Where'd it go?

We're well and truly onto the fifth month already, and where has the time gone? Admittedly, I have been busy. I have a job now, working as a marketing assistant and loving it. Writing wise, the only thing I have been doing is edit several stories within the Iron Falls universe, and that's about that really. Stay tuned.

Short Story: Preludes

I'm in the process of updating my website, which is no easy feat as my web skills aren't as crash hot as some of my friends. Still, it's there and a work in progress as I continuously add new stories and so forth. The below story was on it, and thought it be fun to share. Rest assured however, my writing has improved. 

Enjoy! Civilization is a conspiracy. Modern life is the silent compact of comfortable folk to keep up pretences. John Buchan (26 August 1875 – 11 February 1940) 1 Construction of the new space habitat was well ahead of schedule, which pleased Dimitri significantly. In another year and bit, the first of the bureaucratic machine that supported United Nations operations out from London and the Hague will be moving into the Presidium—an area the construction team leader and chief architect had named, in honor of its namesake in San Francisco. The name was not lost on Dimitri, who had read that his beloved Russia had something akin to it when under Soviet rule. A little while later, there were plans for the entire United Nations Council to meet. Not long to go, he thought absently and mentally buried his thoughts in case there were telepaths eavesdropping. An aide appeared by his side. “Mr President, your ship has been prepped for launch, and the crew are standing by at your convenience,” said the aide. Dimitri nodded his thanks, dismissing the aide for the time being while he took in the sight around him. The Presidium of Duvall Space Station was meant to be a home away from home, with room being made to house a number of apartment blocks within the in-cylinder environment, and enough room for individual tenders to go ahead and build hotels, restaurants and shopping centers that could be accessed by residents and visitors alike.  Of course, the construction crews were preparing a significant area of territory outside the government center. Eventually making his way to the docking facilities on the habitat’s outer hull, Dimitri settled into his cabin and grinned approvingly when a female staffer joined him. * * * Despite many technological upgrades, a journey from midpoint orbit to Earth still took the better part of four days—more depending on increased traffic as bulk carriers and freighters returned from the Belt and beyond. The fact Dimitri was aboard a diplomatic registered spaceship meant squat to Orbital Control, and the fact he was the President of the United Nations General Assembly meant even less. If Dimitri had a sense of humor, he would have appreciated Orbital Control’s determination of ensuring that no one thought they were better than the next. The thing was, Dimitri held a high opinion of himself and his status, and the captain of the transport vessel carrying knew it. The captain also knew what happened to those who made such trips irritably long. So it was that, while the transport’s captain was arguing with Orbital Control space traffic controllers until he was blue in the face, Dimitri Tsarenko relaxed over a glass of red wine from one of Australia’s vineyards—with a female staffer seeing to his every need. But alas, even the high and mighty had to deal with bureaucratic simpletons. One such simpleton was knocking at Dimitri’s private quarters, interrupting the staffer in mid stride. Flustered, and covering himself with a robe, Dimitri looked to the door—and ignoring the fact the naked staffer was scrambling for her clothes. “Enter.” He instructed, and the airlock hissed open just the staffer was about to reach for the sheet. The intruder, a special agent in the uniform of United Nations Diplomatic Security Service, paused as he saw the staffer first and licked his lips before glancing back to Dimitri. “Mr President, apologies for this interruption,” he was saying, “But Captain Wessen has instructed me to give you this.” And here, the commander produced an e-reader. “This just came through the satellites, encryption needed.” Dimitri took the datapad, grimacing. “Origin of sender?” The special agent shrugged. “Could be from Pluto from all we know, sir,” he explained, “Comms couldn’t triangulate its source of origin, but otherwise has the necessary clearance levels.” Dimitri frowned. Due to a growing network of communication satellites being placed, getting in touch with someone anywhere was relatively easy. The United Nations Council Telecommunication Bureau was the one that insured that all communiqués going to and fro from within the many ambassadors, administrators and senior level staffers be encrypted. It allowed a certain amount of confidentiality. “Very well,” he said, dismissing the naked staff and officer without a second thought. Settling comfortably, he decrypted the e-reader and smiled when the following started scrolling down the screen: Greenwich Mean Time: January 20, 2115 Authentication Code: 5569-D0977-Green Sender: George Attachment: <<interrogation-tiang.wl6>> Subject: Peacekeeper munitions depots Lowering the electronic device, Dimitri smirked. There were certainly advantageous to being the most important person after the Secretary General of the United Nations, one