly enrolled in a number of different schools, both within the public and private systems, but unfortunately none of them met his very special needs. By around the middle of grade two, she finally gave up and Pat spent the rest of his childhood in home schooling. This seemed to suit him well and he showed a particular aptitude for mathematics, although his reading skills were never better than average.

While educationally things were going well, the situation began to take its toll on Julie’s family. Both her husband and daughter began to become impatient and to harangue Julie at every opportunity, insisting that it was time Pat finally be born. To this, Julie always maintained the same reply:

“He’ll come when he’s ready.”

This definitely did not mollify her husband. He claimed that Julie was babying the child, not allowing him to grow up and become a man.

“You keep treating him like this, and he’ll end up like some sooky little mummy’s boy,” he complained.

Stung by this criticism, Julie did everything she could to ensure that Pat had suitable ‘masculine’ influences. Although trying out for any local sporting teams was obviously not an option, she made sure to take him to the cricket and football at every opportunity. Still, that was not good enough and the two divorced over ten years ago, although the settlement turned out to be quite amicable and her ex-husband regularly came over to watch action movies on DVD and play video games with his son.

More hurtful to her were the conflicts with Emily, who for years whined and moaned that Pat was the favoured one and that Julie was always putting herself out to look after him at the expense of her elder child. Regrettably, the rift that developed between mother and daughter was never mended and to this day the two do not speak.

At around this stage in her recollections, Julie lit up a cigarette and began to draw deeply on it. I indicated that in her current condition, I did not think that smoking was advised. She nodded in agreement.

“You’re right. It’s a disgusting habit. I’ve been trying for ages to get him to quit. But he tells me he can’t. He just doesn’t have the willpower.”

I was surprised to hear this because otherwise willpower did not seem to be something Pat was lacking in. Despite all the setbacks and complications described previous, he was able to do well enough in his final exams to gain a place at university, where he completed a degree in computer science and information technology. Since then he had never had any problems with gaining employment, mostly via extremely well paid, short-term appointments.

Julie has, quite rightly, derived much satisfaction from Pat’s unconventional path through life.

“The greatest day of my life was when he moved out of home and found his own place to live,” she said proudly. “They say so many kids of his generation are still living at their parents’ houses when they’re thirty. But Pat moved out when he was only twenty-three.”

Since then he’s been able to build up quite a social life, even establishing relationships with a number of girls, although he has struggled to maintain these in the long-term. In fact his last girlfriend only just walked out a couple of months ago. Julie had done her best to convince her to stay but unfortunately, the young woman was deeply unsatisfied with the direction the relationship was heading.

“It’s just not good enough,” she had said. “He keeps saying that yes, one day he will be born, but he never tells me when. I feel like he’s just not prepared to make a commitment to me.”

“He’ll come when he’s ready,” was the advice Julie had given to her. It wasn’t enough to convince her to stay.

“But what about you?” I asked when Julie had finished telling me her story. “You seem to have given up a lot for Pat. Don’t you feel like you deserve to have a life for yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “What’s a mother meant to do except look after her children the best she can. I know there are a lot of aspects of his life I have to put up with. The rowdy boy’s nights I don’t care for at all, especially all that drinking. I never could stand the taste of beer. And the filthy state he always leaves this place in. I’m constantly telling him, why should I have to clean up after you? You made the mess, you clean it up. But it never seems to sink in.”

There didn’t seem to be much left to say. Julie and Pat obviously had a relationship they were both comfortable with. Some might suggest it was unhealthily co-dependent but it seemed to work for them. I prescribed a mild antibiotic for Pat, after checking with Julie whether he had any problems with allergies or sensitivities. I also advised her on some over-the-counter medication that might be useful to help reduce his symptoms.

“Don’t forget to make sure Pat takes it easy and drinks lots of liquids. I would strongly suggest you take him to see his regular doctor if this cold has not cleared up by the end of the week. And probably best to make an appointment for you to see an obstetrician as well, just in case.”

“I see him every month. Have done for the last twenty-seven years,” she replied. “Still demands that I have Pat induced but I’ll have nothing of it.”

“You do what’s right for you. Just make sure you take care of yourself. And tell Pat he should be taking better care of himself as well. Easy on the beer and ciggies.” I packed up my things and stood up. I had been here far longer then I’d anticipated and there were numerous other patients I was required to see that night. Still, before I turned to walk out of the bedroom, I found I just couldn’t stop myself asking one more question.

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you think Pat will ever be born?”

Julie didn’t seem to mind. She smiled a long-practised smile and gave a world-weary shrug of her shoulders.

“He’ll come when he’s ready.”

Daggy Dads

2011-05-02T19:30:00.000+10:00

Today I want to pay tribute to a very special kind of dag - the daggy dad.

So what exactly is a daggy dad?

It's hard to define the exact characteristics of a daggy dad. But it's easy to recognise one when you see one. A few sure signs that clearly identify this rather special species:

He's the one at the family gathering telling the world's worst jokes. Again. Daggy dads take special pride in repeating the same jokes over and over. And the less funny, the better
At the school performance, the daggy dad is the one who's jumping up out of his chair, singing and dancing along and generally completely embarrassing all of his kids (and anyone else in the family lucky enough to be attending)
Daggy dad's always make a special effort to show their kids how "hip and groovy" they are. They like to make sure they're up to date with the latest music and the latest trends in whatever is trendy. That is, as long as you can define latest as at least ten years old.

Daggy dads have been a standard of both films and television. In pretty much every family movie featuring Steve Martin, he's served as a standard model for a daggy dad. And they are a regular component of sit-coms, from the dad in Modern Family, back through shows like Everyone Loves Raymond and many, many more before.

And let's not get started on the role of daggy dad's in commercials. He's the one we're all used to seeing, constantly shown up by his wife and kids.

But despite all their shortcomings, there's a lot to be said for daggy dads. They're warm and caring. They're funny (as long as they're not trying to be). They make everyone else in the family feel so much smarter.

