Zoo – Is This The Silliest Show On TV?

So, years ago – yes, I’m that lazy – I was thinking of making Bad Movies a regular thing on this blog. Although somehow I missed everything but the soundtrack first time around, I wallowed through polished Eighties turd Cocktail and came out the other side wondering how on earth Tom Cruise ever had an acting career after that one. In the interim I cued up another likely stinker – Days of Thunder – and pretty much Adam Sandler’s entire post Happy Gilmore oeuvre.

Needless to say, my Netflix recommendations look…bad. The white text at the top should probably read ‘lasciate ogne speranza voi c’he entrate’, but Netflix hasn’t read Dante so instead I get ‘wacky eighties comedies’, which is much the same thing really.

It was mostly laziness that stopped me from keeping it up, but it was also a period of time where nobody watched movies any more. It was all TV, and in the main it was all very, very good TV. The kind of TV that stomped along in the huge footprints of The Sopranos, and did it very well. House of Cards. Breaking Bad, and its shockingly good spinoff Better Call Saul. And now Stranger Things – I mean, look at that fucking thing. It’s beautiful. It’s like Netflix’s kneeling, hands-clasped apology for commissioning three series of Hemlock Grove.

So yeah. There wasn’t really a great deal of stuff to point and laugh at, except maybe for Hemlock Grove and the bog-awful Sons of Anarchy, and they – like a lot of the bad stuff – wasn’t point-and-laugh bad. Just deathly dull.

But then there was Zoo.

Full disclosure, when I started watching Zoo I was down with a vicious stomach bug. So it might have been feverishness and a lack of food that made me laugh as loud and hard as I did. This show is insane. It’s dementedly awful in a shrieking, so-bad-it’s-good way that I haven’t seen since the dizzy days of Footballer’s Wives. And I’m told they’re doing a third series. Magical. Continue reading

The Wolf Witch – FREE E-BOOK


Course you do.



You save $4.99 on the first book of this brand new horror trilogy, all three books of which are now available for sale in the Kindle Store. It’s an unflinching look at what lycanthropy does for your resume (bad things, as it happens) and why you should never annoy the person who is preparing your dinner.

The whole thing was initially inspired by the stunning photography in the Netflix series Bloodline. As soon as I saw those aerial shots of the Florida Keys I knew I had to write something set against such a beautiful backdrop, and it certainly didn’t hurt that there was the grand old tradition of Southern Gothic to draw upon, with those drifts of Spanish moss and people going Tennessee Williams style crazy from the heat and the bugs and the oppression of their own ugly secrets. I had no exact idea where I was going with it but I knew I wanted the main player to be an old lady named Gloria – I had the Hendrix version of that song thundering through my head all last spring. And I knew the heroine – Blue – was from New Orleans and had been a teenager when Katrina devastated the city.

Then that kind of set me aboard a different train of thought, to a girl who had spent her whole life adrift in some way or another, scurrying ahead of social services who wanted to separate her from her bipolar mother, always wanting to be left alone to fend for herself, right up until those few days in the Superdome when she understood what it really meant to be absolutely, totally abandoned. She was a very solitary, self-reliant young woman and the more I got to know her the more I realised she was a little like Shakespeare’s Miranda, cast adrift and left for dead in the wake of the tempest.

That was when I remembered the production I’d seen at the Barbican some twenty years ago, with Simon Russell-Beale’s stiff, snarling Ariel, chafing at the bit of captivity. And there it all was – a girl cast adrift, who comes to an island of monsters, where there’s a once powerful witch now sliding into her dotage and the spirit she once marshaled to her aid is now figuring out a way to destroy her.

Now take that and set it against a background of skunkroaches, gators, werewolves, fundamentalists and other weird Florida wildlife, and you’ve got yourself a trilogy.

Continue reading

Isle of Spirits – now available in the Kindle store

It’s a strange feeling, being done with something as huge as a trilogy. On one hand you’re going to miss it and the other you kind of want to punt it out of the door so that it can piss off and start earning its own living. Sort of like having teenage kids, I imagine.

And this thing is a monster baby. This afternoon I put the final touches to the final book, looked at the word count and whistled. The Wolf Witch comes in at a slightly portly 95k, the sequel – which you can buy at the end of this post, hint hint – is a tubby 97k. The final volume – Full Fathom Five – is a beast of almost 118,000 words, which is a monster for me, having cut my teeth on 75k genre fiction. It’s also one of the darkest, wrongest things I think I’ve ever written; there were moments where the story took me to places that were frankly so disturbing that I wondered if I should even go there.

