Thursday, 16 October 2014

Oscar Wilde (160 Years Young Today)

I might be having a similar kind of day today:

Future Posts

I'm up to my neck in a manuscript right now, but I plan to take a breather from it next week (I'm at the point where the questions raised need to be answered -- the mysteries need to be revealed) and then I can maybe do a little blogging.

So, before I forget all the topics I want to blog about (and before I make my lunch), I thought I'd turn this blog post into a list of posts-to-be-written. Some will be made available for guest posts. I receive lots of lovely invitations from people who run better blogs than mine, and I really have to follow up on them.


Writing and Happiness
Teaching Creative Writing (should/would/could?)
The Rory Cullen 'Auto'biography
POV in the movie Go (1999)
More on Behaviourist POV
I'm Going to Bouchercon! (Long Beach, 2014)
Wordcounts, Record-Keeping and Taking it Easy on Yourself (may be a two or three-parter)
Belfast Noir
A Review or Two of NI Crime Fiction
Please Don't Send Me Books Without Asking (unless you know me and it's a gift)!
Deus ex Machina

I'll add to this as the topics re-occur to me. Feel free to request one for your blog, and I'll see what I can do. And as always, if you're a Northern Irish writer and you want to be featured on the blog (most likely in the form of a Q&A, though I host guest posts too), then drop me a line. I'll get back to you eventually.


Saturday, 11 October 2014

Paperback Pricer

EDIT, 13/10/14: You snooze, you lose (out on saving a couple of quid). I've put the price up to £8.99. Still a quid cheaper than it'll eventually be. Might even set the price at over a tenner to take advantage of Amazon's free delivery, but for now, it's £8.99.

It'll be a couple of hours before the Amazon page updates, though, so you still might get it for £6.99 if you get clicking right now.

Ahead of a bricks and mortar launch for the paperback version of UNDERCOVER, I've managed to put together a version that I'm proud of through a print on demand service. That means a great version of the cover thanks to those generous professionals at Blasted Heath (thanks, Kyle!). Blasted Heath were also cool enough to send me the mega-edited and proofread-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life version of the manuscript. I've also paid for professional typesetting. And I've been assured by people better qualified than me that I spent my money well in this area.

The launch will be in early December. I'm sure you can guess which independent bookshop in Belfast has given me the go ahead for this. Really looking forward to it. Here's the thing, though. I know many of you wonderful UK and Ireland readers out there can't shop in Belfast. Also, I wish that I had some way of sending out free proofs without imagining that I've set fire to a wad of money that should set aside for household expenses.

So, what can I do?

Work with what's available. I can't offer free books, but I can lower the price for a few days so that I don't actually make a royalty on it.

Well, if I'm completely honest, I've set it at a royalty so small that I'd have to sell 143 copies to cover the typesetting, which was a deeply discounted "mates' rates" fee to begin with!

But, yeah. Boo hoo, right? So I'll not make a living out of paperback sales just yet. That's fine. I've mostly put this version of UNDERCOVER together to please those who prefer an actual book to an e-reader. And I honestly don't mind losing out on a little money so long as there's food in the fridge. There is.

So, until Sunday night (or Monday morning depending how quickly the price update applies), you can get UNDERCOVER as a real book for the lowest price I can set it at.


And what's the standard comparison? A cup of coffee? You'd maybe get three large Americanos in a half-decent coffee shop for that price. You wouldn't get two pints of lager for £6.99 at your local pub unless there was a promotion on. You definitely can't get a fish supper for that price in the town I live in... do I need to go on?

Purchase the UNDERCOVER paperback here:

US (and ROI, I think...)

Monday, 6 October 2014

An Interview - Nathaniel Joseph McAuley

Belfast-based poet and recipient of the 2014 ACES Award from the Arts Council of Northern Ireland. His debut pamphlet “The Dyer’s Notes on Indigo” was released early 2013. He currently facilitates poetry workshops for INST Belfast.

