In exciting news this week, Deadset Press announced they will be publishing my novella Radcliffe in 2023.
Radcliffe is a gothic tale of a weird building filled with weird women.
When a mysterious voice tells middle-aged Tamsin that ‘death is coming’ and leads her to a shabby apartment building filled with odd women, who has Tamsin been sent to save?
More details to come soon…
Here’s an extract from my new Australian vampire novella, Bloodwood. If you like what you read – Bloodwood is out on 5 October and available for pre-order now.
Friday
Standing at the mouth of the shallow grave, Shelley pulled herself up to her full five foot two. She cleared the cobwebs from her throat, tucked a strand of her prematurely grey hair behind her ear and raised her arms in the air.
‘Friends and family of Jude, please gather round.’
The throng of people shuffled closer in the crisp morning air. A few latecomers trudged over the ridge past the nearby young eucalyptus and through the long grass. Jude Hillyer certainly knew how to attract a crowd, in life and in death. Ordinarily, there were more trees than mourners at one of Shelley’s funerals. That was, until today.
Shelley pressed her eyes shut, breathing in the scent of the damp gumleaves and freshly churned dirt. Today had to be perfect. This funeral could change everything for her.
The brightly coloured mourners – dressed in polar fleeces and knitted beanies – gathered closer to the grave and a few faces grimaced in horror when they caught a glimpse of Jude.
These days, death was tidily tucked away, inside a box or covered over with chemicals and thick make-up. But not at one of Shelley’s Green Farewells services. The dearly departed Jude lay beside the grave on a woven wicker tray, her body wrapped cocoon-like in a natural linen cotton shroud.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ Shelley said. ‘And welcome to the celebration of the wonderful and eventful life of our friend, sister and aunt, Jude Hillyer.’ Shelley was trying to strike the perfect balance of authority and compassion in her voice. According to Shelley’s mother, the role of a funeral director was all about respect and tradition. Although her mother’s idea of respect ignored the needs of the planet.
‘Jude was a woman who lived life without fear,’ Shelley said, ‘who fought for her beliefs and devoted her every waking moment to the land on which we stand, and to the air, the water, the sky. As a leader, she fought for us, our children and our children’s children.’
Shelley glanced around to gauge the crowd. The mourners, mostly on the other side of sixty, stood with their hands clasped, heads bowed and brows knitted. So far so good. But no matter how she felt, Shelley could never allow a real smile to cross her face. No-one wanted a smiling undertaker. She’d learned this on her very first day helping out in the family funeral parlour, reinforced by a sharp clip around the ear from her mother.
With an appropriately solemn nod, Shelley continued. ‘We are here to honour Jude’s life and her achievements. We have her to thank for saving the Barabung River against the government and big business, and her tireless anti-nuclear weapons campaigning. Single-handedly, she preserved the wilderness for generations to enjoy. She then found a new career later in life producing wonderfully scented candles. Despite her bravery and strength, our friend finally lost her battle with cancer, and today we are here to celebrate her return to the land. We lay her to rest in this beautiful setting, so her body may feed the trees, the soil, the grasses of the land she loved and respected so much.’
Many of the onlookers bobbed their heads and sniffled into clutched hankies. An older lady, in a red woollen coat and pearls, folded her arms tightly and glowered at Shelley. Suspicious looks were nothing new for her. People were always wary of those who chose to work with the dead.
‘Now I welcome Virginia, Jude’s niece, to read a poem she’s written especially for today.’
Despite the wintry morning, Virginia was barelegged, and Shelley noted, as waxed and tanned as a mahogany table.
‘A life filled with action and sacrifice,
Straight talking without artifice,
Our beloved aunt stood up for all,
Saving the planet was her call.’
Somehow, Shelley managed to keep a straight face and ignore the terrible poem, and she took a moment to savour the sight of a well-attended funeral on her property. It was bad form but Shelley had to admit she’d danced a little jig when Virginia called last week to inform her of Jude’s passing. Three months earlier, Jude – the Jude Hillyer – had called Shelley personally, expressing interest in her services and, after a brief stroll through the natural cemetery on Shelley’s property, Jude purchased a prepaid funeral plan with Green Farewells. Shelley would never wish someone an early death, but as soon as she heard Jude’s familiar voice on the phone, she knew this could be the funeral to kickstart her business. Finally.
