A Day To Be Proud Of Australia

I'm not a very political or patriotic person, but over the last year or so I've found that changing. Maybe I've reached an age where a lot of the things I used to find important are no longer so. Or maybe since I've been writing I've become more aware of the media and have been exposed to political issues as a consequence. Either way, today I can truthfully say that I am proud to be Australian. I am proud of our country and its current leader, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd.

Because today, our country said sorry.

On behalf of the whole nation, our Prime Minister said sorry to the Stolen Generation, the indigenous children who were taken from their families and assimilated. The children who had their cultural identities erased over a number of generations, who had their genetic code diluted, who had all this done to them without a choice, by way of law and policy.

To a child, to a lover, to a friend, to family, saying sorry doesn't erase the hurts of the past. But it does say that the healing can begin, that the torn relationships can be mended with time. Saying sorry doesn't change anything, but it does send a clear message of understanding and vindication.

It's a simple thing to say, but for an entire country to do so is an astounding and mature action. So, today, February 13th 2008, I can say without a doubt that I am proud of my country.

Nothing Wrong With Him That $100 Won't Fix

One of these days I hope to have a book published that has multiple copies in the library. Not just for the recognition, or the ability to casually lead friends to the correct aisle in the library when we're all getting together for drinks in the library ... okay, maybe not. But there is a chance I'll get paid, thanks to the Public Lending Right program.

The Age newspaper tells me that I can earn $1.47 per book, although it's not clear how that relates to the number of times it's been borrowed. Looking through the list, Matthew Reilly is doing pretty well for himself, but then he's doing far, far better in the bookstores. I'd venture to say he was paid the highest amount from the PLR program, at somewhere between "$80,000- $89,999."

But out of the "$7.090 million in the 2006-07 financial year" that went to publishers and "8866 eligible writers", I have a feeling I may slot into the largest bracket "of authors, 2466," who "got only between $100 and $199."

Things could be worse, though. I might earn less than $50 a year, which would be no skin off anyone's back, since "Amounts of less than $50 are not payable."

Lucky I'm in this for the love of it.

The Lineup: An Anthology Of Poems On Crime

Gerald So, Patrick Shawn Bagley, Richie Narvaez, and Anthony Rainone have combined forces to put together an anthology of poems with a hardboiled or noir bent. Coming out some time this spring (Australia's autumn/fall). Read more about the project at its new blog, The Lineup.

Spinetingler Awards For 2007

Spinetingler Magazine has announced its new set of awards, the Spinetinglers, for 2007. So run over and check out the list of winners and nominees, as well as the latest issue of Spinetingler, and have a gander at Sandra Ruttan's new crime fiction conglomerate, At Central Booking.

Since this is an online award, in lieu of a physical award ceremony, I am happy to accept the award for Special Services To The Industry, for my work at Crimespace.

After stumbling up towards the stage, clutching the award in my hands, and tapping on the microphone (creating a flurry of feedback), I will now thank the people who helped me.

Sandra Ruttan, for running the awards as well as helping to give Crimespace the push start it needed. Also, Stephen Blackmoore, Christa M. Miller, Angie Johnson-Schmit, Bill Crider, Anne Frasier, Karen Chisolm, M. G. Tarquini, Patricia Abbott, and John Rickards were all a great help in the early days of Crimespace. Whether they provided content in the shape of interesting forum topics or gave helpful feedback, they set the tone that the community would follow.

I'd also like to especially thank my friend Robert Sakaluk, whose super-hardcore Illustrator skills gave me the logo in its present form.

And then there's the fine people at Ning: Gina, Phil and Athena especially, who have all contributed to making Ning a seriously major league service that still feels like a grassroots operation.

Many thanks also to all of the 1200 or so members that have joined up since March 2007 and made Crimespace such a great community.

Lastly, I'd like to thank Mary, for putting up with my Crimespace-related insanities.

Congratulations to all the other winners and nominees.

Yoga: The First Night

When I fully commit to something, I usually don't mess around. So after my last visit to the sleep specialist I decided to enrol in a beginner's course in yoga, the first night of which was last night.

