The psych side of my life is pretty much like an overgrown garden at the moment, taking up all my time.  On top of my PhD and my normal work, I’ve started up a little private clinic, which means I’m doing 7-day work weeks.  It’s pretty insane.  I’m approaching 30 now and realising that there are only really 24 hours a day. If I sleep for 8 of those, work and study for 10 -12 of those, and try to cook something decent once in a while, I have precious little time left to take a dump, or read a book, or go for a walk on the beach.

I recently took a break after 52 consecutive days of work.  In that time, I managed to catch up on some person stuff, buy a crap tonne of books and comics, and remember a bit of who I am when I’m not wearing my psych hat.  This taking a break stuff has been quite enlightening.  Now I’m taking a bit of time between clients (cause I’m back at work again, wheeeeeeee) to have a nap and update this neglected site. 

As much as things have changed in the last 2 years, the next 2 years are going to be even stranger.  I’m hoping I’m not completely devoured.  I want to slow down.  Wind back.  Write again.  Write a lot.
​
Earlier this year I wrote a slice of life fantasy short for the Labyrinth Contest.  I’m not sure what’s happening with that writing group – it has fizzled out a little bit, and I can’t help but be partially responsible.  Perhaps even back then I was starting to feel it – the draw towards a simple life, a good life.

Everything has it's peaks and troughs, and the entries of the Labyrinth contest in March were at an all time low, unfortunately.  One.  Me.  

Weep for me.

But moving on to April, I hope that the prompt is more inspiring.  It's already inspired me to write this start to my entry: 

It’s been a while since I’ve posted something, so I better bung a post together so no one thinks that I’m dead – not that anyone would ever have cause to think I’m dead.  Thunderstorms keep rolling over head.  I keep surviving them.  I’ve got to be damn near immortal by now.

If I’m rambling, it’s because I’m getting editing the story I wrote for nanowrimo in 2016.  The POV character, Ally St Sabina, talks like this.  Present tense.  Random.  Grandiose yet self-depreciating.  It’s hard to get into her brain, but once I’m here it’s like crouching in a warm gutter with snow falling overhead and I suddenly don’t want to leave.

This is a story I’m hoping to publish, whether through traditional-ish means or more DIY.  It’s gone through one round of me editing it, and then it’s gone around to three very special and patient friends of mine who’ve given it the once over.  Thank the stars for Solemn Coyote.  He is like a super writer.  I am like super fortunate to even be on the same planet as him.  This is the guy who keeps recommending awesome books. 

I’ve finished the Verus books by the way.  I think I started writing a review for the series, read it, deleted it, and replaced it with the words ‘Feast your eyeballs on awesomeness’. 

So yes, this Ally story.  I thought I’d have the second draft done by now, but this year’s crashed upon me like a tonne of bricks.  Who would have thought that a PhD would sap up so much of my time?  Sometimes, I wish I’d shut up and stop putting my hand up for thing.  Now I find myself part of a research committee for a pilot randomised control trial of a psychotherapy.  RCTs are apparently hot shit in the research world.

And then there’s my clinic placements.  I’m back working with kids again – yay – and I’ve put together what I officially call the ‘prize box’ but let’s not kid ourselves, it’s totally a bribe box.  Bribes work, ok?  Positive reinforcement, yo. 

Ah, not to mention the research design classes I’ve been taking.  Don’t get me wrong, I love learning about structural equation modelling, but if you asked me to actually do one I’d probably draw you an octopus. 

This year I’m also spearheading the Labyrinth 3K Short Story writing contests, with Tante Liz as my brilliant 2IC, collecting entries and posting polls like clockwork.  We’ve thus far survived two months without me standing behind anyone shouting, “write it!”.

With all of that going on, there’s been precious little time to work on the second draft.  However, I’ve managed to claw out one WHOLE DAY for editing this sucker each fortnight.  Don’t ask me how I did it. It may have involved a Lilliana Vess level deal with the devil.  It may have involved closing my eyes and singing ‘lalalala’ and ignoring some deadlines for psych reports.