So I'd like to end this by saying hoorah for daggy dads. I reckon they are without a doubt the best kinds of dads. And I should know, because I'm proud to say I'm one of them!

Are you a daggy dad? Is your husband/partner a daggy dad? Are you the child of a daggy dad?

Tell me about it. Place a tweet with the details and the hashtag #daglit and I'll send you a free copy of my daggy ebook, Doodling.

Swimming with Sharks

2011-04-23T19:36:00.002+10:00

I first met Vic on the day we went swimming with the sharks.

He was right next to me in the changing shed as we stripped off and put on our bathers.

“First time?” he asked.

I nodded. “Seen it heaps on TV but I’ve never been game to try it myself until today. What about you?”

“Yep, also a first timer. Name’s Vic.”

I introduced myself as well. “Nice to meet you, Vic,” I said

As we left the shed, my eyes were blinded by the glare of the sunlight. Slowly, the scene resolved itself in front of my eyes. A scene I had witnessed so many times before on television, but even with that familiarity, it was far more then I could have possibly imagined.

I was standing on the edge of a low cliff which swept around to my left and then back again in a roughly semi-circular arc. Not far below, the water of the bay shimmered like a brilliant azure mirror, the sunlight dancing over its rippling surface. On the top of the cliffs to the left, a crowd was gathered. They waited, expectant and impatient, some individuals occasionally yelling out for something to happen. And all about me stood the other competitors, stretching and pacing and staring nervously into the clear water.

Suddenly the tension was broken by a loud splash. The crowd immediately roared and the other competitors looked up, as if they had all been instantaneously awoken by a gunshot. The serenity of the water was broken by a frenzy of swinging arms and kicking legs as the swimmer who had just dived in made for the cliffs on the other side of the bay.

The reason for his frantic movements very quickly became obvious. Five large shadows appeared from out of the depths of the water. Long and cylindrical, but as they approached the surface, the telltale fins became all too apparent.

The man was now over halfway across. The distance towards the far cliff was getting rapidly smaller. But this was nothing compared to the speed of the fearsome shadows as they raced towards him.

I nudged Vic gently in the side. “He’s not going to make it.”

“Sure he is,” Vic replied.

The man was now a good twenty metres away from the cliff but the sharks were closing fast. Forty metres. Thirty metres. Ten metres. Now they were circling feverishly. The howling of the crowd rose to a crescendo as they rushed in, ready for the kill.

Just in time, the swimmer reached the low ladder that hung from the far cliff and hauled himself out, kicking at the nose of one of the sharks as it lunged out of the water towards him. The baying of the crowd was immediately replaced by a massive shout of approval. In response, the victorious swimmer leapt up and down, punching the air in triumph.

Vic nudged me gently in the side. “Told you he’d make it.”

“He’s a hero,” I said.

The crowd had calmed down and returned to their impatient muttering. But for now, nobody else was prepared to enter the water. So Vic and I sat by the edge of the cliff and after a while we got to chatting. Turned out, Vic was a writer.

“So what did you write?” I wanted to know.

“You know,” he said, “I think it’s less about what you actually wrote and more about what you were going to write.”

“Go on. So what were you going to write?”

“The ultimate book,” he said.

Just then, our conversation was broken by another splash and another great bellow from the crowd. At last, the next swimmer had taken the plunge.

We both looked over the bay as she boldly made her way across, surging forward with powerful, determined strokes. But once again, the alarming shadows glided up from the deep in remorseless pursuit.

I nudged Vic. “She’s not going to make it.”

“Sure she is.”

She had just about reached the ladder on the far cliff, but they were already on to her, striking mercilessly at her flailing body.

But just as all seemed lost, two figures balancing on the ladder managed to reach in and drag her out of the crimson-tainted water. The damage done was clear to see; one leg taken off from just below the knee. In a flash, she was carried onto a stretcher and hustled away for suitable medical attention. But even then, she managed to raise her fist and wave it in a weak gesture of victory, driving the crowd into ecstasies of appreciation.

Vic nudged me. “Told you she’d make it.”

“She’s a hero,” I said.

It took a bit longer for the crowd to quieten down this time. Once their noise had reduced sufficiently for normal conversation to be allowed, I resumed my discussion with Vic.

“So tell me. What exactly is this ultimate book?”

“The last book. The final book,” he explained.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Have you been to a bookshop lately?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Once or twice.”

“And what impression did you get?”

“I don’t know. Lots of books I guess.”

“Precisely,” he said. “Lots and lots and lots of books. But did you ever ask yourself the question, ‘are all those books necessary?’”

“No,” I replied. “Can’t say that I ever have.”

“Ah, you see,” he said. “Not many people have thought of this. But that is the question I found myself asking. Why do we have so many books? Surely they’re not all necessary. Surely not every one of those books needs to be read. I reckon all you’d have to do is read, maybe fifteen of them, and you’ve pretty much covered everything that’s written in all of the other books.”

There was a splash, and then another splash, and then another. To the great delight of the crowd, three swimmers had jumped in simultaneously. All three struck out strongly for the far shore, attempting to outrace the sharks that now numbered at least twelve. One of them made it to the other side, where he flamboyantly accepted the plaudits of the crowd. However the other two did not. Barely three quarters of the way across, they were overtaken and rapidly ripped apart.

As all the sharks rushed in for their pound of flesh, another seven contestants leapt into the water. Five of them made it to the other side, three of them with bodies intact.

I nudged Vic. “I reckon that’s the way to go. Wait until the sharks are feeding and then make a dash for it.”

“Good plan,” he agreed.

It was soon clear that this latest burst of activity was over. No more contestants were ready to take on the inhabitants of that water, now stained a deep red. This was a relief as I was keen to continue my discussion with Vic.

“Sorry, I got a bit distracted,” I said. “What was that about fifteen books?”

“I was saying, I reckon you only need to read fifteen books and you can pretty much say that you’ve read every book that’s ever been written.”

