Why this site?

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I’m a writer. Not full-time, and it’s not what it says on my passport – I have to make a living, after all – but in spirit and every spare moment, that’s what I am. You see, I always wanted to write and don’t think I could stop even if I wanted to.

The act of writing consumes me. Even when I’m not sitting there tapping away, it’s in my head, on the train to work, in bed with the light out, preparing dinner, and so on. And when I’m ‘writing’, I’ll often sit there with an intense look on my face, figuring something out or just pondering the work in general. Then I look up and hours have passed. Such is life.

This is why I’ve created this site. Writing is a solitary activity. It’s something I wish I could talk about more because – to me – it’s a fascinating process. There’s mystery and wonder and magic in it, as well as a lot of hard work and discipline. A lot of it I don’t understand myself. I’d love to share the experience of that with people who are interested in such things and plan to post updates to this site regularly. As part of that, I’m interested in what you think. I welcome your questions and divergent perspectives.

And – just quietly – if you’d like to support me in this lonely and puzzling quest, you’ll find a link to my Patreon account at the right of the page.

In the meantime, read, enjoy, and feel free to ask me your questions.

Q&A Part 7: personal interests and advice

Peter

Question: Aside from writing, what are some of your other passions or hobbies?

P.J. Moroney: Well, I guess reading. I’ve always read a lot. These days, I read a bit of history, criticism, and the like besides fiction. I’m pretty typical, I think. Love music and movies. Follow most sports. I’m a diehard footy fan, like most Melburnians (Essendon), and cricket, and so on. Food, travel, living well – is that a hobby? I’m pretty mainstream. No odd passions or interests. I guess, whether I like it or not – and often I don’t – I follow the news and current affairs religiously and have opinions on every topic. Been like that since I was a kid.

Question: How does your interest in current affairs and history influence your writing?

P.J. Moroney: I don’t know – does it? I suppose it must. Everything you read, see and hear eventually goes into your writing, whether you know it or not. It shapes your perspective and maybe your attitude, and there’s no way that doesn’t influence your writing. But, it’s hardly explicit in me. I haven’t written anything historical. I don’t think about global events when I sit down and write. But then, knowledge of how things work – politics and relationships – is at the core of writing fiction. The more you know, the better you get at it, I would think.

I do have a project in mind that draws upon current events.

Question: What advice would you give to someone who wants to switch careers and pursue writing?

P.J. Moroney: Nothing particular. Writing is an individual thing and I think there’s probably a bit of luck in it, too. What’s true for me may not be true for others.

My so-called writing career is still pretty fresh, and there’s nothing certain about it. I’m in no position to give advice except maybe to suggest some caution. I don’t know what the stats are, but I know there’s a lot of unpublished manuscripts out there. It’s not easy, and I’d probably say the same thing my dad might have said to me if I ever asked: make sure you know what you’re doing. It’s not for everyone, and it takes more than passion. In other words, don’t jump into it without getting your work checked.

I was a terrible judge of my own work. It was essential that I got feedback. That’s still true, though it’s different now. Back then, I needed validation that I could write and that what I wrote was worth reading. Once I knew that I could attack it more confidently, though I was still years away from doing anything about it. Most writers start out doing it on the side and gradually testing the waters, and I think that’s probably the best and safest way of going about it. Once you know there’s a market interested in your writing, you can be more expansive.

That’s how it was with me, though other circumstances forced my hand to a degree.

Question: What circumstances?

P.J. Moroney: Cancer. I survived but it killed my day job.

Question: That must have had a profound on your outlook. Did it change your writing?

P.J. Moroney: It had a profound effect on everything. I’d be guessing, but I figure it may have given some depth to my writing. It certainly changed my outlook.

Question: What have you learned about publishing that you wish you knew when you started?

P.J. Moroney: I’m still learning. It’s tough. I don’t want to go into it too much because I just don’t know. All I can say is if you’re confident in your stuff, stick with it. There are fashions and trends in writing, just as in everything else, but what you bring as a writer is individual and presumably personal. Don’t be tempted to be something that you’re not. If it’s going to work, then it’s your voice that matters.

