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Now follows a shameless plug for my Kindle offerings:

WEE ROCKETS does for Belfast what Irvine Welsh did for Edinburgh. It’s a frank look at the drink and drug-addled youth ejected onto the streets of a socially deprived community as they smirk in the face of authority and play Russian Roulette with their adolescent lives.

Praise for WEE ROCKETS:

“The Wire? This is Barbed Wire. A cheeky slice of urban noir, a drink-soaked, drug-addled journey into the violent underbelly of one of Europe’s most notorious ghettos, WEE ROCKETS make The Outsiders look like the Teletubbies.” – Colin Bateman

“Gerard Brennan stands apart from the Irish crime fiction crowd with a novel rooted in the reality of today’s Belfast. The author’s prose speaks with a rare authenticity about the pain of growing up in a fractured society, shot through with a black humour that can only come from the streets. WEE ROCKETS is urban crime fiction for the 21st century, and Brennan is a unique voice among contemporary Irish writers.” – Stuart Neville

“In WEE ROCKETS Gerard Brennan has written a fast paced, exciting story of West Belfast gang culture; brimming with violence, authentic street dialogue and surprising black humour. This is a great debut novel. Brennan takes us into the heart of Belfast’s chav underclass, in a story that lies somewhere in the intersection between The Warriors, Colin Bateman and Guy Ritchie. This is the first in what undoubtedly will be a stellar literary career.” – Adrian McKinty

WEE ROCKETS, Amazon UK

WEE ROCKETS, Amazon US

Small time crook Paul Morgan is a bad influence on his brother, Brian. When Paul crosses one thug too many, the cider fuelled duo flee Belfast for Warrenpoint, the sleepy seaside resort of their childhood memories. For Brian a new life in THE POINT means going straight and falling in love with Rachel while Paul graduates to carjacking by unusual means and ‘borrowing’ firearms from his new boss. Brian can’t help being dragged into his brother’s bungling schemes but Rachel can be violently persuasive herself . . . and she isn’t the only one who wants to see an end to Paul’s criminal career.

Praise for THE POINT:

“Gerard Brennan is a master of gritty violence.” - Colin Bateman

“...a Coen Brothers dream, via Belfast... Gerard Brennan grabs the mantle of the new mystery prince of Northern Ireland..." - Ken Bruen

"The Point is the real deal -- the writing is razor sharp, the characters engaging, the ending a blast. From start to finish it's true Northern Noir, crafted with style and wit." - Brian McGilloway

"It needs to said that Gerard Brennan’s The Point is terrific. Scorchingly funny, black humour at its finest and the most inventive car theft ever!" - Arlene Hunt

"The Point is top stuff. Engaging from the start, the characters are loveable, the story is strong and the pace never lets up." - Adrian McKinty

"Noir from Norn Iron! A lean slice of grindhouse from Belfast's new crime hack." - Wayne Simmons

THE POINT, Amazon UK

THE POINT, Amazon US

Please note, THE POINT is also published in paperback and is available at the wonder emporium that is No Alibis, Belfast (still the only bookstore with signed copies!), and in selected branches of Waterstones across NI. If your favourite bookshop doesn't have it on the shelf, just order it in.

I thank you for your indulgence.

Mick's Pic

Irish crime fiction connoisseur and altogether cool melon-farmer, 'Critical' Mick Halpin sent me this funky pic. I've decided he should call it 'Stuff What Brennan Has Written and or Written For and Some Other Stuff'. Catchy, right?

Thanks for making me smile, Mick!

They Like Me, They Really Like Me...

Well, feck. THE POINT has only gone and scooped the Best Novella Spinetingler Award. Bloody marvellous!

Many thanks to all those who voted. According to the folks at Spinetingler Magazine there was only a few votes in it so every one actually did count.

I'd blather on a little more but I'm still pretty blown over by the whole thing. I'll say one thing, though... you could do a lot worse than to pick up a copy of all the nominees' novellas. I'm halfway through the list and they're all brilliant books. Probably why I'm still scratching my head over the whole thing.

