NEVER READING AGAIN TBH

Yep.

That’s what readers always say after finishing an amazing book. Trufact.

You know that’s not true. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. Every time I finish a book that made me happy, I go hunt down all the writer’s other titles, stalk them to find out what books they’re reading*, and look for recs for similar titles.

Because here’s the big truth: OTHER WRITERS ARE NOT THE ENEMY. So That Writer You Vaguely Know Online sold 60 000 books and you sold 6? She’s not the reason your book tanked.

Reading an amazing book and then keeping quiet about it in case she/he gets more sales while you cry into your cereal-spattered dressing-gown is not the solution. Tell people about the books you enjoyed, and be supportive of other writers in the industry. This doesn’t mean promoting books you think were great steaming piles of dung in the hopes that the author will promote you back. Inauthenticity is lame. I can smell it on you like the stink of yesterday’s vodka tears.

Be genuinely enthusiastic and supportive of work you think is good. Because I find it hard to believe that by supporting other writers you are somehow “losing” readers to them. Readers are voracious. You should know – you are one.

* Hush. I can’t be the only one who does this.

seven hundred and fifty reasons to join

Yesterday on twitter I decided to resurrect the old 750 words a day practice so I would stop slacking with this novel.

I first came across it on LJ a few years back, when Elizabeth Bear had an lj comm where people would track their goals and encourage each other. I don’t even know if that comm still functions, and if it does, I felt it would be a little weird to just barrel in there now.

Instead I was going to track on twitter and the goal was really to get people to join in, to foster that camaraderie and community that comes with sharing our goals and applauding the efforts of others, but then…poor twitterfeed. Hahaha.

So I’ve decided to make a small bare-bones forum where people can track their progress with their 750 words a day, and get imaginary gin after.

it’s here: sevenfifty. if you’d like to join in. I’m looking forward to it.

two-tone shoes

I’m working on two tonally very different books at the moment, which makes dreaming weird. The stories keep folding into each other in the small hours and I’m left wondering about curiosities and art and clockwork and charm.

The one book is a young adult urban fantasy. I guess. I mean, it doesn’t have vampires or angels or fairies in it. It does have a (maybe) dead man in a leather trench-coat and a girl with serious issues in the crush-department. Also, rats. Lots of rats. And the other is adult set in a secondary world, and much more traditional fantasy, whatever that means. (It means it has dragons, I suppose.)

I find it easier to work on the YA in the morning when I’m feeling bitter and filled with hate for the world. Angry Cat likes to lash out. In the afternoon, once the coffee has soothed me, I can tackle the more intricate world of the other book.

It’s kind interesting seeing how my mood affects what I’m working on.

 

So the morning voice:

 

Rain sits close, and leans back on the palms of his hands, relaxed. “Sit, he won’t bite you,” he says.

“I’ll start at the beginning,” Caleb says.

Well, I guess we have time enough. “What’s that – Genesis?”

“I have the art,” he says, simply. Like I’m supposed to know what that means.

“Great,” I say. “Good for you.”

“There are very few of us who can use the art and charm people and things with magic and music.” His face is very serious. “And not all of us are nice.”

“Tell me about it.” I hope my sarcasm is showing because, really.

“Some of us are dangerous.” He sighs, leans back. “All you need to know is that one of those dangerous and not-nice people is in Joburg right now, and that’s why I’m here. He has something I want. I was in Egypt when I heard the rumour that he had risen here again and that he was looking for someone, and I came down. For a while, I had his scent, and then I lost it.”

“What happened?” The room feels unreal.

Caleb shifts, the smoke clouding around him, obscuring his face. “The most prosaic of endings,” he says. “I’d been back here a week when I was hit by a taxi.”

It was him. He surprises a choked laugh out of me. “I thought you have this art thing; couldn’t use it to step out of the way of a hurtling mini-bus?”

He draws on his cig and says nothing.

“So you were dead,” I prompt. Under my shirt, the icy pendant seems to be sinking right into my skin, burning a cold hole all the way to my breastbone. “That must have put a damper on your plans. What are you now – a zombie? Let me guess, you ate Rain’s brains and now he’s a zombie too. Except,” I glare at Rain, “slim pickings.”

Rain just flicks his middle finger at me, lazy, unconcerned.

And the afternoon voice:

“I cannot rule you with a name like Tet-Nanak,” she says sourly, “and you know it.”

“And I have no name to give you in exchange for my soul.”

“Then we have no bargain.” She drops her hand and turns to look at me. Her eyes are slanted and large, her eyebrows like the wings of birds. Her nose is long and narrow. She is a handsome woman despite the pale skin.

