jpdoingwords

[jpdoingwords]

The first draft of Double White Lines (the novel) is now complete 🥳

Unbelievable honestly. 29 chapters and 20 are already pretty polished so I may get it finished by June after all - I honestly thought that was a pipe dream.

[jpdoingwords]

[jpdoingwords]

Just when I think I've found everything... I find more; which says a lot about how I organise my physical files and the chaotic mess of Double White Lines' development in general. A lot of my writing is on paper and hasn't been digitised, and not everything is filed chronologically - something I am planning to address - but not today.

Anyway - here's a snippet of a 2014 version of Double White Lines that I'd forgotten existed, in which Rose was the first person main character. It's weird that I went this route, because Rose was never really part of DWL... but that's a whole other topic.

Here's 2014 Evan:

Evan was a friend of a friend – the kind of person I’d heard of long before I met him. The boys were always banging on about some crazy antics he’d instigated – but some of it, I guessed, was exaggerated – until I met him myself. I got involved in that group when I was dating a shearer back in ‘07; he [ie.that relationship] didn’t work out, but the boys took me under their collective wing when he shot through, and we seemed to stick… … As it happens, it was late Saturday night and we were at Shazza’s place, she was Dingo's missus… Evan caused a bit of a stir as he came through the front door. ‘Evo!’ Dingo almost screamed. ‘Bro! Where've you been, dude?’ Evan gave a small smile and said in a kinda reserved way, ‘Darwin, mate. Just back from a stint up there.’ ‘It’s good to have you back, mate,’ Dingo said, in transports. ‘Come have a drink.’ He ushered him through to the kitchen, and as Evan passed, he smiled at me and said ‘G’day.’ I returned the greeting then went back to [making a fuss of] the rabbit, saying to him, ‘He’s chubbier than I expected – and curly hair, too.’ It was a bit later when I went into the kitchen that I talked to him alone. ‘You must be Rose,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’ ‘I met you once before, you know, but you wouldn’t remember.’ ‘You’re right there. When?’ ‘You were dating that shearer, Trevor, at the time. The crazy one.’ I laughed. ‘You don’t have to remind me. I remember him.’ ‘You two were outside a club in Bunno – He’d called the barmaid a whore, and they’d kicked you two out. You were on top of the wall, climbing back into the beer garden, swearing like a trooper – I think you’d torn your jeans?’ I was laughing and said, ‘Yeah, well – there was glass on top of that wall.’ He smiles. ‘Trev was standing below, saying you were a pussy. So I called up to you, something about you should tell him he was the pussy since you were the one on top of the wall. He went mental.’ ‘Oh that was you! I remember that – he really was a psycho. He punched a car once you were gone, after ranting about how your head was next. Didn’t climb the wall though.’ Evan chuckles. 'Doesn't surprise me.' Then his phone rang, and I went on to the fridge.

Side note - I enjoy the nickname Dingo so much - I will have to resurrect this character.

Lurking Behind a Mask - Evan

[Features in: Double White Lines 2018 (published then withdrawn) || Double White Lines 2025 (WIP) || Becoming Something Else - 'Evan & Rose' (2025)]

Let me introduce you to Evan - one of my many morally questionable characters. He's been with me a long time, and is still very much alive and well.

The history of Evan - a character who arrived fully formed (as opposed to being gradually developed as some characters are) during May 2009 - is tied to the history of the (now) novel, Double White Lines.

He first appeared in a rough and ready sketch - idea dump really - made in April 2009, where he was tentatively named Bruce:

Bruce wasn’t really in his twenties, having tipped over into his thirties a few years ahead of Rose and Dan; he was an outgoing, private person. He would drink with many, chat to many, but his secret life remained that. The only person he ever opened up to was Rose – and she didn’t even realise. Dan had a new girlfriend from ‘down south’ (a term that covered a large part of the south west of Western Australia, but in this case referred to Margaret River. Dan was typically gushy about her – Nora. Rose secretly took to calling her ‘Bloody Nora’ in her head – an expression her mother had used to express exasperation. Bloody Nora was expected that weekend, and Bruce and Rose were to be part of the welcoming party. Saturday night rolled around, and the forty odd people in the Tav were well on their way when Dan and Bloody Nora arrived. Rose pushed her way over to meet them. She, Nora, was tiny – petite, breakable looking even. But she also had loud voice, a big smile, and very pretty eyes. Bruce joined them with beers all round. Rose was, unusually, very drunk – but as she mixed around she kept a sharp eye on the three at the bar – Bruce, Dan, and Bloody Nora. Later she would reflect on the strangeness of what she observed. Somehow, Dan had become the third wheel. Bruce and Nora sat at one end of the bar, and with heads bent, were talking seriously. They both seemed oblivious to Dan, who had as it happens, drifted into a conversation with the barmaid. After an hour or more, Bruce stood, and Nora followed as they began to mingle. Rose saw the happiness on their faces – they had become a set of mirrors, the light trapped between them. They laughed and joked and flirted with each other and everyone in the room. Dan to his credit, seemed neither concerned nor interested in what Bruce and Nora did. He had found a group of likely lads and was talking cars with them. Rose shrugged. As long as everyone was happy.

¬¬¬

Then, in May of 2009, I got around to reworking that first sketch idea into something a little more polished, which I called Journeyman - he’s always been tied to the road and travelling. Here, Rose has been switched in for Nora of the original sketch - later, this position is taken by a new character, Bianca - but I���m getting ahead of myself:

The tension inside the car was undeniable. Rose stared out into the darkness at the few trees close enough to the road to show up in the headlights; the occasional skittering kangaroo, briefly glimpsed; but for the most part it was the darkness of open fields stretching away into an unknown distance – her vision lost in the blankness, and caught again by the reflected dashboard lights. This was Evan’s country, his home. He’d grown up here and stretched out his branches here. Rain began to spit against the windscreen. The warm air that had been flowing in had turned suddenly cold. Rose imagined the synoptic chart, with its bent, spiked lines of cold fronts arching up out of the Antarctic, across the south west, moving faster than you’d think towards the Great Australian bite to the east. They had crossed one of those lines, and for a moment she imagined a shadow in the night had passed overhead, like a passing angel had blocked the starlight. On another occasion, she would have shared this with Evan. He was staring ahead, along the white line tinted red with age, towards the as yet invisible destination. His face had been wiped of any obvious expression, but his jaw was set. He wouldn’t answer her if she broke the silence. All she could do was wait for whatever came next – an explosion, a softly spoken word, or a complaint that he was hungry. With Evan, you never knew what would come next.

