This is probably the worst writing job I took this year.
No, hold it.
Probably researching the connection between Nazi occultism and sexual magic for a client of RE:CON was the worst, but this one comes damn close.
I am revising a novel I wrote when I was 24.
And boy is it tiresome.
This I have to say about the myself that lived in 1991: the kid had some pretty cool ideas.
Granted, he stole most of them from Michael Moorcock, Edward Bryant, Arthur Byron Cover and Tanith Lee, but as that guy said, you gotta steal from the best.
The novel, written in Italian of course and with a title taken from a song by Toyah Wilcox – a fact that, I am sure, dates the whole business nicely – is roughly 40+ thousand words, and is built like a mystery.
Another plus for the kid: even back then, my younger self knew that the best structure to explore a strange world is either a picaresque or a mystery.
And third: the kid could do a good bit of dialog. I explain that with a passion for old movies. The Thin Man was obviously a big influence, and I remember at the time the kid had developed a passion for noir movies.
You can’t dig noirs and not get an ear for dialog.