being having direct access to his own passenger liner. The second being the small army of staffers and willing interns, both keen to satisfy his every whim. Of course, there were other advantages, but the Dimitri one that he valued the most was the political influence and the ability to work through middlemen and cutouts. Through them, he could events to his liking. The com pinged. It was the same agent. “Mr President, we’ll be entering Earth’s atmosphere in ten minutes.” “And then how long until we hit Cuban airspace?” A slight pause, making Dimitri frown. But not for long. “Another forty-five minutes until we reach Cuba.” Dimitri grunted acknowledgment, satisfied as he settled back into his seat. 2 Looking out the porthole, Dimitri Tsarenko made out the first signs of the Cuban coast and shook his head. Once upon a time, the island had been a communist stronghold and a staging point for his countrymen to infiltrate neighboring North America. The fact that Cuba nearly brought two of the 20th century’s biggest power blocks to a brink of war not withstanding, the island was not a place he voluntarily wanted to go to. These days, Cuba was the fifty-second state of the United States, having won its alignment back in 2039. Part of the United States it may be, but in Dimitri’s opinion the island was still a dump. “We’re over Guantanamo Bay, Mr President,” announced the pilot over the intercom. Dimitri grunted acknowledgment, even though the pilot was in the compartment in front of his. Once housing an American naval base and enough troops to remind the Cuban government that they bordered a superpower, and a convenient excuse to jail known terrorists without worrying about their civil liberties, Guantanamo Bay was now a five-star hotel with its own golf course and casino. Relaxing in his seat, he turned his attention back to the printed hardcopies of reports he still had to wade through before heading back to London. Much of the reports concerned the planned move of the primary and secondary headquarters of the United Nations into orbit, a move that he had personally championed since his appointment to govern over the General Assembly. As far as he believed, for the United Nations to be really impartial and all encompassing, it needed to be removed from Earth proper. International territories like New York, London, Sydney and Antarctica had their limits—such as being held at ransom by fanatical groups or rogue governments. Aboard an orbital headquarters, one can tightly control who was permitted to come aboard. In addition, between long-range sensors and computer controlled defenses, an orbital facility could be easily guarded from intruders. There was a knock at the side of the cabin door, which broke his concentration. He frowned. “What is it, Hailey?” he demanded. Hailey Hopper was one of his personal assistants, and one of the better ones as far as he was concerned. Not that Dimitri was going to tell her that, fearing that she might leave him. “Sorry to intrude, Mr President,” she said formally, “But you wanted to be seated in the limousine before we land.” He furrowed bushy eyebrows in an attempt to remember if he did give her such instructions. “Is Damian ready?” he demanded in an attempt to stall, while he tried to remember. Not that he was senile, as he thought of himself as being in peak condition despite issues with floating kidneys and heart problems due to being overweight. It just was that he had too much on his plate to be concerning over trivial matters, such as travel arrangements. That was what Hailey did. She nodded. That was one of the nice things about his august position. As President of the United Nations General Assembly, Dimitri not only had his own sub-orbital frigate to use as he pleased, but he had the full services of a chauffer and a limousine that he took wherever he went. The only thing missing on this particular trip was the security detail, except for Damian and Hailey—both trained as bodyguards. Dimitri grunted, and extended his hand. “Help me up.” * * * Squinting in the harsh sunlight, Dimitri Tsarenko wondered whose idea it was to have a meeting in the middle of a Cuban summer. There were far better places to meet, such as Miami, New York, Vancouver or any of the major cities in the British Isles and Northern Europe. Even Mother Russia has more favorable weather than this, he grated as he whisked out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Yet, despite his rather august position within the United Nations, he was still considered too junior by his former mentor’s associates, and henceforth did not have the right to choose the location. That will change in due time, he promised as he stepped off the sub-orbital frigate. Aside from his personal assistant and frigate crew, Dimitri had come alone without the usual entourage of staffers and interns, leaving them behind in London to run interference while he attended this meeting. An old fashioned limousine pulled up, and Dimitri hid a grimace as he quirked an eyebrow. He bought his own after all. The assistant merely shrugged, an indication that this was not of her doing. This time, Dimitri did grimace. If Hailey had been responsible, he thought sardonically, I’d be going in under a full escort. The driver of the newly arrived limousine stepped out, and walked around to the left passenger door. Hailey looked to Dimitri, annoyed uncertainty clear on her expression. “Let it be,” he