The Good

I've had a lot of bad things to say about how this year has gone. At this point I've all but written it off as a disappointment. I have two projects left, one of which is the major end of year project, and I'm putting everything I have into them in spite of how the year has gone. Still though, I'm unimpressed with a lot of things that have happened at that school.

This post isn't about those things.

The film school I'm going to has a great reputation for making industry-ready graduates, not film buffs. I'd say I'm almost in that boat now. I know my way around a film set and gained some valuable experience in the studio doing things like floor managing. With those two things together, I'd say I could walk on to a film set and do a job. If nothing else, that's what I went to that school to learn how to do.

I've also learned a lot about writing. It's been slow, and unintentional, and far less clearly taught than on other writing-related courses I've been on. But I've still learned. I went in having written some stage plays, which were mediocre, and a few thousand words of fiction (the jury's out on whether it's good or not). I wrote my first film script this year, learning all the ins and outs of how one is structured and what software I could use. That's valuable knowledge, even if it's probably freely available on the internet. Those scripts went into feedback cycles, which were varying degrees of helpful. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but between that first script and the most recent one, there's been a huuuuge improvement. At no point have I gone 'I need to do more of this/less of this', but in any case I've improved.

Let's go more in-depth. That first script was for a 48-hour film festival-style challenge. It essentially wasn't a script. We had so little time that we wrote no dialogue whatsoever. We basically outlined a series of gags, put them in order and blocked and shot them on the day. It came out pretty well for a first script, especially since the piece was the longest we'd done so far by a margin of about 5 minutes (the piece was 6 minutes long).

The next script was for a coffee commercial. It was ok, and the concept was great from a sales point-of-view. It fell apart in the performance. That isn't to say it was the actor's fault, he just did exactly what I asked of him. What went wrong is I didn't realise how the performance would come out on-screen. Thanks to that, I've gained a better sense of how to direct actors and how to get the most readable performance on-screen.

Then we did a short drama piece. That went much better. The performances were great, the shots were good, the pace was decent. All up, it was clear I'd improved. I still wasn't particularly great, but a step up is a step up. Still, there was a lot wrong with the piece. It could have been paced better, it was very dialogue-intensive (more on that in a moment) and there was little variety in the shots. The performances carried the piece (which had been my intention), but that's not something I can get away with on every shoot. Don't just make one part good, make all of them good.

So here's the big one for me, the one I'm on the cusp of cracking. All my scripts had been dialogue-heavy (including the one I didn't get to shoot). Dialogue-heavy isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I was avoiding relying on action and visuals to tell the story because I was unfamiliar with it. I write novels, that's what I'm used to. Films are a visual medium, and if I'm not utilising the visual aspect then what's the point of making a film? I should just write it as a novel.

Our next shoot is again a short drama piece, with the key difference being we're running it like a full-scale production. It's not just crews of 5 or so people, it's the whole school crewing the shoots. The script I've written isn't just a story, it's a film. It's taken me a while to learn the difference.

So what comes next? Well I won't make promises, but I have a pilot script for a webseries in the works. We'll see where that goes...

On Shoutcasting

So this year I've Shoutcasted 6 events, 5 of which have been live, and I have 2 more coming up over the next months (1 of which is again live). Among these have been tournaments held at Armageddon expo, the Univeristy of Auckland and online for Riot's OCE Uni Championship. I've also branched out into Hearthstone, casting my first live event for that just a few weeks back.

And that's just this year.

Sure it's not a lot. There's people doing more than me in terms of volume. Hell, there's people casting online events every single week. The difference is I do just about every live event in the country, and the online events I cast are high-calibre. I hate feeling like I'm tooting my own horn, and for all I know I might just sound like I'm talking myself up, but I would like to think I'm one of the better shoutcasters in the country right now.

The reason I've made this blog post though is because there's a question I get asked with more and more frequency. 'How did you get into shoutcasting?'

Today I want to try and answer that question.


Thing is, there's actually two questions being asked within that one. The first is 'how did you get into shoutcasting?' and the second is 'how can I get into shoutcasting?'

The way I got into shoutcasting is pretty simple. I started.

A few years ago, I got involved with the DWAI Gaming community, becoming it's Oceanic Director shortly thereafter. In this position, I was tasked with establishing a community presence in Oceania for DWAI Gaming. Whether or not I was successful is a different discussion. Part of launching this community involved running events, which needed to be held to the same standard as our North American events. This meant they needed to be streamed, casted and well-run. When I first put the promotion out for our first OCE event, I had someone called Matt Ross post a comment asking who was going to be shoutcasting. I said that I was planning on doing it myself, but if he was free then I'd love the help.

He was free.

So together we casted that event. Then the one the week after. And then a week later again.

So it went on.

Matt Ross had more experience than me, and working with someone regularly made it easy to bring my own standards higher each week. The more we got to know each other's style, the smoother our casts became. We were also extremely honest with one another, and after each match (sometimes between games within a match) we'd have a chat about how the whole thing went, what went wrong and what we need to improve on. If it was crap, we'd say so. Then, we'd take the advice on board and work on it for the next match.

Our quality improved massively in that time.

The rest gets a little muddier, but really it came down to putting myself forward and having a few people in-the-know who felt I did good work and would vouch for me as a caster when events were being planned.

My first live event happened because of Matt Ross too. He was running a University competition in his hometown of Dunedin, and his play-by-play caster pulled out on him about a week or two before the event. He came to me asking if I could fly down and cast it with him. I agreed. Flights came out of my own pocket, but it was well worth it. We casted for two very long days, and had an absolute blast. The audience was small, and I was wearing jeans and a polo, but the whole thing was a massive step up from the online events we'd casted. The next time he ran that event, he offered me the casting gig first. And yes, I accepted.

Once again, Matt Ross had more experience than me, which meant he also knew more people than me. Along the road I also met one Daniel Klinac, who was again very much in-the-know. Somehow between the good words put in by these two I ended up being put on the team that casted at DigiNationz that year in Vector Arena.

From there it snowballed. I'd made a name for myself with the right people, and had a reputation for saying 'yes' to live events. Next thing I was being asked to cast at Armageddon expo for 2015. Again, flights came out of my own pocket.

But that's starting to change now, and in truth it's only been about 6 months since I started doing high-calibre live events.

So how did I get to where I am? Well like I said, I always said 'yes' to live shoutcasting opportunities, and I always did the best work I could no matter what I was casting. Nothing is beneath me.

I still have a long way to go, and could be a lot better than I am, but it's something I can very nearly say I do professionally. That's a big thing for me.


As to how you can get into shoutcasting things like I do, here's what you need to do:

1) Do good work.
2) Take any gig.
3) Show up.

It's a small community here in New Zealand, and if you do those three things you'll get noticed before long. Once you have that reputation, the work comes to you.

As for me, I hope to turn this into something that can earn me money one day. The eSports industry is constantly getting bigger, and the fanbase grows with it. Two years ago League of Legends was the only thing seen in New Zealand. Now we have events for LoL, DotA, CS:GO, Hearthstone and many more. I'm excited to see how much bigger it gets in the next year.