That same month, I started writing a poem called Evan (which I later changed to While exposed.) The original scribble relates to the above closely:

The highway stretches away Into night, rainslick Cold the wind that rushes in Rain splattered faces glitter In yellow dashboard lights Your gaze, eyes bent upon the end Upon the destination, eyes glazed I speak no more, spent Words flowed out into the passing dark Skittering like frightened kangaroos Before the savagery of that eye and engine roar.

¬¬¬

Sometime around Feb of 2010, he crossed over into Freeway (forming something like a third of the skeleton around which Double White Lines is being built) when it was in its purest prose poetry form. I was really going through it at this time in my life; stories written in this spare style was all I had in me.

A group of girls, no more than 16 years old, hung around outside. They wore as little as possible, and giggled loudly. Whenever a twenty-something deadbeat went by, they would smile and whisper to each other. 6. Evan grinned as he passed, in his element.  He liked to slum it. He walked through the doorway, into the main bar: Cigarette smoke, a press of bodies, a smell of body odour and sour alcohol. Skimpies dodged through the crowd. 'Slim pickin's,' Evan thought, and cut his way to the bar, searching the crowd for her face. He was lucky tonight, she was there: leaning against the bar near the back door. One of Ma's girls, though he didn't know that. He didn't even know her name. 7. Sara saw Evan. She knew he was there, had seen him once or twice before, but couldn’t care less about him. Men always stared. It didn’t mean anything. Nothing romantic anyway. At the bar between them, a guy was laughing madly. Sara smiled. Jimmy. He glanced over, and grinned back. He was drunk, of course. Jimmy was always drunk. His forearms were covered in tattoos. He wore tight Tshirts, in bright colours. Sara knew she’d be taken by him, if she allowed it; but she’d known Jimmy too long for that. She’d seen girlfriends come and go. Jimmy never cared too much. 8. Evan was building up to walk over, when Jimmy intercepted a look that was meant for Sara. He stood, and with his usual style, he walked over. ‘Mate, what you lookin at?’ Evan nodded down the bar to Sara. ‘She your girlfriend?’ Jimmy looked, and gave her a wink, then turned back. ‘Sara? Nah mate, just a friend. Whatchya drinkin’?’ Jimmy asked. Evan held up a half empty glass of beer. ‘I’ll buy ya a beer,’ Jimmy said. Evan nodded. ‘Probly best ya stay away from Sara though. She’s a bit rough round the edges. Probly not your scene,’ he added, casting a look at Evan’s clean shoes & new clothes. Evan nodded, thinking it was best to say nothing, in case this Jimmy was a fighter, but he couldn’t help a shrug. ‘I’m not tellin ya what t’ do,’ Jimmy continued, handing him a beer. ‘If you wanna go there, give it a go. Her sister’s always been more of a goer but.’ He nodded to one of the skimpies behind the bar. ‘Haven’tcha Lou?’ he said. ‘Fuck off,’ she said, making him laugh. ‘Love you too,’ he said, giving her a wink. She turned her back. ‘Anyway, I’m Jimmy,’ he said, offering a hand, which Evan shook. ‘You’re alright mate. Come meet the boys.’

¬¬¬

I was still looking for the story that would catch alight, give me direction with him - I knew it existed, but sometimes it’s hard to find the way in.

My next attempt was 'Evan's Yarn', written in Dec of 2009, which took up Rose’s POV from that very first sketch:

I can only tell this story as I imagine it. I have heard the details from Evan, what details he cared to share, and the rest I have figured out for myself. It happened before I met him, and he’ll probably tell me I got it completely wrong, no matter how right I am, because (by his reasoning) women always do. But he would be joking, because he knows as well as I do that women know more than men, no matter what the topic. You see, it was one of those nights that stay with you after they’re gone because by some strange momentum, they just turn out right. I should think the interior was bright and warm after the rushing cold of an open car window in the night. Evan had driven over from Salford to this, one of his locals, The Bull Rock (which if you don’t know, is just outside Bullrocks, hence the name). He had several pubs within an hour’s drive of home which he called his locals – but this one was his favourite. It was always busy and he was sure to meet mates here. He was feeling good about this night. Everything about the place seemed right. The beer he ordered at the bar was cold and the barmaid was unusually friendly. Credence was playing on the jukebox, Fortunate Son. A fire crackled in the grate beside the jukebox. He must have smiled and leant back against the bar, took a long swig of his beer and watched the rugby on a TV, though he couldn’t hear it, because that’s what Evan always does. His attention was drawn to the door half a drink later as two likely lads, already a bit under the weather, caused a bit of a stir. Of course, he knew them. Evan knew pretty well everybody. ‘Hey Evo!’ The first and taller of the two, Rob called out. The other, Dan, was grinning. ‘Boys,’ Evan said in return, a smile on his face. ‘What brings you here?’ Dan, who had made it as far as the bar said, ‘This barmaid.’ She heard him and giggled. He winked. He was the kind of metrosexual guy that certain types of ladies find irresistible – Annie was evidently one of them. ‘You brought us here mate, who else?’ Rob said with a laugh. ‘Shall we get a jug?’ ‘If you’re buying,’ Evan said, joking.

¬¬¬

There was a long break then as I stopped writing for life reasons, and when I started working again, I picked up other things.

Jumping back to 2009 for a moment, in a uni writing exercise I came up with a piece about a beach house, and in the first half of 2015, this metamorphosed into Evan’s house.

