BOOK REVIEW: The Blood Countess

My usual book reviewing haunt, www.awritergoesonajourney.com, is experiencing some technical difficulties. So for the time being, I shall post reviews on this blog and transfer them to AWGOAJ later.

When I first read of model, Tara Moss, becoming a writer, my initial reaction was 'yeah right - another celebrity wanting to play at being an author.' But unlike certain other celebs, Tara Moss is actually the real deal.

After realising this, I made a point of reading her crime novels and enjoyed them. After also seeing her in interview and even being on the receiving end of a tweet or two from her, I became quite the fan. Consequently I was quite interested in reading her new offering, The Blood Countess. That interest was pricked even more by learning of Moss's fascination with things Victorian gothic and being a little out of left field - how many other authors have their pet python, Thing, keeping them company while they attack the keyboard (the author that is, not the python)? And yes, I am honest enough to admit that I think Ms Moss is dead-set gawjus.

In all honesty I have mixed feelings about The Blood Countess. Don't get me wrong. I had no difficulties in becoming drawn into the story and read it in pretty quick time. That doesn't happen if I cannot get into a novel. However I was left a little puzzled by some of the naming conventions Moss has used. This is a novel with vampires, ghosts and general undeadishness. Pandora English has just moved to a darkly gothic mansion in New York, staying with her seemingly ageless great aunt with the mansion itself on Addams Ave (the Addams family?) The avenue is in the suburb of Spektor. Once you realise the presence of ghosts and undead, say that suburb name out loud just in case 'spectre' has passed you by. There is even a Morticia in the story although any resemblance to Morticia Addams ends with the name.

If this were a satire, that naming would have been a delight. But I do not get any sense of satire coming through, leaving me puzzled over why an author whose previous use of names complemented the story, would fall for this almost clumsy nomenclature this time.

I was also left with a sense that Pandora was not as well developed a character as Moss's previous protagonist, Makedde.

The influence of things like Bram Stoker's Dracula is apparent but that is hardly surprising given Moss's admitted fascination with that literary legend. And it certainly is not a crime to be influenced by something.

OK. Having expressed those reservations, the really important question was I sufficiently interested to to want to read the next Pandora English novel? Yes.

If you enjoy the gothic meeting the modern world, The Blood Countess is worth checking out. While different and perhaps not as strong a story that Moss's fans have seen in the past, I suspect they will like this one as well.

Stumped!

Well I am blowed if I know what is wrong with me.

It is NaNoWriMo time. I planned what I was going to be working on. I had chapters and scenes mapped out. My characters were developed. Everything was all set to go and make a real push to achieving the 50,000 words this year. Except for one thing. I have the worst case of writer’s block I have ever experienced.

Normally I argue that there isn’t any such thing as writer’s block. Sure, some days are a lot harder than others but I have discovered ways of helping the words to come. But for some reason, not one of them is working at the moment. Five days in and I am yet to even crack 4,000 words. I am becoming more than a bit frustrated.

Tomorrow I am supposed to be meeting with my writing partner for a writing session. Hopefully that will crack me into gear.

Vale John William (Jack) Hamilton

Not a rant this time, but a reflection.

Funerals are not the nicest of things as a rule and attending that of one of your parents is a sobering experience to put it mildly.

My father passed away quite suddenly recently, a week after his 81st birthday, and I was down in Victoria last week for the funeral. Dad had been ill for some time and had been failing. Fortunately, I saw him in hospital ten days or so before the end. In many respects, it was a relief that it was over. He certainly wasn't happy, even though he was terribly confused by it all by the end. In short, it was his time.

If there was one thing that my Dad absolutely hated, it was disorganisation. So his funeral was already organised, where it was to happen, his cremation, the presiding minister, the music he wanted played (his own recordings) and he had his eulogy already written.

Other members of the family organised anything that was left to be done. Mum had him dressed, not in a suit as such, but his favourite outfit which was what he looked best in. My brothers, sister, sister-in-law, nieces and nephews did a particularly good job of selecting appropriate images for a picture show that played during the service.

While Dad had written his own eulogy, the problem was that while being accurate, it did not reflect the man that people were going to remember, particularly his humour. I was asked to add to it, which I did with the help of memories from other members of the family. It grew from one page to almost four. On the day, I read the first half and one of my brothers read the second. It had the desired effect, with people laughing in pleasure with these memories of my Dad.

The chapel was a packed house. It was quite eerie to walk down the aisle, to the sound of my father's voice, singing. When it came to the picture show, people were talking quietly, making comments to each as pictures stirred memories, laughing at the humorous ones. I could also hear people in tears. A cousin of mine cried right through that part of proceedings.

My eldest niece, accompanied by the rest of the grandchildren, gave a short, tearful and heartfelt reflection of what Dad meant to them.

Even the weather cooperated. Threatening rain all day, it held off until after things were finished, although it made up for lost time afterward.