Now imagine what it will be like in 5 years.

That's something I'm psyched to be a part of.

Back To It

So I've been ill, lazy, distracted and all kinds of other time-consuming things these last few weeks.

Better get back to it then...

Lifebringer is underway once more. Not much has been done, but I've identified what was slowing me down. The characters are currently travelling from one place to another, and by the time they arrive I need to have established some stuff stakes-wise, set up a few things character-wise and kept the progression of these characters moving steadily forward. Thing is, there's no particular time they have to have arrived by. It's not like I'm sitting down going 'in 5 chapters they'll be there, so I need to get this done in 5 chapters.' It's more like 'I need to get this stuff done, but I'm not sure exactly how, so I don't know how long it will take.'

I've heard it said that if you need things to progress, make something happen. Characters tend to not just change for the fuck of it, something external needs to bring about, accelerate or complete that change. So I need to figure out what sort of things need to happen for my characters to grow from where they are to where I want them to be.

I could have them just... arrive. But then they'd be so unprepared, and it'd be a terribly unfulfilling read.

I'll figure it out...

In other news, film school is an ongoing tragedy. After last terms' demoralising grind of studio shows and the hurtful barrage of 'feedback' that accompanied them, I decided I wanted to get a little more out of this term. There's 2 pieces I needed to shoot, and the first fell through. I'm still not even sure why, but at this point there's no use causing friction trying to get to the bottom of it. In the interim, I've missed out on every single other project happening during the term because of what I can only call blatant favouritism.

This is what $10,000 bought me.

I'm really questioning how quickly I'll go into the industry after this year, seeing as I've been fairly soured by my experience so far. Sure, I expect things to be a little different out in the industry (read: less disappointing), but I'll need a break.

So I've been weighing up other options. There's a lot of things I love doing, and a lot of things I'm good at doing, so I've started putting those things together and working out exactly how I can make a career for myself. Because at the end of the day I've put myself on an unconventional path in life, and I shouldn't expect to follow someone else's example in order to reach success. I have to make it for myself.

I'm officially at the point where I get my transport reimbursed when I shoutcast live eSports events. It's not profit, but it's zero-cost. That's a hell of a lot more than I was getting for it last year.

And I've realised writing can take me all sorts of places beyond the 'write-and-publish-a-novel' path. I still want to write and publish novels, but fiction writing skills can get me work doing things like writing for video games.

Now just to go and do it...

Backing Up

I have more fun with these titles than I should...


My laptop is on its last legs. Its last laptop-y legs. Laptops have legs. Leggy leggy laptops. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

I have everything on here. Maiden Voyage, Lifebringer, Ambervale, sequels, prequels, plans. Everything. Every resource relating to my writing is on this laptop. Plus all my scriptwork for school is here too.

It's also on a backup drive.

I own a PC now, which I finally have internet connectivity on. That means it too is connected to the aforementioned backup drive. When the laptop dies, Lifebringer will live on (ha ha).

And suddenly I realise how badly organised my files are. Well actually no, they're not too bad. They're better than most, I'd even wager. Everything I use is well-indexed. The organisation is clear, categorical and concise. Documents get labeled properly and folders are neatly arranged.

And then there's everything I don't use.

I haven't updated iTunes in a year, because my music is so disorganised that iTunes can't find everything automatically, and for some reason iTunes can't fucking update itself without WIPING MY ENTIRE MUSIC LIBRARY FIRST. I'm tired of having to manually add all my music into iTunes because I have things in all different places. There's files from CDs that went on to the back up drive before digital downloads were around. There's things I bought on iTunes. There's things I imported to iTunes. There's EPs I've downloaded from bandcamp. There's free singles I've got off Soundcloud. There's so much music, and it all ends up in different places.

It's my fault, really. I don't take the time to codify things like that, because I can just download them, open them direct from Chrome and throw them in iTunes. I don't ever have to walk down that file path again, so why should I bother making it all neat and tidy?

I should do it because every time I update iTunes, I lose music.

Then there's all the other stuff I lose when things update.

I'm migrating my things to a new PC, and it's not a 'clean' PC as it were (the previous owner still has game files and so forth on it). This time, I want to do it right, and it's incredibly hard. But it will pay off. Or so I've been told.

At least I have a backup of everything.

The Unemployment Line

A few days ago I went to the place I used to work. A lot of the old-timers were still there. A lot more had left. It was a strange thing to experience.

Then at 2 PM my girlfriend received rejection notices from two different jobs. That was rough, especially after we'd spent the morning talking about my passing nostalgia for my previous job. When someone talks about a good job they had, then you get turned down for what looked like promising jobs, it takes a toll on you.

Then at 2:30 PM she got a call from an employer regarding a job she had been very enthusiastic about. She had the job, and was starting the next week.

The tables had been turned.

I was happy for her. Hell, I was ecstatic. Almost as much as she was.

But still, I'm unemployed.

And I'm not happy.

And I'm going into an industry where your job status is tied to how many times you throw yourself at the wall.

This is getting tough.

A Week Well Wasted

I feel again like I've done a whole lot of nothing.

Only I haven't.

Ok, sure, I haven't done heaps, but this week I've got a lot more done than I have in recent months. I've been sick as a dog all week, yet I still managed to get my shit together for a shoot on Thursday (which came out real nice) and managed to get the ball rolling on Lifebringer again (which now stands at 50,000 words). It's not been a lot, but it's been progress.

It's really hard to remember in the harder times how much work I have done in the past. I can sit there feeling what what I've written is crap, but I have to remind  myself that a) it's only a draft and b) I'm still learning to write books. It's so easy to forget those things and get myself down. It's easy to make no progress and beat myself up over it. It's easy to fall into a slump and not have the patience or energy to get out of it.

I've been in a slump, and I'm hoping that this last week means I'm on my way out of it.

Thing is, for the longest time I was getting frustrated that I wasn't doing any work on Lifebringer, or any other of my projects for that matter. In truth, it's okay to not get anything done if I'm not able to get myself working. I could force myself to write 500 words, hate the process, hate the words and frustrate myself with having to edit them later. Or I could just wait. I could wait until I can write 2,000 words, and have them be better than if I'd forced them.

Now yes, this says some things about work ethic. But I'm not saying 'it's ok to slack off and not try', I'm just saying it's ok to stop if trying hard is yielding nothing. I'm not working to a deadline here. I'm not under any contracts. I've got other stuff in my life and I'm allowed to let my writing sit idle for a time if I so please. What I'm not allowed to do, at least if I want to be taking myself seriously, is stop trying. It's important to keep myself 'in practice', if you will. And that means sitting the fuck down and trying to get some work done from time to time. Or writing a short one-off piece just to keep my skills sharp

So that's what I've done this week. I've been legitimately slacking off, and I'm done getting down on myself about it. So now I'm making myself try and write, even if I end up deleting all the words after an hour. It's paid off this week in the form of another chapter of Lifebringer, and my hope is that before long it'll yield greater and greater returns.

And if it doesn't, then at least I can be satisfied that I'm trying. The alternative sucks.

A Lack Thereof

I'm talking about motivation.

