Peter M. Ball's Blog, page 20

EXILE is out today

As you may have surmised from the posts of the past few days, EXILE is out today. It also ends my first real experiment with a planned, structured series of content heading into the launch cycle. It’s been an experience, and one that I’m glad to have attempted, but I’m glad to be reaching the point where I start talking about other things.

For the moment, you can grab your copy at the ‘zon of your choice.

AMAZON US: Ebook | PrintAMAZON AUS: EbookAMAZON UK: Ebook |Print

Working on Keith Murphy’s adventures again, getting a chance to flense and rework the language, has been a fantastic experience. Now my brain is already hip-deep in the sequel, Frost, which is coming out in a few weeks time, and looking ahead to the third book, Crusade.

Exile is out tomorrow…here's a taster of what's to come

In the immortal words of the Ramones, there’s less than twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go before Exile hits shelves, and it’s currently got the strongest pre-orders of any book Brain Jar press has released. Ebooks can be pre-ordered via Amazon, and print books can be ordered at all good bookstores.

Today, I’m posting the first chapter as a little taste-test, giving you some insight into how hitman on the run Keith Murphy deals with the demons of the Gold Coast once they detect his presence…

PARADISE CITY

They found me in the Hard Rock. Thursday night, a little after ten. The bar drew a good crowd for a Thursday, all things considered. Lots of girls with inscrutable, backpacker accents clustered around the counter. Plenty more heading to the Beer Garden upstairs, attracted by the cover band’s caterwaul. Blondes, legitimate and peroxide—a Gold Coast epidemic. Swathes of exposed skin, despite the cool nip in the air. Twenty-dollar cocktails named after natural disasters: Typhoons; Tsunamis; rum-soaked Hurricanes. 

I’d racked up three straight hours sitting in the downstairs bar, drinking short blacks and reading my book at a cozy table for four. Ignored the crush of the late-night crowd, the heady mingling of sweat and perfume and the salt-water from the nearby beach. Blew off the irritated, dark-eyed waitress who kept offering to take my coffee cup in the hopes I’d fuck off and free up the spot. I wasn’t waiting for anyone else. Just me and my beat-up copy of Persuasion on yet another stake-out, killing time until the local talent picked up on my presence. 

I occupied a table up the back of the room, wedged between one of Keith Moon’s polyester shirts and Mark Occhilupo’s surfboards. Earlier, when I’d been eating dinner, tourists stopped by to read the brass plaques and sniff at my empty seats. Personally, I didn’t give a shit about the memorabilia. My position delivered clear sight-lines on the bar, the gift shop, and both sets of sliding doors. 

The band working Hard Rock’s Beer Garden upstairs distracted me with their off-key singing and affection for the Gunners. Every time they launched into another cover, I’d lose my place and have to re-read the same page of Persuasion again. I’d stumbled over the same line about fine ladies and calm waters ever since their version of ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door.’ They were leading the bellicose crowd through the chorus of ‘Paradise City’ right as the demon walked in.

His arrival marked the end of my reading. I downed the dregs of my coffee and watched the big feller work. The purposeful stroll through the gift shop, and swagger and white teeth. The momentary pause as he scanned the room with a jungle cat’s poise, making a note of every warm body crammed in among the memorabilia. I figured him for six-nine, give or take an inch. Athletic and well-built, dressed to fit in with the local crowd. Tight black jeans and bright red high-top sneakers, a walnut tan just brown enough to be real instead of spray-on. 

The kind of guy I’d remember, even after sixteen years, and I couldn’t recall anyone with his height and frame among Sabbath’s mooks. New arrival, then. Definitely a demon. I didn’t need to piece the veil to confirm it—he carried himself in that languid, unsettling way most creatures of the Gloom deploy when they forget to play human. 

The short, dark-eyed waitress stopped by my table and removed the empty coffee cup. Asked me if I’d like another, and broke into a grin when I told her I’d finish up soon. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, folded it, and slid it beneath the salt and pepper shakers. Dog-eared my current page and stuffed Persuasion into a jacket pocket so I wouldn’t leave it behind. Things would start moving fast now a demon was on the prowl. 