Q&A Part 6: reader engagement and psychology

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Question: How do you hope readers will feel after finishing your book?

P.J. Moroney: I have to think about that. I guess there are the obvious things. I hope they enjoy it; I hope it makes them think a little, and it would be great if they thought it was the best thing they ever read. And I hope they tell their friends about it.

But really… I hope they understand it. The plot’s not too hard to follow, but I don’t mean that. I hope they understand the characters, their motivation and background. I hope they take in the psychological aspects – there are damaged people in this book, and their decisions and actions come out of that damage. We do as we are.

This is not a straight crime thriller with a linear plot and characters acting predictably. I tried to write something true to human behaviour and the traumas that bear on it. It just so happens it’s a human drama set within a crime thriller. The format places the characters in stress, which makes the story.

Ideally, I hope readers close the book and feel as if – for that moment anyway – that they have an enlarged understanding of human nature. We’re complex beings, and that makes for great literature when you do it right.

Question: You speak of ‘psychological aspects’. How did you approach them, and what was their genesis?

P.J. Moroney: I have no approach. I don’t begin a book thinking I will write about XYZ’s psychological aspects, though I will have themes in the back of my head. I’ll know what the story is about at a high level, but it’s not until I get into the guts of writing that I begin to get into the fine details. Often, it’s something I only realise in retrospect. It’s a cliche, but writing is a journey. I learn as much from the process as someone might do reading it.

Take Kurten. Like I said, he’s damaged. He comes from a famous and respected family, but he lives in disgrace and a degree of shame, thanks to his brother. He was an idealist once with grand ambitions, but now he lived in the shadows, solitary, bitter, and an outsider to the world he once belonged to. Then this case comes along, different from all the other shit he’s been doing, and that’s the story.

Now, there are clear themes there, as well as the possibility of redemption. But he has to live it. He had to go on that journey, and me, I had to write it. You do that, and you begin to inhabit their skin a little. You see through their eyes, feel as they do, and, with a bit of luck, the story brings that authenticity. Whatever I start off writing develops with the experience of writing it and shapes the words and perspective. Because you’re feeling as they do, you begin to understand the nuance of their experience. You grow into a more sophisticated understanding, and that feeds into your writing. I hope!

Question: Where do you think that psychological understanding comes from? How much of you is in it?

P.J. Moroney: Curiosity, mainly, and a wandering, provocative mind. I reckon it’s the same for most writers. I find a lot to be fascinated about, and much of it boils down to what people do and how they act. I’m a great observer, too. That’s pretty much a reflex, and I’m glad of it – I don’t think I’d be a writer or be interested in it if I wasn’t.

I don’t know the whys and hows of it, but I think I’ve always been pretty insightful regarding people. I seem to be able to read people. I’ve always been sensitive like that and had a natural understanding of what motivates people, what they’re thinking sometimes – and why – and ultimately, their triggers. It’s never what I tried to be; it just was. I had a bit of a party trick once where I would meet someone new and, within a few hours, explain back to them who they were. It was pretty shallow, but it would amaze many of them. Sometimes, they would be quite moved. Everyone likes to be understood.

I’m not an expert. I’m certainly not a psychologist. I read a bit, but most of it is experience. As I said, Kurten isn’t me, but I take my experiences and observations, and they naturally inform the characters and story. I draw upon what I know. To that extent, it’s personal.

Question: Isn’t that sort of insight shocking to other people?

P.J. Moroney: It’s certainly surprising, but I keep it under wraps 99% of the time. I’m sure it can be uncomfortable, and I have no desire to intrude upon a person’s privacy. And it’s not infallible anyway. It’s just something.

I will say it was useful when I worked in corporate. It helped me understand why people did what they did and sometimes how I could counter it.

Question: What has been the most surprising or interesting feedback from your readers?

P.J. Moroney: For a start, let me just say I welcome feedback. I’m always curious about how readers respond to my work and what they see in it. I’m happy to be surprised, mostly. If you’re reading this, feel free to send through your feedback.