Cheers

gb

Spinetingler Award -- Final Voting Day

Today is the last day that you can vote for your favourite novella in the Spinetingler awards. All info and links can be found below (basically a cut and paste job from a previous post). I hope you'll consider voting for my wee book, THE POINT.



I wanted to blog about this earlier but I had an assignment I needed to get done first. And it's now done, so -- DRUMROLL, PLEASE! -- my novella, THE POINT, has been nominated for a Spinetingler Award. Oh, yeah. The little book that could, just did. I'm frickin' dee-lighted. I'm also fully aware that a nomination is as far as it will go. Have a gander at this cluster-feck of insane talent and wonder at the confidence trick I played to get lumped in with them.

California - Ray Banks
Barracuda - Raymond Embrack
Everything I Tell You is a Lie - Fingers Murphy
Every Shallow Cut - Tom Piccirilli
Felony Fists - Jack Tunney
Follow Me Down - Kio Stark
Old Ghosts - Nik Korpon
The Point - Gerard Brennan
Shotgun Gravy - Chuck Wendig
Smoke - Nigel Bird

But hey, I don't mind losing to any one of those guys. All I want to do is go down swinging. So, if you have the time -- and you feckin' do or you wouldn't be reading this, would you? -- Go to the Spinetingler website and throw a vote my way. It only takes one click and you don't have to register for anything or agree to any dodgy terms and conditions. Just clickety-click and you're done. What are you waiting for? If you'd stopped reading a sentence or two ago, you'd be done by now!

Thank you in advance, kind souls.

P.S. Why not buy some or all of the novellas on the list? I know I will. They're there for a reason, like. Purchase links to all of them can be found on the Spinetingler site.

New Review Policy

Last year I began writing shorter reviews to (I had hoped) allow me to produce more of them for the blog. It turned out I averaged about one review a month which represented only a small fraction of my actual reading. And I'm not even sure that the reviews did any real good for the books. So this year, I'm changing my approach again.

One thing that I've found since I released THE POINT and WEE ROCKETS is that the reviews that seem to have the most traction are those on Amazon. Now, this could well be because I'm relying heavily on Kindle sales, but I'm pretty sure that many other writers attach a lot of value to them too. I took a little time to think about whether or not it was 'professional' to review other writers on Amazon and came to the conclusion that most people don't give a feck about that sort of thing. And so, from now on, when the fancy takes me, I'll be reviewing my latest reads on Amazon. But just so the blog still has a bookish element to it, I'll be gathering them up every once in a whole and posting them on CSNI.

My main concern in this endeavour is how seriously people will treat my reviews. I'm not a fan of the 5-star system but that's what I have to work with. Thing is, when I'm reading a book that isn't floating my boat I do this really wacky thing... I stop reading it. So the majority of my reviews are going to be in the 4 and 5 star range. I suppose you could argue that the challenge is getting me to finish reading your book. Then again, most people don't give a feck about this foible either.

So, constant visitors, the latest Amazon reviews:

The Cold, Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty

Adrian McKinty is one of my favourites. He's a forerunner in the latest generation of Northern Irish crime writers. And this is the book he was born to write. A police procedural featuring a catholic RUC officer set against the backdrop of the 1981 hunger strikes. Talk about ambitious... But McKinty is a master of the craft and he has applied all of his talent to The Cold, Cold Ground.

The writing is electrifying, the characters top notch and his ability to spin a great yarn is enviable. If you want to learn a little about that crazy chapter in Northern Irish history and read an excellent story as well, you need look no further.

Buy this book.

Stolen Souls by Stuart Neville

Stuart Neville brings us back to his dark version of Belfast in the latest Jack Lennon investigation. Set over Christmas, this novel delves into the murky depths of human trafficking in Northern Ireland and the gangs that control it. It's set at a relentless pace throughout with all the now distinctive hallmarks of a Neville crime novel. If you're a fan of the Belfast series there are plenty of little references to the previous books to delight and intrigue the constant reader. But they never distract from the main force of the story. I look forward to his next instalment.

