Joshua Donellan's Blog: JM Donellan's substack

Agony, apostasy, and the coke machine

Photo by Nik A. on Unsplash

Much of my childhood was spent stepping over convulsing bodies to ask my mum for change for the coke machine. She usually flipped me a few coins and said we’d leave as soon as Jenny or John or whoever had finished ecstatically convulsing. I’d tiptoe past the writhing, glossolalic bodies on the floor and obtain a cold sugary beverage to offer me reprieve from the blistering Queensland heat. At night I’d have a recurring dream where the devil would take me on a tour of hell, eagerly showing off the various torture methods he’d be employing on me when he finally got the chance.

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My parents took religion very seriously, and I decided at a young age that if I was going to follow in their footsteps I’d have to know what I was getting into, and how much of my life I’d be expected to convulse on a dirty church carpet. I read the bible cover to cover, two times over. Man, were they leaving out the juicy bits in the Sunday sermons! There was more sex and violence in those pages than the entire HBO catalogue, and Revelations was a nightmarish fever dream that put H.P. Lovecraft to shame. As storytelling, it was great. As the foundation for a moral system, I found it aggressively hierarchical and frequently self-contradictory. To this day I find it unfathomable that people devote their entire lives to Christianity without having thoroughly read the single book that’s considered essential reading. Imagine meeting someone who claimed they’d devoted their lives to being a Swiftie but had only listened to 1989 and a couple of tracks from Folklore.

I spent most of my twenties alternating between travelling and working crappy jobs to save up money to travel. Having lost my religion, I’d had to let go of the sweet promise of an afterlife (credit where it’s due, that’s quite the carrot to dangle) but I was left with the more complex problem of figuring out how to atone for wrongdoing. Religion makes it laughably easy. Much like masturbation, prayer is straightforward, free, and can be done from the comfort of your own home. The secular world didn’t have anything as clearcut to offer me, there was no set karmic menu or manual.

Writers are frequently asked “where do you get your ideas from?” and I usually like to tell people that I have a secret place in the woods where I’ve uncovered an ancient stone staircase that leads deep into the belly of the earth, at the base of which lies a goblin who’ll give me story ideas in exchange for a shiny silver penny. The truth is most of my stories are the result of long ruminations on a problem. I invent a character to solve the problem for me, while being too cowardly in real life to do anything about it.

My central protagonist in Rumors of Her Death, Archie Leach, is attempting to figure out how to atone for a very serious transgression. Think of the worst thing you’ve ever done. Be honest, take a moment and really delve into the darkest, most secluded places of your memory where unseen sinister somethings clatter amongst the dark debris of your psyche. Archie’s crime is worse than that. Or maybe not quite as bad. Hard to say definitively, not knowing you. After all, you might be a serial killer, or worse, CEO of a social media company.

After his great transgression, Archie has spent years hiding from the world, denying himself pleasure, actively seeking out danger and misery. None of it’s worked, and then he’s invited to explore the Orrery, a nine-storey hedonistic playground that mirrors Dante’s inferno, that promises answers and redemption on its mysterious ninth level. Archie is searching for atonement, with a little motivation from the people who are hunting and haunting him. There’s a lot of different people who inspired the creation of Archie Leach, but one of them is a scared little boy, stepping over screaming bodies on the way to the vending machine, wondering if he’s destined for salvation or damnation. 

PS I released two books last month, the aforementioned Rumors of Her Death (booktopia \ dymocks \ bookshop.org \ Amazon \ barnes & noble) and the gothic mystery Lenore’s Last Funeral ( booktopia \ Amazon \ barnes & noble ).

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short story: Running

Photo by lucas Favre on Unsplash

I started running for the same reason as most people; because my life had no meaning and I thought I could remedy this by moving in a repetitive circular trajectory wearing a pair of $200 sneakers made by a child in sweatshop. It wasn’t easy at first, my body had long since acclimatised to a lifestyle that consisted primarily of sitting, drinking or a combination of the two, and it did not take kindly to moving more than it had to. I was, however, able to overcome my body’s complaints with the superbly motivating force of fear.