Two new stories on fictionpress from the contests.  One even tied for podium position with T.Rasa.

Links:

The Promise - Birch is a handsome young tree that leaves the safety of his grove to fulfil a promise to a girl.

Blessed - The Church of Holysea has little tolerance for the wyrd and fantastical. No one is spared from their Inquisitions, not even in the town of Muirfield where Finch is trying to live out a simple life. Any other day, he would have blended into the backdrop of townsfolk, but on this day, he is asked to use his skills in one of the Church's Trials. All is not as it seems.

Last year in November through an activity called 'Nanohop' during National Novel Writing Month, I became acquainted with Catherine LaCroix, a romance author who has agreed (muahaha) to be a writing buddy.  Little does she know what she's getting into (homophone hell).  Her stories are available on Amazon.  Fellow Australians who want to read it have to go through amazon.com.au.  I found this out the hard way so that you don't have to.

I really don’t want to preface this review with ‘I don’t read romance’, but it’s true and it must be said because I’m going to talk a bit more about the plot and characters than the steamy, steamy scenes in between.  As my partner put it perfectly, “it sounds like you’re more interested in whether or not he’s going to actually fix her pipes.” 
That’s not to say that Catherine LaCroix doesn’t do a wonderful job at tackling a subject that could easily become tedious.  There’s only so many descriptions you can use for the same few body parts without making it seem weird, right?  Catherine somehow manages, despite the book being about 50/50 sex.

So now onto the story. 

Resonance by Catherine LaCroix is a collection of stories about Josselyn Thorn, a Whisper who is framed for the murder of the two people she loved the most.  In LaCroix’s world, Whispers are both coveted and reviled for their sexual sense and Josselyn is more often seen as ‘what’ she is rather than ‘who’ she is.  When Josselyn is rescued by a man who she knows little about, yet is deeply tied to the two she loved, she finds herself with the dangerous opportunity of uncovering the truth behind their murder. 

Readers of Resonance will find themselves transported into a fantasy world that vaguely resembles the Victorian era, where society was still firmly held by peerage, yet with the emergence of industry that afforded freedom and wealth to a skilled middle class.  Josselyn’s story gives the reader a glimpse into the wider socio-political set up of the world, touching on relevant issues associated with slavery, religion, corruption, and marginalisation of certain peoples.  With relatively few words, LaCroix manages to paint the broad strokes of a world that readers will find charming and familiar.    

For readers like me who are rubbed the wrong way by passive submission or lack of agency in a character, I’d urge you to keep reading, because Josselyn is both more complex and simple than she originally seems.  I was won over by the deep kindness that starts to show once the grime of her prison cell starts to wash away (both outside and in). 

Overall, I would recommend Resonance to people who like their steamy stories to make sense, who like characters for who they are, not what they do, and who, like me, are genuinely concerned about whether the pipes actually get fixed.   

There's a character in the story I finished last month that has a backstory that is begging to be explored.  In the story, the main character 'Ally' sees into his past when she is trying to activate a blade that he's lent her.  Here it is:

Instead of activating a light, I see a land covered in snow, dotted with vivid red patches.  Blood.  The bodies are gone.  Only I remain and I am very small in the grand scheme of things.  My pale hair falls free to my ankles, and my body is a vassal for an aching, hollow sadness.

It intrigued me so that I revisited a piece that I was writing about Hokkaido a while back, and refitted it to be this man's past.  This is about 2.5 hours of work (writing and editing):

---

This is a story in which not everyone survives until the end.  It’s a story of gods and demons, and how neither of them care for the puppets that they throw at each other.  A story of war.  Somehow I am a part of it all; both significant and insignificant in their grand design.  I find myself putting it all to paper only in the snatches before dawn, in the gap between when duty relinquishes me and the motions of living reclaim me.  I’ve been writing now for ten years, much longer than I thought I would be alive.  It’s a habit now.  The superstitious part of me thinks that it’s the only reason why I am still alive; because my story is unfinished.  The rational part of me knows that the causal direction of this statement doesn’t make sense. 

