Exclusive Interview with Zeraphina and Rodden at Eleusinian Mysteries

Want to read the ONLY between-the-novels piece I've written? Then go here, to the Eleusinian Mysteries blog and read Brodie's lucky last Valentine's Blog Event post. There's some hints about Rodden's past and a chance to  see Zeraphina from another's perspective. The interview takes place shortly before the events of Blood Storm. I can't wait for you guys to read book two!

Also, COVER NEWS. I have seen it, dear readers. The cover of Blood Storm. It's absolutely gorgeous. So atmospheric, wild and beautiful. I didn't imagine anything could top the Blood Song cover, but this blows it out of the water.

My designer is adding the final touches of fairy dust and dragons' blood (it's very technical, what these designers do) and running it past a battery of love spells and courage potions, and then you'll be able to gaze upon it too.

The Hatchet Job: Celebrating a roasting?

The inaugural Hatchet Job of the Year award was presented today (the 7th in the UK). As its name suggests, it's a literary prize unlike the Man Booker or the Pulitzer. First of all, it's given to a reviewer, not a writer; specifically, to a reviewer who penned "the angriest, funniest, most trenchant" review published in a magazine or newspaper in 2011." The award is essentially celebrating a roasting done in a show-offy way.

That doesn't seem right, I thought to myself. That's just not cricket, as they say.

Then I read a few of the reviews on the shortlist. And they are very good. They brought to task shallow biographers, glaring errors, literary wankery. I read the rest. And I liked them.

In two minds, but erring towards the I-don't-like-its, I described the award to T over dinner last night, which I originally read about in a Wheeler Centre post. His feelings were very different to mine. (Let the record show that he's not a big reader and doesn't know his Bookers from his Brownlows; but he's got a brain between his ears and can form an opinion or two.) He thought it was essentially a positive: "If it means authors will write better books, then surely that's a good thing? And how serious is the prize, anyway?"

Not at all serious, it seems. The prize is a year's supply of potted shrimp.

While eating I remembered another similar award, similar in that it celebrates something bad: the Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Oh boy. In it's nineteenth year, the award's intention is "to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it". (Interestingly, the award has gone mostly to men. Another example of gender bias in lit awards or are we happy to let this one slide?)

Sotto voce, I read aloud passages to T from last year's winner as we ate our dumplings, David Guterson's Ed King (he of Snow Falling on Cedars fame), a modern retelling of Oedipus. There was much snorting with laughter over the spectacularly unerotic prose. (Guterson received news of the dubious honour with equanimity: "Oedipus practically invented bad sex, so I'm not in the least bit surprised".)

I can take glee in the Bad Sex award. I even enjoyed reading the shortlisted reviews for the Hatchet Job. But still something in me recoils from it. The latter celebrates the shredding of an entire book, even if it is with wit and nous.

The shortlisted books are written by award winning authors who presumably sell well. They can, it's possible, take such things in their stride. I doubt an award that took aim at reviews of midlist books would be received half as well. And can you imagine if the blogosphere set up such a thing? As much as the Twilight-bashing goes on, I just can't see it happening without howls of protests from all quarters.