“Only fifteen books you reckon?”

“Maybe twenty at max. Of course, you’d need to choose the right ones. You could read twenty books and they’d all be pretty much the same. No, you’d need to get a spread of all the different types of books in the shop.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “A good spread of all of the books. So what does this have to do with this ultimate book you were going to write?”

“Well that was my breakthrough. I began to think that if these twenty essential books have all been written already, then maybe, just maybe, there was still one that hadn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at it this way. With every book that’s ever been written, you’ve got some writer who’s trying to say something. Make a point. Create some sort of profound observation about the world that we live in. Only problem is, there are now so many books around that they’re all just repeating each other.”

“Repeating each other,” I said.

“Exactly. You’d think by now that everything that needs to be said has already been said. But I reckon there’s still one thing that hasn’t been said. One point that’s yet to be made. One final book that’s waiting to be written. And that’s when I figured that I was the bloke to write it.”

“The ultimate book,” I murmured. “That’s brilliant.”

“Too bloody right it is,” he said. “After my book is finished, nobody ever has to write another book again. Think of all the advantages. When you go into a bookshop, you won’t have to worry about whether some new book by a writer you’ve never heard of is going to be any good or not. Make life easier for booksellers too, ‘cos they won’t have to worry about stocking up on so many different books any more. And even better for publishers ‘cos they’ll never ever need to publish another book again. They can even consolidate their lists. Cut them right down so all we have is the twenty books that we really need.”

“Twenty-one,” I reminded him.

“Of course, twenty-one. How could I have forgotten? But do you know who the biggest winners will be?”

I was about to answer when we were interrupted by a rising slow handclap from the crowd, followed, in response, by a series of splashes. There were now at least twenty swimmers in the water. The formerly placid, blue bay was transformed into a cauldron of hysterical movement. And while occasionally a competitor proudly raised themselves up the ladder on the other side, the vast majority never made it halfway.

But exciting as it all seemed, I had somewhat lost interest in this spectacle. I was much more interested in hearing the rest of Vic’s story.

“No,” I finally replied, trying hard to make myself heard over the now incessant roar of the crowd.

“Writers,” said Vic, also yelling to make himself audible.

“What do you mean?”

“Think of all those writers out there, desperately typing away. Trying to think of how to be original. How to say something that’s never been said before.”

“Yeah?”

“Well now they don’t have to worry anymore. It can be known with certainly that everything that needs to be said has already been said. They can get on with doing something more valuable in their lives.”

“That’s genius!” I exclaimed.

“You reckon?”

“I reckon. Mate, you’d be doing the world a public service.”

“For sure.”

“So why didn’t you do it?”

“Why didn’t I do what?”

“Write the ultimate book.”

At that moment, a commotion arose around us. Apparently a couple of contestants had gotten into a disagreement and one had pushed the other into the water. The crowd was furious, booing loudly at such unsporting behaviour.

I nudged Vic. “That’s just not on,” I said.

“No bloody way,” he agreed.

It seemed that the other competitors shared this view. The miscreant was quickly picked up and carried, kicking and screaming, to the edge of the cliff, where he was unceremoniously tossed directly into the thickest mass of sharks in the bay. The jeers of the crowd immediately turned to cheers at the sight of justice being done.

“So why didn’t you write the ultimate book?” I asked again.

“Well here is the problem,” he explained. “In order to figure out which book hadn’t been written, first of all I had to figure out all the books that already had. And you know what that meant?”

“I get it. You pretty much had to read every single book that had already been written.”

“Well not every book. Remember there’s really only twenty books I needed to read.”

“That doesn’t sound so hard.”

“It doesn’t sound hard. But the really difficult bit is figuring out exactly which twenty books to choose when there’s so many to begin with.”

“I see.”

“And the more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that there wasn’t much this book could actually be about anyway. It can’t be a detective story ‘cos lots of people have already written them. It can’t be science fiction either, or one of those fantasy ones with wizards and elves and that. It can’t be funny, ‘cos there are lots of funny books out there, but it can’t be serious either, ‘cos I reckon there are probably even more of them.”

“I can see the problem.”

“So that’s when it hit me. I couldn’t do it. There was no way I could write this ultimate book. It was just too hard. My career as a writer had ended before it had even begun. But do you know something?”

“What?”

He turned to me, his eyes glittering. “As a writer I might have been a failure but at least I set my sights high. I tried to do something that nobody had ever done before. I never ended up doing it but geez I gave it my best shot. And I reckon there’s something heroic about that.”

“You were a heroic failure,” I agreed.

“You’ve said it in one. A heroic failure. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s the only failure I’d ever want to be.”

“Here’s to heroic failures,” I cried, and we smashed our fists together as if we were making a toast.

“Hey, shall we do it now?” he asked.

I looked up at the sun, just starting to sink towards the horizon, and down to the rusty-brown waters of the bay, now seething with arms, legs and torsos, not to mention the hordes of sharks, still swarming in from the open ocean.

“If we don’t do it now, I reckon we never will,” I replied.

We shook hands.

“Good luck,” he said.

“And to you as well. Thanks heaps for the story.”

“No worries. How about on three. One, two, three!”

We both jumped. As I sank into its depths, the coldness of the water almost overwhelmed me. But then I made it back to the surface and took a deep breath, just as Vic’s head popped up beside me.

“Hey, do you reckon someone will ever do it?” I asked.

“Do what?”

“Actually write this ultimate book.”

“Dunno. But whoever does will have to be one top writer.”

“They’d be a hero?” I suggested.

Vic laughed. “Too right. They’d be a bloody hero.”

Dark shapes were beginning to loom through the murky water. It was time to end this.

“Race you to the other side,” I called.

“You’re on.”

I turned to face the ladder hanging from that opposite cliff so far away. And then I swam like I’ve never swam in all of my life.

