Dane Cobain's Blog, page 40

Former.ly: Chapter Nine (Second Draft) (Excerpt)

John wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to step up security – Peter flew back from Palo Alto a couple of days later, and his ‘security advisor’, a stocky bodybuilder called Nils, joined us shortly afterwards. He didn’t talk much, but we gathered he was an ex-army type with slight paranoia and a keen eye for detail. A nice guy, once you got to know him.

Nils, John and Peter locked themselves away for a couple of days to form a war committee, then re-emerged with stern faces and a series of baffling charts, diagrams and spreadsheets which, they claimed, would be enough to guarantee our security.

“It’s going to be great,” babbled John, as he showed Nils around the office for the first time. “Guys, this is Nils – he’s going to scare away the bad guys.”

“Who exactly are the bad guys?” Nils asked. John laughed.

“That’s just it, Nils. We don’t know – they don’t exactly carry business cards. Part of your job will be to find out who they are and to stop them, by any means necessary.”

“That’s only part of it?”

“Yeah, we work hard here. You’ll also take over the CCTV and the alarms for the office. Don’t worry about the servers – Peter looks after those. He’s the only person who even knows where they are! You’ll also be in charge of out-of-hours security. Form a team that you trust and then set up a watch. I want protection around the clock for both the office and the flat. Guarding them ourselves just isn’t going to cut it – we need professionals. Think you can manage it?”

Nils grinned, a huge expansive smile that oozed self-confidence and quiet mastery. It made me feel uncomfortable.

“Well that depends,” he replied. “What’s your budget?”

“Tell us what you need and we’ll see what we can do. This is top priority. Secure the place and find out who’s trying to mess with us, and we’ll cover any reasonable costs. Until we know who they are, our hands are tied – how do you fight a shadow?”

Silence descended upon the room. Even Elaine was staring at John with rapt attention. His words had hit home – we just didn’t know what we were going to do. As always, Former.ly’s future was uncertain.

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Former.ly: Chapter Six (Second Draft) (Excerpt)

On the second Sunday of December, we hit a major milestone – 50 million registrations, as well as our 11,000th death. Flick sent me an IM to tell me that she’d been summoned to the brand new office; even though it was the weekend, she was keen to get things started. Sarah was out of the house and I needed to shift some code, so I said I’d meet her there.

Ten minutes after agreeing to meet Flick, I was descending an escalator towards the Central Line with my laptop tucked under my arm, because Sarah took my rucksack to take her clothes to the gym. I hate the tube – it’s dark and it’s dirty, too full of sweaty commuters. Luckily, the commuter crowd disperses over the weekend – if you see someone working on their laptop on the tube on a Saturday, they’re either self-employed or they work for a start-up.

I got off the tube at Tottenham Court Road and felt glad to be back in the sunlight, even though it was bitterly cold. Luckily, the new office wasn’t far away – I dodged through the milling crowd past a news booth, cut across the busy road and walked beneath the bridge towards Denmark Street, the only place in the world that makes me want to learn to play the sitar. Former.ly’s new offices were on a small road to the back of it, on the second floor of a dilapidated old building which was ultra-modern as soon as you stepped over the threshold. The new office was clean and empty, but there was still a vibe about the place that reminded me of the old ‘office’ in the living room of John and Kerry’s flat.

Unsurprisingly, Flick was already there when I arrived – likewise, John and Abhi were at their desks, but Kerry, Peter and the two new interns were right where they should be, enjoying whatever they did in their free time. Me? I don’t have a life, and I’m fine with that – my mind rebels at stagnation, give me work! Give me problems! Give me a server on a Saturday and I’m like a kid in a high-tech playground.

“So what’s the plan of attack?” I asked, as soon as Flick got off the phone. Her desk was the only desk in the office that looked lived in – she’d even brought in an aspidistra and some framed pictures of her friends, and she’d turned an old server case into a rudimentary filing cabinet, with old scarves draped around it for decoration. It sounds crazy and it was, but it actually looked pretty cool. She smiled and licked her lips – when she talked about PR and marketing, her eyes lit up like lighthouses when the boats come home.

