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Dec. 18th, 2011 10:49 amI have a strange inchoate yearning to write a horror story called "The Hills Have Cataracts".
That is all.
That is all.
Dec. 18th, 2011
This many things include a review
Dec. 18th, 2011 12:37 pmA fellow BVC author reviews Dead of Light.
Money shot: This is my first book by Chaz Brenchley, but it won’t be my last. The man has enormous depth as a writer, giving us a searing portrait of a young man who has never lived among normal people, and has no idea how relationships are carried out.
'Scuse me while I bounce a little... *bounces*
In other news, it is astonishingly cold out there. One of those utterly bright, utterly bitter days we do so well: midday, and the frost in sunlight is still rock-solid. Walking over the moor to the supermarket was an exercise in exercise, as it were: let's be brisk about this, Chaz. Brr!. I felt much warmer coming home, but I always do; not sure if that's because of the brisk walking, or because I've just spent time in a warm supermarket or the library or a friend's house, as against my own rather more chilly property. It may be about the core temperature one carries forth. I dunno. *shrugs*
In other other news, a Terrible Thing occurred last night. I went to bed about midnight, and no Mac came with me. No String was played. Which is odd to the point of weird, but I turned out the light and turned on the radio and waited for Barry to come and cannonball.
No Barry came either. I did worry, a little; but I figured most likely I'd just left a gas fire on and they were taking advantage, and I didn't want to get out of bed, so.
Only then eventually I slept, and woke again about 4.30, and still no cats. Not either one of them. Which was worrying enough to get me up and blundering downstairs in my bathrobe - only to find the door from the dining-room into the hallway nudged shut. I never shut this door, unless I want to shut them in to that side of the house, because it is the one door they cannot open. So I reckon they shut it themselves. Probably rolling around in a squabble, as they do.
But anyway, I opened the door and there was a sudden egress of outraged kitties, who promptly escorted me back to bed and sat on me for the rest of the night. My brief further attempts at sleeping were beset by dreams - I remember a Yorkshire terrier that would not let go of my finger, though I think it was holding on by paws rather than teeth; and a body on a stretcher being carried out of a mansion flat to which I had the key, while visitors in the hallway sat on their suitcases and wept.
My night life is much more interesting than my day life. Mostly I just write books, when I'm not reading them. Talking of which, I need something to read. Or more likely reread; we are all about the comfort and the certainty. And I'm about to run out of Modesty Blaise.
Money shot: This is my first book by Chaz Brenchley, but it won’t be my last. The man has enormous depth as a writer, giving us a searing portrait of a young man who has never lived among normal people, and has no idea how relationships are carried out.
'Scuse me while I bounce a little... *bounces*
In other news, it is astonishingly cold out there. One of those utterly bright, utterly bitter days we do so well: midday, and the frost in sunlight is still rock-solid. Walking over the moor to the supermarket was an exercise in exercise, as it were: let's be brisk about this, Chaz. Brr!. I felt much warmer coming home, but I always do; not sure if that's because of the brisk walking, or because I've just spent time in a warm supermarket or the library or a friend's house, as against my own rather more chilly property. It may be about the core temperature one carries forth. I dunno. *shrugs*
In other other news, a Terrible Thing occurred last night. I went to bed about midnight, and no Mac came with me. No String was played. Which is odd to the point of weird, but I turned out the light and turned on the radio and waited for Barry to come and cannonball.
No Barry came either. I did worry, a little; but I figured most likely I'd just left a gas fire on and they were taking advantage, and I didn't want to get out of bed, so.
Only then eventually I slept, and woke again about 4.30, and still no cats. Not either one of them. Which was worrying enough to get me up and blundering downstairs in my bathrobe - only to find the door from the dining-room into the hallway nudged shut. I never shut this door, unless I want to shut them in to that side of the house, because it is the one door they cannot open. So I reckon they shut it themselves. Probably rolling around in a squabble, as they do.
But anyway, I opened the door and there was a sudden egress of outraged kitties, who promptly escorted me back to bed and sat on me for the rest of the night. My brief further attempts at sleeping were beset by dreams - I remember a Yorkshire terrier that would not let go of my finger, though I think it was holding on by paws rather than teeth; and a body on a stretcher being carried out of a mansion flat to which I had the key, while visitors in the hallway sat on their suitcases and wept.
My night life is much more interesting than my day life. Mostly I just write books, when I'm not reading them. Talking of which, I need something to read. Or more likely reread; we are all about the comfort and the certainty. And I'm about to run out of Modesty Blaise.
24596 / 95000 words. 25.9% done!
Not much more than a week ago, I had ten per cent of this book. Now I have a quarter. We move on.
It's still impossible, to finish it in deadline. I've been neglecting my copy-edit, just to get this far. But, yeah. On we move.
(Tho' not any more tonight. I've had enough, to nobody's surprise. I shall eat chilli and watch TV and have a bath and go to bed, any or all of which feel better right now than working.)