The Snot Fairy

2011-04-16T21:49:00.002+10:00

A truly wondrous organ is that thing you call your nose.

It runs and snorts and sniffles, and it dribbles, drips and blows.

But did you ever wonder just how do its contents build up.

And why the more you empty out, the more that it gets filled up.

Of course there is an answer to this question that I pose.

Just how it is that all that stuff gets up into your nose.

It’s placed there by a being, not much bigger than a dot.

A sweet and fragile spirit called the Fairy of the Snot.

This magic little fairy is a marvel to be seen.

She wears a dress of silver and her flowing hair is green.

She has a crown upon her head, and wings upon her back.

And slung over her shoulder is a little golden sack.

Across the sea the fairy flies, and when her journey’s done.

She sees the snot fields far below her, glistening in the sun.

Then down she swoops, and in her hand she holds a scythe so tiny.

To harvest up the crop she finds, so ripe and fresh and shiny.

From bush to bush she flitters, like a busy bumble bee.

Until that sack upon her back is full as it can be.

Then up into the air she soars, and back over the sea.

She flies and flies until she has returned to our country.

And now it’s time at last for her real mission to begin.

She looks around and finds a nose, and then she flies right in.

She scoops a handful from her sack and rolls it in a ball.

And then she gently flings it so it sticks upon the wall.

From nose to nose the fairy flies, delivering her load.

To noses inside houses and to noses on the road.

She flutters through the city and she floats upon the breeze.

Sometimes we feel her tickling, and that is why we sneeze.

And when the day is over and it’s time for her to stop.

Her sack is finally empty and she’s so tired she could drop.

At last the busy Snot Fairy is able to relax.

And spend some time with her great friend, the Fairy of Earwax.

A note to any illustrators watching - I'd love to see this turned into a picture book.

Interested in sampling some more Dag-Lit? Doodling is now available for just 99c until the end of April from both Amazon and Smashwords.

Why Dag-Lit?

2011-04-14T16:56:00.002+10:00

In order to answer this question, I need to first explain a little more about exactly what the term “dag” means.

Dag is Australian slang. It refers to somebody who is a bit odd or unusual; someone whose appearance or behaviour don’t fit in with what is considered to be conventional or “cool”. Originally it was not a particularly pleasant way to describe someone – it actually derives from the wool industry and means the little pieces of crap that get stuck to the wool on a sheep’s backside.

But as with many other terms commonly used down under, what began as an insult soon evolved into something more complicated. People who didn’t think it was such a bad thing to be a bit odd or unconventional began to see it as a badge of pride rather than something to be ashamed of. These days when the word is used, it’s often in an affectionate way to describe someone who both doesn’t feel the need to conform and is also quite a bit of fun to be around as a result. And every second celebrity, actor, model, etc always seems to make a big deal of claiming that away from the camera they’re really a total dag.

So, in summary, a dag is a person who doesn’t easily fit into the boxes society creates to categorise people.

But how does this relate to writing and books?

Nobody (at least not in the publishing industry) has ever been able to figure out where my stories fit. Are they for kids or are they for adults? Are they science-fiction or fantasy or something different again? I once had a story ping-pong so many times between the different departments of a major publisher that it got completely lost and when I eventually rang them up, nobody had the faintest idea where it was. Another time, a publisher told me that my book dealt with adult ideas but couldn’t be for adults because it had a lot of funny names.

So that’s when I began to realise that my stories are dags. They’re unconventional and odd, and they don’t fit into the various boxes that the publishing industry has decreed books must fit into. And also, like a true dag, I reckon they’re lots of fun. Therefore, what better name could I come up with for a new genre to describe my stories than dag-Lit?

So go ahead and try a bit of dag-Lit. If you’re eight or if you’re eighty, as long as you’re the kind of person who likes to look at the world in your own particular way, and who doesn’t like to be pushed down into a little box, then I reckon it’s for you.

Interested? Like to know more? Doodling is now available for just 99c until the end of April from both Amazon and Smashwords.

Doodling Chapter 4

2011-04-10T10:35:00.006+10:00

Not So Peachy

Neville stared at the girl who had pulled him out of the way of the world. He could still feel the blast of air rushing past his face and hear the whooshing roar, gradually diminishing now as the world hurried away. Finally he found his voice again.

“Th…thank you,” he managed to stammer.

“It’s okay,” she replied in her serious voice. “I saw you lying down in front of the world and I thought I’d better do something.”

“You saved my life,” exclaimed Neville. “What can I do to repay you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the girl quickly. “I did what I had to do.”

“Well I still feel like I owe you something. My name’s Neville by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Neville. I’m Helen. Why don’t you come this way?”

Neville followed Helen to a small asteroid not far from the edge of the field. He lay down on the soft ground and closed his eyes, waiting for his heart to stop racing and his nerves to stop bouncing and jangling like an extremely agitated marionette.

Soft ground? None of the other asteroids he had visited had soft ground. He opened his eyes and sat up again, and was instantly amazed by his new surroundings.

He was lying on a grassy lawn. All around him were pots full of colourful flowers and at the far end was a small tree. Helen was watering the flowers with a little yellow watering can, but when she noticed that Neville was sitting up again she walked towards the tree and picked a piece of fruit from it.

“Would you like a peach?” she asked.

Neville nodded eagerly. He accepted the peach and took a big bite. It was delicious. Sweet and juicy, with just that little touch of tartness that a good peach should have.

“Is this your asteroid?” he asked Helen. She nodded.

“It’s lovely. Did you plant all of this yourself?”

She nodded again, her face still looking very serious.

“Wow,” exclaimed Neville. “This is definitely the nicest asteroid I have ever seen.”

“Thank you,” said Helen quietly. “Have you been out here for long?”

“Not really,” replied Neville. “I’ve been to a few other asteroids but the people I’ve met have all been completely mad. In fact you’re the first sensible person I’ve met in this asteroid field.”