Still, I suppose horror is pretty much the place for disquieting things that make your skin crawl. If I wanted to write about sunshine and puppies (and I actually kind of do) I’d write a children’s book.

Anyway, this is the sequel. You can get it on Amazon and if you are a Kindle Unlimited subscriber you can get it for absolutely NOTHING. So you should probably do that. After you’ve read the first one, obviously. Otherwise this isn’t going to make a great deal of sense.



That was the message on the Ouija board, but Blue is a long way from understanding, and as July’s brutal blue moon looms she is forced to face the reality of the weird new world in which she now lives. Gloria, being more wolf than witch these days, is not much help, and Gabe keeps pushing Blue away in a desperate attempt to protect her from the horrors of the full moon.

But Blue’s stared horror in the face too many times already, and keeps right on walking into the realm of the spirit workers, the all-but-extinct wolf witches who once derived their power from pack spirits like the murderous Yael, who’s been a little too quiet for comfort lately.

Also there are power struggles looming when exiled alpha Charlie returns to the Keys in the wake of the cannibal swamp-wolf murders near St. Augustine. And things aren’t going so well for the Okefenokee packs either, at least according to swamp-wolf Ruby, who’s come down south trailing a captive spirit tamer and softer than Yael, but no less potentially dangerous.

When July’s first full moon brings disaster for Joe Lutesinger, Blue finds herself thrown headlong into the role of wolf witch. There’s trouble at home and abroad, no instruction manual beyond an elderly cook book and Gloria’s increasingly in no position to offer help. Gabe can push as hard as he likes, but the more Blue learns the more she realises that even if she wanted to walk away, she’s in this thing far deeper than anyone – least of all herself – ever knew.

Isle of Spirits is the second book in the Keys Trilogy.


Lycanthropy and Other Things To Do In The Great State of Florida

So, last summer I had this odd little bet with myself that I could bang out a werewolf trilogy in under six months.

I failed. It took me about thirteen months instead, thirteen months of hairy, bone-crunching, howling-at-the-moon craziness that has left me all but straining at the leash to piss off and write a nice flossy pink bubblegum romance, just to have a break from trying to think up the best ways to describe exposed rib cages and the noises that parts of people’s skulls make when they go bouncing off the kitchen fittings.

If you’re looking for paranormal romance, you might want to give these puppies a pass. Unless you really like knowing what kind of noises that parts of people’s skulls make when they bounce off the kitchen fittings, in which case welcome aboard, fellow weirdos.

So, here it is. Book one in the Keys Trilogy, a happy little bedtime story of Florida lycanthropes, man-eating rednecks and why you should never mess with the kind of crazy old ladies who keep leaving their dentures on the draining board.


Unfinished family business and a promise of paradise bring Katrina survivor Blue Beaufort to the Florida Keys, but what she finds there is beyond anything she could have imagined. At first glance her new home is nothing more than a small town in a tourist trap, unremarkable save for some unruly neighborhood dogs and a strangely high incidence of red-green colorblindness.

But then there’s the way the local boys tilt their heads when the wind a certain way, like they can smell trouble on the breeze, and while practical-minded diving instructor Gabe doesn’t seem the type to cling to superstition, he still won’t take the boat out when the moon is full.

And then there’s Gloria, a wilful seventysomething eccentric who for years has been den mother to packs of lost boys like Gabe, Joe and black sheep Charlie, but now presents them with the delicate problem of what to do with your elders when they start showing signs of dementia. Doubly difficult when Gloria – who even when healthy used to talk to people who weren’t there – shows signs of a miraculous recovery and drives all the way to Miami in her bedroom slippers.

When Blue steps in to help out, she thinks she’s going to be cleaning house and serving Jell-O and pills to an old lady, but Gloria’s house is not like other houses. The light fitting keeps swinging, and old records keep skipping, and Gloria’s miracle cure seems to have woken something in the house, a whispering entity that seeps into Blue’s dreams and starts showing her things she’d rather not see.

Like that cage in the basement.

As Blue wades deeper into the strange world of the wolf witch and her boys, she soon comes to realise that what happens at the full moon is actually the least of everyone’s worries.

The Wolf Witch is the first book in the Keys Trilogy.


(This book is FREE to KindleUnlimited Subscribers)

Dear Fifty Shades Fans

Please do not leave comments telling me to read Fifty Shades of Grey. I have. It was terrible. That is all. Thank you.

P.S. If you haven’t read Fifty Shades of Grey, please be advised that it’s not that dirty and they don’t do anal. Sorry about that.