What are you writing at the minute? I’ve actually just finished a piece for the Aspects festival. It was a long sequence set in the Garden of Eden, written from the perspective of Adam as he begins naming all things — pre-Eve. Kind of the birth of science. It’s been a tough auld trek. It’s one of those occasions when the subject matter becomes like traditional form — there’s an in-stone template you have to adhere to and it takes you directions you’d never usually consider. Can you give us an idea of Nathaniel Joseph McAuley’s typical up-to-the-armpits-in-ideas-and-time writing day? I find it near impossible to write in the day time. I forget sometimes though. If I’ve a deadline on the go there’ll be days I’ll near tear my hair out during the morning and afternoon trying to produce something. Once 6pm hits, I can usually get a good 3 hours of good writing done. So, the whole day kind of leads up to 6pm when I’ve a piece due. So, time’s not always a friend of mine — over the past year when I was able to buy the time, I’ve found it overwhelming. What do you do when you’re not writing? I’ve a real love of conversation more than anything — if I’m not writing I’m usually socialising. I’ve a pretty active spiritual life also. I’ve no real hobbies to speak of, any hobby I’ve ever had (music, poetry etc) has become a job, something to be thankful for.
Any advice for a greenhorn trying to break into the poetry scene? I’ve been asked this a few times recently — I still don’t know whether to answer and give the impression I’m not a greenhorn myself. I’d just say not to get caught up in the traditional ideas of what it is to be a poet — if you take yourself off into a forest to write your epic, fair play, but its perfectly fine to be cocktail bartender who loves Neil Diamond. Which writers have impressed you this year? I’ve spent this past wee while reading up on the Irish and British poetry that I should have been reading during my years in university, when I was more interested in North American and Afro-Caribbean poetry. So, Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney and especially Michael Longley. What are you reading right now? I’m reading a great book about the history of gin and its social implications on 18th century London — Gin Glorious Gin, by Olivia Williams… Plans for the future? …for a new project — more on that later though. With regards to your writing career to date, would you do anything differently? I would have taken myself less seriously sooner. Do you fancy sharing your worst writing experience? Before I knew what constituted half decent poetry, I wrote a poem for a girl who was more than aware of was constituted half decent poetry. It was not a half decent poem.

Thank you, Nathaniel Joseph McAuley!

Wednesday, 1 October 2014

UNDERCOVER Paperback (and some tl;dr economics)

Okay, people. It's here.

The one question I constantly get asked about my books is, "Where can I buy the paperback?" If you're a local (local to me, at least, or within a reasonable drive to Belfast), the answer is easy. No Alibis Bookstore, all day long.

Here's the thing, though. Most of the people who ask me, don't go to bookshops. Usually they're just asking me out of politeness.

Now, I've worked with (and had a publisher or two work on my behalf with) the larger chain stores. They're not even entirely massive chains, but once you start introducing managers and people who work with spreadsheets and guys with calculators glued to their hands (not a criticism -- some of these people could lose their job without that stupid digital abacus), then things get complicated. And I have a complicated enough life. I'll not chase down some accounts payable keyboard monkey to claim the 50p I'm owed for the one title of mine they sold some time last year.

So, as magical as it is to walk into a random shop and see that my title has been stocked without me having to stalk half of the store's workforce, I'm not going down that avenue with UNDERCOVER.

Here's what I'll do instead:

I'm going to ask No Alibis to carry a small number of copies of UNDERCOVER for me (and hope that Dave is cool with this). And that's it. If you don't want to deal with Amazon (a word I don't use in independent bookstores for many of the same reasons that I don't drop C-bombs in chapels or churches), you have to deal with No Alibis. This will happen in October(ish). I haven't decided whether or not to sort out an official launch yet. I've a feeling the No Alibis BELFAST NOIR launch (date to be confirmed) will be adequate. But we'll see.

The other thing I'm going to do, is purposely make the book more expensive to buy via CreateSpace/Amazon. It'll be set at a 9.99 RRP. No Alibis will sell SIGNED copies a little cheaper.

But here's the thing. Just to get things moving a little, I'm going to allow it to sell at £8.99 for a few days. So, if you want a slightly cheaper copy... go here today and pick it up.

This isn't any grand marketing scheme or a well thought out financial tactic. I simply priced it incorrectly by mistake when I set up the Amazon page. Take advantage of my hamfisted generosity.

All the above applies to copies sold in the UK, I should say. I'm not great with conversion rates and whatnot, so if the price of the paperback version of UNDERCOVER looks particularly inflated in your territory, let me know. Chances are my deficit in knowledge of global economics is to blame. Also, if it's worth my while and not a fucking rigmarole, I'll try to work something out for book festivals, but if you want me to start printing off invoices and all that shite just so you can not pay me for over a year, don't expect me to waste my paper or ink.