Helen almost smiled at that. She picked up her watering can and began watering the flowers again. Neville finished the peach and looked around, searching for a rubbish bin to put the pip into. But there didn’t seem to be one anywhere.

“Excuse me Helen, what should I do with this pip?”

“Oh just throw it away.”

“Throw it away?” Neville was shocked. “But I don’t want to litter your lovely asteroid.”

“It’s a peach pip,” said Helen. “If you throw it away, it will grow into a peach tree. And that means even more peaches for us to eat.”

Neville was impressed by Helen’s logic. He threw the peach pip so that it landed next to the peach tree. Then he lay back again, watching the other asteroids fly past. “Now this is the sort of asteroid a guy could really get used to,” he said. “You don’t mind if I stay a while do you?”

“Stay as long as you want.”

Neville was beginning to like Helen too. He watched her as she moved about the flowers, carefully measuring out a little stream of water for each. She had gone to such an effort to create a little paradise in the middle of a wasteland. And yet there was something about her that didn’t quite fit. Something about the way she didn’t seem able to just relax and enjoy her surroundings. She always looked so serious. Even when she smiled, it seemed like she had a great weight on her shoulders.

Suddenly Neville was concerned about her. After all, she had helped him out. Maybe he could find some way to return the favour and make her feel better. “Is there something wrong?” he called out to her.

“I’m worried,” she replied.

“About what?”

“About the world.”

“What about the world?”

Helen stopped her watering and sat next to Neville. “It’s moving too fast.”

“But we don’t have to worry about that,” said Neville. “We’re not on the world anymore. It can move as fast as it wants and we can just sit back and watch it.”

“Pick up that peach pip again,” instructed Helen, pointing to where Neville had thrown it.

Oh no, thought Neville. After everything had seemed so good, suddenly it looked like Helen was just as mad as everybody else.

Helen must have been reading Neville’s mind. “I’m not mad,” she insisted. “Just go and pick up the pip.”

Neville did as he was told. He crawled over and picked up the pip. Then he crawled back to Helen.

“Give it to me.”

Neville handed it over. Helen had already picked a few stalks of grass and tied them together to form a sort of string. She looped one end of this string around the pip and knotted it tight. Then she handed the other end to Neville.

“Now stand up and swing it around your head.”

Neville looked at the strange contraption. Then he looked back at Helen. She had insisted that she was not mad but Neville was beginning to have his doubts.

“Just do it,” said Helen in a stern voice.

Neville stood up and began to swing the pip around his head. He felt a little silly, as if he were a pretend cowboy swinging a lasso at a rodeo, but he kept on going anyway.

“Now faster,” ordered Helen.

Neville swung the pip around faster. It began to make a soft whooshing sound as it spun around his head.

“Faster!”

The pip was really racing around Neville’s head now. The whooshing was beginning to get louder and he could feel the strain on his arm as the pip pulled at it.

“Even faster!”

Neville was getting dizzy as the pip hurtled around.

“As fast as you can!” cried Helen.

Neville had almost had enough of this. The pip was going so fast he couldn’t even see it, and his arm was really aching now. But just as he was about to stop, his suspicions about Helen utterly confirmed, something happened.

The grass string snapped. Freed from its restraints, the pip immediately flew away over the lawn. It crashed into one of the flower pots, smashing it into a hundred pieces.

“Oh no!” cried Neville. He raced over to the broken pot but there was nothing he could do. It was completely destroyed.

“I’m so sorry about your flower pot,” he said.

“The pot isn’t important,” said Helen. “But can you see now why I’m so worried?”

For a moment Neville still didn’t know what she meant. Then suddenly it hit him. The pip was the world and the grass string was the sun’s gravitational pull. And if the world kept on getting faster and faster, it would eventually break away from that gravitational pull and fly off into space. And if anything lay in its way? Neville looked down at the shattered flower pot, instantly realising what it represented. The first thing the world would crash into once it had escaped from its orbit.

He looked back at Helen, totally panic-stricken. She returned his gaze and nodded, resignation in her eyes. At last Neville managed to speak.

“This asteroid field is doomed!”

Want to know more? What further adventures does Neville experience? Can he possibly save the asteroid field?

Doodling available for the special price of 99c till the end of April. Just go to http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/4110

Doodling Chapter 3

2011-04-02T11:07:00.007+11:00

Taking Aim

Neville hurried away from the asteroid of the Toaster People. He looked around, scanning the other asteroids for signs of life. If one of the asteroids had been populated by humans, then surely there must be others. Not everybody that had let go of the world would want to settle in a place where a toaster was the ruling deity. All Neville had to do was find another inhabited asteroid. One occupied by people who were a little more sensible. Then, at last, he could find a home.

As Neville gazed across the great sea of celestial bodies, he couldn’t help noticing for the first time how spectacularly awesome the scene before him was. It was like a vast hanging mobile where each individual piece had been specially crafted by a different sculptor. Each asteroid had its own unique shape and glowed with its own unique hue.

But there was one asteroid in particular that caught his attention. Smaller than most of the others, it moved unpredictably across the sky. First it would flit one way. Then suddenly it would stop and veer off in a completely different direction. It was like a small dog that had lost its master and didn’t know where to start looking.

Neville was intrigued by this strange asteroid and decided to take a closer look. Approaching it was difficult. Every time he started to get close the asteroid suddenly darted off at right angles, forcing Neville to quickly brake and change direction, a difficult task in zero gravity.

Finally Neville made it to the asteroid. He reached out to grip it before it could change its trajectory again, then hauled himself aboard. He sat down for a minute, to get his bearings, and then tried to stand up.

Standing up was not a simple task. Neville felt like a surfer riding a particularly treacherous wave as he staggered and swayed to keep his balance atop the winding, twisting asteroid. He fell down and struggled back to his feet three times before he finally started to get the hang of it. Then he set off to explore this strange new place.