“Then I will die.” I’m desperate. She must give me my soul back. All she can do with it is torture me to a slow nameless death. Perhaps she is petty enough to think that fitting. “I cannot tell you my name, but I can promise to help you retrieve the breastplate Shoom is paying you for.”

“You think you know everything, Tet-Nanak,” she says softly, and her breath is cold and her hair is fragrant as seven-petals. “You would be wrong.”

“Give me my soul.” It is close enough to grab, and casting all instinct aside, I reach up and close my hand around it, willing the magic out from the stone and back into me.

Kani laughs and catches my wrist with her right hand. It is very cold and hard, and she crushes my grip easily, She is stronger than I could ever have realised. “It will not work until it rests around your own neck.” I can’t see the wards on her skin, not now, but I can feel myself being shifted back, pushed away. She lets go of my hand and uses her magic to send me backward.

“Please,” I say, broken. I will beg, if I have to. I have no pride left, just the empty prospect of my approaching end.

Kani turns to hold the fur at Nanak’s neck, and swings herself back onto her mount. “I’ll think about it,” and for a moment her voice is not the haughty, throaty voice of the princess. Pal-em-Rasha’s market accent flickers below it like a fish in a muddy stream. She is losing her grip on her fiction as she spreads out her magic to keep me away from her.

Actually, now they feel more similar… hahaha who knows.

 

 

Confusion is confusion.

I’m pretty much always working on something, so to clear up confusion:

 

House of Sand and Secrets is a sort-of sequel to When the Sea is Rising Red. That’s coming out soon(ish)

Beastkeeper is a middle grade fantasy, coming out near the end of 2014 (I believe)

Charm is an urban fantasy YA, doing revisions for my agent.

Three Dog Dreaming is an adult stand-alone fantasy – I’m 3/4 of the way through the first draft.

Ghost Song is an urban second-world fantasy YA, also about 3/4 through.

Nulled and Void is a stand-alone secondary world fantasy for adults. In revisions for my agent.

There’s another book on sub, so no talking about that.

 

Um…

 

there you have it?

 

A conversation between mages

Because I hit my goal today, and I’m 3/4 through the first draft of Three Dog Dreaming:

Dozha is sitting on the overhang of the roof, legs swinging gently. In the false-day he should be easy to see, but he is blurry, wavery as a daydream. He pushes off from the ledge with his arm and lands in a neat cat crouch before he stands to grin at me. “You’re looking less pathetic these days,” he says as he becomes clearer. “Sektet Am.”

I shrug. “So you know my name. Does the Underpalace also employ a network of spies?”

He laughs brightly, the sound clear in the flame-lit night. “The Underpalace is the network of spies. So far you’ve pretended – rather badly – to be a beggar musician and one-time soldier, rented an attic room from a widow who sometimes feels she ought to have designs on you, but then changes her mind because she thinks you may be mad. You have played songs never sung in the upper world of Pal-em-Rasha before, as if they were nothing more than ballads and lullabies, spoken as a prophet, and burned down a temple.” He looks to the horizon. “And possibly a good quarter of the city. My people were perhaps a little too enthusiastic about that commission.”

“Your people.”

“Come, Am. You knew that.” He leans against the wall, and crosses his left arm over his chest. He grips the upper part of his remaining right arm, and watches me. It is the first time I have looked clearly upon him, studied his features. He is handsome, I already knew that. His eyebrows are ink sweeps, his nose long and straight. In a city like this, he is a little dark for the fashion. People here try to emulate the White Prince, and women sell creams guaranteed to lighten the skin. But he is his own prince, and he has kept his own face. “You went to all the trouble of contacting me through – Laketri, so, what do you want of me?”

“How do you know her?”

“Is that what you called me for?”

I shake my head. “Of course not.” I put my hand to my belt, then hesitate. “How much would it cost for you to steal a small stone, no bigger than a beetle, from the princess Kani?”

Dozha’s face doesn’t change. “You are not the first to have asked me to steal that,” he says after a while. “And now as then, I can only say I cannot.”

“Can not – or will not? Shoom says that you wouldn’t because she’s too well-warded.” I look into his eyes, so dark that they reflect the far-away light from the fires, like black pools of water. “But you have power equal to hers, of that I’m sure. I know magic, even if Shoom does not.”

“Equal?” He raises one brow. “Is that all?”

Mages and flattery, they go together like dragons and spite. “From what little I’ve seen, maybe greater.” I shake my head. “Certainly, you are powerful, and you know the way in and out of the palace. You are a prince of thieves. One little false-princess should be no match for you.”

“How do you know she’s false?”

“Because I am not an idiot.”

He laughs once. “And you think the White Prince is?”