Naomi Knight of Rhyming With Oranges is a sticky fingered little scumbag who helps herself to other people’s intellectual property and doesn’t give credit

Hey everyone – look at what this thieving shitnut, AKA Naomi Knight AKA Rhyming With Oranges wrote!

Look familiar? I know, right? Looks a hell of a lot like a post I wrote, doesn’t it?


Oh no, wait – it looks more like two posts I wrote.

Double oops

It’s okay, Naomi. I’m not that angry. I’m only slightly furious. Is it because you were dropped on the head as a baby? Or are you really that fundamentally fucking stupid that you didn’t think I’d notice that you’d copypasted large swathes of things that I wrote and passed them off as your own? It might be a good idea to apologise at this point. And swear on the bones of whatever saints you hold holy that you will never, ever do this again. That might be a smart move on your part right now. I’m suggesting it because you don’t seem to have many smart ideas. At least none of your own.

What The KU Changes Mean For You (And Your Porn)

Kindle Unlimited will be undergoing a big change next month, overhauling the way that authors get paid and forcing many of us to get in touch with our inner starving-1940s-pulp writer.

Under the old system, KU paid out of the collective pot whenever a book was read up to 20% of the way through. This counted as a ‘borrow’ and meant Amazon would have to reach into their moth infested pockets to the tune of round about $1.30 or whatever that month’s KU rate was.

It didn’t matter if the book in question was a full length novel or a 4000 word long short story about some girls who mysteriously grew dicks after eating gas station hot dogs or drinking weird punch. If the reader got up to 20%, it counted as a borrow.

You can see how the novelists were getting the shaft from this system. Even more than the boyfriends of the girls who ate the gas station hotdogs, although almost certainly a lot less pleasurable.

Now, don’t start thinking that Amazon’s overhaul of the system has anything to do with their love of the long form novel. This is Amazon we’re talking about. They love only money and were getting pretty pissed off at having to pay out the standard borrow rate every time someone waded through the bloated front matter of a ropey porn book only to find that it was illiterate garbage.

Under the new system the author will be paid per page read. Nobody knows precisely what the rate per page will be yet, but there will also be new software in place to catch out authors who attempt to stuff their frontmatter (copyright pages, acknowledgements, etc) and also compute a standard number of words per page. So if you have one of those pages that spill a sentence into the next, no matter how you format the thing, you probably won’t be getting paid for that.

Admittedly I have more than one horse in this race. I mostly write novels, although I have been known to amuse myself with 7000 words of tentacle porn or werestrippers from time to time. On one hand I’m pleased that I might see some more money from KU on account of my longer works, but on the other hand I’m kind of sad that I can no longer make fast, dirty money from alien dickgirl threeways.

Does longer mean better?

Good lord, no. For reference, Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged weighs in a whopping 645,000 words, while The Great Gatsby is as svelte as a bright young thing of the Roaring Twenties, clocking in at roughly 47,000 words. A book should be as long as it takes to tell the story and no more.

This is not to say that you can’t spin the story of two uninteresting people having boring sex with each other out for the length of the equivalent length of Lord of the Rings and more. EL James managed it, and is now at work on her Silmarillion, if the Silmarillion was a tacky money grab composed mostly of copypasted dialogue and e-mails and constant thoughts about the main character’s penis.

Several options spring to mind for the Kindleporn writer.

1) Move into erotic romance. This will mean writing longer works, because romance readers will tar and feather you if you attempt to make them pay $2.99 for 5000 words of fucking.
2) Bundling – putting stories into collections in order to garner a bigger page count for $$$.
3) Pull out of KU altogether. Amazon will be giving authors a chance to withdraw their books from KU immediately in July, regardless of the dates of your current 90 day enrollment period.
4) Start writing filthy novels. Yes, it takes longer, but in my experience dirty novels have a far better shelf life than short smut. None of the nine or so stories I wrote last winter have made me any money this month, but I still occasionally get royalty cheques for erotica I wrote back in 2001.

It’s definitely going to be an interesting time in the next month or so; nobody is really going to know the full story of how this affects them until the 15th of August, when July’s royalty statements roll around. To all of those authors who are panicking because they think the Kindleporn goldrush is over, it probably is, in a way . I think the series format and short form erotica are pretty much dead in the water, but remember – self publishers have a huge advantage in this respect. We can respond faster to changes in the market than publishing firms.

Change can be a good thing. It’s all about how you react to it, how you work with it. You’ve got to turn and face the strange.

And then maybe offer it a gas station hotdog. Just to see what happens.

Anna Roberts’ latest novel, A Box Full of Ashes is now available on Amazon.com and through Kindle Unlimited. It doesn’t contain gas station hotdogs though. Sorry about that.