After walking for about a minute, Neville noticed something even odder. A bright orange beach umbrella. He approached the umbrella and saw a girl lying underneath it, on a large rock shaped somewhat like a banana lounge. She was wearing a swimming costume and a pair of dark sunglasses. Presently she spoke.

“Did you bring the sunscreen?” she asked in a fairly expressionless voice.

“No,” replied Neville.

For a second there was an awkward silence. Then she spoke again. “I guess I’d better get back into the pool then.”

“But there’s no pool here,” said Neville, somewhat perplexed by the nature of this conversation.

“There isn’t?” The girl moved her head from side to side, quickly realising the truth of Neville’s observation. “Well that’s okay. I can’t swim anyway.”

“Then why are you wearing a swimming costume?” asked Neville.

“How tall are you?” replied the girl.

“I don’t know,” said Neville, as it had been a while since he’d last measured himself.

“My uncle is tall,” said the girl.

“Oh really?” said Neville.

“His name is Ron and he has a moustache.”

“Oh.” Neville struggled for something else to say. Fortunately the girl’s thoughts had already moved on.

“Maybe I’ll go down to the newsagent. Buy myself a book.”

“But there’s no newsagent here,” protested Neville. “We’re in the middle of outer space.”

Once again the girl made that movement of her head “There isn’t? Well that’s okay. I can’t read anyway.”

“But if you can’t read, why would you want to buy a book?”

“What colour skirt do you think would go better with this swimsuit, red or green?” asked the girl.

“Red,” said Neville without even thinking.

The girl screwed up her face. “I don’t like red.”

“Well then green.”

The girl screwed her face up even more. “I don’t like green either.”

“Then why did you ask me?” exclaimed Neville who was now totally confused.

“Why did the leopard change its sheets?” asked the girl without even missing a beat.

“You mean why did the leopard change its spots,” corrected Neville.

“I don’t know. To get to the other side?”

Neville had finally had enough. “This is a particularly aimless conversation,” he said firmly.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. “This is a particularly aimless asteroid.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Throw a stone at me.”

“Do you deliberately try to not answer any of my questions?” demanded Neville.

“No I mean it,” said the girl. “Throw a stone at me.”

“But I might hurt you.”

“Just do it.”

Neville bent over and looked for a stone to throw. He chose a small pebble because he didn’t want to cause any injuries. Then he took careful aim and threw it softly at the girl. But the girl didn’t even flinch as the stone flew harmlessly away to the side.

“See,” she said.

“But I aimed that stone straight at you,” cried Neville.

“Do you understand now?” said the girl. “Nothing on this asteroid has any aim. Nothing that you say. Nothing that you do. This is the most aimless asteroid in the whole asteroid field.”

Neville looked around. The girl definitely had a point. The way the asteroid twisted and turned through the asteroid field, it seemed to have no idea where it was going to go next. It made Neville dizzy to watch. He looked back at the girl.

“Nothing on this asteroid has any aim?”

“Including me. I have no aim.”

“But surely you must have some sort of aim,” protested Neville.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Neville thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to back his argument up. “It must get terribly boring after a while.”

“Maybe it does,” replied the girl. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really seem to be that important. Not on this asteroid anyway.”

“Then I think it’s time we both got off this asteroid,” said Neville who didn’t like the idea of not having any aim. “Will you come with me?”

“Oh all right, if you insist. Just let me go and get the car keys.”

“But there’s no car here.”

The girl moved her head from side to side. “There isn’t? Well that’s okay. I can’t drive anyway.”

Neville sighed and turned away. She wasn’t going to join him. She was just going to lie around, living her little aimless life on her little aimless asteroid.

He jumped off the asteroid and watched as it zigzagged crazily away. In his heart, he knew that what the girl had said was wrong. It was important to have an aim. What was the point of living if you didn’t?

Neville decided there and then that he had better find an aim for himself. But thinking about your life direction while you’re standing in the middle of an asteroid field isn’t such an easy thing to do. The best way to work out what his aim would be was to get out into the open, so he could concentrate better.

Neville found a nice quiet spot, turned himself around so that he didn’t have to look at the asteroids any more and started to think. What would be a good aim? How could he create a fulfilling life for himself here in the middle of nothingness?

Suddenly Neville’s concentration was broken by a roar. A great whooshing roar, coming from right behind him. He turned to look and then froze in fear. The world was rushing into view again. It surged forward at a crazy speed, spinning wildly and throwing people off in all directions. And it was coming straight for him.

For a couple of seconds Neville was too terrified to move. Then he collected his wits and began to run as fast as he could. But it was no use. There was no way he could get out of the way in time. The world loomed behind him, larger and larger. He could not possibly outrun it.

Neville closed his eyes and curled himself up, preparing for the shock of impact.

Suddenly he felt a strong hand tagging at his shoulder. In a flash he was pulled out of the way, just as the world hurtled past. It came so close that Neville could see all of Africa, only millimetres from his nose. He breathed a great sigh of relief then turned to face his saviour.

It was a girl, about his age and about his height. She had medium length, slightly curly, reddish brown hair, and a serious face which softened slightly as she met his eyes.

“Phew,” she said. “That was a close one.”

Confused? Wondering what's going on? Check out Neville's previous adventures in Doodling chapter 1 and Doodling chapter 2.

Doodling available from:

Doodling Chapter 2

2011-03-26T11:06:00.006+11:00

A Toast to You

Neville felt lost and alone as he wandered slowly through the asteroid field, looking for a new place where he could settle down. All around him enormous rocks bounced and bobbed. Some were bright and colourful while others were grey and dull. Some were smooth and round while others were craggy and jagged. One had a flagpole on it...

Neville started, then looked more closely. His eyes were definitely not playing tricks on him. It really was a flagpole with a small makeshift flag on the top, fluttering gently in the solar breeze.

A flagpole on an asteroid! Was it possible? Could this mean what he hoped it would mean? Were there actually other people out here in the asteroid field?