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I was running every day because I was afraid of a lot of things, and not just the usual ones like dying alone or going to hell or god not existing or god actually existing and hating me or peak oil causing world war or overpopulation or global warming. I was also scared of the things that most people don’t worry about often enough but really should like the fact that diseases are evolving at an exponential rate due to a societal over-dependence on antibiotics or colony collapse disorder or rapidly depleting helium supplies.

Ironically, even though running would not save me from any of these philosophical and global fears, it made me feel better about all of them. And it was doubly effective against the thing I feared most, which was my computer screen.

It had begun to mock me at infrequent intervals after the Bad Thing happened, and when Laura left a few months later it started it earnest. I could see it, always at the periphery of my vision, flashing the pixelated faces of my parents with their eyes lit with mortal fear or Laura yelling at me with tears cascading down her soft alabaster cheeks. As soon as I turned to look, it would revert to its predictably perfect landscape of a sun setting over a Caribbean beach. My computer also knew that, as much as I hated it, I would never dispose of it because then I would be unable to email or Facebook or tweet Laura.

I had activated a twitter account three months earlier and had not yet tweeted anything. I followed only three people: Laura, physicist Brian Cox and political theorist and linguist Noam Chomsky. Laura followed a total of 3 456 people including rapper Kanye West, supermodel Kate Moss, actor Charlie Sheen and famous person for no reason that I could discern Kim Kardashian.

I was not one of the 3 456 people that she followed and even if I had been I would have constituted only 0.000289% of her twitter contacts. In addition to these various internet-based communication methods there was always, of course, the option of picking up the phone and calling her, but that would invite the horrifying possibility that she would pick up.

I was running every day and when people asked me why I was running I told them one of the following lies:

1 To get healthy

2 To lose weight

3 As a sort of physical meditation

4 To improve my chances of survival once computers gain self-awareness and launch a worldwide attack on all humans.

Of all my answers, the fourth was the only one that bore even a passing resemblance to the truth. When I told people the fourth lie, they would laugh and call me ‘silly’ when really I was being completely serious and was concerned by their lack of concern in regards to this issue but I kept saying the fourth lie anyway because it often made them forget to ask me about Laura.

 I was running every day because I was sick of my computer mocking me and of Laura not calling me and yet equally terrified that Laura would call me and I wouldn’t know what to say. I was not as graceful or tireless as the hordes of lycra-clad runners I passed every day, but I kept a steady pace and within a few weeks my body no longer felt like it wanted to implode with rage each time I finished a run.

 I was running every day and the reason that I had time to do this was because the Bad Thing happened. I had very recently bought my own apartment with the money from the Bad Thing and I had enough to buy groceries and pay bills without having to work for perhaps as long as fifteen or twenty years. This was good because I have always hated my job, even though I was incredibly good at it and had been awarded employee of the month eighteen times.

The job that I had was selling insurance and I was intimately familiar with all of the data on the myriad ailments and calamities that can befall a person. Once you start informing a client about the inordinately long list of very bad things that can happen to them, you don’t have to so much convince them that insurance is a sound investment so much as just patiently wait for them to give you their credit card number.

My company insured against a long list of catastrophes but we did not offer insurance against some of the fears that were most important to me like colony collapse disorder, global warming, the absence of god or Laura no longer being in love with me. We did, however, offer very comprehensive travel insurance.

Once my manager invited me to do a speech to motivate some of the sales assistants and I told her that this was a terrible suggestion because working at that company made me consider suicide on a bi-weekly basis. She asked me if I meant bi-weekly as in twice a week or every two weeks and I said the conversation made me feel uncomfortable. She made an appointment for me with a company-approved psychologist which I did not attend because I looked him up online and his social media accounts expressed a disturbing level of devotion to Elon Musk.

I was running every day and also thinking about the Bad Thing every day. The Bad Thing happened when my parents travelled around Europe and caught the train from Madrid to Lisbon. I had convinced my parents to obtain travel insurance, but in spite of my expert advice they had only bought a basic package, my mother’s exact words were “Honestly Peter, we love that you want to look after us but you worry far too much. You’ve got to stop being so anxious about every little thing! We’ll be just fine.” But they were not fine at all because the driver of their train decided to type a text message whilst travelling in excess of 40kph over the recommended speed and consequently derailed the train and killed 36 people, including my parents.

