B.P. Gregory's Blog: These Characters Aren't Terrified Enough, page 4

The apocalypse is going to be crunchy and nutty

With The Town now at the proofers, who I can only assume have flung all other life obligations to the wind so they can labour lovingly over my manuscript; I'm excited to now be researching my new scifi/dystopia novel Flora & Jim.

As such, I've ordered a tasty insect lovers trial pack from the Edible Bug Shop.

Look forward to updating you once it's arrived and in my face-hole

That final draft kind of feeling

Typing final draft of new outback horror novel The Town.


Must stop cackling maniacally.

Free things, because free things, because free things, because ...

Scifi/horror Outermen is free on Amazon kindle this week, because you can't stop me you're not my real mom!

clickety-click here for Outermen in the kindle store




If you're still a bit challenged (I get it, commitment can be a scary thing) and want to know more I've touched on Outermen previously blog post on Outermen ... this is not a world that births heroes ...

And also a special thankyou to all of my kindle readers. Amazon doesn't let me put up as much free stuff for you to enjoy as other sales platforms, so even though I make it as cheap as I can and throw in the occasional decadent sale I doubly appreciate you sticking with me :-)

One of my characters stood calmly today while I walked in a circle around them

One of my characters stood calmly today while I walked in a circle around them.

This is an experience that will one day be commonplace, but for me it was pretty damn unique. In our spare time (such bucketloads that there are with my significant other wrapping up the most epic-est short film ever shot in Australia, and my next novel outback horror The Town nearing completion) my partner and I have been working on a horror computer game called Home in Time For Dinner; originally for PC but now for the emergent marvel that is VR. Before any of you get uppity about VR being a gimmick I STOOD ON THE SURFACE OF FREAKIN' MARS last night courtesy of the Curiosity Rover so boo to you!




Our characters have an idle animation (when not doing stuff they still breathe, blink and shift their weight fractionally). It's difficult to describe how eerie it was being confronted by them. Especially the dog, I desperately wanted to bend down and pet Mr Truck, our brave little sausage dog.

When I write a character in a novel it's a bit like being a minor deity: I craft every aspect of this person's personality and history. All the reasons they are their own particular and unique snowflake of an assh*le. I know their future. I dictate their future.

Standing face to face with one was a lot more humbling. Not in the least because I expected to get slapped at any moment. And inhabiting the skin of your character, looking out through their eyes is joy I cannot recommend enough to other writers should you get the chance. Holding up their hands in front of your face, suddenly realising how small and vulnerable they are ...

Of course, things don't always go perfectly:




But I do look forward to the day this is ordinary.

- BP Gregory
bpgregory.com



PS The Town - out soon! ;-p

Seems A Pretty Obvious Design Choice Now ...

Awww ... new cover designs for Automatons books one and two mean the little mechanical beasties can now snuggle adorably on your bookshelf, and in the dead of night they'll sing in their tiny high mechanical voices about the fall of mankind.

Automatons




Something for Everything

Thankyou Laura Miller, and your love of terrible book reviews

So, the fulsome Twitter feed of Text Publishing recently called my attention to this article on Slate by Laura Miller, who as a professional critic writes about the enjoyment and value she has found in amateur everyday reviews.

You know the kind.

Sometimes it's a one-word, misspelled "crap" dangling forlornly off one star, that tells you nothing about why they hated it and in no way acknowledges that others might have the scope to enjoy different things. (For example I once got a review of "terribr" which was a boon, as my friends and I have taken to calling all manner of bad things terribr). Often they are straight up mean, and include levels of cruel snark intended purely to make the reviewer sound hilarious.

If you struggle with those kind of reviews, choking back the tears as your wrist trembles with the strain of lifting yet another bottle of wine, give the article a read. You may also come to appreciate their value :-) Gems that really struck me were the inclusion of C.S. Lewis on the appeal of clichés for readers; which Laura ties in with the broad success of functional "un-literary" styles of writing:

"… because it is immediately recognizable. “My blood ran cold” is a hieroglyph of fear. Any attempt, such as a great writer might make, to render this fear concrete in its full particularity, is doubly a chokepear to the unliterary reader. For it offers him what he doesn’t want, and offers it only on the condition of his giving to the words a kind and degree of attention which he does not intend to give. It is like trying to sell him something he has no use for at a price he does not wish to pay."

Let the Website do the Heavy Lifting /or I For One Welcome Our New Robot Overlords

If you're anything like me you probably scream in your sleep, and also get ratty finding a favourite author released a new book months ago and you could've been reading it ALL THIS TIME.

The sad reality is no matter how diligently that author promotes it's still possible to drown in the fast social media stream of hilarivomit.

Enter our robot overlords.

Actually, don't do that. Unless that's your thing, but ... *ahem* anyways

Depending on who you like to spend your filthy lucre with Smashwords, Amazon and most of the other hip trendy retailers have a "favourite" or "follow" button that sends you emails whenever a new release comes out. Hell, you don't even need to shop with them to get notifications.

Sneaky Sneaky

A special sneak preview of my current novel in progress The Town, from Chapter 7 Draft 2 “Intruder.” The Town’s a nice simple outback horror story with a strong touch of the paranormal: but this is less pottery wheel and more wisely refusing that ouija board at a party.

Kate knows she saw the burnt out remains of a town where none should have been, but when she wakes from her blind drunk the evidence is missing.

In this chapter we poke a cautious finger at the blight on the lives of those who grew up too close to the mysterious town.



Copyright © 2016 BP Gregory.
All Rights Reserved.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This work is copyright apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968. This work may not be reproduced or transmitted in part or in its entirety in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the prior written consent of the author BP Gregory, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. Places and place names are either fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely co-incidental.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. It’s the folk who love books who help writers keep going.