The true joy however was at the reception afterwards. As well as the family reunion that tends to happen on occasions like this, there were just so many people there that I had not seen for years and many that I did not know at all. One was a man Dad worked for before I was born. There was even a man there who had been at school with Dad, taught by my grandmother at their little country school, seventy years ago. How many years had it been since he last saw Dad? Pretty well every aspect of Dad's life was represented by that great variety of people.

The funeral director videoed the service and provided Mum with a copy on DVD. I am not ready to see that yet but in time I shall want to.

Yes, this was a time of sorrow and of mourning. But it was also a time of joy in remembering a man who touched so many lives, not least of which was the family that meant everything to him.

I'll miss you, Dad.

Call me Vinnie!

Well it is now official: I am a more successful artist that Vincent Van Gogh. You see, dear old Vinnie supposedly didn't seel any of his work in his lifetime although I understand he sometimes bartered the occassional piece for food and lodgings. So how am I more successful than him? Because I have just sold my first work in an exhibition!

The exhibition is being held in the gallery at the Belconnen Arts Centre where I work. A week or so out from the end of the submission period for the exhibition, the curator only had a handfull of submissions for the current exhibition, Belo Bizarre. So I decided to submit several pieces just to help boost numbers. To my considerable surprise, two pieces were selected for inclusion in the exhibition, despite a last-minute deluge of submissions.

This was such a new experience for me and I was thrilled to see them hanging in the gallery.


This afternoon was a meet the artists function in the gallery. So there I was, ghosting around, chatting to people. Then I saw it. A red dot by one of my works. I was in such shock, I had to go sit down with a coffee. And here's the proof that it happened.


A real irony of the situation is that as the bookkeeper, I have to submit an invoice to myself for payment at the end of the exhibition. Here's a low quality image of the work that was sold.

So, now I am an artist. And I have the name badge from this afternoon to prove it.

To really follow in Vinnie's footsteps, I had better get to hacking off extremities. And go find a hooker to present it to. Now where did I leave that carving knife?

A life chosen

I like to tell myself there is no such thing as Writer's Block. Sure there are days when words don't seem to want to come, when it would seem easier to pull your own wisdom teeth with a pair of pliers than to get a few words down on paper. But I tell myself, this is my job, this is what I have chosen to do. Writers write, so start bloodywell writing.

Wouldn't it be nice if that always worked.

Right now I am working on a short story. I can see the scenes in my head. I can hear my characters laughing and talking. I can hear the thumping music of the bar they are in. I can smell the spilled liquour and cigarette smoke. But what I cannot seem to do at the moment is get the damn words to come out properly. None of my usual tricks for kick-starting the right-brain into gear seem to work tonight.

This story is bouncing around inside of my head like an ant nest after petrol has been poured on it. But something has it well and truly bottled up inside there.

There are times when I really do wish I got my thrills from something easier, like wearing boxing gloves to sort fly crap from black pepper. But to plaigarise and butcher Mario Puza, this is the life that I have chosen. Still giving me the shits though.

REVIEW: True Logic of the Future - Boho

Boho present an interactive steampunk style science-fiction theatre work based on the 19th century economist, meteorologist, logician, musician, programmer, 3D photographer, philosopher and cloud-maker, William Stanley Jevons.

The above is a quote from the advertising for True Logic of the Future by the Boho Interactive performance group. I was quite puzzled about what to expect. Seeing as I work in the centre where the play is being performed, I had an early sneak peak at the set which was enough to convince me this was going to be something different.

Things start out differently from the moment you walk through the door of the 'theatre' (actually it's a dance studio that sometimes doubles as a performance venue). The bulk of the area is closed off by a wall and you have to walk around the outside of it in growing darkness until finding a doorway that lets you into the performance area. You then actually walk through the performance set to get to your seating.

The first impression is of a nineteenth century setting, yet the electronic music playing unobtrusively and a crackling, distorted voice-over, gives a steampunk feel to things. From here I have to be careful what I say lest I be guilty of spoilers.

Despite the nineteenth century appearance and dress, it soon becomes apparent that the play is actually dealing with a near-future scenario. Even my nemesis, my former employer, the Awful Bloody Shithole - sorry, I mean the Australian Bureau of Statistics - gets a mention. The consequences that the characters are dealing with are decidedly dire.

The audience becomes part of the performance, being a truly interactive experience. A lot of work has been put into developing this very interesting, thought provoking and well presented performance - definitely worth checking out either at its season at the Belconnen Arts Centre that finishes on July 18, or next month at the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney.

Never give up on the dream

Last weekend I saw a valuable and practical lesson in action.

One of the first editors to publish my fiction was my colleague in Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild, Nicole Murphy. Nicole was an author of short fiction and had been working at a fantasy trilogy for a looong time.

Last Saturday I attended the launch of Nicole's first novel, Secret Ones, the first of a trilogy purchased by HarperCollins. This was the reward of a lot of years' work, pushing on through all the self-doubt and conquering other problems.

This was a lesson for all of us - don't give up on the dream.

Good on ya Nicole