If they had bought the comprehensive package I recommended they would have been posthumously awarded five million dollars but instead they were paid a total of $700 000, or $350 000 each, which I inherited. This is roughly the same amount that supermodel and Laura’s twitter associate Kate Moss earns in one week. Everything that my parents were; their chromosomes and thoughts and memories and skills and love for each other was fiscally equivalent to the weekly earnings of a skinny blonde woman who was paid money to pout and wear ludicrous outfits.  

At first Laura was sad about my parents dying and then she was happy about all of the money they left me and then she was miserable when I sat at home all the time checking news reports on airline crash statistics and viral outbreaks in Equatorial Guinea and locust plagues in rural China. I stopped shaving and began drinking excessively and eating nothing but Coco-pops and toast. When she left I didn’t wash the sheets for weeks because I didn’t want to lose the smell of her, but eventually my smell overpowered the lingering traces of hers and the sheets started to make me itchy and I washed them and then I understood that she was really, truly gone.

I was running every day, sometimes for as long as two or even three hours. People always say ‘there aren’t enough hours in the day!’ but really this is because large portions of their days are occupied doing jobs they hate and watching sitcoms and when you stop doing those two things you realise that days are as long as dolphin penises (which are fourteen inches and also prehensile, meaning they have the capability to grasp like a tentacle.)

My body began to change. It got slimmer and firmer and my skin transitioned from near translucent white to a soft brown. I noticed that women watched me when I ran with the same look that Laura gave me when we first met. I felt a little embarrassed, because I had entertained a firm-seated although clearly illogical belief that you are born with a certain kind of body and you just have to deal with it and that it will never change no matter how hard you try. 

Some people attempt radical alterations like rhinoplasty and Botox, despite the fact that Botox is the world’s most powerful neurotoxin. Paying $2 000 to have the world’s most potent neurotoxin injected into one’s face does not strike me as a wise decision. If someone put neurotoxin in my face, I would unquestionably pay far more than $2 000 to have it removed as quickly as possible.

I was running every day and my speed and stamina were increasing. I found that I could run for longer without needing to stop. My breaths were slow and easy, my muscles stopped aching like they had in the beginning. My phone wasn’t ringing because Laura wasn’t calling me because she had a new boyfriend and my parents weren’t calling me because they were dead and my friends weren’t calling because they were busy tending to the tiny humans they had created or they had given up on me when I never called them back.

I was running every day and sometimes I would see interesting things like people who looked like their dogs or a beautiful sunset or two men kissing and one of the men was a Muslim and the other an Orthodox Jew but mostly I just saw my two feet left right left right left right etc. One day I came home and heard the sound of a ringing phone. My first thought was ‘someone has broken into my apartment and their phone is ringing!’ but then I realised that the ringtone was my own, I hadn’t heard it in so long I forgot that it was mine. I ran into the kitchen and picked up the phone just as it stopped ringing.

Missed call (1)

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World.

It said that because that is the name that I gave to Laura in my contacts list instead of just ‘Laura’ because that it is what she was to me. Now she was someone else’s Most Beautiful Girl in the World and I didn’t know if they listed her as this or if they called her something awful like Big Titties #2 or something nauseatingly optimistic like My Future Wife. I had never met Laura’s new boyfriend, but I had gathered from Laura’s Facebook page that he was a wedding photographer named Steven who enjoyed Gotye and kayaking.

Kayaking was rated by my insurance company as a class 5 activity (very mild risk of injury or death) and I secretly wished that he had a passion for class 1 activities (extremely high risk of injury or death) like BASE jumping or bull riding. I wondered if I called her would her kayaking wedding photographer boyfriend pick up the phone? I didn’t call Laura aka the Most Beautiful Girl in the World back because of this and also the fact that she had called me didn’t seem real and I thought I might actually be dreaming. I did not sleep that night.

 I was running every day and Laura began calling me every day and I wasn’t picking up even though I really, really wanted to. Everything that was inside of me was saying ‘Call her! Call her!’ but then everything that was outside of me like oxygen and leaves and granite and mangrove swamps and Roman ruins and circuit boards and ultraviolet radiation and the Pacific Ocean and housing estates and incompetent train drivers and funeral parlors and empty bourbon bottles and everything in the whole universe had conspired to tear us apart so who was I to fight that? Sometimes I thought about what I would say if I called her, but the only thing that I could think to say was nothing and that is what I said.