He crossing the bar at a leisurely pace, stopped to chat up women and deploy a toothy smile. The first three shot him down, which took effort on his part. Demons flirt easier than most people breathe, and this guy’s jaw and build were easy on the eyes. In the fourth he found a receptive partner, the kind of woman young men dream of meeting at a joint like the Hard Rock: bleached-blond; white t-shirt; tanned and smooth and friendly, her cut-off jeans showing off the pink hibiscus tattooed on her right thigh. The raucous laugh she deployed when the demon cracked a joke followed by a drunken lurch into his side. 

Then the Big Guy glanced my way, a surreptitious glance to confirm I’d clocked his presence. Could be a subtle warning to back off and let him feed in peace, or a predator recognizing a potential threat and disregarding it before hunting. And so we kicked off a round of my least-favorite game, trying to figure who was playing who.

The blonde made it easy for the Big Guy. Pressed against him, whispered into his ear. Midriff top giving him access to bare skin as he pulled her close. The veins closest to his fingertips turned dark as he siphoned a fragment of her life-force. He did it light and subtle, like a pickpocket filching your wallet. The drain left the girl woozy, bought the demon a chance to prop her against the bar and scan the crowd for another victim. 

Slick work, and feeding in public is brazen for any demon. This guy played it cool, focused on the prey. My presence forgotten or disregarded, confident I wouldn’t risk a move on Sabbath’s turf and put a target on my back. Given the way possessions enhanced human senses, he already knew I wasn’t local. My scent was fresh off the Greyhound, a sour-and-rumpled traveler who’d gone too long without sleep. My flannel shirt too warm for the Gold Coast summer, but ideal for covering the tether marks on my arm and the SIG tucked into my belt. 

I tracked his movements, trying to figure out if he was overconfident, dumb, or extremely good. Realized too late he was the fourth option: a big, distracting billboard deployed to capture my attention. When the .38 kissed the hollow of my back, just below the ribs, a part of me was flattered I’d warranted that kind of caution from two alpha predators.

Of course, that part of me was dumb as rocks, but I guess nobody’s perfect.

Wesna Holjack leaned over my right shoulder, her voice tickling my ear. “Well, shit, Keith Murphy. How the fuck are you?”

“Hey Wes,” I said. “Been a while, yeah?”

She slid into the empty seat beside me, draped her arm around my neck. The other hand jammed the pistol into my side, made it clear trying to squirm or run would trigger a messy response. 

“You should have left it longer,” Wesna said. “Now I’m pissed, because I have to kill you.”

I knew I’d fucked up, the moment I heard Wesna’s voice. Desperation will do that to you. 

Sixteen years back, Wesna Holjack was a friend. A tall girl, tough as boiled leather. Determined to carve out a reputation as one of the guys at our high school, less concerned with surfer kids than the motley crew of freaks who accepted her penchant for violence. She boxed and fought Muay Thai for a stretch, kicked more ass than any kid in our class. 

The Wesna Holjack beside me, sixteen years later, matched the girl in my memory exactly. Same black hair hanging over her face. Same long, bulldog jaw designed to take a punch and let her keep on ticking. Same irritation in her eyes, the look that said she’d caught me fucking up yet again and resigned herself to covering my ass. Problem was, the Wesna Holjack digging her .38 into my ribs still looked about twenty-three. 

The possessed don’t age like ordinary people. It’s one perk demons used to con you into offering your body as a timeshare. Plenty of folks accept the deal, realize too late their humanity’s strip-mined away and the demon gets to walk around in their place. Wesna might not be that far gone, but any memories of our friendship were suspect. I played it safe, spread my hands on the table. Kept them clear of anything that might constitute a potential weapon.

Wesna leaned over to nuzzle against my neck, feigning affection we’d never shared. She cracked her gum in my ear and exhaled, drawing goosebumps on my traitorous arms as my body responded to her proximity. “Here’s the deal,” Wesna said, the barrel of the .38 steady as a rock against my ribs. “You play along, and I don’t shoot you here. We have ourselves a conversation, all nice and private-like, and you keep breathing until we’re done.” 

Wesna threatened with confidence, utterly capable of following through. I buttoned my lip, both hands palm-down on the table. Experience taught me the value of gathering intel, and right now I needed to gauge Wesna’s self-control. 

Her reaction to my silence was a long way from her boiling point. Wesna ground the gun barrel against my ribs. “Tell me you understand, Murphy, or I ventilate your ass.”