I don't entirely condemn the Hatchet Job (seriously, read the reviews, they are illuminating to say the least). But as I said--*holds glass of Pims, twitches satin frock*--it's just not cricket.

~~~

I'm bound to be squeamish, being an author. But a lot of you are reviewers. What do you think about this? Will writers write better books? If you're a writer, do you think about what reviewers will think of your book as you write? Do you like dumplings??

I'm on Facebook

Yep, you can totally like me on Facebook now. Go on, click the link. You know you want to. I'll be posting bits of writing advice and updates on the LHARMELL books. I'll even be doing the cover reveal of BLOOD STORM there. Why would you not go hit like?

Reluctant Christian Melinda Tankard Reist's attempt to muzzle debate on the internet

Australian conservative "feminist" activist Melinda Tankard Reist has instigated legal action against blogger Dr Jennifer Wilson at No Place For Sheep for bringing people's attention to Reist's religious beliefs and how they influence her political views. It seems Reist would rather people not know she's a Christian, and/or is using the action and subsequent outrage for publicity purposes. 

Reist believes in protecting women from abortion, pornography and sexualised images. Funny, I thought we had minds of our own. 

There is a particularly good opinion piece by Jill Singer about Reist's reluctance to address her religious beliefs in the Herald Sun:

Tankard Reist appears to be worried her public campaigns to "protect" women will be seen as motivated by religious fervour instead of evidence and reason. Instead of paying lawyers to try to silence Dr Wilson, she would be better off addressing this issue and answering her critics.

 Otherwise she risks painting herself as a reluctant Christian - and willing bully.

Sign the petition if you disagree with Reist trying to muzzle debate on the internet and side-stepping questions about her religious beliefs. Relevant posts/articles at the bottom of the petition.

Couch monstering

couch monstering (verb): to exhibit the behaviour of a couch monster; in particular to sit, lie or sprawl on a couch in a post-artistic daze.

This was the birthday card I was given by my brother and his girlfriend. For those just joining us, I live with them in a lovely house in Melbourne. We have a cat, Tivali, who is The Only Cat in the World. (She may be rudely disabused of the notion soon. We're thinking of adopting cat #2.)

The message inside:

We see you like this so often, dreaming up stories on the couch. So we thought it would be most apt as it also reflects the worlds you see. Happy birthday.

I am a couch monster. I wish I looked as pretty as this girl while I was monstering. With butterflies shooting out the ends of my hair. I could do without the wormy tail though. It's very Lharmellin don'tcha think?

"Post-artistic daze" is highly interpretable. Hangovers count. For us artsy types in Melbourne it's practically mandatory to sit in a little laneway bar feeling equal parts fabulous and misunderstood. Till 4am. With espresso martinis. Then stumble in and be greeted by a sleepy-eyed cat who hopes you might drop your beans on toast/pizza/half-eaten Hungry Jacks on the floor. (Has totally happened. She's a lucky cat.)

What is one to do the next day except cleave oneself to the couch with a bottle of diet tonic water, said cat, and a book/audio book/a billion eps of something funny/dramatic/suitably vapid? Or a Ryan Gosling movie. Oh lord. *fans self* (Is Ryan Gosling cuter than a puppy? I lie awake at night wondering this. What about a room full of puppies? What if Ryan Gosling was dressed AS a puppy?)

Post-artistic daze could mean post-date. Oh god, dating is the work of Satan. I am not in the Satanic phase right now thank goodness. I'm in the Lord You're Cute, Do You Want To Spend Every Weekend Together? phase. Which is about elebenty billion times more awesome than dating.


It could also mean post-oh-frack-I-hurt-all-over. (Perhaps from writers' back.) Right now I hurt all over, but it's because I beat myself up at the gym twice this week. (I nearly fell off my stationary bike watching the clip to LMFAO's "I'm Sexy and I Know It" <------- CANNOT BE UNSEEN.) Twice at the gym this week. I'm practically Jane Fonda.

It could also mean post-event, or post-publication, or even (oh happy days) post-I-just-wrote-three-thousand-words-and-my-brain-giveth-out.

But SOMETIMES. Just SOMETIMES. I am actually dreaming up stories. And the best place for that is the couch. Writers apparently like to be alone, but I don't. Maybe it's feng shui. Maybe it's the extra stimulation. But I don't like to be hidden away when I work. Or couch monster.

Writers' arse? Try writers' back.

Voltaran. Ibuprofen. Muscle relaxants. Sling. Temazepan. Panadeine Forte. Ultrasounds. Ice. Naproxen. Cortisone injections. Anti-inflammatory gel. Tiger balm. Kenesio taping. Physiotherapy. Sports medicine. X-rays. Remedial massage. Chiropractor. Pilates. Massage.

These are all the treatments and medications I've used since I screwed up my shoulder in Greece last July. The technical term (though I like "screwed") is bursitis, which is a type of rotator cuff injury. It was due to bad posture exacerbated by dragging a suitcases on and off Greek islands.

