Next Big Thing

Ok, so I was tagged in this post a month ago, but with a few things that happened I had to postpone my blog.

But it’s now a new year; there’s a new outlook, better vibes.

So, the Next Big Thing.

1) What is the working title of your next book?
1000: Time Paradox

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?
There’s a longish story behind this, but the credit firmly lies with Machine of Death . The first anthology has been published, and you can download it for free here. The boys (Ryan North, David Malki and Matthew Bernnardo) were asking for submissions for the second anthology so I thought, “hey why not?” I started writing it, and then hit and exceeded the 7,500 word limit. So I continued and continued and suddenly I had a novel.

3) What genre does your book fall under?
This one’s a bit tricky. I would say Sci-Fi, but it’s also humour, and later end of the spectrum YA (the characters are in their early twenties).

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?
Now this one I couldn’t answer. Young Australian actors are hard to come by, and there really aren’t any that look remotely like my characters.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Dean Harris, a twenty something loser from 2011, uses an app on his phone to travel into the future where knowing how you die determines your status, and he’s the global power.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Due to some of the themes and companies that I speak about, I will have to self pub this one. I think if I ever get around to writing the sequel I would try to get that one through a publisher.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
It’s so far taken me a year and a half and it is still unfinished. It’s in desperate need of an overhaul.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
It’s similar to the stories told in 1984, Brave New World, Blind Faith, but it’s a new modern version. It’s that same hierarchial story that’s been told time and time again, but the thing that divides society is knowing how you die. So it’s the same story, but it’s different. It looks at things in a very real way, and proposes a very possible future.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?
All the shit heads that I grew up with in the South Eastern suburbs of Victoria

10) What else about this book might pique the readers interest?
The main character is gay. This is obviously not an LGBT book, but I think it’s time that we stop pretending that being LGBT is something special.
There is no true love, just some lust.
Also it doesn’t shed a nice light onto Apple.

And now I tag:

Elspeth Allison

Shannon Bell

Daniel Congdon


So now you’ve heard about it, where’s it at? Well…
It’s sitting on the 50 – 60 thousand word mark. No, nothing to sneeze at there, and I self edit as I go so it’s a tight narrative.
Most of it was written quickly, foolishly, recklessly. A skull crushing, brain smashing gung ho that disallowed contemplation. The result is a 50 – 60 thousand word wonder that is full of holes. The characters kept secrets from me, laughing and shaking their heads as they watched me charging through, knowing that I’d have to drag my sorry self back to the beginning, eventually, grin sheepishly, and start again.
And I ignored them for the most part and continued. Only to hit the brick wall of ‘plot-stuck’ and admit defeat.
And then the characters shared their secrets, let me in on what I didn’t know. And when I asked “why didn’t you say sooner?” They replied “Sooner you wouldn’t have believed us. You would have brushed it off and rubbished the idea. The story still would not have worked.”
And so here I am now, with an influx of information, having to trudge all the way back to chapter two to infuse this new knowledge into what was already written. And considering how much is there… Well, it’s no small task.
So it has been put on a sort of hiatus, until I learn all the secrets. I don’t want to do this writers walk of shame a second time.

On a side note, related and not, I’ve been wondering about crime writers. Mostly if they know who the criminal will be before the end? Do they set up their cast of characters and let them wonder through the narrative on their own accord? Is the author as clueless to the identity of the master criminal as the detective? Or do they know? Do they set it all up, letting the villain leave their trail of clues, encouraging them here and there to leave more if the author thinks it too subtle?
I like the idea of the former. The author with no knowledge, leaving what they think are the right clues, but could be red herrings. When the murderer prestiges themselves in that final act, the author is a little surprised, a little amused and with a laugh says “Of course it was you. It really couldn’t have been anyone else.”
I have a similar character. They started as a name, a nothing, throwaway character, a relationship.
Then they grew.
Grew into their name, grew a personality, a background, their own relationships. And they left me a clue. An incidental line said by someone else, one that didn’t mean anything at the time, was just a glimpse into their half formed life. But then, later, when the narrative was rocketing along, two thirds of the way in, there they were, in a ‘Ta-Da!’ smiling and waving and saying how of course I should have known it was them. And I looked back through what I had written and realised that they were right, it was all there, all the clues, some subtle, some glaringly clunkingly obvious, and in that ‘Ta-Da’ I laugh and smile and say “Of course it was you, it really couldn’t have been anyone else.”

