Acton walk, 18 September 2018

The best thing about yet another work ‘planning day’.

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ebook promotion

As part of the 2017 Smashwords ‘Read an Ebook Week’ promotion (5-11 March) you can get my book, Nothing From Something, for 75% off. That brings it down to a a lousy buck, people. One week only. Git on it and check out some of the other participants while you’re there.


Nathan Prior

It’s taken 20 slow years but I’ve finally finished putting together a collection of Nathan’s songs. I’ve called it “I’m Not the Thief of Your Heart” after one of his unfinished songs. Nathan was a good bloke; funny and talented, but also troubled (something I didn’t find out until it was too late). I still miss him and playing in his band.

The book will probably be only of interest to anyone who knew him or his band, Billys Kingdom, but it’s available for all to see and download free of charge here (Google Drive folder). If you have any problems with the link, let me know.

The book is available in PDF, epub and mobi (Kindle) formats. Since the PDF conversion didn’t include the cover, I’ve added the cover file to the folder.



After much procrastination eBook number one is finally out. You can get it for USD $3.99 (that’s a bit over AUD $5) at Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes & NobleKobo and Scribd (plus some others like Baker & Taylor and Gardners if that’s your thing).

“Four bucks?” you say? C’mon, you’ve spent more on coffee made by someone who should’ve stuck to filling a glass of water from a tap. Save your tastebuds and show me some love instead. Or if you’re really not sure and you think you’d prefer to give your coin to that busker playing a version of Oasis’ “Wonderwall” that’s even worse than the original, download a sample. And then take your money back from that busker and give me some fiscal affection. Everybody’s happy! Huzzah!

Please note: Apparently the book has shipped to iBooks, but it’s not showing up in the store yet. I’ll update this post when it appears.

UPDATE: The book is now live in the iBooks store.


So, I’m working on a couple of eBooks of my writing (well, only one is actively in development at this stage). I still have a bit of work to do on the first, such as putting the final touches on formatting and designing a cover, but hopefully within a month it should be done. Most of that material has not previously been published on this website.

I’ll probably use Smashwords to take my publishing virginity since they target the major sellers, although I will have to do a separate Kindle version cos Smashwords doesn’t publish to Amazon. That will follow shortly after the Smashwords version and then I can concentrate on book two.

I’m also contemplating doing print-on-demand books which will only be available through Amazon, or maybe Lulu or something like that, but I’ll see how the eBooks do first. If anyone has useful experiences with POD to share, please let me know (Createspace and Lulu both have pros and cons to varying degrees, and I think I’ve ruled out Blurb. While IngramSpark seems pretty good, I think I’d be wasting my money at this stage. Let’s have another look once I’m rich and famous :-P)

Anyway, sidetracked… Back to book one. But first: a cigarette.

A stupid poem for a stupid dream

It started with a room.
A school gym, perhaps,
with something like a thick rug
on one wall, the fibres protruding
a few centimetres, stiff and
perpendicular to the ground.

There had been women in the room,
but they disappeared
behind doors in the wall.
I think they were acrobats,
maybe assassins, but
it’s somewhat unclear.

I climbed the wall as if I was
walking up a narrow, rocky track
until I neared the roof.
I hung by my fingers
until my grip weakened
and I dropped to the ground…

And found myself on a hill,
nothing but dirt and dry grass
and trees dead from drought
or bushfire. You were lying
by a cold fire, wrapped
in a blanket or a sack.

You looked up and said,
“You’ve come back.”
You hair had grown and
your skin was dusty and
I said you smelled like you
hadn’t washed your arse for a week.


We stepped where everything
was illusion, and memories
precious and strange
spike like pebbles
under naked feet in the dark.

Sul ponticello

In the mist I stand,
jacket wrapped tightly.
I hear shoes.
Not yours; another’s.
A staccato beat,
notes deadened
in the thick air.
She passes
and I watch.
My breath follows her,
drawing me as if
by a leash.
The river is cold,
black and quick below.

Toilet tiles #2

George Harcourt Inn



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Toilet tiles #1

Tilleys Devine Cafe


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