It's the first time I really tried to step into Evan's head, and the result is something quite broody. It triggered the idea of two distinct sides to Evan's character - the social animal, and a very different creature lurking behind. It also linked him forevermore to Treasure Bay, the setting of a much older project called the Return (incomplete, from 2006). This is how he became the son of a cray fisherman and eventually, exceedingly rich. Lucky him!

~~~

Evan’s beach house in Treasure Bay was built just out of town, the outskirts of the outskirts. It was a wooden panel affair, built in the 70’s, with wide verandas and no garden. It’s front door faced View Terrace, just before it turned into the Old Coast Road, but the back veranda opened out onto the beach, via a straggly row of peppermint trees. Evan’s parents had bought it dirt cheap in the early 80’s, when the town was little more than a shanty town. Now it'd boomed, the tourist trade poured through on weekends and holidays, and the house was worth at least half a mill. Evan had lived there for five years, but hadn’t changed a thing. It was an escape for him, a steady reminder of better days, of happy childhood family holidays with his parents and once a friend. That time, Evan had chosen Willy Jenkins to visit, but it hadn't gone well. His mother had taken a disliking to the outspoken Jenkins, and the offer hadn’t been repeated after that. He stood on the back veranda, the blues record wailing in the house and the wind sighing in the trees. Seagulls strutted down the beach taking no notice of the music, just occasionally looking up to where Evan stood. A fisherman stood in the water, up to his waist with a fishing line. Behind him on the beach, the seagulls were brazenly stealing his bait. Evan considered chasing them off, but his mood was too heavy for chit chat. The fella’s girlfriend, or wife perhaps, was standing at the waterline. The fella turned to give the missus a grin. He saw the seagulls and began gesturing and shouting at her. The surf and the music hid his words, but Evan guessed their import when she retreated and sat by the bait. Evan turned away and went inside to the bar, and got a beer. He cracked the can and returned to the veranda. The fisherman had gone, perhaps just walked further along the beach, but the woman remained. Evan shielded his eyes from the westering sun. She sat, legs hunched up. Her hair, which was long and black, tossed in the chilly offshore breeze. A Jack Johnson song came crooning from the neighbour’s house. The beach turned gold, and the water, a silver tipped with white-yellow. The woman didn’t move, except for her hair. Evan considered going to talk to her, but as already observed, his mood was too heavy for chit-chat.

¬¬¬

This scene still exists in Double White Lines, but it’s been given to a different character.

It was also 2015 when I finally drafted out the short story 'Evan and Rose’, but it only reached its final form in 2019 when I began gathering together the collection which eventually, in 2025 (April 30 officially) was published as Becoming Something Else [which you can read here].

This later version of Evan has had a lot more time cooking. I know him quite well at this point.

From 'Evan and Rose':

As she drew closer to the pub, she could hear voices amidst the music, but Evan’s voice was the loudest of them all. Rose had known Evan since year four, and they’d become as close friends as it was possible to get with Evan. He’d come to a school full of kids who all knew each other, a close-knit group whose parents had been to the same school with their friends’ parents. Evan, though, had never struggled with that. He was soon friends with everyone – that was just the way with him, and had been ever since. When she got to the door of the pub, a burst of warmth and sound assaulted her, and she smiled. Sure enough, Evan was propping up the bar. Big in almost every sense of the word, he was tall, broad shouldered, loud, and merry. A group of men and women were clustered around him. He glanced around this group with an excited twinkle in his eyes, but he could’ve been talking to anyone, and he would’ve been exactly the same. People, Rose had often observed, always reacted strongly to Evan – they either avoided him like the plague, or wouldn’t leave him alone – and he didn’t seem to notice or care, either way. He just went on being Evan.  He was always oblivious, which was probably why he was always single, even now they were entering their thirties. He saw her then, and smiled easily, walking away from his captive audience. ‘G’day, Rose,’ he said, deliberately Irwin-esque. ‘Evan,’ she said with a smile in return as he caught her into a hug, assailing her with the strong scent of beer. ‘You’re a few deep, I see.’ Over his shoulder, she could see one of the audience he’d left behind giving her a dirty look. Her name was Taryn, and she’d been after Evan for years, despite Evan’s repeated rejections. Her dislike of Rose was so obviously based on jealousy, Rose had never been upset about it. If anything, she pitied her. You’d have thought a girl would move on eventually. He said cheerfully, ‘Oh, just one or two. Where have you been lurking?’ Rose grimaced. ‘I’ve been at a house party.’ ‘How was it?’ he asked, probably guessing by her face. ‘Lame. Hardly anyone showed up, probably because you’re here, and half the town are your groupies.’ He laughed outright at that. ‘You exaggerate!’ She grinned. ‘Perhaps. Anyway - is Dan here?’ Dan was one of their mutual friends. ‘Nah, not yet. He’s bringing his new girlfriend.’ Rose rolled her eyes. ‘Another one? He must be running at one a month this year.’ Evan laughed again. ‘You know how he is. Hopelessly falls for them in five minutes, and then goes on falling out again in another five.’ ‘What’s this one’s name?’ ‘Nora.’ Rose tittered. ‘Nora? Bloody Nora!’ Evan was deadpan. ‘You’re so immature sometimes.’ ‘As if I’m the only one! What did you call the last one?’ Evan grinned. ‘Well, the girl’s name was Eden – leant itself to Eden greens, didn’t it?’ Dan’s surname was Green. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘Want a drink?’ ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ ‘Only if no one’s there to hear it,’ he replied.

~~~

In all these versions, he’s pretty similar. The centre of attention, popular, gregarious - but always, always seen through the eyes of someone else.

While that was happening, Double White Lines was taking off. Late in 2015 I started putting together a lot of incomplete short stories I’d written between 2000 - 2015, mashed them together (with great struggle) to form a continuous narrative - and at least originally, I kept it as two novellas - Lodged, and Freeway, in which Evan took a main role.

If I tried to go into specifics about how that collection has merged and changed, I think I’d drive myself crazy. Evan, though, has become what I am calling a key secondary character (along with Jimmy). He is a lynchpin around which people swing - he is still gregarious, surrounded by friends and immensely rich - but the question remains - who is Evan really? Who knows?

[jpdoingwords]

🥳 Becoming Something Else - the short story collection - is now ready to publish in paperback on the 30th of April!!!

I can’t believe it’s actually done! Literally 20+ years of work on and off - I can’t express how weird/great this feels!

Just waiting on the proof copy to come so I can make sure everything is fine in the flesh (so to speak) and then I just have to push a button 🙌🏼✨

( I do have to make the ebook version now, but that’s much much easier 😊)

[jpdoingwords]

Sometimes editing requires murder

This is from a project that has totally changed direction to a more traditional narrative form (rather than an epistemalogical form) but I couldn't quite bring myself to put this bit in the bin entirely, so here it is.

As I prepare to move again, into some new life that I haven’t known before – I’ve been sitting looking at this stack of pages, thinking I should burn the lot. Pages of summoning spells. I can raise the dead with them, remind myself of all the mistakes I’ve made, all that I suffered – but to what end? To punish myself? To hold myself at gun-point and say - you fool! How could you have done this? Believed this? Endured this? You thought this was love? You thought this was love? Yet… I can’t bear to destroy them. I suffered through the writing of them, tapping away at the keyboard of my old typewriter - sometimes in tears, sometimes shaking with anger, in an attempt to find some greater meaning behind it all. I know I might’ve been more honest… but sometimes, even after all the therapy, I can’t look the truth in the eyes. There’s still something in what I’ve written, but in the process of turning experience into words, a distance gets in, as though language holds everything at arm’s length. And… I still write as though this all happened to someone else. I hate the way I so often try to make it beautiful, when in reality there was nothing beautiful about any of it. I ignore the blind lust. The dirt beneath my nails. The blood on my skin. The pain. Light has always been my consolation. The sun on my skin and the colours of dawn and dusk; but what does that matter? If I weep, and the sun is shining, I’m still weeping. So… anyway. I guess I’ll take these pages with me, buried at the bottom of my suitcase. A bundle of sorrows, glimpses of the past. I found it. I found peace and love and happiness. But the past never leaves me, nonetheless.

