We recently created a new website that incorporates our author blog – go to randomhouse.com.au/blog for all the latest news and bulletins, essays, features, opinions from our bestselling authors.
Find out what’s being said, debated, and discussed in the world of books and ideas.
God’s own blockbuster is the best-seller of all time – yes, even more than you, JK Rowling – but does He care much about other writers? Does He kick back, pick up the latest manifesto from Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens and have a great, big belly laugh at their expense?
“Hey, Son, come and have a look what these blokes have written about us this time!”
One of my few favourite memories from high school was watching three guys create the best water pistol. Up the back in science class, the trio grabbed a Bunsen burner, hooked up its rubber tube to the umbrella-shaped taps and waited for the teacher to turn around. When she did – ratta-tat-tat! They sprayed an endless, 15-metre jet of water from the back row into the heads of the whole class, which howled in anger!
Young people keen to be writers should practise the art of storytelling. They need to start telling their friends and family anecdotes – those small, self-contained stories that make our daily lives interesting.
Six-foot-four, with a heaving chest the size of a gunpowder barrel, the young man cannoned through his fellow football fans, his cheeks silver with tears. Blubbering and wiping away the snot with his big sausage fingers, he barged his way towards the car park, desperate to get away from the inner city stadium. I couldn’t blame him. For the eleventh year in a row, our arch enemy – the Sydney Roosters (aka “the Scum”) – had belted our beloved South Sydney Rabbitohs (aka “the Vermin”) and the pain was too much. When were we ever going to beat these guys?
Well, the tide has turned. The great avengers have been born. On Monday night, the Rabbitohs beat the Roosters yet again 40-20. Russell Crowe’s gladiators have shown guts always have to come before the glory.
Football is guaranteed to make men cry. I’ve seen it sitting at matches many times. And I’ve had my head in my hands alongside them. For a long time I thought I was the jinx. Not any old jinx, mind you. But the cursed guy that Rusty’s crew throws off the boat in his film Master and Commander. For two years there, my three favourite teams – the Rabbitohs, Carlton and the San Francisco 49ers – were coming stone last or, mercifully, second last. My fearful TV approached police many times and begged to be put in a witness protection program.
It’s strange how we hold footballers up as heroes. It’s strange how we hold anyone up as heroes. Is it something we learn from a young age – bombarded with stories of Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman? Are we indoctrinated that there’s always going to be someone better than us?
I always loved comics – still do, even if I don’t read many anymore. My favourite heroes are:
1) Gambit
2) Batman
3) Wolverine
4) Grifter
5) Rogue
Not surprisingly, most of these are loners or freaks!
My upcoming novel, Beyond the Knock-Knock Door, deals with triplets who are mistaken as heroes. They are thrust into the limelight and told they have to slay a monster. Soon, they realise this hero stuff isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s actually hard work.
I guess that comes from my journalist side. I’ve interviewed a few celebrities, politicians, actors and sports people over the years. Most of them love their jobs, but can’t stand the constant intrusion into their lives and some of the whack jobs that come out of the woodwork.
For Beyond the Knock-Knock Door, I didn’t want the same type of hero we normally read in fantasy-adventure. I wanted normal, modern-day kids who’d used their wits and humour to fight off monsters and anyone who got between them and chocolate. And no one is safe when that happens.
I put up with bullies with my entire high school life. I was one of the youngest pupils in our year and hence one of the smallest and weakest. I remember being in tears on several occasions, either because of intimidation or being the victim of physical violence.
Students rushed from all corners of the quadrangle to watch a bully pick on a smaller kid who stood up to him. Skinny, nervous boys would be forced to cough up “protection money” in woodwork class. School bags would be stolen, emptied across the bitumen and hoisted up flag poles. And going away on camp was akin to torture.
Whatever you do: don’t feed tiger sharks beans. It’s ten times worse than farting in a bath. But if you want to ride on the chequered back of a whale shark then tempt them with a sardine sandwich. Just remember to scratch their belly afterwards.
For the past eight years I’ve been learning how to ride sharks. Not any normal shark mind you, but flying sharks. Great whites that prowl the skies. Whale sharks that play among enormous floating islands. And tiger sharks that can be hypnotised and asked to swim through hoops. They’re some of the stars of my new novel, Beyond the Knock-Knock Door, which is just about to hit the bookshelves. And just like the first time I stepped on the back of bus-sized whale shark, I’m excited and nervous and looking for a sickbag.
The Random Blog 