As the hour drew near, I found myself thinking that I'd rather stay home and watch a movie or read a book or play some video games. I was feeling tired as per usual and I started resenting the fact that I'd enrolled in the course. I thought that yoga was a new age bit of wankery that only materialistic Westerners indulged in, etc. This is the kind of stupid thinking I go through when I'm feeling nervous.

All that faded away once I was inside the studio and on my mat, in the front row of a group of about thirty people. What I quickly discovered was that there was no time to think about body image issues or how silly I looked doing the poses or even anything about the world outside the yoga class. I was simply too busy trying to keep up with the instructor.

And she really knew her stuff. She had a smooth, pleasant voice, didn't stutter or mumble, and filled in the empty gaps between poses with general yoga tips. She took us through Mountain, Tree, Child, Boat and Corpse pose, all of which have Sanskrit names that I won't bother looking up just now, but the English names are all very apt. I especially liked Tree and Mountain pose because, for whatever reason, they gave me little tingles of endorphins, and Vishnu knows I need them.

I sweated, I grunted, I did my best to stretch and concentrate on breathing with my belly, both of which I discovered I am terrible at. My legs are as inflexible as a Romanian grandmother (and I know this, because I have one), my nose lets in air like clenched buttocks don't, and my belly can't make up its mind whether it wants to go in or out.

But none of this mattered. I was using my body and it felt good.

The class took a total of 75 minutes, but it felt like a lot less. As we came to the end, candlelight replaced artificial light and New Age music took over from the voice of the instructor (or should that be teacher?). I lay on my back and closed my eyes, trying desperately to forget about the rest of the world as an assistant came round and dumped an eye pillow on my face. She must have seen me flinch, because I heard her warn the next person along.

The music faded out and a gentle gong rang out across the room; once, twice. We all sat up and while the teacher told us the meaning of namaste, the gong fell off its stand and banged against the wall. Normally this would have been cause for a gasp or a small scream, but in our relaxed state, no one seemed to notice, and when the teacher told us to pretend it didn't happen, we had already forgotten about it.

Even though I'm not entirely sure I'll stick with it after I complete the eight week course, my first experience with yoga is definitely a positive one, and I'm looking forward to the rest of the course.

Special Deal

Courtesy of Gizmodo.

The Saga Of Sleep: Part III

(Part I and II).

A few weeks after the overnight sleep study, I returned to the sleep specialist for a diagnosis.

He was a young Asian man with an expensive and modern grey suit, a tasteful wedding band on a manicured finger, and a habit of shaking hands and telling you to call him by his first name. This appeared to be a technique for getting me to feel at ease, to make me feel that he was paying special attention to me and my case.

Yeah, I felt a little like Philip Marlowe, walking into that place.

Once we sat down, Frank pulled out the three sheets of data collated from my sleep study and started taking me through the various sections. Skip the next paragraph if numbers and details make your eyes glaze over.

From a total of 6 hours, I slept 4.7, with frequent arousals, 34 of which were associated with respiratory events. These little lapses are known as hypopneas, which simply means shallow breathing. None of them lasted for more than 30 seconds, and my oxygen levels never dropped below 90%. My brain activity was high throughout the night and my deepest stages of sleep, including dreamtime or REM sleep, were all below par, but still present. Overall, sleep efficiency was down to 78.1%, but maintenance was at a nice and safe 96.1%.

Diagnosis: mild obstructive sleep apnea.

What does this mean? Well, since my sleep for the night was always bound to be worse than normal, the doctor's opinion was that there wasn't much wrong with me. Nothing that losing 10% of my body weight wouldn't fix. He also gave me a nasal spray to try and lessen the shallow breathing. After nutting out some of these details, I asked the doctor for a copy of all the data.

This took a total of ten minutes and a cost of $100. The doctor also said that there was no need for me to visit him again.

I walked out of the doctor's office into the tepid air of the city of Sydney and breathed in the morning pollution. A wave of anger, frustration, and helplessness swept through me. After all that, I still slept like crap and that doctor didn't give a rat's arse if I did or didn't. My oxygen levels were fine and that was all that mattered to him. This sleep problem was my fault, because I'd allowed myself to put on some kilos. My fault because I had bad sleep habits and hadn't put enough effort into setting up a good sleep environment.

My fault because I thought too much.

