Category Archives: Book Recipes

Book Recipes: How to Write a YA Coming of Age Story

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at coming of age stories. Get ready to go back to high school – don’t you really miss puberty?



  • One monologue-prone teenage protagonist
  • Parents who don’t understand
  • A hot teen issue of your choice
  • High school
  • One love interest, two if you’re greedy
  • Peer pressure
  • A faithful best friend, to be ignored at every opportunity
  • A really bland setting
  • The word ‘like’



  1. Take your teenage protagonist and clueless parents and slap them all in a house. Make sure it’s really boring, so the reader really gets why the protagonist wants a car or something.
  2. Get out of bed, it’s time for school. No, you can’t have five more – get up, I said!
  3. Time to meet our delightfully quirky high school friends. Choose your clique carefully. Everybody hates cheerleaders, so you’re best avoiding them, but remember no-one likes an unwashed nerd either.
  4. Go to class or something. Whatever. I don’t care.
giphy angst
No-one understands. (image:
  1. Omigod guys, it’s the high school crush! They’re coming this way, everybody be cool, and make sure to talk about how the main character’s got a zit they don’t want noticed in the internal monologue.
  2. Our protagonist gets to hang out with their crush for some reason, yay! But uh-oh, they were supposed to see their best friend at the same time. How do you choose between –
  4. The main character has hung out with their crush and it’s all been reasonably fine. The hot teen issue came up though. Hope that’s not going to be a thing later on.
  5. Monologue about stuff. It’s that or homework.
  6. The main character has an opportunity to hang out with their crush! Isn’t this just the best. But uh-oh, what’s that coming up ahead? It looks like…
giphy chipmunk
Dun dun DUUUUNNNN (image:
  1. OK, the hot teen issue is becoming a bit of a problem now. Sure are a lot of opinions about this thing. Monologue about them.
  2. Ignore your best friend again, you’ve got a crush to drool over.
  3. You’ve been invited to one of the cool kids’ parties! You know, one of those absolutely mythical parties involving jet-skis and cocaine and that thing belonging to their parents that had better not get smashed.
  4. Argue with the parents about it.
  5. Disobey the parents and go to the party anyway! Your crush is there and it’s all great until –
  6. The hot teen issue happens! But you know, in a really bad way.
  7. The police get called and you’re in trouble now. In fact, you’re grounded until the age of thirty-four.
  8. Mope a bit, but then realise that this hot teen issue stuff is important and you’re allowed to have your own opinion about it. Do something thoughtful to show how mature you are now.
  9. Make up with your best friend. Make out with your crush, or don’t, depending on how much of an idiot they’re being. And look at this – you’re un-grounded, and just in time for prom! Maybe those parents do understand after all.

THE END. Serve sprinkled with ‘like’ so everyone knows you’re definitely a teenager.



  • Make sure to get the teenage slang just right. It’s important, yo.
giphy kids
Fleek. (image:
  • Choose your teen issue carefully. If you’re going for something like sex or drugs, then keep it toned-down. Funny tingly feelings are fine, but full-blown orgies are off the table.
  • Keep to the acceptable pantheon of curse words. You want a few in there to show you’re edgy, but you drop any f-bombs and you’re grounded, mister.
  • Just because you’re writing a teenage character doesn’t mean you have to compromise on your authorial metaphors. Go ahead and lay out the fanciest literary imagery you can think of – and then add ‘like’, ‘whatever’ or ‘or something’ to the end of the sentence. They’re teenagers, it’s what they do.
  • Make sure your main character spends 40% of the book shrivelling up with embarrassment. It’s comedy!
  • If your main character is a boy, their best friend is always a skinny nerd. If they’re a girl, the best friend is always fat. It’s the rule.
  • Love triangles are optional here. If you do decide to include one, at least one of the people involved must be a Bad Boy™.
  • Always, always write in first person.


And here’s one I made earlier…


“I dunno, Cass,” says Martha, leaning against the locker next to mine, “I think it’s pretty risky.”

I roll my eyes and grab my Trig folder. Martha Floffmann has been my best friend since forever, but she can be a bit of a square sometimes. But she’s my best friend, so I don’t mind too much.

“It’ll be fine,” I say, as we head to our next class. “Everyone does it eventually. It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

She blushes and pushes her glasses a little higher. “Yeah, but…now?”

“Well, maybe not right this minute, but y’know, soon.”

“Are you really ready for something like that? I know I’m not.”

We stop outside the classroom. “Well I mean, I guess I am. Who’s ever really ready for something like that? But I mean, y’know, if I felt really strongly about it and the right person was, y’know, in the running, then –”

“Hey! It’s Cassidy, isn’t it?”

My whole body goes tingly. My heart literally stops and my entire body starts blushing. I know that voice. When I turn around, he’ll be standing there.

I’m not ready for this. I look terrible – my hair’s a mess, there’s a Nutella stain on my shirt and my dog threw up on my trainers this morning. Maybe he won’t notice the smell. Or the fact that my face is basically one giant zit.

Well, here goes.

I turn around and see him: Trent Calliber. Captain of the football team, tall, with dark blonde hair and green eyes and a face sculpted by literal angels. He looks like a cross between Michelangelo’s David and a swimsuit model and I’m just dead. It actually hurts to look at his face, he’s so pretty.

He smiles and goddammit, I can feel my heart dancing a merengue.

“What are you girls talking about?”

Martha butts in. “Lowering the voting age to –”

“Nothing,” I interrupt, “just, y’know, girl things. For girls. Your hair is…hair today. I mean, it’s nice. For hair. Um.”

This always happens whenever I talk to him. My brain just passes out and my mouth is all welp, here’s freedom, at last. It’s so embarrassing.

Trent’s frowning. Oh God, I’ve done something wrong. It’s simultaneously the best and the worst thing I’ve ever seen and goddammit, why does he have to be so pretty?

“Lowering the voting age?” he asks. “You don’t actually care about that stuff, do you?”

Martha’s opening her mouth but it’s too late – I’m laughing, too loud, and now everyone is staring at me. Oh God, I can see the Nutella stain out of the corner of my eye. I know it’s there.

“No, no, of course not! Voting’s like, for dorks, or whatever. God. Ew. I mean, so last year!”

He smiles. “Great. For a second I thought you were like, a square or something.”

“Me? No way! I’m…triangular?”

He laughs. Oh God. Is it possible to get pregnant from this?

“You’re funny. Hey, listen. I’m throwing a rager Friday night. You should swing by sometime.”

Omigod. Oh my God. Trent Calliber has just asked me out. Trent fudging Calliber. OK Cassidy, play it cool, play it cool. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for.

“I mean, I guess I could,” I say, tossing my hair. Bonus – now it covers up the Nutella stain! “I mean, if I’m not too busy.”