NaNoWriMo fail

So, NaNoWriMo has ultimately fallen in a messy heap because… Well, let’s just say because life. Definitely going to try again next year and hopefully write something worth something.

Also, Christmas is eating/draining/ruining my life. No time bro!

Long awaited update

I haven’t updated for a long time, not because I have abandoned 1000: Time Paradox, but because my life has been running short on time. 1000: Time Paradox had been left for a while for the same reason, so there hasn’t been much for me to write about. Plus I’ve realised where things in the plot really need to change (the problem with not having enough time to write a complete first draft before reading through what I’ve already written) so I’ve had to do a lot of rethinking in that regard. I’ve put my hand up for NaNoWriMo this year, but I don’t know how close to the word limit I’ll get. It’s been hard to find time to do anything let alone trying to think enough to write. I tend to sleep in my spare time, so that makes things difficult. In saying that, it’s only been three days so far, so who knows? Maybe I’ll write an easy thou tonight? I’m writing the parallel book for NaNoWriMo, Zero: Unrecorded, which is from the point of view of Maddy, Steph and Brent (Dean’s little sister, ex and best mate, respectively) and covers the events that happen after Dean leaves, and deals with the lead up to the future in 1000: Time Paradox. It’s kind of interesting to write about that. There are certain scenes that get repeated from the POV of other characters that where there, and there’s more information about Steph and his group of friends (who I created around the same time as/maybe before the original first sneaking ideas of 1000: TP worked their way into my head, which was about 7 years ago!) so it’s a fun little exercise. It’s a lot more emotional than 1000: TP so that little rollercoaster is enjoyable too. I’ll try to keep more on top of everything now that things are starting to slow down (and I have a tablet with a keyboard so I don’t have to get out my clunky old laptop which I REALLY need to replace…)

Rabbit hole day 2 + day 1 update

Ok so last night I joined 20 other people online to write my little heart out. We word vomited for 2 hours! And boy was it awesome.

In yesterday’s blog I gave my Time Paradox stats update and because I’m a bit of an idiot, I posted it without the page quantity, and then didn’t think to edit it until AFTER I’d completed Rabbit hole day 1. Which meant I had no idea of what the pages were. So I edited it and put the current stats:

41,627 words

I downloaded a trade template so I could get a better idea of what my page count was. I had been guessing from what A5 might look like. So now I can tell you that I’ve written 142 trade pages. Physical pages we’re back to Utopia.


So, today I will be knuckling down to kick some novel arse over an amazing 10 hours! Wow.

To help me I have bundled up some supplies, mascots etc. and hopefully they’ll help me achieve today’s target of 15,000 words!

Super warm clothes: Nyan cat scarf, owl hat, hobo gloves and centuries old trackies

My cow mascot, who I had to save from work, wearing my glasses (I of course will be wearing these when I write)

To help me through all parts of the day

Yesterday I said i wanted to write 3,000 words. So did I do it?

Hell yes I did. 3,003 words finished by 8pm. I did have to take a moment to collect myself after I wrote a certain part, but apart from that all went to plan. And for my first 1,000 words I recieved THIS:

1,000 word LOLcat

Time Paradox: Update 3 + Blurb + Rabbit Hole

Chapter 7 , 8 + 9 are now complete!!

The stats

41,627 words

I downloaded a trade template so I could get a better idea of what my page count was. I had been guessing from what A5 might look like. So now I can tell you that I’ve written 142 trade pages.
Physical pages we’re back to Utopia.


So I have been promising this for a while, and here it is. It’s not exactly anything amazing, but at least I’ve done it, and now everyone knows what it’s about:


“It can be difficult living in a time when knowing how you die determines how you’ll live”

When Dean, an early twenties, Apple obsessed, technology hungry Emo, discovers a time travel app on his iPhone, his life takes an interesting turn.
After a heavy night of drinking he wakes up in 2141, 130 years from home in a Melbourne quite unlike the one he left behind. Social hierarchy is determined by the strangeness of your death and Apple Inc. is the technological and global monopoly.