told her, himself annoyed. “I’m not sure what Gulino’s playing at, but I intend to humor him.” Hailey looked like she would protest. Deciding not to prolong the inevitable too long, he followed Hailey into the limo and settled into his seat. Without being told to, Hailey joined him. Before too long, the limo squealed to a halt outside the former presidential palace that once housed Fidel Castro. Stepping out, he grunted and glanced over to his assistant. “I’ll call for you later, Hailey,” he said. His assistant hesitated, and understandably so. In the last few years, Dimitri had brought her into his secret associations for the usual price of intimacy, and she had proven invaluable to his plans. “This meeting is unscheduled, Hailey,” he affirmed, “And if our friends in there are ganging up against me, I don’t want you in the firing line. The fate of the United Nations rests in your hands.” While understandably not thrilled, she ascended with a nod of understanding and Dimitri watched her leave. He had not been kidding when he suggested the fate and future of an entire organization rested in her hands, as Hailey had been instrumental in planning his latest operation. Equally, he had been careful to keep the remaining eleven members of the committee. He had done so in the belief that the committee would take away the operation, assigning their own. It was something Dimitri was opposed to, believing that the operation needed him in command. Frowning with annoyance, he made it up the stairs and was quickly ushered in by one of the committee. Recently purchased by the Cuban state government and restored as a living museum and hotel, Fidel Castro’s presidential palace had become the country’s main money earner. For Darryl Larrick it was an investment opportunity neither he nor his company could ignore, and had become the Cuban government’s primary financial backer. The fact that Governor Pena Tamayo had benefited from this by being elevated onto the committee was beside the point. Besides, as far as Larrick was concerned, it was best working alongside close associates. Unfortunately, the man wobbling up the stairs seemed hell bent on against Larrick’s ways. Still, it never hurt to be polite. Larrick studied the newcomer. Unlike him, Dimitri Tsarenko wore a light gray and well cut business suit in addition to shirt and tie. It was a dress code suited for the cooler English weather, and one Larrick long ago stopped wearing when he located to Cuba. “Dimitri,” the taller, older and arguably fitter Larrick took the necessary steps to meet the politician halfway. Then, encompassing the newcomer with one hand, Larrick guided him through the decorative reception and up a flight of stairs. “I’m glad you could have made it at such short notice,” he then said, smiling reassuringly and slowing so that Dimitri could catch up. “I know that you have a shuttle to catch into orbit, but our colleagues have a few concerns that I thought you could enlighten them about.” Dimitri furrowed his brow. “And what concerns would these be?” he then wheezed. “Your little side project channeling weapons to Martian separatists for one,” answered Larrick coolly. Dimitri paused as he regarded the investment banker, his aching legs undoubtedly grateful for the rest. Straightening his shoulders, the President of the United Nations General Assembly considered how he should react to the news that the committee had discovered his side project. Not that it entirely surprised him, as the committee members seemed to control a far better intelligence network than anything the United Nations could pull off. But then, he reasoned, they had less than two hundred years to get it all set up. Yet, he was equally just as disappointed. It took Hailey over three years to ensure the proper security protocols were put in place between Dimitri’s office, the suppliers and the Provisional Martian Army, protocols that had done rather well against the UN. “And this is a concern?” he asked noncommittally, and shrugged his heavy shoulders, “What I do with my own private business interests should be of no concern.” Larrick looked at him pointedly. “Your selling sophisticated weaponry to a group of individuals opposed to the current set up on their planet, Dimitri,” he said and nodded to a conference room down the hall. “You may not believe this, but individual projects that are independent of the committee does more harm than good.” Dimitri had expected this, and snorted. “My actions are my own,” he said dismissively. “They are also outside of the committee’s mandate.” Larrick shook his head. “And there—my friend—is where you are sadly mistaken.” The conference room was a simple affair, with a flask of sweetened water in the middle and glasses to drink from. Dimitri sniffed the muggy air, and looked for the air conditioner—only to shake his head in annoyance. The room lacked the sophistication of a UN boardroom, and the piddly little air conditioner looked like it was barely keeping the heat at bay. Definitely should have the meeting in Miami at least, thought Dimitri as Larrick led him in. Then, suddenly, he stopped and looked to the investment banker with a degree of suspicion. “Where’s Gulino?” he demanded, gesturing at the empty seat at the head of the conference table. Larrick smiled as the other nine members of the committee stood in greeting. “I’m afraid he no longer shared the committee’s vision,” replied the investment banker, nodding to the front. “I believe that seat is yours now, Dimitri.” 