Stolen Souls is 24 meets Die Hard in Belfast. Come on, tell me you don't want to read that and I'll tell you you're a liar.

All The Young Warriors by Anthony Neil Smith

This was officially my first Kindle read and I have to say, this book alone is pretty much worth the price of the Kindle reader. Just a pity the author couldn't get a percentage off that price-tag.

The story is set in Minnesota and Somalia, places of opposite extremes in temperature and culture. The narrative is split between a recently widowed, angry cop and a terrified American-born Somalian who has gone to his father's home country to join the 'ragtag army'. This is a big, ambitious story and it is handled with expertise by Smith. A tremendous novel with a distinct and confident voice. I actually slowed my reading down around the 80% mark to make it last a little longer. I'll be reading more from this guy.

All The Young Warriors is an emotional gut-punch. I'll be thinking about it for a long time to come.

Why I Write - Part 3 of 3

So, is writing an escape for me? I don’t think so. I have a nice life. Apart from a dull day job, the rest of my existence is packed with blessings. I have a supportive wife who I still love very much. Then there are my three children: Mya (age 7), Jack (age 5) and Oscar (age 1). Those kids fuel and exhaust me in equal measure and they are three very different examples of pure brilliance. We also have a puppy that is so cute and fluffy that I can only walk him when it’s dark enough to hide my blushes. I’m broke most of the time, but make just enough money to provide my family with the essentials and the occasional extravagance. So, what’s to escape?

Is it a psychological impulse? Possibly. Though I have other impulses that can be acted upon as and when I decide. For instance, no mater how stressed I am, I rarely drink before the kids go to bed. Certainly never enough to get drunk. When I’ve been cut off on the M1 by some tube in a BMW 3 Series, I don’t drive my Nissan Micra into the back of his wank-mobile to teach the impudent prick a lesson. And when I pop a tube of Pringles, I often stop just to feel that little bit superior to the lost souls who make up the company’s marketing department. So, if I decided it was inconvenient, I’m confident I could quash the urge to write.

So, what is it?

Here’s a theory.

I am descended from a clan of highwaymen and bank robbers. And I am unhealthily fascinated with criminals. In fact, I believe that I have a criminal mind. However, I lack a criminal’s stomach. I simply do not have what it takes to actually commit a legal transgression. So, is the skill for figuring out inventive ways to break into a house or rob a high street shop wasted on this yellow-bellied man? Well, I usually write crime fiction, so maybe not.

Crime fiction has become my legal means of experiencing the joy of law-breaking. I want to be an outlaw but don’t want to risk a criminal record. The idea of a prison sentence captures my imagination, but I have no intention of spending any time in a cell. There are times when my temper gets the better of me and I threaten violence (from a safe distance) yet in my adult years I have yet to throw a punch that wasn’t in self defence. But in my mind, I’ve gone that extra mile so many times. Robbed, shot, stabbed. Danced, kissed, shagged. Lived, fought, died. Vicariously, I have had the most colourful lifetime I could imagine thousands of times and have infinite potential to live many more.

Surely the question is not, ‘Why do I write?’ but, ‘Why the fuck wouldn’t I write?’

That’d be a nice line to finish up on, but I haven’t addressed my skill for listening (remember I mentioned that in Part 1?), so humour me for a further paragraph or two.

I am a listener with an armoury of questions that draw conversation from others. This is useful in social situations that I can’t avoid. It is also essential for my writing inspiration. Other people have stories and I collect them, melt them down and reform them to suit my vision of a character in a story or novel. By listening to others, I refill my inkwells.

