The Business of Death

The Business of Death is finally available in its own e-volume – ie not as part of the omnibus. While the omnibus still works out as better value, it is a rather pretty thing. Here’s the cover. I love the colour and the comet.Business of DeathSo, only three and bit years after it was released you can now buy it as an e-book. I’d have loved to have seen this on the shelves, but then again, I was so lucky to see the omnibus edition – and a truly different take on the cover (which I adore).

And the next Death Works book is coming along nicely, it’s much bigger than 4, definitely a novel (though a short one), and it’ll swing us around to the end of the third sequence – which may also be rather novely too. Oh, and I’ll be writing a sort of prologuish story for this one, too, IN THIRD PERSON AND PAST TENSE NO LESS!

I can’t wait for you all to read this new one, I think it’s a lot cheerier than the last two, and it’s filled with added new characters – who I very much have enjoyed hanging with. This world has been a part of my life for over half a decade now, and I get the feeling it will be for a while yet.

The thing about Death and Mortmax, and Steve and Lissa and Wal and Tim and Mr D and James and Anthony and Bernice (yes, see, new characters) is that they give me a hell* of a lot of room to explore pretty much whatever I want to (wait until I finally get to the knotworkers). And I get to write about my home town. Makes writing a damn fun thing indeed.

Oh and you can buy this old/new edition here for kobo

and here for amazon.com and amazon.com.au

If you’ve already bought the omnibus edition that is plenty. If you’ve bought any edition and liked it, please put up a review on the retailer’s site of your choosing. Writer’s love reviews, they help sell books.

 

*no pun intended – OK, sort of intended.

 

 

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THE BWF AND OMG

I just realised that it’s a week out from the BWF, and I haven’t mentioned it here.

Firstly, I’ll get to hang out and chat at school event with Sean Williams, one of my favourite writers and a bloke who I rarely get to catch up with, on account of this big continent we live in, and being on opposite ends of it.

I’ll be moderating a panel with Isobelle Carmody, Laini Taylor, and K.A. Barker

Fri, Sept 5, 5-6 pm FANTASY: THIS WORLD & THE NEXT panel
Laini Taylor, Isobelle Carmody & Kirilee Baker talk with Trent Jamieson about diving into fantastical other worlds, and bringing some of the magical to this Muggle one

There’s a link to the booking page here.

Honestly, I get to moderate the best panels!

 

Oh, and I now have a dysfunctional draft of the next Death Works. Draft as in drafty for sure. But it’s looking good, and it’s looking more novelish than the last one (ie longer, by the time I send this one off it should be a good ten to twenty thousand words longer than the last – unless I do some serious cutting). More news as it progresses.

I’ve lifted my hours at Avid to four days a week, and I must say, that working and writing in tandem really suits me these days – Routine, people! I’ve always written in the spaces between work and play. It’s nice to be back there, after the last year (when, hey, I still managed to write a book) of not so much focus, and all too much family illness. Also nice to be able to pay bills.

Anyway.

Here are my two offices. IMG_4488That’s the home one – one desk for scribbling, one desk for tapping.

IMG_4362This one is the bus to work. I can write anywhere, particularly after coffee.

 

IMG_4396And this is Ernie and Ziggy fighting over a sock. Believe me, there was no winner here.

So, there you go.

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Death Works 5 – Carnival of Death is getting all Carnivally.

Hey, I know the last Death Works story came out in February, but I promise that the next will be finished soon. Might be a while until it’s out – and the lovely folk at Momentum might hate it – but I promise it will be worth the wait. I’ve finally found my rhythm with this story, and, yes, it will be longer. And, there will be a little intro story that goes with it – think the Thing meets It.

If you haven’t read the last Death Works story, there’s a link to the right where you can buy it in whatever format you wish – except the Trent reads it to you while you lie in bed format (That costs extra).

The new one has killer clowns, a vast cosmic circus, conspiracy theories, and a deeper exploration of the new arc, which this is kind of nudging into the middle of. I’ve written about 300,000 words all up of Steve and Lissa’s story, and I reckon I have around another 200,000 (ish) words to go. I love these guys and I want to tell their story until the bitter(sweet) end, and, as long as I don’t get hit by a truck, I reckon I will.

