What are you wearing.... err, I mean reading?

Me? Girl porn. Just finished a book of it, in fact.

Of course, what I meant to say is that I've just finished reading an anthology of women's contemporary literary erotica.

Why? Well, apart from the obvious reason it was sent to me, by my South African friend Muriel, a regular poster on this blog. Muriel and I are good friends. Long-term readers may recally that we met after she wrote a scathing critique of the "romance" scenes in my second book, ZAMBEZI on the blog she co-authors, Salma-Gundi.

Muriel (not her real name) is a well-know Seth Efrican writer and has penned many an article and quite a few books as a freelance writer and editor. As such, she was invited to contribute a naughty little yarn to a book called, ahem, OPEN, an anthology of erotica by other famous sub-Saharan lit-chicks.

After having pilloried my efforts in this department, to her great credit Muriel invited me to review her endeavours and sent me a copy of the aforementioned dirty, errrr... I mean literary, tome.

Imagine my joy, then, Legion of Fans (LOF) when I paused to check my letterbox on my way into the city to run some errands, and found a plain brown envelope with a South African post mark. Inside was a slim volume with a tastefully discrete cover decorated with what looked suspiciously like a chocolate-dipped satin sheet!

Not having time to drop the book back inside my home I carried it with me and, unable to conceal my (professional) curiosity, I started reading it on the bus.

Boys, what have we been doing all these years looking at pictures? The girls have got it all over us in this department (and many others, I hear you Legionettes muttering). I glanced around the bus, furtively, over the top of the crisp, deliciously sharp-edged pages my new book as I moistened a finger and unleashed the next instalment. Not a single passenger could guess what I was reading.

I completed my chores and got back on the bus. No sooner had I parted the pages and begun delving into the hidden secrets within when the bus stopped. Who should get on but a lovely lady who lives in our block of flats. Laden with shopping bags she took a seat across the aisle from me.

I closed OPEN and placed it face down on my lap.

My neighbour is American. She is not, as some stereotypes might suggest, a 'loud' person, but to me it seemed as if she had sudeenly pressed a megaphone to her lips.

"Hiya. How's the writing going?" she asked.

"Oh, just fine," I replied. "Book five's just come out."

She looked at my lap. "You know, they say that to write a lot, you need to read a lot, is that true?"

"Umm, yes," I gulped.

"Watcha reading there?"

I do believe I started to swoon, Legion of Fans. I felt light headed, and my heart was pounding. I felt like George Costanza being caught by his mother with the lingerie section of the Sears and Roebuck catalogue.

I coughed. "Err, a book of short stories."

"Oh, really? That's interesting. What are they about?" my charming neighbour persisted.

For the briefest second I thought to myself: 'Hey, what's the problem here? I'm a 43-year-old professional writer who is reading a perfectly legitimate form of literary endeavour, readily available in quality bookstores. It's a sensitive, honest account of female sexualtiy, tastefully presented and thoughtfully written by a collection of respected, erudite fellow scribes. What would be wrong with telling my neighbour what I was reading?'

Then, of course, I came to my senses. I'm an old guy on a bus reading girl porn.

"Umm, it's about Africa," I stammered.

"Ohhhh."

Our stop approached. I pushed the bell to signal the driver and leapt to my feet. I won't say I ran for the door, but I do vaguely recall my neighbour saying; "Don't wait up for me, I've got all this shopping to carry and...."

(Stay tuned for the full review of OPEN, in which Mr Blog gets an inkling of what it is that women really want)

Not boy books or chick lit... I'm writing James Bond books

Both of you regular readers may recall some musings by my friend Jimbob recently, in which he claimed that instead of writing hairy-chested boy books set in Africa I was, in fact, writing "chick books".

I received some pleasingly level headed comments from some of you in response to Jimbob's assertions, but he did get a reaction, which is nice to see in a blog.

By way of a teensy explanation, my friend The Big Kahuna and I gave Jimbob his first job in Public Relations many years ago. What intrigued us most about his job application - and set him ahead of the other candidates in our view - was that he wrote his university thesis on the Australian Porn Industry. He was a fast talking (over) confident youngster with a pony tail back then. Today he is a fast talking (over) confident older corporate PR person making megabucks.

Anyway, Jimbob is never backwards in coming forwards when it comes to critiquing my books and he took the time to pen a rather long email to me regarding my latest book, SILENT PREDATOR.

As you will see from this missive, which I have printed here sans a few expletives and overly colourful turns of phrase, Jimbob has decided I am in fact writing James Bond books, not girly books. It's a little rude in places (even with censoring), but it's much more interesting than the "better than average airport thriller" reviews that represent the height of praise for my genre of writing in certain broadsheets.

Here it is (with censorship in bold type):

Senor Park,

Good to see you are still enjoying the many wonders of your national (except South Australia) tour.

Finished Silent Predator quite some time ago and noticed a striking similarity between your heroes and James Bond:

They all get sex twice an adventure.

Traditionally in each film, Commander Bond will (become intimate with) one young minx who is usually very pushy and up for it, by about the 30 - 40 minute mark. They will most often be rather nameless hot bodies who ultimately either wind up dead or are revealed to be evil.

