Writing House of the Rising Suns was a joy beginning to end. The nature of the project allowed me to immerse myself in a game I love and regurgitate the experiences I enjoyed while I watched on. Seriously, it was a dream gig. Circumstances conspired to let me run free. It was a fluke.

And how I’ve missed such fortuitousness.

For over the last six months I’ve lived the antithesis.

The next tome, no done and dusted but for the layout, is due out soon. It was a dastardly little blighter from the get go. The concept is risky, the topic is tricky, and the words have flowed like the upper reaches of the Murray in drought. That is hardly at all. Often I thought about scrapping it; of sending back the cheque; of getting a real job. But I’ve stopped short. At 40 I don’t have the ticker to change course AGAIN. So instead I fought and raged and re-wrote and struggled and swore. And now, where there now appears a light. It’s dim, but it flickers. There’s life down the well. That f*%$er will be finished. And soon.

And just as I start to see in colour once more the phone rings.

A biography, they want. And it’s a goodie. The subject is a ripper bloke with a pure tale to tell.

I’m glad I said yes.

Sometimes taking a few to land one is so, so worthwhile.