S.C. Green's Blog, page 17

Post-scriptum: The Wall Edition

Even though I’m supposed to be on holiday, it’s been pretty hectic crazy over the last couple of weeks. My house has suddenly gone from a concrete pad with a few block walls to an impressive and complex structure. I can now wander through the rooms and stare up at the roof trusses and chase the cats around the scaffolding. If you want to see some progress shots you should follow me on instagram. I’ve only left the house twice in the entire holiday, once to go to a NYE party, and once to see the new Sherlock Christmas special at the cinema. #hermitsteff.

In my ears: THE NEW FLESHGOD APOCALYPSE SONG IS AMAZING.

Reading: I am reading ghost stories by M. R. James (Christmas present from my husband, and Dorothy Eden’s Winterwood. I am really enjoying both and am probably going to read through all Dorothy Eden’s books.

Writing: I am FRANTICALLY trying to finish Coven, book 2 of Witches of the Woods, while being distracted by shiny new projects. Current status is 32k/65k words written, so basically halfway.

Watching: I bought my husband the first 3 seasons of Midsomer Murders on DVD, so we’ve been watching those in the evenings when we’re too tired to do much else.

On the farm: The most exciting things are happening right now, because my house is going up and it’s crazy! Other than that I’m just doing battle against the weeds and have planted some new seedlings in the garden. Tomatoes are starting to come through, I’m just waiting for them to plump up and turn red.

Loving: \m/ Got to meet Leticia of [e]xpositio, and her partner Troy the other day, and they are so awesome! Letitia and I have been reading each other’s stuff online for years, so it’s amazing to put a person behind the words now. \m/ My daily workout consists of running 6km to Lake Ototoa, and then swimming 3 laps across it. #gainz \m/ Making cob loaf to take to New Years Eve party. Mmmmm cobby loafy happiness \m/ Reading other people’s Lemmy tributes and seeing how many lives he touched. \m/ the Sherlock Christmas special at the movies with all my fellow Sherlock-mad friends. I loved all the super geeky Conan Doyle jokes \m/ Travel plans with awesome Germans \m/ Writing my goals for 2016 and feeling excited about everything that’s going to happen. \m/ Planning to get on the sugar-free buzz this year. I will write about it. \m/ Having an article accepted to Rock n Roll Bride magazine. \m/ Plotting my next science fiction series – a near-future dystopian young adult thing with witches. \m/ tickets to so many fun shows and plays this year, lots to look forward to \m/

That’s my first week of 2016. How is yours?

Born to Lose, Live to Win

News Lemmy Kilmister’s sudden death has rocked the metal world over the past couple of days. Fans have been pouring out their hearts over social media, relating stories from the road, concert experiences, and stories of how his music has shaped their lives. I’m here to add my voice to the crowd of mourners.

Death is an inevitability, isn’t it? You become more aware of that when you get to my age. I don’t worry about it. I’m ready for it. When I go, I want to go doing what I do best. If I died tomorrow, I couldn’t complain. It’s been good.”

Just days ago, Lemmy was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given two to six months to live. “A doctor visited early Monday. Ozzy Osbourne would be coming by that day or the next. Lemmy spent hours on the video-game console, as Rainbow owner Mikael Maglieri paid a visit. Then Lemmy nodded off and never woke up again,” notes Rolling Stone.

I discovered Motörhead in the early days of my metal obsession, the same way I discovered many other bands at the time, by downloading albums from the bands featured on Metallica’s Garage Inc. album on Kazaa. I was struck instantly by how gritty and powerful the songs were, to me they fused the instrumentation and style of metal with an almost punk kind of sound. My favourite tunes have always been “Killed by Death”, “Hellraiser”, “Overkill”, “Eat the Rich”, “Stone Dead Forever” and “Cat Scratch Fever”.

When Motörhead announced an Auckland show in 2006 I booked my ticket immediately, even though it was in the university holidays and meant I had to get back to the city from my parents home six hours away, somehow. Luckily, some other friends from down home were going to, so we made a road trip of it.

The show was intense. To see someone like Lemmy who had for so long only existed in cameo performances and badly pixelated Kazaa footage come alive on stage was a special treat. I remember being mushed at the front while a wall of Marshell amps went up, completely closing in the stage and turning the St. James’ spacious stage into the size of a small club venue. The main smashing culprit was an exceptionally large, exceptionally smelly dude who was right behind me, pushing against me so that I was kind of enveloped in his rolls of flab. He spent the entire concert yelling, “Turn up Lemmy’s bass AMP-LI-FI-CATION!” We named him the Ogre and I bet he is having a real big cry today.

We met him around the back of the venue afterward. He didn’t say much but was charming all the same. My friend even kissed his wart.

I saw him again at Wacken in 2011, and once again their show was magic. Lemmy manages to command attention in such a way that even on an enormous stage with only two other band members behind him, he looked perfectly at ease. His words that night – speaking of how grateful they were to play such a special festival again – were humbling and heartfelt.

I have a tremendous amount of respect for someone who has not only written and performed such a huge amount of incredible songs, but has been a vital voice of reason in the metal scene over the years. Lemmy supported up-and-coming artists, spoke about many different aspects of his life openly and candidly in interviews, and wasn’t afraid to become a parody of himself in things like Brutal Legend. He never seemed to get caught up in drama and pursued his desire for a good time with a relentless fixation I definitely admire. Lemmy lived on his own terms, and he often joked that he should be invincible now for all the drugs and booze in his system.

Sadly for all of us, Lemmy was not immortal. But his spirit lives on in his music and his legacy. Thank you. I am raising a bourbon in your honour.

Order your copy of my gothic romance novel The Man in Black now on a new release special of just $0.99! Grab your copy now, and join my mailing list to get first notice of new books, deleted scenes, free swag, and other awesome stuff.

Gothic Rock & Ghost Symphonies: Playlist for The Man in Black

I create playlists for all of my books, and The Man in Black is particularly inspired by music, because one of the main characters – Eric Marshell – is a musician. Eric plays the violin in a gothic rock band called Ghost Symphony, and it’s this music that helps to forge his connection with Elinor Baxter, the lawyer who comes to his mother’s home in order to sort out her estate.

The truth is, the majority of this book was written with one album on repeat. Three guesses which album that is? (Cough Chelsea Cough). But I’ve included some other songs that I find remind me of Eric or that I think he’d be listening to. Enjoy!

Carrion Flowers – Chelsea Wolfe

This whole album is wound up intrinsically in the book. It is simply amazing.

Lady in Black – Uriah Heep

From their 1971 album Salisbury, ‘Lady in Black’ is a parable about how evil cannot be overcome by evil itself. It’s one of my favourite Uriah Heep songs and has a lot in common with the plot (and the title) of The Man in Black.

Moonlight Shadow – Mike Oldfield

This song – with vocals by Scottish songstress Maggie Reilly – is actually Oldfield’s most popular single to date. The song was originally inspired by the film Houdini, where spiritualists try to contact Harry Houdini after he died, but it may also have some references to the shooting of John Lennon.

One – Apocalyptica
Apocalyptica’s sound inspired the fictional Ghost Symphony band in the book, as well as Eric’s own playing style. I’ve seen this band live twice and they never fail to deliver. Enjoy this cover of Metallica’s famous tune.

First & Last & Always – The Sisters of Mercy
My favourite post-punk goth band. I’ve been thrashing their stuff of late. Eric would’ve grown up listening to and being inspired by these guys.

The Yellow Wallpaper – The Parlour Trick

The Parlour Trick can only be described as “Haunted Chamber Music”, and their instrumental compositions created by Meredith Mayans and Dan Cantrell are played on violin, theremin, harpsichord, bowed glockenspiel, musical saw, and even an old typewriter. They always sound like the ultimate soundtracks to accompany gothic novels. This particular song is named after a famous gothic short story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman that I have just finished reading.

