Back in March, I responded to the Angry Robot Open Submission Month for un-agented authors, along with, as it turns out, 943 other authors. Each of us sent in a synopsis and five chapters of our chosen novel– in my case, The Corpse-Rat King, with the understanding that we’d probably get rejected by the first reader, and if not, then the partial that was requested would probably be rejected, and almost certainly, if we got past that hurdle, the full manuscript that was subsequently requested would be rejected. Less than 1% of all manuscripts submitted were even going to get to the editors, and even then, they might not take any on.

But any chance is worth taking, so 944 of us took it.
A partial was requested, and I sent it in. Then the full manuscript. I sent that in, too. And three days ago, Angry Robot emailed me to let me know that The Corpse-Rat King has been forwarded to the editors so that they can decide whether or not to offer me a contract, one of only 9 manuscripts to make it that far. Coincidentally, that’s less than 1%
I’m a little chuffed 🙂
I’m trying not to get my hopes up: to be rejected at the last hurdle is like winning a pat on the back in the lottery, but I’m happy– this is a validation of my novel-writing attempts, and a big fat hint that there is something in my work in this new (for me) format that’s worth paying attention to. As I’ve said previously, it took me a long time to sell my first short story, and the lessons I’ve learned over the last decade of short story sales are counting for something. The chickens aren’t hatched, and I haven’t counted them, but at least the breeding program has relevance.
One beer, and back to work…
The full list of books has been announced here


A big word- up to Georgie, who has spent the last six weeks soaking discoloured white lego plates in various solutions in the name of science, and who, this week, took them all out, dried them, recorded the results in her best sciency recordingy way, and took the whole lot down to the Mandurah Senior High School Science Fair, where she came in second and received all sorts of cool stuff including a certificate, medal, and seat on the next space shuttle flight.

Okay, that last one’s a lie, but the rest is true, and cool.


I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring, I do. Don’t you? Of course you do.

Okay, maybe I’m a couple of weeks early, but by God, what a glorious weekend it’s been. Sunny and 25, sunny and 25, even at midnight it’s been sunny and 25 that’s how good it’s been. And call me a sad old suburbanite if you will, but there’s something good for the soul in watching your children play on the lawn you’ve just mowed, with the smell of fresh-cut grass in your nostrils and the budgie cages going mad with tweets and twits and all manner of chirpy noises.

It’s been that sort of weekend.



Off work since Wednesday with a massive lurgi, and I’ve finally read every comic in the house and watched every episode of QI a-GAIN, so now it’s your turn.

Tell me: who is the worst writer of all time?

I’ll open with Guy N. Smith, inflicter-upon of such delights as Night of the Crabs, The Sucking Pit (not as sexy as it might sound….) and Satan’s Snowdrop.

Anyone wanna raise?