Also, if you’re interested in a taste I do have an author page on Facebook.

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On Acknowledging the Good

I reckon one of the most important things you can do is acknowledge the good. The world is kinda shit, actually it can be terrifyingly horrible. I’ve been lucky. I was born here and now, and I have friends and family that love and support me. I have a job at a bookshop where I get to talk about books, and get exercise – lugging boxes of books around is good for the bones.

I have a new book coming out in 2015 (Day Boy, but, of course you knew that), and I’m working on a new Death Works story: Number 5 called the Carnival of Death. I get time to write, I am not always tired, and I can say what I want. I even get people telling me that they like my fiction (which is always a wonder, and is always appreciated – thank you lovely people who like my stories).

Life is pretty good. Sure there’s not so good stuff, but that’s the same for everyone, and it is always liable to change. But I think if you acknowledge the good, what you have not what you don’t, those you love, and those who love you back, well it can only make you value it more. Not jealously, but appreciatively, happily. Life isn’t a dragon’s hoard, it’s a finite series of pleasures and delights and losses and tears – even the bad stuff is finite.

And in acknowledging the good, you can more compassionately regard those who are less fortunate (and it is merely fortune that lands us where we are, even if it is the fortune to work hard, and earn what we have, the fortune to be free of disease, or to possess intellect and ambition, to not be broken by the world, to be able to argue your point of view). It also allows us to value our lives and the lives of others, to realise that we have strength and joy and moments of the sublime.

And, in the valuing, it is harder for these things to be taken away, and it is easier for these things to be shared.

Acknowledge the good, share it with others, and be wary of those that would take it away.

Don’t know if that has much to do with writing, and it certainly isn’t original. But, still, it’s something worth remembering.

Right now, it’s raining, and my old dog Ernie is snuffling behind me, and life is pretty good. Time for a nap.

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This is The City that I Love: Part One

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10 Rather Arbitrary Rules for Writing

So, yes, I’ve finally finished the new draft of Day Boy, and in the gap between edits I’m working on the next Death Works novella (which looks like it will be twice as long as the last, but we’ll see). Hey have you bought the last one yet? I’m talking to you person in the back row? You can buy it here, for about the price of a coffee – and it will last longer, unless it’s one of those really big mugs, but they never taste as good as a cup (am I right?)

Anyway, here are my rather arbitrary, and somewhat insufficient rules for writing.

 

1. Be Crazy.

Seriously, tap into your crazy. The part of you that is different to everyone else. Writing’s an exercise in empathy, but it’s also an expression of individuality, and as individuals we’re all pretty odd.

2.Start at the End.

Obviously if you start at the end, then the end is the beginning, and so there is no end, and this arbitrary statement implodes in a cloud of logic.

3.Do the Good Stuff first.

See 2. Obviously the ending is the best bit. Write the stuff that fascinates you first. Those bits are the density of a story, and it’s what the rest of the stuff (the connective tissue) will clump around. Our bones are interesting; flesh is just kind of gross unless it’s wrapped around them.

4.Write like no one gives a shit.

Seriously, no one does. Say this three times. Enjoy the liberation it brings and write.

5.Write every day except when you don’t, and never feel guilty about not writing.

We’re all big bags of guilt anyway, why make writing a source of guilt for you.

 

6.Read.

Fucking obvious. Read lots.

 

7.Capture a Star.

I don’t know, it just sounded good. You tell me what it means, you’re all writers – or masochists (which is another term for writer).

 

8.Engage all Engines.

Throw yourself into your writing, climb to the top of your word mound, and roll down it. Crazy is energetic. It’s the churn that binds everything together.

 

9. Shut up.

Give yourself to the quiet*, and try and write from there. It’s better than alcohol.

 

10.Be Cunning.

Remember writing is a game: play it like you don’t intend to lose.

 

11. Rules about writing are kind of crap.

Make up your own rules.

No, you make up your own rules.

Don’t tell me what to do.

 

*I write listening to music, but it creates a quiet place in my skull.