The Trooper Overture – 2Cellos

Again, another band that inspired the sound of Ghost Symphony with their blend of classical instrumentation and modern metal.

Love You to Death – Type O Negative

I like to listen to bands I think my characters would be influenced, and in my head Eric is a huge Type O Negative fan.

The Ferryman – Jordan Reyne

This song tells the story of a man who refuses to accept the consequences of his choices by simply refusing to make any. But you can’t escape the Ferryman that easily.

Feral Love – Chelsea Wolfe

From the Pain is Beauty album, another beautiful, haunting song from Ms. Wolfe.

There tons more stunning gothic songs and bands I haven’t mentioned here that have inspired the character of Eric. I’d love it if you named a few of your favourites.

You can order your copy of The Man in Black now on a new release special of just $0.99! Grab your copy now, and join my mailing list to get first notice of new books, deleted scenes, free swag, and other awesome stuff.

The Man in Black: $0.99 Release Special + FREE novella

I am so so so excited to announce that my 8th book, The Man in Black, is now available for purchase in ebook format from Amazon. I think this book is the best one I’ve ever written, and I can’t wait to find out what you think. I posted an excerpt yesterday if you’d like to give the first chapter a go.

If you want to get your hands on this book, now is the time! With new books, the first two weeks are the most critical for success. With that in mind, if you grab your copy now, you’ll only pay $0.99 (instead of the usual $3.99) AND you’ll get a free bonus novella – The Art of Cunning, book 1 in the Crookshollow foxes trilogy.

Love so fierce it transcends even death.

When Elinor Baxtor arrives at the dilapidated Marshell House to settle the estate of her law firm’s oldest client, she can’t help but feel a little spooked. The creaking gothic mansion is a far cry from her life as an adventurous party girl back in London.

Then she meets Eric Marshell, a man dressed entirely in black with a wicked smile and the ability to float through walls. Eric was the violinist in popular rock band Ghost Symphony until a hit-and-run accident claimed his life. Now he’s trapped inside his mother’s house for all eternity, and the only one who can see or hear him is Elinor.

Eric and Elinor fight their attraction for each other as they dig into the mystery of Eric’s death. But when they uncover a dark and sinister plot that threatens Elinor’s life, their bond draws them into a world neither of them understands. Can their love transcend the boundary between life and death?

The Man in Black is a steamy gothic romance set in the English village of Crookshollow. It’s a standalone novel of love, redemption, and second chances. If you love clever BBW heroines, crumbling gothic mansions, and brooding rockstars who know what they want, then this book will have you shivering all over.

READ THE MAN IN BLACK NOW

As usual, I’ve created a little Q&A about some of the most common questions related to the book and the release:

Why does the book title sound so similar to Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black?

The answer is – that is intentional. The book is a deliberate homage. When I first came up with the concept for this book, I had been reading a ton of gothic novels, and I wanted to pay homage to one of my favourite writers of modern gothic horror, so the title is a direct play on Hill’s stunning book. You’ll notice a few other nods to The Man in Black inside the book, too. The basic premise of a probate lawyer going to a crumbling house to tie up the estate of a recently-deceased old woman is pure Hill (although it’s also a pretty common gothic trope), but there is also the spelling of Marshell (Eel Marsh) and the fact that Eric’s mother’s name is Alice.

When will The Woman in Black paperback be available?

Paperback isn’t far away, I’m predicting late January to get the final paperbacks done on all my novels that don’t already have them.

Who is your publisher?

I am my publisher. I use Amazon’s indie publishing platform and paperback POD platform to produce my work. This enables me to get books direct to you guys as quickly as possible, and that I can earn enough money from the increased royalties to pay my mortgage and shit.

Will The Man in Black be available in Kindle Unlimited?

YES. Like all my romance books, The Man in Black is enrolled in Kindle Unlimited, so those with a KU subscription can read it for free.

Will The Man in Black be available on Nook, iTunes, Kobo or other online stores.

Not at the present time, I’m sorry. If you’d like a copy on your ereader, you have a few options: 1. send me the receipt for your amazon purchase to hello@steffanieholmes.com and I’ll send you a file compatible with your device. 2. Use an ereader file converter like Jutoh to convert the file yourself. 3. Cry.

I love your books! How can I help you spread the word!

Arrrr, yay, thank you! I am so humbled and amazed by all the people who’ve written to me about how much they love my work. Seriously, it means the world to me. If you enjoyed The Man in Black or any of my other books, here are some things you can do that can help me find new readers:

1. Tell people! Lend your book out to someone. Give a copy away at Christmas. Get this series in the hands of anyone you think will enjoy it. If you tell five people about it, and one person loves it, then you have done more for me than you could ever know.

2. Leave me a review on the book’s Amazon or Goodreads page. Reviews are vital in helping other readers decide to take a chance on my book. Also, as an indie author, I can’t use a lot of the same promotional websites as other authors. The sites I can use often require a minimum number of reviews (usually more than 20). So help me get to that number!

I pre-ordered the book and didn’t get the free novella!

There was a bit of a kerfuffle with the files that meant some pre-orders didn’t get the final copy of the manuscript. There are several typos in the file you received, as well. If you sync your Kindle and reopen the book, you should find that you now have the latest edition. If this doesn’t work, then contact me at steff@steffmetal.com and I’ll send you a new, up-to-date file.

You can order your copy of The Man in Black now on a new release special of just $0.99! Grab your copy now, and join my mailing list to get first notice of new books, deleted scenes, free swag, and other awesome stuff.

The Man in Black comes out tomorrow! Here’s an excerpt

I am so excited to be publishing my 8th novel, The Man in Black, tomorrow. I had the idea for this back in July, I think, when I started reading House of Leaves and wanted to write a haunted house book. Marrying my love of gothic literature with the tropes of the romance genre was a bit of a challenge at first, but I had a lot of fun and I think that really comes through in the book. The Man in Black is probably my favourite novel I’ve written so far.

Fans of gothic literature may notice that the title of the book – and some of the character and place names – are a homage to one of my favourite gothic novels: Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black. Susan is a huge inspiration to me and it was nice to be able to add that little nod to her work.

In case you were wondering what the book is about, here’s the blurb:

Love so fierce it transcends even death.

When Elinor Baxtor arrives at the dilapidated Marshell House to settle the estate of her law firm’s oldest client, she can’t help but feel a little spooked. The creaking gothic mansion is a far cry from her life as an adventurous party girl back in London. 

Then she meets Eric Marshell, a man dressed entirely in black with a wicked smile and the ability to float through walls. Eric was the violinist in popular rock band Ghost Symphony until a hit-and-run accident claimed his life. Now he’s trapped inside his mother’s house for all eternity, and the only one who can see or hear him is Elinor. 

Eric and Elinor fight their attraction for each other as they dig into the mystery of Eric’s death. But when they uncover a dark and sinister plot that threatens Elinor’s life, their bond draws them into a world neither of them understands. Can their love transcend the boundary between life and death? 

The Man in Black is a steamy gothic romance set in the English village of Crookshollow. It’s a standalone novel of love, redemption, and second chances. If you love clever BBW heroines, crumbling gothic mansions, and brooding rockstars who know what they want, then this book will have you shivering all over.

Enjoy an excerpt from The Man in Black below, and order your copy now for a new release special of just $0.99!

(This text is copyright S C Green / Steffanie Holmes. Please ask permission before reprinting elsewhere)

PROLOGUE: ERIC

I woke up inside the floor.

That whole concept was weird. For starters, to say I woke up wasn’t quite accurate. I don’t really remember how my eyes came to be open, or indeed what had closed them in the first place. My consciousness seemed to rise up from within me, like a diver emerging from the depths. I had been swimming in the murky water, and then, suddenly, I was exposed to the sunlight again.