And when I can do so without it becoming too obvious to those concerned, I eavesdrop. It’s a little creepy and I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I have heard some fantastic conversations on buses and in restaurant. It’s fuel to the creative fire, and a wonderful way to pass the time. But with all that information filling my brain it’d be a real shame to do nothing with it. So what do I do?

I choose to write.

Actually, that’s not a bad line to end this on either, is it?

Why I write - Part 2 of 3

At an early age I’d set my sights on becoming a writer and spent the rest of my time at primary school, and a few years of grammar school, thinking that it was a viable possibility. Unfortunately, by the time it came to choosing my GCSEs I had been disillusioned. We were given flowcharts and instruction manuals by our careers teacher. The poorly photocopied literature provided suggested ‘pathways’ to professional careers. Accountant, barrister, doctor… Writer as a profession was glaringly absent. Bollocks.

As far as St Colman’s College, Newry, was concerned, you studied to go to university. In university you studied to acquire a vocation. If you didn’t have the aptitude to contribute to an exemplary level of achievement and advance the school’s league records, you could expect to receive advice of NVQs, GNVQs and apprenticeships. These were options my parents persuaded me to avoid. So I found myself aimlessly slogging through GCSEs and then A Levels with limited enthusiasm. I showed some flair for English, especially the restricted amount of creative writing permitted, but this was salt in the wounds really. I gleaned some praise for my imaginings but no real advice that would help me turn it into a career. Journalism was the closest possibility but on an island obsessed with politics I barely understood, I had little love for the idea.

I was accepted into Queen’s University, Belfast, after underachieving in my A Levels. I had discovered alcohol and girls by then and enjoyed them with the lack of sophistication expected from a teenager. Studying was not high up on my list of priorities. I also played in a band at the time. Bass guitar, because it was easier than lead guitar, more prestigious than rhythm guitar and there were less bassists than guitarists in my neck of the woods which increased your chances of getting into a decent four or five-piece. At one point I played for three groups. Anyway, with my focus split this way, it was not very surprising to me that I bombed out of Queen’s. I was too hungover to sit my exams and too distracted to really consider the consequences of such idiocy. But, Jesus, I had a great time that year.

So, there I was, a failure and not particularly heartbroken about it. Sure a degree in English Literature would do fuck all for me anyway. Would it get me published? No. It’d just get in my way. I needed to learn how to live life, then I could write, damn it.

So I got a job at a timber yard. Got some experience there. Learned some new and inventive ways to swear, developed a rash on my chin that wouldn’t let up and saw somebody lose a finger in a vicious machine. The lost finger was enough to send me looking for a new job. I decided to work somewhere that wouldn’t endanger my digits. After a brief stint of stacking pancakes at the Mother’s Pride bakery I landed a cushy number in a public sector office. The Belfast Education and Library Board, to be precise. Found it mind-numbing but less dangerous than manual labour. And it’d pay the bills until I figured out how to get into the writing racket.

Twelve years have passed since then and I still work in the same building.

I am grateful for my day job, though, even if I’m less than enthusiastic about it. Over the last twelve years it has provided me with a home, a series of cars, paid for my wedding, supported my children and funded my unhealthy relationship with alcohol. And each job I’ve done within the organisation (I have been promoted a number of times, and quite recently, demoted) has been just uninspiring enough to urge me to find an alternative source of satisfaction.

So I write.

Why I Write - Part 1 of 3

It seems like a straightforward question, that. Why do I write? Well… it’s not straightforward. Not at all.

The urge to write is not an easy thing to pin down. There are psychological, social and emotional elements to it. It’s a philosophical question. There are raw nerves to be struck in such thoughts. Memories better left repressed. Cans that contain less worms. Heartstrings one should never tug.

But the question has been asked and it is my duty to provide some attempt at an answer. Here goes.