But what happens when someone from the past turns out to be the most influential person in society? Dean is suddenly burdened with the fate of the nation and has to put his selfish nature aside for the good of the country.

A comedic sci-fi futurist adventure set in the heart of 2141 Melbourne, 1000: Time Paradox sets out to question what you can trust, and more importantly, who.





And lastly, what is the rabbit hole??

Ok, so in half an hour I’ll be in a 22hr writing lockdown. The goal is 30,000 words. Sounds hell of a lot, yeah?
Well… not really, but I’ll get to that.

I’m part of the online team, which is better for me I guess. I applied to be in the Melbourne one but didn’t get in. So instead I’m hiding out at my mum’s (she’s overseas) which is out in the back of nowhere. I can hide out in a familiar environment, and still be part of a wider community.

I’ve also collected a small unofficial team with HG, Chanon and DearJess. HG and Chanon are coming to keep me company on Sunday and we’ll be celebrating the end of the weekend with Nando’s.


So, how do I plan to write a staggering 30,000 words? Well, lets do the math.

3,000 words tonight, 15,000 tomorrow and 12,000 Sunday.

Still sounds a lot right?

So, lets do more math (I like math).

Because I can only touch type with my right hand I type an average of 40 words per minute when I’m copying text (I’m faster than that when I’m writing fresh text but have no way to measure that).

So, taking my very measly 40 per minute as the starting point, if I wrote solidly for 22 hours, I would have typed 52,800 words. Not too shabby, hey? That’s 22,800 more than I need to. Suddenly 30,000 doesn’t seem all that bad!

Ok, so I won’t be typing non stop for 22 hours, so I won’t hit 52,800, but hopefully I’ll get pretty close.

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Who am I, and why should you care?

So I realised the other day that I’ve been writing this blog as if everyone knew exactly what I was talking about, what I’m doing, what Machine of Death actually is, and who the hell I was.

And then I realised that y’all don’t have precognition, ESP, or clairvoyancy so I thought I’d take the time to fill in those gaps.

Firstly, Who Am I?

Well, no one really. And by that I mean, no one famous, no one you should have already heard about (unless you follow obscure Melbourne independent theatre in the form of the four star The Play About Nothing and the comparatively crap A Fire, The Fire and Less Than ❤ Three, Because I Heart U) or unless you follow me on twitter (and even then I only write drivel)

So, I started life out as a short story writer, had a bit of fun with it, and won an award in year 12. Then I decided to try my hand at theatre, enjoyed that for a while, but figured it wasn’t the storytelling platform for me. I mean, I still enjoy theatre and making theatre but there’s so much more I want to say. So, now I’ve moved onto novel writing. I’ve always wanted to write a book, and have had a few ideas lurking around my brain, so why not? And the whole Emo to the future/Machine of Death mash-up was a great starting point.

Oh and also, I look like this, so I’m pretty much a rock star. (ha ha ha)

Rock star writer hair and about a million (11) earrings

Oh, and just so you know (not that I will post opinion based rants here) I don’t share the views of the internet. I own a blackberry not an iPhone or Andriod phone, I use bing and not Google, and I like to see the good in situations. Now, don’t think I’m some sort of crazy hippy that thinks the world is made of rainbows and puppies (though that would be a rockin’ world) but it takes an unecessary amout of energy to hate things, to be cynical and snide, and to make other people feel awful about themselves because you want to be snarky. I don’t have much time or energy, and I really can’t be bothered wasting it on being a dick. Besides, every moment has the opportunity for us to learn so why not take the lesson and the good point from those moments rather than hate on them? (as I pointed out here I’m @jebdarsh btw) But hey! What do I know?

