I really, really want to write some more adventures for Gennara and Sharronne, the futa centaur, and I have some ideas I’ve been scribbling down. But, before I embark on any new projects, I absolutely must finish the ones currently running.
I’m currently working on the third installment of “Wonderlust”, titled “A girl for tea”. Naturally, it has the famous Mad Tea Party – only, with my special, Wonderlust twist. There is much else, besides, of course, but in the meantime, enjoy a little excerpt from the tea party.
Apologies for missing a post last week, but I spent most of last week battling the worst toothache I’ve ever had in my life.
I got an emergency dental appointment, where it turned out that I’d cracked one of my back molars pretty much all the way through the crown. So, out it came.
So, I’ve had a week of mostly guzzling painkillers, and watching TV. I binged on The Haunting of Hill House.
I’ve loved the Hill House mythos ever since watching the ’63 movie of The Haunting (I always thought the ’73 film, The Legend of Hell House was based on the same novel, but it turns out it was a separate novel, by Richard Matheson).
The Netflix series is beyond excellent. It’s incredibly spooky. The device of having multiple ghosts hidden away in the shadows and backgrounds of every episode is particularly effective: once you realise, you end up carefully watching every scene, with the effect of keeping you constantly on edge.
Episode 6, with its use of extended takes (up to 15 minutes long), was particularly impressive.
Some of the most picturesque places on this island, like Port Arthur, are haunted by the past, distant and recent. Sarah Island’s wild beauty is haunted by the memory of the time when the entrance to its harbour was named “Hell’s Gates” by the unfortunate men who knew only too well the truth of the sobriquet. There are other giveaway names dotted around the island, like Gibbet Hill.
Even the most mundane locations contain eerily jarring remnants. At a local service club, the cold storage at the back of the kitchen looks odd and archaic, for good reason: it was originally the solitary confinement cell, when the building was a local lockup. The chill lurking behind its thick oak door seems not entirely natural.
Recently, though, a whole new window onto our haunted past has begun to come to life: reminders of a time when nearly all the common folk ardently believed in spirits and witches — and took measures to guard against them.
Winter is well and truly setting in, here in Tasmania. The mornings are dark, and the grass crunches underfoot. Perfect weather for staying indoors with a warm computer.
Sadly, at the moment, journalism is taking up most of my writing time. It’s not as fun, but it helps pay the bills.
But I have just realised that I have nearly six weeks of leave time owing to me, so I’m planning on taking a week off soon, to go on a writer’s retreat. I’m hunting around, to see if anyone I know has a shack – preferably up in the mountains, and far from wi-fi signals.
But I have been working: Daemon Lover 3 is mostly finished, and Wonderlust 2 is … progressing.
I’ve also almost completed a standalone story: Taken in the Labyrinth (working title), a minotaur story. I’ve revised and edited everything, but then I realised that an entire chapter needed to be scotched and re-written. In the re-writing, it suddenly became two chapters.
But that should be done in a day or so, then it’s on to formatting and cover design, and done!
I came of age in the Punk Explosion in the late 1970s, and played my own small part – as a freelance music journalist, public radio presenter, and ‘zine publisher – in the 1980s Indie revolution. That era has a lot of parallels with, and lot to teach the modern indie publishing scene.