Neville quickened his pace, heading towards the asteroid with the flagpole. The asteroid was a little bigger than his earlier preference and it was moving a little faster than he would have liked, but when you’re out on your own in the middle of deep space you really can’t be too picky. Besides, the possibility that there were other people out here, other cast-offs from a world that had left them behind, was too exciting to ignore.

Neville reached the asteroid and climbed on. Its surface was rough and rocky, save for one large space, about fifty metres square. Neville’s heart leapt with joy as he walked onto this space. It had been cleared and flattened out into a sort of plaza, a sure sign of human habitation. The flagpole stood at the far side of the plaza. The flag on the top displayed some sort of silver symbol, roughly rectangular in shape, with two parallel black lines across the top.

As Neville stared at the flag, trying to figure out what the strange symbol represented, he noticed a small group of people coming towards him. They stopped about ten metres away and one of the men, who was obviously the leader, peeled off and approached Neville.

“Greetings friend,” said the man, his hand extended in greeting. “I would like to welcome you to our humble home.”

“Thank you,” replied Neville. “It’s nice to meet all of you.” He smiled broadly at the rest of the people but none of them said a word. Instead they looked at him intently. Neville felt a strange feeling of expectation, as if these people were waiting for him to say something.

“We, like you, are refugees from the world,” continued the man. “We, like you, could no longer handle the pace and the pressure. We, like you, have made the decision to escape the madness and to find here, on our asteroid, a far simpler lifestyle. A lifestyle you are more than welcome to join us in.”

“That’s awfully friendly of you,” said Neville. He looked again at the other people. They stared back at him. Even the leader was now staring at him, a rigid smile fixed to his face. The tension was unbelievable. Neville sensed that these people were looking for some sort of signal, perhaps a message in something he said, but he couldn’t imagine what it could be.

Finally the frustration became too much for the leader of the group. He dropped his smile and looked down at the ground for a second. When he spoke his voice was soft, quavering with nerves.

“I don’t suppose you brought a toaster.”

Neville shook his head.

There was a collective sigh from the group. Suddenly all of the tension had dissipated, to be replaced by an overpowering feeling of disappointment. The other people quickly dispersed leaving Neville, standing beside their leader, feeling somewhat let down.

“I apologise if our reception seems a bit, ungrateful,” said the man. “It’s just that we don’t have any toasters here and, well, we could all really do with a nice hot piece of toast.”

“I’m sorry,” said Neville. “I didn’t think to bring one. It all happened so suddenly.”

“That’s all right, you weren’t to know. None of us thought about it when we let go either. Still, we live in hope that someday, somehow, someone will come to us with a toaster, and then we can once again enjoy our breakfast in a civilised fashion. Till then, why don’t you let me show you around.”

Neville thanked the man and began to follow him away from the flattened square. As the man disappeared amongst the rocks at the edge of the square, Neville took one last look up at the flag. Suddenly he realised what it was supposed to be. Although poorly drawn, it was definitely meant to be some sort of stylised representation of a toaster.

Away from the square, the surface of the asteroid was a labyrinth of weirdly sculpted rock. Neville followed the man along a winding passageway, passing a series of holes carved into the high stone towers. Inside the holes the shapes of people could be made out, setting up homes in this amazing new world. Presently the man led Neville to a particularly large hole, a great open door in the rock, and motioned for him to enter. Neville paused for a moment, perturbed somewhat by the strange high pitched chanting he could hear coming from inside the rock. Then, as the man assured him there was nothing to fear, he walked through the door.

Neville found himself in a large cave. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that he was not alone. All around him people crouched on the ground, as if at worship. In front stood a man wearing ceremonial garb, holding a book and chanting and wailing in some sort of indecipherable language. Every so often the chanting would reach a crescendo and the people would leap up off the ground. Then they would crouch back down on the floor again.

The man from the plaza was standing next to Neville. “Welcome to our temple,” he said.

“Who is the man up the front?” asked Neville.

“He is our high priest,” replied the man.

“Why?” asked Neville. “What’s so special about him?”

“He brought to us the Holy Book.” The man indicated the book the priest was reading from.

“The Holy Book? What sort of Holy Book?”

“Do not question. Just listen. Let the wonder of the words enter your soul and fill you with life.”

“But I can’t understand what he’s saying.”

“Listen. Listen hard.”

Neville listened hard and found he was able to understand what the priest was chanting.

“…adjust thermostat if necessary to attain desired degree of darkness. For rye and raisin toast, a lighter setting may be required.”

He squinted his eyes and was just able to make out the title of the Holy Book.

Operating Instructions for the A367 Toasterama.

“Your Holy Book is the instruction manual for a toaster?” cried Neville in disbelief.

“It was in his pocket when he let go of the world,” said the main reverently. “He can’t explain why he had it there but we regard it as a sacred sign.”

Suddenly Neville realised what the people in the room were doing, why they were crouching down and then leaping up. They were toast. This whole ceremony was some sort of ritual imitating the making of toast.

Neville turned on his tail and walked quickly out of the cave. This was as much as he needed to know.

The man from the square hurried after Neville. “Where are you going?” he cried.

“I’m leaving,” retorted Neville.

“But you only just got here.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life living in a world where people worship toasters.” Neville reached the flattened plaza. He hurried to the edge and climbed off the asteroid. The voice of the man followed after him as he made his way back into the asteroid field.

“But you don’t understand. Our prophecy tells us that some day a toaster will come, and on that day we can all sit and eat toast and jam and crumpets and steaming hot muffins and…”

Neville suppressed a laugh as the man’s voice faded into the distance. Their prophecy was clearly ridiculous. If anyone was desperate enough to make the decision to let go of the world, the last thing on their mind would be what kitchen implements to bring along. Besides, even if someone did bring a toaster, what use would it be? They didn’t have anywhere to plug it in.