Shelley patted her pocket, double-checking the wad of business cards, ready for the wake.
‘Let us remember her life and her smile,
Her defiance and strength at her Supreme Court trial.’
With a side-step, Shelley positioned herself by the safety ropes that went underneath the body. At the other end of the grave, Gareth, the burly seventeen-year-old from the farm next door, was already clutching his ropes.
A sunbeam peeked through the grey sky, piercing the gently waving gumleaves and, for a moment, Shelley’s shadow fell across the shroud.
‘Her candle now out, her tongue now still,
We say goodbye on this grassy hill.’
Strong wings flapped overhead and a glossy black crow swooped low over the crowd. The bird perched right on the edge of the wicker tray, claws clutching at the woven edges. Shelley choked on her breath as the bird cocked its head and eyed the ceremony curiously.
As discreetly as she could, Shelley lunged forwards, waving her arms and shooing the black bird away. Heads turned her way with frowns or bemused smiles, but everyone’s attention soon returned to Virginia and her poem.
Everyone, that was, except Liz Forrester – Gareth’s mother – clamped a chubby hand over her mouth. Liz’s eyes met Shelley’s and she pursed her lips tightly and made the sign of the cross as the crow flapped away into the bush.
Heart thumping, Shelley leaned over and checked that the bird hadn’t left a sloppy deposit behind, but the wicker body carrier was clean. Shelley straightened her posture and pretended nothing had happened.
As Virginia finished the last lines of her poem, a tear dripped from her nose and splashed onto the shroud. Shelley took up her position at the ropes and nodded at Gareth. Gareth would never win a Nobel prize but he was strong, cheap and available. This wasn’t Vieri Family Funerals, where her mother led a team of thirty. Green Farewells had a staff of one. Shelley. And some weeks, she seriously considered driving an Uber to help pay her mortgage and buy the odd loaf of bread. But she imagined she wouldn’t get many five-star ratings when she pulled up to pick up passengers in her hearse van.
‘Thank you, Virginia,’ Shelley said. ‘What a beautiful and insightful poem. And now we will return Jude’s body to the ground. To the place where we all began, and where we will all return. As one with nature, the Earth and the power of life and death.’
Shelley gave the safety straps a little slap, the signal to begin lowering the coffin, and Gareth gave a curt nod in reply. She held her breath and her knees wavered as she scrutinised the shroud closely, checking again for any possible sign of life. Death didn’t scare Shelley, but waking up to see the satin-lined interior of a coffin was a regular feature in her nightmares.
‘Let me through!’ someone shouted from the back of the crowd. People murmured and parted as a man in his twenties with thinning brown hair and an ankle-length black cassock pushed through.
Shelley blinked calmly though, inside, her chest tightened.
‘Whoa there, Mickey,’ said Ross Forrester as he stepped in to block the priest’s path.
‘Almighty God!’ Father Michael Bekker yelled.
Mickey dodged Ross and pushed his way to the graveside. Shelley couldn’t help but notice a leaf sticking out of Mickey’s wild tufty hair. ‘You created the Earth and shaped the vault of Heaven. You fixed the stars in their places.’
‘Piss off, priest,’ said a younger man with swinging dreadlocks. ‘Jude wouldn’t want you here.’
‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves.’ Mickey scoured the crowd with fire in his eyes. ‘All of you.’
Shelley rushed around the grave and grabbed Mickey’s arm. ‘Father Mickey. Please, you’re disturbing the service. If you can’t be respectful, you’re not welcome here. Please go.’
‘Service?’ Mickey scoffed. ‘Do you realise what you’re doing? The danger you’re putting us all in?’
Shelley stretched up tall. ‘I have all the necessary credentials and permits.’
‘And it is my Christian duty to stop you and your heathen practices.’
Shelley jammed her hands on her hips. ‘You’re interfering with a sacred moment. Upsetting the deceased’s family and friends. I’m giving you one last chance or I’m calling the police.’
‘Our Lord Jesus Christ broke the fetters of Hell and rose to life, bringing deliverance and resurrection…’
The dreadlocked man and Ross both grabbed Mickey by the shoulders.
‘When you conjure up the Devil himself,’ Mickey bellowed as they led him away from the grave. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ Shelley said, her cheeks blazing red. The niece and the rest of the Hillyer family, the only attendees in all funereal black, glowered at her and Shelley wrung her hands.