3 Dimitri stared at the head of the table, and carefully returned the respectful glances the remaining members of the committee were giving him. To take up the chairmanship was literally accepting the reigns to the entire Solar System, which was no small responsibility and one that President Truman had probably never perceived as possible when he first commissioned the first committee back in 1947. Then, nodding to the investment banker, Dimitri took the first tentative step towards the front of the table. “Will Gulino be joining us?” he asked after sitting down gingerly, half expecting the replaced chairman to burst through the doors and tell him that this was some sort of practical joke. Larrick shook his head. “I’m afraid Gulino’s membership has been cancelled, Dimitri,” announced Governor Pena Tamayo. Dimitri frowned, and regarded the Cuban governor with a guarded expression. As far as he knew, one did not try for the chairmanship because they wanted the top seat. Nominations were done every five years by secret ballet, with the twelve writing the name of their favoured candidate. No chairman was ever deposed, and only twice—when the Russians were the first to orbit the Earth, and a full decade after the United States pulled out of Iraq—in the committee’s history did one of its members was stood down. But it was never a bloody affair. Deciding that Gulino’s fate was best to be filed for later investigation, Dimitri made himself a little bit more comfortable and turned his attention to the remainder of the committee. Apart from Richard Sinclair and himself, the remainder was either American or English and represented Trans-Atlantic interests. It was something that Dimitri wanted to change considerably, believing that the Americans have had too much influence over UN matters. Not that he was prepared to bring in another European into the mix, believing that having him was enough. Dimitri nodded to Sinclair, and the New Zealander returned the gesture. Finally, he turned to the reason of his summon. “I have been assured by Darryl that you are aware of my private endeavor to finance Martian separatists,” he started and heard mutterings of ascent. Clearing his throat, and reaching for the tumbler of chilled water, Dimitri continued with his explanation. “Obviously me being here is an indicator that you at least approve of my actions, but let me fill you in on my intentions. “You are all familiar with the United Nations being nothing more but an extension of the Atlantic and European unions, with both organizations having being responsible for the activation of the Rapid Deployment Force and formation of the Bureau of Investigations, and hold a majority in the Council’s lower house,” he said, “While both agencies have been an asset, giving the UN an immediate means to respond to any crisis, the drawback is that this has alienated the Chinese and a number of other nations.” Nods answered him. Everyone knew that the United Nations was really nothing more but a faction among many, existing alongside the Latin League, Council of the Nile, the Central Asian Republic and the far more powerful Chinese nation. The only reason why the UN still retained its global dominance was due to the fact that the other alliances and dominant superpowers still retained a presence in the General Assembly, and usually differed to the UN on certain matters. “My friends,” continued Dimitri, “I fear that if nothing is done, then we’ll see the United Nations either dissolve or its borders shrink considerably—and do so within our lifetime! “Henceforth my covert means to supply Martian separatists with state of the art weaponry. “While I haven’t prepared anything considerable to brief you with properly—” he went on, “—let me just quickly tell you what I’ve learned. The Martian separatist movement is far more organized than believed by our intelligence agencies back in London and Brussels, with my people comparing it to the Irish Republican Army and the Hashomer. I’m sure you’re all familiar with who the IRA were, and how much trouble they caused the British in Northern Ireland. The latter may be a bit of a mystery to you.” The blank stares the committee members were giving him was confirmation that they had no idea. “They were an early Jewish defense organization in Palestine during the first years of the twentieth century.” He explained. “Basically, their purpose was to provide guard services for Jewish settlements in the Yishuv, freeing Jewish communities from dependence upon foreign consulates and Arab watchmen for their security.” Larryck spoke up. “And these separatists on Mars are like this Hush-a-more?” Dimitri smirked, thinking: Trust an American to bastardize and mince words. Aloud, he said, “They’re a combination of the two to be honest, and very active in the northwest quadrants and some of the unsanctioned settlements.” Tamayo frowned. “Northwest?” she asked, “Isn’t that Chinese?” Dimitri nodded. “Yes it is.” “And you intend to arm them?” asked Larryck. “Of course, but it’s not as simple as just arming a bunch of militia. I intend to send one of my agents—” Larryck happily supplied the name. “Ada Ti-ang, the telepath.” Dimitri turned an annoyed look at the banker, and conceded agreement with a grunt. “Yes, the telepath. I intend to send her to Mars, and help coordinate in bringing in mercenaries to beef them up— . . . ”

