An illustrated edition of my novel Tailor of Echoes will be published sometime in the spring by PS Publishing in the UK. I’m really pleased about this as they did such a great job on my collection Magpie’s Ladder. Over the winter, I will be drawing the illustrations, and I’ll post a few teasers here.
I let this blog rest over the summer while I adjusted to all things Covid along with the rest of the world. But, autumn is almost here, a time when I always feel particularly connected to all things book related. I’ll be posting about my work, my current reads, interesting covers and illustrations and so on. I hope the blog will pick up some new readers along the way.
It’s the nature of writing and publishing that things take forever to happen. Regardless, it’s my intent to update Amnesiac’s Library regularly.
For the past few months I’ve been working on a number of new projects. One in particular has moved ahead of the others, a fantasy novel with the working title of The Tangled Slope. I’m 25,000 words into the first draft, and this week I decided to step back to review, and to structure things a little more. I don’t write with much of a plan in the early stages. I write with images and fragments, which are a little like nascent neurons seeking pathways to something more connected. Like the brain, there is a serious pruning after the first rush.
I’m happy with what I have – or will be, with some tinkering (okay a lot of tinkering), and consequently this project will be the one I pour my efforts into during 2020. My goal is to have a solid first draft by June. By that time, I hope to have some good news about my next-to-be-published novel Tailor of Echoes, and have the next volume of The Darkling Lands available. WRT the latter, as with volume one, volume two will include a short story along with a generous collection of art.
This is an excerpt from Lint, a short story in my forthcoming collection Magpie’s Ladder.
“A pale giant sat in the middle of a small boat, nine fingers whitening on the gunwale. His nickname was Crane, given for his slender limbs and long neck. Crane feared any expanse of water, and had a prickling acquaintance with finned fish anaphylaxis. The lake was a fogged mirror with silvering marred by innumerable darting pumpkinseeds. He hummed “Jelly Roll Blues” to calm himself. The vintage outboard motor, which looked like some kind of reeking steampunk beetle, seemed about to rattle the boat to pieces. Crane only loosened his grip when the island, for so long a scribble on the horizon, began to fill his field of vision. The pilot, a desiccated man who’d offered Crane a bump of meth off the back of a freckled hand before setting out, let the boat drift toward the shore. They said goodbye, in a haze of pale gasoline exhaust.”