[jpdoingwords]

Lurking Behind a Mask - Evan

[Features in: Double White Lines 2018 (published then withdrawn) || Double White Lines 2025 (WIP) || Becoming Something Else - 'Evan & Rose' (2025)]

Let me introduce you to Evan - one of my many morally questionable characters. He's been with me a long time, and is still very much alive and well.

The history of Evan - a character who arrived fully formed (as opposed to being gradually developed as some characters are) during May 2009 - is tied to the history of the (now) novel, Double White Lines.

He first appeared in a rough and ready sketch - idea dump really - made in April 2009, where he was tentatively named Bruce:

Bruce wasn’t really in his twenties, having tipped over into his thirties a few years ahead of Rose and Dan; he was an outgoing, private person. He would drink with many, chat to many, but his secret life remained that. The only person he ever opened up to was Rose – and she didn’t even realise. Dan had a new girlfriend from ‘down south’ (a term that covered a large part of the south west of Western Australia, but in this case referred to Margaret River. Dan was typically gushy about her – Nora. Rose secretly took to calling her ‘Bloody Nora’ in her head – an expression her mother had used to express exasperation. Bloody Nora was expected that weekend, and Bruce and Rose were to be part of the welcoming party. Saturday night rolled around, and the forty odd people in the Tav were well on their way when Dan and Bloody Nora arrived. Rose pushed her way over to meet them. She, Nora, was tiny – petite, breakable looking even. But she also had loud voice, a big smile, and very pretty eyes. Bruce joined them with beers all round. Rose was, unusually, very drunk – but as she mixed around she kept a sharp eye on the three at the bar – Bruce, Dan, and Bloody Nora. Later she would reflect on the strangeness of what she observed. Somehow, Dan had become the third wheel. Bruce and Nora sat at one end of the bar, and with heads bent, were talking seriously. They both seemed oblivious to Dan, who had as it happens, drifted into a conversation with the barmaid. After an hour or more, Bruce stood, and Nora followed as they began to mingle. Rose saw the happiness on their faces – they had become a set of mirrors, the light trapped between them. They laughed and joked and flirted with each other and everyone in the room. Dan to his credit, seemed neither concerned nor interested in what Bruce and Nora did. He had found a group of likely lads and was talking cars with them. Rose shrugged. As long as everyone was happy.

¬¬¬

Then, in May of 2009, I got around to reworking that first sketch idea into something a little more polished, which I called Journeyman - he’s always been tied to the road and travelling. Here, Rose has been switched in for Nora of the original sketch - later, this position is taken by a new character, Bianca - but I’m getting ahead of myself:

The tension inside the car was undeniable. Rose stared out into the darkness at the few trees close enough to the road to show up in the headlights; the occasional skittering kangaroo, briefly glimpsed; but for the most part it was the darkness of open fields stretching away into an unknown distance – her vision lost in the blankness, and caught again by the reflected dashboard lights. This was Evan’s country, his home. He’d grown up here and stretched out his branches here. Rain began to spit against the windscreen. The warm air that had been flowing in had turned suddenly cold. Rose imagined the synoptic chart, with its bent, spiked lines of cold fronts arching up out of the Antarctic, across the south west, moving faster than you’d think towards the Great Australian bite to the east. They had crossed one of those lines, and for a moment she imagined a shadow in the night had passed overhead, like a passing angel had blocked the starlight. On another occasion, she would have shared this with Evan. He was staring ahead, along the white line tinted red with age, towards the as yet invisible destination. His face had been wiped of any obvious expression, but his jaw was set. He wouldn’t answer her if she broke the silence. All she could do was wait for whatever came next – an explosion, a softly spoken word, or a complaint that he was hungry. With Evan, you never knew what would come next.

That same month, I started writing a poem called Evan (which I later changed to While exposed.) The original scribble relates to the above closely:

The highway stretches away Into night, rainslick Cold the wind that rushes in Rain splattered faces glitter In yellow dashboard lights Your gaze, eyes bent upon the end Upon the destination, eyes glazed I speak no more, spent Words flowed out into the passing dark Skittering like frightened kangaroos Before the savagery of that eye and engine roar.

¬¬¬

Sometime around Feb of 2010, he crossed over into Freeway (forming something like a third of the skeleton around which Double White Lines is being built) when it was in its purest prose poetry form. I was really going through it at this time in my life; stories written in this spare style was all I had in me.

A group of girls, no more than 16 years old, hung around outside. They wore as little as possible, and giggled loudly. Whenever a twenty-something deadbeat went by, they would smile and whisper to each other. 6. Evan grinned as he passed, in his element.  He liked to slum it. He walked through the doorway, into the main bar: Cigarette smoke, a press of bodies, a smell of body odour and sour alcohol. Skimpies dodged through the crowd. 'Slim pickin's,' Evan thought, and cut his way to the bar, searching the crowd for her face. He was lucky tonight, she was there: leaning against the bar near the back door. One of Ma's girls, though he didn't know that. He didn't even know her name. 7. Sara saw Evan. She knew he was there, had seen him once or twice before, but couldn’t care less about him. Men always stared. It didn’t mean anything. Nothing romantic anyway. At the bar between them, a guy was laughing madly. Sara smiled. Jimmy. He glanced over, and grinned back. He was drunk, of course. Jimmy was always drunk. His forearms were covered in tattoos. He wore tight Tshirts, in bright colours. Sara knew she’d be taken by him, if she allowed it; but she’d known Jimmy too long for that. She’d seen girlfriends come and go. Jimmy never cared too much. 8. Evan was building up to walk over, when Jimmy intercepted a look that was meant for Sara. He stood, and with his usual style, he walked over. ‘Mate, what you lookin at?’ Evan nodded down the bar to Sara. ‘She your girlfriend?’ Jimmy looked, and gave her a wink, then turned back. ‘Sara? Nah mate, just a friend. Whatchya drinkin’?’ Jimmy asked. Evan held up a half empty glass of beer. ‘I’ll buy ya a beer,’ Jimmy said. Evan nodded. ‘Probly best ya stay away from Sara though. She’s a bit rough round the edges. Probly not your scene,’ he added, casting a look at Evan’s clean shoes & new clothes. Evan nodded, thinking it was best to say nothing, in case this Jimmy was a fighter, but he couldn’t help a shrug. ‘I’m not tellin ya what t’ do,’ Jimmy continued, handing him a beer. ‘If you wanna go there, give it a go. Her sister’s always been more of a goer but.’ He nodded to one of the skimpies behind the bar. ‘Haven’tcha Lou?’ he said. ‘Fuck off,’ she said, making him laugh. ‘Love you too,’ he said, giving her a wink. She turned her back. ‘Anyway, I’m Jimmy,’ he said, offering a hand, which Evan shook. ‘You’re alright mate. Come meet the boys.’

