I don’t know whether I’m a millionaire. It’s a disgraceful state of affairs. This might take some going back through time. 18-21 were rough years for me. I was a bogan nerd, newly moved to Wellington, who wanted to be a writer and was struggling to admit to himself that he also liked boys. I drank. I initially drank rum because I thought it made me seem like a cool pirate, then I moved onto $10 red wine when I realised that I couldn’t keep up a respectable sustained BAC on anything that cost $40 a bottle. I was a Kiwi at uni, which meant I could lie to myself that my drinking was a personality and not a disease. I don’t know whether it’s[…]
CW: this piece discusses depression, and the suicide of a friend. It’s coming up a year since my friend Andre died. Hindsight can be cruel: I knew he suffered from depression and chronic pain, and in the weeks leading up to his death he became increasingly combative and withdrawn. I knew he was having a hard time, I just didn’t realise how bad it really was; it felt like a stepping back, but not an end—he’d been working on a new manuscript and we’d been going over his opening chapters together. It didn’t seem like something you’d do if you wanted to die. I know from personal experience that it’s more complicated than that—people rarely plan these things. The black dog is a persistence hunter:[…]
Just popping in to say: I got my first full MS request yesterday. Even if it turns out to be a dead end, it’s the confidence boost I needed right now. Keep chipping away at that mountain, fam.
There’s a genre of opinion piece infesting the darker creative corners of the internet, where an unsuccessful artist lashes out and writes a diatribe about how the system is broken, and everyone is garbage, and how they’re striking out on their own. We all look at those petulant flameouts, and we shake our heads and wonder what drives somebody to that. I know I did. Now, four months into querying without a single partial, I get it. Every unanswered submission on my spreadsheet burns. Every form letter makes me feel worse about myself as a writer and as a person. Querying is a sandpaper whirlwind rubbing down my soul; querying is a little man with a big hammer gently tapping out an arpeggio at the base[…]
New Zealand Fiction I issued a complaint to the Ministry of Lost CausesThey responded: tena koe %clientName we’re sorry to hearyou were upset, but our staff keep flying away; the earth is too heavy, their shoes are too light. Nga mihi,%staffMember All these stories by straight old white men;we need new voices, new perspectives—like me, a young gay white man. The future is here: it is %currentGeneration. I’m not sure I can tell you It’s a sorta fucky thinggalloping, downwards indigent, collapsing welt-foot, barebackfragments of bone we lost at night. Does that make sense? No but okay, there’s heat right? There’s this instra-us wiringthat bends when we walk; that skeletons the silence.Flashbulbs and nitrate-stink and little pieces of the nightand all that, you know? Okay yeah sorta but more like— the smell of lightning/the[…]
Callum sat with his guts in his hands, surrounded by gold bricks, scorched turf and Prussian corpses. They’d been absolute bastards to the man—the remnants of Von Tempsky’s old unit, scalp-takers and cannibals all—but nobody deserved to die in fucking Otago. Callum should’ve died in Scotland, like every man of his blood before him, but he’d cut the fuses half an inch too long. Timing wasn’t exactly an issue when you used the shit for mining: you made the fuses as long as possible, and if they took a long time to blow then you went out for a sandwich break with the lads. Half an inch of fuse, maybe ten seconds’ difference, and his belly was laid open on the turf. Half an inch,[…]
I want you to imagine a you just bought a second-hand car. Let’s say, a ‘91 Toyota Corolla. It drives fine, but when you check the internals … it’s a mess. Some madman has totally rewired it based on no plan known to god nor mechanic: there’s solder everywhere; there’s blowtorch burns so extensive you can smell them on a hot day; there’s a bunch of random LEDs that don’t seem to do anything, but if you take any of them out the car won’t start. You’re convinced that this whole thing is going to explode if you take it above 55km/h. You spend weeks rewiring it. You can’t get it to look anything like a factory model, but when you’re done you’re at least[…]
Henry Tavit tore out his own brain. That’s an abstraction, but abstraction is everything. Look, let’s talk about computers. In 2006, a single bit flip in a Toyota Camry glued the accelerator pedal to the floor and took the car into a tree, killing the passenger instantly. The onboard computer between the pedal and the engine had over 10,000,000 lines of code. I bet you didn’t even know there was a computer there, cars are barely mechanical any more—they haven’t been for decades. It took three years to find the bug, and it was one solitary bit flip: 0 → 1, and a car goes into a tree. Bookout v Toyota Motor Company took eight years. Toyota was found guilty of negligence, ordered to pay[…]
EDIT: This piece has gone much bigger than expected. I’m blown away. I was editing during the day to add clarifications onto the end, but I’ve gone back and worked them into the body of the text. The Treasury data breach has been a shitshow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger disconnect between the experts and the pundits, and I don’t say that lightly. I’m not a security guy, for what it’s worth: I’m a writer at a tech firm, but I’m fascinated by security and over the last few days I’ve been talking to people who actually know their stuff. Almost unanimously they’re calling this a breach. Almost unanimously, the pundits are off shouting that it’s “not a hack!”. Right from the[…]
I don’t publish everything I write. An overwhelming majority of things, really. They’ve been sitting in a folder and I wanted to get them out there. It’s not because they’re bad: some are bad fit for anywhere paying and I don’t know what to do with them; some were written for a weekly fiction competition I enter and have been sitting in a forum archive that’s hard to point people at; some of them were written for a specific publication and rejected, but I’m still proud of them and wanted to put them out there. This site exists for all my other fiction to exist in one place: the fiction that didn’t quite make it, that I still love.