In regards to the book:

I still haven’t written my blurb yet (I will soon, I promise!), but in terms of what I’m writing, who the voice of the book is etc etc, I’m borrowing a bit from The Play About Nothing and using a South Eastern Suburbs of Victoria low socioeconomic area 20 something unemployed male. So the outlook is bleak and lazy, easily awed and swayed. A fun voice to write in, but an unimaginative one. The first person perspective gives added insight into Dean, but less observation of the world. It’s challenging and there’s more I want to say about the environment he’s in, but I have to accept that he’s telling the story, I’m just writing it, so I only have the limited view that he has to explain the society.

What I’m really trying to do with this particular book is start predicting a future. I’ve been watching a nifty show called Prophets of Science Fiction and realistically, there is a lot that has been predicted by novelists that are now day-to-day basics. I want to look at what the world would be 100 or so years from today, taking what technology we have here and now and what is the most likely outcome in the future following the current trends. And let me tell you, we’re painting an interesting future for ourselves. Personal and entertainment tech is heading in an interesting direction, and what internet companies are monopolising now will almost certainly not even exist in 20 years, let alone 100.

If you have interests in technology, in augmented reality, patent wars with smart phones, and who is buying who, check out the articles in the Predicting the Future page. I update them as I find more info, so keep an eye on it.

And that, I guess, for now anyway, sums that up

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Time Paradox: Update 2

Chapter 6 is complete and I’ve started on chapter 7.

The stats:

34,919 words

Somewhere between 150 – 190 pages (85 A4).

In terms of physical pages we’re looking at something like my copy of Brave New World. If I work hard enough this time next month it will be as long as Brave New World and Utopia combined.

I’m really excited to start on chapter 7 as all of my research on modern technology, on smartphones, on the big websites will come into fruition. Suddenly things are going to get a lot more interesting. I am waiting for the results on the Oracle vs Google trial (I have been following it over here) which will change how certain information is delivered, but if the outcome is as expected, considering where things are sitting at this point, I’m sure I won’t have to change too much.

Other relevant things:

My dear friend Chanon (who is creating her own graphic novel based story over here) and I watched the fully reconstructed and restored Metropolis. The beautiful 1927 inspiration for most modern Science Fiction stories. It was fanstastic and I am a little upset that I hadn’t seen it before now. I found it a very visually clever film, it was obvious that Fritz Lang had a real vision for it. At 2 1/2 hours it was painstakingly long (for a silent film), but persevering through it really paid off. Themes were fanstic and the separation between the workers and the upper class was just so wonderfully done. And it’s really nice that it hasn’t been modernised. I would love to rewatch it soon and take some notes.

I also purchased iDisorder. A psycological study on what technology is doing to us, our addictions and what we can do to to accept that it’s part of our lives and to control that addiction. A bit like being an alcoholic but still being able to have a drink, or a gambler that can bet on a horse. I’ve only read half of the first chapter, but it seems like it will be a useful study.

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Writers Club version two

Ok, so we didn’t actually end up getting to writers club last night due to a various amalgamation of events. One of which was HG’s crazy late arrival home (he started a new job and decided to stay behind and watch his boss doing… something? Ah boys. What can I say?)

But we did intend to go. For all intents and purposes if he hadn’t gotten home so late we would have gone. I even wrote an amusing little piece about addiction:

Nightmare in 21 shades of pink

I promise you, it wasn’t even my idea. I don’t even like them. And yet, here we are.

But that’s always how it starts, isn’t it?

The first one was a present, a misguided birthday or Christmas gift from some crumbling, forgotten relative. You know the type, one who calls you by your sister’s name, or your mother’s, and who talks to you like you’re seven. And you’re never quite sure exactly who they belong to, but they always smell like minties and cats, and drink tea like it’s about to expire.

The thing was small and wrapped in pre-war pink paper. And, my God, was it ever ugly. It smelt like fake roses and dust, and it just smacked of cute. One of those bizarre objects that people make because girls are supposed to like them. A hideously adorable thing manufactured in China that you had to wonder why anyone in their right mind would think someone might like it, let alone make it.

But I smiled my 11 year old smile and thanked them anyway and promised (very quietly to myself) to smash it to pieces when no one was looking.

Except somehow or other I never got the chance, and it wound up on my bedside table, or tallboy, or somewhere obtrusive in my room, the horrible little thing staring at me with its beady eyes and wonky painted smile, cobwebs drifting from its nose. Mum dusted it occasionally saying that it was a lovely, thoughtful present from Great Aunt What’s-her-name and I should be thankful.