“I know the routine, Wes. Jesus.” 

Her dark eyes flicked over my face, eerily calm and unimpressed with my response. “If that were true, you wouldn’t blaspheme.”

“Good advice. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Wesna grinned. She glanced at the Big Guy, over by the bar, and the second demon acknowledged her with a nod. He ordered a beer and slouched against the counter, eyes fixed on me and nauseatingly smug. “Your partners smarter than he looks,” I said.

“Randall has that going for him.”

I twitched my hands, drawing Wesna’s attention to me. “I’m armed. SIG in my waistband, around the back.”

Wesna’s hand slid down, slow and professional. She found the gun, pulled it free. Consigned it to the small handbag slung over her shoulder. “Anything else?”

I took a long, silent breath and shook my head. Confirmed my vulnerability, although she doubted the truth of it. Wesna checked out the other patrons, searching for weapons or gathered power. “Can’t see a second out there. That ain’t like you.”

“I’m flying solo here,” I said. “Not looking for a fight.”

I counted off the seconds as Wesna chewed that over. Watched her do the math, puzzle out the implications of trying to prove me wrong. Hauling me out by here would get very public, and demons aren’t fond of scrutiny at the best of times. Accepting my word meant risking the possibility I was lying and my own ambush lay in the wings.

She looked at me. I looked at her. Wesna idled her way to a plan of action. “I’m putting the gun away,” she said. “A favor for an old friend, yeah? I’d rather not drag you out of here at gunpoint, so if you’re willing to behave…”

There was a long pause as she studied my face, and I did my best to appear contrite and harmless. The .38 ceased pressing against my spleen, disappeared into the depths of Wesna’s jacket. My spleen shivered with relief and the rest of me followed suite. Wesna shifted to the far side of the table, poised like a serpent waiting for a cornered mouse to break and flee.

I let my vision shift past the real world, piercing the veil to glimpse Wesna’s face in the shadows of the Gloom. Not my favorite activity—I’d spent years suppressing a natural talent for breaching the facade we call reality—and the split focus took its toll. But when I concentrated on Wesna Holjack, familiar features gave way to a husk ravaged by prolonged possession. Mortal eyes decayed to hollow sockets with a crimson fire in their depths. Her skin burned dark and ashen, the scraps of her human spirit little more than bright pocks of sulfurous light waging a futile war against the darker presence in charge of the body. 

The headache thundered in, right on schedule. The effort of piercing the veil of the Gloom extracting its toll. Wesna recognized the signs from our teenage years. “That was incredibly stupid,” she said.

“Yeah. I’m aware,” I said. 

“I should be calling Sabbath. He’ll be overjoyed your bitch-ass was dumb enough to come home.”

“You think?”

“Definitely.”

“Best you get on with that, then.”

My agreement caught Wesna off guard, fired up her suspicion I might be playing some longer game. She flicked a glance at the doors and her big, good-looking back-up. 

She eased forward and dropped her voice. “Stop trying to be a hard-ass, Murphy. Give me a reason to let you walk, here,” she said. For a moment I glimpsed the woman she’d been, struggling her way to the surface. 

A smile bloomed across my lips, ready to welcome her. Not a bright idea if I wanted to keep on living. I forced the nostalgia down with a vengeance. “Sorry, Wes. I got nothing.”

“Murphy, come on. Work with me.”

I folded my arms and looked to the Big Guy. He’d reared up, intrigued by our conversation and its departure from the expected. Ready to come in if I started trouble. I shook my head, turned back to Wesna. “Guess you’d better call, eh? Be a good little soldier?”

“Fuck you,” she said, and the phone was in her hand. Wesna searched my face for tells, waiting for me to give her something. We both remembered the threats Sabbath made when I left, and the price of coming home. Wesna ground her teeth and flared her nostrils, hissing like a kettle. 

I kept both hands flat and waited. The band in the upstairs bar continued their tour through the best of Guns and Roses, segueing from “Sweet Child of Mine” into “November Rain”. Their guitarist could play, but the singer just liked to wail. Good enough for a Thursday night, though. All the crowd demanded was volume and the chance to sing along. 

I jerked my chin at the stairwell, risked invoking a little history. “You remember when Nora drove us all to Byron and Use Your Illusion was the only tape in the car?”

