So, some cool stuff is going on. Shortly after this goes live I will be adding a preview of Chapter Two of Time's Fool to the Shed - however, this will only accessible to people who have pledged. If you want to read it, you know what to do! As an added incentive, I have some really cool stuff lined up for subscribers when we hit milestone funding points and various arbitrary percentages which I've decided upon - more of which below.
However, you can also hear a snippet of Chapter Two (and get to know Julian a little better) on Chris Stagg's brilliant Words and Sound radio show. We also chatted about the writing process, musical influences and the Gothic in general, as well as playing a fair bit of David Bowie and Tom Waits.
Over the next couple of days, there will also be a few new rewards added to the site. Don't worry if you've already pledged, you can always upgrade if you're particularly taken with anything offered (warning: contains dragons.) One of these will be a signed, limited edition print by Vic Hill illustrating the first scene of Time's Fool. I was really pumped that she agreed to this because it was her artwork I was imagining when writing Sophia's birthday in that pub. It really captures the energy, youth and innocence of that little circle of friends before the darkness descends, as well as the feel of a Student Union bar - my own sly attempt at modernising the Cambridge SCR so beloved of M.R. James. There really will only be a few of these available and they will be an absolutely irreplaceable way to prove that you were part of bringing this book to life.
However, as a thank you, a downloadable wallpaper of the image will be made available to all subscribers when funding hits 25%. It will remind you of those halcyon evenings in the Union pub, listening to a drunk person pontificating about some obscure aspect of 19th Century fiction.
Oh. My goodness. Flashbacks.
[Transcript of extract read on Phoenix FM]
The creature returned as the city clocks slipped past midnight in to a new day. Once, it would have caused bells to peal. He felt as though he were a bell himself, recently struck. His lips were trembling, his whole body trembling, every inch of his skin alive and aware. The silk and wool and linen of his clothes caressed him, the leather of his boots cradled his feet, the brush of hair upon his face was a kiss. Every few moments the after-taste would hit him and a tremor of pleasure would rob him of thought. He gave a soft moan.
But would it not have been finer if there had been hands clutching his throat, a caress that became desperate pleading. It would have been better if the blood had been rich with arousal, if the skin had been slick and salt with kisses and with sweat...
Police forces, documents, mass media, had buried the days when he could slip in and out of bedchambers, lives. Had banished, too, his violent hunts, the days when bloody murder raised no more than local panic. So many pleasures lost.
He looked to nails that were not stained with blood, wiped lips that were immaculate and clean. So it had come. Death had lost its sweetness. Whatever pleasure he felt it was not enough.
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