I feel inadequate. I'll be honest, dear reader, most of my viewership for this blog is people I know personally, so this is far from easy to say.

I've sunk 10 grand into a film course that I'm enjoying, but I'm constantly left feeling like I'm not good enough, and not in the sort of way that makes me motivated to improve. Every script I come up with is criticised, and more recently I've been made to feel guilty for being comfortable with the work I produce. Hot damn, teach, I'm learning here. These are the first film scripts I've ever worked on, let me feel good for making a start god dammit.

The presenting work sounded like fun, like a way to add legitimacy to a skill I've already nurtured through shoutcasting. And hey, much like going to film school to expand on my writing skillset I figured taking this extra class could help me expand my presenting skillset. It has done just that, to some extent, but it's been at the cost of the other skills I went to film school to gain. I've been shirked on other in-studio roles during the term's three studio shows (save for the most recent, where I was able to take someone else's Assistant Floor Manager role). The tutor is clearly very skilled and very knowledgeable, but he's a poor teacher. Frankly, it's been innate skill that's steered me through that class so far (yes, I know, tooting my own horn...)

Then there's the feedback. I'm perpetually unimpressed. I've been grilled by rude tutors over things that aren't my doing. I've been subject to personal attacks by teachers in front of peers during spiels devoid of all useful critique. I've been told to do nothing but work harder, without being given any further guidance or an avenue to gain guidance.

Put simply, I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed in myself for the low quality of work I've produced. I'm disappointed in my lack of motivation. I'm disappointed in my education so far and my seeming inability to make the most of it. Thousands of people have been through that school, and they boast an 80% employment rate for graduates. What's so wrong with me that I'm struggling?

It gets a guy down, and it's hard to get back up.

Hit The Books

I've realised something recently. Granted I realise new things all the time, like yesterday when I realised my manboobs are big enough to make convincing cleavage if I tape them together the right way.

The thing I want to talk about though is how much university sucks if you like reading.

Some of my readers probably already know about my ill-fated stint at university. In fact it was upon dropping out that I started this blog to help encourage my writing. While at university, my time was taken up by nothing but university. Or at least in theory it was... In truth my time was taken up by video games and food. But I digress...

For the average student who is interested in passing papers, the bulk of your time is taken up by university. I don't mean to say that every waking moment is study, study, study. But certainly when you're not at university, or travelling to and from school, or working on assignments, you're still thinking about university. Every moment is pervaded by thoughts of study. If you're at your evening job, you're thinking about how early you need to wake up for class tomorrow. If you're at a party, you're thinking about the assignment due next week. If you've just finished exams, you're thinking about applying for nest semester's papers. University is your life while you're there.

You know all this when you apply to a university. You start studying there knowing how much of your time and life it will take up. That's fine, that's part of it. And yes, you don't spend every single second thinking about university. There is down-time. The problem is, reading comes in pretty low on the list of 'down-time activities', so when your downtime is really limited, you tend to end up not reading.

For 4 years.

I of course can't speak for everyone, but I know for a fact I started reading a hell of a lot more when I dropped out of university. In fact, I was amazed that when I came home from work and sat down to play a game or whatever, I didn't feel guilty at all. I was so used to sitting there, knowing there was some other work that still needed doing. I was gobsmacked at how much time I now had. Most of my friends are finishing their degrees now and they're going through the same experience. By extension, a lot of them have started reading again.

I also know plenty of people who read while they were at uni, so don't take this as me saying 'students don't have time to read'. Some do, most don't. And those that do still tend to read less than they would have were they not studying. In truth I fall into this category. I was still reading during the year and a half I was at university, it's just that in that time I read maybe 3-4 books in total. By comparison, I've read about 10 books so far this year. Yes I'm a slow reader.


My question, therefore, is how does this phenomenon affect publishers? More people than ever are going to university, often for 4 or more years. That's a massive chunk of the population. It's the bridge between 'Young Adult' and 'Adult fiction'. It's a demographic writers will struggle to write for, simply because so few will ever read what's out there for them. Publishers will be loathe to publish books for this age group, simply because there's too few buyers. Retailers won't stock those sorts of books, because they'll just waste space.

And the group that loses out is the writers.

As always.

A Lot of Nothing

Yep, I've been doing a whole lot of nothing lately. Or at least nothing in terms of my ongoing projects. What I have been doing is a lot of scriptwork and, well, taking time off. Allow me to elaborate.

I'm exhausted. Lifebringer has slowed down, and I need time to ruminate on it before I can comfortably move forward. Such is the way with projects sometimes. Maiden Voyage has gone unedited since receiving my (first) rejection letter. Ambervale still needs a Part 3, and then there's a whole load of work to be done editing-wise. Beyond the Horizon is also lying in wait for other projects to wrap up, and has been for some time. I'm not really working on much of anything right now, save for schoolwork.

So why am I exhausted?

Well, in the simplest terms I did a lot of work (relatively speaking) in a very short amount of time. In the space of about 4 months I wrote 50,000 words of Lifebringer, edited all 65,000 words of Maiden Voyage, wrote 20,000 words of Beyond the Horizon and wrote 10,000 words of Ambervale. This all on top of starting a new qualification in a totally different field to what I've previously worked in. I need to recharge the batteries.

And that's fine.

For the first week or so of getting nothing done, I was seriously beating myself up over my lack of progress. I hated that I hadn't touched Lifebringer, or revisited Maiden Voyage, or even so much as written a 500 word piece. I hated that I wasn't making progress, even though I had no motivation to write.

Then I got off my own back, and I realised I'm allowed to take a break if I need one. No-one is paying me to do this. I'm under no contracts, have signed no deals and am not leaving any fans hanging. If other things get busy and the writing falls by the wayside that's fine. If I just need some quieter months where I'm not working at my limits every day that's fine. If I need to put more mental energy into learning the new form of writing my chosen qualification requires that's fine.

I'm doing fine. I'm allowed to take time off.

I realised a while ago that one of the things I love about writing and the idea of doing it for (most of) a living is that there will be times when I can just stop. I don't have to call a manager, I don't have to get a doctor's note. I can just go. I was driving to school, headed northward, and I realised that if I really wanted, I could just keep driving. I could drive until I reached my family's beach house, and I could just pause everything and stay there a few days. I want to always have that option, because sometimes I need something like that.

Maybe that makes me privileged. Thing is, with how hard I work when I'm going full-pelt, I think that's a privilege I've very well earned.

Or maybe it's not.

Who's to say?

So what have I been doing in my idle moments? Playing Roller Coaster Tycoon. It's a great game, and you can buy it on Steam for around $7. It was mostly made by one guy, and the code is robust as hell. My girlfriend runs it on Windows 8. Seriously, go pick that game up...

Fictional Fans

I should stop forcing puns into my titles...


So I don't like fanfiction. Don't read it, don't write it, don't like it. It's never done it for me. I don't have a problem with it, and if you're a fan of fanfiction all power to you, but to me it just feels chronically unsatisfying.

It's one of those things that follows Sturgeon's Law. 90% of Fanfiction is crap, but the other 10% is good enough to make wading through the crap worth it. Only thing is, that 10% is incredibly elusive. Why? Because there's literal years worth of fanfiction out there. Sure, there are ways to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were, but the truth is, I'd rather just read a professionally written book.

