Final draft of my frankly awfully overlong SF magnum opus space opera thing that I wrote as a pub dare after a long gripe about multi-volume SF series. Really, just don't bet me stuff. No I mean it, it's like 900,000 words and two years of my life. For £10. And they changed the rules. Apparently I don't just have to write the thing, it has to be published (properly, not vanity or self-publishing), and only then I get my £10.
On the plus side, that's probably twice as much as most authors earn for a book.
I'm reading it now on my kindle and it's not that bad, but could stand to go on a substantial wordage diet. But hey, it's SF. I should probably try to do something with it (tbh, writing is a labour of love rather than a plan to make a living). If anyone knows a literary agent with a masochistic bent (OK, that's possibly all of them), let me know.
That out of the way, I'm working on on my far more enjoyable vampire book. Oh, I know it's hackneyed cliché pile up of a genre, but really, if you like undead sarcastic librarians, murderous angels, serial killers, the anti-christ, and, erm, the apocalypse coming to Croydon, you might like it. If you like Twilight, really you won't. Like I say, I write for fun rather than to expose my talents or make a living. Which is probably for the best. Plus it diverts me from writing crap on the internet.