Thunderbolts and lightning!

I am a very, very happy thunderbug at the moment.

There is a thunderstorm raging directly overhead. I love thunderstorms. Absolutely love them. The way the sky lights up with pure white light, the vivid forks arcing across the sky, streaking towards the ground. And the rumbling roar of thunder. That throaty growl the sky makes towards the earth.

Aaaah... The feel of the air, how it crackles across your skin, and the smell... Nothing quite like it. I try to stand out, as long as I can, feeling the hot thundery breeze flow past, large wet drops of rain splashing onto me. Counting the time between flash and roar, watching the storm draw closer.

The storm is above me, as is the flight path to Heathrow. I find that adds a certain frisson of danger to the proceedings...

Lost property office From Write Anything - 02 March 08

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on March 02, 2008. The original text can be found here.

Lost property office

I have a file on my computer, tucked away in a folder marked “Other”. The file is called “Misc” (as in “miscellaneous”), but I think of it as my own little lost property office. It is where a motley crew of disparate ideas reside, waiting patiently for the day when someone will claim them.

On one shelf lie a cast of characters without a story, lazing around, hoping that someone will want them, eager to be the protagonist, or even a bit player in a tall tale. An example of such characters without a plot can be seen in a few recent Fiction Fridays - the stories concerning Praxus and Triphtus. Despite all other appearances to the contrary, I don’t have anything that even resembles a plot for these two.

In their first appearance, Triphtus needed to look cool and like a warrior, so I decided he had a scar. I needed the characters to be similar, but on different paths, but that each could have been in the other’s shoes. So I decided that there had to be some kind of random and arbitrary decision made that cannot be argued with (the Transition) but that despite this they each had skills meant to be reserved for the other (Triphtus is thoughtful and poetic, Praxus saved Triphtus in battle). From that came the next two Fiction Fridays, one concerning the Transition, and one about how Triphtus got his scar, yet these elements were simply thrown in without thought that there could be any sort of story behind them. Praxus seems to be creating a story for himself, so these two may be leaving the office in the future…

On the next shelf we have self-contained scenes that look good, but are unrelated to any existing plot. A vignette will appear in my head, and I’ll right it down, because the scene is good, but without a plot it can fit into, it is essentially useless. These little fillers are easily recycled however, so do not spend a long time gathering dust. As scenes with essentially blank characters they can be fit into almost any story, and sometimes make good stand alone (very) short stories. This piece, Tube Nightmare, started as one such scene. A train slowly passing through a station littered with dead bodies. That was the only image I had. I fleshed it out a little more, and it might be good in a longer story, but for now I don’t really have anything that could make use of it.

And finally in a box at the back of the room, all the random plot ideas that have no characters to drive them on. Like tiny seedlings, you can see something big might come of it, but only if you have the time and space to replant them and let them grow. At the moment, I don’t. Vague ideas about Jack the Ripper, suicidal spies and twisted events at a holiday park sit quietly, patiently waiting for me to occasionally feed them, hoping to get a chance for some sun once in a while. They remain dormant, ready to be called upon. Just as soon as I get all the other stories finished…

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

"I'm your fan - I own you! Do my bidding!"

Aaah, is there anything more obnoxious than a fan gone bad? You know the kind. In music, they're the on the front row, screaming the lyrics louder than the singer, getting excited at the B-Sides, and astudiously watching the rest of the crowd, to ensure that EVERYONE knows that they are the biggest fan in the house. They were there at the beginning. They supported the talent while they were still unknown. Struggling. And god forbid that the object of their affection should ever have commercial success. Because then they can't be as responsive. Suddenly there might be demands on their time that weren't there before. They might, shock horror, change and adapt to new events. Heavens.

Is there anything more obnoxious? Why, yes. You could be a fan gone bad, who takes their over-inflated sense of entitlement and grievance into the public arena...

So, Scott Sigler. Struggling part-time writer, podcaster, who suddenly began to find an audience. A substantial audience. Then found two of his podcast novels picked up in print. The print run sold out. Shot up the Amazon best-seller lists. Got a publishing deal with a big publishing house. Fame and success has followed. Surely, a fan of Sigler might be, I don't know, happy about this? After all, Scott is still producing free podcasts. His latest audiobook, Nocturnal, is freely available.