At the beginning of this story, I am fifteen years old and still trying to decide whether speaking my mind is a good idea.  It might not even be a matter of good or bad, but of relevancy.  My voice may be entirely irrelevant.

Visiting Hokkaido was my parents’ idea.  It’s just one destination in a long list of ideas they’ve had, usually without much warning.   Finland.  Toronto.  New Zealand.  Aurum Isles.  The Congo.  Bhutan.  Mexico.  Those are the ones that I recall the easiest right now.  Never mind school.  Never mind failing class.  Never mind that my only friend is Mouse because he doesn’t notice when I leave and gets picked on just as much.  If things were up to me?  I’d stay home and listen to music in my room.  I’d go to school every day and show Miss Lo that I care just as much about Textile Studies as she does.  I’d make the perfect pair of pants, pockets everywhere.  I don’t really use the internet and I’ve never had a phone.  Unthinkable?  Are your eyes wide like saucers?  Unrelatable?  Are you tuning out because I’m not like the guys you’re friends with, or the one that messages you back and forth late at night?  If you think that things are weird now, this is the relatively normal.  It only gets worse from here.

I am told what to pack, and I do it.  I still have my ski gear from Vancouver and my snow boots from the Alps.  There’s enough room inside the boots to roll up the patchwork cloak I’m making out of the scraps from my father’s factory.  He saw it once.  Said it was hideous.  I don’t disagree.  Ok, if I’m honest, it hurt a little when he said he didn’t like it.  But it’s not about the end result.  It’s that having needle and thread in my hands is home to me.  It doesn’t matter where I am if I can sit back at the end of the day and piece something together. 

We breeze past customs in the priority line like we normally do.  The officer who checks my passport is a middle age man who chuckles at how I’ve filled out my departure card.

“Connor Silber, occupation listed as Robot.”  He gives me a humoured, quizzical look.  “You look human to me.”

“Because no one ever suspects the human looking robot,” I reply. 

My father, realising that I am still at the counter, comes back to collect me.  

“Is there a problem here?” he asks.

“No problem,” the officer says.  He waves me on with a smile.  I smile back.

I don’t watch movies on the plane.   I don’t like anything with violence in it, and all the others are too childish for my taste.  I don’t buy into the ones about happy families and talking pets.  Even before everything that’s happened happens, I am already of the mind that life isn’t what it looks like in books and movies.  It’s sadder than that.  Futile.  Boring.

My mother makes small talk with me, or at least she tries.  It’s hard to maintain a conversation when the other person replies with one word responses.  There are long silences in between, but her determination brings her back at it again and again.

“Do you know how to say ‘hello’ in Japanese?

“No.”

“It’s ni hao.”

“Ni hao.”

“Did you remember to bring your snow shoes?”

“Yes.”

“And did you see your father’s Spring-Summer collection?”

“Yes.”

My father sits up a bit straighter.  He’s not doing a good job of pretending not to listen.  The headphones don’t fool me. 

“What do you think?” my mother asks.

It’s tailored to perfection, as it always is.  I’m not a big fan of the menswear.  Everyone recycles the same cuts, and there’s only so much genius you can infuse into a pair of trousers if you want it to look modern and you also want it to be functional.  I like his women’s haut couture though.  He’s gone back to the French renaissance and made it his own.  I think he should stop turning down offers from mass producers to put out a child and maternity line.  Sure, it’s not upmarket, but why should fashion be exclusive?

 “I don’t know,” I say.

She launches into her opinion to compensate for my lack of voice, talking extra cheerfully until my father sinks back into his seat.  My mother’s a socialite.  She can make friends with anyone.  But she can’t get me to talk.  It’s not her fault.  I don’t dislike her.  I just... I don’t know why we have nothing to say.  She launches into a story about how she and my father have fallen in love with the simple lines of the kimono, which just happens to be the zeitgeist of the fashion world at the moment, but rather than go to Kyoto like the other fashion houses, my father decides to travel further north for inspiration.  His selling point is the dangerous ground between the trend and the fringe.