Not being one to hold a grudge or indulge in excess bitterness (and also never blog about it), I let this feeling swoop through me and move away. There was good news here. I didn't have a serious problem in the shape of life-threatening sleep apnea. I didn't have to spend a grand or so on a bedside air pump and mask. All I had to do was lose some weight, try out this nasal spray for a month, take up some more regular exercise, and see what I could do about my sleep habits and environment.

I won't lie, my sleep problems have affected my relationship, but after telling this news to Mary, I found that she was right on top of things, and that means the world to me. She suggested I try walking with her in the evenings or taking up yoga. She said let's get a new bed, one that will move less. And avoid caffeine, eat better, etc.

Thanks for being there, babe.

So now I've booked into a beginner's course in yoga, at the same place that Mary frequents. We've checked out some futons and have almost settled on one. I've taken the nasal spray as directed for a few nights now and I find myself sneezing or having what I call 'throat hiccups' much less as I fall asleep. I'm trying to develop a better wind down routine before bed, including a cut-off hour for computer related activities (sorry, Mr. Xbox).

I'm not totally convinced that doing all this is going to help. The issue of brain activity is still there, and I'm wondering if there's a touch of Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome going on. But I'm on the case, I've narrowed down some areas to attack, and I'm looking forward to having more energy during the day.

We'll see how it goes.

The Saga Of Sleep: Part II

(Part I).

My sleep study ended up being scheduled the night before my work Christmas party, so in an effort to make it all easier on myself, I took the day off work.

I turned up to the sleep clinic with a duffel bag filled with pyjamas, books (Tana French's IN THE WOODS and Duane Swierczynski's THE WHEELMAN), a pillow, and extra underwear (you never know). After a relaxing check-in where the nurse did her best to sooth my troubled soul with the mention of a catheter, I was led to my room in the sleep study ward.

St. Lukes is somewhere between a hospital and a bed-and-breakfast joint, an older building that isn't the usual hospital maze but is still filled with the expected equipment (and thankfully not the usual smells). My room had a semi-obscured view of the buildings around Potts Point, with a picturesque backdrop of the city to flesh things out.

Not long after settling in, the first assistant of the night showed up to tell me the plan for the stay. First, dinner; hospital style, followed by the initial stage of hooking me up to the equipment. Later in the evening, the final stage of the hookup would leave me semi-chained to my bed, so I was advised to make plenty of trips to the toilet beforehand. So, no catheter, but I did have the option of a bottle if needed.

The first stage of hookup made me feel a little like I was going to one of those hairdressers that specialise in rastafarian-style dreadlocks, although this lot had a decidedly cyber influence. Then I had a couple of hours to kill so I paced around and took some photos. I'm especially proud of my Blue Steel look. Either proud or embarrassed, I'm not sure.

Stage two of my Borg-like transformation saw me hooked up to various equipment that measured parameters such as EEG (brainwaves), EMG (leg movements), airflow, and oxygen levels. At this point I settled in for a good few chapters of IN THE WOODS, which was far less heart-pounding than THE WHEELMAN. Around midnight I wound down enough to switch off the light and attempt to find a comfortable position with cables coming from my head, legs, finger, and nose.



I slept like crap, of course, for an estimated total of three hours before I had to wake at the ungodly time of 6am. Some exciting moments throughout the night included taking the tubes out of my nose to blow it, standing at an angle to fill the urine bottle, and waking up half an hour before I needed to. With the work Christmas party being an all day affair, I can say I'm very glad for the existence of bourbon and Coke.

Stay tuned to find out the results and the aftermath in Part III.

The Saga Of Sleep: Part I

Michelle Shocked once sang 'sleep keeps me awake all night'. For me, that's almost true, but not quite.

See, I've had a little demon on my back for many years now, and it has been the demon of sleep. A demon that is so easy to accept, even though it's a situation that's not the greatest. So easy to just say I'm a light sleeper and be done with it. But there's more to it than that. I wake easily, find it hard to fall asleep, and my sleep is heavily affected by my environment: bed, climate, noise, movement, you name it.

But the last few months it has been particularly bad.