Yep, there it is. I prefer paid professionals to amateur aspiring authors.

Oh god even I hated that sentence...

In all seriousness though, it's the same reason I'd rather watch Raging Bull than my friend's short film about boxing. Maybe my friend is the next Martin Scorsese, and I think it's great he's nurturing his talent and increasing his skillset, I just don't want to spend my time watching his baby steps.

Maybe that makes me a bad person.

Thing is, fanfiction is good. It's a healthy thing for aspiring writers. It allows you to work on very specific things while you improve your writing. You can avoid things like needing to come up with new characters (so you can focus on plot) or coming up with original plots (so you can focus on prose). It's a way for writers to develop their skill while contributing to a fandom they're passionate about. That's cool. Go them.

Still doesn't do it for me.

I think part of that comes from the fact that a lot of fanfiction is really wish-fulfillment. Once that wish has been fulfilled, the writer stops bothering. Moreover, their intention isn't to improve, it's just to write that thing they wanted the book to do. In that case, you might as well save time and just imagine that thing happening instead. You can do that in seconds. Writing takes a lot more time than that...

There's also that part of fanfiction that's really self-congratulatory. I get why people write the wish-fulfillment stuff. It's because they want to see it and they know how much they wish someone else would write it, so they write it to cater to everyone else that wants to see it. Thing is, those people then get to see the thing they want and then they walk away from it. The only feedback is 'Yes, finally, someone wrote it. I've wanted to read this so bad for so long.' The writer walks away feeling good, even if what they wrote was a total mess.

That being said, everyone in that exchange enjoyed themselves. The writer got to feel good about their writing (deservedly or otherwise), the reader got to see the thing they wanted to see and the copyright owner got to add another one to the 'sue for retirement fund' file.

Maybe it's the inherent lack of improvement that bothers me. It's not so much the fanfiction, it's the people writing it. I think you have the right to do whatever you want, and you're more than welcome to call yourself what you want, but I reserve the right to think that title is undeserved. If I unclog my toilet, I won't be introducing myself as a plumber to everyone I meet. By extension, I don't think writing fanfiction qualifies you as an author.

Lots of authors have written fanfiction. The difference between them then, when they wrote fanfiction, and them now, when they're published, career-writers, is improvement. Authors moved away from fanfiction once they'd learned what they needed, and started writing their own things, where nothing came pre-built.

To top it all off, you don't have to use fanfiction to learn those skills. It's just one way of many. For every author who started with fanfiction, there's another that didn't.

Keep writing fanfiction. Keep doing what you love. Don't let me discourage you. Just be aware of what it is you're doing, and be honest with whether that makes you an author, or just someone who writes. Because the truth is, everyone writes, but only a few of us will shake a new hand and say 'Hi, I'm Roger and I'm a writer.'



Ok yes I'm still salty about Fifty Shades of Gray...

What I'm Worth

I had an interesting thought lately. Been a while, I know.

I often read people proclaiming that I, as a writer, should not 'sell myself short'. They decree that I must only accept payment reflective of what I'm worth. That if I offer myself or accept work for free I'm discrediting myself and being taken advantage of.

I see the wisdom in this advice, and don't get me wrong I'm keen to make money off this stuff, but I can't help but ultimately disagree.

Thing is, it's a competitive market. And it's a seller's market. There are more writers than there are jobs. There's more books than there are book deals. Sure, indie publishers and content creator-driven enterprises are bridging that gap. But they'll never bridge it completely, because not everyone who can write has the time or energy to market their own book or run their own business. Even then, the returns are even less guaranteed with these forms. You might even be doing more work for no money.

I might want to do something for free to promote myself. Hell, this blog is me constantly putting out free content in the interest of developing my skills as a writer while slowly building an audience. That's normal. In fact, it's encouraged by many established authors to actively promote yourself by submitting writing to contests and making content publicly available for free. Pretty normal stuff.

Now yes, there's a difference between writing for my own self-interest and making no money and writing for an employer and making no money. The problem is, the line between 'employer' and 'publication to promote yourself through' is often very, very thin. Say I submit to a low-budget magazine that is someone's side project and barely makes enough money to cover its printing costs. Should I demand payment from them? Hell no. I go into that sort of arrangement expecting to not get paid.

Many will argue that by going into that arrangement I'm selling myself short and not valuing my skillset, and that may be true, but it's still my choice.

I think I'm worth a fair amount, but that doesn't mean every sentence needs to be making money. Sometimes, I just like to write for fun.

Whitcoulls: An Apology

Many of you will have already seen my post last week about Whitcoulls closing their largest store. I will admit, it was a little vitriolic. I was impassioned, and passion drives men to do rash things. I also had an experience that changed my life while entombed in the half-bare shelves of your flagship store, and so I feel it's time for an apology, Whitcoulls.

I'm sorry for saying you had nothing I wanted to buy. It turned out you had exactly two books I wanted to buy, which is more than I had ever hoped for. To say I am pleased would be an understatement. I am awed, and I am humbled. Your gracious stocking of two bestselling fantasy books was a blessing indeed to genre fans like myself. There are millions of us, and to have our voices heard by your bankrupt ears was nothing short of magnificent. Moreover, the fact that these were the only two books on that otherwise empty shelf made me feel, dare I say it, special. It was as though these books were meant for me and only me, like a light had shone down from the heavens to part the shelves of clearance-price romance and reveal those two tomes, nestled on a naked shelf.

I'm sorry for insinuating your prices are too high. I said you couldn't compete with the online market, but I was wrong. I snatched up those books and hurried to the counter, joyed that I did not have to wait two weeks after my purchase to read them. My steps resonated in the spacious cavity of your three-storey shop, echoing against the elegant, barren walls. At the counter, I paid exactly $30 for these two thick paperback blessings. 'What a bargain!' I proclaimed to the ghostly attendant stood behind the counter. The markdowns were proof that you wanted readers like me to buy from you. And Whitcoulls, I answered your call. Like a phone-sold cold call target buying into shares, I was thrilled by thoughts of money well spent. It was ecstasy, having spare cash upon leaving your hallowed doors.

But like an invester in a property bubble, I knew it couldn't last.

I have the full trilogy of Brandon Sanderson's 'Mistborn' books, and afterward I had money left for a doughnut. Such luxury you have allowed me! As the sweet, sugary crumbs rolled down my chin I savoured the moment, quashing thoughts that, inevitably, this indulgence would end. Your doors would close, and I would no more be able to afford such thick stacks of paper. In fact, I would likely never see them on your shelves again.

Whitcoulls, without you this afternoon of sheer robbery would have been impossible. I have plundered your sinking ship, and for that I am thankful.

Sorry Whitcoulls, you were right, closing your doors was a good idea.

Denied

I'm unwell right now, so sorry if this post seems a bit off. It's the pseudoephedrine doing it's thing.

You know, we can make methamphetamine, a Class A drug, with pseudoephedrine. Imagine the sort of drugs we could make with real ephedrine...