Links for purchase of UNDERCOVER:

CA (link currently unavailable)

The rest of you, use Google. If that seems dismissive to you, please feel free to let me know, but to the best of my knowledge my books only really get noticed in the above territories.

Things you should know before you part with your hard-earned cash:

The cover is gorgeous
The book feels nice in your hands
It's been edited and proofread to within an inch of its life
It's been typeset by somebody who knows what they're doing
I wrote it

4/5 ain't bad.

Did that all sound a bit grumpy? I've not allowed myself a weekend off in a while. Blame it on that.

Saturday, 20 September 2014

UNDERCOVER - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

If you're standing between me and the goal, you're not my friend.
Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

Cormac Kelly nibbled on the inside of his ski mask. He'd been given the only one without a mouth-hole and it was driving him nuts. The damp fibres irritated his lips. He'd already swallowed four or five little balls of chewed wool but couldn't stop himself from biting off another tiny piece. They stuck to the walls of his dry throat. He'd be hawking up hairballs all night.
It didn't matter what line of work you were in, the new guy always got the crap. A ski mask with no mouth-hole, a dinged-up old Ruger Security Six revolver in serious need of a clean, and the shittiest job – babysitting.
The kidnapped man slumped in the middle of a bare mattress pushed up against a damp wall. The boy sat slightly apart from his father. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins. His head tipped back to rest against the wall. He hadn't uttered a peep since Big Frank had scared him with a few dummy digs for the camera. Once or twice the boy had glanced at his father with disappointment etched deep in his face, as if he wondered how his guardian, his hero, his protector, had let them get into this mess.
And it didn't look as if Daddy was going to spring into action mode any time soon. Although the boy wouldn't understand it, this was the best thing his father could do for him. Heroics got people killed.
Big Frank blundered into the room. He moved without grace and his footsteps clapped like thunder. The boy tensed at the sight of the juggernaut who'd bullied him for the camera. Built like a silverback on steroids, Big Frank would scare the life out of most men. Put him in a ski mask and he became the stuff of nightmares. His lips stretched wide as he treated Cormac to a craggy-toothed smile through the mouth-hole of his ski mask.
"The boys are waiting for the bitch at the cottage."
The father's frame tensed. He breathed deep but didn't complain. The boy shot a death stare at Big Frank. Looked like he was ready to jump up and lamp the giant. Fiery wee bastard.
Cormac kept an eye on the boy as he responded to Big Frank. "Great."
"Aye, she'll be scared shitless. That wee video turned out a beezer."
"Amazing what you can do these days, isn't it? I mind a time when you'd have to send fingers through the post to get what you wanted. Everything's digital now."
"It's like living in the future."
Cormac could see that Big Frank's brainless chatter poked at the boy like a rusty spike. His little fists clenched up into white-knuckled knots of fury. He was bound to do something stupid if Cormac let the oaf ramble on.
"Would you put the kettle on, mate?" Cormac said. "I've been gasping for hours."
Big Frank took a step back. "Get away to fuck. You think this is a day at the office?"
"Don't know, big man. Aren't you the one gabbing away like we're on our tea break?"
Big Frank's teeth disappeared behind a tight-lipped slit. He turned in a clumsy half-circle and headed for the door.
Cormac couldn't resist a parting shot. "And tell that other fat shite-bag to come in here and do a turn. He's not even offered me so much as a toilet break."
"You can piss yourself, you wanker."
Big Frank clattered out of the room and slammed the door behind him. The father and son flinched, though Cormac thought he could see the trace of a smirk on the boy's face. He was tempted to engage the young fellah in some idle banter but knew it to be a bad idea. So he went back to chewing on his damp balaclava. It passed the time.

