Create Because It Counts

We create not for fame.

Not for money.

Not for recognition.

Not for glory.

Not for the praise of others.

We create because it counts.

This principle came out of an article on pianist James Rhoades, “Find What You Love and Let It Kill You” from The Guardian newspaper in the UK.

Create because it counts.

James put himself through an extreme, almost ascetic regime: “no income for five years, six hours a day of intense practice, monthly four-day long lessons with a brilliant and psychopathic teacher in Verona, a hunger for something that was so necessary it cost me my marriage, nine months in a mental hospital, most of my dignity and about 35lbs in weight.”

I do not connect with the extremism (yet I can see the validity in it if you want to take something as far as you can go) but I do connect with the emotional response he has when he has put in the time and practice to learn and master a new piece of music; I apply it to writing.

“And yet. The indescribable reward of taking a bunch of ink on paper from the shelf … Tubing it home, setting the score, pencil, coffee and ashtray on the piano and emerging a few days, weeks or months later able to perform something … A piece of music that will always baffle the greatest minds in the world, that simply cannot be made sense of, that is still living and floating in the ether and will do so for yet more centuries to come. That is extraordinary. And I did that. I do it, to my continual astonishment, all the time.”

This is what counts: the emotional connection in creating, and in mastering a skill.

It is about the experience of joy in any creative endeavour. The joy in folding an origami crane for the first time; completing a short story; learning a new chord for guitar; finishing a water colour painting.

Doing it because it brings you a sense of completeness and wholeness as a person.

We do not have to go to the same extremities as James but his encouragement goes further to explore the “What if’s…?”

What if we used our time more wisely? Spent less time wasted on social media and engage in a creative activity? Spent a little bit of money to start a creative pastime like painting or photography? Knit? Crochet? Took our phone, shot some footage and made a short film? Used our time to engage with others in a writers’ circle? Wrote the story or novel we have been aching to tell for decades?

What if…?

So many possibilities. So many options.

And we create because it counts for something.

It counts for the children whose father draws a new picture on their lunch bag EVERY SINGLE DAY.

It counts for the short story writer, novelist or picture book writer creating worlds for others to inhabit.

It counts for the musician sitting in a cafe playing her guitar to six people.

It counts for the grandmother making a quilt as an heirloom for her grandchild.

It counts for the child who discovers the joy of the world through the lens of a camera and documents his journey to and from school every day.

It counts for the dancer at the bar, perfecting a pirouette.

It counts because we need stories and art and music and film and theatre and dance.

Creativity liberates your spirit. It enriches who you are, and the people who engage with your work.

Creativity is a mentality of giving; giving to yourself and others.

Creativity costs in terms of commitment, of sacrifice, of dedication.

You create because it counts.

Your Life In Centimetres

You stood beside me as the workmen gutted the kitchen, stripping the carcass to its constituent framework. Twenty-eight years of old Formica and lino, wonky hanging doors, spilled food stains and enough crockery broken through accident and anger.

“Hey Dad, I’m Jonah trapped inside the belly of the whale,” you said waving your hands beneath the exposed timber beams.

You winced as a crowbar jammed into the doorframe leading into the dining room and levered the old timber.

“Please be careful,” you said. Almost an invocation and the workman stopped. You walked over to the bending wood and ran your hand over the names and numbers. My hand followed yours down the lists like a medieval scribe interpreting the sacred texts and pictograms.

I remember when it started, when you were a wobbly one year old, unsteady on her feet. Against the doorframe between the kitchen and the dining room I measured your life in centimetres.

On the evening of each birthday you stood with your feet flat on the floor and I placed a ruler on your head and scratched at the mark with a pencil. You slipped out from under the ruler at the first instance to compare it against last year’s mark. I reached for the permanent marker and fixed your height against the wall like the rising marker of a flood level.

When you were smaller you bounced on the balls of your feet, pigtails dancing in unison, the tape measure in your hand. You wanted to hold the end of the tape measure flat to the floor, looking up it extended towards the ceiling. Scrambling up, you watched me scribe your height onto the wall, writing the secret code shared between us on the wall.

“How high am I now, Daddy?”

“How tall are you now.”

“How tall am I now, Daddy?”

“One hundred and twenty one centimetres.”

Sometimes I would catch you measuring yourself against the wall in-between birthdays.

“Measure me today Dad because I’m taller.”