“Well,” she said. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I don’t know yet. All I know is that I’ve got four days to get as many journalists to come here as possible – any ideas are more than welcome.”

“Free beer should do it.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Flick laughed. “I doubt that John would sign it off, though.” The founder, who’d been listening to our conversation whilst working on a presentation for potential investors, looked up from his screen.

“That’s fine by me,” he said. “Just do what it takes – it’s time for us to hit the big leagues, and it’s time for you to earn your keep. We’re ready to go international – we’ve got good growth in most of the Western world, but that’s not enough. We’re starting with Chinese – we’re still below the radar of the government, so we’ll open up now to make the most of it before they raise that damn firewall and ban us because we’re not Baidu.”

“So much for free speech,” said Flick.

“They won’t ignore us for long,” John continued. “But it’d be good to get a foothold, if we can. They can’t censor the internet forever, and we’ll be right there when they lift the filter. Next, we look to Asia – Abhi is chipping in some overtime to work on the translations, and we’re looking for another developer to help him launch the new languages.”

“Let me see the list of translations when you can, boss,” said Flick. “I’ve got an idea.”

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Former.ly: Chapter Four (Second Draft) (Excerpt)

It was two weeks later, and London was covered by a blanket of fine mist that seemed to soak through your clothes and into your bones. It was horrible – on days like those, I found it hard to get out of bed until the pathetic plug-in heater kicked in and warmed the room up. I woke with a sense of deep, dark foreboding – my workload was growing exponentially, and I’d already stayed late three times this week, once until 11 PM.

My fears turned out to be grounded – John had rolled back two days’ worth of work, so I effectively had to finish three days of work in one. The guys went to the pub at lunchtime, but I stayed behind and powered through, though I did share a bottle of wine with Flick, who was also staying behind – the lead singer of an obscure k-pop band collapsed and died on stage the night before, launching his profile amidst a wave of publicity. It was just the sort of story that went down well with the media.

“In our case,” she told me, “there really is no such thing as bad publicity. Death always puts a negative spin on an article – we have to accept that and move on. Besides, journalists love death – nothing sells papers like a tragedy. The Sun has already agreed to run with it.”

“Yeah? Whose soul did you sell to place that?”

“No-one’s,” she laughed. “I just spent the morning on Twitter and waited for nature to take its course. Nowadays, anyone has a shot at greatness, as long as they have a Twitter account and a story to tell.”

“I’m guessing that you have both.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Most people do. They just don’t always realise it.” Her phone rang out from the table and she excused herself to answer it; by the time that she put the phone down, I was balls deep in John’s messy source code. We both worked on in silence until the rest of the team made their inebriated return.

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Social Paranoia: Introduction (First Draft)

Social networking sites can be scary places. When the whole world is connected, anything can happen, and it can happen quickly, too. Just consider the case of Justine Sacco, the PR executive who was fired after posting a racist tweet when boarding a plane. Sacco went offline for eleven hours during the flight, only to find out that her post had gone viral and she’d been fired whilst in the air.

The speed of social networking has its upsides – after all, a world of information is at your fingertips, and I’ll always fondly remember when I first saw the power of Twitter, when people were posting updates from the London Riots in 2009, literally hours before the same information was being broadcast by the news channels.

But it has its downsides, too. These days, anyone can accidentally become a meme, or unwittingly star in a viral video. Remember the Star Wars Kid? His name is Ghyslain Raza, and he went viral aged fifteen after starring in a video where he twirled a golf ball retriever around like a lightsaber. Raza never intended for the video to go public, but he accidentally left the tape lying around and it was discovered by a schoolmate who distributed it online.

Reza has said that he was a victim of cyberbullying, because the video attracted a number of negative comments. His family filed a lawsuit against the families of the kids who uploaded it, and Reza has since started using the video to speak out against bullies and cyberbullying.

And it’s not just individuals who can fall victim to a social networking scandal – it can happen to brands as well, and it’s arguably more noticeable when it does happen. Just think about the backlash against Celeb Boutique, when they hijacked the #Aurora hashtag with the message, “#Aurora is trending, clearly about our Kim K inspired #Aurora dress ;)”

No, Celeb Boutique. #Aurora was trending because James Eagan Holmes walked into a midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises in Aurora, Colorado, and then killed twelve people. No-one’s in the mood to buy a dress.