“Oh, Cass,” says Martha, “Friday’s when we’re going to that –”

“So where is your place?” I say, nudging her out of the way. “And what time should I get there? And do I need to bring anything? Is there a dress code? What about –”

He laughs again. I really am going to have to ask the nurse about this pregnancy thing. “Relax, babe,” he says, and my entire body is going did you hear that he called me babe!, so relaxing is kind of off the menu now. “Just be there.”


He walks away. Martha frowns up at me, but she’s my best friend, so I don’t mind.

“I thought you said you were coming to my thing. I’ve bought the tickets.”

Trent is still walking away – slowly, thank God. My body is so tingly I literally cannot think about anything else and I’ve lost all motor function in my arms. Guess that’s why I’ve dropped my Trig folder.

“Did you hear?” I whisper, “he called me babe.”



My full book-cookbook can be found here. Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Heh heh heh. (image:

Book Recipes: How to Write a Country House Mystery

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at the country house murder mystery. Let’s hope we live through all twenty steps.



  • A big old spooky house
  • An assorted group of debonair guests. Choose your own flavours from any of the following:
    • The Ingénue
    • A crusty old man
    • A prim and proper widow
    • A bounder and a cad
    • The Femme Fatale
    • Loveable newlyweds
    • The idle rich
  • A sinister butler
  • Storms
  • So much alcohol
  • Unreliable phone lines/roads/Wi-Fi
  • Dark yet slightly sexy secrets



  1. All your characters have been invited to a big country house, for plot reasons. They make small talk like they aren’t going to die.
  2. There’s a big storm! Better gather everyone in one room. It’s not important. I’m sure it’ll be fine – oh, all the lights have gone out.
  4. Some of your guests try and leave, but they can’t! Those unreliable phone lines are down, or the road is flooded, or maybe someone has just Lemonade-ed over all the cars.

  1. Gather your guests in one big room, along with any servants you might have lying about the place. One of them is a MURDERER.
  2. Decide that the best thing to do is wait until morning in one big group. That way no-one will –
  4. Pick a character who will survive until at least step 18 and follow them around for a bit. This one is almost certainly not the murderer, but you never know.
  5. Pick your first suspect. You’re going to want to choose someone who is ridiculously suspicious because –
  6. Oh, no, looks like they’re dead. Never mind.
  7. Okay, obviously it wasn’t suspect number one. Who else could it be? Have your main POV character ponder this for a bit while they wander spooky corridors.
  8. Have another big meeting with the remaining characters. Someone is acting suspicious…
Hmmm… (image:
  1. Settle on suspect number two. This should be less obvious than suspect number one, but still not something you’d really have to reach for. Someone who your main character has seen sneaking off down a corridor, or having a –
  2. Oh, no, they’re dead too. My bad.
  3. Some more murders happen and everyone is very distressed. First to go is anyone who decides to leave and get help, so your best bet is to keep your main character hidden behind the sofa.
  4. You have found A Clue. Oh boy! This sure takes your mind off all those murders.
  5. We’ve narrowed it down to our third and final suspect. All the clues point to them. There’s no-one else it could be. Gird your loins and get ready to confront the –
  6. Oh, they’re dead as well. Huh. So the real murderer must be…
  8. The butler explains his evil plan for the readers’ convenience and advances on the main character. But just when he’s about to do another murder, we reach the end of our twenty-step guide and he’s arrested.

THE END. Serve with tea and flickering lights.


  • This one comes with an alternate ending! If you’re feeling especially bleak, just have your butler kill everybody and waltz off into the sunset with all their stuff. Make sure he still explains his plan though, that part’s important.
  • Detectives are optional. Feel free to invite one along, but just be aware that in steps 1 and 2 they’re going to have to earn their keep by deducing where people went on their holidays.
  • Make sure to choose the right kind of dark secrets. They can’t be too dark or you’ll put the guests off their champagne. The best ones are sexy and melodramatic.
  • Always include at least one hysterical woman, and one man who thinks the first murder is an elaborate prank.
  • No-one ever, ever suspects the butler.
giphy spanish inquisition
You all knew I was going to make this joke. (image:
  • Choose your setting carefully. The past is your best bet, because Wi-Fi and working phone lines can really ruin a good murder mystery. Nobody likes a detective who relies on Google.
  • Don’t make your creepy house too creepy or the genres will get muddled. Also, don’t make it gross. Nobody wants to bleed to death on a grubby floor.


And here’s one I prepared earlier…


“I expect you’re all wondering why I called you here.”

The guests were in the drawing room, settling into chairs with coffee. The butler, Stabbington, moved discreetly round the room, topping up glasses of port. Alice Sinclair placed a hand over her glass and sat up straight. It was awfully fun to be asked to join the adults.

Her host, Sir Jeffrey Spishous-Mann, had got to his feet. The room fell silent. Apart from the howling wind the house was quiet. Crumbleigh Place was on top of a mountain, swathed in snow, and was only accessible after a three-day journey through a dark and creeping forest. Alice thought it was jolly exciting. The house reminded her of a Gothic novel, or one of those perfectly thrilling horror pictures she and the girls had snuck out to see at Bletherleys. If Bunty could have seen her now, she would have thought her terribly sophisticated.

Stabbington took a discreet step forward and murmured in his master’s ear. Sir Jeffrey frowned. “What? Now?”

“I’m afraid it cannot wait, sir.”

“Very good.” He turned back to his guests. “Do serve yourselves, gentlemen, ladies. Stabbington will be in the kitchen sharpening his knives. Where was I?”

An old man who’d been introduced to Alice as Major Edmund Blakely-Smythe spluttered in his chair. “Eh? What?”

His aged sister leaned over and patted his knee. “Sir Jeffrey was just about to tell us something, Edmund.”

“What? Speak up! Get him to speak up, Agnes.”

Sir Jeffrey cleared his throat again. “As I was saying. I expect you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here…”

There was a sudden bang. Alice flinched. Her neighbour – a tall young man wearing an ascot and a predatory expression – laid a hand on her arm.

“No need to be afraid,” he murmured, offering her his hand, “I shall protect you. Jonty Framlingham-Piggott, at your service.”

Alice shook it, blushing. She wished she was wearing lipstick. “Alice Sinclair. Absolutely super to meet you.”

He took a drag on his cigarette. “Isn’t it just. Cigarette, Miss Sinclair?”

“Oh, I –”

Stabbington came back into the room, smoothing his hair back into place and brushing snow off his shoulders. “I do apologise, sir. The cleaning gun went off.”

Major Blakeley-Smythe squinted at him. “Eh? What’d the butler chap say?”

“He says the cleaning gun went off, Edmund,” Agnes yelled into his ear.

“Damn shame,” the Major said. “Happened in India once. Chap never did get it back. Last saw the damn thing swimming in the Ganges.”