¬¬¬

I was still looking for the story that would catch alight, give me direction with him - I knew it existed, but sometimes it’s hard to find the way in.

My next attempt was 'Evan's Yarn', written in Dec of 2009, which took up Rose’s POV from that very first sketch:

I can only tell this story as I imagine it. I have heard the details from Evan, what details he cared to share, and the rest I have figured out for myself. It happened before I met him, and he’ll probably tell me I got it completely wrong, no matter how right I am, because (by his reasoning) women always do. But he would be joking, because he knows as well as I do that women know more than men, no matter what the topic. You see, it was one of those nights that stay with you after they’re gone because by some strange momentum, they just turn out right. I should think the interior was bright and warm after the rushing cold of an open car window in the night. Evan had driven over from Salford to this, one of his locals, The Bull Rock (which if you don’t know, is just outside Bullrocks, hence the name). He had several pubs within an hour’s drive of home which he called his locals – but this one was his favourite. It was always busy and he was sure to meet mates here. He was feeling good about this night. Everything about the place seemed right. The beer he ordered at the bar was cold and the barmaid was unusually friendly. Credence was playing on the jukebox, Fortunate Son. A fire crackled in the grate beside the jukebox. He must have smiled and leant back against the bar, took a long swig of his beer and watched the rugby on a TV, though he couldn’t hear it, because that’s what Evan always does. His attention was drawn to the door half a drink later as two likely lads, already a bit under the weather, caused a bit of a stir. Of course, he knew them. Evan knew pretty well everybody. ‘Hey Evo!’ The first and taller of the two, Rob called out. The other, Dan, was grinning. ‘Boys,’ Evan said in return, a smile on his face. ‘What brings you here?’ Dan, who had made it as far as the bar said, ‘This barmaid.’ She heard him and giggled. He winked. He was the kind of metrosexual guy that certain types of ladies find irresistible – Annie was evidently one of them. ‘You brought us here mate, who else?’ Rob said with a laugh. ‘Shall we get a jug?’ ‘If you’re buying,’ Evan said, joking.

¬¬¬

There was a long break then as I stopped writing for life reasons, and when I started working again, I picked up other things.

Jumping back to 2009 for a moment, in a uni writing exercise I came up with a piece about a beach house, and in the first half of 2015, this metamorphosed into Evan’s house.

It's the first time I really tried to step into Evan's head, and the result is something quite broody. It triggered the idea of two distinct sides to Evan's character - the social animal, and a very different creature lurking behind. It also linked him forevermore to Treasure Bay, the setting of a much older project called the Return (incomplete, from 2006). This is how he became the son of a cray fisherman and eventually, exceedingly rich. Lucky him!

~~~

Evan’s beach house in Treasure Bay was built just out of town, the outskirts of the outskirts. It was a wooden panel affair, built in the 70’s, with wide verandas and no garden. It’s front door faced View Terrace, just before it turned into the Old Coast Road, but the back veranda opened out onto the beach, via a straggly row of peppermint trees. Evan’s parents had bought it dirt cheap in the early 80’s, when the town was little more than a shanty town. Now it'd boomed, the tourist trade poured through on weekends and holidays, and the house was worth at least half a mill. Evan had lived there for five years, but hadn’t changed a thing. It was an escape for him, a steady reminder of better days, of happy childhood family holidays with his parents and once a friend. That time, Evan had chosen Willy Jenkins to visit, but it hadn't gone well. His mother had taken a disliking to the outspoken Jenkins, and the offer hadn’t been repeated after that. He stood on the back veranda, the blues record wailing in the house and the wind sighing in the trees. Seagulls strutted down the beach taking no notice of the music, just occasionally looking up to where Evan stood. A fisherman stood in the water, up to his waist with a fishing line. Behind him on the beach, the seagulls were brazenly stealing his bait. Evan considered chasing them off, but his mood was too heavy for chit chat. The fella’s girlfriend, or wife perhaps, was standing at the waterline. The fella turned to give the missus a grin. He saw the seagulls and began gesturing and shouting at her. The surf and the music hid his words, but Evan guessed their import when she retreated and sat by the bait. Evan turned away and went inside to the bar, and got a beer. He cracked the can and returned to the veranda. The fisherman had gone, perhaps just walked further along the beach, but the woman remained. Evan shielded his eyes from the westering sun. She sat, legs hunched up. Her hair, which was long and black, tossed in the chilly offshore breeze. A Jack Johnson song came crooning from the neighbour’s house. The beach turned gold, and the water, a silver tipped with white-yellow. The woman didn’t move, except for her hair. Evan considered going to talk to her, but as already observed, his mood was too heavy for chit-chat.

¬¬¬

This scene still exists in Double White Lines, but it’s been given to a different character.

It was also 2015 when I finally drafted out the short story 'Evan and Rose’, but it only reached its final form in 2019 when I began gathering together the collection which eventually, in 2025 (April 30 officially) was published as Becoming Something Else [which you can read here].

This later version of Evan has had a lot more time cooking. I know him quite well at this point.

From 'Evan and Rose':

As she drew closer to the pub, she could hear voices amidst the music, but Evan’s voice was the loudest of them all. Rose had known Evan since year four, and they’d become as close friends as it was possible to get with Evan. He’d come to a school full of kids who all knew each other, a close-knit group whose parents had been to the same school with their friends’ parents. Evan, though, had never struggled with that. He was soon friends with everyone – that was just the way with him, and had been ever since. When she got to the door of the pub, a burst of warmth and sound assaulted her, and she smiled. Sure enough, Evan was propping up the bar. Big in almost every sense of the word, he was tall, broad shouldered, loud, and merry. A group of men and women were clustered around him. He glanced around this group with an excited twinkle in his eyes, but he could’ve been talking to anyone, and he would’ve been exactly the same. People, Rose had often observed, always reacted strongly to Evan – they either avoided him like the plague, or wouldn’t leave him alone – and he didn’t seem to notice or care, either way. He just went on being Evan.  He was always oblivious, which was probably why he was always single, even now they were entering their thirties. He saw her then, and smiled easily, walking away from his captive audience. ‘G’day, Rose,’ he said, deliberately Irwin-esque. ‘Evan,’ she said with a smile in return as he caught her into a hug, assailing her with the strong scent of beer. ‘You’re a few deep, I see.’ Over his shoulder, she could see one of the audience he’d left behind giving her a dirty look. Her name was Taryn, and she’d been after Evan for years, despite Evan’s repeated rejections. Her dislike of Rose was so obviously based on jealousy, Rose had never been upset about it. If anything, she pitied her. You’d have thought a girl would move on eventually. He said cheerfully, ‘Oh, just one or two. Where have you been lurking?’ Rose grimaced. ‘I’ve been at a house party.’ ‘How was it?’ he asked, probably guessing by her face. ‘Lame. Hardly anyone showed up, probably because you’re here, and half the town are your groupies.’ He laughed outright at that. ‘You exaggerate!’ She grinned. ‘Perhaps. Anyway - is Dan here?’ Dan was one of their mutual friends. ‘Nah, not yet. He’s bringing his new girlfriend.’ Rose rolled her eyes. ‘Another one? He must be running at one a month this year.’ Evan laughed again. ‘You know how he is. Hopelessly falls for them in five minutes, and then goes on falling out again in another five.’ ‘What’s this one’s name?’ ‘Nora.’ Rose tittered. ‘Nora? Bloody Nora!’ Evan was deadpan. ‘You’re so immature sometimes.’ ‘As if I’m the only one! What did you call the last one?’ Evan grinned. ‘Well, the girl’s name was Eden – leant itself to Eden greens, didn’t it?’ Dan’s surname was Green. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘Want a drink?’ ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ ‘Only if no one’s there to hear it,’ he replied.