“It’s not your birthday.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“You’ll have to.”

A resigned smile followed by a mental calculation of how many days remained until your birthday.

Against the markers the extended family was subjected to a heightist conspiracy: uncles, aunts, cousins, friends. And Gary Brown remains the tallest person you know and measured against the wall, even taller than your younger brothers.

Your mother refused to be measured after a certain age, convinced she was shrinking. Especially after you celebrated the day your line passed your mother’s. You even tried to stand on your tiptoes to prove you were taller than me when you maxxed out at nineteen.

You charted and graphed the growth of you and your brothers for a maths assignment, logging the differences in height from year to year; the growth spurts and the gradual slowing down.

And when I thought you were too old to care about measuring your height, when your friends became more important, you sidled up to me as I was sitting in my chair working on the computer. In your hand was a ruler, pencil and permanent marker. You kissed my forehead, took my hand and pulled me towards the doorframe and said, “You have to measure me, Dad. It’s my birthday.”

Now the wall is flaking and peeling in a thousand layers of sunburnt skin. Or pulled up by the Batlow Red Delicious apple stickers (your favourite) applied around the doorframe. A trail of two hundred and twenty six minute green stepping stones traversing the frame beginning at the floor, following the markers of your height and extending beyond until it came back down the other side of the frame. It annoyed your mother but she relented.            

“At least she’s eating fruit,” she said.

This is your life, measured in increments, dated and catalogued until you were taller no more. This is my photo album, my filing system of memories.

At each evening meal you sat on my left hand side to see the television better but I watched your face and matched it to the lines on the wall.

And then there’s the photo on your wedding day, crouched beside the doorframe pointing at your first height marker. The freckles are still there, I know they are, hidden beneath the layer of makeup. You played dot-to-dot on your nose with a purple texta when you were seven. You scrubbed your face until it was red and raw. Going to school the next day you were so embarrassed about faint lines evident on your face.

Taking your hand from the wood the workmen continued and you waited for the delivery of the totem.

You cradled the wrenched wood as you would a child. Moving out of the noise of the renovations I followed you outside where you leaned it against the wall near the back door.

“It won’t be the same without the old height marker there,” I said.

“It would be nice if you started a new one,” you said. “For the grandchildren.”

You circled your stomach with your hand, looked at me and smiled.

Give Me Your Hands

Checking her watch in the dim light of the community theatre, Louise approximated the ending of the performance and gauged she would miss seeing her favourite band. At best, she could catch the last couple of songs of the set. Looking back down to her notepad with the programme folded inside the back cover, she skimmed over her notes.

In the shadows of the stage, a solitary actor moved towards a cardboard boulder. Sitting down, the stage lights focused on him and Louise watched his thick tongue protrude slightly from his mouth and move from side to side as he scrunched his eyes. His face took on a look of concentration, trying to recall information. He looked at his hands and then off stage, the pause lengthening causing the audience to shuffle in their seats, as he failed to remember the final lines.

A quiet prompt whispered from the side of the stage caused a wide smile to appear. Short hands and stubby fingers repositioned the ivy wreath crowning his broad and listing forehead and began.

If we shadows have offended,


Think but this, and all is mended,


Louise stopped scrawling notes for The Hopetoun Chronicle’s entertainment blog.  She had come along to the opening night at the invitation of the director, in order to spruik the performance. Shuffling back in her seat, Louise replayed the earlier mental conversation with herself.  Work was work and some things needed to be done to move up the journalistic ladder.  Amateur theatre was a rung above school theatre and musicals.  She had scorned the black skivvy and beret brigade at college, concluding that it would be ironic to not use a silencer should you need to kill a mime. 

That you have but slumber’d here


While these visions did appear.

Titania was a vision, entering the stage in a wheelchair, festooned like a Mardi Gras float. She pushed by a retinue of fairies and elves with the disjointed gait of legs like insects, or a pudgy waddle or felt their way across the stage with the aid of a long white cane. There was a party in the carriage of the Fairy Queen accented by costume and streaks of glitter reflecting the stage lights.

And this weak and idle theme,


No more yielding but a dream,


She scanned the list of actors’ profiles and found the actor playing Puck.  Andrew Davison.  His first performance, the program stated.  The glossy black and white photo showed a rounded, slightly pudgy face characterised with an expansive smile that creased the corners of his eyes and somehow captured the essence of life and innocence.

