So I thought I’d have a go at this audiobook lark since authors are apparently supposed to play an active role in the promotion of their own work.
I’m considering recording the whole novel but as the rest of the story follows a more traditional narrative written from a woman’s perspective it might sound a bit odd drawled through a shit beard. This chapter here is more a fever dream anyway but what the hell, it’ll give people an idea of what to expect.
I’ve got a good feeling though. I mean it’s this kind of hands-on, can-do attitude that may actually sell a few more goddamn books. If, however, it doesn’t I may actually just rent a caravan on the shores of Loch Ness instead and skag mah wee heid into oblivion before going monster hunting with rocks in my pockets.*
Continue reading Without Form and Void | Chapter 2 ‘Blue Green Rock’ | Audiobook
Yeah, so I thought I’d better mention that now I do, like, y’know, logos and business card stuff as well. Not websites though – web design is as much fun for me as those little pinches you feel during an endoscopy when the nasty doctor takes biopsies.
This one is for www.vagabondforlag.com. The site is in production – not by me, of course.
Hit me up if you want something done. Or don’t, whatever.
We can’t trust mainstream media but the alternative can get real batshit real quick.
I thought I’d record some thoughts rather than write them for a change. Thinking about finishing off my degree so need some up-to-date material. I might do more or I might just do some audiobook stuff. Thanks for stopping by. Have a great fucking day xX
I asked friends to give me a word each so I could build a story from three. It just seemed like a good idea because wine and I’m not saying these wee tales are any good but they made me feel good writing them and that was lovely, thank you. Written in six hours or so, so go easy.
SLUG SUGAR SWEAT
They called it a slug, you know, that round that goes in the gun or whatever. I called it a bullet and they all sniggered, sniggered at how I held it, how the sweat poured down my face as I aimed the cursed thing.
One thing’s for damned sure – ain’t no one gonna be callin’ me sugar no more.
Continue reading Eight Stories in an Evening
The photo showed a woman whose make-up struggled to cover the years, let alone the rest. She clung proudly to a rough looking teen I assumed was her son. The little treasure himself wore a glare that said, ‘Don’t you dare even think about fucking my mum.’
I swiped right.
Game on, ladies.