Brendan Peveril . net

So, yeah, I’m just going to start updating this thing something like regularly again like nothing happened. Deal.

The novel seemed too heavy today, so I finally addressed some of the problems editors have had with New Stories. While I kind of miss the ultra sleek 2000 word version that nobody thought made any sense, I’ve added 700 tight words onto the 5000 words version I’ve been shopping around, and, I have to say, the whole thing flows much better than I thought it would. I wish I could just pop this fucker right into my novel.

I don’t want to put the whole thing up right now, since that makes it a little harder to get published later. Hit the cut to see an excerpt, and if you want to read the whole thing, ask and I’ll probably send it to you.

-b

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(more…)

I haven’t evaporated! I did try to, but, you know, pain threshold. Everything’s still happening, unless something isn’t. There may be even more, I dunno. Anyway, in th mean time, here’s a little piece I wrote about Rock music. Consider yourself lucky that you’re reading this, and not listening to the Pat Boone cover of Enter Sandman. Seriously, dat shit not right.

Anyway, here’s the piece. I think it’s going to be a bit of the novel. I’m not sure who’s going to say it. For the record, the first time I really heard rock and roll, it would have been the Doors. I’m not sure which song. Jim Morrison made everything else work, though. Also, I like Cheap Trick.

It would tickle me to no end if every one (hah, since I know how many people that is, it’s funny, so really I mean anyone) would chime in with their own rock music moments. Come on, kids. I know there’s some neat ones.

The actual text is below the cut, and will probably disappoint you.
(more…)

My goal today was to write something that I liked well enough to post here. I hid in a coffee shop until that happened. Results are below the cut. It’s a little piece of the novel I’m writing, and it’s based loosely on a dream I had last night.

(more…)

If you’ve ever written a novel, you’ll know about this. It’s when you get to the point where you can work all day, then look at what you’ve done, and it makes next to no difference against what you already have done, and it’s barely scratching the surface of what’s left.

Look at this, though:
(more…)

I keep blank paper next to my bed, because sometimes I’ll think of something while I’m falling asleep, or I’ll wake up with just fragments of a dream that I don’t want to lose. I’ve managed to save some really good ideas this way. Of course, sometimes, like Friday night, I save things like this:

The most annoying thing? When I can live on visible light alone. When you can barely see something, there I am, humping your eye. I am everywheres.

I’m a genius. I wasn’t drunk either. I felt sick all day, Friday, so no drinking.

Alright, I feel guilty, so I snagged a page from Hallowed. This is from the first issue. It’s really just showcasing my mastery of the dialoguing.

Somebody needs to bring me gin.

(more…)

I just thought I’d provide some evidence that Gone is actually progressing

(more…)

I have a place where I can type things and imagine that many people will read it. Of course, I can also look at the site stats and see that… nobody reads it. It’s like I’m writing this in a diary hidden under my pillow, really. Following are bits of news related mostly to this site.

Here’s something cool. Neil Gaiman’s story How To Talk To Girls At Parties is available both as text and audio here. Gold if you’re too cheap/poor to buy the book it’s in right now, like me.

Work rolls on with A Deeper Shade of Gone and Hallowed. Shamus is working away at that first page, but apparently he’s having a few problems. I’ll post it as I get it. Hallowed is still in script form, but I’m getting closer and closer to the point that I’m ready to start aggressively seeking and artist so I can get a treatment out. Any artists who stumble across this should get in touch with me if they’re interested in taking a look. There will be much blasphemy.

I’m looking at a new short story too. It’s a solid idea, it straddles genres, it’s staying in my head; all of the good things. Now, one way to learn to write good stories is to read good stories, but there’s a problem with that for a beginning writer. To sell a story, Hell, just to get someone to read a story, even if they get it for free, you need to hook them with a killer beginning. I can read good stories by other writers until my eyes bleed, but most of them will be by writers already established as good. Harlan Ellison, Neil Gaiman, Theodore Sturgeon, they just don’t need as strong a hook as I do. I’ll read the whole story no matter how weak the beginning is, because I know it’s good. If I find a story by an unknown, though, I’ll not bother to finish it if the beginning is weak, because chances are that the whole thing is.

I’ve got a killer story, with a compelling narrative, a delicious twist, and a startling twist on the twist (which I hesitate to call a meta-twist, it’s more like a re-twist), but no fucking hook.

Anyway, I’m dangerously close to turning this into a lecture on literary theory, and nobody enjoys that. I’m out.

Here’s another piece I wrote a while ago. I paired it with a project that doesn’t amount to much more than a title, Dirty Flowers. I think it will be a comic, a scifi piece about cybernetic implants, a kind of post/pre cyberpunk thing.

The bit in question has nothing to do with implants, though.

No matter what happens, we’re locked in our skins, alone from the rest of the world. Nothing can really touch us in that one place that we all need to be, and long to be, touched. So much of our time is spent countering this horrible solitude with creature comfort, and aquaintances, and sensations, but none of it breaks that immutable wall of consciousness. We’re all so goddamned alone that it makes me want to…

I still can’t decide what she wants to do. That’s not the ending, though.

Can we be alone together for a little while?

That’s the first ending I wrote. But I don’t like it half as well as the second one I wrote.

When I press my ear to the wall, I want to hear you breathing on the other side?

Even if I don’t use that piece of it, I’m sure that the project as a whole will make me rich. Well, maybe not rich, but famous. Okay, not famous either. I don’t know what it will do.

Also, now that I’ve re-read it, it has everything to do with implants.

This is actually continuing that last piece I posted. I didn’t like leaving him where he was, it left too much unsaid about the character, I felt. He’s not such a bad guy, now that I’ve had time to think about it. The following comes right after “But I guess it was worth it.”

I don’t want all of this to sound like I didn’t love Lily. I did, and I still do. I always will. Sometimes I still wake up and think I have sand in my hair. I reach for her, but we didn’t sleep on the beach last night. Sometimes I think we’re in the mountains, in the cabin, the fresh snow on the porch, just waiting for our bare feet to melt perfect footprints into it. But that’s all gone now, it’s all gone. I’m just confused.

Anyway, that’s how I got away with murder.

Polly’s death was another thing, though, it ruined me. Maybe I was already gone, just looking for a way to show everyone, but she was the nail in the coffin. Polly was one of a kind, she reached inside of me and squeezed. I’d never felt that way before, and I don’t think I can feel it again.

She was like a golden eagle with a broken wing; so exciting and powerful, she made you feel invincible, but she was so fragile and so damaged. She was a mediocre actress and a terrible artist. Her world was intoxicating and enticing, broaching on the seductive darkness I’d railed against for years as a cop. Darkness was what I needed, though, or what I wanted. We rampaged through those mad nights, full of coke, booze and sex, spiraling together toward some end, either nirvana or death, maybe both.

The ringing phone ended the spiral, though. I was wired, up for two days. Charlie told me, on the other end, that Polly’s old ‘vette was hit by a bus. Not her fault, not even with the damned pharmacy in her bloodstream and the open wine bottle on the passenger seat. The bus driver had been arguing with a passenger and he’d hit a patch of ice. My balance was so fragile that just a random thing like that could knock me down.

I made it there running before the ambulance did, but not before she died. I hauled her out of the wreck and held her one last time. My broken baby bird. When the paramedics finally showed up they had to pry me off of her, screaming and wailing. They finally sedated me and Charlie took me home.

I’m a mess, really. Ruined.

More realistic? Maybe. Less completely reprehensible? I’d like to think so.