Gentles, do not reprehend:


if you pardon, we will mend:

Scanning back through the list of actors Louise noted the different abilities: Downs Syndrome, cerebral palsy, deaf, blind, spina bifida. Puck continued his delivery with the slightly slurred and mumbled delivery of a person with Downs Syndrome. Yet the cadence and metre of the Bard’s words shaped itself to the timbre of Puck’s delivery like water rolling over stones on the creek bed creating its own music.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck


Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue,

We will make amends ere long;

Louise scanned the audience and saw the attentive faces of fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters.  She saw in their faces a distinct pride, a connection with the actor on stage that Louise did not share. The faces in the program had family in the audience, all who had come to watch a play. They did not see physical impediment or intellectual disability.

Else the Puck a liar call;

It pricked at Louise.  Here in the forest, they were kings and queens and mischievous sprites. This was a world in which she had no connection.

So, good night unto you all.

When the lights would be turned up and costumes packed away, Louise surmised the actors would return to this world, existing as the forgotten ones; the shadows around the periphery of community, held at arm’s length as lower castes.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

The audience erupted in applause as Puck walked to the front of the stage and bowed stiffly from the waist, his right arm across his stomach and his left behind his back. Here was life and love and acceptance. 

Louise realised her hands had retreated, firmly pushed into metaphorical pockets. Even the openness of the simple act of a handshake refused. She found herself applauding, not as Puck requested, but in the words she scrawled into her notebook.

Author’s Note: Last week I wrote a post, Speaking for the Voiceless, in which I outlined a little of my thinking regarding the focus of my writing. It reminded me of a story I wrote about 2 years ago for the now defunct [fiction]Friday. I dragged it out and gave it a little polish to present here. Still not perfect, but it captures the essence of last week’s post.

[FGC#9] Songbird

“Why does the fat lady get to sing the last song?” asked Claire. “I mean, it’s not like she’s Aretha Franklin or anything.” She dragged on the cigarette before extinguishing it. “This songbird’s gonna have the final note tonight. Fat chick be damned.”

The karaoke microphone was vacant, illuminated by a single spot light. Claire’s best friend, Rachelle, dubbed it The Truth Amplifier. The microphone revealed a person’s ability, she said. If they could sing, it magnified the singer’s competent vocal chords. If the singer was a hairbrush vocalist, it simply amplified their cat-being-pulled-by-a-toddler screeching.

Flicking through the karaoke menu, Claire chose her song. It was 2 am and the bar was emptying. MIDI strains of Bon Jovi clambered out of the speaker. From their table, Rachelle whooped her encouragement. Claire pulled the wireless microphone from the stand, feeling its weight, balancing it before winking at Rachelle. In her head she counted off the final bar before the lyrics started. On the last beat she spun the mic in her hand, caught it, leaned forward and breathed the lyrics, “If you’re ready, I’m willing and able/Help me lay my cards out on the table.”

At the first chorus she pushed the vocals, but deliberately held back from giving it everything, “Lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me.” Her hands followed the curves of her body, starting at her breasts, moving over her hips and towards her crotch before she extended her hand towards the crowd. A polite smattering of applause came from the thinning crowd, but Claire knew she had them. The second verse spun from her lips like caramel. Perched on the edge of the tiny stage, she could feel herself flying with the music. Grasping the mic stand in her left hand she threw her head back for the final chorus and released the diva within, finding the pure note and producing a sonic boom.

Putting the mic back into the clip, the audience erupted in whoops, cheers and whistles.

“Take that, you fat cow,” said Claire, dropping into the chair beside Rachelle.

Speak to Me – Does Your Character Talk to You?

How does a character talk to you?

Some writers claim a character comes to them fully formed, knocking politely on the door and waiting to be invited in and offered a cup of tea and a cream biscuit. All the necessary information about the character is formed in their heads.

Others begin with a basic sketch of the character, then develop the character through notebooks of detailed information, from date of birth, clothing, interests and hobbies, music preferences, even food allergies and the character’s belief as to why chocolate should be considered a breakfast food.

When I am writing flash fiction or a short story, I have a strong sense of the character, his/her internal and/or external motivation and decision making process. The need for detailed character development can be dispensed with in a short story or flash fiction. A few broad brush strokes allows the reader to imagine the character and to understand the immediate conflict they are facing.