Anyway, I received my first rejection letter this week. Maiden Voyage was described as 'unpublishable' (in its current state) and full of telling, not showing.

I couldn't be more excited.

I got some amazing feedback from the publisher, and it was honest as hell. Easily the most honest feedback I've ever received. That's such a refreshing thing for me to get. It was constructive, detailed and about as polite as a rejection letter can be.

After reading I was left with an amazing sense of accomplishment, and filled with an emboldening fire to do better work. Thing is, they told me pretty much exactly what I need to do to be a better writer, and when I looked at it, it was all stuff I could do. I could do it easily. It was just a matter of doing it, of learning the habit. How lucky am I to get that sort of feedback?

On top of that, there's a sense of legitimacy to being rejected. It's not that just about every successful author gets rejected to begin with, even though that's true. It's not about being 'part of a club' or anything like that. It's the fact that I put myself out there. Moreover, I put my work out there. Up until now, I've called myself a writer, I've considered myself a writer and I've talked about myself as a writer. Having been rejected by a publisher, I'm left with a sense of having walked the walk. I'm putting my money where my mouth is, and I intend on carrying on that way. It's one thing to call myself a writer, it's another thing entirely to try and get published. I can take myself as seriously as I like, but there's a difference between that and proving to others that you're serious.

We've all me the guy who goes around proclaiming some form of artistry that they're 'just really into, like, it's practically my life'. And we all know them for the fraud they are. They wouldn't dare try make a living off what they do, because in truth they don't really do that thing. That sort of person wouldn't even get as far as being rejected, and if you asked them about it they'd say something like 'the publishers are all just vicious. It's a racket' or somesuch conspiratorial statement.

I'm not that person. Provably so.

That's a good feeling.

Boy Do I Love Milestones

Pretty simple midweek update. Lifebringer has hit 200 pages and 40,000 words. Still got a fair way to go though...

In other news, the main inner city bookseller, Whitcoulls, is closing their doors. After a series of rough years and a total failure to so much as try and get it right, they're shutting their largest store. The company isn't going under, but when all the other locations sell board games, greeting cards and 17 of the Top 50 bestsellers, it certainly feels like they're on their last legs.

Whitcoulls, I'll let you in on a little secret. If I want to buy a board game, I'll go to a fucking specialty board game store. Same with greeting cards. You know where I go to buy books? The bookseller. You know what you are? A bookseller. You know what you need to sell? SOME FUCKING BOOKS.

Take the Hunger Games off the 'Top 50' shelves already, it's been there for 3 years. Give some other books the chance to shine. Trim down the 'generic crime thriller' section, and can the whole 'bestseller' isle. You're losing out to the online market, and that's because they're selling all those things for $20 cheaper than you.

You know what your point of differentiation is? Immediacy. That's right, you bitch and whinge that we're the 'instant generation' and have forgot to cash in on exactly that tendency. When I pay the extra money to buy a book from you, I'm not paying for a book, I'm paying for the convenience of having it straight away. When I order from the Book Depository it'll take a month to arrive, if it arrives at all. When I order from Amazon, I pay $30 in handling fees. And that's before shipping costs. I want to buy some goddamn books, and I want to hold them in my hand, and read them on the bus home.

You know why I don't buy from you? Because you don't stock anything I want to read. All the Jeffrey Archer, and Patricia Cornwell, and Dan Brown, and Clive Cussler. That's the shit people are buying online. They know those names. They don't need to see them on a shelf to be reminded of their existence. People will go buy those books where they're cheapest, and that place isn't your bookstores.

I've spent 5 months looking for a copy of Ernest Cline's 'Ready Player One' and Andy Weir's 'The Martian'. You don't stock them. At all. Not one copy. I've finally relented and paid $60 to have them both shipped to me, and it'll take 2 weeks for them to get here.

Bookstores aren't about buying what you know, or buying the latest 'bestseller', they're about discovery. Discovery, and niche markets. When I walk into a bookstore, I want to find something I would have never heard of otherwise. When did you stop delivering that? And for fuck's sake, why?

Hire a team of buyers for each genre, even each sub-genre. Have them buy stuff a little more off the beaten track. Have them be your quality control for indie books. Have them find stuff that isn't Dan Brown, or 'the next Dan Brown!', or 'praised by Dan Brown!'. Have them find books the rest of us never would without them.

Oh and when you only have 10 shelves for Fantasy and Sci-Fi, A Song of Ice and Fire shouldn't be taking up 4 shelves.


Don't sell chunks of printed paper. Sell discovery.


End Rant.


You pricks.

Something Different

So I'm at film school this year, which some of my readers may already know. For those of you that don't, well, there it is. I'm really enjoying it, and am learning a lot of practical skills for the industry. It's also only a 1 year course, so it's a really good turnaround time as far as tertiary qualifications go. It's not a full degree, but it's everything I'll need if I want to be working in the film and television industry (which I do).

As a part of this course the students choose a specialisation in either Production Management, Drama Directing and Scriptwriting, Documentary Directing, Camera Lighting and Audio, Post-Production or Art and Design. There's also a separate animation school and on screen acting course, but I digress...

I've gone for Drama Directing and Scriptwriting, mainly because I see it as being a natural extension of the writing skills I've built. I'm also taking optional skills in Presenting and Floor Managing, for the sake of diversification. As part of my specialisation I (surprise surprise) have to do some scriptwriting. I'm not new to the whole thing, having done some scripts for stage shows before, but working for the screen is still a challenge.

This last week, we did an in-school 48 hour film competition (viewings are this Friday...) We drew from a hat what style of film we would do, and were given a line, prop, character name and technical element we had to use. I drew found footage a la Cloverfield, Chronicle etc. To add to it, out cameraperson stated they wanted to make it a 1-shot film (a la Birdman).

Not afraid of a challenge, I opted for a stoner comedy parodying found-footage horror tropes by having paranoid stoners freaking out over nothing.

It was awesome.

I know this post is a bit ramble-y, but in truth I'm just enjoying the challenged of writing something totally different. We took something challenging, made it even more challenging and totally pulled it off. After a late night slapping a script together and fleshing out the major gags we set straight to filming the next day. We planned shots meticulously, often with me flailing my arms just out of frame to pass on directions to the actors (who were incredible, I might add). It was fun as hell, and to see it all come together so well in post the next day was a satisfaction I haven't felt in a long time.

I think I've made the right choice going into this industry. It's going to be hard work, and I'll go a long time before I make decent money (or even any money) but it's really satisfying work for me. In a way, it's exactly what I've been looking for.

Aside from a publisher, of course...

Onwards

It will have been a week by the time this post goes up since the WORST THING EVER.

I accidentally deleted 2,000 words of Lifebringer. Not just any words, good words. Hands down the best prose of Lifebringer so far. The sort that would be the benchmark when it came time to edit. I don't say this to toot my own horn, I was seriously proud of the quality of what I'd written.

And then I lost it.

I don't know how it happened. I was reaching for 'CTRL+I' to turn on italics, then I heard a sound reminiscent of the 'would you like to save' pop up, and all at once the document was closed. I was in shock.

