So I mentioned JukePop the other week. They publish serials, as in, the way Dickens wrote and such, and, also, they don’t like smut.
Back then I said I wasn’t going to send them anything because of the not liking the smut, but, um, I changed my mind.
And didn’t mention it here.
Which seems a little like lying. So my bad, and I’m sorry, and why I didn’t say is hopefully obvious, what with the insecure and fear of rejection and all. Even so, I feel a little bad about this, as if since I’m already being highly deceptive about secret identities, I should be more up-front about everything else. Or something. So just sorry.
Anyways, JukePop were interested, and there’s now a serial over there.
So a couple of things. Yes, completely, no-one should change their writing because of other people’s preferences or rules, I agree. But you sort of have to sometimes, and it was isn’t that bad, not really, so it’s not a big deal. And it will get me doing something else, a bit new, and that’s probably good too.
And they seem nice. So we had a quick talk about exactly what they’re comfortable with, and they were really nice about it, not just, like, fuck off pervy and leave us literary types alone. So just to say that. They were really nice to me, and I’m about the most illiterate emailer ever and also probably about as tricky content-wise as they’ll ever get, and still they were nice. So they’re probably nice. And maybe worth a look for someone else who was wondering.
But also yes, I still don’t like submitting to publishers. I really, really prefer to be rejected by y’all out there, not by gatekeeper editors in fancy glass towers and such. As in, I like my rejection and abuse personal.
But JukePop kind of is. There’s voting and followers and all the usual new media publishing stuff, so it isn’t like a real slush-pile place.
Something new. Just to have a try. For fun.
And here it is. It’s called Dirty Harriet, and here’s the blurb:
For Bec Harrison, messy drunk, momentary hero, and halfway decent detective, the day begins like most. She is hung over, dry-mouthed, and with a stranger in her bed. Her partner Jon is hammering on her front door, and police command want her to chase down a credit card skimming ring. Bec, because someone thinks the matter important enough they may need to hit the suspect, and that is what Bec’s for. Not that anyone will say so out loud.
None of this is especially unusual, but the day gets out of hand. The credit card scam leads to a brothel and then to a federal MP in the first hung parliament anyone can remember, and suddenly everything is looking complicated.
Bec is told to stop investigating, but she pushes ahead anyway. The one thing – the only thing – that anyone trusts about her is her incorruptibility. If she loses that, she loses some desperate part of herself, her soul. And she’s also only tolerated because she does the right thing in the wrong way. If she backs down, she loses her integrity, and once her integrity is gone, all the thumps she’s given suspects and all her drinking on the job will catch up with her is a very sudden and unpleasant way.
With no choice, and fairly certain this isn’t going to end well, Bec keeps her investigation going. She chases the dodgy credit card up the line, past uncooperative brothel managers and surly accountants and suspiciously flirtatious sex workers, all the way to the prime minister’s office itself.
Dirty Harriet is a messy crime novel of forensic accounting, blackout drinking, and vast political conspiracies, set in Sydney, Australia.