‘Jude always liked a bit of a ruckus,’ the dreadlocked man said with a chuckle as he returned to the graveside. ‘She probably arranged this herself.’
A few others laughed along with him and Shelley breathed easy. She tucked her grey hair behind her ear and nodded to Gareth. Together they shifted the body over the hole and lowered the ropes, laying Jude Hillyer to rest at the bottom of the grave.
As the dirt hit the shroud, Shelley took a final look over the body.
Satisfied the body was still lifeless, Shelley lifted
her chin and tried to forget Father Mickey’s words.
***
If a soul is laid to rest
With a perched black crow as its guest
And then a shadow crosses the pall
And a mourner’s tear does fall
Dry your tears and beware
Cross yourself and prepare
Below the soil, new life brews
It’s the living it pursues
***
Bloodwood, my new Australian-set vampire novella, is coming out in October 2020.
Nothing interesting ever happens in sleepy, rural Ludwood. Not until undertaker Shelley sets up shop with her eco-friendly burials.
Her latest funeral, farewelling an environmental legend, was meant to help her struggling business – even the gatecrashing priest condemning her heathen ways didn’t damper her spirits. Much.
But when frightening screeches wake Shelley in the middle of the night days later, she finds an empty grave and things start to go wrong. Horribly wrong. Like vicious attacks in Ludwood wrong.
Were the priest’s protests of blasphemy right? Has Shelley unwittingly unleashed the undead and reduced the headcount in Ludwood instead of reducing their carbon footprint?
And where does Shelley even start? There’s no manual for hunting vampires in the bush.
Pre-order on Amazon now.
Today I received the most exciting news – The Flower and The Serpent has been nominated for a 2019 Australian Shadow Award by the Australasian Horror Writers Association!
The Flower and The Serpent is one of three novels shortlisted in the Novel category.
And needless to say, I’m absolutely stoked!
In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been lucky enough to be featured on three blogs.
Check out the music, the influences and the struggle to fight the right genre in my writing life.
Happy Reading…
Interview with ‘dark and weird’ writer, Alison Littlewood
‘History, folklore, ghosts and spooky things.’
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‘Plot beginnings and endings and pants it all the rest of the way.’
‘People back away when I say I’m a horror writer.’
Interview with author and music journalist, Jon Black
“You can’t do a one-to-one transition of role-playing to fiction.”
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“I’m not sure whether I have a genuine love for it or whether it’s a Stockholm syndrome thing.”
My latest novel The Flower and The Serpent is now available in ebook on Amazon or Kindle Unlimited/Prime.
Madeleine D’Este definitely does creepy well.
reviewer
The book has elements of Stranger Things with fine character development and kids that feel like real kids.
reviewer
the novel is genuinely frightening at times, but the characters are never overshadowed by the horror.
reviewer
Mysterious disappearances, a battle for the spotlight and terrifying nightmares. It’s just another day at Beacon Hill High School.
Auditions for Macbeth are over, and on the bus ride home, a mysterious driver gives sixteen-year-old Violet and her friends’ three strange predictions:
One of the girls will shine like a star.
One will invite darkness into her breast.
One will depart forever.
Please, how cliché. Besides, Violet clearly knows that she’s the star.
But when she isn’t cast as Lady Macbeth and strange things begin to unfold, and the eerie predictions begin to come true, Violet can’t help to wonder which one will apply to her.
Determined to be the one that will shine like a star, Violet will do whatever it takes to get the leading role – no matter the horrifying consequence.
Modern-day Shakespeare meets supernatural mystery with this nail-biting young adult horror by Madeleine D’Este.
The Flower and The Serpent will be released on 4th December 2019 and it’s currently available for pre-order.
Galley readers have described The Flower and The Serpent as…
“Creepy and wonderful”
L.A
“Elements of #StrangerThings”
Pete
“Darkly seductive tale of revenge, regret & ultimately redemption”
Jon black
To whet your appetite, here is an extract of Chapter 1 of The Flower and The Serpent.
I hope you enjoy.
————————–
Violet’s whole body hummed with leftover audition nerves.
‘I’m a dead cert,’ she said.