Then there’s the infamous case of Dell Hell with blogger Jeff Jarvis, and when Dave Carroll went viral for writing a song called ‘United Breaks Guitars’, about his troubles with an airline. Sure, people have every right to be paranoid about using social networking sites, but so do brands. It’s a minefield out there, if you’re unprepared.

I could go on and on, but that’s what the rest of the book is for – I’ll talk to you about the different types of situations that social networking can make you vulnerable in, and I’ll tell you how to avoid them. After all, used responsibly, social networking sites are a great way to keep up with your family and friends, as well as the events of the outside world.

Social Paranoia: How to Stay Safe in a Connected World is the result of years of industry experience and a survey which was conducted in 2015 to gauge the thoughts and opinions of real people. You can read more about that in the appendix. In the meantime, make sure no-one’s looking over your shoulder and read on.

Oh, and don’t forget to post about the book on your social networking site of choice – if you dare…

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Former.ly: Chapter Three (Second Draft) (Excerpt)

So that’s how I came to start my new job on four hours of sleep, nursing a hangover with a five o’clock shadow. Still, I got there at nine on the dot and was greeted by John, the young founder, who was wearing a pair of white Reebok Classics and a fluffy pink dressing gown, holding a steaming cup of coffee to ward off the autumnal chill. I noticed it was the same mug that Abhi had used, only now it had a chip in it.

“You’re early,” he said, stepping aside so I could enter the office. It looked cleaner than before, suspiciously so.

“You said to be here at nine,” I reminded him, pointing out the time on my iPhone.

“Yeah,” John said, with a shrug. “But I’m used to people running an hour late. We usually start around ten, and we finish when we’re finished. Come on in, though.” I stepped over the threshold and debated whether to take my shoes off. In the end, I followed John’s lead and left them on, then walked into the living room after a moment’s hesitation.

“What’s with the sudden cleanliness?” I asked.

John laughed, pausing slightly before replying. “We might be coming into some money,” he explained, carefully. “That’s why we’re hiring you. We decided to get a cleaner, too – god knows, this place needs a good scrubbing.”

“It looks like someone lives here,” I told him.

“They do,” he replied. “I live here, and so does Kerry. Peter does too, when he’s around – he’s got a mattress in the ‘board room’, which happens to look suspiciously like a living room. At times, you’ll feel like you live here, too.”

“I’ll make myself at home, then. Where do you want me?”

“Just sit yourself down there,” he said, directing me to a low sofa opposite a TV set; I recognised it as the sofa where Kerry lay comatose at the start of my first interview. It was vacant now, but it smelled like a locker room and sank down beneath me when I sat on it. Unperturbed, I logged on to the wireless with a password that Peter shouted through from the kitchen, and I nodded at Kerry as he filtered into the living room to get started on the morning’s work. From the hallway, I heard the muffled sound of someone letting themselves in through the front door – Abhi appeared shortly afterwards.

“Morning Dan,” he said, shaking my hand and pulling up beside me on the sofa. “I’m glad you’re here, we need you. Here, take this.” He handed me a yellow post-it note which was covered in a woman’s tidy, spidery handwriting. “It’s your Microsoft Exchange login – get online, check your e-mails and get to work. Let me know if you need help getting on to the server – Flick says she wrote everything down, but between you and me, she wouldn’t know a DNS from an ISP.”

“Thanks,” I replied, tapping away at my keyboard. “Looks like I’m in. Christ, 192 unread e-mails – not bad for my first day.”

“Sounds about right,” he replied, deadpan as always. “We assigned some bug-fixes to get you started – you’re in at the deep end. If you need me, come get me – I’ll be in the bedroom.”

“Like hell you will,” shouted Peter, who was still clattering away in the kitchen. “I’ve booked it today, Abhi. Sit your ass back down beside the newbie and show him the ropes. Someone has to.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he murmured, collapsing on to the sofa beside me.

“What’s the deal with the bedroom?” I asked.

“We don’t have private rooms, see,” he explained, muttering in a low, rebellious overtone. “The bedroom is the next best thing. It’s easier to work in there – you don’t have to put up with people breathing down your neck for scrappy favours which distract you from the database.”