Well, apparently it isn't good enough. I logged on to Twitter today, and noticed a little flurry of activity. It appears a dispute has broken out between Scott Sigler, and a Twitter user called Blindtech. It appears that Blindtech thinks that Sigler "owes him" more episodes of the podcast than have been produced. And consequently, Sigler has "sold out."

Shit. I'm glad Blindtech isn't a fan of me - I can't remember the last time I recorded a podcast!

So let's look at the reasons Scott might not be able to produce his usual weekly podcast, shall we?

Firstly, his dog died. Blindtech doesn't think this is a big deal. I would say that just goes to show that Blindtech has never owned a dog. I don't think I need to say any more on this point. All the dog owners know where I'm coming from here.

Secondly, the Secret Mission of Death. The publication date of Sigler's follow up to Infected was brought forward, by five months. That's quite a serious cut in the length of time available for him to write. Scott had to hunker down to some serious writing to make the deadline. And guess what? If he doesn't, he is in breach of his contract with his publisher. That's not a good position to be in. So, if an author abiding by the terms and conditions of their contract with their publisher is selling out, then yeah, I guess he has. But only in the sense that I sell out every day by turning up to MY job every day.

Oh, and by the way, he's going to podcast Contagious. For free. Again. You're welcome Blindtech.

Thirdly, and Blindtech might not have noticed this, but Scott did actually have a book to promote. That takes time. A lot of time. A lot of ongoing time, especially when the book doesn't get released simultaneously around the world. We in the UK have only just got Infected. In the US, it was released months ago. They might rather be writing, but promotion of your work is also a part of an author's job. Selling out? Please, this is being a professional.

Two quotes from JA Konrath spring to mind:

"Writing is a profession. Act professional."

"It's your name on your book cover. It's your responsibility to sell your book. If it flops, your publisher will still be in business, but you won't."

If an author does not promote their work, they won't be an author for much longer...

Lastly, and the thing that changes Blindtech from just being a petulant, whiny, demanding fan, and makes him a petulant, whiny, demanding asshole is the fact that Scott is taking some time out for the next few weeks. Something more important than writing, more important than some free podcast has come up. Initially Scott only mentioned that a family member was ill. Riled by the incessant crap spouted by Blindtech, he has revealed that his father-in-law is terminally ill.

Nice one Blindtech. There's the milk of human kindness right there. He makes a valiant attempt to backpedal by saying it's not about this situation, but what else can it be about? He is annoyed that the number of podcasts has decreased at a time when Scott has had to heavily promote his book, write an entirely new one, deal with the loss of his dog, and now deal with family trauma.

No doubt I will now be dismissed as an unthinking, blind sheep attack dog. Ad hominem is so ugly, and the sign that you have no actual rational arguments to fall back on. Whereas demanding that someone put their personal life on hold to provide you with gratification because you somehow feel you are entitled??? I've said it before, and I'll say it again, and it's not ad hominem - you are an asshole.

Tags: Scott Sigler asshole fans with overinflated sense of entitlement internet feuds

Toilet humour and Everyman's Library

Another lazy book list entry, this time the Everyman Library 100 Essentials. Everyman is one of those heroes of the world of literature, bringing the written word to the masses. Originally founded by Joseph Dent in 1906, the aim was to bring the world's great classics: "to appeal to every kind of reader: the worker, the student, the cultured man, the child, the man and the woman ... for a few shillings the reader may have a whole bookshelf of the immortals; for five pounds (which will procure him with a hundred volumes) a man may be intellectually rich for life."

And they are beautiful editions, although their uniformity betrays the pre-fab library nature of the Everyman sets. In some respects it is lazy too - buying one of the sets means you are relying on someone else to tell you what "literature" is, and it suffers from the questions of "do you only own the book because it looks intellectual to have it" that besets so many of these lists. I'll confess, I'd want most of the books on the list, and it would be visually appealing to have rows of books with uniform bindings. However, I like my idiosyncratic mix of hardback and paperback books of varying sizes and colour.

I won't rehash the list, but there are some of the usual suspects that we've seen on other lists - the adulation of Joyce for example, and it relies heavily on multiple appearances by certain authors (Austen, Joyce, Dickens). But there are refreshing inclusions - political philosophy from de Tocqueville (Democracy in America) personal favourites Thoreau (Walden) and the Tao Te Ching, even Confucious' Analects, short stories from Kafka and Roald Dahl, classic noir from Raymond Chandler, and with Don Quixote, Herodotus' Histories, Homer's Odyssey and Iliad and Virgil's Aeniad there is a great selection of ancient to pre-modern writing represented.