I've had nights and weeks where I seem to be doing everything right, keeping a good sleep pattern, staying away from caffeine, exercising, and even creating an environment where I have minimal distractions while sleeping. Thing is, even with all of this, I've had many mornings where I wake up feeling like I'm hungover, without the fun of having got there in the first place.

Doctors are people I generally avoid, but I finally decided to tackle this sleep problem once and for all a few weeks ago. I went to my local doctor, told him the situation, and had him refer me to a sleep specialist. Did some talking with this next guy and he booked me in for a sleep study, an overnight stay at a sleep clinic where they hook you up in all manner of ways and monitor your activity throughout the night. Tomorrow I'm visiting Mr. Sleep Doc again. He'll tell me what the data from the overnight stay means.

I'm betting on one of two things: I have sleep apnea, or it's all psychological. In a strange way, I hope it's the former.

But you'll have to wait to read all about it. Next part will be about my overnight stay, complete with Borg-like photos of myself.

And yes, I'm that much of a geek.

(Part II and III).

End Of Days

The New Year's Eve state-of-life post has become a small tradition for me.

I like breaking tradition.

So let us raise our glasses and drink instead, for ...



See you next year.

Looks Like I Voted For The Right Guy

From The Australian:

Rudd to reward Aussie writers

AUSTRALIAN writers will from next year vie for one of the world's richest prizes with the Rudd Government to unveil the Prime Minister's Literary Prize for fiction and non-fiction books.

In a bold and affirming cultural statement, the annual awards will have just two categories: published fiction book of the year, and published non-fiction book of the year. Each prize is worth $100,000, tax-free, with a further $100,000 to be spent each year on promoting and administering the awards.

Best Of 2007

Some people like to do these lists because everybody else is doing it. Others refuse to do so for the same reason. I'm a combination of the two: if everyone else does it, then I don't want to, but I'm going to anyway ... because it's what I actually want to do.

But enough with the Maxwell Smart jokes and on with the list. As always, it's based on my personal reading of the year, which has nothing to do with publishing date. Since tracking it, I've learned that I only read about thirty books a year, all chosen by a whim of the moment.

EVERY DEAD THING by John Connolly

Famed for its hourglass shaped plot (one story tapers into the next), the first Charlie Parker novel is filled to the brim with lyrical writing and beautifully gruesome imagery.

CITIZEN VINCE by Jess Walter

There are two novels in this list about crims trying to get clean or stay clean, with both having a decidedly literary bent. Walter does a brilliant job here of fleshing out so much in so few words that I really should get off my arse and read some of his other work as soon as possible.

NO DOMINION by Charlie Huston

Thankfully the world of books generally does a fair sight better with sequels than cinema does, but in the hands of Charlie Huston, disappointment seems to never be on the cards. Thanks to vampire private investigator Joe Pitt, I want to be Charlie Huston when I grow up.

BENEATH A PANAMANIAN MOON by David Terrenoire

Piano-playing spy John Harper has a damned fine sense of humour and a softer side when compared to more traditional protagonists in the genre and it's these differences that bring Terrenoire's debut floating up above the rest. It took me far too long to get around to reading this, but the day David writes another novel is the day I queue up for it.

SATURDAY'S CHILD by Ray Banks

Other than wanting to be the love child of Charlie Huston and Ray Banks, I can't say enough about this fine piece of work. But if I had to choose my absolute favourite of this list, it would be a close fight between this one and the next.

THE WINTER OF FRANKIE MACHINE by Don Winslow

The retired hitman being pulled back into the biz is not a particularly new idea, but the depth of Frank "Frankie the Machine" Macchiano lifts this to the top of the foam from the cappuccino. Bob De Niro's working on a film of this and, as long as he doesn't stuff it up, I'll be one of the early viewers.

DOUBLE INDEMNITY by James M. Cain

Only one classic this year, and it was one I'd seen the movie of, so I wasn't amazingly shocked by the unfolding of the plot. Still, I gobbled down this timeless and twisted tale of desire in a couple of evening sessions. And it tasted damned good, I tell you.

RAZOR by Larry Writer

This year I delved into non-fiction of various subjects, but this account of the razor gang wars of 1920s Sydney reads almost like fiction, so I'm including it here. The detail of the research is mind blowing and made even more impressive by being set in locations that I know well. Whatever the newspapers of today may say, Sydney is a far safer city than it used to be.