Lydia Gallagher stepped onto the cast-iron doormat of the cottage and rummaged through her handbag for the key. Her rain-soaked hair clung to her face. She wished for an umbrella, gave up the hunt for the key and hammered on the door with the side of her fist.
Footsteps thudded on the other side of the windowless slab of oak and she brightened in anticipation of John's welcome. It had been a long day and she craved a decent glass of Pinot. She turned to wave her taxi away. Its tail lights disappeared behind the hedging on the side of the main road.
The door creaked open. Lydia gazed deep into the twin barrels of a sawn-off. The shotgun's hollow stare watched without passion. She took one step backwards. Gravel scrunched under her heel.
But she couldn't.
Lydia looked over the sawn-off at the gunman. Eyes as dispassionate as the shotgun muzzle nestled in the peepholes of a black ski mask. She raised her hands.
The gunman reached out and grabbed Lydia's lapels with his free hand. He kept the shotgun trained on her face and walked backwards into the hallway. Lydia followed without resistance. She listened out for her family. Nothing. The light in the kitchen was out. A telltale sign that Mattie, her son, hadn't mooched in the cupboards for a pre-dinner snack. Whatever was going on had started a few hours ago.
"Where are they?"
The gunman said nothing. He yanked her into the living room.
The television played on mute. Two more masked men sat on the sofa and gazed into the pale blue light of a documentary about sharks. They didn't look up at her, but Lydia noticed one of them lift a handgun from the arm of the sofa and thumb a little switch on the side. Acknowledgement enough.
She tried again. "My son. My husband. Where are they?"
The silence crept into her bones. She could have screamed, but it seemed wrong. Like belting out a football chant in a chapel.
The first man shoved her into the armchair closest to the TV – furthest from the door. He stood in front of her. Lowered his sawn-off.
"What the fuck do you want?" Lydia was hyper-aware of her London accent in the eerie calm. She could feel the panic take hold of her heart. Claw at her lungs. Tie knots in her bowels.
The man with the sawn-off leaned forward and back-handed her across the face. Instinctively she kicked out at him. Her leg arced upwards as she aimed her shin at his groin. He parried her kick with his knee and slammed the palm of his hand into her forehead. The dull thwack juddered her vision and shoved her head against the back of the seat. She blinked away black dots. The pain faded quickly but left a hangover of weakness and humiliation.
The men on the sofa shifted forward and perched on the edge of their seat. With elbows on knees, they watched. Lydia tried not to think about what they might be expecting to happen. She squirmed. Needed to pee.
"Take off your shoes."
The gunman's Belfast growl matched his mask.
Lydia raised her hands to ward off another attack. "What is this? I don't… Are you an IRA man?"
He swept her hands to the side and slapped her again. It stung like he'd shoved her face in nettles. One of the sofa jockeys sniggered.
"Shut your mouth and do as you're told, wee girl."
Lydia kicked off her heels. The tingle of fresh circulation in her toes didn't bring the usual relief. All she felt was fear and confusion. She didn't understand why he wanted her shoes. Maybe he was worried that she'd try and hit him with one of them. She prayed that he wouldn't ask her to remove anything else.
The gunman punted her shoes into the corner of the room.
"Give me your handbag." In his thick Belfast accent it sounded like he wanted her hawndbeg.
Lydia handed it over. He studied the brand logo on the buckle.
"Is this a real Lewis Vuitton?"
Lydia paused a second before she nodded.
He curled his lip in distaste and tossed the bag into the corner with her shoes. The contents clattered.
"Now your coat."
"How far is this going to go?"
"Don't flatter yourself, love."
Lydia struggled out of her knee-length coat. She was afraid to stand in case she earned another slap so she shifted from side to side as she dragged it out from under her bum. Just another indignity.
The gunman threw the woollen coat into the corner and moved to the other armchair. A black canvas holdall sat on the cushion. He unzipped it and poked around inside.
Lydia's skin tightened into gooseflesh. The house was cold. It smelt wrong. The scent of strange men.
The gunman pulled a smartphone from the holdall and handed it to one of the sniggering sofa jockeys. "Get the thing working."
He tapped the screen a few times and passed it back to the gunman. He brought it to Lydia and dropped it in her lap.
Lydia picked up the phone and squinted at the little display.
A masked man stood over Mattie – her thirteen-year-old son – with his fists curled. Mattie scuttled backwards on all fours, his mouth pulled back in a ghost train grimace.
Lydia sprang out of the armchair and launched herself at the gunman. She clawed at his eyes and caught a handful of ski mask. The gunman danced backwards and batted her hands away. He was light on his feet and skilled. Lydia shrieked and stepped up her attack. Swung arms and legs at the dancing bastard. He sidestepped. Buried the butt of his sawn-off into her solar plexus. Air whooshed from her lungs. She wheezed and crumpled face-first into the carpet. Hitched her breath, sputtered and pulled her knees under her chest.
The ten seconds of footage from the video clip played on a loop in her mind.
She cried.
A rough hand seized a fistful of hair from the back of her head and hauled her to her feet. She tried to strike out behind her with the heel of her shoeless foot. Earned a kick in the backside for her troubles. Hot breath blasted in her ear.
"Settle yourself."
The fight drained from her and she sagged. The gunman practically held her up by the hair. He led her back to the armchair and dropped her into it.
The gunman adjusted his ski mask and sighed. "Your son hasn't been hurt. Yet. Neither has your husband. But we will hurt them if we don't get what we want. Hurt them a lot and then kill them. Let that sit with you for a second or two. See how it makes you feel."
Lydia gripped the arms of her chair. She opened her mouth to speak.
The gunman raised a gloved finger to the lower part of his ski mask. Lydia clamped her mouth shut.
"Now, Missus Gallagher. You listen to me and do exactly as I say."
She swiped fresh tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her suit jacket. "Okay."