Wesna snorted her disdain, but it seemed to push her towards a decision. “Lot of noise in this bar,” she said. “Hard to hear, you know what I’m saying? Think I’ll step outside to make this call. Should be, what, five minutes? Ten? Boss can slow to answer his phone, this time of night.” 

The demon clawed and yowled behind her dark, terrible stare. A part of Wesna’s humanity just marshaled its resources to fight on my behalf, deploying a few scraps of mercy against the demon’s better judgment. She’d offered me a chance to avoid the torrents of shit coming my way.

It broke my heart that I needed to throw it all back in her face. “I appreciate the offer, but call Sabbath from here. I’m not running, Wes. The boss and I need to converse about things.”

Wesna swore, her jaw pulling tight. “He ain’t eager to talk, Murphy. And he ain’t your boss.”

“Then you may as well pull the trigger.”

She blew a long, frustrated breath. Dialed a number from memory and waited for someone to answer.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s me.”

Her eyes stayed on me, hoping like hell I’d change my mind and bolt.

“It’s definitely him,” she said. Then: “Yeah, I can do that.”

She killed the call with her thumb, returned the phone to her jacket. Turned and signaled the Big Guy, waving him over to our table. He broke off from the backpacker he’d been chatting up, became a tall, good-looking shark cutting through the press of bodies. Up close, I could make out biceps and pecs testing the physical limits of shirt. Impressive to look at, but the big man’s grace was the real threat. “This is Randall,” Wesna said. “He’ll be escorting you.”

Randall exposed his teeth. A feral, eager smile.

“Randall, Keith Murphy. Don’t let the odor fool you.”

Randall’s eyebrows shot up at my name. “Well, shit. I’ve heard of you, man.”

I swung free of the table and stared up at him. “Good things, I hope?”

“Outstanding things.” The big demon cracked his knuckles. “It’s been ages since I tortured somebody.”

Grab the rest today: https://books2read.com/KeithMurphyEXILE

Two days to launch…

…and I’m slightly geeked out about getting Exile out there. The Admiral, of course, is reacting to my excitement with her customary savoir faire.

That said, it’s possible she hasn’t yet made the correlation between book sales and the ability to buy her crunchy food. Keep this in mind when you decide where to put your book-buying dollars this week: every time you purchase a copy of Exile, the Admiral gets her crunchy food

Nostalgia Music

Yesterday, after uploading all the files for Exile, my partner and I ate fish & chips and settled in to binge watch two seasons of Shrill back-to-back. I loved the entire show, but owe it a particular thanks for ending season two with PJ Harvey’s 50 Ft. Queenie running over the end credits.

A very big nostalgia music moment for me, flashing back to 1994 and my final year of high school.

Which is appropriate, in a lot of ways, because Exile is very much a novel about nostalgia music. Keith Murphy returns home after sixteen years, somewhat against his wishes. The opening chapter is titled Paradise City and drops multiple Guns’n’Roses references. I wrote the book listening to the Gunners, but also multiple 80s and 90s rock albums like Slippery When Wet from Bon Jovi and Van Halen’s 1984.

The first location in the novel is the Hard Rock Cafe Surfers Paradise (albeit a version of the cafe that no longer exists, given that it downsized a few years back).

All of that’s by intent, because Exile and the books that follow it have always been about a man frozen in time by his mistakes, only to find himself forced to confront him by the circumstances of his present. It’s a book about nostalgia and moving on, cunningly disguised as an urban fantasy thriller about demons, necromancers, and trapped souls.

Out Wednesday…EXILE: A Keith Murphy Urban Fantasy Thriller

The ebook files have all been uploaded and the print proofs have been approved, which means the re-release of Exile is on track for Wednesay.

I talked about the secret emotions and work that hides behind the word “re-released” in relation to this book over on the twitters. I won’t repeat the entire thing here, but it starts with this tweet and everything is linked in an easy-to-follow thread:

My urban fantasy thriller, Exile, gets re-released on Wednesday. That single word, "re-release," obfuscates a lot of work that went into bringing this book back into print—I've worked harder on getting this release together than anything else I've written. /1

— Peter Ball (@Petermball) January 25, 2020

The short version, for those who prefer to avoid the twitter-beast, is that the re-release of Exile and its sequels involves revisiting work written just prior to being diagnosed with a sleep disorder, and therefore a chance to do the kind of rewrites and reshaping of the original text that a falling-asleep-at-the-keyboard Peter wasn’t able to do in 2013.