I do not think of them as “fully formed” characters in the initial writing. By the end of the writing process the character has hints and suggestions of their past and who they are. The reader can extrapolate more of the character’s background and motivation from the story.

As I was writing a new short story recently, the more I wrote, the clearer the character became. It wasn’t the physical description (which I rarely use in short pieces) of the character that became clearer but the internal motivation and the way the character thought and saw the world.

I found it quite a profound experience coming to an understanding of this character and her reasons for her actions and her way of speaking. In reshaping and reworking the narrative, I have a clearer idea of the shape and form of the story because I understand the character better.

Which leads me to a problem…

A current collaborative WIP has me writing from the perspective of a male protagonist. I have the name, a setting, some background and that’s about it. The development of the narrative and the project depends on my understanding of what the character has been doing for the past twenty years as this impacts on the present.

After lots of thinking and mental composting, all I’m getting is choko vines growing over the fence. (The choko is the blandest vegetable on the face of the planet). I needed a chat with my collaborator to help produce a few tomato plants,  a passionfruit vine and a crop of pumpkins. And some lettuce to make the salad (better not labour this metaphor any longer).

After a chat, I sat down some time later to write my first part of the project. I still only had a sketch in my head of the character, but enough to know his internal motivation and how he would respond to the situation. However, as I wrote, the character became more than a phantom of my imagination and more of a ‘real’ person. I understood who he was and the kind of man he is. I am sure over the next few months he will become a defined person, less two dimensional, trope, caricature or stereotype, and someone the audience can understand and relate to.

I am also in the planning stages of another novel where the characters are beginning to form in my head and in my notebook. They are taking shape, no longer formless and void, but they need to become “real” for the audience.

In extending my writing to novels from shorter flash fiction pieces, I am coming to understand the complexity and depth required in knowing a character. A novel requires greater consistency and development in a character. The character needs to act consistent with the parameters of the world of the novel. Sometimes you watch the character through  CCTV and record your observations. Other times, you throw an obstacle in their way to see how they respond. Character affects plot and plot affects character.

In a YA novel I am working on, the characters are fully formed and I understand their internal and external motivations. They didn’t “speak to me” as such, rather, they developed as the novel has progressed.

This is still the beginning of the journey for me. I’ll revisit my thinking on character development after completing these projects.

How do you create characters? Do they come to you fully formed, sitting on the sofa drinking tea, or do you need to dress them like a child and teach them to speak?

2012 – Planning for the End of the World

Should the end of the world not happen later this year (it didn’t happen twice last year, although I get the feeling the toilet paper is approaching the end of the roll), I’ve made a few plans.

I’ve never been one for plans, resolutions, agendas or sticking at one thing for long enough for it to become a habit. The intention was always there, but the execution was lacking.

Therefore I’ve put together a one page table of projects I intend to complete this year. Included in this ingenious piece of planning is predicted dates for completion of drafts, editing, beta reading and “final.”

On that list is 3 novels (two YA and one lit fic), a novella/multimedia project and a handful of short stories. It’ s ambitious; the main focus is on the novels and novella, but I want this to happen. It means cutting back in some writing I like to participate in, like #fridayflash, but in order to achieve my goals, I need to prioritise my writing.

By posting my intentions here, I am declaring publicly what I intend to do. You can prompt me from time to time to see how I am progressing. I’ll keep you updated from time to time.

Now to indulge in my inner Arnold J. Rimmer, crack out the highlighters, and colour-code my projects and timeline.

Tis the Season for Giving

It’s the Christmas season, a time of giving and rejoicing.

Therefore, I have a gift for you. I have written a Christmas-themed story for you to enjoy.

Click on the link below to download your copy.

A Christmas Story – The Cracker Factory

If you would like a signed hard copy, send me your address. Please be careful not to post your address in the public eye (I want to protect your privacy).

Blessings and Merry Christmas

Adam

Pieces of a Puzzle

In the common room of the hospital, an idle television spoke to itself in the corner while two patients sat at the beige Formica table. Attired similarly in faded tracksuit pants and a loose t-shirt Jason wore a pair of woollen Ugg boots with his toes poking through. Morris fidgeted in a pair of Bart Simpson slippers. A plastic band around each patient’s wrist proclaimed name, date of birth and attending psychiatrist. One wore a red band indicating allergies to medications and foods.

“Right, let’s get this party started,” said Morris.