Cormac had almost gnawed himself a ragged mouth-hole when Paddy waddled into the room. Paddy weighed about as much as Big Frank did, but he was made up of doughy fat that drooped from his bones like custard in a condom. His arms were always in motion as if they couldn't find a casual spot on his soft body to rest against. Paddy was the lame duck of the crew. A blood connection with the boss was the only thing that booked him a place on these jobs. And yet, he still ranked higher than Cormac.
Paddy brandished the hi-tech phone that they'd filmed the boy and Big Frank on. "I've the woman on the blower. She's to talk to the kid."
Cormac flapped his hand at the boy. Paddy walked past the father to hand over the mobile. The boy took a deep breath before speaking.
"Hello…? Yeah, it's Mattie, Mum." He screwed up his face. "I'm fine." Then he glanced at his father, his young face hardened. "Yeah, he's okay too."
Paddy snatched the phone away from Mattie's ear and pressed it to his own. "Right, that's all you get for now, missus." He disconnected the call.
Cormac nipped across the room to cut the departing Paddy off at the door.
"Lend us the mobile for a bit, will you?"
Paddy gave Cormac one of his watery-eyed looks. His nose twitched visibly under his ski mask. "What for?"
"I'm bored shitless here. Wouldn't mind a wee tinker on it to pass the time."
"You going to call one of them dodgy numbers, big lad? Heavy breathing and all that?"
"Fuck off. I'll just piss about on the apps or something."
"What are apps?"
Cormac shook his head. "Can I have it or not?"
Paddy shrugged and handed over the touch-screen phone. "Whatever. Just don't get too distracted, all right? You're meant to be working."
"No sweat, boss."
Paddy puffed his chest and his considerable man-boobs strained the front of his black cotton shirt. Suitably inflated by an ounce of respect, he gave Cormac a curt nod and waddled out.
Cormac turned his back to the family, gave the phone a quick once over, then flipped open a tiny flap on the side of the casing. He took a miniscule memory card from the watch pocket of his jeans and slipped it into the slot. A few taps of the screen later and he had the video of Big Frank threatening Mattie on the card. He ejected his little piece of evidence and tucked it back into his watch pocket.
A present for his handler.

Pre-order price only -- publication day is 25th September 2014

Thursday, 18 September 2014

Best Year Ever

These posts don't usually materialise until we get a little closer to Christmas. However, I've started measuring my time in academic years now that my life pretty much revolves around the PhD I'm working on.

On 20th September 2013, Culture Night, I escaped my dayjob for at least three years. It was magnificent. My colleagues, either encouraging my crazy plan or just plain happy to see me get out of their lives, gave me a nice send-off. Lunch, generous gift, drinks. The hangover was monumental. If I'm honest, I was a little sad to be leaving. It wasn't the worst job in the world, by any stretch of the imagination. It just wasn't my first choice.

Writing is.

But it was weird at first. I didn't warm up to this full-time student and writer gig for a few months, really. Sure, I had more opportunities to read, wrote quite a bit, spent more time with the kids and whatnot. But it all seemed weird. Like I was throwing a sickie from work rather than settling in to my role as a bona fide scribe. I'd say it took until late November or early December to get into the swing of it. And by then I was convinced that I'd wasted half a year. Maths was never my strong point.