From that point on young Carol’s life became increasingly bounded by things that were not normal.

Previously she’d been permitted to undertake the long, long walk to the postbox and back alone. It was one of her weekly big-girl chores, minus the customary resentment and eye-rolling because she liked the implications. The smooth white envelopes seemed important, even when she was a tad late and they came out marred by the coiling of hungry slugs and snails. And it wasn’t really dangerous: you could hear cars coming miles off, if the plume of dust wasn’t enough of a giveaway.

Now her father had to accompany her, tossing the task right back to little kid territory. Which also meant post got put off until whenever he was available instead of when the urge rushed Carol outside, to tramp the weedy verge into fresh air and silence where green moth-riddled leaf chandeliers sieved the light and tapped her head and shoulders like old friends, reminding her you love this.

Instead here was her father slouching in front with hands in pockets and eyes as empty as a figurine, not even trying to make it fun. Max took up rearguard which left Carol piggy in the middle and she couldn’t even pretend it was only her left in the world like she usually did.

The convoy was why she did not immediately understand what was going on when her father held out his hand behind him and she crashed into it.

‘Stay there honey. Just … stay there.’ His voice sounded strained but that was nothing new.

‘Stay Max,’ she whispered rebelliously. The kelpie crouched obediently by her foot, his pale eyes bright. It was his new habit to crowd close enough to trip over but Carol did not mind – not when she woke in the dark thinking she heard somebody breathing in her closet, or peered across a paddock trying to decide if that was a figure staring at her from the other side.

Her father was kicking around, picking up a stick because mud was caked around the outside of their postbox. A cluster of boxes huddled like gossips along the meeting with the main road; the postman could hardly be expected to slog down all those winding driveways. His next shift would be up before the first had even returned from deep in the fields.

It was a bit of local colour that some neighbours got quite elaborate about their postboxes, repurposing old milk canisters or other bits of interesting equipment, repainting every spring in pig pink or cow spots. Carol averted her eyes from the latter. She did not like cows anymore.

By contrast their postbox was just a basic tin box on a post. No need for a lock: her mother said with forced cheer that if thieves wanted their bills they could have them. But theirs was the only one smeared.

Using the stick and with his other sleeve over his nose her father flipped it open and oh no. That was not mud caked on the outside and packed solid within. A smell Carol knew too well from clearing Max’s logs off the lawn.

Only this was worse, a rotting stench like it came from the hindquarters of something mostly dead that did not know it yet, that still strained at the processes of life pretending all was well. And … was that a slime of … dark, clotted and organic, oozing out; crushed tomatoes in a bowl, that texta she split staining the rug and her hands so her mother screamed thinking her scalded and wept with relief when she found the rest of the mess, Carol sick with worry not knowing what she’d done.

Her father gagged once, a harsh gak sound not unlike those Max made with his broken head and then he was herding Carol back with his arms. Doing his best to block with his body the view of what she had already see. ‘Come on, back to the house.’

‘But Daddy …’

‘Right now young lady!’ It was not so much the hysterical tone as the familiar blank expression, she knew better than to plead. His mind was somewhere away and would not be brought back by any shouts or demands because she wasn’t as important. A great surge of anger at her powerlessness swept over Carol, clenching her small fists.

She would wait. She knew how to wait. Perhaps she could overhear them discussing it in their hushed indoors voices tonight and learn something that way.

If You're Into That Sort of Thing

I'm pretty sure most of you will already know that the Smashwords July Sale is now on.

But just in case you didn't and you've been hanging on for that sweet sweet tax return so you can feed your book habit, my stories and heaps of others by a wide range of awesome authors are available at some pretty fancypants discounts - the discounted price appears on the book screen when you click on it :-)



So far my newest short story Abstract , about a young man who discovers a war criminal living in the apartment above him and Orotund: Collected Short Stories Volume Two (a stroll down humanity's dark alleys) have been getting a lot of love because who doesn't enjoy a bit of July eeriness.

But don't miss out on end of the world machines, roaming cities and surgical doom with Something for Everything (Automatons Book Two)!

The Infodump Confession

A lot of readers loathe infodumps with a fiery mouth-foaming passion unto death. Large amounts of exposition that aren't seamlessly integrated into the text so subtly that you don't even realise you're learning can often be signs of poor, undisciplined, even lazy writing. And don't they let you know about it. So here's my confession of the day.

I quite like infodumps.

I never really thought about it before, until I started looking up reviews on a book I read recently and found some particularly cruel dissections. And I thought to myself, a bit bewildered: the amount of extra info provided on the world was one of the things I really enjoyed! This particular author (who I won't mention here) displayed a lot of research and attention to detail, which is usually applauded in sci-fi, and I enjoyed hearing about the social pressures that resulted in this protocol or that piece of equipment.

To be fair I almost always want to know more, in real life as much as reading - it's why I love MONA in Tasmania so much. The technology there allows you to drill down through the information associated with each piece of art to a depth that almost feels fractal. YES I want to know what the artist was thinking, and their life situation; I also want to know what the purchaser thought, and what their curator thought, and what the applicable cultural setting at creation was and how that differs to today; there's even a section for what other visitors to MONA thought of the piece. Every time I have visited I've run the battery on the little handheld device down to a nub and been unable to read up on the last few exhibits near the exit which sucks because that always includes Delvoye's Cloaca Professional 2010.

Revelation has made me re-visit criticisms of infodumping in my own novels: having previously thought huh, ok, maybe I shouldn't do that, I'm now moving more toward: no, it's something I enjoy when I read. Perhaps what I ought to concentrate on, instead of eliminating it, is refining and developing my technique so it becomes more enjoyable to others as well. After all, I can only write the sorts of things I like.

Tvtropes.org have a pretty nice explanation of an "infodump" if you haven't encountered this term before: Tvtropes on infodump