~~~

In all these versions, he’s pretty similar. The centre of attention, popular, gregarious - but always, always seen through the eyes of someone else.

While that was happening, Double White Lines was taking off. Late in 2015 I started putting together a lot of incomplete short stories I’d written between 2000 - 2015, mashed them together (with great struggle) to form a continuous narrative - and at least originally, I kept it as two novellas - Lodged, and Freeway, in which Evan took a main role.

If I tried to go into specifics about how that collection has merged and changed, I think I’d drive myself crazy. Evan, though, has become what I am calling a key secondary character (along with Jimmy). He is a lynchpin around which people swing - he is still gregarious, surrounded by friends and immensely rich - but the question remains - who is Evan really? Who knows?

[jpdoingwords]

Original Character List

As the title suggests, a list of links to content I've made concerning my most important OCs - ones who are either protagonists, occasionally important secondary characters, or one of the select few who fulfill the role of archetypes.

I only have a couple of posts built for them as yet, but I will be adding more in the coming weeks.

Australian -

From the WIP Double White Lines:

Jimmy || My Sunshine - Archetype ||

Arity ||

Evan || Lurking Behind a Mask || A little extra

Gracie ||

From the WIP The Artists:

Fred ||

Bernie ||

From the published book, Stories from Wiacubbin:

Charlie || The Lonesome Country Boy - Archetype

~~~

Spartan

From the WIP Hollow Lakedaimon:

Adimantos

Antidas

Bardas

Eukleidas || Drawing

~~~

Roman

From the published book, The Hand of Fortuna & the WIPs The Day Fortuna Sends & What Songs Were Left:

Aulus Plautius (the Elder)

Marcus Silvanus (the Elder)

Lartia

Rufus

From the WIP Floralia:

Titus Lartius

Juventa

[jpdoingwords]

New cover designs for the upcoming novel built from the first book I published :)

[jpdoingwords]

Welcome :)

I'm Jenn, a published author living in Australia. This is where I stash all my online published writing so that I - and you - can find it easily.

My writing tag is #jpdoingwords.

I have a website again after a long hiatus: jennphizacklea.com

I make my own covers. You can see some of my fan fiction covers here and original fiction covers here and here. I draw my OCs and blorbos over on jpdoingart.

My masterlists:

Original Fiction || Fanfiction

I am also developing a Character Directory for all my OCs. I will add links as I go:

Original Character List

[jpdoingwords]

Original Fiction Masterlist

I am now publishing all my original fiction for free on Wattpad. Most of it will also be published/is already published via Amazon and/or ebook publishers under the name Jenn Phizacklea.

The Day Fortuna Sends The year is 6 CE. The family Plautii have reached the pinnacle of the Roman social hierarchy and politics, led by the charismatic Aulus Plautius and his cousin Silvanus; but on a rainy day in late January, they gather together to relax and celebrate a wedding, bringing with it the expected new beginnings, and unavoidable old tensions. This is the first installment of a trilogy, the Plautii. This is intended as an introductory novella.

Bessie: A Short Story Bessie is a young woman struggling to find a path for herself in a town which straddles a wide cultural divide. A short story set in early twentieth century of Western Australia.

Becoming Something Else This collection of contemporary short stories dig into how women are shaped by the events of their lives, and how they might shape themselves despite that. They are all set in Australia, and reflect the culture of that country. They engage with questions around gender expectations - the pressures from within and without, and how that plays out when falling in love or experiencing hardships. Some of the stories address extreme situations around addiction and domestic violence, but always from the perspective of how someone might process those kinds of events - or refuse to. Most of all, they suggest that there's always hope, and the evergreen possibility of becoming something else.

[jpdoingwords]

I have started publishing Becoming Something Else! Once all the stories are complete, I will also be publishing it to Amazon, but for now, it will be on Wattpad.

This collection of contemporary short stories dig into how women are shaped by the events of their lives, and how they might shape themselves despite that. They are all set in Australia, and reflect the culture of that country. They engage with questions around gender expectations - the pressures from within and without, and how that plays out when falling in love or experiencing hardships. Some of the stories address extreme situations around addiction and domestic violence, but always from the perspective of how someone might process those kinds of events - or refuse to. Most of all, they suggest that there's always hope, and the evergreen possibility of becoming something else.

[jpdoingwords]

Finally posted something new :)

New Short Story is up!