So I looked up where Word keeps it autosave files. Thank goodness for those. I had to dick around with my folder settings just to find where they were kept, but in the end I found them.

And Lifebringer wasn't there.

In fact, the most recent document was from 2013.

2,000 words were gone.

I guess it serves me right for not saving, but something about it didn't seem right. I went and took a look at how Word is meant to autosave documents, and found something very interesting. There's meant to be an option you can check that makes Word keep the last autosave of a document even if you select 'don't save' when you close the program. In my settings for Microsoft Word, no such option exists. Where the checkbox should be is nothing.

In short, fuck Dell and their pre-installed garbage OS.


So the next day I re-wrote the section. The prose isn't as good, but I can still write good prose, and when it comes time to edit I can bring that whole section (and indeed the whole book) up to the standard I'm after. I still hit the same story beats, and the section moves the plot just as it's supposed to. In fact, I even improved one section that wasn't working before (as much as the prose doesn't drip like honey anymore).

This week has hurt like hell, and I'm amazed at how hard I've found it to deal with what happened. It really affected me, and I was shocked by how affecting it was. Still, I persevered in what I like to think was the best way I could. I couldn't just sit idle and wallow, letting the sore fester until I never touched Lifebringer again. I carried on. I muscled through it, and did something as hard as anything I've done so far on my journey as a writer.

Onwards and upwards, or at least that's what I tell myself.

Making It Official

I recently became a member of the NZSA, or New Zealand Society of Authors, and am currently enjoying such perks as a 10% discount on some books in some stores of some chains. I also attended my first meeting of the Auckland chapter, a monthly event. Let me tell you some stories...

First up, I am 20 years old. The median age for this meeting was, at a guess, 70. I didn't just feel young, I felt like a fetus. Still, they're all incredibly lovely people and frankly I'm glad they're all 'Christopher Lee' old, because that means they have more combined experience than I could ever hope to gain. That's an incredible thing to have access to as a young writer, and every single one of them was more than willing to share their expertise.

Second, I used to think I was salty. This room made me dehydrated with the amount of salt in it. Thing is, it was all incredibly justified salt. One of the things discussed in these saltmine chats was a recent award for mid-career authors being awarded to a poet-laureate who has been active for over 50 years. That struck me, and indeed everyone else in the room, as decidedly not 'mid-career'. In fact, it seemed that now this person has only 2 awards left to win; the Nobel Prize and a Junior Writer's award. Then a discussion came up about a major award finally allowing independently published authors to enter, but only mentioning this in the fine print. If anything, it seemed more like they were letting them in for the sake of inclusion without giving any indication that they would seriously consider these entrants for the award.

So what kind of country am I writing in? I'm young, and naive, so I always assume I don't know the half of what's really going on. But what I can see is a bunch of major publishers pulling out of the country, a disdain from retailers of indie publishing and a self-congratulatory circlejerk set of writing awards. What am I to make of all this? Should I unclick my pen and stop writing? It seems that none of the official bodies in this country want writers like me to succeed. It's like they've forgotten that in order to have a publishing industry, they need writers. And without wanting to sound mean, the truth is all these veteran authors getting the few publishing deals and awards are old as balls. Give it 20 years, they'll all be dead and I'll be 40. What then? Will they finally start handing these things to the rest of us when they have no other option?

Why aren't they encouraging writing in this country?

Anyway, last of all there was a small competition. We were given the prompt 'It was a very nervous voice in the male choir...' and had a limit of 150 words. We had weeks to prepare if we wanted to enter, so naturally I wrote my entry 10 minutes before leaving the house. I came runner-up and won a copy of 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies'. Here was my entry:

Pronouns

          It was a very nervous voice in the male choir that sang the pronouns wrong. In the audience was the man who would wink at him each Sunday, and in the pulpit was the man who frowned. The voice wavered on, unknowable save if you were listening for it. All the tiny rebellion went unnoticed, and if anyone had noticed, no-one would have cared. It was not their place to judge, and had the voice known their disinterest it would have sobbed. How alarming, don't you think, that the voice thought it was interesting only for its desire to be stopped by a stuffed-in cock. Such a shame, don't you think, that the voice couldn't think of itself as a person, as something more than its substituted pronouns.

More Milestones

A young boy, after dreaming for years of becoming a magic-wielding Priest, finally manages to bluff his way into the clergy and learn the magical arts of healing despite having no magical ability.

Intrigued? Good. That's my elevator pitch for Lifebringer.
Uninterested? Good. I like having something to improve on.

On the notion of Lifebringer, it's reached the 20,000 word and 100 page marks over this long weekend just gone. The story has been more thoroughly plotted out and I'm feeling pretty confident in its direction. It's looking to be a long one, as I'm a bit under 1/5th of the way through. For comparison, Maiden Voyage clocked in at around 80,000. This one is looking more in the ballpark of 120,000-150,000. I like big numbers, they feel impressive to write...

Speaking of Maiden Voyage, it's done. I know, I said it was 'done' a few months back, but this time it's really done. It's been proofed and given a final tidy-up and is 100% ready to send out. Now all I have to do is send it...

Which is where that first line comes in. I've been doing my best to learn about how to pitch my book. To be honest, this is my first time doing this for a book so I expect that I won't be very good at it. In any case, here's what I have for Maiden Voyage.

First, the elevator pitch:

A young engineer in a post-apocalyptic Europe becomes involved with the rediscovery of lighter-than-air flight and joins in a landmark voyage across the continent.

And now, the grand display:

Malcolm Chevin is retiring at 22, after just one project as head engineer. It's been years since he fled his wealthy aristocrat parents and made for Switzerland, and it seems he's set for a quiet life. But it is not the nature of the young to live quietly.

When Malcolm volunteers himself to help build a breakthrough long-haul airship to ensure the retirement of elderly engineer Frederick Zeigler, he finds himself on the cusp of a scientific revolution, and in the midst of an arms race.

Now the airship, with Malcolm aboard, finds itself tangled in plots of sabotage, a relentless pursuit and an endless battle against the elements. Malcolm is no stranger to the military might of the Francs, but will his elderly colleague, his best friend and the ship's enigmatic captain fare so well? Or will the ship's maiden voyage be its last?

So that's that. I guess I'm posting this up here because on the one hand I want people to at least laugh at my failures, but I'd also be keen as mustard for some feedback from more experienced writes who happen upon this solemn blog.

In any case, thank you to everyone who has supported me so far, and wish me luck in this final leap into the abyss. And by abyss I mean contracts.

The Worst Prompt Ever

Sorry John

So about a year ago I was on a writing course, and it was excellent. In the last few weeks of it we were given a writing exercise that went 'here's three things, write a piece that includes all of them'. Some of them were fun and challenging, but one of them had the following three prompts:

Donald Trump's gold encrusted 757
A lobster
A bad acid trip

What the fuck is that? You want me to write a story using those?

Whatever, I'm not afraid of a challenge, so here's the story I wrote. Let this be a lesson in bathos.
Oh and yeah, language warning and all that. Like seriously, if you've found me offensive so far then do not read on.