But being inside the floor … that part was accurate. I could see beams running along either side of my head, and a giant horizontal void strung with glimmering spider webs. My body seemed to emanate light, for around me I could make out the scratches of rodents against the wood, and the electrical cables winding through the space, but deeper into the floor was all blackness.

The first thing I did was look down at my hands. As a musician, my hands meant everything to me. They were the instruments through which I channelled my thoughts and moods. They looked the same as always; long, strong fingers, the distinctive calluses around the pads marking me as a violinist. They might’ve been a little paler than usual, but nothing to be worried about.

Now that I knew my hands were OK, I had to figure where I was and how I’d managed to get stuck inside the floor. I took a deep breath, and fell.

I cried out as I dropped through the ceiling, flailing my arms to catch something, anything, to prevent me falling on my back and hurting myself. I watched the chandelier on the ceiling hurtling away from me as I plummeted through the air. Only I didn’t land. I fell right into the floor and kept going, passing through a basement, then plunging through a wooden floor into a crawl space, and finally into the dirt below. A worm crawled in front of my face.

And that was when panic seized me. Is the house falling down? Was it an earthquake? How had I ended up down here? I opened my mouth to scream, but then clamped it shut again, realising that I’d just fill it with dirt, and then I wouldn’t be able to breathe …

But I shouldn’t be able to breathe anyway. I’m buried in the dirt beneath a house. I should be suffocating.

The worm inched across my vision.

What is going on?

I tried to move my arms, and found it quite easy. I held my hands in front of me, watching the way the dirt fell through them, as if my hands weren’t really there at all. I waved my finger at the worm, and my finger passed right through its body. The worm continued its travels, oblivious to my presence.

This was no natural disaster. Something was seriously wrong with me.

I lifted my hands over my head, and as I did so, my body shot up again. My head popped out from the dirt, but before I could get a good look at the crawlspace, I found myself in the basement. I brought my hands down again, and that stopped my descent. My body still seemed to be emanating a slight glow, and I could see some of the objects piled around me. Old toys, stacks of books, a couple of microwaves. Boxes labelled with loopy handwriting. Something about the stuff looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it …

I pointed my hands toward the basement steps, and, without moving my feet, I flew toward them. But instead of hitting the wooden stairs, I flew through them, feeling only a faint tingle in my limbs as I passed through the solid staircase.

OK, so that explains why I’d fallen into the dirt. I didn’t seem to be able to touch anything anymore. I needed to get to a hospital, maybe they had a pill to fix translucency. I stretched one arm out in front of me, and used it a bit like a conductor’s to direct my hovering body. I floated up the staircase, flew through the door, and ended up in a very familiar kitchen.

Dark oak benches, grey marble tops, delicate china cups lined up in the dresser, a collection of ceramic cats crowding the windowsill. I’d recognise those cats anywhere. I’m in my mother’s house. That was why it felt so familiar, despite the strangeness with my body. And now I was levitating in my mother’s kitchen. I floated over the counter and sat near the chandelier, gazing down at the old-fashioned gas-fired stove that she’d used to over boil every vegetable until it ceased to be anything but an unpalatable brown goo. I’d never seen a kitchen from this angle before. It looked strange, otherworldly, like the deck of a spacecraft.

From my vantage point, I noticed several strange things. I noticed that the ceramic cat collection my mother kept on the windowsill was out of order. My mother was very particular about those sorts of things, so the fact that the orange cat was not next to its mate and the striped cat was on the end instead of being near the middle was a little disturbing.

I also noticed the body on the floor.

It was a woman, wearing a floral dress and frilled apron. A cupboard was open beside her, and a wheelchair was on the floor behind her, tipped on its side. She’d bent down to get something – a cupboard was open – and hadn’t got up again. The woman lay sprawled on her back, her face staring up at me, double-chin held proudly aloft, eyes wide and unblinking, skin a strange mottled colour.

It was my mother, and she was dead.

I knew I should feel some emotion, some sense of sadness or loss at discovering her demise, but I did not. I felt oddly detached from the whole situation, as if I were watching a movie, instead of something in real life.

My mother is dead.

She’d been a bitter and hard woman, and had shown little love toward me. “You’re just like your father, a useless dreamer!” she would scream at me when I came home from my music lessons. I’d left her as soon as I was old enough to live on my own, and I only came to visit her only out of obligation. In recent years she’d developed Alzheimer’s, and oddly, the disease had actually bought us closer. She seemed convinced I was a seven-year-old boy again, and that Dad would be home any moment. She couldn’t seem to remember that in her eyes, I was the spawn of my father; the ungrateful, lazy folk musician who’d left us twenty years ago. Instead, she wanted to bake cookies and play soldiers with me.

But now she was dead.

A woman dressed in a nurse’s whites bent over the body, her eyes wide with fear and shock. She reached down and lifted up my mother’s wrist, pressing her fingers against the skin to feel for a pulse. “Oh, no, oh no,” she kept mumbling as she tried to puff air into my mother’s lungs. But it was no use. The nurse’s saliva dripped onto my mother’s floral dress.

The nurse looked up, straight up at me. Our eyes met for a moment, and then she looked away, completely oblivious to my hovering presence. She reached for the phone on the wall and dialled a number, her tone businesslike as she described the scene to the person on the other end.

She hadn’t seen me. I was floating right above her, and she’d looked straight at me and hadn’t seen me. I was a student of the macabre, a gothic rock musician. I knew what that meant.

I was dead, too. But now I was a ghost, a floating, see-through ghost. And of all the places I could’ve chosen to haunt, I’d ended up in my mother’s house.

ELINOR

The train rattled through the countryside, hurtling past rolling hills and fluffy sheep that leapt back from the tracks in terror, like little clouds scurrying across the landscape. I stared out the window, my lips stretched in an epic pout that glared back at me in my reflection, while my fingers tapped out an angry text message.

I can’t believe I have to go to hicksville for two whole weeks.

No parties, no raves, no cocktails. Did they even have a pub in Crookshollow? How was I going to get through two weeks without setting foot inside a pub?

Just because I’m the only one who doesn’t have a spouse, or kids, or a pet helicopter that needs walking, they chose to send me away. What about my life? What about my commitments? I had tickets to the biggest house party of the year, and instead of shaking my arse on the floor with Cindy, I’m going to be plonking it on some dead lady’s sofa. No thank you.

And worst of all, my banishment to hicksville couldn’t have come at a worse time. This was the crucial weekend for Operation Shag Damon. I had finally been making progress with Damon Sputnik, the spunky Russian DJ who was lighting up the London dance scene right now. I had been in love with Damon ever since I first saw him behind the decks, his shaved head bobbing along with the beat, his thick muscles bulging from beneath his fluorescent vest. I even had a poster of him at home, his shirtless body decorated with a prowling tiger tattoo. I had such a weakness for tattooed men. I kept the poster on the inside door of my closet so that, on the slim chance I ever did get lucky with Damon and brought him back to my place, he wouldn’t see it and think I was some kind of crazy stalker. That, and my landlord didn’t want anything hung on the walls.

The truth is, I’d never in a million years have gone after a guy like Damon, but after things ended with my last boyfriend Joel, I hadn’t exactly been putting myself out there the way a single nearly-30 gal should. So my pal Cindy has been pushing me to get off my arse (and to stop feeding it Wagon Wheels and Hobnobs, but that’s another story) and go after someone. So of course I walked straight into a club and fell for Damon, the most unattainable guy I could possibly have chosen.

Over the last six months, most of my weekends had been occupied with getting Damon to notice me. It had become a kind of project for me, and like everything else in my life I attacked it with all the determination and cunning I could muster. I bought him drinks. I stood right down the front when he did his DJ sets. I was always the first person to like his social media posts. On Cindy’s advice, I got some special contact lenses for clubbing so I could leave my glasses at home, and I squeezed my not-unsubstantial arse into tiny skirts and hot pants in an attempt to lure him with the promise of flesh. I’d even offered to hand out flyers for his parties at other events, which earned me a lifetime ban from Vortex and The Crib down in Chelsea. Apparently handing out flyers for a competing gig was frowned upon in the scene. Now I knew.