I said nothing – I was busy working through a flood of e-mails, mostly for Viagra and dubious dating sites. Abhi didn’t care, he just booted up a machine of his own and started coding. I felt like I knew him already – he seemed like a natural-born pessimist, a complainer who never did anything to change things. I planned to change that.

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How to be Crazy Productive

Hi, folks! Today, I wanted to write something a little different – simply put, I have a reputation for being crazy productive, and it’s certainly true that I get a hell of a lot of stuff done. Mostly, it’s a case of multi-tasking and squeezing as much as you can into every second that you spend awake. Today, I’m going to talk about how I go doing that.

Like I said, multi-tasking is important – for example, I memorise poetry whilst jogging, and I format web pages while watching TV. In fact, I get uncomfortable if I’m not doing multiple things – I hate going to the cinema, for example, because I get bored with nothing else to do while the film is on.

As a general rule, I follow something that I call ‘the schedule‘ – basically, I listen to music, and at the end of every song, I change activity. I start out by doing stuff which requires my computer, I follow it up by tidying the house or typing up my notes, and then I spend the third song writing before I repeat myself.

There are a few notable exceptions to the rule – for example, I always start by doing computer stuff for two songs, and I try to end after tidying stuff if I need to go outside for a cigarette. Otherwise, I repeat and repeat and repeat, and these looping circles of different activities help to ensure that I get plenty of writing done whilst getting all of the boring stuff done, too.

The schedule is vital for helping me to get stuff done at home, and whilst you could argue that it’s a symptom of obsessive compulsive disorder, I do stuff that seems even weirder, without context. When it comes to OCD, I’m probably pretty borderline, but I still maintain that alphabetising your book collection doesn’t make you obsessive – it makes you sensible. That way, when I need to find a book amongst the thousand or so that I own, I know exactly where to look.

Of course, there are plenty of other opportunities to squeeze extra stuff in – I get the majority of my reading done when I’m either on the bus to work or when I’m outside having a cigarette, and I write poetry on my cigarette breaks at work. I also work through my lunch break on my own stuff, to help me to keep on top of it.

Overall, I’d say that I typically work between 12-14 hours a day, whether it’s a weekday or it’s the weekend. A weekday just means that I have to work for eight and a half hours on somebody else’s stuff, before I can go home to work on my own.

It’s tough, I’m not going to lie – most people don’t have the dedication that it requires, which is precisely why I get more stuff done than most people. People tend to complain that they don’t have time to do stuff, then spend the evening sitting in front of a TV screen. Bullshit – if you want to do something, you’ll find the time to do it.

So there we have it – those are a few of my secret tactics to get stuff done. I have plenty more up my sleeve, but I don’t want to ramble on for too long and besides – I have other stuff to be doing! In the meantime, be sure to follow me on Facebook and Twitter to keep up-to-date with it all, and I’ll see you soon.

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Former.ly: Chapter One (Second Draft)

“146,357 people die every day. That’s 6,099 an hour, 102 a minute or five every three seconds. 53,456,894 every year. How about that for a target audience?”

Looking back, I should’ve anticipated an unorthodox interview. I mean, how do you deal with a man who reduces human life and death to numbers and statistics? And once you learn to deal with him, how do you laugh, talk, eat, live and work with him? Tech start-ups are notorious for their crazy founders, but John Mayers took the biscuit.

“Welcome to Former.ly,” my potential boss announced, gesturing to the chaotic room around him. “Sorry about the mess – we don’t have many visitors.”

“I wonder why,” I mumbled. The office looked more like a frat house – the place reeked of stale beer and sweat, and a pile of stinking clothes shuddered and then sat upright. He lifted a crusty hand in acknowledgement and said something vague about caffeine.

“That’s Kerry,” said John. “He’s our video guy. He’s a useless bastard, but give him a camera and he’s a machine. Morning, Kerry!”

“Morning, dude,” he replied, shuffling out of his rags and into a semi-respectable pair of khaki shorts, before hobbling over to meet us in the middle of the debris-strewn living room and coding area. He smelled even worse up close, somewhere between a cesspit and a brewery. “Don’t ask – it’s still encoding. I’m going to grab a shower.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John replied. “He always says that. Sometimes I wonder what we pay him for.”