I came to the Everyman 100 through a Guardian Book Blog entry Reading in schools, from the bottom up where author Anthony McGowan recounts his experiences of reading from the more scatological portions of his children's books at schools around the country. The kids love it, and generally so do the teachers, but there is always one adult who thinks it "inappropriate" for an audience of children.

It is at that point McGowan likes to grab copies from the Everyman collection in the schools (hence the link to that!), or similar, and read from the saucier sections of books deemed "worthy" for inclusion in a school library. I don't recall my school library having a copy of Procopius' The Secret History, but promises of "the Empress Theodora, bewailing the fact that she only had three orifices with which to gratify her desires" certainly sounds like a cracking read!

Tags: Everyman Library 100 Essentials lazy blogging book list Anthony McGowan toilet humour

Honesty From Write Anything - 24 Feb 08

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on February 24, 2008. The original text can be found here.

Honesty

I’ve mentioned the idea of honesty in writing before. I have written about fiction being a series of beautiful lies, lies with a purpose to inspire. I recently brought up the topic of lying for fun, as a means to creativity. Rather than writing about lying again, I thought this week I should look at honesty.

Honesty is such a lonely word
Everyone is so untrue…

W. Joel

Or so the song goes. How honest are you in your writing? And please, be honest…

Despite all outward appearances (and this may make some people who know me laugh) I don’t like confrontation. I find it difficult to be blunt with people, and so often hide and soften what I mean, and what I think. I think “reticent” best describes me at times. I have often thought that the only times I am truly honest with myself is in writing. The ubiquitous "they" always say "write what you know" - and all I truly know is me. And so when I write, there is a lot of me in what I write. Characters, situations, settings. They are me, they are my life, they are the things I know. They may not be real, they may be highly stylised (which goes back to "lies with purpose") but they are a form of cathartic honesty I sometimes can’t do in my "real" life.

Two quick examples. First, The Inquisitor, a short, three-part story I wrote last year. Both the Inquisitor and the narrator are me. The story is about what I was going through at the time, even though the imagery is unfamiliar to me. It is about decisions in my life, and self-doubt about what I wanted to do with my life and to get out of life. It represents a struggle between my own fears and my rational mind, and doubts about whether I was ready to do the right thing for me.

Second, two recent characters from my Fiction Friday entries, Praxus and Tryphtus. They are also me. Praxus is how I view myself. A person who feels caught up in circumstances, yearning to be something more than his circumstances (in the story, "the Transition") allow. He is nervous about his own abilities, and relies heavily on the reassurance of others that he is doing the right thing. Tryphtus is how I would like to view myself. Confident in his own abilities and what he has become, yet he is still capable of more than might be expected, when he chooses to display his other talents. I perpetually self-doubt in a great many circumstances, and about a great many things. It is only the part of me that is like Tryphtus that means I do (eventually) act, rather than just wishing that I could do something.

All writers put themselves into their work. And so here is my honest admission. I write about myself. I write about aspects of myself. Even if the situations are unfamiliar, they are still me. My most honest moments come when I commit lies to paper.

How honest are you in your writing? Do you reveal yourself or hide yourself in your writing? Are you prepared, or able, to reveal it?

Honesty is hardly ever heard
And mostly what I need from you…

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

Fiction Friday - 18 July 2008

This Week's Theme: Pick a character who loves the dark, and tell us why. Avoid the obvious choices: stealth, monsters, sex, and anything else you immediately thought of.

---

It's easy to pretend.

There is no hiding in the light of day. We all must accept who we are, what we are. Everything is exposed. Until the night. As shadow lengthen, the sky darkens, and stars begin to shine. A calm serenity descends, as the world winds down to rest.

Rest. Sleep, perchance to dream? That is the pretence. When the dark comes, the dreams may begin, the only place where we may each be all that we could ever hope. In our own realms, the places where we are in control, we are kings. We are gods. We are free.

The mundane worries of our lives, the troubles and doubts melt away. We seize the moment, become who we wish to be, do what we wish to do, say what we wish to say.

