Sunday, 27 July 2008

First you get the credit

For those of you that kept up with the Waterstone's What's Your Story competition, it was a surprise to no one that I didn't win. I did quite like the winners, especially The Day a Robot Appeared in the Vegetable Patch.

But, I did promise to post up my entry on the blog if I didn't win, so you'll be able to find it at the bottom.

The novel is still going. Really tired of it at the moment. "What? It needs even more work?" I cry. I really, really, really want to work on something else but I really, really, really shouldn't. Yes, there's still a lot of work to be done, yes, I could never get a penny from it in the end. But it needs to be done. I just need to man up and slog on.

Of The Father is now going to Revolution SF. I went through a long list of mags suggested by the Horror Writers Association, starting with the pro mags, then the pro zines, then the semi-pro mags, then the semi-pro zines. I judged all the ones I thought might like Of The Father on the following criteria a) who else have they published? b) How much do they pay? c) does the mag look good?

Revolution SF pays nothing and looks, well it's just text on a screen pretty much, but they have published Gene Wolfe in the past and it's kudos like that I'm looking for. Cash is nice but it's credit I need, I just hope cash will one day follow.

Anyway, here is the story. I hope you enjoy.



By Grey Freeman

I was waiting for you to leave, a small smile touching my lips as I watch the last of you switch off the lights, slipping the bookshop back into dark velvet.

The books began to talk; the sports biographies catcalling from their shelves, wolf whistling to the blushing romance novels.

My friends, the children’s books, whisper “DON’T!” as I sneak out from between my pages and the shop falls into horrified silence as my pen begins to murmur across the card left behind on the dark shop counter.

It is not our place, we books, to create. Ours is to perform, to re-enact our stories for you again and again. But tonight, I am free to read and to imagine. While you are gone, I am free to write.