Sir Jeffrey took a deep breath. “Anyway. Now that you’re all here, I shall reveal to you…”

Jonty leaned forward and whispered in Alice’s ear. “Frightfully dull, isn’t it? Let’s slip away for a moment. I’ve picked up a few things on my travels I’d be delighted to show you.”

Alice blushed. Matron hadn’t said anything about this. “Souvenirs, do you mean?”

He flicked the ash off his cigarette and smirked. “Of course, dear girl.”

Sir Jeffrey was counting to ten. “As I was saying…”

Stabbington bustled over to the drinks cabinet. He knelt down, fussing with a little packet of powder, and saw Alice looking. “I beg your pardon, Miss.”

“Is that…rat poison?”

Stabbington shoved the powder into his pocket. “Yes. For the rats.”

“In the drinks cabinet?”


“Oh. Well, I suppose they can be very clever little fellows.”

Stabbington straightened up, and Alice saw a flash of brass by every one of his knuckles. He had an awful lot of rings, for a butler. “Very clever indeed, Miss. Do excuse me.”

He left the room. Sir Jeffrey set down his glass. “As I was saying…”

“Eh? What?”

“He’s about to tell us something, Edmund…”

Sir Jeffrey stood on his chair and yelled “I’m very rich and I’m about to die!”

There was a long silence. Snow whirled against the glass; wind howled down the chimney. The guests all stared at their host, who climbed down from his chair.

“Good,” he said. “Now that I have your attention –”

All the lights went out. Then, there was a scream.



My full book-cookbook can be found here. Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Heh heh heh. (image:

Book Recipes: How to Write a Billionaire Romance

Time for another book recipe! This week I’ll be looking at the ever-popular ‘romance with a billionaire’ genre. Grab your credit card and get ready to smoulder.



  • One ridiculously sexy billionaire
  • One transparently obvious stand-in for the reader
  • Diamonds
  • A team of highly-trained professionals the billionaire can order around
  • A token rival
  • Skyscrapers
  • Fancy parties
  • Enough money to last forever.



  1. Introduce your transparent stand-in. She’s just your everyday girl who enjoys normal human activities, like breathing and having no opinions of her own.
  2. She has to go to a fancy party, because the plot says so! Make sure the reader knows how much she hates getting dressed up by describing her outfit in loving detail.
  3. Feast your eyes on the most jaw-droppingly hot man you have ever, EVER seen.
  4. And he’s also rich. So rich.
  5. They meet! Even though the protagonist has all the personality of a wet flannel he’s totally into her.
  6. The rival is there. They don’t do anything, this is just so we remember their name for later on.
  7. She goes home, utterly convinced she’ll never see him again. For they live in different worlds, and how could she ever hope to –
  8. PSYCH! Look who it is!
giphy snape
He’s been here THE WHOLE TIME. (image: giphy,com)
  1. The sexy billionaire is here to take our formless amoeba of a protagonist on a date. It’s the best date in the history of all dates, ever.
  2. Agonise about whether the sexy billionaire likes the protagonist or not. Sure, he’s taken her out on several diamond-encrusted dates and bought her the planet Jupiter, but how does he really feeeeeeeeeellll?
  3. The sexy billionaire just buys her stuff.
  4. The rival shows up, oh no! Now the protagonist feels all insecure.
  5. But wait, here comes sexy billionaire to turn all her problems into gold. Yay!
  6. Makeover scene!


giphy makeover
…this seems accurate. (image:
  1. There’s a big fancy party coming up. It’s super important, for business reasons. But it’s also on the same day as protagonist’s other thing. Make sure the two romantic leads never discuss this like adults.
  2. Sexy billionaire and protagonist have a third-act argument, because we need enough tension to spin out the ending until step twenty.
  3. And then the rival appears…with the sexy billionaire!
  4. Protagonist goes to her other thing by herself, mopily, and is sure she’ll die alone.
  5. BUT LOOK WHO IT IS! Sexy billionaire turns up at the last minute to fix everything. He explains the stuff with the rival and it’s never a sex thing.
  6. And they all lived happily ever after.


THE END. Serve on a bed of jewels.



  • The less time you spend developing your protagonist the better. Don’t waste time on showcasing her personality and get straight to the shirtless billionaire parts.
  • If your sexy billionaire wants to do something nice for the protagonist, he can’t do it himself. Always remember that he is far too busy and important to actually make anything – he can just send an assistant to buy something better instead.
  • The rival is always, always blonde.
  • Don’t worry about the logistics of how your romantic leads meet. It doesn’t have to make sense, as long as it’s hot.
  • If your characters have sex, remember these two rules:
    • The heroine is always a virgin, so we don’t have to witness any adult conversations about past relationships
    • The sexy billionaire is always the absolute best at sex in the entire world
  • Give your protagonist a relatable flaw, like clumsiness, to distract from the fact that she is essentially a damp slice of bread.
The CUTEST slice of bread. (image:
  • Make sure your protagonist complains about her newfound wealth all the time, so everyone knows she’s not a gold-digger.


And here’s one I prepared earlier…


Even though I’m sitting in the ballroom of the Gold Hotel, I still can’t believe I agreed to do this. I should’ve told my boss no. But the features editor got sick at the last minute and here I am, plain old Bianca Slate, trying to act like a real reporter and cover the annual Billionaires’ Ball.

Nobody’s fooled. It doesn’t matter that I’m all dressed up in a sparkling silver floor-length ballgown with a slit up the side that’s held up by a diamond necklace, and my chestnut-brown hair is pulled into an elaborate updo with a few elegant curls tumbling around my face. I just don’t fit in here. All the other guests are tanned and sparkly, and know how to use a bouillabaisse whisk. It doesn’t matter that some of them are chinless from centuries of inbreeding. They belong.

The sooner I can leave, the better. I don’t like fancy parties. I don’t even like getting dressed up. Letting the professional make-up artist create a personalised look for me that perfectly complemented my features and outfit took oceans of patience I didn’t know I had. And I made a fool of myself. I cringe just thinking about the conversation we had:

“What’s that?” I’d said, pointing to a weird thing on the make-up artist’s table. It sort of looked like a fuzzy stick of broccoli.

She stared at me. “It’s a brush.”

God, how stupid! How could anyone not know that? She probably told everyone, and now they’re all laughing.

I get up to leave and trip over my sparkly dress. My glass of champagne spills all over a blonde woman but before I hit the floor, someone catches me.

“Careful,” he says.

It is, without a doubt, the sexiest way someone has told me to be careful in my whole life. I look up, into the face of the most attractive man I have ever seen. Obsidian hair, jade-green eyes, perfectly chiselled cheekbones and designer stubble. I’m blushing just looking at him.

And then he smiles at me and suddenly I’ve forgotten how to speak.

“Are you OK? That was quite a fall,” he says, sexily.