 

And here’s a picture of my new Tat. Yes, I love Tolkien – it’s not like that’s a surprise. Beat that CGI Smaug!

IMG_2207

 

 

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On Writing A Series: Endings.

I read a really interesting review of Memory of Death over at certain review place (I know, I really shouldn’t, never good for the ego, because all we want is the LOVE), and like all reviews, whether they liked or hated the story, (beyond the simple – this sux, type) it was utterly correct. For the reader the Death Works stories finished with book three, they loved the ending, and thought that that is where it should end. I agree totally.

The moment I publish a story (after it’s edited, poked at, prodded, questioned, and my many punctuational faux pas corrected – any that are missed are MY fault!) it belongs to the readers. They’re free to build the rest of the story: they have to. Beyond the basic economics of it, what it boils down to is no reader, no story.

The story ends for each reader where they decide to end it. The fact that someone loved my first series enough to put this one away makes my heart swell (and break) a little. The fact that they feel they can talk about it, or address it, or argue with it, is the most awesome thing in the world for a writer.

Writing is an act of love for me. I doubt I will ever make a serious living out of it, but I scramble for time and space to make these stories, because I love doing it. Each one marks out a little more of the territory of my mind and my heart, and each is an invitation for reader-engagement with my absolute understanding that engagement will truncated at some point, that the reader ultimately chooses the ending.

I find that thrilling.

The first series split readers down the middle. Those that loved the ending or those that hated it (I think endings are important, I think they’re the thread that runs through a book – ok, maybe I’m stating the obvious).

I’m curious to see how people respond to this next arc. I like my twists, I like them big (sometimes ridiculously so) in this series, and I kind of like to think I’m heading in an at least slightly unexpected direction.

When I started the first book, seriously started it(I don’t count those missteps that took me several years of stumbling) I had a definite ending in mind (it’s written in one of the black notebooks behind me – no peeking!).

That ending flows through all of these stories, I’ve written it, I know where it is going. One day you might join me there, and we can look back and laugh, or frown. But this ends where you end it; I merely scribble it down. Everything after (if I am lucky or skilled enough) is a blessing or a curse from you, and both are an honour.

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PS I am still a little feverish, hope this makes sense. (Hmm, maybe that should be the title of this webpage).

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The Memory of Death

One of the important things not to do when a new story or book is being released is to get very sick. Otherwise the release sort of passes you by. So, here I am clammy with the last of a fever (well, it better be the last) and a new Death Works tale out. I’ve also been interviewed over at the Qwillery (thanks Sally!).

There should be more Death Works stuff presently. As I’ve said before (and hinted at here) last year was a bit of train wreck for various family health reasons, but what it did do was provide the seeds for a lot of writing that is to come. Whatever doesn’t kill you, right?

Thanks again to all the people that pushed and poked and prodded more Death Works stuff into being, and to those that have already bought the new one. These stories are meant to be fun (a dark, messy sort of fun, but fun none-the-less) I’m so glad that others feel the same way about them.

Now, I’m about to fall off this chair, but, new Death Works story: Yay!

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A Short Taste of the Memory of Death

My new publishers, Momentum, have just released the first chapter of The Memory of Death over at their website. You can read it below, but I do warn you, there are spoilers.

This scene is almost as old as the last Death Works novel. I was planning to get into it straight away, but, as they say, there’s many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip (or shit happens).

This story finally resolves things, and, if everything goes to plan, the next arc of these character’s story will extend across a few interlinked novellas. What can you expect? Well, we get a bit more of Lissa’s point of view. You’ll get a broader sense of what is going on in the world beyond pomping (wait till I get to the knot workers – I’m planning on giving those folk their own stories at some stage). It’s all dark fun wrapped up in my sense of humour. I love this world, and I love playing in it. Hopefully I’ll get to play around in it for a long while yet.

Now, here it is…

 

The Memory of Death: Death Works 4 is a novella set in Trent Jamieson’s Death Works universe. It’s available for $3.99 from 11 February 2014 where all good ebooks are sold.  

One

My head strikes the ground, hard, and I bite my cheek; taste blood, get a lungful of water and I’m jerked backwards.