For various personal reasons, I want this launch to go really well, so I’m investing a little more attention into it than my new releases normally get.

For now, I’ll just mention that pre-orders are live for anyone wanting to get a copy delivered first thing on Wednesday morning: https://books2read.com/KeithMurphyEXILE

A Circle, Closed

The TLDR version of this post: I’m taking a time-out to rethink the Sunday Circle and how it functions in 2020, which may see it either migrate to a new platform or have the shutters pulled down entirely.

I started the Sunday Circle a few years back, inspired by a write-up of the idea in Todd Henry’s The Accidental Creative and an idea that it might be possible to replicate the process online. Over the years we’ve had a number of writers, voice actors, and others drop by on a Sunday to check in with each other, laying out their various projects and inspirations for the coming week.

At the time I kicked off the Sunday Circle, it was part of a long-term strategy for the blog. A natural fit for the kinds of topics I blogged about and talked about in the long term.

These days, not so much. My focus has shifted away from the long conversations about writing and business, and blogs posts don’t get the numbers they once did (largely, I suspect, because they can no longer cross-post to a personal Facebook stream).

And one of the other big take-aways from the Accidental Creative is this:

It’s easy to assume that because something has always been done a certain way, that must be the one and only right way to do it. We sometimes develop the assumption that because a system or method brought us success in one instance, it will always do so. Or we may assume that because something didn’t work in one instance, it will never work under any circumstances. Any of these assumptions can, over time, be disastrous to our creative process because they limit how we look at problems.

Henry, Todd. The Accidental Creative: How to Be Brilliant at a Moment’s Notice (p. 68).

The Sunday Circle was always an attempt to solve problems for me: a means of connecting with other writers and artists as I moved away from regular work, a public habit that prompted me to define my focus and shift attention onto positive influences on my work.

Lately, it’s felt like less of a solution to those problems, so I’m packing it away for a stretch and see if there’s an alternative solution.

Twelve Months On

Hornets Attack Your Best Friend Victor crept onto the top 100 free downloads in the Contemporary Fantasy section of Amazon Australia over Christmas, snagging a position at #16. This occurred twelve months after I first republished the story via Brain Jar, on the heels of nearly 300+ downloads in various storefronts.

It’s interesting to look at the books that surround it in that section—one of these things is very clearly not like the other ones. Not just in terms of being a short story, but in the choices around cover arts and fonts that position it within the genre.

This pleases me.

One of my great issues with the indie publishing scene lies in the rush to conformity. The conversations that dominate forums are how do I produce fast and earn some sweet kindle money, and familiarity is a powerful tool for achieving that goal. The advice always boils down to the same core principles: hit the genre tropes, use a cover concept that speaks directly to genre, publish fast and find a profitable niche to mine it for all it’s worth.

I don’t begrudge the folks who do it—making money from your writing is an important and powerful thing—but for me it fritters away the true joy at the heart of the indie publishing world: Every madcap idea is feasible & nobody can stop you. It’s a space where you can take chances without fear of wasting time and effort, because everything has the potential to find its audience if you give it long enough (and, unlike traditional publishing, you can).

Essentially, every barking mad literary project you’ve ever dreamt up has potential in the indie world, so long as you don’t have your heart set on making an immediate profit. The economies of scale that see traditional publishing focus all of it’s marketing push on the first six weeks are gone, replaced by a system where books can take time to find their audience.

It can be slower—Hornets Attack is over a year old and just finding a new group of readers who dig its weird little blend of slipstream sensibilities and teenage ennui—but it’s also one drop in a growing bucket of projects I’ve got out there for readers to find.

While Hornets has been killing it of late, Black Dog: A Biography overtook it in terms of downloads leading into Christmas. It’s the weirdest, least-accessible short story I’ve ever written, and it’s still finding its way into reader’s hands. I recently did the math and discovered the Short Story collections tend to sell a book a month on average

Newsletters and Kintsugi

I’ve put my weekly newsletter on hold for the holidays season, scheduling a return date in 2020 that just so coincides with the release date of These Strange & Magic Things on January 8.