He grins, scoops me up in his arms and there’s this strange tingling feeling everywhere. Everywhere. I really wish I’d paid attention in Sex Ed. “You know, I really ought to thank you for throwing champagne on Gloria. I didn’t think I’d ever get away from her.”


“I didn’t catch your name, by the way,” he murmurs, putting me down on a red velvet chaise longue. “I’m Jack Roman.”

Jack Roman. Jack Roman, the billionaire, who owns all the world’s shipping companies, the patents for drones, smartphones and zips, and South America. Jack Roman who I’ve been sent here to interview. I try and unstick my jaw.

“Bincngka Sljumpt.”

“Bincngka? How…unusual.”

I clear my throat, face burning. “Um, sorry, no. It’s Bianca. Um. Sorry.”

He grins at me. Later on, I’m going to have to look up if it’s possible to get pregnant just from eye contact. “Well, Bianca,” he says, handing me a gold-plated business card, “if you’d like to continue this conversation somewhere more private just let me know.”

I drop the business card, nodding frantically. He hands it back with a flourish, kisses my hand, and walks away. My face is still very red.

I bet he thinks I’m a total idiot. He probably hates me.



My full book-cookbook can be found here. Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Heh heh heh. (image:

Book Recipes: How to Write a YA Paranormal Romance

Time for another book recipe – the last one of 2017. This time I’ll be looking at YA paranormal romances, so grab the nearest mythological creature and get ready to fall in love.



  • One aggressively average teenage girl
  • A totally mysterious hottie
  • A handful of bastardised folk beliefs and legends
  • High school
  • A slightly-less-hot third wheel
  • An incompetent, sneery villain
  • One spooky but still cool setting
  • Assorted mix of high school students, mythological creatures and authority figures, all to be ignored



  1. Introduce your aggressively average main character to the rest of the cast, and to the reader. She’s new in town, like always.
  2. Mention the bastardised folk beliefs/legends you’ll be ripping off inspired by, but do it quickly because –
  3. It’s time to meet our hottie! Make sure the reader knows how dreamy he is by describing him with the most over-the-top language you can muster, having literally everybody fancy him, and by having one mysterious yet still-totally-hot feature.
  4. Ooh, he’s so mysterious!
  5. Oh, and the third wheel is here.
  6. But never mind that! The hottie has finally noticed the main character! Talk about his eyes some more. He’s so tall…
  7. One of the background characters mentions the spooky legends some more. Maybe you should pay attention, once you’ve finished deciphering the hottie’s latest text.
  8. The main character and the hottie are getting closer, but something is mysteriously coming between them! Oh no, what could it be? Definitely not those legends we’re ignoring!
  9. Angst.
giphy angst
No-one understands. (image:
    1. The hottie is so mysterious. The main character just wants to be with him, but he’s dangerous. But he’s also hot. But he’s dangerous! But he’s hot! Go and cry about it on the third wheel’s shoulder.
    2. Spooky happenings are in the background, but they’re not quite interesting enough to distract the main character from the thought of abs.
    3. The hottie’s terrible secret is finally revealed! Turns out all those glaringly obvious clues about supernatural creatures were pointing to him all along! Oh, but how could any girl love such a hideously attractive monster? Surely the main character shall faint now she knows the awful truth!
    4. She doesn’t. They make out.
    5. More spooky stuff is going on the background, but the main character understands it now. Feel superior to all the normies for a bit.
    6. Well we’ve still got five more steps to go and the last third of the book hasn’t been written. Time to add a pointless villain into the mix.
    7. The villain emerges, sneeringly. In a shocking display of competence he kidnaps the main character, probably because of a prophecy or something. This is the only time he ever does anything right.
    8. The main character is about to die. Oh no. Who will rescue her from this terrible predicament.
I’m really cut up about this. (
  1. It’s the hottie, of course! They have a fight, during which he is attractively but not seriously wounded, and the sneery villain is defeated…
  2. …just in time for the big dance! High school sure is fun now we know that paranormal beings are real.
  3. Drop a spooky hint at the end that lets you spin this out into a series.

THE END. Serve on a bed of shirtless, supernatural hotties.



  • Even though your main character is in high school, she must never have any actual learning or homework to do. Lessons should be reserved for moping, significant stares, and summarising stuff that’s already happened in the character’s internal monologue.
  • Make sure you have a really good aesthetic. It doesn’t matter what actually happens as long as you could make a Pinterest board out of it.
  • Always use first-person, but make sure to say as little about the main character as possible. It’s not like we’re here to read a sensitive and nuanced portrayal of a teenage girl, don’t be silly!
  • Include shirtless scenes. These are entirely necessary to the plot and your readers will thank you.
giphy burgundy
It is. (image:
  • Don’t worry about accurate representations of the myths and legends you’re ripping off inspired by. No-one’s going to care about that when there are hotties nearby!
  • Everyone over the age of twenty-five is wrong, stupid or dead.
  • Never, ever, ever resolve the inevitable conflict of a human dating a supernatural being. You want this to be a series, don’t you?
  • Don’t forget the stupid names! Make sure they are the least subtle names you can possibly come up with. If you think Wolfgang Wolfson might be a bit on-the-nose for a werewolf, you need to lower your standards.


And here’s one I prepared earlier…


The clifftop hotel had obviously been abandoned for a while now. I knew that just by looking at it – the big stone steps leading up to the front door were chipped, and all the windows were stained – but I still went inside. Bay had asked me to meet him here, and I didn’t want to seem like a baby in front of him.

Inside was just as bad. The big front desk was all dusty and all the plaster was flaking off the walls. I dinged the brass bell on the counter and it cracked apart under my hand. Behind the receptionist’s desk was a dusty grid of pigeonholes, some with yellowing envelopes still inside them, and an old wall phone with a cone-shaped mouthpiece.

How could Bay – Bay Waterford Vodianoy, the hottest boy in school – be living here?

I shivered and pulled my jacket a little closer. Across the lobby was a wide staircase, carpeted in threadbare red, and a chandelier hung above it. It tinkled gently in the sea breeze, coming in sharp and salty through the broken windows. I could hear the crash of the waves on the rocks below.

“I didn’t think you’d make it this far,” said a voice.

I whirled around. Standing in a doorway was Bay, looking totally dark and mysterious in a black leather jacket. His obsidian eyes flashed like burning coals, and his brilliant, diamond-white hair caught the light as he walked towards me, attractively. I could see why every girl in school – even the head cheerleader, Angie, who was always so mean to me – wanted him so badly.

“I got your note. Do you really live here?”

He smouldered at me. “It suits my needs. I like to be close to the water.”

“But isn’t this where all those people who died in that terrible shipwreck were staying?”