Yeah, right.

But at least there was only the one. Well, for a short blessed while. Until, that is, my 16th birthday when I recieved another one. Yes, now there were two of the hideous things. It came from some no-name girl in my class who I’d invited only because I’d been told I had to and who had vaguely been to my house once before when we’d been forced to do an assignment together. She’d seen the God-awful thing while we were pouring through books about the Taj Mahal, and thought that I quite liked them. Oh how wrong she was.

Mum said it was “nice” and put it with the first one, the two of them adorning my shelf or dressing table or wherever it was, just looking at me. Of course, my friends thought this was the most amusing thing they’d ever seen, and so it began. Every birthday, Christmas, Easter, and holiday gift I got at least one more. By the time I moved out, I had about forty of the damn things to pack.

Yes, forty. How I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but I’m really not. Tell me, who, in all honesty, needs forty ceramic mice, pigs, cows, frogs, hippos, cats, dogs, crocodiles, you name it, in pink tutus and ballet slippers? Horrifying things, covered in glitter and diamonties, ones that played music, ones that twirled. Some were on jewellery boxes, others on picture frames and mirrors. And some, like the first dancing frog, were awkwardly sized ornaments.

The funny thing is, I hate ballet, absolutely loathe it. I mean, I tried to like it, I really did. I saw a few shows at the local art centre, two or three at the State Theatre, but no matter how many I saw, I just couldn’t understand what was going on. The girls looked pretty, sure, and the boys were quite buff, but what they were dancing about, I couldn’t tell you, not for the life of me.

But that still didn’t stop the tidal wave of the stupid things coming in.

My husband, bless him, bought me one for our first anniversary. It was a swan, and a lot better quality than the other hundred or so (I did say the collection had grown) that occupied every surface of our house. But his grin was so big, and his eyes so bright when he gave it to me that I just didn’t have the heart to tell him I disliked the awful things. And so, every year without fail, he started adding to the stockpile. But he’d buy fancier ones, crystal, hand painted porcaline, bone china, a broze statuette. His pride and joy came in the form of a marble fountain, which we put in the garden, and that he began taking special care of.

Now, my thoughts about anthropomorphic ballerina (they were always female) animals had not changed in the slightest over the years. The look of one still filled me with disgust and the flamboyant femaninity of them still made me cringe, but there did come a day where I found myself in a little homemade crafts shop, one of those kitchy cottage ones, holding a hand stitched ballerina bear. Once I realised what I was doing I put it down and promptly left the shop.

Only to retun a week later and buy the damn thing.

And that’s when I started truly collecting.

We decided to place them in cabinates, so as not to break them or chip some of the older pieces. We filled two immediately and had to buy more. By the end of that year we’d filled four cabinets to bursting and the loungeroom was too full of them to move.

So we decided to renovate. Dedicate a whole room to the unsightly things. And so we spoke to the architect, the builder and the decorator and by the end of the following year it was finished. The Ballerina Room my husband called it. I called it hell.

But still, every year I get at least ten more. Half of which I buy myself, though I’m ashamed to admit it. At last count there were just under eight hundred dancing animals and they were worth (including my husband’s bigger, more expensive purchases) around $10,000. And every day I sit in that room, hating the eight hundred ballerinas and how much of my life they’ve swallowed, and every day I think of what good that $10,000 could have done elsewhere.

The little dancing frog that Great Aunt Thing-a-ma-jig had given me that fateful day sat pride of place in a glass box in the centre of the room. I still keep that promise to pound it to dust when no one’s looking, but it won’t be done today. No, today is when I pick up that $800 hand crafted Danish designed prima ballerina tigress I ordered.

Which did keep me occupied for a while.