Other obstacles popped up throughout the year. I'll not list the details, but basically I thought that I'd become an utter writing machine this year. It doesn't really feel like I've managed that, though. I always feel like I'm playing catch-up. Always.

So, in an effort to calm my twanging nerves, I thought I'd list the significant stuff that I managed to do over the last 12 months. I'm hoping I surprise myself.

Started work on two novels (one for the PhD, one for me; both still unfinished)
Figured out that working on two novels simultaneously is silly
Attended the Killer Books festival in Derry (early November)
Released my novella, BOUNCE, in the form of a free booklet at the festival
Released the novella, BREAKING POINT, through Blasted Heath
Worked on edits for UNDERCOVER, a novel to be released by Blasted Heath in a few days
Wrote and sold some short stories; including spots in Belfast Noir and Streets of Shadows
Read like a motherfecker
Attempted to master academic writing (with marginal success)
Attended various courses and events through QUB
Hosted an event at No Alibis; the launch of Helene Gestern's The People in the Photo
Passed my PhD differentiation
Landed some funding from Northern Ireland screen to work on a screenplay based on my novella, WEE DANNY
Decided to go to Bouchercon 2014 (Long Beach CA, baby!)
Joined a gym and stuck with it long enough to get in shape
Started a health and fitness blog (then ignored it over the summer but continued to train!)
Signed up as a Teaching Assistant in the School of English (and will begin teaching at QUB in October)
Went on holiday to Portstewart
Took part in a panel at the On Home Ground festival
Spent more time with the family

There may be a couple of things that slipped my mind that belong on the list, but looking at that now... I'm feeling pretty chuffed with myself. But I also need to be careful about getting too complacent, I reckon. And I should be wary of distraction and procrastination. Writing has to be a priority this year. I have to finish the PhD novel to leave myself time to work on the trickier academic/critical element.

I'm hesitant to post this now. It all seems a little braggadocious...

But feck it. I'll compromise. I'll post it on a day when the world only wants to read about the Scottish #indyref, I won't include an eye-catching image and I'll not share the link on social media. I'll just leave it here and look at it from time to time. When the nerves start twanging and I start to freak out about not getting enough done now that I have so much more time on my hands. It'll be cathartic, right? Or I'll freak out about not getting as much done this year. Most likely the latter. I'm a tube, like.

Monday, 15 September 2014

A Wee Review -- SINKER by Jason Johnson

The Irish News published my review of SINKER in yesterday's edition (11/09/14), in a slightly shorter form. Here's the full version of the review for anybody who missed it:

Sinker is the novel that will remind you of the silly things you’ve done when drunk, or avoided by abstaining. Because that’s what this novel is about. Getting wasted. Except in the world Sinker’s world, getting wasted isn’t always a waste of time. Jason Johnson has created a sport called sink – there’s even a Wikipedia-type section at the start that covers the rules and public perception – and to tell the story, Johnson employs professional sinker Baker Forley, Derry’s great ginger hope in the so-called sport, and the new kid on the block in the world circuit.

The plot is straightforward enough, but is stuffed with more surprises than you’ll find in an end-of-session kebab. Forley is supposed to drink, drink, drink; stay upright and keep his eye on the ball. He certainly shouldn’t waste time looking at a rich sheikh’s wife during his big shot at the world title in Mallorca. But of course he does look a rich sheikh’s wife. Ogles her, in fact. And everything goes crazy, in a good, old fashioned, “wait ‘til ye hear what happened!” sort of way.

There is a sense of enthusiasm about this book that is contradictory to the lack of enthusiasm displayed by the enigmatic Baker Forley. It may be the comedic aspect of it, because Johnson’s humour, though blacker than a well settled Guinness, is laugh out loud funny in places. That’s actual laughter out loud, not internet-lol; two very different things. Or possibly the enthusiasm is channelled through the larger than life supporting cast. Ratface the sink talent manager, Nap the jolly and deadly bodyguard, and Sheikh Alam who lives in a Gaudi designed house with a Dali designed garden. Yeah. That much larger than life. And there’s a twist of femme fatale in there too. Either way, a character that responds to a death threat with the immortal words, “Aye, right,” is hardly the most dramatic.