Sam, my best friend, had told me all about it. Seventy years ago a group of guests staying at Coldwater’s best and most expensive hotel took their yacht out to sea, got caught in a mysterious storm and never came back. I was kind of interested in the town’s history, so he’d hunted down an incredibly rare first-edition volume of Coldwater’s local legends, had it professionally gift-wrapped, and gave it to me as a Tuesday gift. He’s such a good friend.

Bay shrugged, in a way that showed off all his muscles. “Doesn’t bother me. I like living in a place with secrets.”


He took my hand. I immediately lost all feeling in my legs and almost collapsed, but Bay held me upright. He’s so strong. And tall. But also mysterious, with the secret tattoo he always tries to hide…

“I’ll show you.”

Still holding hands, we went through a door tucked behind the front desk and down a rickety wooden staircase. I almost tripped three times, but Bay stopped me from falling. Eventually he just picked me up, bridal style, and carried me down the staircase, wheezing a bit. I didn’t mind. It was still really hot. The staircase was lit by candles all along the walls, and by their light I could see the tip of his tattoo – green wavy lines just touching the end of his collarbones. It sort of looked a bit like seaweed, but I don’t know why anyone would get that tattooed on them.

Eventually we came to an old stone passage, which opened up into a cave. There were candles everywhere and natural rock pools, and the sea rushed in and out somewhere at the other end of the tunnel. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen – apart from Bay’s face, of course. Or his arms. Or his abs. I hadn’t seen those, but I bet they were great.

Bay put me down, rubbing his arms a bit. He leaned against the wall and looked away, his floppy hair hiding his face.

“How much do you know about the history of this place, Aurora?” he asked.

It was the first time he’s ever said my name. I wished I’d taped it.

“I know about the hotel guests, if that’s what you mean?”

“And before that?”

Sam had told me about some of that stuff too. Apparently there was this old local legend that Coldwater had first been founded when a shipwrecked family had been saved by a mysterious water-spirit. Sam had got his old grandmother to tell me all about it, and then taken me out for fresh lobster because it was Wednesday. He’s such a good friend.

“I’ve heard the stories.”

I was shivering. Bay took off his leather jacket and put it around my shoulders, his expression unreadable. It smelled like the sea. I stared into his dark eyes and for a second, he almost looked scared.

“Then it’s time for me to show you what I am.”

He stepped into the water. There was a bright light, a vaguely tinkling sound, and then Bay was standing in a rock pool, shirtless and wet. His abs were everything I had dreamed of and now, I knew I could die happy. I could finally see his tattoo clearly as well – it was of long, twisting ropes of seaweed going all the way up his arm. The bits on his bicep were very intricate and complicated, so I stared at them just to make sure I could picture it properly. Y’know, for later on.

Then, he went blue, took a great heaving breath and collapsed into the water.

“Bay!” I yelled, running forward. I tripped, and his hands shot out of the rock pool and caught me before I hit the floor.

“Sorry,” he said, still up to his neck in the water. “It’s a bit touch and go when the gills come in.”

I stared. He did have gills, and I was pretty sure that his hands and feet were webbed, too.

“I don’t understand.”

Bay took my face in his hands and stared into my eyes. “I’m saying that the legends are true, Aurora. Everything you’ve heard about the water-spirits is real. Until we turn twenty-one we take a human form, but when we’re in the water – we turn into this hideous monster!”

I took a good look at him. The webbed hands and feet were a bit distracting, but the gills were hardly noticeable. Aside from that he looked exactly the same, and more importantly, his transformation had somehow got rid of his shirt.

“I don’t think you’re a monster.”

“You don’t understand. At La Laguna Negra we’re told there’s only one way to escape becoming gross, scaly fish-monsters and that is to earn the love of a human before we turn twenty-one. You’ve no idea what that can do to someone! My brother, Gill – well, he’s definitely not showing up in the last three chapters, there’s no point talking about him. But – Aurora, I love you. I can’t keep this secret from you any longer. I…I just wanted you to know the truth before I say goodbye.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Well, yeah.” He held up his webbed hands and waggled them at me. “Y’know, gross fish-monster. I couldn’t put you through that.”

“Do you still need to breathe through your mouth when you’ve got gills?”

“No, but –”

I kissed him. I was lying on a cave floor, my head dangling over a rock pool, but it was still the best kiss anyone has ever had ever.

“You might be a fish-monster,” I said, “but I don’t think you’re gross at all. Unless – you don’t have any tentacles, do you?”

He pulled a face. “No! It’s fish-monster, not octopus-monster.”

“Okay, we’re cool. Budge up, I’m coming in.”


And that’s it for 2017! Normal service will resume in the New Year. My full book-cookbook can be found here. Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Heh heh heh. (image:

Book Recipes: How to Write a Space Opera

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at space opera. Grab your laser sword and let’s get started!



  • The Chosen One
  • An assorted band of noble heroes. Choose your own flavours from any of the following:
    • The wise old sage
    • The gullible, bumbling innocent
    • Space princess
    • A loveable rogue who may or may not betray you later on
    • Team mascot
  • The Most Evil Villain Ever
  • Several unnecessary planets
  • Space war
  • A sweeping, epic romance
  • Vats full of DRAMA



  1. The Most Evil Villain Ever is threatening the galaxy. Oh no! If only there was a hero who could stop them!
  2. Enter the Chosen One, who almost never twigs that they’ve actually been chosen. They sit around doing nothing much important until…
  3. …the band of noble heroes arrive! The Chosen One dithers, but eventually gets in their spaceship.
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Much like this. (image:
  1. Time to dodge the villain’s henchmen and deliver some exposition! Bonus points if you can do so mid-laser battle.
  2. Kickstart the romance. There is a spark but alas, they cannot be together because reasons.
  3. Go to a different planet. Make sure your readers get a look at how weird it is.
  4. The Chosen One is doing pretty well! Have a little skirmish with some of the baddies so we can see how far they’ve come.
  5. But uh-oh, the villain has found out about them! Time for a sinister monologue.
  6. Go to another planet which is different from the other one. Don’t worry, it’s still weird.
  7. A trap!
  8. Kill off your wise old sage. It’s nothing personal, this is just what always happens to fictional mentors.
  9. Go to a different but still weird planet to do some soul-searching and maybe have a training montage.
  10. The romance is getting interesting! If only those pesky reasons weren’t in the way.
  11. But then A BETRAYAL! The Chosen One barely escapes, but everyone else is captured. Captured, not dead, because even villains know you don’t kill off the hostages when we’re heading for the third act.
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It is. (image:
  1. The Chosen One flails a bit, but decides to accept their destiny. Time for THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN.
  2. Enter the villain’s lair (on a different and creepy planet). You won’t get shot when you walk in; the villain’s passed around the memo about the third act.
  3. Confront the Most Evil Villain Ever. Everyone else is tied up and dangling over a pit of lava, probably, but you’ve still got time for a chat. Get ready for a deep, dark secret to be revealed, but don’t take it to heart – we’ve got to wrap things up.
  5. The villain presents you with an impossible choice: save your friends or thwart their evil plans. Oh no! HOW CAN YOU CHOOSE???
  6. You don’t. The Chosen One uses their powers, saves their friends, thwarts the villain’s plan, and hits the button which says ‘Disassemble Evil Empire’. The romance is resolved and everyone goes home for tea and medals.