Goals and aspirations for 2012

The other day I've let my mind go all over the place. After all, with a week into the new year there are new opportunities to consider and all that jazz. Considering the lack of employment opportunities since graduating in May of 2010, and not necessarily without trying, I have to do something to keep myself in the loop with the rest of society. Going to Poland is still a dream of mine, and a definate goal that I'm saving money up for, but that won't be happening until the next year or the one after. What I need is something for this year.

The question is what?

Going back to the University of Otago is definitely one option, especially if I could do a DipGrad. This'll mean a compact version of a normal Bachelors, done in one year instead of the usual three. But in what subject matter. Tourism and Business have tailored programmes, and I know that Psychology has a variation of it.

My good friend Colin suggests I get into body building proper, and stop piss arsing about. The idea itself is appealing, and need to talk with my personal trainer and the gym staff if it'll be ok if I pick up my hours accordingly and get that ball rolling sooner then later.

What about you guys, what are your plans and aspirations for 2012?

Thumb's up for Primal Origin

The other day, I had the pleasure of actually reading a novella from start to finish, which is no mean feat as I seem to be incapable of just reading something without ripping it to shreds and see what made it tick. Written by JackSilkstone, the novella is the origin story to his first full length novel Primal Unleashed. The novella is a prequel to a series, and is set in Abu Dhabi, where there are two CIA operatives have been given a mission to track down an unknown terrorist group. Forced to question the morality of their government, they take matters into their own hands.

It is well written, concise and allowed me to visualize in my mind the action.

Prequel novella to the Primal series by Jack Silkstone

Heck, the entire novella was better then the latest stuff by Tom Clancy that has been written by another person whom I've never heard of, which was nice and disappointing at the same time. I mean, think about it, Clancy practically brought military techno-thrillers to the forefront and gave us some pretty awesome stuff. Now though, I feel as if he sold out on his fans and had become nothing more but a registered trademark. Fortunately, Jack Silkstone has stepped up to the plate and is offering us not only a bloody good read but also an insight into what's going on in the war against terrorism.

Best part, he has own youtube channel.

For more information about him, and how to get his books, check out his equally awesome website and very informative blog.

How about you guys, have you encountered a story or author that just makes you squeal with childlike delight?

Plot versus Character driven Narratives

Almost three months have passed since I last updated this blog, and I intend to change that this month. To start of this zealous attempt in writing more posts for my blog, I have asked M.M. Bennetts to start me off by contributing. Bennetts will be writing about my least favourite topic, which is what is better; plot or character driven stories. It's my least favourite topic simply because I usually go on the plot's side, while many of my writing friends side with the character. Anyway, without further babbling from me, have read bellow.

Once upon a time, there was a fellow by the name of Procrustes.

(No, he wasn't called that because he was a crusty and voted in favour of dreadlocks. Honestly, the questions I get asked...)

Anyway, this fellow had a bed. Actually he had an inn. Did I mention he was a Greek--back in ancient Greece? No? Well, he was. Anyway, he had this inn and this bed and he was always keen to invite people in for a meal and then to have a sleep on this amazing bed of his. Because this bed was magic! It fitted everyone perfectly. Which is a pretty cool idea for an age when most people are still sleeping on mats on the floor.

There was only one catch. And that was what old Procrustes meant by 'a perfect fit'.

Because you see, what he meant was that as soon as some sucker lay down upon this 'magical' bed, old Procrustes got to work to make the sucker fit the bed. He'd stretch him on the rack if he wasn't tall enough, or saw off his feet if he was too long...It was a messy business for poor old Procrustes...and who knows what he did with all those extra bits of folks...

Okay, I'm being disgusting. I admit, it's disgusting. But, you'll be pleased to know, this being ancient Greece, obviously there was a hero by the name of Theseus who happened along to give old Procrustes a taste of his own...ah...methods. (I get the impression he didn't like them much.)

Now this myth is used as a metaphor for just about everything that one could name where there are, ah, casualties for the price of one-size-fits all. Which may work. In some people's minds.

But the place I think it works best is in books. Or more specifically, how books are written or driven or whatever you'd like to call it. Plot-driven? Or character-driven?