 I was running every day and Laura was calling me every day and now my phone said:

Missed calls (100)

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World.

The fact that my number of missed calls had now reached 100 caused me a great deal of consternation because my grandfather died on his 100th birthday just as he opened his letter from the queen that everyone gets on their birthdays, despite the fact that a monarchist system is an obsolete and anachronistic method of governance in Australia. My grandfather did not perceive the monarchy to be obsolete or anachronistic, he loved the queen dearly and when he read her letter he was so thrilled that he literally died of excitement.

I kept trying not to think about the 100 missed calls, as well as the hundreds of texts and emails that Laura kept sending me that I just kept deleting because I thought that might make them not real.

I was running every day and some of the things that I saw when I ran were trees and dogs and children and Frisbees and couples laughing and kissing in ways that made me jealous and the water and the grass. None of the things that I saw when I went running were ever Laura. This is why it surprised me when one day I went running and I saw Laura. Seeing her made my whole upper body go limp like it had been hit by a tranquiliser dart but my legs were so used to keeping a constant rhythm that for a moment they just kept running and I briefly resembled an animatronic robot with a perfectly operational lower portion and a violently malfunctioning torso.

When I finally came to a halt I had run about three metres past her and I had to turn around and walk back in her direction. She looked sad and angry. I had seen her look sad and angry lots of times before, especially just before we broke up and she became someone else’s Most Beautiful Girl in the World. I had seen her sad and angry, but now she was sad and angry and also had the appearance of defeat hanging around her like a grim psychic fog. Her skin looked sallow and her eyes were sunken and black as though she had not slept for a long time. None of the pictures that my computer screen had shown me had been anywhere near as horrible or beautiful as seeing her in front of me.

She called out “Peter!” in a voice that sounded as close to breaking as is humanly possible without actually breaking. I was covered in sweat, every part of me. I felt like I was about 90% Peter’s sweat and 10% Peter. She said a lot of things with her eyes, I tried to read their language but I was never very good at that. One of the last things she had told me before she left was that I never understood how she was feeling, which hurt me more than anything else because how I wanted her to feel was happy and I wanted to be the one to make her feel that way.

She did not look happy now, not in the least. “Peter, you fucking bastard, why didn’t you … god I’ve been trying for weeks … you fucking …” She did not finish her sentence but instead threw her body at mine and wrapped her arms tightly around me, like some sort of highly ineffectual flesh-based snare.

My shirt was already wet with sweat but now it was wet with her tears too. I put my arms around her, now her snare was caught in mine. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to touch someone else’s skin. “I didn’t know where you’d moved to … I kept looking for you in the cafes we used to go to … all your friends said that they barely heard from you but that you’d started running around here. I’ve been sitting on that fucking bench for four hours you PRICK!” Her voice cracked as though it was playing through a dying stereo.

I was running every day and I was not used to stopping. My body was still heaving with adrenalin, my legs twitched in irritation and anticipation. “Peter … I’ve … I’m not well …” I thought about saying something but decided that nothing would be the best thing to say. I waited for the words to emancipate themselves from her mouth. “I got some tests back and I’m sick. I have been for a while. I think I caught it from Steven.” I said nothing with my mouth but in my head a war began, fires were lit, trumpets were sounded, heads were placed on spikes.

“Do you understand what I’m saying Peter? I’m talking about AIDs. I’m on a bunch of medication and it’s okay, I’m managing, but if you have it and you don’t see someone soon…” She stopped and sobbed and I said nothing as my heart imploded and then she continued. “I started sleeping with Steven before we broke up, so there’s a chance you…”

Her words were arrows joining in the war inside my head. There was too much fire and heat and blood and fear. The sun was beating down on my face and I felt dizzy. Runners ran past looking at the two of us with quizzical expressions, oblivious to the fact that god probably did not exist and even if he did that global warming or colony collapse disorder or biological warfare or nuclear catastrophe would kill them no matter how far they ran or how many push-ups they did or how many protein shakes they drank.

“Can you please promise me that you’ll see a doctor and not just hide away from everyone like you always do? Please?”

I was running every day and I could run for a very long time without pausing for breath. I could run until my feet bled. I could run until my legs collapsed. I could run until my heart exploded.