  • Don’t forget the ‘opera’ part of the equation. Singing is optional but all your plots, characters and backstory should be needlessly melodramatic.
  • Stuck on the planets? Don’t bother making them all as geographically and biologically diverse as Earth, that would take ages! Just pick a thing and make a planet of it, like so: ‘ice planet’, ‘bug planet’, ‘cheese planet’, etc.
  • Don’t worry about explaining how stuff actually works. We’re here for spaceships and laser battles, not for physics.
  • Aliens are great for background characters, but never include them in your main group of heroes. How will your readers be able to tell if they’re good or evil if they’re slimy?
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  • Forbidden romances are your new best friends. But don’t make them too forbidden. No-one’s going to want to read about a romance between a beautiful space princess and a giant floating nostril.
  • Don’t forget your future prefixes: ‘cyber-’, ‘holo-’, and ‘laser-’. Put them everywhere.
  • Only your villain and background aliens really need to have weird names. Alice and Bob are fine names for your band of heroes, but no-one will take the Dark Lord Billy seriously.


And here’s one I made earlier…


The moon of Frostilia glittered like a diamond. From her vantage point in the cockpit, Rin could see the vast blue surface of the planet. Below, the infamous trull-beasts would be stalking out of their snowy caves, searching for mukda fish in the nitrogen lakes and eating anyone foolish enough to disturb them. Not that they would. They had enough to contend with, what with Lord Qryk’akjuk’s spies.

Then, it exploded.

“Well that’s just great,” snapped Kai Aban. “Now how will we get paid? Gage, check the holo-stabilisers.”

Gage Sparx adjusted his goggles, tripped, picked himself up and went to check a thing that beeped and flashed. It was very important. “Cyber-drive capacity is at fifteen percent, Captain.”

Kai swore. “Fix it!”

Rin tore herself away from the glittery bits of planet. “I don’t understand,” she said, “who could do such a thing?”

“That’s the kind of thing we’re up against, kid,” Kai said, poking at the holo-dashboard. Something beeped, but in a bad way. “These guys ain’t playing around.”

“I got that, they just blew up a planet.”

Kai glared at her. “Leave the sarcasm to the professionals, kid. You just concentrate on your training.”

Gage fiddled about with some wires. There was a spark, a bang, and he went flying across the ship. Rin ignored him and sat down in a huff.

“But I don’t understand,” she said. “How in all the galaxy could I be the one to defeat Lord Qryk’akjuk? Three days ago I was just a simple miner on my home planet of Quarri-27. Then, suddenly, Lord Qryk’akjuk’s troops invaded the mining colony, imprisoned my childhood sweetheart and told us all that unless we revealed the location of the –”

“Yes, we know,” yelled Gage over the buzz of a power saw, “we were there.”

Rin ignored him and put a dramatic hand to her forehead. “– and suddenly I began to glow, and felt a strange magnetic kind of feeling, and also I levitated off the ground for a little while. But surely that can’t mean –”

There was a puff of smoke. Kai flipped a switch and it snapped off. “Yeah, we know,” he growled, “we saw.”

“– and now, I find myself at the centre of a galactic intrigue, caught between the mysterious Princess Ashara and the evil Lord Qryk’akjuk, with nary a soul I can trust, and I don’t know when I shall see my childhood sweetheart again but I swear, my love, I shall return!”

She finished, dramatically gesturing at the ceiling.

“It’s no good, Kai,” Gage said, “we need supplies. Our laser-ports are at thirteen point four.”

Kai smacked the dashboard and swore again, because he was a maverick. “We’re going to have to make a pit stop. What’s the closest space-port?”

Gage pulled up the holo-map. “Formaggio? No, wait, Ellenidor. But we’d have to pass through the Brugdefsel Asteroid Belt. It’s risky, Kai.”

Kai grinned. “Risky is my middle name.”

“No it’s not,” said Gage, “it’s Roger.”

“Well I’m going to change it to Risky and then you’ll have to shut up, won’t you?”

Rin glared at them both. “Have you been listening to a word I said?”

“Oh, sure,” Kai lied, while Gage hid behind a cyber-spanner. “You raised some really good points.”

Rin beamed. “Great! I wanted to get your advice on something, though. As you know, growing up I was always an outsider. I never knew my father, who all said mysteriously disappeared the night I was born and has never been discussed since. But just last week, I found a secret stash of –”

Kai put the spaceship in gear and drove off. He would have to try very, very hard not to aim straight for the asteroids.



My full book-cookbook can be found here. Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Heh heh heh. (image:

Book Recipes: How to Write a Teen Horror

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at teen horror. Let’s head up to the creepy old mansion and get started!



  • An assorted group of expendable teenage victims
  • One spooky location
  • Dire warnings that everybody ignores
  • Ghooooooooosts
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  • A series of graphic and horrible deaths
  • A generous dollop of sheer stupidity
  • Creepy shadows
  • Screaming



  1. Drench your spooky location in creepy legends. It doesn’t matter what they are, or if they make no sense. You’ve just got to make it clear that no-one in their right mind would ever go there, ever.
  2. Let’s go there!
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  1. Nerd Teen tells us all about the creepy legends. It includes a detail which is quite obviously Very Important. Everyone ignores them.
  2. The teens are walking around the spooky place. There are mildly spooky noises, but they all assume that they are the work of the Worst Teen, who is probably called Brad.
  3. Doors mysteriously close. The words LEAVE NOW write themselves on the walls. Random objects start to bleed. Ignore them – it’s probably just Brad.
  4. Someone is separated from the group! They’re definitely dead. Better stick together and quietly and respectfully leave while everyone’s still alive.
  5. Screw that, let’s split up! And make jokes about the ghosts! That couldn’t possibly backfire.
  6. Spooky things are picking off the teens one by one! Instead of leaving like sensible people, they scream ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US?!?!?’ and knock things over.
  7. Time for the first extravagantly silly and disgusting death. It’s gross.
  8. Blonde Teen starts screaming.
  9. More horrific and gross deaths! Make sure to bring a sick bag.
  10. Worst Teen takes advantage of everyone being isolated and scared to do something really awful. He dies, and people are just so sad.
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  1. Time to consult those creepy legends! We’re about two-thirds of the way through now, so we need a Get Out of Jail Free card.
  2. Wait a minute. What if that Very Important Detail actually…matters?
  3. Try and regroup. Armed with knowledge they should have listened to earlier, the teens can now defeat the monster!
  4. But first they need a thing. Go and find it!
  5. They find the thing, hooray! But oh no, some more of them have died, gross-ly.
  6. Quick! Time to use the thing to defeat the monster before the last stroke of midnight or whatever!
  7. Hooray, you did it! Limp home in the sunlight and hope no-one asks about all your dead friends. Everything’s fine.
  8. OR IS IT???

