The Bones Are Calling
Well my bones are 63 years old, thanks for asking, and "age is just a number" was never coined by a senior citizen, but I'm working out every day nevertheless. Just like every other year. Today was stationary bike and wrestling calisthenics in the main: Hindu squats and pushups in the sunshine, wrestler's bridge on the judo mat in my dojo. Yesterday was stationary bike and chest/back/shoulders with the weights.
I've primarily been using full-body weights workouts for the past few years, but my favourite split when I'm focusing on different muscle groups on different days is a simple two-way split: chest/back/shoulders, then legs/arms. (Yes, you use your arms for chest, back and shoulder exercises; but if you train, you know what I mean.) And I stretch and do at least some kind of martial arts drill every day.
Not the bones I meant to talk about, though.
Back in March I was working on another contemporary cyber thriller, when suddenly contemporary reality wasn't as entertaining as it might otherwise be, so I did what Silicon Valley types call a pivot.
(Honestly, it's not rude.)
So what called me? Yes, that city where the sky is perpetually dark purple, and the bones of the dead are fuel for the reactor piles, where necroflux builds up in the resonance cavities that bring light and warmth to the living. And Donal Riordan is back.
Along with a weirder and far more powerful threat than he's ever faced before. Him, and a talking obsidian skull called Drad. And some of his old acquaintances have made a real mess of things. The kind of mess that can destroy an entire city, or worse.
Or rather Donal and the others will be back, next month, in a book I'm calling Tristopolis Howling. Nicely in time for Halloween, too.