Despite Operation Shag Damon moving at a rollicking pace, Damon barely seemed to register my existence. I couldn’t find any shorter skirts on the high street, so apart from abandoning clothing altogether and just waddling around naked, I was running out of ideas. I was just starting to give up hope, and then last weekend happened.

Last weekend. The thought of it still made me smile and my chest flutter with excitement. I’d been hanging out in my usual spot near the stage during Damon’s set. He finished spinning, and as he came off stage, he tossed me his sweaty towel. I caught it and draped it over my shoulder, and he’d grinned and grabbed me, pulling my body hard against his, and shoved his tongue down my throat.

Our passionate snogging session in front of a blaring speaker stack definitely stood out as one of the highlights of my life. But I’m pretty sure Damon was so blazed it was unlikely he even remembered my name, or the piece of paper with my number on that I’d shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He certainly hadn’t called it.

That was why going to this weekend’s party was so important—I had to make him fall for me before he got distracted by another, thinner, more-interesting girl.—

But of course I couldn’t tell Clyde any of this. As far as my boss was concerned, I was just a plump, mousy junior lawyer who ate takeout every day for lunch and didn’t look like a supermodel squeezed into a size-0 Marc Jacobs suit. And that was exactly why Clyde called me into his office after lunch today. “Baxter!” he barked, tossing a thick file across his desk. “Do you listen to the news?”

“What news?”

“The news, you know. The news news. The shit that happens in the world outside of this firm.”

I didn’t miss a beat. “Nothing much of interest happens outside this firm, sir.”

“Atta girl,” Clyde said in his most condescending tone. “Anyway, it seems that another celebrity death hit the headlines this week. That famous violinist, Eric Marshell, was killed in a car accident.”

“I hadn’t heard that.” I didn’t pay much attention to the music world outside of the London club scene, but even I’d heard of Eric Marshell, the dashing rock violinist with his black jeans and leather jacket and smouldering good looks who was single-handedly making classical music cool again. “Were you a fan?”

Clyde snorted. “My wife was. She went to his show in London last week with all her girlfriends. She even has a poster of him hanging on the wall above our bed. Imagine fucking your wife while that man’s gargantuan face stares down at you?”

“That’s …” I couldn’t find an appropriate adjective. I was too busy trying to mentally block out the image of my boss going at it with his wife.

“Well, shit happens, whether you hear about it or not. So, Marshell’s dead, but that’s of little concern to me. What is of concern to me is the fact that his elderly mother, Alice Marshell, was found in her house, dead from a heart attack not long after her son’s untimely demise. It looks as if the son was actually on the way to see her when his car went off the road.”

“That’s interesting.” It wasn’t, but I wasn’t sure what I was expected to say.

“It is to you.” Clyde tossed a thin black file across the desk. “Alice Marshell is a client of ours, with quite substantial holdings. Most of her files are from before we went fully online with the system, so it’s a bit of a paperwork nightmare. Eric was her only child, and there’s no husband or other family named in the will, so with Eric gone, dividing up her assets suddenly got a lot more complicated. Unfortunately, she’s been infirm for the last five years, and we have very little of her relevant paperwork here. Someone will have to go down to her home right away and put everything in order before the usual bloodsucking relatives start to swoop in. And I’ve decided that someone is you.”

“Me?” Inwardly, I groaned. Occasionally, in situations like this, the firm needed to send a lawyer out to a client’s home to go through their paperwork and execute the will. Most of our clients were older, and sometimes they had no one left by the time they passed on, so it was our job to figure out what they had, sell off what assets needed to be sold, and place the money where it needed to go. Everyone who’d done it hated it, and usually fobbed it off onto a junior lawyer. As an intern I’d done one such sojourn two years ago, for a dead duke on the Isle of Skye. I’d snuck up Joel, and we polished off the old duke’s wine cellar and had wild sex in the hunting room. But this time around I had no boyfriend and no desire whatsoever to leave London for whatever shithole this old lady lived in.

“Of course I mean you.” Clyde stared at me, nudging the file closer to me with his pudgy fingers. “You’re the only person available to leave today. The senior lawyers all have families, Bob is entertaining clients on his yacht, and Lila has plans all weekend that can’t be cancelled.”

Of course she does, I thought. She has plans to fuck your brains out while your wife is at the opera. Clyde Greyson was a notorious womaniser—he’d slept with most of the women in the office, many of them in the office. I had to be careful opening up supply closets in case I accidentally saw something I couldn’t unsee. But Clyde had never once approached me with the offer to visit a supply closet. Privately, he’d told Lila that “chubby girls” weren’t his type—a slip the bitch had been delighted to spread all over the office when she came back from their most recent weekend dalliance.

If I had a boyfriend or a kid or a size-0 arse, this wouldn’t be happening to me. I racked my brain for an excuse, any possible reason I couldn’t go. “But sir … I have tickets to an event this weekend, and … I have to feed my cat … and um, water my peace lily, and my parents are coming down from Leeds, and—”

“I play golf with your father, remember? Your parents live in Chelsea.”

Damn. “Right, yes, of course. But I do have these tickets for a party—I mean, an opera on Saturday. I can’t go to Crookshollow, wherever that is—”

“It’s only a few hours from London on the train. It’s a lovely little village, the wife and I went for a weekend getaway once. They have a bit of a gimmick with having burned the most witches in England. It’s Halloween there all year round. You’ll love it.”

“It’s sounds delightful,” I said, in a voice that implied it sounded anything but.

“You’ll only be gone a couple of weeks, and of course we’ll reimburse you all your expenses and these opera tickets of yours. Look at it as a holiday in the country.”

I hate the country, I thought, but didn’t say. I had a lot of thoughts in the offices of Greyson, Smithe & Hanley that I didn’t say, mostly because apart from the people I worked with, I actually liked my job, and didn’t want to lose it.

I’d always been kind of weirdly fascinated with death, and how different people deal with it. As a teenager this manifested in a weird goth phase where I read a lot of Poe, wore a lot of black lipstick, and basically frightened several years off my conservative lawyer parents’ lives. At university I gravitated more to estate law than criminal defence, which was what all the cool kids did. The way people divided up their estates said a lot about who they were in life, and what they considered important. In death and wills, the truth is always revealed.

But my interest did not extend to giving up the next two weeks of my life to living in the middle of nowhere while Damon Sputnik partied on without me. My heart sank as my exciting weekend of Operation Shag Damon dissipated before my eyes. I forced a smile, knowing there was no way I could get out of it. “Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Go home and pack your things. Janice has already booked you a train. It leaves at four. Do a good job on this, Baxter, and there might be something in it for you.” Clyde winked. “Maybe even a something with its own office.”

An office. It was the dream of every junior lawyer to eventually move up the ranks and acquire one of the sought-after private spaces on the second floor. I’d been passed over twice for promotion—beat out by two obnoxious size 0s—and Clyde knew that I was itching to move up and prove to my father that I was successful. He knew that by dangling that carrot in front of me, he could count on my cooperation. The guy may have been pushing seventy, but he was still slick (he was a lawyer, after all).

And that was how I found myself slumped against a rattling window on a Friday evening, clutching the stub of my one-way train ticket to Crookshollow, nowheresville, Middlesex. Population: 11,056 people, 35,000 sheep.

Delightful.

My phone beeped. The businessman sitting across from me shuffled his paper and frowned. I pushed my black-rimmed glasses up my nose and glared right back. What do you expect, buddy? I don’t have a carrier pigeon in my Kate Spade bag ready to fly messages home to my friends. I pulled my phone out of my jacket and checked the message.