I could run forever.

____

I’m going to dig a few more short stories out of the archives in the coming months. Let me know which ones you like, because I’m going to put together a collection for publication sometime next year.

Rumors of Her Death is out in the USA right now! Worldwide release in October. (Pre)order links here: Barnes & Noble / Amazon / Bookshop.org / Dymocks (Australia)

Meanjin/Brisbane launch party October 21st at EC Venue.

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Makeup, meerkats & masculinity

I hate having my photo taken. There’s something about capturing a single moment, a momentary expression, a fleeting feeling in perpetuity that I find unnerving. When I write a book I can carefully (some might say obsessively) adjust every clause and comma until I need a nap and/or snacks. A story comes out of me, but a photograph feels like something taken from me. 

Years ago, when I was getting ready to release Killing Adonis, my publisher paid for me to have a professional photoshoot (a rare indulgence in the publishing world). I arrived at the studio and made a futile attempt to appear nonchalant. ‘Chalant’ oddly isn’t a word, but it should be, if only for the purpose of describing my demeanour in that instant. I was ushered over to the makeup chair where I was greeted by a makeup artist with a glowing smile and a plethora of applicators strung across her body in various belts and bandoliers like some sort of cosmetic wielding Rambo.

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“You’re brave!” She said. 

“How so?” I asked.

“You sat right down. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to chase men into this chair. You’d think that a little foundation was some sort of medieval torture.”

I laughed and told her that I was scared of most things, most of the time, but that I appreciated that she was trying to accomplish the Herculean task of trying to make me look presentable. 

“You know who’s the worst? Footballers. I do a lot of TV work, and I’m supposed to get these blokes ready to go on camera. All I want to do is throw on a little foundation to take away the sheen, especially for bald guys like you. A bald head can look like a lightbulb under TV lights if you don’t powder it up a bit.”

In my head I unleashed an eloquent diatribe about the era of Louis XIV when pancake makeup, wigs, and high heels were the height of masculinity but my stupid mouth just said: “Huh. Yeah. That’s funny.” See? This is why I prefer writing over having to live in the real world in real time like a frickin’ jerk. 

“Most of the time these blokes pretend they’re getting a phone call or they go to the toilet for half an hour. It’s unbelievable. These guys who spend their time charging around like gladiators are terrified of sitting in a chair and having a little brush flick over their face a few dozen times.” She chuckled to herself, made a few more artful flicks of her various brushes and applicators, then turned me around to face the mirror. 

“You’re all done love.”

It was probably the best I’d ever looked in my entire life. To quote the great antipodean philosophers The Hilltop Hoods: “I’ve got a beautiful mind, it’s just stuck in an ugly head.” I made peace a long time ago with the fact that I’m not one of the pretty ones. Most days, I’m genuinely grateful for it. I like that I spend most of my time lost inside of my head instead of worrying about how the face on the outside of it is looking. But I can’t deny that on that particular day, in that fleeting moment, I looked…fine. Presentable. Non-scream inducing. Maybe even, dare I say it, pretty good?

I stepped out in front of the camera and immediately regretted my outfit. I tried a variety of poses ranging from ‘spider in a car accident’ to ‘drunk meerkat wakes up in a bath of blood.’ I was awkward and ungainly, unable to shake the thought that one of these images would be enshrined on the pages of this book that I’d poured so much of myself into the past few years. The photographer gleefully called out: “The camera loves you JD!”

“…really?” I replied, briefly buoyed by hope. 

“No. But I’m a good photographer, so don’t worry.” We tried a few more poses and I attempted to ignore his increasing frustration. Exasperated, he put the camera down, looked at me and said: “Try crossing your arms, look tough. Y’know, like a footballer.”

I burst out laughing. 

Here’s a pic from that shoot. God, I was such a lil baby (physically and emotionally).

PS I just changed the name of the newsletter to ‘Chaos and Colour’, I’m still getting the hang of this Substack thing. I hope that’s okay with you? If not, please respond with a loud ululating cry into the nearest void. 

PPS my new novel Rumors of Her Death is out in the USA next week! Preorder links here: Barnes & Noble / Amazon / Bookshop.org / Dymocks (Australia)

Thanks for reading Chaos and colour! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

substack

Good morning, how is your abyss today?