She was the first to climb aboard the empty number 458 bus but Holly and Lila were close behind. They followed the muddy footprints past the chubby lady bus driver as the wipers shrieked across the windshield and the rain slapped the windows. Violet wrinkled her nose. The bus reeked of soggy wool.
‘I can’t wait until tomorrow,’ Violet said as she slid into her regular seat halfway up the aisle. ‘When my name is on top of the list.’
‘You’re a shoo-in.’ Lila flopped into the seat in front of her. She turned and draped her skinny arm over the metal bar. ‘He’d be stupid not to cast you.’
The doors wheezed shut and the bus pulled out of the school and onto Beacon Hill Road. The midwinter sun had already disappeared behind Mount Wellington.
‘Angelika was alright, too.’ Holly squashed in next to Lila and sat backwards. ‘And the one with the curls. Rowan?’
Violet snorted and tossed her mousy hair. ‘Out. Out. Damned spot,’ she groaned in a monotone and snatched the last chip from the packet in Holly’s hand.
Holly pressed her lips together.
Lila giggled. ‘Maybe we’ll be cast as the witches. There’s three of them and three of us.’ She bounced in her seat. ‘We could get some props from your aunty, hey, Holly? Real witch supplies?’
Holly crushed the empty chip packet in her fist and turned away. But the late Hobart afternoon was as black as night and Violet could see Holly’s square-jawed scowl reflected in the window. Holly seemed to sulk a lot these days.
‘Witches? No way,’ Violet scoffed. ‘It’s Lady Macbeth or nothing.’
‘Of course, I’m an idiot. You’ll get the part for sure.’ Lila chewed her cuticles and shrugged. ‘I just thought it’d be fun. Us three. Together.’
Violet said nothing and neither did Holly.
‘Sorry.’ Lila playfully nudged Holly’s arm. ‘I didn’t mean it. The witch thing.’
Holly turned back to them with a sigh. ‘It’s not you.’ She squeezed the bridge of her nose. ‘This headache—’
‘What were you girls doing at the school?’ the curly-headed bus driver hollered.
Violet and her friends flinched. A pair of murky green eyes looked back at them through the rear vision mirror.
‘Holiday program,’ Lila called back.
‘All alone in that place during holidays?’ The bus driver raised an eyebrow. ‘They should never have built a school on that land. Or anything for that matter. Should have left it be.’
Violet rolled her eyes. ‘Everyone knows they purified it first, lady.’
‘The surety of youth,’ the bus driver chuckled. ‘I was once like you.’ Her voice was strange and lilting, she spoke with a musical accent Violet couldn’t place. ‘Life is not as it seems.’
Violet rotated a finger next to her temple and Lila stifled a giggle. Holly dipped her head to hide her eyes under her fringe.
‘You three are best friends?’
‘Totally.’ Lila grinned. ‘Ever since Grade Seven.’
Violet stared at her black eight-hole Doc Martens and chewed her lip. She noticed Holly didn’t say anything, either.
‘Women need to band together. Especially you three. You must look out for each other.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lila said. ‘Especially us?’
‘You three have challenges up ahead,’ the driver said.
Lila glanced at Holly and then Violet. ‘What does she mean?’
‘She probably means life stuff.’ Holly twirled a strand of dark brown hair around her finger. ‘Exams. Finishing school. Getting off this stupid island. I can’t wait.’
The bus driver went quiet. The tyres squelched on the wet road as the bus veered around the infamous hairpin bend and damp grey-green eucalyptus slapped on either side.
The three girls slid across the seats around the bend.
A few years ago in the late 1980s, a bus exactly like this one misjudged the turn and six lives were wiped out in a single mistake. Violet’s stomach clenched twice a day, five times a week, every time she passed the stone memorial on the way to school. The black and white photo of the bent wreckage was still vivid in her mind.
‘What challenges?’ asked Lila. She clutched at the metal bar until her knuckles were white.
The bus driver said nothing.
Violet rubbed her duffle coat sleeve against the fogged-up window and peered outside as the bus passed the small strip of local shops. First was The Three Torches, a cafe-bookshop run by Holly’s aunt. Then Terri’s Bakehouse where Violet worked Saturdays selling congealed yellow vanilla slices and the whitest of white bread. Then the dry cleaners and the shaman hairdressers with his multi-coloured Tibetan prayer flags and incense fluttering in the breeze, and finally the milk bar takeaway. Even through the glass, Violet could smell the old chip oil, the spicy Nag Champa and the astringent dry-cleaning fumes.