“Not at all.” I step closer to him, close enough to smell his skin, heady as the incense that burned in the city today, the faintest whisper of musk perfume. Under that, the fragile chalk smell of seven-petal. So the boy is an addict and a dandy. I lean my face close enough that I could tear his ear off with my teeth, or whisper lover’s secrets. “I think the Princess Kani is playing a dangerous game, but that is not my problem,” I whisper, and he shivers and pulls a little away. Not as much as I would have expected. “All I want is my soul back.”

Dozha presses his cheek to mine, and when he answers I feel the coolness of his breath like a mountain breeze against my face. “I will see what I can do.” He steps back from me, our momentary intimacy broken.

“How much will I owe you?” I am hopeful for perhaps the first time since the White Prince had me incarcerated. Even if getting my soul back means all the gods will find me, at least I will not die soulless, condemned to the black eternity of nothing.

“Oh, nothing, Master Am.” Dozha raises one hand, and shows me the full leather pouch of fives and precious stones I brought with me. “You have already paid.”

Can you do the twist….

I cut my teeth on fairy tales, I devoured them, and as I grew older, those pretty enamelled surfaces started to flake away to show the iron bones and the rusted blood underneath.

Fairy tales fascinate me. Their simplicity lends them to being ripped apart and reconstructed. They speak to us in garish images, in reds and blacks and whites, in sly winks and sharpened teeth.

cinder

 I’m certain that quite a few of you grew up on Hans Christian Andersen’s stories, or the Brothers Grimm, or will have read retellings like Marissa Meyer’s Cinder, and Jackson’ Pierce’s Sisters Red.

sisters red

Some of you may have even read the wonderful and utterly disturbing collection of retellings put together by Karen Berheimer, My Mother She Killed me, My Father He Ate Me. (And if you haven’t, go read. Absolutely wonderful.)

mymother

So why exactly am I going on about fairy tale retellings? If you’re a South African between the ages of 14 and 17, I want to see your retellings. Along with the wonderful S.A. Partridge and Byron Loker, I’ll be judging the entries for Short Story Day Africa. (All details at the link.) If you know anything about me, you know I’m all for twisty and dark, so hit me with your weird, and we’re looking forward to seeing what you put together for us.

Write an original reimagined fairy tale, myth, legend or fable and you could win fantastic fiction titles from NB Publishers for yourself and your school library. Word limit between 500 – 1200 words.

Post-Franschhoek

This weekend was Franschhoek Literary Festival, and not only was it my first time at the fest, it was also the first time in Franschhoek itself, so I spent most of the time I was there saying, “Oh my god how beautiful is this place?”

I travelled with writer S.A. Partridge, photographer Warren Talmarkes, and women24‘s resident Book Diva Tammy February, which was probably the best way I could have done this inaugural toe-dipping into the SA book world. Fabulous people.

The first thing up was Thursday’s school talks with S.A. Partridge. We spoke to the matrics at Bridge House and Franschhoek High, and I gotta say – if these guys are any indication, the future is looking bright. They were friendly, funny, and asked great questions. I can only hope we entertained them a bit (or at least gave them a break from regular class-schedules.)

Because everything looks like this - the drive into our guesthouse

Because everything looks like this – the drive into our guesthouse

After that, and way, way too many coffees, we checked into the beautiful Knorhoek wine farm in Stellenbosch, where Carol made us feel very welcome. The whole place feels like home on a grander scale – fireplaces and a wall of old cameras and a fridge full of wine. We were staying in the bed and breakfast which I believe was the converted stables and blacksmith. I don’t know how thick those old buildings’ walls were, but I can say that while it was freezing outside at night, I was a Very Warm and Snuggly Cat.

this was my room that I had all to myself, be a little jealous.

this was my room that I had all to myself, be a little jealous.

That evening we drove through to join everyone at the official welcoming meet and greet thing in the town hall, then grabbed ourselves some poppers and chicken strips from the little pub in the converted train station. This weekend was awash in wine and food, so I am pretty sure I came back about five kilograms heavier. When one of the events sponsors is Porcupine Ridge (the other was Sunday Times) and knowing what happens when you put writers and vast quantities of free wine together, the weekend certainly turned out to be interesting.

Friday was rather busy (for me – I’m used to hiding in my little house in Muizenberg and not really interacting with humans), and we decided that since I had my Very First Panel Thing happening that morning, we should start the day with a brisk walk followed by a wine tasting. (This is the problem with staying on a wine farm…)

Yes. Damn those wine tastings. I was quite content to just sample, but ended up buying more wine than I normally do. Ever. I’m not even a fan of white wine, but I pretty much adored the Knorhoek Chenin Blanc. We had a moment.