                Some lobsters are blue. Most are pink, but some are blue. Of course Donald Fucking Trump would buy a blue one. I'm sitting at a dinner table across from him and he's wanking on about Kobe lobster, as if that's a real thing. It sounds like the rich person version of the gluten-free fad. Slap 'Kobe' on something and the Donald Trump's of the world, yes all 7 of them, are all over that shit. I would bet $20 that the truth is that the lobster's name is 'Kobe', but $20 to Donald Trump is like a jumbo jet to a cockroach; totally fucking irrelevant.

                The menu is about as wanky as the man himself, shit like 'venison Carpaccio' and 'corn-fed chicken'. I don't care about the chicken's childhood, just how it tastes. I actually don't care about Donald's childhood either, but here he is going on about it. Fuck off, this isn't your autobiography Donny just some kid who won a competition. You know that shit on cereal boxes and cans of V where they say shit like 'buy one and you're entered in the draw to win'? Well fuck me I didn't know they could enter you automatically and track you down using your credit card number. Creepy shit...

                Backtrack with me for a second. I buy this coke months ago because I'm thirsty as an east-end whore. This can has their latest summer promotion emblazoned over the side, and Donald Trump has just done some ghastly TV ad with him in a Hawaiian shirt drinking coke with teenagers like he's finally found time for his midlife crisis. I don't put two and two together ok? And why the fuck does coke do a competition to win dinner with Donald Trump? I've seen the apprentice, dude's like the corporate version of Gordon Ramsay.

                I get a phonecall, and I'm a winner winner fucking corn-fed chicken dinner. Donald picks me up from an agreeable location, which means I had to bus to the richest part of town so that poor people don't tarnish his car with the gaze of their unwealthy eyes. He rolls up in, I shit you not, the author shits the reader not, one would not consider themselves shitted, a stretch Maserati with his initials made from rows of diamonds on the side. What the ever-loving fuck? What does his automobile actually fucking gain from that? Do diamonds increase the fuel efficiency of his car so that he can pay less for gas and have more to spend on diamonds? Fuck this cunt and his god damn car. Especially fuck the pictures inside. He looks like a rapper with his framed picture of a plane made of fucking gold and him beside it with his toupee that's probably made of the hair of fucking Kobe African orphans.

                I don't know what to order, mainly because I can't pronounce half this shit and the other half has 'Kobe' written next to it and I couldn't possibly subscribe myself to such wanky dining. He explains to me that the plane is a Boeing 757, and he has a huge, throbbing stake in the company with his 9-inch shares and he can arrive 7 times in a night at any given airport with this plane. The rage boils inside me and I start doing this thing where I stop breathing and imagine my fist buried in various objects around me.

                The waitress wonders over because Donald clicked his fingers and I get so angry tentacles begin to sprout forth from my upper lip. He orders that blue cunt-fucking lobster and looks at me, ready to judge my mispronunciation of my choice of main and I look at the waitress and I say 'I'll have the twice-cooked Donald Trump' and she looks at Donald Trump and he says he'll have the crème brulee for dessert and I lose it. I've lost it before, but in the past 'it' has referred to 'most of it'. Today I lose literally all of it, absolutely everything 'it' could ever be. I look at Donald and say in a voice so neutral it could calm Hitler 'I don't fucking care'. Leathery wings break through the skin on my back and spread out behind me, my head grows outward, morphing into that of a cephalopod, Donald implodes leaving behind a small raincloud and the smell of mackerel. I raise my head and let out my mighty Cthuloid screech, fist-bumping the waitress as I stand and moonwalk out of the restaurant. And that, kids, is how I met your mother.

It's Here!

It's been a good two weeks.

So first up, I'm now about 9,000 words into Beyond the Horizon, and I'm starting to come to terms with how much longer than Maiden Voyage it's going to be. Looking at what I've planned out plot-wise compared to how far through I am, I'm feeling this could easily hit some 120,000 words. Awesome, big numbers look good.

I also got down to business (to defeat the huns) and started writing a story in my new universe. The world is as-of-yet unnamed, but the story itself is called 'Lifebringer', and is based off the first of the three prompts I posted last week. Already it's at about 7,000 words, and I'm really enjoying it. It's a different beast to The New Age of Steam so far, but I won't go so far as to say it's better.

But then maybe you'd say otherwise, so here's the first chapter. I'd love to hear what you think, and if you leave a comment you can almost guarantee I'll respond.

Chapter 1

Among Thieves

     It was a sunny day in Aegis, not that the Priests cared. They were content to stay within the confines of their high walls and vaulted ceilings. It was well-lit in there, and one could feel the semblance of sunshine, but it just didn't quite feel the same as being outside.

     But the Priests weren't everyone, so everyone but the Priests was out enjoying the weather on their empire holiday. The streets surged with crowds as they wandered from park to park, searching for an empty spot of grass to lay down on and bask in the sun. Others made for the arena, queuing in their hundreds in the hopes that someone would leave and they could get in. Outside the palace a giant orkestra pounded drums and blasted trumpets, as though celebrating a great victory.

     Only a few stayed and watched. The sound could be heard almost all through the city, so most only passed by for a few minutes just to see the players. Which was convenient, as it took a good ten minutes to cross the palace square through the throngs of people.

     The shop owners that had chosen to stay open made money hand over fist. They would close after lunch and enjoy the afternoon, but for now the grocers laughed the morning away as their purses grew heavy. Even as their wares grew sparse people piled up to their counters to buy the freshest of foods.

     The quietest place was the docks. No cargo came in or left for the islands down south, but even then a hundred boats came downriver carrying tourists from further up the continent. They were the sorts of people that could take a week to celebrate a day, so most had arrived nights ago. Still, there was a near-constant stream of partygoers disembarking. Normally the empty boats would turn and head back upriver, but today even the ferrymen stepped onto dry land to join the celebrations in Aegis.

     The night would bring to life a thousand lantern-lit parties, the next morning being a workless holy day. Holidays then holy days, that's what the Argin people loved most. It was the perfect day for a celebration, the perfect day for admissions and the perfect day for Wrinlett Leeve to finally get what he wanted.

     The ten of them huddled around a cluster of crates that acted as a table. It was once dark down in Alleyend, but Wrin's boys had turned the place into a relative palace over the years and nowadays it was bathed in the light of a dozen ticker lanterns. It was Wrin who'd found Alleyend, of course. He was just a boy, scared and alone in the giant city, and all he'd wanted was a safe place to hide and sleep the night. When he crawled through the gap in the wall where a winding alley ended he'd hit the jackpot. In the years that followed, Wrin built the spacious hidey-hole into what could almost be called an apartment.

     The crates were covered with sheets of paper, which were in turn covered in diagrams and drawings. Wrin went over the plan one more time, readying himself for the third round of questions.

     "..and then we're out. The book comes to me, I take it across the river to our buyer in Jagiston and we walk away with heavy purses." he finished.

     They stood in silence. For a moment, Wrin thought they'd finally got it. Then one of the boys, the youngest, piped up.

     "Sounds awful convenient dunnit? How's we sure you're comin' back with the money?" said Fork. He was a weed of a boy, named for his three-fingered left hand.