I cough. Roll over, and my knees click as I stand: bone scraping bone. There’s colour. Stabbing light, lending a hangovery intensity to my headache. And then there’s something that I realise is air. Its touch is such an unfamiliar sensation. So damn soft.

I try for breath, cough and try again. And this time my lungs billow. I can breathe. Ha!

A wave knocks me forward again onto my knees, and my fingers dig into the ground. Sand. Beach. A kid laughs somewhere, or screams (laughter and screaming, I know them both, laughter and screaming, screaming and laughter), and I cough up my guts, which amounts to not much more than a thin trickle of grey spit.

I squint, now on all fours, and try to take everything in. There’s too much.

Too much light. Motion. The world’s grown big again.

Gulls wheel in the sky. Beautiful, but the daylight burns. I drop my gaze from the sky to the shore.

One parent drags a curious child away from me, the kid’s heels leaving long trails in the sand. And then the kid spits at me. You’d think something monstrous had risen from the waves – and maybe it has. I snap my eyes shut. All I can smell is the sea. My lips sting, they have cracks the size of canyons; I could slide my tongue into them, if I could move my tongue properly. I taste salt, and bile. Water strikes my shoulders, pushes me forward yet again. Last time, it dragged me away, and there’s no guarantee that it won’t change its mind.

I have to keep moving or the sea will yank me back. And I don’t want that. Not with everything in front of me.

I heave myself to my feet, open my eyes again and shade them with my wrinkled hands. Half the beach watches me like I’m some sort of cautionary tale. No one offers to help.

Why would they?

My coat, the one that once belonged to my father, is heavy against my shoulders: stiff as lead. Dad had passed the coat on to me as a boy, and how I had yearned to grow into it. I was all grown up and working as a Pomp before it really fit, and even then it never fit me well. The last time I’d worn this coat I was so much more. I was the Orcus Entire: the Hungry Death incarnate. I’d wielded the stone scythe Mog. Something I’m sure my father would never have suspected (nor dared hope) I’d achieve. Yeah, I’d not really shown much desire for an executive position at Mortmax Industries; actually I’d barely shown a desire to put in more than the minimal amount of work there. Nor would he have even begun to imagine that I’d use Mog to sever the head of his best friend, Morrigan – a man who had become a god.

I’d been on a beach then too. And afterwards I’d leant on that scythe, weary from battle, and realised that I’d won. We’d won: my Pomps and me. We’d defeated our ancient enemy, the Stirrers, and their dark god. I’d felt pretty good about it all. Hey, I’d just averted a Global Apocalypse. But it didn’t last.

When you’re Death you know nothing lasts. But I never expected to lose everything so damn quickly. That was then.

Where the hell am I? Actually, I’m not in Hell at all, unless they’ve spruced the place up an awful lot. Hell’s all red skies, a giant Moreton Bay fig and the spirits of the dead glowing blue and forlorn.

This beach isn’t the beach of that last battle. No, that was on the Gold Coast. Different time, different light. And I’d been dragged from that victory to the deep dark Hell of the Death of the Water. We’d made a deal, to save the world, and he’d been unbending in his part of it. Mog, my powers, my life: all of it gone. And the world moved on.

Where’s Lissa?

Of course she’s not here.

She wouldn’t be. She thinks I’m dead. I thought I was dead. And yet I’m standing here. Get Out of Hell Free. Except no one gets out of hell free.

I’d learnt that the hard way when I’d performed an Orpheus Manoeuvre, with the help of Charon, and brought Lissa back from the dead. It was almost our first date. Lissa had returned the favour. I’m sure no one has done that to me this time. My memories were of death, but nothing after. And now, this too-bright beach, I focus on my boots, the leather as cracked as my lips, but at least they don’t sear my eyes.

I stumble towards the shore, a few more shuffles, and pause. I get the feeling if I take another step, I’ll cross some threshold. The world seems to stop. Holds its breath with me. The water’s white around my boots.

‘Mr de Selby?’

I look up. A guy in a cheap grey suit, lips a thin slash across his face. Nose broken more than once. He’s dry, a metre from the foamy dregs of the waves, holding a towel over one arm. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be dry, and clean, and not crusted in salt.