The lid of the puzzle box was flipped open and the contents poured out of the box, spilling all over the table. Fours hands deftly sorted through the pieces of a puzzle scattered between them. First, corners, then edge pieces. Beginning at the corners, the outline of the puzzle was constructed. An empty frame waited for the picture to be assembled.

The front of the box proclaimed a serene, pastoral idyll of green fields, wandering bovine, mountains and a vast expanse of blue sky. Colours were gathered into piles, like sorting a packet of M & M’s before eating them. Greens, reds, blues and partial shapes of cows.

“We should get Gracie in here. With her OCD she’d have the colours sorted in no time,” said Morris scratching at the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. “Didn’t see you at the ‘bus stop’ for meds this morning.”

“Psych session.”

“Still crazy?”

“Certifiable.”

Morris paused from sorting pieces and looked at the younger man over his spectacles. “You doing ok?”

A slight nod of the head from Jason, eyes focused on the puzzle pieces. Hunched shoulders and listless movements sifting through the pieces; a young man layered with melancholy and sadness. The television continued to talk to no one in particular from its corner.

“One thousand frickin’ pieces,” Jason mused. “Can you think of anything less relaxing than a puzzle for someone who’s depressed?

“What do you mean?”

“There’s gotta be a point when you’ve had enough bloody blue pieces of sky. Can you think of a more ironic colour? There is only so many times you can pick up a piece of blue sky and pray it fits.”

“There’s a nice ocean puzzle on the shelf if you want,” said Morris with a smirk.

Jason smiled wanly.

“So why are we doing it?” Morris asked.

“Because we’re depressed and screwed in the head.”

Morris chuckled in consolation. “Tea?”

“Yes, thanks.”

As Morris left the table, Jason fished through the pile of blue pieces, spreading them out on the table, hoping to find a pattern. Shapes, holes and tabs failed to lock together and form a picture. Instead he saw fragments and sections, disparate and disjointed from one another. One by one he chose a piece and tried to make it fit.

“How’d you go?”  Morris asked on his return.

“Two pieces of sky. Two lousy pieces of sky.”

“Try a more methodical approach. If a piece doesn’t fit, put it down in a different spot. Work your way through the pile. You’ll soon find the piece that fits and you then repeat.”

In the background the television droned on as pieces of the puzzle slotted into space. The beige background of the table poked through areas of the puzzle still unsolved. Gaps formed where pieces had been lost, disappeared or eaten by the vacuum cleaner. Stray pieces from other puzzles sat loose to one side, disconnected from their own box and scenic picture. Lost souls in need of a connection.

Jason scooped the loose pieces into his hand and prodded them with his finger, turning them over and over in his palm. With a guttural scream he launched the pieces into the air causing a sudden downpour. With a soft plop a piece fell into Morris’ teacup.

His head hidden behind his hands, Jason sobbed quietly. Morris fished the puzzle piece from his tea. Jason pulled at his face with his hands, stretching out his eyelids then lower lip, streaking the tears.

“It’s not about the puzzle is it?” asked Morris. He sipped his cooling tea.

“It’s about the picture in my head,” said Jason. “There’s a picture I have of what I was before I got sick.” His hands waved over the pieces, conjuring a memory. “But then there’s the picture in the darkest days of my depression and I ended up here.” Open palms, face up, in a gesture of supplication. “I cannot picture me when I leave here. None of it makes sense.”

Pulling a scrappy hanky out of his pocket he blew his nose and wiped his eyes.

“It’s like someone’s rearranged the pieces of puzzle; thrown some pieces away and replaced them with new ones. They fit, but the picture’s all wrong. I see familiar shapes, glimpses of me, but it doesn’t fit with the picture on the box.”

Across the table hundreds of loose pieces, in no particular order, scattered, waiting to be assembled.

“The picture of me has changed. Is the picture wrong?”

“Not wrong; you’re beginning to understand yourself and your depression better,” said Morris.

“I cannot see the picture of what I want to become. What do I do?”

Morris selected a random blue piece and placed it into the puzzle. “Start a new picture.”

The Drum Solo

Jeff pushed open the front door of the inner-city terrace and navigated his way down the narrow corridor. It involved playing a game of Frogger, negotiating a bicycle, odd shoes, a discarded backpack and a random pair of his flatmate’s underpants.