I watched Kerry’s back retreat through a narrow doorway as John cleared a space for me on the sofa. I didn’t really want to sit on it, but I didn’t have much of a choice. It crunched as I sat down; I’m pretty sure sofas aren’t meant to do that.

 “So,” John said, clapping his hands together abruptly. “Let’s get straight to business. After all, we’re both men of business, when all is said and done.” As he spoke, a key turned in the latch and the front door opened, letting in the cold and the distant sound of a muffled conversation. “We’re looking for a front-end developer, and you more than fit the bill in terms of qualifications and experience. But what about culture? Dedication? Think you can match us there? Hey, Flick.”

I turned to look at the newcomer, a pretty blonde woman who strolled into the room, pulled a MacBook Air from a tartan satchel and prepared to start work. She smiled sweetly at the two men who faced her.

“Morning, John,” she said. “Abhi’s here, too – he’s making me a coffee.”

“Good lad. When he’s finished, tell him to come and meet Dan – he’s here about the developer job.”

“Hi Dan,” she said, as she logged into her machine. “I’m Felicity, but everyone calls me ‘Flick’.”

“Hi Flick,” I replied. “Nice to meet you. What’s your role? You don’t look like a typical programmer.”

“Thanks! I try not to. I guess I do whatever needs doing. I’m in charge of PR and office management, but I spend half of my time cleaning this place up and half of my time looking after the boys. That doesn’t leave much room for the rest of the stuff that’s in my job description. Not that anyone ever wrote one.”

“How do you fit it all in?” I asked.

“I do a lot of unpaid overtime,” she replied. “And you will too, if you join us. Good luck with that.” She smiled breezily and went back to her laptop.

“It’s true, you know,” John said, grimly. “I won’t pretend otherwise. This job will take over your life, and if it doesn’t take over your life, we’ll fire you and take on someone who’s more dedicated.”

“I’ve worked at start-ups before.”

“Not at this one, you haven’t,” John replied. “Ah, and here’s Abhi.”

“Morning Mr. Mayers,” he said, looming in the doorway with a cup of coffee in each hand. One of the mugs was emblazoned with a motto: ‘Trust me, I’m a developer’. He kept this for himself and placed the other mug in front of Flick, before turning his head to look at John. “How are you today?”

“Pretty good, pretty good. This is Dan, he’s applying for the developer role. Think you can work with him?”

“You like music, Dan?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“Then I like you,” Abhi said. “We can be friends.”

“Abhi is our back-end developer,” John explained. “So you’ll be working pretty closely with him.”

“That’s right, boss. Can I get you guys a drink?”

“No thanks,” John replied. “I’m sure you’ve got something to be working on. Besides, I need a real drink – you coming, Dan?”

“It’s 11 AM and I’m being interviewed,” I said. “So sure, why not?”

“That’s the spirit – time doesn’t really exist in this place. We work when we can, and we drink when we can. Let’s go.”

****

Flick and Abhi stayed at what can only loosely be described as ‘the office’, while I followed John out through the front door, across the road and along a narrow side-street. Two minutes later, we were walking through Camden Market, absorbing the dubious sounds and smells of the street dealers who sell grinders and poppers to teenage kids.

We cut through food the stalls, with their haunting aroma of fried noodles, strange curries and unpronounceable foreign cuisines, then turned right, along the high street. Further down the road, past the neon lights of the Electric Ballroom, we pushed through the crowd outside the station and moved on towards The World’s End – its imposing façade was partly-covered by a huge advertisement touting the latest iPad. John led the way inside and up to the empty bar; we were served by a tattooed behemoth of a woman, who looked like she’d rolled into work after a night at the Ministry of Sound.

“What can I get you?” she asked, without even bothering to say hello. Her breath smelled faintly of cigarettes and she reeked of cheap perfume – somehow, it was comforting, like when you’re walking down the street and a sudden smell sends you back in time.

“Pint of Stella for me, please,” said John, pulling a wad of notes from his wallet. “Dan, what’s your poison?”