In your novels, the first round is usually just as casual, suggested by some random chick who's pushy and up for it (cue the milf on an overlander, the backpacker in the men’s room, a white afrikaaner lush in a fancy hotel room) and also occurs a bit before the half way mark (30-40 minute mark if your book was a film). Yours don’t get dead, but they do disappear rapidly from the rest of the tale.

The sex also seems to occur just after he has met the heroine he will eventually end up bedding by the book’s end.

And like the Bond films, I believe you’ve placed the casual (moments of intimacy) at that exact moment to meet the following needs of your target audiences:

1) Women - By this stage in the book/movie, women want your character (or Bond) to prove he is worth lusting after and demonstrate he is as good in bed as they want him to be – all the while still believing he can be sensitive and conflicted as he spends the rest of the book pining/working for the strong unattainable female co-star/heroine. (Who usually only gives it up before the final shootout, or in bond’s case, straight after.)

2) Men - Men however, reach the 30-40 min window or near-mid point of the book and want to be reassured that their hero’s not going to spend the whole book/film (ummm painfully pursuing?) the lead female. As such, by this point in the story, the male reader demands to see their hero (become intimate with) some no-name saucepot to prove he’s not a monk.

In most cases, post-(intimate) activity is then followed by a scene with the woman he truly wants to (be intimate with), (so the women can say “it should be her”, so the men can say “you’re next”), followed by an explosive gun battle.

Twice a movie, twice a book.

The name’s Bond, eh bru?

On a side note, thought Silent Predator was very good and really liked the work in England. Also, here’s to the return of another Far Horizon hero. The Parki-verse is growing ever larger.

Still believe Shane Castle deserves a return.

Well done son. Very well done indeed.

All the best to Mrs Park.

Jimbob.

Parramatta City Library 1.00pm July 15

There it is in black and white (or whatever colour the blog background is). Sorry, Parramatta Sub-branch of the Legion of Fans (LOF) - in an earlier post I got the time wrong.

For the record, my talk on July 15 at Parramatta City Library will be at 1.00pm (not 6.30pm as previously mistakenly advised).

A good deal else to report, but little time to do so as I am racing off to Warringah Library this evening (6.30pm, Thursday, July 10).

Had a choice time in New Zealand with all my cuzzy bros over there. Visited scores of bookshops; did maninge radio and press interviews; and consumed several dozen Steinlager Pures. This is the beer which reportedly does not produce a hangover - however I was a bit seedy on the plane flight home (though this could have had something to do with the fact that I only had two hours sleep the night before boarding).

Stellar turn outs at Willoughby and Gordon Libraries last week thanks to Margaret, Ben and Penny and my very own helper, Alex, who has been assisting me with my publicity for the tour. Thanks, too, to the pleasant people of Penrith for popping along last Sunday.

I know I should be posting witty and incisive material here on the blog and not just shamelessly promoting myself and my library talks, but life is a bit busy at the moment. How about instead, you pop over to see my fellow blogster crabmommy (an ex Sarf Effrican living in the US & A)who is talking about something dear to my heart, camping, on her blog, and about two things no camper should ever be seen dead in - headlights and croc sandals. Crabmommy also gives me a mention in this post, so there is a teensy bit of self promotion going on here as well.

Another review... this time from neglected South Australia

Even though the fair state of South Australia, land of churches and serial killers, was ommitted from my round Australia and New Zealand book tour that doesn't seem to have coloured the views of its independent-minded journalists and news outlets.

During a moment of shameless self-googling I stumbled across this review of SILENT PREDATOR in the high quality and emminently readable Adelaide journal, the 'Independent Weekly'.

It's written by an obviously astute and well-read young lady by the name of Georgia Gowing. I commend this fine review, worthy publication, and stellar jounalist to you all.

Attention residents of Randwick/Maroubra; Parramatta, and Howick, New Zealand

Stock up on no-doze and coca-cola because I am coming your way with long-winded tales of the African bush.

Firstly, a clarification. In earlier posts I've said I will be speaking at Randwick Library at 10am on July 24. Please note that I am actually speaking at the Bowen Library in Maroubra, at 669-673 Anzac Parade, Maroubra at that time and date. Apologies for any confusion.

In late breaking news I will be speaking at Howick Public Library, at Howick, which I am told is somewhere on the north Island of New Zealand, at 7pm on Thursday July 3.

Finally, I have added another library to my busy Sydney schedule for July. I'll be spruiking big time at the Parramatta Library at 1.00pm on July 15.

And, if all that isn't enough self-promotion, there is another review of my new book SILENT PREDATOR, this time from the Canberra Times here on my website. I like this one because it compares me (quite favourably) with South African crime writer Deon Meyer, whose books I really like and can highly recommend,

Stop it Mr Blog, this is getting embarrassing.

No, I can't.... I can't help myself. What is the point of a blog if you can't be self-indulgent and use it as a thinly disguised means of self promotion?

I mean, come on, let's get serious here.

Number One, Legion of Fans (LOF). Numero Uno. This is the first time I have been number one anywhere.