The first time I told somebody that I wanted to be a writer, I was about seven or eight years old (memory is a sketchy thing). I’d been collecting the works of Roald Dahl and savouring every word the man wrote. He was the king of gross-out comedy then and I’ve yet to discover a writer who can compete. The declaration happened over lunch with my mother and grandmother – a Dahl-esque cast, as it happens. My grandmother was always fond of the question, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” She used it often: icebreaker, tension breaker, ball breaker. On this occasion I suspect it was to get me talking. I was a quiet child, more than happy to let my loquacious younger sister do the talking and entertaining. Me, I was happy to sit and listen. Listening… I have to come back to that. It’s very relevant to this topic.

Anyway, my answer at the time was set to disappoint her. Again. You see, my grandmother wanted a specific response from me when she asked this question. She wanted me to tell her that my vocational ambition was to join the priesthood. Become a man of the cloth. There had not been a priest in her family for a number of generations and I was a bespectacled little fellow which usually inferred a certain level of intelligence not usually bestowed on those with perfect eyesight. Surely I’d be clever enough to study the bible or whatever texts are required to earn that white collar. But time and again I managed to disappoint. Previous answers included lorry driver, boxer and cowboy; and a couple of times, when the whimsy was in me, taller.

Here’s the interesting thing, though. When I said, “I want to be a writer and I’ll probably illustrate my own books,” both my grandmother and mother looked a little surprised. Pleasantly so, I thought.

“Do you hear that?” Mum said (she was always concerned about Granny’s hearing ability). “He’s going to ‘illustrate’. How does he even know a word like that?”

Granny mouth-shrugged and pushed her false teeth past her lower lip with her tongue.

Mum waited until she slurped the dentures back into place and said, “It’s all that reading he does.”

There and then, I felt the tinniest surge of something. Excitement? Power? Whatever it was, I liked it. The ability to spit out a word like ‘illustrate’ at such a young age taught me something. Words could impress people. I later went on to learn that words could flatter, hurt and strike fear. If used well sometimes you could achieve all three of these effects at once with a single sentence. But then you also had to learn how to take a punch. I’ve earned myself a fat lip or bloody nose, thanks to my smart mouth, more times than I care to count. That’s okay, though. We learn from such things. I now know that I’m not made of glass.

To be continued...

Belfast Telegraph Competition

There's a competition in the Belfast Telegraph today to win a rather spiffy presentation tin edition of Wee Rockets as pictured above.

There are ten up for grabs and the question is pretty easy. But if you need any help with it, feel free to get in touch. I'm happy to give readers of the blog an unfair advantage.

Catch-all Catch-up

I never did do one of those introspective end of 2011, start of 2012 blog posts. So this attempt to pull my thoughts together will serve as a belated one. It seems I had a very good year in 2011 when I list out some of the highlights:

- Generally enjoyed marriage and fatherhood
- Got accepted onto the MA for creative writing at QUB
- Took a demotion to allow more time for writing and family
- Saw the publication of my novella, THE POINT
- Warmed to my wife's fluffy puppy and now refer to him as 'our dog'
- Lost an agent and gained a publisher when I signed with Blasted Heath
- Began calling myself a writer

And 2012 is off to a great start with the official release of WEE ROCKETS and a Spinetingler Award nomination for THE POINT. But this writing malarkey is hard work. I finished my MA ssignments a few days ago and now I'm trying to muster up the enthusiasm to rewrite the novel I had hoped to have done before Christmas. It seems like a huge task right now and I'm feeling a little unfit for purpose. Hopefully I'll shake that off soon because self-pity irritates the hell out of me.

Anyway, in an attempt to shake myself up a bit I listened to a great Writing Excuses podcast about the Hollywood Formula and how to apply it to books. And in it, they recommended Ian MCDonald's latest science fiction epic, The Dervish House. And it reminded me of one of my highest points of the year that was enhanced by the attendance of one Ian McDonald. Here's a pic of me and Arlene Hunt at our joint launch at No Alibis, and in the background, to the right, you can see the award-winning science fiction great, Ian McDonald.



Yeah, man. It was a great frickin' year. And I need to work even harder to make this one top it.