A figure in a raincoat with the hood pulled up stood at the kerb in the rain. Beside them, a muscular pointy-eared black dog strained at his leash. The person lifted a finger and pointed directly at the bus, directly through the window, directly at Violet. The face was a black shadow, no real face at all but somehow the hidden eyes bored straight into her, the gaze like an apple-corer.
With a gasp, she tore her gaze away from the window, her heart thumping.
‘What?’ said Lila.
‘Nothing,’ Violet muttered but when she turned back, the person was still there on the kerb, and still pointing. She shuddered. ‘Another loony.’
They travelled a few more blocks in silence, then the Beacon Hill Road straightened out after the weatherboard Scout Hall, the place for senior aerobics and Morris dancing. Her heartbeat settled as the man in the raincoat disappeared from view.
‘Three challenges for three friends,’ the bus driver continued. ‘I can see it clearly.’
The girls leaned forward in their seats.
‘What are you? Some kind of fortune teller?’ Lila said. ‘A psychic?’
Violet shoved Holly. ‘You know about all that stuff. Witchy poo.’
Holly poked out her tongue.
‘One of you will shine like a star,’ the bus driver proclaimed.
Violet shimmied in her seat. It was obviously her.
The driver went on. ‘One of you will invite darkness into her breast.’
‘Breast? That’d be you.’ Holly raised a dark eyebrow and prodded Violet in the boob. Violet swiped away her finger with a glare.
‘Darkness?’ Lila grimaced. ‘What do you mean? What does she mean?’
‘One of you will depart forever,’ the driver concluded.
‘Depart forever?’ Lila clawed at the metal bar between the seats. ‘That’s not good. That can’t be good.’
‘Excuse me, Miss.’ Holly raised her hand. ‘I don’t think this is appropriate—’
‘Death? Is she saying one of us is going to die?’ Lila wheezed.
‘What are you saying, lady?’ Violet squinted, projecting her voice up the empty bus. She loved how the power rippled up from her diaphragm when she used her breath in the right way. ‘Are you trying to scare us? Cos it’s not working.’
‘Ignore me if you like, girls,’ the bus driver said. ’It is your choice to listen. But you have been warned.’
‘One of us is going to die?’ Lila said with a crack in her voice. ‘How? When?’
‘There are powers in this world we cannot comprehend. You must beware.’
‘Today? Do we need to be careful today?’
The bus driver shifted her focus back to the road. Her face closed like a shutter.
‘You have to give us more information than that. You can’t just —’
But the woman behind the wheel didn’t respond. She didn’t even look their way. It was as though she’d never said a word.
‘Excuse me,’ Lila said and waved her arm. ‘Tell us more. Please.’
The bus driver kept her eyes on the road.
‘Why won’t she tell us?’ Lila chewed her finger, her eyes glazed.
‘Forget it,’ Violet snorted. ‘She’s just another nutbag.’
Violet wondered why Lila was so fazed, she’d lived around Beacon Hill her whole life and knew all the weird stories off by heart. She should be used to strange people by now.
The bus moaned to a stop. The back doors hissed open and a sharp slap of cold wind blew inside.
‘You have to tell us more.’ Lila scrambled up the aisle towards the driver’s seat, her canvas school bag clutched to her chest. ‘Who? Which one of us?’
‘Last stop.’
‘Please,’ Lila whined.
Holly grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Leave it.’
‘She can’t just tell us someone is going to die and then say nothing else. She said beware. But what of?’ Lila raked her fingers through her home-dyed burgundy hair. ‘Do you think she cursed us?’
‘Come on. Let’s go.’ Violet headed towards the door.
Holly tugged at Lila’s sleeve. ‘Don’t get worked up about it. You know what you’re like. We’ll call the bus company tomorrow. Make a complaint.’
Lila sighed and followed Holly out into the wet air. Misty droplets dribbled down the graffiti-etched bus shelter.
‘Weirdo!’ Violet yelled out as the bus driver closed the concertina doors and the bus rumbled away. Violet pulled up her duffle coat hood as the red tail lights bled onto the wet road.