Bessie is historical, original fiction, about a young woman going though it in a very rough part of Western Australia in the early 1900s.

I was really just having fun with narratorial voice here tbh :)

[I had to repost this as there has been a slight drama - initially - inexplicably - it posted to an account which I wasn’t logged in on which I deleted months ago. Well. Thought I had deleted. Fun times]

[jpdoingwords]

June 1929: Charlie

@ainulindaelynn speaking of talking to authors and getting offered things that others haven't seen... I don't know if this will ever see the light of day, so thought you might like to read it as the kind of tying off of certain elements of Stories from Wiacubbin 🤍

It was early in the morning late in June. The days were short and cold, and Charlie walked quietly to warm himself.

He paced along the back of the stables where he’d slept the night before, on some unnamed farm north of Dowerin.

At least there are hills here, he thought, looking around with sad eyes. It has little else going for it.

He’d worked his way west from Wiacubbin, taking whatever land clearing jobs he could pick up from farmers and road boards.

It was a sod of a job—hard, back-breaking labour—but he couldn’t bring himself to go back to working as a farmhand, and even less to go north again.

The memories of Wiacubbin and the mess he’d made there served as an unwelcome anchor which he had yet to successfully shift.

Anyway. He’d wanted to slog his guts out until he fell into a dead sleep at the end of each day. Then there were no dreams, no lying awake thinking, thinking, thinking; no remembering sweet words from lips he’d never see again and songs which could no longer reach him.

By May, he’d worked something momentous out of his system, and begun to ease up on himself. He’d even begun to consider where he might go next, what he might do.

He couldn’t go back, but he didn’t want to stay out here, on the frontier of colonisation; out here in the landscape which only reminded him of what he’d lost. An alien place, where the earth was red and the trees were spindle-sticks and the sky filled three-quarters of the world.

‘You there, Charlie?’ The voice belonged to Robert Lewes, the farm owner.

Charlie turned, and raised his eyebrows in enquiry as Robert came around the corner of the stables. Charlie noted he was fingering an envelope, lips pursed.

He said, ‘You still determined to go on today?’

Charlie nodded once. ‘I’ve places to be.’ It was a lie, but Robert didn’t know that.

‘A shame. I’ve plenty more work. If you come back this way…’ He handed him the envelope, and left the offer hanging.

Charlie nodded, saying flatly, ‘I don’t mean to come back this way.’

‘You’ll go to the city?’

He only shrugged, then held out a hand. Robert took it, and they shook.

Charlie rode into the hangdog town of Dowerin at midday. It was like every other town out that way—a few streets, with the usual collection of pub, general store and post office; admittedly, there was more there by way of speciality stores and the comparatively grand railways station though. For many years, this had been the only railways siding to service the dispersed settlements throughout the eastern wheatbelt. The hotel was consequently substantially larger.

He hitched his horse outside, and went in.

A group of young men, perhaps in their early twenties, were gathered together at the bar. They turned to look at Charlie as he entered, but he pointedly ignored them.

The barman took Charlie’s order and he gratefully took the ale when he returned with it.

‘You finished up at at Lewes’?’ the barman asked.

‘Yeah,’ Charlie said.

‘Where to next?’

He shrugged as he’d done when Robert asked. As he did to himself any time he asked himself that question.

‘Hard times to be looking for work closer to the city.’

‘I know a man at Gin-Gin,’ he said. ‘I worked for him before. Thought I’d try him.’

He nodded, though he observed quietly, ‘Seeding will see some need, but with the city boys being sent out here…’ He trailed off. Everyone knew times were hard.

‘I have experience. ‘That’ll help.’

The bartender said no more, moving along to serve the group of young men. Charlie’s attention came to rest on them for a moment, assessing them.

The nearest caught him looking and nodded. He nodded back, sorry to have been caught looking.

The young man came down the bar. He didn’t introduce himself, just leapt in with, ‘You a local?’

Charlie shook his head, doing what he’d once heard called his vinegar face.

He hoped it would drive this man away. It didn’t.

‘Me neither. I’m Luke,’ he said settling on the stool next to him. ‘Sent out by the government last year. Shameful circumstances.’

Charlie didn’t bother to return the favour of giving a name. He said nothing at all, only looked into his beer, willing him away.

‘The government is for the people, isn’t it? Yet they refuse to help us except by driving us out of our homes.’ He paused, looking to Charlie with brows raised, waiting for input; when he got none, he continued, ‘We pay taxes enough when we had jobs. Those taxes should be used to support us in our time of need, now.’

‘Mate,’ Charlie said, wincing. ‘Don’t mistake my silence for agreement. Every man should work if he can. If you choose to remain in the city and not work, then that’s on you. Why should the government pay you a dole to do nothing? You think your taxes just sit in a bank somewhere, for the government to play with? They pay for the roads, for the power – shit, they even pay for your fancy city trams and buses. The least you can do is work when there’s work available.’

Luke stared at him aghast, then his face darkened.

‘But there isn’t work available, not in the city.’

‘The city, the city,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Are you too good to do manual labour, is that what you’re sayin’? Afraid of getting blisters on your pretty hands? Afraid of a little sunburn?’

The man stood then, in a huff, Charlie thought – just as he’d intended.

‘A little compassion would go a long way, you son of a bitch.’

Charlie say back, scoffing. ‘Compassion for what? For you having to use the body God gave you to work? Boo-fuckin’-hoo.’ He’d finished his beer, and put the empty glass on the bar, knocking the bar twice for luck.

The barman, who’d been listening in, nodded goodbye and Charlie stood to leave.

Luke wasn’t ready to let it drop. He shoved Charlie from behind as he walked towards the door. Luckily, he caught himself on the doorframe, or he’d have tumbled down a couple of stairs onto the pavement below and broken bones.

He turned angrily, and shoved him back; and then fists were thrown.

He woke up a little later, in a bed upstairs in the hotel.

The last thing he remembered was copping a boot to the face from one of the other men who’d been with Luke.

He felt his nose – not broken at least, but crusted with dried blood. A black eye too, he judged, soon to be swollen shut.

Arseholes. He winced at the pain in his head as he sat up.

He stood unsteadily for a moment, an ache in his leg – another kick, he supposed, had given him a corked muscle; but fortunately, that seemed to be the extent of the damage.

He looked out the window at the late afternoon, the sun tending towards sunset.

‘Guess I’m staying the night,’ he muttered.

He went downstairs, seeking the landlord.

The group of men had gone – kicked out, Charlie supposed.