I applied to be a part of The Rabbit Hole, which is an intense 30,000 words in 26 hours three day event as part of the Emerging Writers festival. I didn’t actually get in but I am first on the waiting list. And I have decided that even if I don’t actually get in I’ll do the event anyway (I’m sure that there will be a very conclusive list of spelling errors in what I write. I can’t touch type but can type fast enought with just my right hand to make up for it.) I’m not sure how I’ll go or if I will succed at all, but I have to try, right? Either way, I’ll hopefully be 30,000 words richer into Time Paradox by the end of it. Which is still coming along quite nicely though a bit slowly. Still, I am enjoying writing it and already have plans for a sort of spin off novel.


It is the Willy Lit Fest this weekend. Yes! My new home town has it’s own literary festival! Which, if the sore throat I have doesn’t attack in full force I shall be attending with vigor! I am very excited for it.

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Toby Litt

Toby Litt is a special writer. There’s just something magical about how he writes, something very personal.

Reading his books helped clear my head, helped put me back together.

He writes his books in alphabetical order. He’s up to ‘L’.



I started with ‘H’ospital

I dove head first into Hospital almost immediately after I came out of hospital.


A fascinating and bizarre. But not illogical. Strange but strange “because”. Never “is”.

About a boy who ate an appleseed. And a man who won’t wake up. And people who heal. And voodoo. And satanism. And sacrifice.

It’s about wishes at midnight. About a nurse made of rubber. About a tree. And a gentle nurse. And the pathologists in the basement.

It’s about dismembered bodied that regrow. And it’s about dreams and nightmares.


I went backwards after that. To ‘G’

To ‘Ghost Story’

To the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Harder than the realisation that my body does not function quite as perfectly as it should.

Harder than the phone call after the dress of my first show telling me my grandfather had passed away. Harder than the dreams that followed.

I borrowed and reborrowed that book so many times before I would even open it. Before I would let myself read it.

I was terrified that it was about real ghosts, and not the ghost it was.

But I did. Finally.

I regretted it immediately.

I regretted the hurt, the anguish.

I regretted not reading it sooner.

The opening chapters were real. Coming from a real place. From his memory not his mind. From the mouths of the three neverborn children. Of the ones who were flushed not scraped away.

And the story was about them, for them. About her, about the pain of loving something so completely and losing it before you even knew it, her. Before you even held her. It was a her.

Every turn of the page was like I had been sliced open, like everything had been taken out and I was left to lie there. More naked and more exposed than ever I’d been. So vulnerable.

And then someone kind had put me back together.

Only to tear me open once more.

I love that book. It made me realise just how in love I was. Am.


From there I went to ‘J’ourney into Space.

The most realistic story of abandoning Earth I have ever read.

I was repulsed by the sheer human nature of it. Of the incest and the rape. Of the longing for an idea. Of the futility of that longing. Of the self destruction.

Mostly of the realism.

It made me more afraid than anything else for the possible need to leave Earth.

I never want to Journey into Space.


‘K’ for King Death saw him back in hospital. But not Hospital.

A heart thrown from the window of a train. Not possible in Australia. Reminds me of the day I walked out of a train to see the door covered in blood. An image that will haunt me.

A small, very Japanese, pseudo detective, Kumiko.
And Skelton. Session musician.

Broken up, but looking for answers. More a personal journey than a mystery solved.

Kumiko smoked to find answers, to make friends, to leave. To move in with medical students. To meet with the accused. To get thrown out of court. To get away from Skelton.

Skelton guessed to get Kumiko back, to write songs, to find one answer. To date someone else. To go to a lecture. To ask misguided questions. To find Kumiko.


Corpsing for ‘C’

For murder. Or suicide. It depends.

For a hit in a restaurant. The path of 6 bullets.

For actors and theatre and drugs and lust.

For babies and affairs and mothers-in-law.

For wheelchairs and coughing and 17 year olds.

For kidnapping and lies.

For revenge.

And the theatre. My word, the theatre!


‘E’ is Exhibitionism.

Short stories. Some brilliant. Some lacklustre.

Two about Clap and Syph. About a band called okay.

Most about sex, about vulnerability. Some about things that are, and things that will never be.

And Alphabed.

I want an Alphabed.

Clap and Syph came back in ‘I’. In I play the drums in a band called okay.

The rock and roll lifestyle. What it means. Touring. Affairs Marriage.

Drugs and faith. Ghosts and fishing. Giving it all up for family after giving up family for music.