‘What if she’s right? One of us could die,’ Lila said. Raindrops brimmed on her eyelashes and she didn’t wipe them away.
‘Forget about it,’ Violet said. ‘Right, Holly?’
‘Well, I think we should tell someone,’ Holly said. ‘But maybe you’re right. Don’t think about it, Lila. It’s just some stupid joke. Nothing’s going to happen.’
‘It’s not very funny,’ Lila huffed. ‘And I have this strange —’
‘Well, I’m off. Lines to learn,’ Violet said with a smirk. ‘Lady Macbeth lines. See you tomorrow.’
‘With bells on,’ Lila said but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
‘To witness the grand unveiling of my name up on the board tomorrow,’ Violet said. ‘Violet Black as Lady Macbeth.’
With a wave, the three friends went their separate ways into the gloom. Violet wrapped her arms around herself as she trudged down Melaleuca Avenue, through the shadows and puddles, past the rows of empty brown brick-and-tile houses with double garages. There wasn’t another soul around.
Violet couldn’t wait until Friday night when she stepped out onto her stage and shone like a star.
Maybe there was some truth to the crazy bus driver’s words.
My latest novel The Flower and The Serpent will be released on 4th December 2019.
A supernatural young adult novel set during a school production of Macbeth, The Flower and The Serpent is my most autobiographical book yet.
The Flower and The Serpent is available now for pre-order.
—————-
Mysterious disappearances, a battle for the spotlight and nightmares. It’s just another day at Beacon Hill High School.
Auditions for Macbeth are over, and on the bus ride home, a mysterious driver gives sixteen-year-old Violet and her friends’ three strange predictions:
One of the girls will shine like a star.
One will invite darkness into her breast.
One will depart forever.
Please, how cliché. Besides, Violet clearly knows that she’s the star.
But when she isn’t cast as Lady Macbeth and strange things begin to unfold, and the predictions begin to come true, Violet can’t help to wonder which one will apply to her.
Determined to be the one that will shine like a star, Violet will do whatever it takes to get the leading role – no matter the consequence.
Modern-day Shakespeare meets supernatural mystery with this nail-biting young adult horror by Madeleine D’Este.
Interview with Alan Baxter, writer of dark weird shit
‘Write caffeinated and edit drunk’
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Interview with horror and fantasy writer Christopher Ruz
‘Look for people who are one or two stages ahead of where you’re at.’
‘The novel is the lazy form’
‘Every change they recommended made it a better story’
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Most of the time I need music for writing. And the right kind of music. Like books and stories, I’ve always had a passion for music.
This is a new series where I’ll be sharing what I’m listening to.
Today is dark and spooky music for dark and spooky moods.
Here are three artists to inspire your dark and spooky writing.
Lebanon Hanover is a German-British goth electric duo. Think New Order with Nico. Great music for taphophiles and recovering goths.
Bohren and der Club of Gore are slow, languid, dark and jazzy. Known as ‘doom jazz’, this is reminiscent of smoky clubs, noir with a touch of Twin Peaks.
‘Horror-synth’ is another musical genre I gravitate towards when writing horror or general dark stuff. And John Carpenter is the grand-daddy of them all. His synth soundtracks create the perfect sense of dread.
I hope you enjoy these atmosphere-creating tunes.
Edit: I’ve created a Spotify playlist featuring the artists above.
Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
‘Tell us what characters think about what they’re seeing.’
‘Poetry is great cross-training’
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“I like to be scared when I’m writing.”
“Write about what scares you.”
“It’s a basic human drive to be creative.”
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I’m a massive podcast fan – I’ve been listening since the iPod era – but I tend to stick to the interview style of podcasts (except for Strange Tales and the BBC Play of the Week audio drama). And despite all the acclaim and popularity, I haven’t ventured into the serialised investigative podcast genre.
But what I have been gobbling up this week is a mixture of the two – The Case of Charles Dexter Ward from BBC Radio 4.
This appeared in my podcast feed as an audio drama of an HP Lovecraft story.
Say no more, I’m in.
I press play.
Then I got confused.
Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“I like grit and blood and meat in my work.”
“Too much structure hinders the creative process.”
“The first draft is work but also play.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“I couldn’t write po-faced literature if I tried.”
“Coffee as black as possible. As nature intended.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“You are directing a movie onto the page.”
