Podcasting? There's Probably A Cream For That.

By Jay Stringer

If you checked in late yesterday you'll have seen we posted a new podcast. Well, sort of. We posted a bit of me talking.

We enjoyed doing the DSD podcast. It was fun, occasionally booze soaked, and more than a little ranty. Most of the DSD crew made some form of appearance, though there are a couple we still need to rope in, and we also had some great guests. Reed Farrel Coleman made Russel and I blush a couple of times, Tony Black talked to us from the bottom of a bucket, Chuck Wendig used some creative language, and we discussed crime comics for about six hours with two of my favourite podcasters. Oh, and Hilary Davidson came on and classed the joint up a bit.

Plus, let's not forget discussing Doctor Who, my obsession with getting a Watchmen reference into every show, and Dave's brilliant theme tune.

We had the idea of splitting the show into seasons. It seems to me a lot of podcasts out there either come out every single week and end up fading in and out of your ears, or have an erratic schedule that makes them easy to stop listening to. So we decided we'd do blocks, we had season 1, where we fudged the audio a bit, broke microphones, learned how to edit, and talked about pants. We had season 2, where we started inviting people into the play house and getting all chat show on your ass. Then we ended season two with the big Doctor Who special that made Dave jump up and down with joy.

And then...well.....there was.......

There was thing thing, see? The dog ate it. We ran out of gas. We had a flat tire. We didn't have enough money for cab fare. Our tux didn't come back from the cleaners. And old friend came in from out of town. Someone stole our car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts. It wasn't our fault, we swear to god.

(Just ask Babs, she'll tell ya)

We kept meaning to. John Hornor Jacobs released an awesome book, and we planned to talk to him. Joelle released, I think, another twelve, and we meant to bring her back in. I wanted to do a big RAIDERS 3oth anniversary special. But it's tough getting the band back together when we're all writers and living in different time zones. We're like the Beatles, only, you know, good.

And as I look around, there are a tonne of good podcasts out there. There's shows like The Deceptionists for writing chat. There's Fuzzy Typewriter that covers films, TV, books and comics. There's WTF, which covers....most of everything else. Around Comics returned from hiatus, because my time was full enough already. And our buddy Seth Harwood is king of the pile at crime podcasting.

So, tell us, what would you like to hear from season 3? Are you up for another 8-12 episodes of DSD? Do you want interviews? And if so, who? Or practical advice? Or some kind of group therapy session? Do you want to join in? Or fill in? Do we want guest hosts?

Chuck Wendig and I briefly kicked around a few ideas last year that would have lead to the two of us co-hosting a podcast dedicating to writing and the profanity of language. But he's taking over the world, and I'm basically lazy. But I wonder if there's something in that, do we do a spin-off show? Say, DSD PRESENTS; THE HACKS. A monthly(ish) show where we get a round table of three or four writers to just sit and shoot the shit about craft, and about whatever books they've got coming out, and how they wrote them, and who was on the grassy knoll?

I don't know, it's over to you, dear reader. What would you like to hear?

New Podcast

Head here for the deets or click here to just listen to the mp3.

Stamps -- A Fiction Interlude

By Steve Weddle


“Be sure to pack something nice, in case my mom wants to go out to dinner,” she said, loading deodorants, shampoos, nail clippers, toothbrushes into a bag.

He stood at the end of the bed, looking into the opened duffle bag, trying to decide what exactly “something nice” meant. “I have some brown pants and a white shirt. That all right?”

“Are they the tan pants or the khaki ones?”

“The light brown ones,” he said, pulling them out of the suitcase to show her when she stuck her head out of the bathroom door.

Robert Stokes zipped the duffle bag closed, dragged it to the other side of the house, to the front door. He took the stack of envelopes from the side table. The bills he’d worked on last night. He shuffled them into order, looking at the dates he’d written on the backs of the envelopes.

This one gets mailed the third. These two before the tenth. A clump that would wait. He turned around to the hallway. “We need to stop for stamps,” he said.

“What?” from the bedroom.

“Stamps. We need stamps.”

“We have stamps,” she said, coming down the hall to the bills. “In the basket.” She reached into the basket, pulled out three paper clips and a rubber band. “What happened to the stamps?”

“We need stamps.”

“I thought we had some.”

“We don’t. That’s why we need some.”

“Jesus, does everything have to be a fight with you?”

“What fight? I’m just saying we need stamps.”

“I know. You said that the first time.”

“And you said I was wrong.”

“I didn’t say you were wrong. Jesus Christ. I just thought we had some goddamn stamps. What is it with you?”

“With me? All I said was we need stamps and you have to come out and prove me wrong.”

“I was looking for the mother fucking stamps, Robert. Jesus.”

“We don’t have any.”