And so I walk through the days as if in a dream, allowing events to wash over me, pass me by, an observer. I crave the night, the security of dreams.

The liberty of night.

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday

Message in a bottle

On a bright day such as today, this whole beach shimmers, a million glistening points of light that overwhelm the eye, dazzling the senses, blinding you. The sands are soft and stretch out for miles, flat and wide. The surf rolls gently over the beach, caressing it before retreating, carrying with it ghostly pale driftwood.

It floated softly onto the beech with the tide, and was almost carried away again immediately, but for one of the few, small rocks that dotted the beach. It washed over the top, and was protected from being pulled back into the sea. It lay there, a deep smoky green, prominent against the golden yellow.

The neck of the bottle was encased in a thick layer of pale wax, haphazardly applied over the rubber stopper. Inelegant and inexpert, function without form, clumsy and crude, yet effective. Beauty was not what had been sought, only efficacy. It was the wax that gave me pause. I picked up the bottle with the sole intent of getting rid of it, detritus that sullied a pristine paradise. But the wax promised a mystery. I held the bottle up to the sun, letting the evening rays filter lazily through the glass, revealing a shadow within. A genuine message in a bottle. My curiosity was now overwhelmed, and I set about the wax, picking at it, brittle shards flaking off with ease. The wax became softer, more pliable, stickier, the close to the stopper. I began to scrape the remnants off with my thumbnail, exposing enough of the plug to grasp it, digging into it for purchase, and begin twisting, pulling, cajoling the thin stopper out of the neck of the bottle.

I turned the bottle upside down. Within, something softly rattled, but did not come out. Peering inside, I could see sheets of paper loosely rolled up. They had come unfurled, wider now than the bottle neck, trapped inside. I reached in with a finger, and managed to trap a corner of the pages, drawing them up through the neck and out, free at last.

The handwriting was simple, large round letters and looping curls. A letter, a confession, a plea, from one stranger to another. I felt guilty, reading over the intimate thoughts of another, written who knew how long ago? The letter was undated, the language timeless. Love, loss, regret, hope - the gifts of the human soul exist in all times in equal measures. My heart pounded faster, as voyeur became participant, submerged in these words I became the person they were addressed to, and simultaneously I was the one pouring out these thoughts to a person unknown, unknowable.

I rolled up the pages and placed them back in the bottle. A goodbye, an invitation, a confession, a prayer. Who knew where it came from, where it was intended for. I pushed the rubber stopper back into the bottle as firmly as I could, and walked along the beach, swinging the bottle by my side. These words were by me, for me, by another and for another. The water felt cool against my legs as I splashed through the lazy waves, wading out until I was knee deep. I drew my arm back and swept it forward swiftly, releasing the bottle and watching it spin away from me, tracing a high arc through the air before landing further out into the sea, the retreating tide ready to bear the message on to its next destination.

I watched the little glass messenger bobbing up and down, until it faded into the glare of the sunset, then turned and headed back to the beach.

I know it like the back of my hand... From Write Anything - 17 Feb 08

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on February 17, 2008. The original text can be found here.

I know it like the back of my hand...

I've asked about character names, and now I’m asking about locations. It’s relatively easy to come up with a character. You can let your imagination run riot, and there really aren’t many restrictions on how they look, behave, think etc. Settings for writing however are a completely different ball-game. It’s one thing to come up with the psychological landscape of a main character, but quite another to create a geographical landscape. Still, in the realms of fantasy writing you are God, and can create any vista you want. Who is to tell you that the little hamlet of Corshyn is anything other than you imagine it? If you want the walls surrounding the Imperial capital of Tynatus to be 100 feet high, then you make them 100 feet high!

But what if the location you are writing about is real? How well do you strive for exactitude when writing about a real location? Do you carry out much research - visit the area, read books, view photographs etc? If it is an area you know well, do you rely purely on your own memory, or have you ever specifically visited a street or a house to confirm an idea?

Some of the stories I am working on take place in London, the city I live in, and know fairly well. And yet sometimes when I am writing a scene, the background becomes very general - it is London, but I am vague as to what street, where the landmarks are. I feel that to force references to specific streets, well-known buildings etc would make it sound like a tourist guide, and so instead the streets become very generic. There are right turns, and left turns, and dead ends, but you could never point them out on a map - it is enough to know that they are "London".

