Besides wasting time on my Macintosh with music software, I’ve actually been writing. Yesterday marked the end of the first draft of the fourth book in my series—nameless, as I’m not fooling myself anymore into thinking I actually know my titles. It was a fast one compared to the others, an experiment in swiftness that I think has paid off. Moving ahead in time, this one focuses on 1975, Armenian terrorism (with a touch of Baader-Meinhof) and Soviet psychotronic research.

Otherwise, I also finished a draft of an also-untitled story for Ken Bruen, who is editing the forthcoming Akashic anthology, Dublin Noir. Unlike the novel draft, I think this one is heading for the wastebasket, to be rebuilt from the ground up. Luckily, it’s not due until February.

I mentioned at some point in the past that I was working on a short film to accompany the release of 36 Yalta Boulevard, however the constraints of my life are weighing in, and I’ve decided to shelve the idea. However, a lesser form of the film—a chronology of the life of Brano Sev—will appear on the website in its place.

When not writing, and instead of creating searing and insightful posts for this blog, I’ve found myself listening to this oft-maligned but, to me, rather wonderful 1984 gem from Robert Smith’s frantic days when he was doing triple-duty with The Cure, Siouxsie, and his side project, The Glove. While seen as unfocused and “surreal”, it’s really a great record, though my girlfriend tells me there was some controversy over it in 1984 when a young European obsessed with it took his own life. Oh well.

(Originally posted at the Contemporary Nomad)