‘What do I owe you for the room for the night?’ he asked without preamble.

The barman told him, and he took a few coins from his pocket, dropping them on the bar.

‘You could just have asked him to leave you alone, you know.’

He raised an eyebrow, which hurt, so he stopped. ‘And he could’ve picked up on my disinterest in his opinions.’

The barman shook his head, but only said, ‘I’ve had your horse taken out back to the stable.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ve seen men like you come through that door a hundred times, you know. Abrasive. Never bending in a conversation. It’ll get you in trouble one day.’

‘A little late on the warning, don’t you think?’ he said wryly.

The barman smiled. ‘More than a little kick in the head, I mean.’

He shrugged. ‘Well.’ Then he turned away, going to fetch his saddlebags.

When he came back inside, he was startled by someone saying, ‘Charlie White? Is that you?’

How he fervently wished he wasn’t; but he turned, and couldn’t help but smile at a familiar and friendly face from Wiacubbin.

‘Ed. What brings you here?’

They shook hands as Ed said, ‘I brought some rams for the sale tomorrow. What are you doing here? You look like you’ve been in a fight.’

Seeing his face, hearing his voice, made it feel like the five months and more since he’d left Young’s Farm had melted away into nothing. He was back at the scrubbed table with the lead farmhand talking about farm matter, while Rebekah… well.

He couldn’t bring himself to think about that yet.

He smiled wryly, touching his swollen eye, but he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he explained, ‘Just finished a contract north of here. On my way to Gin-Gin again.’ He said it with much more certainty than he felt.

Ed nodded, and pointed at the saddlebags. ‘You’re here for the night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Let’s go down to the eatery together then. I’m starving.’

‘Alright. Let me put these upstairs and tidy up.’

The eatery was a typically miserable affair. Some attempt had been made to make the place feel homely, but the curtains were drab and the tables were old with an ingrained greasiness about them. It wasn’t the worst place he’d ever eaten, but it was close.

They sat opposite one another, each ordering a plate of the special – a stew which came with one potato disconsolately floating in an awful lot of stock. The lemonade was good though.

‘You’re lucky you caught me,’ Charlie said. ‘I would’ve left already if I hadn’t upset some shithead from the city.’

Ed smiled but he shook his head at the same time. ‘The whole state is flooded with ‘em,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a half a dozen turn up asking for work. You know Frank – he ran them off again, saying he wanted experience, not desperation.’

Charlie felt his jaw tighten, but he said nothing about that.

‘Missus Young died during the summer,’ Ed went on quietly, looking out the window. ‘Everything has changed since. He married again during autumn, and brought the new missus home to the farm. She isn’t at all what you’d expect. Quite young. Talkative.’ He paused, considering whether he should say anything. ‘I suppose you want to know about...’

Charlie raised an instinctive hand, cutting him short. He looked at him, grimacing, torn by an equal desire to say yes and no. It would be better if he didn’t, but… he nodded.

‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you; she’s to be married. Did you ever meet Angus Doak?’

He shook his head, feeling sick. So soon… so soon; while he’d been tormented by imaginings of how she must be suffering!

What a fool he was. He flared his nostrils.

‘No, but I knew of him by repute. He’s a good man. He’ll be a good husband.’

He sounded bitter. By God, he felt bitter.

Ed just looked at him apologetically, and went back to eating.

It was a while before Charlie could bring himself to say, ‘I suppose Frank readily gave consent.’ He felt as though he had ashes in his mouth.

Ed studied his face as he said, ‘Not so easy. I don’t think any man was going to find a ready welcome there.’

Charlie sat back in his chair, a heavy feeling had settled in his chest. He sighed deeply, trying to shake it. He was upset, that was the truth, but he tried to rationalise.

Nothing had changed for the worse. If anything, it was easier now because she was gone, and forever. It freed him in some way – from feeling guilty; from the worry that she was unhappy; from the thought that, if he’d just stayed a little while longer, she might’ve changed her mind. The truth was she hadn’t loved him after all – Despite the ways she’d showed him that she did, and for all that she’d told him.

He sighed again, letting as much of it go as he could.

‘How’s your missus?’ he asked Ed.

He looked relieved to move onto other topics - and so was Charlie.

[jpdoingwords]

It’s back! And it almost has an ending 😊 the draft exists anyway. Chapters: 6/7 Fandom: Hades (Supergiant Games Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ares/Thanatos (Hades Video Game), Ares/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Aphrodite/Ares (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Thanatos & Zagreus Characters: Aphrodite (Hades Video Game), Ares (Hades Video Game), Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Thanatos (Hades Video Game), Athena (Hades Video Game), Zeus (Hades Video Game), Persephone (Hades Video Game), Dionysus (Hades Video Game) Additional Tags: Falling In Love, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mutual Pining, thanares, Romance, allusions to rough sex, nothing intense or particulalrly graphic, is this, Fluff, I think so? Maybe, This was written before Hades 2, so Eris isn't based on the Eris of the game Summary:

Ares, a closed book and intesely private man, breaks up with Dite because he has a yearning for someone entirely different, but he also doesn't know how to go about getting it. Than, meanwhile, is far too busy to think about starting a relationship, and certainly not with anyone as intense as Ares... at least that's what he tells himself. Zagreus just shakes his head at both of them. He has a plan - but all of Zag's plans are terrible.

Inspired by the music of the Black Keys, each chapter has a title drawn from a song or a song title of theirs.

This fic was previously published, and was taken down after someone threatened to finish it using AI. The ending has been sketched out now, and I will hopefully have it polished up in the next week or two, gods willing. Feedback is always welcome, and I hope you enjoy it. Jenn 🤍

[jpdoingwords]

Decisions have been made so here's the full set of covers (for now) 🙌🏼

I'm almost ready to publish the (rewritten) first chapter of Fortuna - I just need to rewrite the blurb *much grimacing ensues*😑

[jpdoingwords]

Cover designs for What Songs Were Left? [which I've been calling Rufus until today.]

Challenging but fun! :D

After spending a painfully long time working on it, I've come up with two cover designs I really like for one of my original stories.

I'm sure they'll need a few tweaks when I look at them with fresh eyes tomorrow - but good progress!

Now I have to choose one to use - why did I do this to myself? LOL

[jpdoingwords]

After spending a painfully long time working on it, I've come up with two cover designs I really like for one of my original stories.

I'm sure they'll need a few tweaks when I look at them with fresh eyes tomorrow - but good progress!

Now I have to choose one to use - why did I do this to myself? LOL