It was Cindy, texting to see if we were still on for club-hopping tonight. Cindy and I had been friends since our university days. We’d met at the student pub. I’d been stood up on a date and she’d been dumped by her boyfriend, and we bonded over our mutual heartaches and several G&Ts. Our friendship was mutually beneficial: I helped her study and pass her exams, she introduced me to the London underground club scene and the excitement of picking up random strangers from the dance floor.

Now I worked at the law firm, and Cindy was in advertising, but we still danced every weekend like we had in college. Cindy had just heard about a rave going down at an abandoned warehouse in Camden. Damon’s going to be there. My stomach churned with jealousy as I texted back to say I couldn’t come, and that I wouldn’t be going to Damon’s party on Saturday, either.

I knew that, at age 29, I was probably too old for clubbing, but after 60-plus-hour weeks pushing paper around my desk and sucking up to Clyde so he wouldn’t overlook me for advancement for another year, I needed to let my hair down and go a little crazy. And a club—with its pounding music and wild lights —was the perfect antidote. I could float in an ocean of bodies and be part of the group, part of the “in” crowd. It sure beat standing in the lunchroom by myself sipping coffee while all of the skinny associates giggled together in the corner.

Cindy texted back, Bummer! I’ll give Tanya your ticket and keep an eye on Damon for you. I’ll make sure his hands don’t wander.

I sighed, and replaced my phone in my pocket. I grabbed my bag out from under my seat and pulled out my sketchbook. I balanced it on my knees, frowning out the window at the lush, green landscape as I flipped open a page and doodled a gnarled, twisted tree, the roots knotted up, the way my stomach felt right now at the thought of what Damon might get up to this weekend without me. I added a snake curling around the trunk, wondering how the design would look as it wound its way up my spine.

I had decided to get a tattoo before my 30th birthday—an enormous piece that covered my back and maybe my shoulders, too. No one at work would need to know it was there—it wasn’t as if any of the male partners were clamouring to sleep with me—but in my party clothes it would stand out. It would mark me as special. And in a club full of perfect size 0s with perky breasts and stomachs full of E, Elinor the dull lawyer had to do something to stand out.

I’d always been a good artist, and had even thought about going to art school at one point. But my father—a high-profile defence attorney, and my mother—a law clerk—had drilled that dream right out of me. My parents would never approve of a tattoo. They didn’t think body art fit with the corporate image—the blank drone with perfectly coiffed hair that they saw as the only way to get ahead in life. When I was a kid, my teachers would hold up my drawings in class, but all my parents ever wanted to know was how my grades were. “Why are you doodling?” my mother would scold me. “Go and do something useful, like read a book or your homework.” “There’s a reason I’ve never met a rich artist.” My dad was fond of saying. “It’s a dead-end career, Elinor. Just work hard at school and forget about your little scribbles.”

Of course, even if I’d pointed out the hundreds of successful artists hanging in the Tate Modern, my dad never would have changed his mind. Instead, because I always wanted to please them, I hid my journals and tattoo magazines under my bed. I did my homework and got good grades and went to the same law school my father attended. I graduated with honours, and started my career in a prestigious London firm. But as I fumbled my way through law school, only half-interested in the work, I watched the art and drama students with envy as they raced around the campus with facial piercings, vintage clothes and beautiful tattoos, yelling “give me a location!” and looking so excited about the future. But of course, they were all probably living on the streets now, whereas I had a job at Greyson, Smithe & Hanley, a nice salary, and an apartment in trendy Camden that only housed a small population of cockroaches. I had even snogged Damon Sputnik. I didn’t have a right to complain about my life.

The tattoo was going to be my one concession to my creative side—my secret rebellion against my sensible, pre-planned life of law offices and beige clothing and boring men. But I was determined that I was going to draw the piece myself, and it had to be just right. My friend Tanya had recently hooked up with a tattoo artist and during a particularly drunken party convinced him to ink some cherry blossoms on her ribcage. They were nice enough, and considering the artist was off his face at the time, only a little crooked. I could have done better than that, I couldn’t help but think every time I saw those droopy blossoms.

But when it came to my own tattoo, I just couldn’t decide on what I wanted. My 30th birthday was fast approaching, and I’d have to make a decision soon. I’d filled an entire sketchbook with ideas, but nothing seemed right. Nothing was good enough, me enough, to be permanently etched into my skin.

Maybe nothing seems right because your body isn’t right, I thought to myself, my stomach churning with loathing. I hated the way I looked right now. I’d always been on the chubby side, but ever since I’d started working at the law firm, I had no time or energy for eating healthily. My gym membership card had sunk to the bottom of my bag, along with twenty Snickers wrappers and a dried up lipstick. I’d gained a couple of extra pounds, and every time I looked at myself in the mirror I heard my mother’s voice in my head, reminding me that fat girls didn’t attract good husbands.

So when I thought about actually having to take off my shirt and lie down in front of a hot, shirtless tattoo artist, (because in my head tattoo artists are always large, muscular, shirtless dudes) my stomach churned even harder. I was supposed to be two dress sizes smaller when I turned 30, but then, if I was two sizes smaller, maybe I wouldn’t need the tattoo.

At least I’ll have plenty of time to work on my drawings while I’m in Crookshollow, I thought, but the thought brought me no comfort. So instead I put my sketchpad away, jammed my iPod earbuds into my ears, and stared out the window, listening to Damon’s latest album and figuring out how I could rescue the situation. How should I play it when I see him again? Aloof and cool, or enthusiastic and flirty? What should I wear?

If only I didn’t have to go to Crookshollow. But it’s only two weeks, and then I’ll be back to my life like nothing had changed. Nothing can happen in two weeks, right?

You can order your copy of The Man in Black now on a new release special of just $0.99! Grab your copy now, and join my mailing list to get first notice of new books, deleted scenes, free swag, and other awesome stuff.

What a Year! Best of the Blog 2015

Chilling with the felines in the cat sanctuary park in Lima, Peru.

What a year! 2015 has been absolutely one of the best years of my life. I couldn’t even pin that sentiment down to one particular event, it’s just been a whole bunch of awesome piled one atop the other. I published seven books, travelled to South America, build 1/3 of a house, saw some incredible shows, and had some awesome times with friends and family.

I’m officially on holiday starting today, but I’ve got two books coming out before the end of the year (you can even pre-order The Woman in Black now, if you want to grab it for $0.99), so expect to see some booky content going up on the blog before then. I’ll take a week or two break in Jan, and then we’ll be BACK INTO IT. Expect to see more books, more metal, more travel, and more awesome shit in 2016.

Here’s my highlight reel for 2015. I’d love to hear what you got up to – shout out in the comments, or on Facebook!

Music

Steff’s List of the Top Ten Albums of 2014

Concert Review: Fleetwood Mac, Auckland 2015

So What Exactly Is Post-Metal, Anyway?

10 of My Favourite Post-Metal Albums

NZ Music Month: NZ Metal Bands to Check Out

Metal Mixtape: Playlist for Marching into Battle

Concert Review: Uriah Heep, Auckland 2015

Ask a Metalhead: I Want to Meet the Band!

Books & Writing

Why I Write

Introducing Steffanie Holmes, my romance alter ago!

Metalheads Who Read: Mark Z Danielewski’s House of Leaves

The Gauge War is here!

Release Day: Grab Your Copy of Witch Hunter today!

Metalheads who Read: Art of Asking, Amanda Palmer

A New Era of Author: I’m a Guest on Radio NZ Nights!

History & Travel

Metal History: The Iron Maiden (no, not THAT Iron Maiden)

The Mysterious History of the Ouija Board, and other Spirit Boards

My Incan Adventures: La Chascona, Santiago, Witches Market in La Paz, Amantani Island, Peru, and the Amazon Jungle. (And yes, I will write more soon).

DIY & Off-Grid Living

Medieval Dinner Party: Cooking a 3-Bird Roast

So You Want to Live Off-the-Grid?