THE CONFESSION by Olen Steinhauer

In my blogging travels I've come across a number of authors whose work I've read, but this is the first time I've read a second book from any of them (that has more to do with my playing catch up than the quality of the writing). I'm extremely glad I did. Everything I liked about Olen's first in the series, THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS, is in its sequel, but the story is taken to another level here. I can't think of any better endorsement of this amazing Eastern European spy series other than saying I have the next two books waiting on my shelf.

I was very tempted to include Joe R. Lansdale's LOST ECHOES in the list, even though I'm only about a third of the way in. Although I doubt very much that I'll be disappointed with the rest of it, I have to be fair, so I've kept it to a simple mention.

Vote For Me

With Australia's federal election well and truly over, it's a good time to grab your voting hats and leg it on over to the Spinetingler Awards Shortlist.

Why, you say, why, Daniel?

Well, old mate, old chum, old pal, it's because iffun once you get there you scroll down a teensy tadbit, you'll be finding my first and last name under the nominations for Special Services to the Industry. Now that don't mean I've been handing out free lube to all the crime fiction kiddies, no siree, it's all about that wild and crazy social network I created and maintain, the one called Crimespace.

And while I'm being all forthcoming and such, I figure it's a good idea for me to be honest with you, my voting public. All the other people nominated for the same award have been giving good to the crime fiction world on the internet for longer and better than yours truly.

But to be equally honest, I'd like you to vote for me. Also, check out all the other categories while you're at it and vote for fellow Australian nominees, Amra Pajalic and Text Publishing.

Here's how:

Voting is open. ONE E-MAIL PER PERSON ONLY. You cannot send another vote in, even for a different category – multiple votes from the same sender will not be counted. Take the time to consider your votes carefully. E-mails must be received by December 30, 2007 - authors, if you're putting this in your newsletter make sure you are clear about the deadline for voting. Many recommendations were not considered in the first round because they were sent late.

You may vote for one winner in each category as long as all votes are submitted in one e-mail. Simply state the category and your chosen winner for each of the eight categories. Any votes that contain more than one selection per category may be removed from consideration completely. No ties.

Send your e-mail to sandra.ruttan@spinetinglermag.com with AWARD NOMINATIONS in the subject line. It is not necessary to explain the reason for your vote.

Signing My First Publishing Contract

Some time ago I spent a good six months working in fits and bursts on a short story idea that needed time to percolate. Most stories do, usually for much less time, but this one was special: it meant something to me.

I'm talking about religion here.

Having spent many hours reading books on Zen Buddhism and Buddhism in general, my programmer's mentality was drawn to the one religion that struck me more as a philosophy or system for living than an excuse for worship or mind control. Draw whatever assumptions you like from that, but Buddhism seems to be the only religion I know of that actively encourages people to question it.

Of course, one of my other main interests over the last few years has been crime fiction. Talk about the other end of the spectrum.

Like many before me, I wanted to 'write what I know', but I also wanted to keep it within the realm of crime fiction. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I stumbled upon a way to combine my interest in Buddhism with my interest in crime fiction.

It may seem like a strange idea on first thought, but a few prisons in various parts of the world have experimented with the teaching of meditation to inmates, as a way of helping them deal with their time behind bars.

All this percolation and back story eventually led to the publishing of my story, BUDDHA BEHIND BARS, over at that ezine that is the hardest of the hard, Thuglit. About six months later and we're back in the present, where I've been lucky to have that story included in the second Thuglit anthology (whose cover should look something like that above), called "SEX, THUGS, AND ROCK & ROLL."

Like the first anthology, HARDCORE HARDBOILED, a handful of guest authors added their contributions to the swath of stories from Thuglit herself. It's going to be great to be included among such fine writers as Joe. R. Lansdale, Marcus Sakey, Allan Guthrie, Scott Wolven and Jason Starr.

The extra special bit about all this for me is the feeling of signing my very first publishing contract, which was quickly followed by the realisation that it will take almost two years to come out.

But that's the biz, and now that I have a taste of it, I want some more.