     "By the Impeller, Fork, he's always paid us. When has he not bloody well paid us?" snapped Gerry, another boy about Wrin's age.

     "We'll be cursing no Gods here Gerry, even foreign ones." Wrin reminded. Gerry grumbled, but his point had been well made. No-one else spoke up.

     He could understand Gerry's frustration though. Fork had been the first to whinge each time he'd had the plan explained. At least the others had proper questions about the workings of the escapade, Fork was just a damned pain. Half the time he was more hindrance than help with his crippled hand. If he weren't the younger brother of Knife they'd have long since abandoned him on the streets. That was the sort of power Knife had here. Where Fork was skinny and weak, Knife was all meat and muscle. More than once someone had asked Knife where he got his name, and had been answered with the name itself thrust into their belly. He was a good one to have on your side, Wrin reckoned, but damn did Knife scare him sometimes. Still, he was useful, and so he and Fork stayed.

     "So we're clear? At long damn last we're all understood?" asked Wrin, meeting the eyes of everyone one by one. He was met with nods, some slower than others, but none hesitant. "Good. This'll be easier than the time we screwed the clothmonger, you'll see."

     That was met with more trepidation than he'd hoped. Normally the boys were thick as an oak trunk, but Wrin had misjudged them. The empty spot left by the clothmonger job where Trace normally stood was still obvious. None of the ten had quite filled that space around the table yet.

     "Look boys," Wrin began, trying to soften his face, "Trace knew the risks, and he'd always had the most dangerous job. There's no need for someone like Trace on this job, so none of yous'll be dying today. Besides, they're healers, not killers."

     That seemed to ease a few of them, but one or two of the older boys, the ones showing signs of beards and muscles, still looked at Wrin with caution.

     "If one of you sods dies I'll bloody kill you." Wrin said, a smirk twisting his mouth upwards. A few laughs slipped out, and the tension seemed to be dispelled. "We're good at what we do, this place is a testament to that. This could be the one boys. If it doesn't go off we lose nothing, if it does then we're out of this dump. We'll have a house, a real damn house here in Aegis. We'll have beds, and robes, and a pair of shoes for each day of the week. You want it all, boys? Then let's go and take it!"

     The room cheered, or at least cheered as loud as a clandestine gathering could. Everyone stepped away from the table, chatting among their teams of two or three. Some would talk about the job ahead, getting the tiny details hashed out. Some would talk about everything but the job, trying to keep the nerves down. The first team of two left, Knife and a lad in his mid-teens called Orvin. They were security for this job, as they so often were. Knife wasn't good with words, except for one; his name. The rest had to wait for a set number of minutes to avoid arousing suspicion; there was nothing normal about ten ragged boys leaving an alleyway together. It was Wrin's care and caution that had kept eyes off Alleyend for some 12 years, and in the last 2 when the crew had used it as a base of operations it was this same caution that had kept them safe.

     Wrin himself sat down on his mattress, tucked into a corner in the main room with the crates. There was only two other rooms in Alleyend, and one was really just a square with an open hole that led to the plumbing system so they could shit with privacy. Most of them slept here in the main room. The third room was storage, and it was where the crates were now being moved to by Alleyend's four other permanent occupants. Wrin watched the goings-on with a sense of achievement. This was it, this was what he had built. It wasn't much by the standards of most, but for kids like him it was more than most ever hoped for. It was one in a million that dragged themselves out of the streetside life, and now at 18 years Wrin was going to become that one.

     "You're impressed with yourself." came a voice from above him.

     It's owner, Khol, sat down beside Wrin on the mattress. Khol was almost the same age as Wrin, only a year younger, but they shared the same bushy black beard, long, hard jaw and forest-green eyes. At a glance some would call them brothers, and that uncanny likeness was something they'd used to their advantage over the years.

     "When am I not impressed with myself Khol?" Wrin replied with a wide grin.

     "Just because you're all well-spoken with a liking for theatrics doesn't make you the best of us." Said Khol, a tone of grandfatherly warning in his voice.

     "Sure it does." said Wrin, smile still wide as ever. Nothing could hurt his mood today. "If it weren't for this brain," he pointed to his head, "and these giant balls," he grabbed his gonads, "we wouldn't have half the cash we do now."

     "Aye, and don't I know it best..." said Khol. He paused for a moment, looking almost contemplative. Then he turned to Wrinlett and matched his confident smile.

     "Wrin." called someone from across the small room.

     "Aye Purzhy?" said Wrin, getting up and leaving his friend for the moment.

     "I can't find me daggers. Bloody Knife's got 'em again." said Purzhy.

     "That's a shame, maybe you could've used them to shave off that awful scruff." said Wrin, smiling at first, then levelling Purzhy with a hard expression. "I highly doubt Knife took your stuff. We don't operate that way here. Never have. Pull your fucking head in and look for them yourself. If you can't find them, I hope you throw a damn hard punch."

     Purzhy nodded slowly, eyes cast downward, then scurried off. Odds were he'd just left them in his own sleeping hole and was trying to scam Wrin out of a spare blade. Wrin wandered back over to where Khol still sat, rejoining him as the second team left. It was Fork, Gerry and another lad Gerry's age called Jurd. Jurd the turd they called him after he shat on the floor of Alleyend five years ago. The three of them were greasemen. Small, wiry, flexible. They made it in and out of passages most would get stuck in. They were invaluable.

     "What'd he want?" asked Khol as Wrin rejoined him.

     "I dunno, a sword or something."

     Khol studied Wrin's face for a moment. He knew Wrin better than anyone, they'd been scamming grocers since Wrin's first days in Aegis.

     "You're nervous." said Khol.

     "I'm always nervous, underneath it all." said Wrin in a hushed tone. He didn't want anyone to hear the slightest hint of weakness from him. Anyone but Khol, of course.

     "Not the last few times. After the clothmonger job you kept it together, you still had the confidence we all lost." said Khol. Wrin still didn't meet his eyes.

     "That was easy stuff. I kept the jobs simple. It was just basic lifts and four-man scams. This is the first big one we've done since the clothmonger." said Wrin. He was eager to end the discussion, but he knew his friend well. Khol wouldn't stand to be left in the dark when it came to Wrin's feelings.

     "This is something different. I'm guessing you don't have the words to say what you mean just yet, and that's fine. But don't for a second think you can convince me you're nervous about the heist." said Khol, standing to leave with Purzhy and Kim.

     Wrin smirked to himself as Khol left. His trio was on the set-up team. Khol was Wrin's lookalike, and that meant Wrin could have two of himself in one place. It was on this deception that most of their plans hinged. Khol had his part to play while Purzhy and Kim went off to do the dirty work, and Wrin would come in later. For now, Wrin was alone in Alleyend with Maggie, the drop-man. Though perhaps drop-woman was more correct. When the boys got out with the book, Maggie would be out on the streets moving it from one set of hands to another with lightning speed. It made them impossible to track, and even if one of them got caught by a city guard there'd be no stolen goods on him. She would leave last, long after everyone else was gone.

     At the centre of it all was Wrin. He would leave alone, work alone and come back alone. Only this time something was different. This time, Wrin didn't plan on coming back.