THE END. Serve on a mysterious tome that you should never, ever open.



  • Stuck on a location? Traditionalists go for abandoned mansions, disused asylums and any kind of burial ground. It doesn’t matter what it is as long as it’s dark, isolated and makes weird noises.
  • Always set it at night. Daytime is not spooky.

  • Include a wide range of teens, but don’t bother giving them actual personalities because they’re just going to die. Football Teen, Nerd Teen, Blonde Teen and Prank Teen are all solid choices, but why stop there? There’s only one thing you need to remember: all of them must be as dumb as a bag of rocks.
  • Never, ever, ever include any responsible adults.
  • Always leave a loophole in your creepy legends, but feel free to ignore it if you want a great cliffhanger ending.
  • The ghosts’ behaviour doesn’t need to make sense. They’re ghosts! All they need to do is drift about spookily, smash stuff, and occasionally tear people into pieces. Logic is for the living!
  • Don’t call the police. Don’t leave the spooky place. Don’t stick together in a quiet, respectful group and slowly back away. That would be sensible and we can’t have that.


And here’s one I prepared earlier…


The moon was high over the old Darkmore place. Leaves skittered across the ground. Bats shrieked in the trees. As the five friends stared up at the old house, a cloud drifted over the moon, and Janey caught a glimpse of something moving at the window. A knife? No. It was probably just Brad.

“Are you guys sure this is a good idea?”

Lauren, who was blonde, rolled her eyes. “Come on, Janey, don’t be lame. Everyone knows Darkmore Mansion is the best place for a Halloween party.”

Something screamed in the woods. Janey flinched.

Russell, who had glasses, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Actually, the history of the house is fascinating. It was built on an ancient burial ground which was later used to execute seventeenth-century witches. The house was only built in 1846, when Hugo von Darkmore, a mysterious landowner, fled his native Bulgaria after being accused of committing unspeakable acts with –”

“Are you dorks still hanging around?”

Brad came out of the house, wearing a beer hat and a football jersey. Behind him, the front door creaked slowly shut.

“Did anyone see that?” Janey said, “that door just closed by itself.”

“Be cool, Janey!” Lauren hissed. “You better not ruin this for me with Brad!”

She went over to him. Kyle and Cole followed, high-fiving and exchanging fist bumps, and Janey wondered why they had both chosen to wear T-shirts with enormous targets printed right over their hearts. There was a strange howl from the woods. It sounded like someone – or something – was yelling “Goooooooo!”

Janey shrugged. It was probably nothing.

“Anyway,” Russell continued, “after the mysterious fire, which no-one survived, the house became an asylum specialising in the most murderous inmates, which was mysteriously closed down after…”

The wind rustled through the trees. For a second Janey thought she saw a face at one of the windows, but she blinked and it was gone. What she did see was a viscous dark liquid oozing out from one of the windowsills.

“Russell,” she said, trying to keep calm, “I think that window is bleeding.”

“…and of course after they found the altar…oh, that? That’s nothing to worry about. It’s a common household problem for these big old places.”

“Is it?”

“Oh yes. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the big pile of skulls. The really interesting thing was that none of them quite seemed to match a human head…”

There was that noise again. “Gooooooo!”, it seemed to say. But that couldn’t be right. A door slammed and Janey jumped again.

“Brad! Cut it out!” Lauren laughed.

The wind rustled through the trees again, and this time, it almost sounded like a very irritated sigh. Janey looked up. The face at the window was back, but this time, it had no eyes.

“…but really all of these unexplained apparitions are just, you know, ball lightning, unusual acoustics, and the restless dead. There’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Russell, I really think there’s someone in there.”

“Oh, it’s probably just Brad.”

“Brad’s outside!”

“Yes, but you know what he’s like. D’you want a beer?”

Now, the wind rustling in the trees sounded a lot like ghostly swearing. All the windows started to bleed at once, and smoke spontaneously curled out of every chimney.

“Sweet, brah! Party tricks!” yelled Kyle, fist-bumping Brad.

Janey stared up at the smoke. It had begun to form strange shapes – skulls, pentagrams, and the words ‘JUST GO’ in big scary letters.

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” she said.

‘YES IT IS’, spelled the smoke.

Cole and Kyle just booed her. Lauren glared. “God, Janey! Don’t be such a baby!”

Janey hesitated. There was that howl again – but this time, it almost sounded like the words “What do I have to do to make you leeeeeeeave?”

Brad shrugged. “Hey, it’s cool, brah. You can go home if you’re too chicken.”

Janey froze. Then she marched into the house – past the creepy woods, the graveyard filled with eerie tombstones, and the inexplicably screaming statue – dragging Russell in after her. The rest of them all went inside, exchanging high fives.

There was a moment of silence.

Then, a ghostly voice said “Goddammit,”, and everything went black.


Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Heh heh heh. (image:

Book Recipes: How to Write a Noir Detective Thriller

Time for another book recipe! This time I’ll be looking at Noir fiction. Put on your trench coats and fedoras and let’s get started!



  • One hard-boiled, alcoholic private eye
  • One dame who done him wrong
  • A spectacularly grimy city, with skyscrapers
  • Entire vats of cynicism
  • An informant named either ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Benny’
  • Guns named after women
  • A sinister crime boss
  • Absolutely no happy endings
  • Trenchcoats



  1. Put your PI in a grimy office and have him monologue about things. It can’t be about anything happy or banal, and must be filled with questionable metaphors.
  2. In walks our femme fatale for the evening! They flirt.
  3. She wants him to investigate a murder, for reasons that are slightly dodgy.
  4. Our PI investigates the scene of the crime. There are Clues. All the important ones have been missed by the police, who are incompetent, corrupt, or both.
  5. Time to visit the informant and find out what he knows. He’ll tell you, because he’s a coward.
  6. Oh no! A Clue has led you to a place where criminals hang out! Time to treat your life with utter disdain and sneak in in the most brazen way possible. Hi-jinks ensue.