“If you’re going to talk about good and evil, you need to talk about people and what people do.”
“I do this with a total agenda of changing rape culture.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“My novels are my purest me.”
“Some people don’t realise I’m the same person.”
“My critical range is not good or bad but interesting or dull.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“Sometimes it’s not fair to the film to dash something off the hour after you’ve seen it.”
“I miss having an editor to bounce ideas off.”
“There’s no time for writers block. It’s a luxury.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“If you can’t write a good scene, write a bad one.”
“After 30 years, it’s still hard to look at a blank page.”
“Don’t start the day with a problem hanging over you.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“Trusting yourself. You don’t have to write like other people.”
“I don’t think there are any definitive rules in writing.”
“In dark fantasy you can’t hold back.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
“I’m a torturer at heart.”
“Definitely, irritatingly, a plotter”
“The less time I’ve got, the better my writing is.”
“I always feel dirty when I say this but I’m just a people watcher.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
First drafts, Tea and Exploring the Shadowy Places
“The one thing a story hates is a nit-picky writer”
“With a global community, there’s always someone around to hold your hand or kick you in the pants.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
Episode 03 with Angela Slatter: award winning dark fantasy writer
“I’m a hybrid mess.”
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Welcome to Write Through The Roof, the podcast for writers who want to improve their craft.
Episode 01 with Scott McAteer; comedian, improv performer and playwright.
“The fear of monsters is a very particular fear, a safe and curious fear.”
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Today, an anthology of short stories inspired by HP Lovecraft all written by women. The collection is called She walks in Shadows edited by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R Stiles, published by Innsmouth Free Press in 2015.
HP Lovecraft is a founding father of the horror genre but he’s well known for his lack of female characters and his dubious perception of anyone who wasn’t of English descent.
For those unfamiliar with HP Lovecraft, his work is filled with dark, gory, lush imagery and his stories often focus on scientists uncovering the paranormal in the course of their experiments and the revelations drive them mad. Or family legends of inherited guilt. In his writings, he built a rich pantheon of mythology including the all powerful cosmic entity Cthulu. Lovecraft never experienced fame during his lifetime but has inspired many writers since.
This collection, by all female writers, takes the Lovecraft universe and focuses on, or reimagines, the role of women in his world. The writers are from all across the world, each bringing their own unique spin on Lovecraft.
Usually I find short story anthologies are a bit hit and miss, but when I went back to write this review and looked through all the stories I liked, I was surprised how many I really enjoyed.
I’ve got horror all around me at the moment. My current work-in-progress is a gothic horror novel, I’m watching a lot of Twin Peaks, enjoying Devil’s Candy and The Stone Tape, anticipating Raw and working my way through the back catalogue of Shirley Jackson.
My question today is why do I like some dark, spooky, scary stuff but not others.
Firstly, I’m curious. Why do we like to be scared?
In the past few months, I’ve fallen in love with Shirley Jackson and her creepy weird normality. Today it’s The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, a classic haunted house story, first published in 1959.
Stephen King described The Haunting of Hill House as one of the most important horror books of the 20th century and inspired The Shining. It has also been the basis for two films. And today, a new ‘reimagining’ via Netflix was announced.
Dr Montague, a paranormal academic researcher, rents a haunted house for a summer to undertake a research project. Hill House has a frightening reputation and history of hauntings after a series of tragic events in the house. The local townspeople won’t come anywhere near the place, and any one who rents the house barely stays a week. Determined to document the phenomenon, Dr Montague seeks out a few research assistants to join him at the house for the summer.
Like you I love to read.
If you’d like to hear me talk about the books I love, check out my reviews on Art District radio. My show – Madeleine’s Speculative Fiction Review – is all about speculative fiction, where I bang on about science fiction, fantasy, steampunk, dystopia, horror, paranormal etc.
You can listen to the back catalogue of reviews as podcasts.
Happy listening and happy reading.
I’m thrilled to announce the launch of Evangeline and the Spiritualist – Episode 3 of The Antics of Evangeline. Available from today at Amazon.
A sarcophagus, séances and seed cake, Evangeline is back with another adventure.
Mrs Picklescott-Smythe’s mummy unwrapping soiree doesn’t quite go to plan, and for once it’s not Evangeline’s fault. 