On to Franschhoek and the panel. I was a little star-struck, being on a Dystopian Fiction panel with Sarah Lotz, Karen Jayes, Lauren Beukes, and Rachel Zadok, but it seemed to go well by my understanding of these things. The venue was packed, and we soon rambled off-topic so if you were there to learn something about dystopia….hah. I have no idea what I said because I was in a state of terror, and I kept feeling like I was going to burp into the microphone (weird…fear?) but luckily the seasoned pros were there being generally awesome and articulate.

LindsayCal took this pic of all the panellists:

L-R: Sarah Lotz, Karen Jayes, Lauren Beukes, Rachel Zadok, Me.

L-R: Sarah Lotz, Karen Jayes, Lauren Beukes, Rachel Zadok, Me.

The rest of the weekend might have devolved into me wandering around and gate-crashing parties, eating masses of ice-cream and chocolate, and having lunches with fantastic people, which is code for Having A Grand Old Time.  The only downside of the whole thing was that Anthony Horowitz unfortunately was very ill and had to be flown back to the UK, so I never go to meet him or hear any of his talks.

Look at me, hanging out with all the cool people. Amanda Coetzee, S.A. Partridge, Tammy Fenruary in the front, and me hanging on to a wine glass for support.

Look at me, hanging out with all the cool people. Amanda Coetzee, S.A. Partridge, Tammy February in the front, and me hanging on to a wine glass for support.

On the very last morning, the farm’s bull terrier Merlot came to give me a little farewell head-on-the-knee snuffle and grunt, and it was the perfect goodbye under the oak trees turning pink and gold in the crisp autumn air.

 

 

leaving

leaving

 

 

 

 

 

 

New SA Horror anthology coming soon.

On June the first, editor Nerine Dorman will bring the latest Bloody Parchment Anthology out of the dark, and indulge in her love of pulpy horror.

Bloody Parchment 2012 sml cover

Bloody Parchment: The Root Cellar and Other Stories brings a fresh crop of horror and dark literature from the most recent South African HorrorFest Bloody Parchment short story competition. From dreary subterranean chambers and angelic visitations to the many-legged horrors of alien invaders and a meeting with the Devil himself, this collection of tales offers readers the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the likes of Toby Bennett (winner), and runners-up Anna Reith and Chris Limb. Finalists include Diane Awerbuck, Simon Dewar, Zane Marc Gentis, Stephen Hewitt, Benjamin Knox, Lee Mather, Glen Mehn, S.A. Partridge, and Icy Sedgwick.

“You’ll be hard pressed to find a stronger anthology of horror stories this year. There’s a staggering number of original ideas and talent on display here, as well as several stand-out stories that easily hold their own against work in any genre. And most importantly, they will creep the hell out of you.” – Sarah Lotz, author

Twenty Lines

I love making lists of chapter titles; they have a weird poetry to them that makes me eager to get back to work. (In this case back to work on the final part of the revisions for House of Sand and Secrets.)

1- A Plague of Houses
2 – Bone-grinders and Butchers
3 – Glassclaw and Splinterfist
4 – Paper Marriages
5 – Studies in Oil and Ink
6 – Proposals
7 – Two Crows
8 – Pretty Collars
9 – Fire, Ash, Skin
10 – Seven-fold Futures
11 – A Small Truth
12 – The House Imaginary
13 – Silk Armour, Glass Armour
14 – Pieces in Play
15 – The Lark
16 – Pity’s Sword
17 – In the Palace of the Mata
18 – Offerings
19 – The Melancholy Raven
20 – Dogleaf

On Building a House

I don’t update this blog very often because I feel like I never have anything to say, but people do occasionally ask me for world-building posts which I never do because I’m all…uh…I dunno, it just happens.

This morning I was avoiding my actual work by mucking around with my Hobverse wiki* where I try and keep track of all the tiny pointless details of the When the Sea is Rising Red universe. Naturally, I tweeted about this because I have no life, and that prompted Dante of Doom to ask me to make him into a House.

So I did.

This is kinda an insight into how I tweak actual things to make them work in my fantasy universe. Note that this is simply how I do things, not how anyone else should, but if you see something that works for you, that’s brilliant and I’m glad.

I looked up the name Dante, and I discovered that it means firm, enduring.

First thought – tower, defence

Second thought – I can’t call the house Dante, it wouldn’t work in-universe.

Turns out Dante’s actual name was Durante, so I played with that and changed it to Derand (based on the pronunciation of Durand). House Derand is born, and I have a tower.

I tweak, I get a white tower on a blue ground. Needs something. Defence again, and magic, so I bring in a black dragon coiled on top of the tower, and since Pelimburg is where Derand would have settled, I make the bottom of the House symbol blue and white waves. So we have a tower at sea, and a dragon, and after that the motto is piss-easy. I Will Defend.

House Derand might not even make it into a Hobverse novel, but they exist and I *know* they exist, and my world-building will be richer for it.

*I use zim wiki for this and I love it.