‘Yes, yes.’ The words come thickly from a mouth still remembering how to shape them.

‘If you could just take a couple of steps forward, sir. Out of the water. I can’t help you, unless you get out of the water. I’ve no jurisdiction there.’

I blink.

He frowns. ‘The water, Mr de Selby.’

He’s right. I can’t stay here forever, and I’m not going back.

I take a few unsteady steps towards him. The waves suck at my boots.

There are too many gaps in my mind. Holes you could drive a ute through, while it’s doing donuts, wheels throwing up stinking smoke and further obscuring everything.

Then I’m out of the water, onto wet sand. A wave hisses away behind me. I half imagine I hear it call my name.

‘Close enough,’ the man says, yanking the coat from me; it drops to the beach with a slap, and I feel about ten kilos lighter. He drapes the towel over my shoulders. The humanity of that movement, the touch of another hand, makes me cry: a single sob that threatens to build to a weeping.

Until he presses the gun into my spine.

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Terror

This was a birthday gift, and performance piece, for a friend. Sums up a lot of the way I think about certain things, so, here it is.

 

TERROR

 

I don’t write horror stories. I can’t.

I’ve always wanted to scare people, but I don’t have it in me.

Terror is the purest emotion; the most honest. Terror is behind all those other feelings. Pushes them along like some shopping trolley with a wonky wheel down an endless supermarket aisle, the trolley wheel’s creaking, going faster and faster, and none of it counts for shit, because Terror is pushing, and the contents of that trolley in the flat fluorescent lighting of the great supermarket of the Universe look pretty cheap.

Love, Joy, Hope, and all the others rattle around behind the rusty bars of the trolley like lolly packets and cans of supermarket brand cola.

You know it’s true.

We all do.

 

It’s why Lovecraft is the greatest writer of the twentieth century. Even though he wasn’t that good, he knew what terror was. Terror is at the heart of it all. Everything else is just the shadow thrown by terror. And that’s the honest to god truth: if there is a god.

And if there is a god, it’s terror.

If there is a god, it’s the phone call in the middle of the night, the crushing weight of things that we can’t cope with: little, big, insignificant, vast. It’s the darkness, not even bothering to creep, because it doesn’t have to, because it’s already in you. Because you love it, because even when you’re fleeing from it, laughing in some sort of fucking chimpanzee fear response, snot running down your face, teeth clenched. You want it to catch you, because at least then, the worst is over.

But it doesn’t need to catch you. You’re already caught.

 

Terror is the door unopened.

 

Terror is the hallway before it is filled with monsters. The thing that creeps unseen. We never see it, we only see its echo and it is ALWAYS disappointing.

 

We breathe in terror, we only see folly.

 

Fucked if I can pull off terror

 

SOMETIMES

 

Sometimes I wake up in the almost quiet of the suburb in which I live, and I pull on my face. And I laugh.

 

Sometimes I get to work really early, and I wait in the dark.

 

Sometimes I walk alone in the woods near our place. Then I am not alone. Then I am alone again.

 

 

Sometimes I drive in circles; big, and then little circles. Until I find what I am looking for.

 

Sometimes all I can hear is the beating of my heart. I don’t hear your heart beating. I don’t know if it does.

 

EVERY TIME

 

Every time you breathe it’s practice for the last breath.

 

Every time you walk down a long hallway, you do it without irony. Irony is no protection. Irony is an illusion. Hallways are irony proof. Something’s waiting at the end of every one.

 

Every time it’s just the cat, you know that one time it won’t be.

 

Every time you open a door, it’s practice for the last door. And every door opened is a disappointment. There’s no terror there, until there is.

 

Every time you hear a sound it’s practice for the last sound.

 

What will that sound be?

 

 

 

 

 

A CAMPFIRE TALE

 

Look into a fire. Look at it, at the heart of all that flame, at the embers. Now turn around.

 

 

 

What do you see?

 

That’s why monsters like campfires.

Fire illuminates nothing but terror. They are nothing but an illusion, cooking your face while your back freezes.

But they help.

Illusion helps.

 

Get me a drink.

That helps, too.

 

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