Somewhere during my mother’s story the altitude drops suddenly.  Her hands shoot out to grab my father’s and mine.  None of us have our trays down, but the champagne glass across the aisle goes flying.   I snatch it from the air when it crosses me, but I am unable to stop the contents from spilling everywhere.  The man I hand it back to laughs and says something to me.  I don’t hear it because at that moment, the plane tips again.

“Ladies and gentlemen please return to your seat and fasten your seatbelt.  We are going through a patch of turbulence.”

“Seatbelt, Connor,” my father says.

I roll my eyes and don’t reply.  I always keep it on.  He should worry more about himself. 

“He’s got it, honey,” my mother says on my behalf.   

I withdraw my hand from my mother’s tight grip to cross my arms.  I think they’re being overprotective.  Turbulence happens all the time. 

There’s another shuddering drop.  Another pause.  Then, the turbulence hits for real. 

There is no reprieve.  The plane is tossed worse than a roller coaster ride.  Everyone’s silent except for a baby back in economy who hasn’t yet learnt the unwritten rule of flying; don’t show how scared you are because you’ll look like an idiot later.  The turbulence is bad enough that everything not belted down or locked away will be bruised when this is over.

I hear my father tisk in disapproval.  He thinks that he knows better because one of his hobbies is flying.  I ignore him like everyone else and glare at the seat in front of me.  It will all be over soon.

The cabin’s lights flicker, dim, and extinguish altogether.  One of the passengers at the window seat slides his window cover up and a bright stream of light penetrates the cabin.  It is painfully bright.

I hear a terrible sound, somewhere between a groan and a roar.  Startled by it, I look around for other’s reactions, only to find that no one else has reacted.  Everyone else is sitting perfectly still.  Too still. I don’t need to prod my mother to know that she is unnaturally still.  My father’s face is in a mid blink, which makes him look like he’s about to sneeze.  Belatedly, I notice that the plane has stopped shaking too.  Everything is eerily still as the roar climbs louder and louder in my ears alone.

Something large blots out the light from the window.  I turn to see one great, terrible Eye outside the window, rolling and rolling, like an egg on a plate that’s tilted this way and that.  The moment I see it, it sees me and snaps to attention.  The depthless black iris bores through me.    

A voice sounds in my head.  It reverberates through my bones.  The words are foreign, but I am made to understand the meaning.

Death. Is. Imminent.

The Eye shows me the view over the plane.  I watch as an engine bursts into flames and the plane veers into the ocean on a bright blue day.  I see the impact knock most of the passengers unconscious.  These are the lucky ones.  The rest scream in their seats until they drown. 

Death. Is. Imminent.

What The Eye shows me is the future.  My mind balks at the thought of it.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

I shut my eyes tightly, but that is no protection against The Eye.   It’s still there.

Serve me.  Say my name.  Evoke my power.

I shouldn’t know its name, but I do.  There’s no choice but to say it.

“Enma.”  The word is heavy on my tongue.  It tastes like judgement and fire.  “Dai-o-enma.”

An unstoppable force crashes through me.  I cannot move.  I cannot stop it from tearing me apart, piece by piece, destroying my bones and sinew as it forces its way through my body and remakes it anew.  It’s not pain that I feel, but something much worse; some terrible divinity that is unbearable to approach.

Enma said that death is imminent.  With his power coursing through me, I believe it.

“Connor?”

My eyes snap open to see my mother’s face looming large in my vision.  The power inside me recedes and the sounds of the plane press around me. 

The patch of turbulence is over.  

Still, I can’t shake the picture of the plane sinking in the water.  Were my mother and father among those that lost consciousness?  Or did they hold onto each other as the plane sank?

“Connor?”

