Sneak preview: centaur futa story

Firstly, apologies for this update being behind schedule. It’s just me, I forget stuff. I need to set up a calendar, so I don’t.

But, anyway, I’ve been working on a new short — nothing related to anything else, just an idea that popped into my head, and I just had to start writing! I’ve barely planned this one, just the initial concept, and it’s more or less writing itself.

It’s a centaur futa erotica, set in a fantasy world, crossed with a Western. The Centaur With No Name, so to speak. Only, slinging swords instead of guns.

Anyway, here’s a quick peak:

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Daemon Lover 3 is out

Well, I promised last week that I would post about my new story, but a bit of housekeeping first.

I’m still getting used to the fact that this is what I do for a living now: finding my feet, getting organised, blah blah. Part of that will be establishing a routine for managing the several projects I’m running all at once. I’ve decided (today) that Wednesdays will be Weekly Update Day for this blog. I’ll even hold myself to that.

Now, new release:

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News! News! News!

Well, the first and best news I have to share is that I am now officially a professional writer!

I finally screwed my courage up, and kicked my day job to the curb. I was sitting up almost every night until midnight, then getting up again at 6am for work, and my output was still abysmal.

I can tell you, I never felt better than when I walked out of that office for the last time! Of course, the euphoria wore off a little when I realised that I am now solely responsible for my pay-check!

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Moved by Hem

I’ve been reading Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. While I’m partly enjoying it for its reminiscences of the joi de vivre of Paris at the time (as depicted so well in Midnight in Paris), I’m mostly enjoying Hemingway’s descriptions of the struggles of an aspiring writer.

I mean, okay, so I’m only a mere peddler of smut, but in the end it’s all words on a page. The struggle, to find the time, wrestling with words, paying the bills, it’s all the same in the end. It’s gratifying to see a famous writer going through many of the same issues as a lowly erotica writer.

Plus the cafes, food and wine, are just enchanting. For a more modern update on this genre, I’d highly recommend checking out cartoonist Lucy Knisely’s French Milk.

On the writing front, I’ve been plugging away at A Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar. My self-imposed deadline of August 10 is looking unlikely, but it shouldn’t be too far past that. I also have a newsletter that’s a few days late, so I’ll get that out in a day or so (I’d do it tonight, but the fambly are taking me out for a birthday dinner, so – pffft).

I’m getting my nerd on and putting together a customised Excel calendar thingy, to keep track of all my deadlines. That way, I probably still won’t keep to them, but at least I’ll feel guilty for missing them.

Just a short update

Like it says on the box, just a short update, this week.

The free promotion weekend for Wonderlust Book 1: A Game of Cat and Rabbit went well. The book made it to the top 20 of its category on Amazon. I would have been rapt to crack top 10, but – almost, if not quite.

Still, I was more than happy with the result. I hope everyone who downloaded a copy was satisfied.

I’m chipping away at Book 2 – it’s all plotted out, I’m just slogging through the actual writing. Unfortunately, my day job is taking up a heap of my time, at the moment (Homer Simpson voice: stupid day job).

I’ll post a sample soon – probably next week.

The Haunted Pool

Tasmania is steeped in folklore, ghost stories especially. So much so that Tasmania has been dubbed “Australia’s most haunted place” by one collection of ghost lore.

Perhaps it’s the cultural influence of Irish convicts and settlers, with their affinity for tale-telling and the supernatural. Maybe it’s Tasmania’s relative isolation: Television broadcasting didn’t begin in Tasmania until 1960, much later than Mainland Australia. Whatever the reason, the folk story and the ghost tale are a rich tradition in our island state.

It seems like almost every river, homestead, theatre or old building of note here has a mysterious tale attached to it. This is one I remember from way back.

Near where the local river was crossed by the main road out of town, there was a series of rocky rapids alternating with deep pools, overhung with willows and native sassafras. The picnic ground just off the road was a popular local swimming spot. The rapids made natural spa baths, and the stretch of river by the picnic ground was just deep enough, and clear enough of boulders, for swimming and diving. If you wanted more privacy, you just had to cut through the bush upstream for a few minutes to find a spot all to your own.

But downstream, just around a bend of the river, and out of sight past the bridge where the road crosses, was an wide, dark, still pool.

This was the site of the local legend.

Late in the 1800s, before the bridge was built, there was only a causeway further downstream, just above the big pool. It was the only way for carts and drays to cross the river, in those days.

One day, the legend goes, a bullock dray was carting a brand new piano across the causeway. Destined, it was said, for the grand homestead that still stands on the hill, overlooking the river. But the dray threw a wheel, keeled over, and lost its load. The piano tipped into the deep water pool, sunk out of sight, and was lost forever.

Some time after that, a girl from the homestead went down to the same deep, dark water, one moonless night. What her story was, nobody knows exactly. A daughter of the family, jilted by a lover. A serving-girl, got pregnant and unable to bear the shame. However it was, she threw herself in the river that night and drowned.

So now, local legend had it, on moonless nights, when only the stars shine on the dark water, you can sometimes hear the sound of ghostly piano music coming from under the water.

I’ve never been by that part of the river at night, myself, to test the story, but I do know one thing: no matter how hot the weather, no-one ever seemed to want to swim in that wide, deep, still pool.