I’m writing this from an apartment packed down for impending cyclone/hurricane due to hit Brisbane some time in the next 24 hours. It’s expected to be a category 2—possibly levelling up to a category 3 if we get unlucky—and it’ll be the worst storm to hit Brisbane in 70 years. We’re 100% certain to lose power over the next few days. There’s a flood expected in our neck of the woods, although it usually stops at the end of the street rather than reaching our position on the hill. Naturally, this makes me think about writing and publishing, because everything makes me think about writing and publishing (It’s also a nice distraction from the looming desire to freak the fuck out because we’re as prepped as we’re going to get, and there’s literally zero control over what the weather does next). So, what can we learn from this moment? I’ll start with the obvious. WRITERS NEED A CASHFLOW BUFFER Even if we

For years, I’ve been a start your writing first thing in the morning guy. I get up around 4:30 AM most days. On good days, I feed the cats and hammer a few words into the word processor by 5, then braindump into my journal before planning the day. I can jam out a good hour of writing before the rest of house rises. Maybe two, on a weekend, when the spouse-mouse gets to sleep in. On a bad day, I try for 50 words or so. Just something to get my toe in. Because here’s the thing: even if I don’t finish all the writing tasks on the list, starting the day with writing sets my focus. It’s easier to go back and finish the things. If I skip those 50 words, getting to the keyboard will be a struggle. Other things take priority, and writing becomes one more task I need to find the time to do, rather

What does a recipe look like? If you looked one up in the old pen-and-paper days, there’s a familiar layout: ingredient lists; procedural instructions; a photograph to make your mouth water. These days, on the internet, the recipe has all those things… and a long, digressive story up top that contextualises how and why the author is writing about and cooking this particular meal. To the aspiring chefs at the Culinary Institute of America, a recipe is a three-column format. (Example 1; Example 2) One column lays out the timeline for the entire meal, logging what needs to be done when. The second column lists everything they need to produce, and the equipment needed to cook and serve it. The third column breaks down the ingredients needed for each recipe on their docket. It’s the first column that makes the difference, logging everything from prepping ingredients to turning the oven on to gathering equipment for every stage. There’s no space

I’ve ended up taking a short, unscheduled break from writing newsletters over the last fourteen days. Regular GenrePunk Ninja transmissions will resume in October, and some of the ideas in this week’s entry might be expanded out. Mainly, though, if you’re hungry for great advice about writing and publishing, however, I’m going to direct your attention to Cory Doctorow’s recent speech about Disenshittifying Online Spaces (watch it on youtube | read it online).  Doctorow is speaking to a room full of tech folk and coders, but what he’s saying is incredibly important to anyone involved in the creative industries. It’s important he’s pointing out the problems with online spaces and we, as writers, use online spaces to promote our work and build community. They are a boon in many ways, but their usefulness can be short lived. Tech and social media companies thrive by capturing attention and communities, then locking you into those spaces and turning your attention into profit. 

Like many of you, I have good weeks and bad weeks on the writing front. This week has been rocky, and if you’re feeling like things are unsettled and unfocused too, that’s a pretty natural response to this point of the year. Ordinarily, my response in this newsletter would be offering advice: here’s how to bounce back when life impedes writing. Or I would point out that sometimes a rough writing week is a natural flow-through from good things, and you’re just figuring out the new normal after a big success. I had some good news this week—I’m officially Doctor Peter M. Ball now, with a degree to frame and put on my wall. It’s big news, but also…confronting. This was my second attempt at getting a PhD, and being a student has been part of my self-image for a long time.  Now, that phase of my life is over. I’m not the student anymore. I have to redefine myself

This week’s newsletter is the second of a trilogy, dealing with a fundamental challenge of being a writer: not all the advice you’re offered is a great fit for you, even if it worked perfectly for the person offering the advice. Over the years, I’ve routinely found this out the hard way, applying advice indiscriminately and realising too-late that the result it promotes isn’t necessarily a god fit for my goals or my practice. As a result, there’s three things I like to figure out before taking any advice on board. Last week, I broke down the biggest: how much capital does this advice require, and do I have the resource base to implement it? In a world where countless ‘gurus’ are advertising courses and services, working to your resources rather than the promise of the add is an important survival trait.  Today, we deal with the second question: What’s the philosophy behind this advice? Once again, a relatively simple