Misc.

Fear and Loathing and Squirrels: What to Do When You’re Scared Shitless

Getting Your First Tattoo

15 Christmas Gift Ideas for Metal, Goth, Weird & Awesome People

10 Wicked Ouija & Spirit Board Items for the Body and Home

The Witch in the Box: Modern Witches on TV

Whole Lotta Love: Valentines Day Gift Guide for Metalheads, Goths, Freaks & Geeks

You Asked, I Answer: AMA with Steff

Grab your copy of my latest dark fantasy, The Gauge War now!

You can also sign up for the mailing list to get all the details of my book releases and other cool stuff.

15 Christmas Gift Ideas for Metal, Goth, Weird & Awesome People

The gift-buying season has descended upon us once more, with all the foreboding of a Lovecraftian creature emerging from the deep. I’m lucky in that I only have about ten people to get gifts for, and I actually finished all my shopping in November. But if you haven’t, and you know that tea cozies and Elisabeth Gilbert books just aren’t going to cut it with your family and friends, then here are some ideas on holiday gifts with a bit more bite.

And if you want some more ideas, then check out some of the cool stuff on last years Christmas Gift Guide – I have deliberately NOT repeated any items/shops from one list to the next, so going back to that list will give you 25 more awesome ideas.

1. “Ghostly” cat paintings and prints by Endre Penovvác

Soft Step 2

I shared the link to Endre’s work on FB a couple of weeks ago, but I think it deserves more attention. We decided to purchase a print of Listening as a Christmas present for ourselves, and I can’t wait to get it up in our new home. My other favourite is Soft Step 2, which we might buy as a pair at a later date. I love the way Endre uses the white of the paper and very minimal . I know how difficult watercolours can be to work and these paintings are so subtle and striking. Some of the originals are still for sale, but you can also buy canvas or paper prints from Saatchi Online.

2. Crimson Peak Range from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

Image from Spookula , who you should definitely follow, as she has an awesome Instagram.

Ghosts are real. That much I know. I’ve seen them all my life.

For anyone with even remotely gothic leanings, the movie event of the year was Del Toro’s decadent masterpiece, Crimson Peak. Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab bring their to design scents for many of the characters and scenes from the movie in their Crimson Peak Collection. My favourite is the black moth scent – wild plum and blackcurrant with aged black patchouli, vetiver, red rose petal, tonka absolute, and opoponax. And Ghosts sounds pretty awesome, with it’s legacy of sorrow, violence, and undeath: chrysanthemum petals, crushed violet leaf, and funereal incense.

Each scent is $30 per 5ml, and presented in BPAL’s signature alchemy glass vials. There are also Crimson Peak mementos and atmosphere sprays.

3. Drawing Blood, Molly Crabapple

It always strikes me as odd when somone quite young releases an autobiography, but Molly Crabapple’s short life has so far been so interesting that I’m sure she could have filled a few volumes. Drawing Blood follows Molly’s travels as a young artist, nude nodel and burlesque dancer, through her days as the in-house artist at the legendary NYC nightclub The Box, to the moment that changed her life – the Occupy movement – and plunged her into a world of journalism, reporting from places such as Guantanamo, Syria, Rikers Island, and the labor camps of Abu Dhabi. Using both words and artwork to shed light on the darker corners of American empire, Molly Crabapple has swiftly become one of the most original and galvanizing voices on the cultural stage.

As befitting an artist, Crabapple’s biography is fully illustrated in her usual wity and fierce style. I have been a fan of her artwork for years – one of her Shell Game prints hangs in my bathroom – and I’d love to add this book to my bookshelf. Buy Drawing Blood from Amazon.

4. Yoga Mats from Baphomats

Know someone who loves yoga but wishes the gear were just a little more badass? Well, Bathomats can help. This . Hailing from coastal South Australia, Bathomats present hand-drawn, screen-printed yoga mats with heavy metal, occult, gothic and generally darker designs. My favourite is this Moon Cycle Black Yoga Mat, but there are several other designs to choose from. All the designs are sustainably created using non-toxic ink, and UV-cured by the sun. Buy from the Baphomat Etsy Store,  and you can also follow Baphomats on Instagram.

5. Clothing or Vouchers from Deandri

Image from Samantha Ford

Deandri outfits have been popping up on several Instagram feeds I follow. If you were to imagine what clothing label a grown Wednesday Addams would shop at, that would be Deandri. Minimal, short, moto, schoolgirl, punk-as-fuck – this LA-based design team have got it going on. All clothing is handmade in LA, and all the shoes are handmade from animal-friendly PVC fabrics and Japanese pine wood. My favourite pieces are the Banshee top & Nancy Skirt set, the Moto Dress with red plaid skirt and the Collness harness. You can shop the Deandri store or follow Deandri on Instagram.

6. Ophelia Wears Black, Segovia Amil

I’ve been on a massive poetry kick lately, and Segovia’s instagram has been a joy to behold. She posts stunning portraits interspersed with lines of her poetry and the stories that inspire them. Her debut book, Ophelia Wears Black, just came out, and I’m strongely debating getting my hands on a copy. If you know a darkling obsessed with Poe or Byron, then shout them this collection of rich, intoxicating verse. Buy from Segovia Amil’s website or follow her on Instagram.

7. Mummy Cat, Marcus Ewert & Lisa Brown

If you need a book for the little awesome people in your life, then Mummy Cat is the one. We purchased this recently for our Cthulhudaughter (because Goddaughter doesn’t really seam appropriate) and got a copy for ourselves. It has a happy ending, but it actually makes both my husband and I cry every time we read it, so be warning. The story is actually quite sophisticated, and it has some great info at the back about Ancient Egpyt, mummification, and heiroglyphs. Buy Mummy Cat from Amazon.

8. Lunatik Cosmetic Labs

Image by Marrrlindasdaaline

OK, I’ll say this right now – I have no clue about makeup. The only times in my life I’ve ever worn it is for productions, photo shoots, and my wedding. But, I have been seeing Lunatik Cosmetic Labs ALL OVER INSTAGRAM with their awesome pics, and people who know makeup have been raving about them, so … if your girl is into makeup, then try the High Definition Microfinish Pressed Powder in a planchette box. Or the Supernatural palette complete with coffin/bat box. And what’s even better is that all their products are talc and cruelty free, and vegan-friendly. I mean, holy shit!  Buy from the Lunatik website or follow on Instagram.

9. Witch Hunter, by Steffanie Holmes

Yes, this is my book. I write the Gift Guide, I get to add my own stuff. Europe, 1351. Ada must hide her powers when a Witch Hunter arrives in her village. Unfortunately, he has his eye on her, and he is as handsome as he is dangerous. Will Ulrich’s heart thaw in time to save Ada from being burned alive at the stake? This steamy BBW romance novel contains elements of BDSM and dungeon play. Buy Witch Hunter on Amazon.

10. The Vorrh, Brian Catling

This was one of the most interesting books I read this year. I read it on my kindle and I am dying to get my hands on a physical copy so I can read it many, many more times. Beyond the colonial city of Essenwald lies the Vorrh, the forest which sucks souls and wipes minds. There, a writer heads out on a giddy mission to experience otherness, fallen angels observe humanity from afar, and two hunters – one carrying a bow carved from his lover, the other a charmed Lee-Enfield rifle – fight to the end. Buy the Vorrh on Amazon.

11. Jewels from Bloodmilk

Image from JenvonHaunt

I am sad to say that I don’t actually own any Bloodmilk jewellery, which is preety much sacrilege for any lady with a somewhat dark temperament. Designer Jess imbues her collections with personal stories, historical contexts – such as the Victorian Spiritualist movement – and mythological references. Her designs are bold but beautiful, enchanting yet slighly melancholic. I would love to own a piece like Easful Death: Large Onyx Ring or As Above, So Below: Mini Lorraine Cross one day. Buy Bloodmilk Jewels.