In The Long Watch, Gideon flies into Glasgow Airport en route to visiting his father in Glenspey in Scotland. Glenspey does not exist, but Glasgow Airport is in the town I grew up in. I could see it in my mind as Gideon walked through the arrivals gate, but I still had to check with a friend who lives in the town and flies out of there regularly to make sure that nothing had changed since the bomb attack last summer. My doubts about my own memory of the airport, and my vagueness in writing about a city whose streets I walk daily show that memory is a tricky thing, and is seldom wholly trustworthy.

More difficult is writing about a place you cannot visit - if you set your novel in the past, you can only rely on old maps and photos. The last thing you want is a kindly reader pointing out that the house your main character lived in was merely a field at the time when the story is set!

I also write about places I have never visited. The Long Watch has scenes in Rome, San Francisco and Prague - I have never been to Italy or the Czech Republic, and the longest I’ve been in California was a transfer at LAX. Do I feel guilty about writing about places I’ve never been before? Again, as with the London locations, the descriptions of the areas are vague. In San Francisco the action takes place in a generic American suburb. In Rome, the action is confined to the Vatican, and mostly to the "hidden" (i.e. made up) areas of the palace. Prague is more problematic, as the scenes revolve around one of the most well known tourist locations, but online tour guides and maps provide a wealth of information.

Should I be doing more research on my locations? Should I, indeed the reader, be able to visit each location and recognise it from the story? I have always considered that the story is paramount, and that inaccuracies in locations are really only of interest to pedants and trivia hunters. Perhaps I owe my readers more though?

What do you think? Should a writer aim for realism in real life locations, or should they strive only to give the reader a general feel for the location?

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

New story...

... with everyone's favourite Captain. Soon. If not tonight, then definitely tomorrow. Promise.

Have I ever let you down before?

Apart from that time, obviously...

***EDIT***

Would help if I gave a link to the Captain Juan site, wouldn't it? Oh, and it's been posted.

Don't say I'm not good to the Captain's growing Antipodean fanbase...

Transplant

Inspired by today's Bright Stuff prompt: "When's the soonest you can get it to me? I’ve got to have the part as soon as possible."

---

"Scalpel. Suction. Quickly please, I can't see what I'm doing. Thank you nurse. Clamps. OK, we're on bypass in three, two, one... good. One final incision and... perfect."

With a wet slap the damaged heart was deposited into the tray. Mr Franks looked around the operating theatre. "Well?" The surgical team looked uncomfortable, trying to avoid eye contact. "Nurse?" The lead nurse coughed nervously into her mask, and looked away. Franks laid the scalpel down and stood back from the operating table. The patient lay prone on the table, chest open, tubes leading to and from the bypass machine.

"Where the hell is my replacement heart?" No answer. "Please tell me I haven't just removed this man's heart and nobody thought to have a replacement on standby?"

"Umm, see, there should be..." The voice trailed off. Coombs was assisting Franks, his first heart replacement. And it had been Coombs who had taken the call. Franks glared at Coombs, his green eyes the only part of his face visible. "Mr Coombs, you seem to have some answers for me."

Coombs cleared his throat. "There's uh, been a delay. With the organ. The courier had it, and now, they sort of... got.. delayed."

Franks stared at him, and Coombs wished that the patient would have some kind of crash, anything to distract Franks. Franks tore off his gloves, threw them on the ground, and stormed over to the phone. He picked up the receiver and barked into it "Get me the damn courier."

A muffled voice responded, then silence. The members of the surgical team held their breaths, unsure if Mr Franks would take things out on them. "This is Franks at Mercy General. Yes, I've just been told about your delay. Well, not really, the patient is on bypass. I mean I took his fucking heart out because I had been told you had one ready for me. Well when's the soonest you can get it to me? I've got to have it as soon as possible or my patient is going to die. I don't care. I'll make it your problem. Just get me the damn heart." He slammed the phone down, and yanked off his scrubs. "Well, ladies and gents. Keep Mr Procter there comfortable. Page me when that heart arrives."

---

The phone vibrated in Stephen's pocket. He lightly touched the ear piece, answering the call. "Stephen here."

"Stephen, where the hell are you? I've just had a call from Mercy General, seems we promised them a heart and it hasn't shown up yet - they've got a patient open and waiting."