Because over the years, I've come to see the plot-driven novel as a Procrustean bed of sorts. A place where the poor unfortunates, who happen to be the characters in the thing, end up with their emotional and psychological bits lopped off so that they 'fit' neatly into the plot.

And mind you, some of these plots are so hare-brained, you have to wonder...And you the reader sit there thinking, "He did what? (*voice breaking into awkward treble*) Why would any sane person do that? Heck, why would anyone do that..."

And either you roll your eyes and carry on as the thing gets more and more preposterous, or continue out of morbid curiosity (my besetting sin) or else you say, "Stuff this for a bag of socks..." and go play on Facebook.

Which is why I think character driven novels come out ahead every time.

Think about it--those are the ones that stay with you. Because it's those characters who just stick in your mind and through them, you have the whole of their story...

Of course, the greatest of all character writers is probably Charles Dickens. No matter what your taste in books is, here was a fellow who could write characters who completely take over one's imagination. And because he got paid by the word and therefore wrote the story as it came to him and often didn't know himself what was coming next, the whole novel developed organically. Scene upon scene, action upon action, line upon line.

I mean, yes, he had some pretty spiffing ideas to start with. Think Magwitch, the escaped felon, rising out of the shadows in the marshes in Great Expectations. Now there is a character who is every parent's nightmare and every kid's terror. He's simply too brilliant for words. He holds us enthralled--not just for the duration of the novel, but in most cases, for our whole lives. And in some cases, he never let go--the Australian award-winning author, Peter Carey, wrote a whole novel called Magwitch--that's how much this character gets under our skin.

But Dickens has others. Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist. Fagin. Mr. Micawber in David Copperfield. Noddy Boffin or Eugene Wrayburn in Our Mutual Friend. (Well, just about everyone in Our Mutual Friend, to tell the truth...)

I personally have been riveted by the character of Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities. He's a drunkard. He lounges about doss houses--you can practically smell him on the page. Dickens describes him as a jackal--hardly complimentary. But, in this strange mixture of fascination and repellency, you can't take your eyes off the page when he's there.

But the point is, these novels work. They work as a compound. There is no element that sticks out. Nowhere that has you the reader, saying, "Ya, right!" Though you might well find yourself flinching, or saying, "Oh, yuck!" upon occasion...

Because Dickens has the courage to write real characters and let them grow and ruminate and ferment. He doesn't spare us this gimlet view of humanity in all its vices and virtues. He gets them out there and lets them go to play off each other. And that is what produces a drama we can believe in, a drama which holds us rapt, a drama which captures our imagination and holds it for years.

And that's what novelists should be after, surely. I know it's what readers want...

Broaden my exposure

I had a very interesting conversation with Nigel, the fllow behind the success story that is Black Donald. We talked about his recent successes with publishing his debut via Amazon and Smashword, and of course getting it printed via CreateSpace. The fact that he had done it independent of some major publishing label was of no surprise, even though his work is in the same league as Orson Scott Card and Stephen King. Yes, he's that good. Incidently, he had pulled away from where he had started with; e-Quill Publishing.

While I've got no intention of pulling out of there, as it's there that you will find Iron Falls: The Enemy Within and its sequels Iron Falls: Puppets on a String, Iron Falls: Collateral and many more planned titles (of course, I plan to create an omnibus or two featuring three or four stories each within this particular universe that features Gene Bukowski and his friends). Besides, Vesta Central is there too. And no, I'm not going to pull them out. It doesn't make sense to pull out . . .


Not now . . .

Not ever.

I like e-Quill Publishing, and know it's early days before it would become a household name. Besides, there is a neat little clause in the terms and conditions section that indicates that I can my works elsewhere. I intend to do that with the as yet hypothetical Iron Falls omnibus edition while serialising the stories in novellas and short novels.

Having said that, I will be getting out of my comfort zone and try my hand in Amazon and Smashword with future titles. After all, I've got nothing to loose.

Right . . . ?

Faith, Space and Magical: Black Donald is now available as Paperback!

I'm happy to say that one of my writing buddies, Nigel, has taken the plung and has made his book Black Donald in paperback.

Faith, Space and Magical: Black Donald is now available as Paperback!: So I was speaking to my friend, Piotr , about publishing and told him my dream of holding a physical copy of my first book, Black Donald, in...

I got my copy, do you?