I give my mother the best smile I can muster.  My shaking hands are tucked tight against my beating chest, my arms hiding my distress from her sight.  She smiles back, reassured.  When she turns to check on my father, I let out the breath that I’m holding. 

I am sure I didn’t dream it up.  I can still hear the echoes of that terrible voice in my head. 

Death is imminent.  

Enma’s power curls up in me as a reminder and a promise. 
 
 

I'm going to write a few more posts than usual while I have the time because soon I will be thrown back into the hectic chaos of working (two jobs) and studying (full time) and living with the most awesome bronie I know (I only know one) who is also maybe a cat-human.

My December entry for the Labyrinth Writing Contest has been in for a while, but straight after submitting it I got back to editng my Nano and reading that fantastic book Solemn recommended.

A couple months ago Liz and I were talking about the contests for next year and I vollunteered as tribute to be essentially the Game Master for the 2017 rounds. The goal is to have something challenging enough that we all grow as writers, and the dream is to have more participation. But if there's one thing I've learned from my stint as the local psychologist association's acting secretary, it's that herding psychologists is like herding cats. And I'm sure writers are the same.

I don't really have a game plan yet, but I'm hoping whoever reads this will want to join in the fun. If so, head on over to the Labyrinth Forum and give some love particularly to the 3K Short Story Competition Thread. Sound off. Ask questions. Wait the X number of weeks before someone replies (haha, sorry). We are a friendly, brilliant, if scattered bunch. We have a Manatee. These are definately the droids that you are looking for!

Solemn Coyote has done it again.  He keeps recommending the best books.  It’s only a matter of time before he publishes one too, so watch that space. 

I’ve just finished reading Fated by Benedict Jacka, the first book of the Alex Verus series.  It’s one of those extremely satisfying urban fantasy novels where a decent guy tries to survive a world full of magical assholes.  It hits all the right notes in terms of pacing, characters, and action.   Best of all, it’s not unkind.

I’ve noticed a trend in movies, particularly action movies.  There’s often this one scene that is entirely unique.  Flying a tank.  Dragging a money vault through the streets.  If Fated was an action movie (which it totally could be), Benedict’s take on divination is that scene.  It’s not overpowered, it hasn’t been nerfed, it’s simply delightful.    
There’s seven more of these buggers to go in the Verus series.  I need to get my hands on the next one, or, as I told Solemn, ‘NEED MOAR’.

T Rasa in his infinite awesomeness has made a TV script out of Death March that perfectly captures the drudgery office workers endure.  He has graciously allowed me to post his first draft here, so I will do so without further ado:

I'm half way.  Never thought I'd get here.  The writing quality has dropped a bit, but the goal is to get it all down first.  Editing comes after. 

Sorry, Red, but I have to agree with the gnome and the sorceress.  You're pretty unhinged.

---

“I am not an expert on human behavior, so I am curious, Red, what are you doing?”

Red spun around to see Souskan, still rubbing his eyes as though he had not long woken.  How had he gotten to the stream so fast? 

“Go away!” she shouted at him, angry that he had interrupted her moment.  “Leave me be, gnome, this has nothing to do with you.”  I could feel a thick coating of embarrassment fueling her fire now.  She didn’t want Souskan to see her like this.  The gnome already thought she was crazy.  He was wrong of course, and he could never know the truth.  He would never understand.

The gnome sat down.  He was close enough to the ground that he could perch on any rock comfortably.  “Do you want to… talk?”

“No!  I do not want to talk about it!” The caution in his tone made her anger rise. 

“Mmmm.  Sometimes the burden is lighter shared.  I do not mind so much that you are upside down, but it pains me to see you like this.”

I agree with the gnome, I said unsympathetically.  You are quite unbalanced tonight. 

Red’s eyes bulged.

“I. Am. Not. Crazy!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.  She spied the Spoilmaster’s dagger still embedded nearby.  In that moment, if she had the knife in her hands, she could have killed him.

The gnome must have seen it in her eyes, for he reached for his wallet.  Red lunged at him.  There was a flash of pink and then the world went black.