It hurt a frackload. I cried in hotel rooms, alone. It was pathetic. I ignored "one to two tablets every four hours; do not exceed more than 6 in 24 hours" instructions on inadequate over-the-counter-medications. I could not lie flat on my back.

There were a few funny moments.  Like when I accidentally took a muscle relaxant (from the ER on Crete; at last some real drugs), a sleeping tablet and painkiller all at once one night. Visions of Heath Ledger and Marylin Monroe flashed through my head, along with the headline, "Soon-To-Be YA Novelist Dies Alone in Hotel Room of Presecription Drug Cocktail Overdose". I made myself a coffee and watched Greek news till I thought I was out of choking on my own vomit territory.

I had to sprint for the plane in Athens, and a thong [flip-flop] broke. The crappiest underwear ever threatened to fall down, and I couldn't pull them up with only one arm (busted one in a sling) and still hold onto my carry-on. I must have looked a total DINGBAT running through Athens airport barefoot and stopping every few metres to yank my knickers up. Would that I had worn shorts.

Somewhere over the Pacific my feet and ankles swell up to nearly twice their normal size. At this stage I haven't laid down flat on my back for a week and a half. Sleep happens in armchairs, air plane or ferry seats. Lymph drainage has all but ceased.


When I return home I see my GP, who takes me off the muscle relaxants and put me on Panadeine Forte. Two things: 1. Codeine, and 2. Wheeeeeeeeee. If you've had your wisdom teeth out you'll know what I mean. He also sends me for an ultrasound. The radiographer can find nothing wrong. The GP can find nothing wrong. More tears, and insistence that I'm not faking. Two weeks without having slept lying down.

A sports medicine doctor looks at my scans, takes me off everything except Epic Dose Voltaran and shoots me full of cortisone. (Literally. Straight into the shoulder, front and back. Motherfracking OW.) Third week of sleeping sitting up.

A week later I start remedial massage. I want to punch my physio in the face. She's incredibly sweet and apologetic. I hate her. I have the dubious pleasure of having one of the worst arms she's ever seen. All the muscles have either freezed up and feel like steel cables, or have shut down and withered to nothing. There's a hole where my trapezoid should be.

Finally, after a month of sleep in armchairs, I can lie down in a bed again. Much sleeping ensues.

I have gained back a lot of strength in my left arm. I can now lift a full bottle of red wine with my left hand and pour myself a glass. THANK GOD. IT'S THE IMPORTANT THINGS YOU MISS. My chiro has been fantastic. The x-rays were eye opening. My spine bends and curves in all these strange ways, probably due to being quite tall, growing fast as a teenager and a lot of waitressing in my early 20s.

I spend all my day at work at a computer, and a lot of my time at home on one too. All my energy is directed forward (at the keyboard) and my back is very weak. I slouch. I have uneven posture. My core "isn't engaged". It's getting better, but it's bloody hard to remember to work and tell your muscles how to behave all at once. I would also rather go home and write rather than go to pilates.

TL;DR?

SIT THE FRACK UP. UNCROSS THOSE LEGS. GO TO PILATES. SHOULDERS BACK. SUCK IN THAT GUT.

OR YOU WILL BE IN A WORLD OF PAIN.

Defunding Planned Parenthood and the attack on women's health

When I read things like this (via someone's tweet--I love Twitter for that, everyone posts the most amazing things) I can't help feel angry and scared all at once: Birthright: The Politics of Planned Parenthood.

This is in the States, of course, and we have our own system here in Australia. First of all, I'm pro-choice. This doesn't mean I'm a fan of abortions. No one likes abortions. But they are necessary part protecting women's biological rights.

Planned Parenthood doesn't just perform abortions. They deal with the whole spectrum of women's sexual health, and often for America's poorest women who couldn't afford treatment otherwise. So when Republican candidates are vowing to defund Planned Parenthood, I can't help but feel disgusted.

And every time women's health rights are attacked in America, I can't help but feel worried for Australia. Especially with an opposition leader like Tony Abbott waiting in the wings. Tony Abbott, whose idea of abortion law reform is offer the alternative of counselling via church groups. Could he be more out of touch with most young women?

As always, when I get annoyed, I want to write fiction about it. Last night I pulled out my feminist piece that I started in 2009, begun just before Blood Song and have been mulling over ever since. I reworked the beginning, added a few things ... Oh dear, looks like there are now four books I need to finish this year.

Addition: While writing this, Isaac Marion (author of the amazing zombie novel Warm Bodies) tweeted this article, Teddy bears passed out to Ohio senators. The bears supposedly have the heartbeat of an 18-week-old foetus, and are meant to convince senators to pass a bill that makes it illegal to perform an abortion of a foetal heartbeat is detected. Even if the mother's life is in danger.