12. Nick Cave, The Sick Bag Song

Image from Pitchfork

I was so saddened to hear the tragic news about Nick Cave’s 15-year-old son Arthur falling to his death after a bad LSD trip. Nick Cave is one of my favourite artists and to learn he suffered such a tragedy is heartbreaking. Right before the accident, Nick released the Sick Bag Song, a book recounting the Bad Seeds’ 2014 tour. Originally scribbled on airplane sick bags, the book became an epic of love, inspiration and meaning. You can buy copies, including limited editions, from the Sick Bag Song website.

13. Subscription to Paper & Pens

Image by Light & Pine

Got a writer in your life who like paper and notebooks and writing and drawing things? Paper & Pen offers subscriptions to receive awesome stuff like this in the mail. You can choose 1, 3 or 6-month subscriptions, and the recipient will receive a wonderful package of ephemera. Buy a Paper & Pens subscription from their website.

14. Exquisite Leatherbound Journals from McCall Co.

Image from McCall Co.

Even though I do most of my writing on sleek, modern iMac, I cannot resist the blank pages of a beautiful journal. I have a tendancy to stalk bookbinders on Etsy like a creepy fangirl. McCall Co. offer traditional book designs with exquisite detailing and a nod to the mysterious. My favourite in their current collection is The Scribe’s Codex, but they’re all beautiful. And if you don’t quite see the perfect book, you can get them to custom-design one for you. The perfect gift for a writer or a dreamer. Buy from the McCall Co. Website and follow them on instagram.

15. Absinthe Ritual Sets from Alandia

Recently, I’ve begun to discover the intoxicating secrets of the green fairy, and part of the joy of absinthe-drinking is the la louche ritual – where water is poured over a sugar cube resting over a perforated spoon above the absinthe glass. The water turns the absinthe into a milky green colour, and is said to unlock the essential oils of the wormwood. I’ve been looking for a decent set for a while, and I’ve heard many good things about the Alandia sets – they offer a range of glasses, spoons and fountains, as well as a stunning selection of absinthe you can order online. Visit the Alandia website.

What’s on your holiday wishlist this year?

Grab your copy of my latest dark fantasy, The Gauge War now!

You can also sign up for the mailing list to get all the details of my book releases and other cool stuff.

Post-scriptum: Alestorm, Electrical Storms and Yellow Wallpaper

Photo by Rodrigo Hidalgo at Ding Dong Lounge.

In my ears: The entire discography of the Exploited and the Dropkick Murphys. The former because I’m going to see them play at the Kings Arms on Sunday, and the latter because I never got into them before and it is SHAMEFUL.

Reading: I finally finished House of Leaves! This is somewhat of a personal triumph. Read my review here. So now I am reading The Witches, Salem 1692, by Stacy Schiff, which may or may not be research for my 2017 US roadtrip, and Kate Morten’s The Secret Keeper (I am binge-reading gothic novels like whoa right now). I also just read The Yellow Wallpaper – a short story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, about a woman becoming increasingly haunted by the visions she sees in the wallpaper in her bedroom. It was spooky and good.

Writing: 48 pages left to edit on Thorn, Engine Ward part 3, before it goes to my editor. Then I have around 10,000 words to write on The Man in Black. Both books will be released in December, and I’m pretty excited – they will be the 6th and 7th books I publish this year. I’m hoping to dramatically improve upon that number in 2016.

Watching: My friend Andy just introduced me to Lena Dunham’s Girls, so I’m hunting out a way to watch the rest of it. The dialogue and awkward twenty-somethingness of it is fantastic.

On the Farm: WE HAVE TWO WALLS. Two walls of our new house! Also, I hate pollen with the fire of a thousand suns.

But, on the plus side, my first strawberries of summer are coming through now. I should be able to start harvesting in a few days.

Loving: Alestorm in New Zealand. They killed it, as always, and the pre- and after-parties were a hoot. Someone gave me beard oil – I’m not sure whether to be insulted or amused by this. I drank much gin and pole-danced. I was complimented on my abs. We walked through Auckland singing … “Gimme a Ding! Gimme a Dong! What does it spell?”. And then an epic storm struck my house and took out my internet for eight days. So that wasn’t so cool. But the rest of it was! \m/ impromptu dinner parties – thanks Amy & Tony & Dave. \m/ Lunch with Iris & Benson and discovering they’re also planning 2017 US adventures \m/ I started a secret FB group for all the people taking part in our 2017 Epic Metal US Adventure, because I am an organising freak and I like having something to look forward to. I am hoping to see some of you there \m/ Doors closing, but new opportunities presenting themselves. \m/ Writing an article for Rock n Roll Bride magazine – so excited to be doing some magazine writing again \m/ When friends who deserve good shit to happen to them have good shit happen to them \m/ Being accepted into an awesome collaborative world writing project (register over at Fallen Sorcery to find out more). I’ve never written in a world created by someone else before, and I’m really looking forward to the challenge. \m/ Salted Caramel milkshakes, because happiness. \m/ Baby snuggles with our goddaughter and her adorable sister :) \m/ planning epic shit for 2016. BRING IT THE FUCK ON.

That’s my week. What about yours?

 

Metalheads who read: Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves

Life achievement unlocked: After 4 months of wading through a few pages every night, I have finally finished Mark Z Danielewski’s House of Leaves.

You might wonder why someone who claims to love books would describe reading one as a slog, or indeed, why one would spend even a minute of precious time inside ebook that doesn’t thrill them. And that’s a fair question. But the truth is, sometimes there are book. I felt the same way while working through Gormengast, and while shuffling through Prout’s Swann’s Way.

House of Leaves is about a house on Ash Tree Lane, Virginia, that is larger on the inside than it is on the outside. This is an awesome concept for a book, and under the pen of Stephen King or Dean Koontz would have resulted in a classic horror frolic. Under Audrey Niffeneger or Emma Bull it would have become a rich tapestry of magic realism. And under Mark Z. Danielewski it is something different entirely.

House of Leaves fits into a genre called ergodic literature, although both the genre as a whole and the term aren’t well defined. The term was first coined by Espen J. Aarseth in his book Cybertext—Perspectives on Ergodic Literature, and is derived from the Green words ergon, meaning “work”, and hodos, meaning “path”.

Essentially, what marks a book as “ergodic” is the fact that the act of reading it is in itself a challenge, and that challenging act confers something of the essence of the text. Aarseth says, “in ergodic literature, nontrivial effort is required to allow the reader to traverse the text.” Examples of ergotic literature include Raymond Queneau’s One Hundred Thousand Billion Poems, a selection of 10 sonnets, each line of which has the same structure and sounds. The individual lines are printed on separate cards and to “read” the peoms you must arrange them in the order you wish. There are 100,000,000,000,000 different possible combinations. I knew someone at university who had a copy of this and I spent some time arranging lines myself. It’s actually quite fun.

Another example is S, by Doug Dorst and JJ Abrams (yes, THAT JJ Abrams). The book is a story within a story. It’s presented as a standalone library book called The Ship of Theseus. In the margins of the book, and notes and postcards left inside the book’s pages, is a conversation/love story between two students trying to solve the mystery of the novel. I am seriously debating getting a copy of this as it sounds awesome.

Danielewski’s own contribution to the genre reads as a faux-academic gothic treatise on a non-existant film that circulated only in small, underground circles. Called the Navidson Record, the film consists of footage shot by famous photographer Will Davidson and his girlfriend Karen Green as they buy a house and start to move things in and make a life. It’s while doing some mundane work on the house one day that Navidson (called Navy by those who love him in the book) discovers the house is larger on the inside by three quarters of an inch. At first this is nothing but a puzzling curiosity, but then between two rooms there suddenly appears a hallway where none had existed before. A hallway that is 10-foot long, despite the space between the rooms being only the breadth of a single wall wide. And then, another hallway appears in their living room. A strange, inhuman growl emits from deep within the house.