“I’ll have a Guinness,” I replied. To tell the truth, I needed it – this wasn’t what the job ad had led me to expect.

“Guinness, eh? Good man.” Beckoning to the barmaid, he muttered something and handed over a couple of bank notes – she came back with a handful of loose change and a packet of dry roasted peanuts. We took our drinks and climbed a red spiral staircase on to a gantry, which overlooked the empty interior. We sat down at a table and sipped at our drinks.

“So,” said John, trying not to stare at me as I wiped foam from my lip. “You’ve met the team, or most of them – Peter is away at the moment, he spends a lot of time in Palo Alto. You’ve seen the office, and not many people see that – believe me. You should have a pretty good idea of our culture, and I presume you know about our product.”

“I’ve got a profile,” I replied. “Is that enough?”

“It’s a start. Do you have a girlfriend, Dan? A wife? A family?”

“I’ve not got much of a family – my dad passed away when I was seventeen. Heart attack. Mom remarried – her and my step-dad are retired now. I don’t see them much.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Dan. But it might be for the best. Our staff don’t have much time for the living – it comes with the job. What about a partner?”

“Sarah? She’s a journalist at TheNextWeb. She works long hours herself, so she knows how it is.”

“Does she now?” mused John, absentmindedly. He sipped from his pint, smacked his lips, opened up a pack of pork scratchings and continued. “I wonder. This job will kill your social life, and many a start-up has ruined a marriage or a long-term relationship. I’m warning you, Dan, because it’s only fair – it takes a big commitment to join this company, and I need you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into before you take the job.”

“Does that mean it’s mine if I want it?”

“Perhaps. I’m going to call you in 24 hours – you’ll know it’s me. Until then, I want you to seriously consider your options – if you decide you want to take the job, then we’ll discuss it. But I warn you – once you join us, there’s no turning back.”

“What is this, Yahoo?”

“Not quite.” John picked up his remaining half-pint and downed it in one – all at half eleven on a Monday morning. “Listen, Dan, I’ve got to go – I’m the only one on the front-end at the moment, and we’re having teething problems with our new beta. In all seriousness, I hope you’ll join us. When you lift up the bonnet, it’s a mess – I’m more of a businessman than a programmer, and we need someone who can tidy the code up. Enjoy your drink.”

And with that, he walked out and left me with half a pint of Stella and half a bag of pork scratchings. I did what any sane person would do, and started playing Angry Birds while picking at the open bag in front of me. When I finished my first pint, I ordered another.

****

Sarah wasn’t in when I got home, so I booted up my machine and sat down in front of it to work on my journal and to play with some code. Technically, I’m unemployed (at least, that’s what the taxman thinks), but I do some freelance work on the side as both a writer and a programmer. It’s a good life, if you love language – it doesn’t matter to me whether I’m writing in English, French or JavaScript.

I’d been tucked away for a couple of hours, tapping away at the keyboard, when I felt a gentle rush of air and heard a soft click as the front door opened and closed. There was a jingle of keys as Sarah threw them on to the coffee table, and she entered the study soon afterwards. She threw a used copy of The Metro on to my desk.

“How did it go?” she asked. I kissed her, and she sat down on a bean bag beside me.

“It went well,” I said. “Or at least, I think it did. There’s a lot for me to think about.”

“Well,” Sarah replied, “I’ll love and support you no matter what you choose to do.”

“You say that now. But have you really thought it through? This could change both of our lives, for better or for worse.”

“I know,” she said. “But sometimes you’ve got to take a chance. Maybe this is one of those times.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“You do that,” she said, kissing me on the forehead and straightening my tie – for some reason, most likely laziness, I was still wearing the suit from the interview.

“I will. Now get out of my office – this JavaScript isn’t going to debug itself.”

“Charming. I’ll see myself out.” To be honest, I was glad to see the back of her – it had been a long, long day, and I had a lot to think about.

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Progress Report: September 2015

Hi, folks! I thought I’d try something a little bit different today, so I’m going to have a go at updating you with where I am with a few different projects. Lots of stuff is happening all over the place at the moment and life is sort of simultaneously chaotic and ultra-productive, so this could be interesting.