OK: Reality check. I am number one at Collins Booksellers in North Sydney and this may, quite possibly, have something to do with the fact that they were the official bookseller at my recent drunken book launch, so their sales are skewed by some 60-odd copies.

However...

A one is a one, and coming hard on the heals of my ranking as the second highest selling Australian fiction author last week (and that, LOF is from the exceptionally hunky-dory computers of Nielsen Bookscan), let us just say that Mr Blog is finding it hard to negotiate doorways this week, such is the size of his overinflated cranium.

But I am under no delusions of grandeur, LOF (well, not too many). As Bon Scott once said (in fact, as Bon Scott continues to say on an almost daily basis on Vega 95.3 FM, earning royalties in his grave), "it's a long way to the top". Except in North Sydney. And for that, I thank my very good friends at Collins Booksellers and, of course, your good selves.

Incidentally, my charming, witty, attractive, Grace Kelly-lookalike (when GK was alive and young) publisher, C, has taken to addressing me as "Number 2" in her emails. Which is a very nice way of bringing me down to earth, in a very nice way.

The big Number 2!

No, I'm not talking about pooh, LOF, I'm talking about me!

Shameless self-promoter that I am, I cannot contain the news any longer. According to this weekend's Sydney Morning Herald my new book SILENT PREDATOR is number two in the top 10 bestelling Australian fiction books this week.

At number one is 'Breath' by a Mr Tim Winton, of the charming state of West(ern) Australia, and while there is probably a gap of, like, 500,000 book sales between the number one and number two possies, I am there, LOF.

So, tatenda shamwaris, which is to say thank you, my friends.

I heart Perth

Had me a fine time way out west, Legion of Fans (LOF). Yep. I do like Perth. Heart it, in fact.

Why? Well, I'd be lying if I said it had nothing to do with the fact that lots (yes, lots) of people came to hear me speak about Africa and my new book, SILENT PREDATOR. Sure, it's got a nice climate (well, in fact it was raining when I was there), friendly people, an agreeable river and (somewhere) nice beaches, but more importantly there seems to be a sizeable number of people who buy my books.

Of course, I don't want you to think this is all about money, or my personal quest for fame, LOF. I was lucky enough to be able to help some very nice people, from the Painted Dog Conservation organisaiton to raise a not inconsiderable amount of money for endangered Painted Dogs in Africa.

Regular readers will recall that the noble bum-sniffing, bum-scratching, pooh-rolling Painted Dog is one of my all time favourite creatures of the wild.

I spoke at a packed (and I am not exaggerating here, LOF) fundraising dinner at Zebra's African Steak House in the Perth suburb of Bicton. The Painted Dog people auctioned off the naming rights for two characters in my next book, which goes by the catchy title of BOOK 6 at the moment.

I probably shouldn't disclose exactly how much the names went for (I'll leave that to the Painted Dog people should they chose), but let us say, LOF, that the words "shit" and "load" come to mind when I recall the final figure.

The owner of the restaurant told me that he was literally turning people away from the fully-booked event, and I know this to be a fact because I met two such people the next night at Melville City Library. Lovely to meet you both, by the way.

At Melville Library 60 people came along to listen to me spruik, LOF. A new record for one of my library talks has been set.

I visited many book shops and spoke to a charming crowd at Mandurah (pronounced Man-jra) Library, and ended my stay in the western capital with a very nice and very drunken dinner with my good friend and old army buddy, Herr Doktor. We minorly disgraced ourselves in a very nice Indian restaurant by laughing ourselves stupid over a very dirty story from our war days that is far too disgusting to repeat in these cross-generational pages.

Arriving back in my hotel in Perth I had one of those great moments of drunken reasoning. The toilet in my room had been broken when I'd left and was still not functioning when I returned. While the kind staff had organised me another room, in my befuddled mind it was too much of a hassle to pack my bag and move to an adjoining suite. Instead, I packed my bag, got on the phone to Qantas and booked myself on the red-eye (the 12.15AM flight from Perth to Sydney).

Tired and emotional I somehow managed to hail a cab, get through security at the airport without losing my laptop, convince the lady at the Qantatas Club I was sober enough to order two more cans of beer, and get on the (right) plane home.

Several people have asked me during my round-Australia (except South Australia) book tour if I tire of life on the promotional circuit. To which I reply invariably: "I get flights, food and booze provided by my publisher and all I have to do is talk about myself and meet interesting people. It's not like I'm working". And while this is true I was a bit weary by the end of week three, and I was developing a cold.

So it was that I snored, sniffled, teeth-grinded, burped, and repeated vindaloo and garlic naan, all the way home on the late night flight. (My apoligies to the gentleman in 20a who had to put up with all this).

Mrs Blog was curled up in bed, still asleep when I arrived home at 6.45am. I slipped into bed and she said; "You smell of garlic, curry and beer" and a lot of other soppy stuff (ie: she said a lot of other soppy stuff, not that I smelled of a lot of other soppy stuff).

And I thought, LOF, that while it's fun on the road, it's also nice to be home.

Off to New Zealand this week - land of Steinlager, DB and mussels - for more shameless self-promotion.