What music means, what music feels. What it does to your soul. How it destroys it.

About death and near death.

About passion.


I found myself in ‘F’inding Myself.

Victoria took her friends on a mission.

On a mission to expliot them.

To exploit them for her own gain.

To gain a manuscript for her new novel.

A new novel to increase her fame.

A fame that comes with a price.

And what a price.


‘D’ then, for Deadkidsongs.

For a voice that came from one of them, from none of them.

For war. For the best father. For a death avenged.

For extinction, for sickness, for the only way out.

For love.

For the thought it all might be untrue.

For a story more horrifying than American Psycho.


‘B’eatnicks next.


Maggie and the boys.


A driving adventure.

Creating a magazine.


A car left abandoned.

The death of koko.



The return of a friend.

A free mind and a clear vision.


And Adventures in Capitalism is ‘A’.

More short stories.

A girl in a washing machine that I check for everytime.

Wagamama, and the fact I can no longer eat there.


A man with a sunflower.

My best friend is a trade mark, just like Starfighter Pilot.



Toby is an amazing man. Like a lover, I can’t imagine a life without him in it. He writes the way I need him to, the way that talks straight to my head, heart.

He is my inpiration, and my hero.

I thank him for his work.

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I Ship It!

Before you do anything else with this post:
Read this first!

T-Rex talks about Titanic!

Otherwise none of this will make sense. Honest!

And then, because I wrote about kind of famous ships, you might want to read these pages to learn more about

The QE2

The QE2 in Melbourne in 2008

The Endeavour

The original Endeavour

The Enterprize

Or you can just read:



The Outcome of her Endeavour


The QE2 was sitting in the dock, observing the summer night’s sky as she was being prepared for tomorrow’s wedding. She listed gently in the lapping waves as the men and women clambered about her interior, cleaning and repairing, restocking and refreshing. She was not excited about the celebration, she had spent most of her life on the sea whilst still in service, ensuring passengers enjoyed their nautical holiday, priding herself on her always job well done, she wished more than anything to get out of port since she had retired to Dubai. As a cruise liner built for purpose she never enjoyed being in berth for too long, except once, a long time ago.

She felt the last of the sun’s rays drop down below the horizon and noted each star as it twinkled into being in the night’s sky. She knew each one, her little compasses, and knew if the Satellite Navigation systems ever went down, she could safely bring her people home. She creaked her hull. Her favourite navigators, the one constellation she adored more than any other she could not see from her current mooring. It was halfway across the world, and she’d gotten to know it well one fateful night, many years ago.


*                                  *                                  *


Melbourne was abuzz with the news; the QE2 would be making port in their docks, her last stop in Melbourne before she retired. She would be sailing in the next day, berthing for only 24 hours.

The flashy, pompous yachts gossiped relentlessly amongst themselves about how it was because of their social status that such a magnificent honour had been bestowed upon the port. Little tinnies spoke in hushed tones, not feeling worthy to receive such a celebrity. The young boats, recently bought catamarans, dinghies and a row of kayaks, had only heard of the QE2 in passing, and didn’t know what to expect when she sailed in, but the excitement of the port had them waiting expectantly for her arrival.


Word had travelled westward to the Enterprize. She flapped her sails in disgust when she had heard the news. Surely the folk of Melbourne were happy enough with their own celebrities, herself and her brother ship the Endeavour. He was modelled after Captain Cook’s own Endeavour, and was therefore much grander than a silly cruise liner. He would scoff when he heard of the QE2’s arrival, though he wasn’t to arrive in Melbourne himself until that evening.

The Enterprize rocked with discontent against her docking. How could the people get in such a fuss over nothing? What a farce this would be, such a liner would overshadow the little ships of the harbour and what would the people gain? Historically speaking, she and the Endeavour were far more relevant to them, both ships replicating important nautical figures to the Australian public. But who would listen to her? The other boats in the bay were enthusiastic about the arrival, and her brother was still on his way from Sydney. She tugged her mooring in frustration and bobbed broodily with the current.