New Issues of Spinetingler and Thrilling Detective Now Online

What's especially good about these two issues are stories from people like Stephen Blackmoore, Patricia Abbott, Patrick Shawn Bagley, Seth Harwood, and some guy from Down Under that likes to play harmonica and whose favourite colour is black.

Yes, I know. Black isn't a colour.

Go thou and read now.

Download the PDF here:
Spinetingler Fall Issue 2007

Crimespace Short Story Competition

As a way of celebrating the joining of the 1000th member, Crimespace is proud to open its first short story competition. The plan is to run this heist every year, with the entries being crime fiction based around a theme.

To kick it off, this year's theme is 'Australia'.

How you include it is up to you. Your story could be set in Australia, have an Australian character in it, or simply mention Australia somewhere in the story. Hell, even including an Aussie cultural icon such as Vegemite will do. Entries must be no more than 2,500 words, including the title.

Get cracking. The deadline is January 31st, 2008.

Details, prizes and rules can be found here.

In For Questioning Podcast Has Moved

Thanks to Podomatic's recent bout of unreliableness, Angie's moved her world-famous crime fiction podcast to http://inforquestioning.libsyn.com/, so make sure to update this in your podcasting client (usually iTunes).

And if you haven't subscribed, what the hell are you doing over here?

Smokin' Steinhauers!

Olen Steinhauer, well known among those of us that like our crime fiction bleak and real, is mostly linked with his series of Cold War novels set in a fictional Eastern European country that remains nameless. I'm guilty of only having read the first novel, but the second and third are already in waiting.

Why am I mentioning all this?

Word around town (this translates to 'from the horse's mouth'), is that Olen's done and got his upcoming novel, THE TOURIST, optioned by an unknown actor's production company called Smoke House. They say one of the people responsible is related to George Clooney, but I don't think that's true: he must be a distant cousin of Steinhauer himself.

I mean, I can't tell the difference, can you?

Hatadi Caught In Podcast Heist!

That mad Hatadi has done it again: his voice has been captured for all eternity in a digital form. To be replicated and distributed through millions of small boxes with clicky wheels on the front.

(switch to first person)

And it's all thanks to that bold criminal of the podcast universe, Seth Harwood. If you haven't checked out his podcasts before, you owe it to yourself now, if only to hear my rugged Australian accent at about the nine minute mark of Seth's recent Jack Palms episode, all about Russian sex slaves and rabbit holes, number 17.

As Duane Swierczynski said:

"I like the cut of this young man's jib."

How Often Do You Get Over Blogging?

Blogging, blogging, blogging.

I've been doing it for about three years now, mostly on a weekly basis, often daily, but lately that distance has been slipping further and further. It's easy for a month to go by without an entry.

Anne Frasier said that a blog has a lifetime of about a year and a half, probably a close match to the hormones generated during any new relationship, that good old honeymoon period. Mine's obviously gone for longer. The idea for the original blog was that I would write it as my fictional character and alter-ego, Danny Hawaii. That idea didn't hold for too long (mostly because my stories never lived up to the character's name), and after about six months I just felt silly doing it.

My thoughts where that if I was to become a real author type personage, that I should damn well act like one and start now. After a brief flirtation with the idea of a pen name (because I didn't think my own name was marketable), I decided to stick to who I was and thus this blog was born. The very early entries were hand-imported from the Danny Hawaii blog and are still accessible in the sidebar.

Along the way, I've experimented with all sorts of posts, ranging from quick images with only a title, to what I hope are well thought-out pieces that are almost articles. At one point I even created another blog called 'Food What I Ate'. It was a surreal food blog, following my culinary adventures with mostly inappropriate captioning. The photos are still on my Flickr account, but the blog no longer exists.

I suppose Crimespace does take up a fair amount of my wet CPU power, which leaves just about enough for writing and other forms of entertainment. Every so often, I'll have an item of writing-related news to share, but I'm not a prolific short story writer, so those are few and far between.

Just to make it clear, because I'm sure the tone of this post implies that I'm saying goodbye ... I'm not. I'm still here and I'll be staying here, but you can take this as something of an explanation of my slackness in posting. And it always helps to get my thoughts out there, always makes it more real.

So how often do you get over blogging, you blogging types out there?

A lost and faithless fellow blogger wants to know.