But then, maybe that’s the point. Perhaps the only way Johnson can imagine a person succeeding in a sport that literally kills you physically and mentally has to have his head in the right – or wrong – place.

Is Forley a two-dimensional lump of drunk or is he actually a zen master? The line, delivered by Forley as narrator, “If it’s not competition, it can only be addiction,” when describing the motivations of a wannabe sinker, points to the latter lifestyle choice. And these nuggets of drinker’s wisdom are scattered throughout the text. There is a depth of understanding displayed not only of the chaos of alcohol, with more emphasis put on the downside of the drug rather than the upside, that is coupled with the ups and downs of abstinence. Interestingly, Forley only drinks when competing. He’s not a social drinker. This creates a madcap balancing act that lends the novel a point of interest to drinkers and non-drinkers alike. Look down your nose at the antics of Forley and his fellow sinkers or grin as you remember past embarrassments or moments of messy glory; whatever works. But Sinker deserves to be read.

Gerard Brennan

Friday, 12 September 2014

Megan Abbot in Belfast

If you've yet to discover Megan Abbott's work, NOW IS THE TIME, PEOPLE!

She's coming to Belfast on Tuesday and will read at No Alibis (see all the details below). This is her first event here, and I for one want to give her a reason to come back for her next novel. So, I urge you to go. GO GO GO! Now! Well not RIGHT now. Tuesday. Go on Tuesday.

And tell Dave, will you? He might not have a chair for you otherwise.

Megan Abbott
Tuesday 16th September at 7:00PM
Tickets: Free

No Alibis Bookstore are very pleased to invite you to an evening with Megan Abbott, to celebrate the recent publication of her latest novel THE FEVER, on Tuesday 16th September at 7:00PM.

Megan Abbott is the Edgar-winning author six previous novels. Her most recent novel, Dare Me, was chosen by Entertainment Weekly and Amazon as one of the Best Books of 2012 and is soon to be a major motion picture.

Born in the Detroit area, she graduated from the University of Michigan and received her Ph.D. in English and American literature from New York University. She has taught at NYU, the State University of New York and the New School University. In 2013, she served as the John Grisham Writer in Residence at Ole Miss.

She is also the author of a nonfiction book, The Street Was Mine: White Masculinity in Hardboiled Fiction and Film Noir, and the editor of A Hell of a Woman, an anthology of female crime fiction. She has been nominated for many awards, including three Edgar Awards, Hammett Prize, the Macavity, Anthony and Barry Awards, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and the Pushcart Prize.

Her hands flying up, she grabbed her throat, her body jolting to one side.

Then, in one swoop, her desk overturned, clattering to the floor.

And with it Lise. Her head twisting, slamming into the tiles, her bright red face turned up, mouth teeming with froth.

“Lise,” sighed Mrs. Chalmers, too far in front to see. “What is your problem?”

The Nashes are a close-knit family. Tom, a popular teacher, is father to the handsome, roguish Eli and his younger sister Deenie, serious and sweet. But their seeming stability is thrown into chaos when two of Deenie’s friends become violently ill, and rumours of a dangerous outbreak sweep through the whole community.

As hysteria swells and as more girls succumb, tightly held secrets emerge that threaten to unravel the world Tom has built for his kids, and destroy friendships, families, and the town’s fragile idea of security.

The Fever is a chilling story about guilt, family secrets, and the lethal power of desire.

Don't miss this exciting event. Places are limited, so book your spot now be emailing David or calling the shop on 9031 9607.

Monday, 8 September 2014

In the morning, he was hungover (allegedly)

A favourite of CSNI, one Mr Adrian McKinty, is now the proud bearer of the Ned Kelly Award for his novel, In The Morning I'll Be Gone. I've stated for the record that the third installment of the Sean Duffy series is the best of the bunch, in my opinion. But then, I'd hardly state somebody else's opinion, would I?

Here's a fun picture McKinty shared the morning after the night before on his Twitter account:

And if you want a first person account of the ins and outs of McKinty's much deserved win, the man himself has kindly provided one over on his blog. Check it out, tell him he's the champ and wallow in his reflected glory.

I truly hope that the good times continue to role for this scribe.