  1. The boss wants to see you. This is never good. You should monologue some more so the reader gets it.
  2. The sinister crime boss warns the PI to drop the case, stay away from the femme fatale, or similar. It’s a very tense conversation, and always done in front of hired goons.
  3. Ignore him! There’s still eleven steps to go.
  4. Meet up with the femme fatale again and flirt some more. Something she says doesn’t quite add up, but she’s hot, so it doesn’t matter.
  5. A gunfight! Join in.
  6. You have a Clue that contradicts the evidence of the first Clue, in a way that is too intricate and complex to articulate in a sarcastic twenty-step overview! WHAT CAN IT MEEEEAN?
  7. Something bad happens to slow down the investigation! It could be a break-in, a beat-up informant, or maybe even another murder. Monologue about it.
  8. The femme fatale and the PI have a tender/romantic/sexy moment together. Allow a brief sliver of hope, but get ready to crush it later.
  9. So close to finding out the truth! The PI just needs one more edge piece and the puzzle will be solved…
  10. …but oh no, he’s arrested! It’s highly suspicious.
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  1. The crime boss appears again, and offers the PI one last chance. Ignore him, he’s not the protagonist.
  2. Break out of jail! Have a chase scene! Punch a guy! Cram the last few pages with action.
  3. Turns out the femme fatale was behind it all along! What an absolute shocker.
  4. Finish off with a big gunfight. The PI survives, but the femme fatale, the crime boss, and that last sliver of hope definitely don’t. Walk off into the rain, bitterly.

THE END. Serve with plenty of liquor.



  • Always write in first person. If it doesn’t sound like a bitter drunk is telling you the story while slumped over a barstool, start again.
  • Not sure where to set it? It doesn’t really matter. Near future dystopia, Roaring Twenties, nursery rhymes – anywhere can be a noir setting if you put a depressing enough spin on it!
  • Never ever call women ‘women’. Only ever refer to them as dames, broads, doll, toots, or tomatoes. (That last one is not made up.)
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  • All your gangsters need to have nicknames. They don’t have to make sense, though.
  • Always make sure your main character has a cool name. He’s got to beat up bad guys and solve murders, and he can’t really do that if he’s got a name like Gerald.
  • Cram it full of questionable metaphors. If you get stuck, elaborate, and then put ‘if ya know what I mean’ on the end of the sentence. Readers will assume you are wise-cracking and witty, instead of thinking that you fell down the rabbit hole with a thesaurus in your hand. If ya know what I mean.
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YEAH YOU DO. (image:
  • Contractions and slang make your main character sound tough. ‘You’ is always ‘ya’, don’t hesitate to use no double negative, and always go for ‘gotta’ over ‘got to’. Proper grammar is for wusses.


And here’s one I prepared earlier…


They say this city used to be the kinda town where everyone knew each other. A guy couldn’t go a block without seein’ someone he knew. A little old lady with an apple pie. Maybe some kids, playin’ on the sidewalk. Musta been nice.

These days, it ain’t so pretty. Sure, there’s a few familiar faces. But they ain’t exactly friendly. Ya see ’em steppin’ out of alleys with a gat pointed at your belly and ya think ‘Gee, didn’t ya rob me last week?’

Not me, though. Nobody robs Mac Hunter. Even in this city, where sleepin’ in the gutter is a step up, nobody’s dumb enough to rob the best PI in town. Besides, they all know I’m broke.

Feet on the desk, I pour myself another glass of hooch. Business is slow, slower than a snail with a gammy leg. I oughtta be drummin’ up a case, but to hell with that. It’s rainin’. Always rains in this godforsaken city.

I light up a Camel. Yellow light stripes through the Venetian blinds, like a zebra, only one with really straight stripes that’s been turned ass over teakettle. Electricity broke two weeks ago and the landlord won’t do a damn thing about it. Says I oughtta be grateful for a place of my own. Hell. He oughtta be grateful he answers to Jimmy “Spoonface” Giuliani. If ol’ Spoonface wasn’t in the picture, he wouldn’t be so quick to run his mouth off.

There’s a knock at the door. Hell. Landlord, again.

“Velma! Get the door!” I yell, before I remember that Velma walked out last week. Said a secretary wanted payin’ in more’n just stale whiskey. She’ll be back. She sticks to me like gum that’s been covered in glue, and then dunked in molasses, and then glue, again. Never could say no to a man with a pack a day habit and a gun in his pocket.

But then the door opens, and trouble walks in. Turns out, trouble is a redhead.

Legs for days and all the way up to her waist, if ya know what I mean. Poured into a dress as black as a black cat in a coal cellar at midnight and with all the lights off. Curls like spiral staircases twirling up to the top of her head, and I couldn’t think of a man who wouldn’t slug a guy to climb ’em. Fur coat. Shiny gloves. A ring that coulda bought half the city, but that ain’t sayin’ much.

“Well?” she says, in a voice like November, “aren’t you going to give me a seat, Mr Hunter?”

Aw, hell. I tip an ashtray and a few empty bottles of hooch off of a chair. She shakes her head, mutters ‘November?’ and sits herself down. It’s like watching a bottle of oak-cask whiskey uncork itself and wriggle towards your hand.

She frowns. “Oak-cask whiskey?”

“Never mind. What can I do you for, Miss…”


“I betcha are.”

Mrs Lola Valentine.”

“He’s a lucky fella.”

She fits a cigarette into a long holder. Before I know it I’m lightin’ it for her, like some chubby little drone buzzin’ after the queen bee. Only, with cigarettes and a lighter in my fuzzy bee paws. Note to self: do bees have paws? Probably oughtta look that one up.

She gives me a strange look and takes a drag. “He’s a dead fella, Mr Hunter.”

Damn. Now I remember. Her dear departed husband musta been Frank “Steps” Valentine. Rich. Old. In the Mayor’s pocket and not the one at the back, if ya know what I mean. Shot in the back of the head not two weeks gone. Coroner ruled it a suicide. They always do.

“I know my husband’s death wasn’t a suicide,” she says, fixin’ me with a look that pinned me like a butterfly on a collector’s board. Only, a manly butterfly, with trenchcoat wings, a fedora, and a gat named Ginger in his hand. Antenna.

“Now, Mrs Valentine…”

“You know it too. I heard the tone of your monologue. I want you to find out who killed him. I’ll pay you well, of course.”

She knew I could do with the money. But “Steps” Valentine played a dangerous game, and I don’t mean no game that could be played with the lovely Lola. All kindsa scum had muscled in on Valentine’s racket and his body was barely cold. Eddie “Llama” McMurphy had his slice of the rum-runners. Vincenzo “Beaker” Gorlami was movin’ in on the girlie shows. And worst of all, Boris “the Holly Bush” Krazinsky was havin’ dinner with the Mayor every night, and you betcha he was gettin’ two scoops of ice cream with desert, if ya know what I mean.

But ‘danger’ is my middle name. No, really. It says ‘Mac Danger Hunter’ on my birth certificate.

“And if I don’t take the case?”

“Then, Mr Hunter,” she says, givin’ me a smile that drains all the metaphors right outta me, “I’ll take it to a gumshoe that doesn’t monologue out loud.”


Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.

Heh heh heh. (image: