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Why agents shit me

Lots of authors hate publishers. And agents. Let’s face it, nobody likes rejection emails.

I admit, I’ve submitted to publishers a few times over the years, and been roundly rejected. Now my friends – who’ve read my latest book, Pandora’s Jar – say, ‘Send it to an agent, it’s fantastic, they’re sure to pick it up!’

Well, it is a pretty good book, one of my best. So I’m thinking about it. On the plus side, a Netflix deal, oodles of money and Pandora’s Jar in the front window of Dymocks.

On the minus side…agents are SO annoying! Agent A only accepts manuscripts in July, Agent B wants them submitted by snail mail, Agent C isn’t taking unsolicited manuscripts at all unless they’re from Jodie Picoult, and ALL of them want a monogamous relationship – only one agent at a time, even if that agent takes months to decide. Plus you have to write a ‘pitch’ which will amaze, captivate and intrigue the bastards. What! I put every creative ounce of flesh I had into writing the actual book, and now you want me to seduce you with a pitch?

So what if, against all the odds, they do pick Pandora? Well, then whoever they get to publish it can ask me to take bits out, put bits in, go through it with the proverbial fine tooth comb for anything that might offend…anyone really. And they can change my title! I don’t like people fiddling with my things.

I have readers (just not Netflix, yet). Why do I need a publisher? Do I need a publisher?

Writing Religious

“That time I went to Bible group, when I prayed to God to grant me a wish? I said look, God, if you want me to believe in you, this is what you’ve got to do, alright? Give me a family. I wasn’t thinking, give me a wife or a kid or nothing like that, I know I don’t have no kids and I don’t want a wife, not at my age. I was thinking maybe, just maybe…”

Paul smiles encouragingly. He can see that Trevor, for the first time since he’s known him (but then, he hasn’t known him very long) is overcome with emotion. His eyes narrow in an effort to hold back tears, the knuckles on the steel table clench.

“I was thinking maybe he’d find my mum, after all these years. It would’ve been a real hard ask, yeah, but he’s God, he can do what the fuck he wants, so no harm in asking him. I didn’t really expect him to come up with the goods, I thought the whole Jesus thing was a load of bullshit to be honest, but then…he did. Jesus gave me a family. A sister, a nephew, two nieces, a whole bunch of other folks too, but it was her that turned up. So I said to God, fair’s fair, Lord, you answered my prayer, when I didn’t even believe in you, so now I got to keep my end of the bargain, right? Cause I never break a promise, Paul, that’s me. I always keep my word.”

Paul is really moved. He speaks into the phone. “That’s a really wonderful story, Trevor. I’m so glad your sister found you, that must make a real difference to…”

Life in here, he means to say. Trevor wipes at his eyes with his free hand. “Yeah mate, it gives me hope, you know what I mean? Like, this place isn’t it for me, it’s not like, all I’m ever gonna be. I got someone who cares about me and you know what? Even though we never met before and she didn’t even know she had a half brother let alone one who’s in the fucking slammer for, you know, bad stuff, she does care about me. She’s a real nice lady…I’ve been lucky, and it’s all down to God, right? So, I guess it’s about time I paid him back, that’s what I’m thinking now. He did me a favour, now it’s my turn.”

And that’s an excerpt from the novel I’m currently working on, The Point of Us. The story involves Paul, a Catholic school teacher who signs up to visit Trevor, a maximum security prisoner and former hitman. Trevor’s recently got religion, and wants to explore, with Paul, the topic of God. Now this is HARD for an atheist. I don’t know what it feels like to love God, or believe in Him. I’ve read the Bible but I don’t find it convincing, let alone inspiring. So why is faith so important to Paul? And how does Trevor come to believe?

I guess you could call this cultural appropriation; an atheist trying to imagine herself into the skin of a devout believer! Not to mention a law-abiding citizen trying to worm her way into the soul of a murderer for hire. It’s certainly a challenge…

Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash

What matters most?

Love? Service? Family? Art?

Here’s an excerpt from the book I’m currently working on, about four people trying to find meaning in life. Paul is a Catholic school teacher who feels he has nothing to teach…and his students aren’t interested anyway. Terentia, his wife, is a clapped-out novelist whose time has passed. Dave gets caught up in a race conflict while driving his routine school run, and Emma discovers she has a notorious half-brother she never knew existed….

Read the first three chapters here.

Plague

Just a little story I wrote when I wasn’t in the best of moods….and thinking about COVID lockdown. Could be worse!

They say that in the weeks before the Great Plague, ships were seen gliding on the sea, calm flowing forth from under their keels like the spreading dark. Those who saw them pass by tell a tale of shadow men crowding the smooth decks, clawed hands and seared skin and eyes like the cinders of a blasted city. Watching from the shore, far as they were, they smelled the stench of decay on a ghost wind, and soon after fell into a sleep, and then into grey death.

When the rulers were told of these wonders, they sent their own ships to find and destroy the demon vessels, but these were lost in a strange, foul mist that crept up from the west, and never seen again. So the rulers ordered the people to move inland, away from the demons who roamed the wide waters.

It was not long before death caught up with them. It moved through the rivers and the streams, swimming serpent-like against tide and current. It leaked into the dewdrops as they formed on the spring green grass, and into the rain as it kissed each roof and slab. It caressed the soft curls of babies as they lay in their mothers’ arms and the wispy remnants on the heads of the old. It rode in on a breath and out on a sigh, and everywhere there was water, there was sickness.

So the rulers bade their servants lock the gates, and the people went inside their houses and shut their doors, and those who could drank wine, and those who could not drank nothing, and died of their thirst. At last even the wine was gone, and the rulers turned to each other and said, how shall we preserve ourselves?

Then the man said to the woman, the only wine that remains is that which runs in the veins of our children. It is a good vintage, for we made it ourselves. The woman refused, saying, I would rather join the numberless dead than drink that vintage, no matter how rare and red. The man, maddened by his thirst and his desire to live, killed both the woman and their children, and sated himself, and lived. In time, he looked over his walls to find that the Plague had ended.

So he unlocked the great gates and walked out into the silent world, where only the bones muttered against one another in the dry breeze. The rivers and streams had withered, the sea was a plain of salt, and the rain a fearful memory. Then he wept; his tears were red as wine and blood, and hissed as they fell on the scorched ground.

Or so they say, for that was long ago, and far away, and now they are all dead who knew the truth of it.

Photo by Peter Kvetny on Unsplash

Ticket to the Future

When the human species ends in a fiery (or watery) apocalypse, you probably won’t be there. Hopefully not. But what if you could be, in your own luxury Time Cruiser, just for a weekend…

Here’s a short story about just that.

They’re leafing through the brochures when I bustle forward. She’s a sweet looking girl with a receding chin and pink capri pants; he’s got glasses and a Hawaiian shirt.

“What can I do you for?”

They look at each other, give that secret smile. Young, probably just moved in together.

“Well,” says the girl, “we were thinking about one of your weekend packages to The Future? I mean, if it’s not too expensive…”

“The Future? It’s very popular these days with younger people,” I exclaim enthusiastically, waving them over to my desk. “Come and sit down and I’ll walk you through what we’ve got. I’ll start with the budget package. So, our Ten Years Ahead trip gets you a lovely little hotel in Florida just before the Change. Tour of Miami, dinner at a famous Keys restaurant, then you get to watch the ocean roll in, and you’re whisked away just before it all goes underwater for ever. For a small extra cost, you can snorkel in the Lost City, as we like to call it.

The girl glances at her boyfriend, who says, “Is it safe?”

“Perfectly safe. It hasn’t happened yet, and you’re not really there. Everyone who’s been has loved the experience – in fact a lot of people book in afterwards to see Melbourne go under the waves a year later, they can’t get enough. Anyway, if you’re able to spend a little more, you can purchase our Half Centennial package, that’s also very much in demand. With the Half Centennial, you’ll be transported via luxury time machine to the sun-soaked resorts of Finland. You’ll get to rub shoulders with the rich and famous – well, they’re pretty much the only people left alive at this point, which is great, isn’t it, because you don’t really want to spend your holiday in some flood-ridden mosquito-infested country with people drowning all over the place! One of my clients actually got to meet Justin Bieber, well, to pass through him, anyway. He was in his seventies, of course, but she told me, the boy’s still got it.” I chuckle knowingly.

The boyfriend scratches his neck. “Not a fan of Bieber, I’ve got to say.” Fair enough, I wouldn’t want my girlfriend meeting a bunch of time-limited heart-throbs either, if I had his body. “What else is there?”

“Well,” I lower my voice and smile sympathetically. “There is the Demi-Millennium, but I’m afraid it’s a little pricey…”

Glasses looks wary. “Uh huh?” But I can tell that I’ve piqued the girl’s interest.

“Ok,” I go on. “So, the Five Hundred Year isn’t for everyone, it’s really for our more discerning, thoughtful travellers, if you know what I mean. A bit of an elite experience.”

“Really?” The girl is all ears.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, in five hundred years the human race will have been extinct for, hang on a sec…exactly four hundred and two years and seven months. The Demi-Millennium package allows you to experience the serenity, the magnificent purity and solitude, of Mother Earth as she was always meant to be, finally free of people. It includes a Champagne Time Flight over the lush jungles of North America, a luxury cruise through the Sunken Isles of Britain – they say the blue whale herds are amazing – and three days’ glamping under the stars in the Great Australian Desert. Which is…funnily enough…pretty much where we are now, folks. Isn’t it awe-inspiring to think that this entire country will one day be a massive, beautiful bowl of absolutely nothing! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience….but as I said, it is a little expensive. Now, here’s a price list – which destination captures your fancy? Hard to choose, isn’t it…”

The girl’s eyes are bright and eager. “Can we afford the Demi-Millennium, Trav? I could take out some of my super…”

“You might as well.” I laugh cheerily. “At your age, you won’t live to use it.”

Travis gets up, pulling at his girlfriend’s hand. “Ah…you know what, we’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“That’s fine,” I say, shepherding them towards the glass doors. “Time travel doesn’t come cheap, does it? Of course, you can always just go the backpacker version – just wait around, and Time will come to you. Ten Years right here in Sydney will see some lovely fireworks, well, not so much fireworks as fires, but it’ll be spectacular, so they say. For the Half Centennial you can always go to Alice Springs, I hear that’s where the Apocalypse Festival is being held, just before the end. Some great bands booked, if they make the distance. The demi-millennium – well, I’m afraid you’ll miss that, but like I said, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Then again, you’ll both still be here in a manner of speaking…”

The girl stops; the receding jaw sets hard. There is a touch of desperation in her tone. “We’ll take it. The Demi-Millennium, we’ll take it.”

They always do.

Image is from the film, These Final Hours. Not the greatest film, but awesome end scene!

Euphemistically yours

Got an itch down there?

Caught your best friend doing the horizontal square dance with the coach’s wife? Then maybe you’re a fan of euphemisms. Gotta say, my favourite euphemisms are the ones you make up yourself, like…she’s gone to order cocktails in the bar of no return. He’s checking her y axis. She’s making small talk with the angels, but he’s down here hunting truffles in the dark. She’s gone to hide an easter egg in the ladies’ while he’s putting out fires in the porcelain. She likes her doughnuts with icing on, if you know what I mean, but he likes to waltz on bare boards…

Here’s a little story about euphemisms…

“Good morning sir.”

“Yes?”

Detective Constable O’Brien looks past into the hall, and sniffs.

“Do you mind if I come in, sir? There’s been a complaint about a smell…”

“I’m otherwise engaged.”

“Sir, as I said there’s been reports of an odour…”

“I have a tendency to blow my own trumpet, if you understand me. Sometimes it can be…somewhat offensive to the olfactory area.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following you, sir.” DC O’Brien steps smartly into the hallway. Oh God, the stink. “There’s a rather nasty smell in here, sir, the neighbours have complained. Do you mind if I investigate?”

“Yes I do! I have a cat, you see, and she’s visiting the powder room. That’s probably the cause of the…infumation. I don’t clean out the litter as often as I should these days.”

“It’s more than just cat poop, sir. Now if you don’t mind..”

“No! Tiddles is very… aware of the proprieties, and she doesn’t like people watching her when she attends to matters of a southerly persuasion.”

“What?” DC O’Brien is now more than a little suspicious. “Sir, I think you may have something dead in the house. If you’ll just let me – “

“Dead? Certainly not. Tiddles is very much on this earthly plane. If my wife were here, she’d…”

“You’re married? And, ah, where is your wife presently, sir?”

“My dear wife was invited to attend a celestial soiree. Although she still resides with me. She occupies the best bedroom in the manor of my heart, if you understand me… “

DC O’Brien’s ears twitch. “Er…”

“She’s attending choir practice in the clouds. Sipping ambrosia cocktails in the bar of no return. Making small talk with the incorporeal…”

DC O’Brien is running out of patience. “I see. And how long ago did your wife die?”

“Oh, she’s not dead. In fact she’s very much alive, and probably more active than she’s ever been. On a cellular level. Quite a haven for nature, in fact.”

“Just to be clear,” says DC O’Brien, with a sense of foreboding. “Is your wife deceased, or not?”

“Let’s just say she never watched the finale of The Bold and The Beautiful. The sands in her hourglass have trickled to a halt. She has tiptoed over that border that needs no passport. She has…”

Oh no. “Sir, is there…a dead body on these premises?”

“Arnold?” An old woman pokes her head out from the back room. “Are you off fishing today? I’ve got three buckets of maggots here, and the smell is rather…. oh, pardon me, I didn’t realise we had company!”

If you’ve got a great euphemism you made up yourself, share it here and you might just win a $10 Amazon gift voucher at the end of August!

Photo by Marc Schaefer on Unsplash