Passing the closed bedroom door to the right of the corridor he heard the muted dialogue of a television and the running commentary of male and female voices. With a quiet knock he called to the inhabitants, “Hi Shane. Is Bernadette with you?”

“Hey, Jeff,” echoed Shane. The conversation continued through the closed door.

“You eaten yet?” asked the female voice.

“Nah. Late lecture at uni and a ton of reading to do for an assignment so I dodged the cafeteria.”

“I made a curry. There’s a plate for you in the fridge.”

“Thanks, Bernie. You’re a legend. You up for a jam on the weekend, Shane?”

“That’d be cool. I’m picking up my guitar from the shop on Thursday.”

From the door to his bedroom Jeff lobbed his backpack towards his desk, clipping the cymbals of his drum kit before targeting the kitchen. Waiting for his meal to reheat in the microwave he tapped out a rhythm on the bench top with his knife and fork. His plate of curry in one hand and a can of Coke in the other he retreated to his room and began his assault on the night’s readings.

The noise from the television tumbled over and under, through and around Shane and Bernadette’s chat. Jeff created a cone of silence by opening his computer and plugging in headphones. Firing up some tunes he pushed the distraction to the edge of consciousness.

Some time later a distraction punched through the cone of silence.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Jeff frowned, stopped reading through his lecture notes and listened.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He paused his music and lifted the headphones from his ears, trying to identify the location and cause of the sound.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, with a wooden tone. Absentmindedly Jeff tapped his pen on his notebook as he searched for the source. Turning in his chair he noticed it was coming from inside the house. In particular, behind the thin adjacent wall connecting the two bedrooms.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

From his flatmate’s bedroom came the undeniable sound of horizontal folk dancing. And it was a passionate dance. Jesse grimaced at the thought of Shane’s hairy backside rising and falling like the moon. The shenanigans next door needed some assistance; Jeff wondered how a guitarist lacked rhythm. The drum kit beside his desk offered a solution.

Taking a seat at the kit he began to feather the bass drum using the sound of the bed head thumping next door as his metronome. Lightly the bass drum beater touched the skin, brushing up against it to produce a low muffled tone. In small increments Jesse added more power to the pedal, producing a whump, whump, whump, whump.

With his other foot the hi-hat produced a clean chick, chick, chick, chick in unison with the bass drum. The bass drum and hi-hat, two heartbeats, kept the pulse steady underneath.

Sticks in hand he tickled the snare drum in a light roll, keeping the sticks low. The snare roll increased in intensity as accents cracked from right to left and left to right.

And still the pulse was steady.

The snare buzzed and popped with accents, a simmering tension waiting for release. Punctuation on the toms dropped like spits of rain, the approach of an impending tempest. Quick bursts played between snare and toms suggested, coaxed, teased.

With the ferocity of a summer storm, waves of notes tumbled down the toms, sweeping from high to low and low to high; rising and falling from soft whispers to shouted declarations.

A quick pause for breath as the rush subsided to a low rumbling on the floor tom as the pulse throbbed beneath.

The floor tom rolled on, holding back, threatening to break open at any moment.

The pulse quickened, a heartbeat racing towards climax.

Cymbals crashed sparsely over the quickening roll. The crescendo exploded, accented with strikes on the snare.

Lows and highs merged together. Bass drum and cymbals erupted in a climactic crescendo before silence as the sounds rang out.

Jeff rested the sticks on the snare and watched the vibrations of the cymbals shimmer before coming to rest.

There was a polite knock on the bedroom door before it opened. Shane stood there, the door covering enough but allowing Jeff to see he was naked. His face was still flushed and a little flustered.

“Dude, what’s the difference between an orgasm and a drum solo?”

“I have no idea, mate.”

“You know at some point the orgasm will end.”

 

Back to 1989

The newest anthology from eMergent Publishing’s Literary Mix Tapes drops on October 25.

In it you will find 26 stories weaving the music, culture and history of that tumultuous year blended with a twist of speculative fiction. Think fluorescent clothing, spandex, poodle hair perms, leather and lace. And that’s just for the guys.

My story, “Ashes to Ashes” has the privilege of being the opening story. Next week I will post the background to the story in the lead up to the release, giving an insight into the ideas, events and music behind it.

You can preorder a copy now through Literary Mix Tapes.

Eighty Nine - edited by Jodi Cleghorn

To whet your appetite for each unique story, here are brief one line reviews and the song behind the story.