 

Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home:

This is the book of poetry that I’m currently pulling together – about half of it is committed to memory because I perform it, and so I’m sort of slowly trying to memorise the other half. Meanwhile, I’m waiting for my friend Rosy to do the illustrations – she’s already done a couple and they look awesome, but she’s also trying to arrange her wedding and so she’s pretty strapped for time. But then, I’m in no particular rush, either!

 

Former.ly:

Former.ly is the novel that I’ve been working on for two and a half years. It’s taken this long because I’m an idiot, and I decided to write it out by hand. Still, I’m currently working on the last chapter and I think it’ll clock in at just over 90,000 words as a first draft, and about 80,000 after editing. I’m hoping it’ll be out and in people’s hands early next year.

 

Forsaken RPG Game:

I posted an announcement on the website a couple of weeks ago to announce that, due to inherent limitations in the software that I was using to make the game, I’d have to terminate the Forsaken RPG early. Well, it’s pretty much there – I’ve finished tying up the loose ends and writing the story line, and the walkthrough is about 90% complete, but I do need to finish play-testing it myself to make sure that it is actually possible to complete it.

 

Social Paranoia:

The non-fiction book that I’m working on, about how social networking can make us paranoid and how we can protect ourselves, has hit 10,000 words and I think I’m between 15-20% complete. I’ll take that, because I only started working on it a couple of weeks ago, although the research survey did take six months and I’d been planning it for a while before that.

 

Robots V.S. Zombies:

This is all very hush hush at the moment, but I’m currently planning out a trilogy of novels in the Robots V.S. Zombies series, which I may or may not pursue. However, I do have a little green notebook which I’m using to slowly plot out the trilogy over cigarette breaks, so I guess we’ll see…

 

Anyway, I think that’s pretty much it for current projects that I’m actually likely to pursue through to completion. But that could change! That’s why you ought to follow me on Facebook and Twitter and to check back often for further updates. In the meantime, I’ll see you soon!

The post Progress Report: September 2015 appeared first on DaneCobain.com.

Self-Assessment at the fst Away Day

Hi, folks! I’ve got something a little bit different for you today. Last Thursday (3rd September), I headed off to Kent with my colleagues for my company’s annual away day. Lots of stuff happened, and I don’t want to either bore you with it or to incriminate anyone else, but I did want to share one thing with you.

For one of the exercises, we were asked to write a profile of ourselves by filling in a selection of questions. Then, other people had to guess who you were from your responses. I quite enjoyed doing it, and so I thought I’d share my answers with you. Because why not?

 

Your Beliefs:

Super liberal
Equal rights for all
Vegetarianism
Say no to religion

The point of life is to spread more happiness than sadness and to do something worth remembering.

 

The Way You Speak:  

A slight northern twang, occasional big words and lots of swearing. Often talks to self. Once rhymed ‘section’ with ‘erection’ and ‘pre-menstrual tension’. It’s a half-rhyme, but it counts.

 

Culture/Customs:  

Borderline OCD – computer desktop is always empty, and books are alphabetized by surname.

 

What Characterises You?:  

A healthy disregard for authority figures and a partial immunity to the media. Once helped a homeless lady to pick up change when she fell over.

 

Funny Habits:

See Culture/Customs, plus writing daily poems on cigarette breaks and only ever wearing headphones on one ear. Also, getting really angry about spelling and grammar mistakes.

 

What I Have That No-One Else Does:  

I’m a creative who also has business sense, and I don’t get embarrassed about whoring myself out. Speaking of which, have you read my book?

 

Iconography:  

A hoodie with the hood up
Booze and cigarettes
A capo, a biro and a plectrum

Also, this:

 

 

 

Anyway, thanks a lot for reading (as always), and be sure to find me on Facebook, Twitter and/or LinkedIn if you need me. I’ll see you soon!

The post Self-Assessment at the fst Away Day appeared first on DaneCobain.com.

They Like the Darkness

Natalie Briggs didn’t like spiders. In fact, she fucking hated them. From little money spiders to big-ass black widows, creeping into the country in bunches of bananas or lying in wait behind reinforced glass in zoos and safari parks, she hated them.