Evangeline is a seventeen-year-old ex-urchin and aspiring world-famous inventress, recently resettled in Marvellous Melbourne with her long lost father, the Professor.
It’s the infamous spiritualist, Madame Zsoldas, who interrupts the party with a sinister warning and she is not the only who feels something strange.
Today it’s one of my all time favourite books, Anno Dracula by Kim Newman, first published in 1992 by Simon and Schuster. Alternative history with vampires!
In the world of Anno Dracula, Van Helsing lost and Dracula triumphed, killing Jonathan Harker and taking Mina Harker into his harem of vampire brides.
Today I’m talking horror (or sometimes known as dark fantasy) with The Making of Gabriel Davenport by Beverley Lee, published in 2016. (I have previously interviewed Beverley here on the blog.)
Beth and her husband Stu have moved to a new house in the idyllic English countryside to raise their baby, Gabriel. But one night, during a snowstorm, everything goes horribly wrong for the family and in the picture perfect setting, something ancient and evil emerges and changes all their lives and not for the better.
While suffering a day of serious procrastination, I binge watched a bunch of Twin Peaks in a row and so messed up my plan for reviewing episode by episode. (Damn you Resistance! You got me that day but I’ve bounced back to get you. See here for more of my battles with Resistance.)
On that Sunday, I let Resistance get the better of me but who doesn’t love a guilty lazy afternoon on the couch? Especially watching something as clever, funny, spooky and weird as Twin Peaks Season 1.
In episodes 2 to 6, the murder investigation gets going with more suspects appearing including the One Armed Man and Jacques Renault. We start to see the real quirky side of Agent Cooper as he explains his unorthodox intuitive methods and we scratch further into the dirty and dark secrets of the small town. Plus lots of coffee and sugar-dusted doughnut porn.
Twin Peaks Season 3 is coming out in May 2017 and I’ve been meaning to look back at Twin Peaks for a long time. I was sixteen when it was first on television in Tasmania, and it was a strong influence on me. So in anticipation of the new season, I’m committed to rewatching all 30 episodes, I’m doing it and I’m going to share my thoughts here.
There will be ***SPOILERS*** but come on, it’s been over 25 years since it was shown.
Let’s start with “Pilot” or “Northwest Passage”. Today I’m focusing on my initial feelings and reactions to the whole premise, rather than delving into the plot. More analysis of the plot will probably come later. But this is the episode where it all begins, Laura Palmer is found, Agent Cooper arrives and the crime investigation is underway.
As soon as the titles came up, the sparks of the saw mill, the waterfall, the Douglas firs and the deep slow bass of the theme tune, I was thrust back into 1991. Now, the opening titles font has really dated (day-glo green) but the rest of the design, clothing and setting is timeless, aside from one or two stray mullets.
The Ritual
Today I’m going a little darker than usual. It’s time to talk horror with Adam Nevill’s The Ritual, published in 2011 through Pan Macmillan.
Horror is not a genre for everyone, but I like being scared. There is something about horror writing which makes my imagination go wild in a far more vibrant way than horror movies. Probably because I build my own images, creating something uniquely me from all of my fears.
Enough about me, let’s talk about The Ritual. Four middle-aged men get together for a hiking trip in Sweden. They’ve been friends since their university days as they have grown older and taken on responsibilities, their friendships have waned. Everyone has stressful jobs, kids, mortgages, marriages. All except Luke. But this camping trip is a ‘lads weekend’. A chance to renew old friendships and have a laugh. Or so they planned.
Yep, another top 2016 list. But this one is all about me.
Here’s my list of 5 star rated books from my own goodreads list (because I can’t rely on my own memory) filled with vampires, time travel, near future spy thrillers and two present day thrillers.
Despite my earlier post about being the Halloween Grinch, I love a scary movie and this is the time of year to talk horror.
So, I’ve been inspired by my favourite movie podcast, Filmspotting, to list my top 5 childhood movie scares.
In no particular order, here are the top 5 movie moments which scared the pants off me as a little ‘un.
Last week’s freebie sale on Evangeline and the Alchemist: A Novella: Mystery and Mayhem in steampunk Melbourne (The Antics of Evangeline Book 1)
In the past week, I’ve been exploring my shadow side with my new gothic horror work and finalising proofs/cover for Evangeline and the Bunyip.
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