Hi there, I’m going to be moving the blogging activity over to substack, you can follow me here: https://jmdonellan.substack.com/

Thanks, stay fabulous.

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 TEDxSouthBank talk: Why We Need Art  Killing Adonis launch party sneak preview.  A human writes about human rights.  Cooking channel  BNE artist interviews #1: Erica FieldCopyright © JM Donellan [substack], All Right Reserved. 2023.

Here for now

Hi. How are you? Are you reading this on your phone, on the train, in a tree, in a box, with a fox? I actually want to know. The strange thing about being a writer is that you’re constantly spending time alone in a room engaged in the desperate act of trying to connect with people.

The advent of social media very effectively sold us on the lie that it would help us connect with friends and strangers, but if you’ve spoken to anyone trying to build an audience (who doesn’t happen to be already famous and/or absurdly attractive) recently, you’ll know it hasn’t worked out great.

Thanks for reading J M Donellan's little corner of the internet! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

When I first started blogging I really didn’t think I was in the midst of a digital halcyon era of communication and conversation. But compared to the doomscrolling, Muskified, Zuckerberged hellscape we’re in now? Yikes. Maybe it was the golden era.

So here I am, once again, trying to figure out how to say; “Hey, how are you? Is your life a tragedy or a comedy right now? Are you thinking about the weeds in the garden or the yawning abyss in your mind? Are you worried about inflation or the gnawing sound you hear in the walls late at night?”

Cory Doctorow refers to the intentional depletion of value in digital services as ‘enshittification’, a neologism so perfect he should receive an honorary degree for coining it. While I’ll more or less compelled to use at least of few of the main social media apps, I’ve come to see them in much the same light as banks. Unavoidable, in many ways useful, but unquestionably controlled by people with a moral compass that is either non-functioning or was long ago hurled into the nearest volcano.

In any case, I miss sharing strange and disparate thoughts and having in-depth, interesting conversations with people I don’t know, so I’m hoping that might happen here. Also, did I mention I’m releasing two books this year? Yes, that is a lot and no I don’t quite know how this ended up happening.

You can check out Rumors of Her Death here. Lenore’s Last Funeral should be available all the usual places shortly but for now you can find it on netgalley.

I have a few short stories I’m looking forward to posting, and a couple of essays that never found a home. Thanks for your eyeballs and your attention. I hope the abyss is gentle to you today, and you’re gentle in return.

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Cooking channel

Great news everybody! I’ve started a cooking channel. Follow me for recipes that are actually just books every time.

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 Dear vending machine in the emergency ward at the Royal Brisbane hospital: I hate you.  REVIEW OF EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD PART ONE  ULTIMATE COLLABORATIONS  Ball Park Music review (for Rave Magazine)  Six Cold Feet season 2Copyright © JM Donellan [Cooking channel], All Right Reserved. 2023.

Rumors of Her Death playlist

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 Vandal Newman  Love Letter to Lisbon (OR Art in the Time of Recession).  New York Limes best smelling author  Illustrator acquired!  Twitter interview (twitterview? Twinterview?)Copyright © JM Donellan [Rumors of Her Death playlist], All Right Reserved. 2023.

dual book launch OCTOBER 21st

It’s real, it’s happening. You’re invited. FB event link here.

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 BRWF 2018  Vandal Newman  Eighty-Nine teaser trailer  Dearest spawn: words of wisdom for the future  Zeb and the Great Ruckus: coming at you like a rampaging bewilderbeast in 2012Copyright © JM Donellan [dual book launch OCTOBER 21st], All Right Reserved. 2023.

Rumors of Her Death

Rumors of Her Death is now available for pre-order! You can find it at Bookshop.org (a network of indie bookstores, always the best place to get your literary fix), Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and all good bookstores (plus some of the evil ones).

You can also add it to goodreads and let me know what you thought of it there! Unless you don’t like it, in which case…y’know. Just keep your thoughts to yourself.

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 State of Origin: yet another thing that I don't care about but apparently should  Literally the ugliest thing ever built in all of human history  Stories + cushions = best friends having amazing literary pillow fights forever  ART, FICTION, FASHIONISTAS  Gatsby 8 bitCopyright © JM Donellan [Rumors of Her Death], All Right Reserved. 2023.