The Endeavour sped through the waves as a high wind pushed him forward, the passengers and crew enjoying the beautiful evening weather and fast paced travel. This was what he was built for, taking passengers around Australia, showing them how sea farers lived, and speeding with the coastal winds around the continent. But he was looking forward to berthing in Melbourne. He did miss his sister ship, and it would be nice to see the bay again. They were due to arrive that evening, the winds were in their favour and it seemed as though they would arrive when expected.

The sun was starting to dip as they rounded the South-East coast, passengers retiring to their last meals and crew making preparations for port. As they sailed across the bottom of Victoria, there she was. The magnificence of the QE2 was visible from the hundreds of nautical miles separating them. He swayed unsteadily in the current, pulling hard to starboard. What was such a ship doing here? Why had she chosen to berth in Melbourne? The Endeavour pushed on, resolving to discuss matters with the Enterprize once he had docked and his passengers and crew disembarked for the night.


She was a sight to behold. The QE2 swayed impressively in her new home in the Melbourne docks. Passengers and crew clambered out of her enormous interior and onto the warf, some having been at sea with her for months on end. She mused to herself as the people found their land legs and the dusk rolled in heavily. How good it was to stop for a moment, to recollect her thoughts and recharge. The sun was near setting and she had settled herself down to enjoy a nice clean when he sailed in. A rugged bark with a wooden bow, his sails billowing handsomely as the winds blew him into the bay, his hull plump with passengers. She couldn’t help herself, a quiver ran through her very bildge and her motor purred. She didn’t know who this young ship was, but she decided she wouldn’t rest until she found out.

Later that evening she enquired the ship’s identity from the surrounding boats. Most were too in awe of her to give her a straight answer, but eventually a yacht looking to impress gushed and revealed his name to be Endeavour. She rolled it over her engine, Endeavour. She liked the sound, very regal, very adventurous. She waited until the passengers and crew had settled down for the night, broke her mooring and silently stole out into the midnight waters.


The Endeavour and the Enterprize were quietly discussing the QE2’s presence in their normally undisturbed port when the looming figure of the mighty liner drifted slowly out of the harbour. The Enterprize pitched violently from bow to stern, she was aggravated that the celebrity liner had the audacity to break mooring and roam freely in her water. The Endeavour was wery though not as outraged as his sister. He bade the Enterprize to still her anger and explained that he would talk to the liner. The Enterprize calmed herself and agreed, wishing her brother be careful.

He too broke mooring and sailed quietly out of the dock. The QE2 slowed her speed as he approached. Up close she was far larger a vessel than he had realised when he had first seen her. He dipped his bow in greeting and she purred her engine in return. She explained to him her reason for berthing in his home port and his hull felt a little lighter and less uptight. The Endeavour listed slightly in her direction, after all she was an impressive ship and although older, still quite beautiful. He floated awkwardly, unsure of what else to say to the majestic liner when she broke his thought.

“What are they?” She creaked quietly motioning to the stars.

“The stars?” He asked, a slight breeze whispering through his sails.

“Yes, but those ones.”

She was tipping her bow towards the Southern Cross, the symbol of Australia, and the most used navigators of the Southern Hemisphere.

He bobbed happily. “Come. They’re better seen from open water. I’ll show you.” He unfurled his sails and led the mighty liner out of the bay.


The Enterprize watched in disgust as the liner wooed her brother in the blue tinge of night. And as she saw the Endeavour lead her away, she knew that he had succumbed to her charms.


*                                  *                                  *


The Endeavour was making port in Sydney and the crew were preparing him for the next morning’s launch. He would be returning home! How wonderful to see Port Phillip Bay again, and his piratical sister, the Enterprize. How he was looking forward to berthing and going in for maintenance, it would be nice to rest for a while.

The waves of Darling Harbour rocked him gently as he watched the sun set on the horizon and he dreamed of docking at home, the passengers gone, the crew a mere skeleton. He longed to let down his sails and relax, for the first time since he had been built. He drifted lazily as the last of the sun’s rays dropped down below the horizon. He noted each star as it twinkled into being in the night’s sky. His favourite navigators, the one constellation he adored more than any other was sitting above him. The Southern Cross, and he’d gotten to know it well one fateful night, many years ago.

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