Stephen shut his eyes and exhaled. The delivery had taken longer than expected. This was an exceptional event. But he was five minutes from collecting the heart, and 10 minutes from the hospital. He opened his eyes again. "I'm fifteen minutes away. Traffic has been snarled up. I can't get through any quicker, I'm sorry. Tell them I'm on my way."

The tinny voice in his ear snarled. "You'd better be, you ass." The call ended and he took the ear piece out, slipping it into his pocket. Five minutes. In and out. Time to collect the organ.

He grabbed the organ transportation container, and walked up to the door of the house. A quick glance around, before ringing the bell. After a moment, the door swung open, an athletic man in his mid-thirties standing there. "Can I help you?"

Stephen smiled, and pressed the tazer straight into the man's stomach, doubling him over and causing him to fall backwards. He stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind him, and pulled out a large knife. "Yes, yes I believe you can." He glanced at his watch. "I need four minutes of your time."

---

The doors of the ER burst open, as Stephen sprinted in, accompanied by paramedics. "Where's Mr Franks, we've got an organ for him?" They were pointed in the direction of the operating theatres, and sprinted over to be met half-way by members from the transplant team. They grabbed the organ transportation box, and rushed into theatre. Franks was stood at the swing doors, pointing at Stephen.

"You were lucky today. You almost killed someone with your delay." He put his mask back on, and stormed into the theatre. Stephen smiled, and patted the knife in the holster inside his jacket. "Yeah, almost..."

What's in a name? From Write Anything - 10 Feb 08

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on February 10, 2008. The original text can be found here.

What's in a name?

I visited the Chelsea Physic Garden on Saturday, the oldest botanical garden in London, and a garden where Karl von Linné (known as Linnaeus) spent some time after developing the binomial system for naming plants. In the centre of the garden are the Systematic Beds, where plants are laid out by family. Of course, with the advent of DNA and cladistic analysis, the original Linnaean idea of determining plant families purely by studying their sexual parts has been abandoned, but the binomial system of genus and species name remains.

Names are hugely important in the botanical world. A rose by any other name would only smell as sweet if all botanists agreed to call it by the same other name. Through correct naming, everyone can be certain that they are dealing with the same plant, or the same family of plant, an important consideration when you are aiming to synthesise a chemical compound for using in pharmaceuticals, or when you need to know which plants are poisonous and which aren’t (onions and daffodil bulbs look the same, but daffodil bulbs can kill if eaten!).

Botanists are incredibly careful about naming plants - are you as careful when coming up with character names?

How do you come up with a character’s name? Is it one of the first things you decide about them, or the final thing? Does the name determine the personality and attitude of the character? Or is it a mere tag to identify them in the text?

Speaking for myself, many names I use are simply afterthoughts, especially in my Fiction Friday entries. I need a name, any name, and will randomly assign one, often the name of someone I have recently been talking to or dealing with in life.

For other fiction though, I’m more careful. Whereas Fiction Friday is five minutes of writing and a few short paragraphs, longer works of fiction stay with you. The name really needs to fit the character, and fit them well. So sometimes a name becomes a struggle to find. Cardinal Mancini was Mancini from a very early stage, but was originally Vincent, not Joseph as he is now. Gideon Strangechild has always been called that, a case of nominative determinism. Al and Lex are short forms of their full character names, and those names are poorly translated Latin versions of short phrases that sum up their characters.

Over time, each character allowed me to discover what their name was. Of course you can take an easy route and write about existing characters that others have named. Throughout the story various angels, demons and historical figures crop up, and so I didn’t need to worry about names for them. The character of Raguel for instance, is an archangel according to Rabbinic lore.

So, when coming up with a character in your writing, do names matter? Do you spend time searching for just the right name? Or does a character by any other name still smell as sweet?

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

This ship has sailed...

The bad news. There will be no more stories of Captain Juan on this blog.

Now, before the wailing and gnashing of teeth begin, listen to the next exciting announcement.

The good news is that the Captain sails on, but he has his own site, which will be the repository for all his many adventures.

The Astonishing Adventures of Captain Juan is a collaborative writing project between myself, Jodi, Annie and anyone else who would like to join in with the storyline. Just drop one of us a line and we'll mull it over.

You can subscribe to the blog by e-mail or RSS. Do it!

Tags: Captain Juan group blog