Navy calls in the help of a team of adventurers he knew from his travels. Together they try to navigate through the mysterious hallways and rooms that rearrange themselves at will. Their explorations descend into horror as the house works against them, and the spaces get so large and complex they no longer function within the realms of reality.

However, there is no real POV character in the novel. The text is written as an academic study by the author, a blind old man named Zampanò, who has become obsessed with the film after it was released to the public. Zampanò gathers together an impressive array of deconstructivist, Freudian, Jungian, feminist, post-structuralist and avant-garde writings on the house, and adds to them interviews and texts from the people who were in the house while the film was being shot. All this serves to separate the reader from the visceral journey of the adventurers deeper into the house. The distance actually adds to the intensity. Because Navidson or Karen are not themselves the narrators, you have no idea what has happened to them. The context of the writing of the book is very clearly established from the beginning, and the separation of reader and character it creates is actually at the heart of the horror of the book.

The one character you feel you should know the best, Zampanò, is utterly invisible to you.

The book is a clever satire of academic criticism. Practically every mythological, structuralist, post-colonial, post-post-post-modern, post-anything interpretation of the house is explored. There are footnotes upon footnotes upon footnotes.

Danielewski also uses text in a fascinating way. When Navidson and the other explorers are moving through the intense, cavernous spaces of the house, he spaces the text wide across blank pages, giving this sense of the message being lost in an abyss of nothing. As they squeeze through small spaces the text is smashed into a box, growing smaller and smaller. At times text is mirrored, or written in different fonts, or contains hidden messages and complex riddles. To me, the labyrinthine text mirrors the shaky, otherworldly topography of the House itself. Whatever the purpose, it makes for fun reading, much more so than Swann’s Way, and no less rewarding.

One might argue that House of Leaves is a book of literary tricks that disguise a story that isn’t really all that interesting, and that Danielewski is impressed by his own cleverness. I believe the latter is probably true, but I disagree about the former. But then, I am impressed with literary tricks. If you took all the footnotes and the weird fonts and Johnny’s story away, you have a gothic tale of love and redemption that manages to evoke both true horror and intense longing.

There is one aspect of House of Leaves I felt fell flat, and that was the story of Johnny Truant, the young man who discovered Zampanò’s unfinished treatise after the man died, and was in the process of collating it into a cohesive volume when he began to lose his mind. Personally, I wasn’t as captivated by Johnny’s story, but I understand from a technical point-of-view why Danielewski included it. He is the narrator we’re closest to, and he provides the bridge through which Zampanò’s work reaches our world. He is the filter, and  we need to understand his mind to understand what and how his filtering has impacted the story.

Is the mystery of Ash Tree Lane actually solved? Is it more than just a diabolic reincarnation of Borges universal library? I actually like how open-ended House of Leaves is. People have their own ideas about what the house is, and how Zampanò is connected to it. The book is still debated heavily in online forums and reader groups. If anything, it’s almost an extension of the academic satire of the book, the fact that many have spent so much time dissecting it.

(If anyone who has read it wants to discuss theories, then I’d be very happy to discuss mine. Message me on Facebook).

House of Leaves is not the relaxing beach read you want over summer, but it is a boundlessly imaginative and engrossing read.

Buy House of Leaves on Amazon, or keep up with Mark Z. Danielewski’s recent series, The Familiar, through his website.

Grab your copy of my latest dark fantasy, The Gauge War now! You can also sign up for the mailing list to get all the details of my book releases and other cool stuff.

Concert Review: Fleetwood Mac, Auckland, November 2015

Image from Stevie Nicks Official.

Every music fan has their “bucket list” – that list of bands they absolutely must see once in their lifetime. After spending the last ten years seeing shows with my husband in New Zealand and all across the world, both our lists are now looking pretty short. So when Fleetwood Mac announced a NZ tour earlier this year, CDH was pretty excited – as excited as he gets, anyway. Seeing Mick Fleetwood – one of the greatest living drummers – was top of his remaining bucket list items, and so far the opportunity had eluded him. But no more.

Interestingly, Fleetwood Mac didn’t even warrant a place on my own list. While I do know some of their songs and I certainly enjoy them every time I hear one come on the radio, I’d never really paid much attention to them as a band. They just … weren’t my thing. But of course, if I expect CDH to accompany me to the next Nick Cave show, then I’d be coming along to Fleetwood Mac.

I booked our tickets approximately nine minutes too late, for their Saturday Nov 21 show sold out in minutes. That was a fortunate piece of luck, as a Sunday show was scheduled soon after, and Alestorm announced their Auckland show was now on that same Saturday. So it was going to be one crazy weekend with two gigs and a night of drunken shenanigans to look forward to, but at least we weren’t going to miss either band.

(This proved to be doubly lucky, as the previous night’s attendees had been drenched by the very same storm that took out my internet for a week. We Sunday-goers, however, had perfect concert-going weather – clear and cool.)

The opening act, Angus & Julia Stone, were an Australian folk/pop duo. Personally, I didn’t think too much of them. Julia Stone’s style was too derivative, and none of the songs really stood out. But they were pleasant enough, and served as great background music for getting to know all the other concert goers who were sitting next to us (the seating at Mt. Smart Stadium is VERY cosy). CDH’s dad had some very friendly neighbours (two blonde divorcees who appeared to be quite taken by his English charm).

When the first, haunting notes of the Chain struck, the audience fell silent, captured instantly by the dark rhythm of Mick Fleetwood / John McVie. Unassuming, Lindsay Buckingham walked on stage, that guitar more like an extension of his body than some instrument apart. Stevie Nicks and the returning Christine McVie rounded out the sound with their distinct and unique voices.

The setlist was every hit you could have wished for … Gypsy, Rhiannon, Tusk, You Make Loving Fun, Never Going Back Again, Little Lies … There were only two songs in the whole set I didn’t actually know, and it didn’t matter at all. People sang along, danced like crazy. Even the police officers on hand down on the ground were grooving along, so enchanting was the music.

For me, the highlight was Landslide. Stevie and Lindsay standing alone in front of 38,000 people, singing to each other, about each other. Even after what must be the 1000th time they’ve played that song, the emotional intensity of it crackled in the air like the electrical storm that had struck the city the night before. I was not the only one in tears by the end of it.

Maybe it’s a cliché, but Stevie Nicks is my new idol. She has this incredible commanding presence. Like a priestess leading a pagan ritual, she stands straight and proud, her black chiffon gown swirling around her, the glittery streamers of her stand fluttering in the breeze. That voice like no other, haunting and raspy, like it was ushered up from a dark place in the centre of the earth.

I want to know where she does her clothes shopping.

It is a rare honour to be able to witness a band with such a presence as Fleetwood Mac. Each member is a virtuoso musician in their own right, but as a unit they are like a great shining nebula, greater together than they are as individual stars. They know when to pull back to let a certain instrument or voice come through, and when to let rip with bombast. The stage never feels crowded – each song is given exactly the devotion it deserves.

Much of the between-song banter talked candidly of the band’s history and the meaning behind each song. I found this quite refreshing, although I imagine it was hard to handle on Saturday night with the rain coming thick and fast.

The encore was one of the highlights of the night, with Mick’s drum solo during World Turning was technically brilliant, intense, and personable. Christine McVie finished the night with a stunning vocal display on “Songbird”.

New Zealand was the last stop on a 120 ctiy tour, so you’ve missed your chance to see this remarkable band this year. But if you ever get the chance, do not hesitate.

Fleetwood Mac may have never been on my personal musical bucket list, but this show ranks among the top five performances I’ve ever seen. That’s how incredible it was. I am a fan for life.

Grab your copy of my latest dark fantasy, The Gauge War now! You can also sign up for the mailing list to get all the details of my book releases and other cool stuff.