Ashes to Ashes – Adam Byatt (Bon Jovi – Lay Your Hands On Me)

A priest, a publican and a secret horde of books. We could all be wearing sackcloth and ashes.

Shrödinger’s Cat – Dale Challener Roe (Eurythmics – Don’t Ask Me Why)

Are you really dead or really alive in a world similar to the Matrix?

Diavol – Devin Watson (Alice Cooper – Poison)

Some really weird alien activity in the midst of revolution.

Nowhere Land – Maria Kelly (Tin Machine – Tin Machine)

A great tale of conformity and distopia with hints of Dante’s “Inferno.” Pick your circle carefully.

Angelgate – Tanya Bell (Red Hot Chili Peppers – Higher Ground)

Tanya takes urban fantasy to the edge of a precipice and hurls us off. How are you at flying?

Chronicle Child – Lily Mulholland (Cindi Lauper – I Drove All Night)

This story has the grace and beauty of the Japanese culture with a prophetic vision of the future.

All I Wanted – Rob Diaz (Tone-Loc – Funky Cold Medina)

An immersive, interactive world of technology with a dark and sinister edge. You might wish the dream was real.

Drilling Oil – Kaolin Imago Fire (Michael Damian – Rock On)

An ecological apocalypse where the thing you covet most may be the thing that destroys you.

30 Years in the Bathroom – Icy Sedgwick (The Wonderstuff - 30 Years in the Bathroom )

Greek mythology with a Faustian twist is at the heart of story so pertinent in today’s media obsessed society.

Amir – Benjamin Solah (Tears for Fears – Sowing The Seeds of Love)

Music is a weapon and violent acts call for violent music, yet there is still the need to find the seeds of hope.

Over the Wall in a Bubble – Susan May James (The Jesus And Mary Chain – Head On)

Susan’s story has a deft, light touch as the Berlin Wall stands but one young person can see a vision of a better future.

Disintegration – Stacey Larner (The Cure – Fascination Street)

Come on a trip into the darkness but beware lest it strangle you.

Choices – Laura Eno (The Proclaimers – Cap In Hand)

There is such a sense of sadness and loss in this story. What if you were the cause of sadness and loss?

Divided – Emma Newman (Richard Marx – Right Here Waiting For You)

Follow this one through to the end, reading it very carefully. A good, twisty ending.

Blueprints in the Dark – Rebecca Dobbie (Deacon Blue – Real Gone Kid)

A crushing sense of claustrophobia dominates this story and you wish you could do something to help out the little boy.

Eighteen for Life – Jo Hart (Skid Row – 18 And Life)

Vampires and the 80s. There is no better combination.

New Year, Old Love – Jim Bronyaur (The Cure – Lovesong)

A love story with a very heated kiss.

Solider Out of Time – Laura Meyer (Martika – Toy Soldiers)

Time travel and boy’s hormones combine with spectacular results. And there’s a cool fart joke.

The Story Bridge – Josh Donellan (Debbie Gibson – Electric Youth)

At the very point of utter despair, salvation comes along in the guise of a little kid who you would just like to up-side the head for sticking his nose in where it don’t belong. But you’re glad he did.

If I Could Turn Back Time – Alison Wells (Cher – If I Could Turn Back Time)

What do you do for someone who’s stuck in 1989 when the rest of the world is accelerating away from you?

An Exquisite Addition – Paul Anderson (King’s X – Summerland)

Two delightfully creepy characters with a penchant for wax and some fabulous dialogue.

The Banging on the Door – Jonathan Crossfield (The B-52s – Love Shack)

This is one creeped out ghost story. Do not read this at night. Alone. With the lights off.

Maggie’s Rat – Cath Barton (Bob Dylan – What Good Am I?)

This story has a great use of allegory in the vein of “Animal Farm.”

Now Voyager II – Monica Marier (Billy Joel – We Didn’t Start The Fire)

An alien news reporter who sees life in a very different way to us. There is a wonderful light touch to this story.

Cocaine, My Sweetheart – Jodi Cleghorn (REM – Stand)

Swapping time streams and some really dark, weird stuff.

Paragon – Jason Coggins (Aerosmith – Love In An Elevator)

We create our own gods in this modern world, and one of them needs to stand witness to the atrocities of our age.

Pre-order your copy of “89″ through Literary Mix Tapes. You will not be disappointed in this anthology.