One of the recurring features in my weekly missive is a list of seven interesting things I wanted to share with people. Sometimes they’re round-ups of things I’ve posted here, or capsule reviews of books that I’ve read. Quite often, of late, they’ve been links to Austin Kleon’s blog where he talks about creativity and process in some really nuanced ways.

If I were writing a newsletter this week, you can bet that Kleon’s latest post about the new Star Wars film and the Japanese art of Kintsugi would be going front-and-centre.

For the record, if you want to subscribe and get the newsletter when it returns (in addition to a starter library of neat ebook swag you see below), head this way.

I drink from the keg of glory

A year ago, around Xmas time, I released Hornets Attack Your Best Friend Victor and Black Dog: A Biography as reader magnets for Brain Jar Press.

For those not immersed in indie pub terminology, reader magnet is short-hand for books/stories I give away for free, so as to entice readers into paying for other work/signing up for your newsletter. Nick Stephenson has an entire book about the strategy which you can download for free (and I’ll let you put two and two together about the reasons behind his choice).

The two stories have served me well since then—Hornets Attack, in particular, has picked up a couple of hundred downloads on various sites—but Amazon has been a sticking point. Unlike every other site, the big river isn’t a fan of letting you upload a book and making it free straight off.

They are willing to price-match with other stores, if a book is available for free elsewhere, but it’s at their discretion and you largely have to ask for it to happen. For a long while, that wasn’t happening with the two stories above. I’d point an suggest bringing the Amazon price in line with everyone else, and they wouldn’t budge. Not a big deal, but it made for an awkwardness—it’s hard to do a “hey, free stories!” post when you have to add a caveat about Amazon being the exception.

Fortunately, the latest request seems to have paid off (or the ‘zon’s price-match algorithm finally seems to have kicked in). After a year, both stories are now, finally, available for free via Amazon stores and apps.

To borrow a quote or two from the West Wing:

Josh Lyman: Victory is mine, victory is mine. Great day in the morning, people, victory is mine.

Donna Moss: Morning, Josh.

Josh Lyman: I drink from the keg of glory, Donna. Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land.

Donna Moss: It’s going to be an unbearable day.

Automation

Two years ago, when I kicked off Brain Jar Press, I dropped a bunch of cash on tools designed to streamline my processes. It started with a shiny new MacBook Air, breaking years of I-don’t-use-Macs ideology so I could run the mac-only Vellum software. That was something like two grand of expenses right there, coupled with an ongoing Adobe subscription and access to delivery tools like BookFunnel.

I knew I’d struggle to earn back that money in the first year, and I was totally fine with that. The point wasn’t making the money back, it was making every project I took on a little cheaper to publish. For instance, there was software that did everything Vellum did, but it was a pay-per-project concern or an ongoing subscription.

There are tools that could create covers instead of using Photoshop, but those tools aren’t as advanced or had a steep learning curve. I would be investing time and subscriptions fees to get advanced features, and the net result seemed likely to deliver slightly less than I wanted long-term even if I conquered the learning curve.

You can talk people through the process of side-loading ebooks onto their reader, but it takes time and it takes tech support and I’m happy to outsource both and take the time and attention I saved to future projects.

Because I’ve had those tools in place since Brain Jar launched, it’s been easy to forget how much time they save until external reminders show up. This last week has been full of them: another indie author asked a question about formatting their digital file, and I basically blinked and realised I never thought about such things because Vellum did it for me.

Another conversation, with a non-indie author, focused on the effort-versus-reward of putting together a small passion project not in a space to pitch to publishers–by the time we’d finished a cup of coffee, I’d put together a ebook files and a PDF ready for POD. By the end of the afternoon, there were cover concepts together. It took about three hours, total, to put together the production-side of things (and that was largely because the first cover I mocked up wasn’t a good fit for the style and content).

Essentially, I’d invested a bunch of start-up cash to ensure producing a book wouldn’t take a lot of time. That makes it easier to take risks with conetent, especially since there’s no real printing costs attached to producing ebooks (and, in some cases, in putting together print editions). It’s an approach that makes it easy to try something interesting, because it’s not trying to earn back a huge amount of set-up costs or time spent away from other tasks.

That’s an aspect of indie publishing that doesn’t get talked about a lot. So many of the conversations revolve around how to use those tools to generate a profit, that the fact you can use them to be a small-time art-punk weirdo gets lost in the shuffle.