Natalie Briggs fucking hated spiders.

She hated the way they scuttled sideways across the floor, and how they made their webs in the darkest corners, and how they leapt out at her with their spindly, hairy legs and their evil eyes.

In short, Natalie Briggs was an arachnophobe.

Penny from the office hated spiders too, but her hatred was in a different league. Penny would attack them with a rolled-up newspaper; Natalie needed light artillery, if she was to fancy her chances.

“Have you tried conkers?” Penny had asked, after an arachnid in the bathroom had given Natalie a sleepless night. “It might just be an old wives tale, but they’re meant to keep spiders away if you leave them on the windowsill.”

So Natalie tried to find some conquers, but to no avail. The trees had lost their leaves, and all of the conkers had long since disappeared into the sticky pockets of schoolboys, who weren’t actually allowed to play with them in case someone lost an eye.

“Maybe it was acorns, anyway,” Penny had said. “Or pine cones. Something like that.” So Natalie stocked up on acorns and pine cones, which she bought in bulk in an online auction. She scattered them throughout the house on windowsills and mantelpieces, on shelves and in cupboards, until every room was filled with pine cones and acorns.

But it didn’t work, and Natalie still found herself reduced to a nervous wreck every time one of the eight-legged freaks made its way into her house, to lounge in the lounge or to swallow flies in the dining room.

Natalie had had enough. She fucking hated spiders.

Then, one day, everything changed. Natalie saw an ad in the back of a gossip mag which would change her life forever.

“Buy the Foxo 3000,” it said. “This revolutionary new ultrasonic device uses the latest technology to repel insects and arachnids. No home is complete without one! Be the envy of your family and friends! Only £59.99 plus postage and packaging! Buy now while stocks last!”

So Natalie bought a Foxo 3000, and waited impatiently for the postman to arrive. When he finally did arrive three weeks later, she was slapped with a customs charge, but Natalie didn’t care – it was worth it.

She hurriedly unpacked the Foxo 3000, plugged it in beside her alarm clock, placed it on her bedside table and turned it on. The ultrasound was ultrasonic, so she couldn’t hear it, but she could hear a low hum as the machine came alive.

The humming sound soon starter having the same effect as a light thunderstorm outside the window, of rain hitting the canvas of a tent or of waves lapping at the shore. She found it relaxing, and she was soon unable to sleep without it. And best of all, the spiders disappeared too.

That is, until the night of the power cut. Natalie was half-asleep in the darkness when she noticed it. The humming of the ultrasound machine faded into nothingness, and the sudden silence  was more noticeable than a car backfiring outside the window.

When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but darkness. Her heavy blinds cut off all of the light from outside, and even the muted red from the digits on her alarm clock had disappeared, along with their power source.

Natalie reached for her phone, which she left on the bedside table, and she instantly recoiled when she found it. There was movement, an unwelcome scuttling and the tickling sensation of something brushing against her hand. She creamed, withdrew her hand, thought about the situation for a second, and then reached for the phone again.

This time, she managed to pick it up, and she hurriedly unlocked it and booted up the torch app that she used when she was the last person to leave the office and had to go around from room to room in the half-life, checking for ghosts and crackheads.

At first, the beam of light shone in her eyes and blinded her, but she swung the phone around to scan the room and immediately wished that she hadn’t.

She saw spiders, thousands upon thousands of spiders, spiders of all shapes and sizes, all swarming all over each other. They covered the walls, and the carpet, and the curtains, and the ceiling. They covered the bedside table and the duvet; they fell down from the ceiling and landed in her hair, swarmed beneath the sheets and covered her arms and legs. They were fucking everywhere.

Natalie opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out; the last thing she saw was the last thing she ever wanted to see.

****

Every day is different when you’re a forensic pathologist, but that rainy Tuesday in February took the biscuit. It should’ve been routine – a woman in her early forties had been found dead on her apartment, a suspected heart attack. An open and shut case, quite literally.

So you can imagine the surprise and the horror that they felt when the autopsy team made the first incision, only to find that she had no internal organs – none. Just several thousand spiders of different shapes and sizes, living in her hollowed out corpse like it was the cupboard under the stairs.

They like the darkness.

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