As Neville set off again, he suddenly heard a loud whooshing sound. It was the world spinning past again, now moving even faster than when he had let go. If Neville looked closely he could actually see the people on its surface running to keep up. And even as he watched, a number of people let go and were left lying in its wake. Some of them instantly leapt up and chased after the world. A couple even caught up and grabbed hold again. The others gradually got their bearings and began to wander into the asteroid field. Most of them made a direct line for the asteroid with the large flag flying.

Maybe, just maybe, the prophecy of the Toaster People was about to be fulfilled.

Wondering how Neville got out here in the first place - check out Doodling chapter 1.

Doodling available from:

Doodling Chapter 1

2011-03-19T12:37:00.004+11:00

Falling Off

Neville Lansdowne fell off the world.

Actually he did not so much fall off as let go. The world had been moving so quickly lately and Neville was finding it almost impossible to keep up.

It hadn’t always been that way. There had been a time when keeping up was not a problem. A time when the world was moving at a nice, leisurely speed and a gentle walk had been sufficient. But then the world began to get faster. Suddenly Neville found himself jogging, and then running. His cheeks became flushed and his lungs panted and puffed as they struggled to get the air he needed to maintain his pace.

Still faster and faster the world went. Neville’s life was a dash, a hundred metre sprint. There was no way he could keep this going. As his legs turned to jelly and collapsed under him, Neville grasped in desperation for something to hold on to. A tree, a stick, a small crack in the footpath. He dug his fingernails in and gripped tightly as the world dragged him along, his hair flying wildly behind him and his legs kicking loosely at the air. His whole body strained and tears began to well in his eyes as the wind rushed against his face.

Slowly, surely, he could feel his grip loosening, could sense the strength departing from his fingers. He couldn’t hold on much longer. Any second now and the strain would be too much. His arms would break. His fingers would be ripped off. His whole body would snap into two. The pain was unbearable. Something had to give.

Neville let go.

For a couple of seconds he lay, breathing slowly. Letting the strength flow back into his body. Waiting for the feeling to return to his arms. Then he looked up and saw the world spinning away, disappearing into the darkness of space. Neville was seized with panic. He leapt up and began chasing after the world. Trying to catch up with it again so he could get back on board. But he was too slow. Soon the world was nothing but a tiny dot, no bigger than a golf ball.

Neville stopped and watched as the world diminished into a pinhole of blue and then vanished. He was alone. All around him was nothingness. Neville shivered. He wasn’t used to such quiet. It felt strange and slightly unnerving. What could it mean? How should he feel? What was he to do?

Neville looked around. High above, the lights of the stars twinkled. To his left, a comet flashed past. To his right, a sudden blaze of brightness flared, a distant supernova. It was a beautiful sight. An everlasting silent night.

Suddenly Neville was overcome by a feeling of peace. No more desperately rushing to keep up. No more frantically clinging on for dear life. Neville didn’t need the world anymore. He was free.

He looked around and noticed a stream of lights gliding past. Asteroids, some glowing like small planets, others seemingly no bigger than a teapot. Suddenly Neville had an idea. He would find himself an asteroid and make it his home. One that was not too big or too small, just comfortable. Then he could start again, from scratch. He would fashion for himself a new world. A world that worked exactly the way he wanted it to. And then, at last, he could get down to the important business of just being Neville.

Neville scanned the asteroid field, carefully trying to discern which would be the best asteroid to choose. Many of them rushed past like speeding racehorses in an intergalactic derby. Neville didn’t want an asteroid that moved fast. He wanted a slow one. One that gave him time to do all the things he wanted to do. Finally he spotted the right one. It looked to be about the size of a large house and it dawdled sluggishly across the sky like a lazy, sleepwalking pony.

Neville walked quickly towards the asteroid and climbed aboard. It was perfect. Maybe slightly bigger than it had appeared from a distance, but not by too much. There was enough space to play a football match but no risk of having to run too far to get the ball. It might have been cold and rocky and barren, but after the helter and skelter of his previous life Neville found it strangely appealing. This was just the place to start creating his new world.

First things first. Neville would need a country and countries need borders. Using his heel, he marked out a series of lines on the dusty surface. A couple of straight lines on one side and a couple of twisty, windy lines on the other. When he was finished, the lines enclosed a space about eighty metres by fifty metres. Outside the lines was foreign territory, distant and unknown. But inside the lines was Neville’s country, the place he was proud to call his new home.

Now onto the next thing. Everyone knows that countries need a name. Neville decided to call his country Bolivia. It was a place he’d always wanted to visit. Now he could finally say that he had.

Having achieved so much in barely a couple of minutes, Neville sat down to consider his position. Here he was, the ruler of his own country. He could do anything he wanted. So what should he do next? Neville thought about all the other things a country needed to have. A capital, a language, a flag. A culture, an economy, a national tree. It seemed like there were an awful lot of decisions he was going to have to make.

Suddenly Neville felt hopelessly out of his depth. This was not how it was meant to be. He didn’t want to have to take all of this responsibility. He wanted to be an average guy, to stand back and let somebody else make the big decisions. He was happy to be one of the ruled, not one of the rulers.

Neville knew what he had to do. His country needed a leader, and in this brave new democratic world there was only one way to properly select one. Have an election.

Neville cast a secret ballot, carefully tallied the result and then loudly announced that the new President of Bolivia was the large rock twenty-seven metres to his left. Neville pledged allegiance to the rock and then left it to get on with the difficult matter of running the country while he began creating his new future.

His new future lasted exactly thirty-seven seconds. President Rock? It lacked a certain something. Neville couldn’t see it doing any of the things presidents are supposed to do. Attending functions or making speeches. Organising policy at both a national and international level. As a head of state, his rock was sadly inadequate.

At that moment, Neville came to a sad realisation. Much as he’d come to love Bolivia and feel comfortable and welcome there, he knew that it was never going to be the sort of world he had hoped it could be. It was time to move on.

After saying a fond farewell to the President, Neville climbed off the asteroid and trudged away into the inky blackness of the universe. In search of a better place for a Neville. In search of somewhere to call his home.

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