Otherwise, I get a few questions about some characterisations, nothing too surprising. I got into a conversation with an older woman about the graphical nature of the sex scene. I felt a little embarrassed, actually, but she loved it. That surprised me.

I also get feedback about Melbourne from people living abroad. I think it’s a character in the story, and it seems to be well-appreciated.

How it changes

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I was going to the drafts folder in my email and came across an email. I wrote a couple of years ago and never sent it. It describes some of the processes I go through writing and specifically address the second novel I began to write. It’s the novel I hope to finish within a few months. Here it is

The second novel I’m working on came to me pretty well, complete as a story, from whence I don’t know. I reckon a lot happens in the subconscious. It’ll publish the idea to the conscious mind when it’s ready. In my case, I woke up one morning with it in my head. I shared it with someone at work, and they said great, go for it, and that’s what I’ve been doing.

Generally, when I have a novel like this in my head, I’ll have the beginning and the end and bits and pieces in between. I’ll know what the story is about and what I want to say, but there’ll be a lot of gaps in the storyline. It’s like planning a trip from Melbourne to Sydney and knowing you’ve got to go through Upper Kumbucta West, but otherwise, you don’t know what route you’ll be taking until you’re in the car driving.

What I’ve found writing this is that while the story was clear to me, many of the underlying themes only became apparent as I began to write. I knew the headline themes and could have explained to anyone who asked this is what it’s about. But then you get into the nitty gritty, and there’s much more complexity than a sheer headline. You advance carefully, feeling your way, like walking through a minefield. Many times you retreat knowing it’s not quite right. That’s when you sit in front of your screen looking blank while your mind goes a million miles an hour. You live the moment, searching through it and clarifying details with your mind. Is this right? Or this?

You’re searching for truth, but it comes from the story, the text, and not anything you impose upon it. By now, the story has its own life. It’s your job to understand and to chart it. That sounds a bit of a toss, but that’s how it is. Quite often, I start writing thinking it’s about one thing before discovering there’s more to it than that, and my job is to listen well and get it right.

I had the experience halfway through writing this novel when I read of Homer, specifically, of Achilles, the mighty Greek warrior. As I read, I reflected on my story, seeing the parallels for the first time.

 In the Iliad, Achilles is nigh on invincible. By myth, he was held by the heel and dipped in a magical pool that made him immune to injury. He’s a proud, somewhat arrogant character, though capable of great complexity. Ultimately – beyond the pages of the Iliad, he will perish victim of his only flaw – an error to the heel left unprotected.

 But what if Achilles doesn’t perish? What if he lives on well after the sacking of Troy and the death of so many mighty characters? What if he passes into middle age, a warrior of legend but creaking, aching, and grey now? His days of might have passed. He has defeated thousands in battle, but in middle age, he has settled into an existence where he wonders what it all means. Looking back, he knows it was real but feels distant and lost, as if he is a different man. It is this he must reconcile.

 That’s what my story is, in a way, though inadvertent. It’s modernised, and instead of a warrior, the protagonist is a once great sportsman.

 I’m not far off finishing the first draft of this novel, and there will likely be a couple of rewrites before I’m happy. The point is that I started with an idea that still holds true, but I’ve found unexpected complexity as I’ve gone along. That’s not surprising, but I learn from it myself as I reappraise, reflecting on its depth and meaning.

 One thing I know is that this has a strong theme in me—we tell our own stories. I’ll post something about that another time.

Forgetting how to write

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This is what it comes to sometimes, days and sometimes weeks, when I feel as if I’ve forgotten how to write. It isn’t true, I know because I can still write other things – just not the thing I want to write.

That’s the problem when you try to spin a story out of thin air. All of it is new, all of it – some of it, anyway – is in your mind, and hopefully, you can bring it to the page. But how? What are the words? What are the right words?

It’s not something you worry about much when you’re writing well. You sit down, and it comes out, more or less. It’s never perfect the first time and not even the last go at it, but mostly, you get a true sense of what you’re trying to do and the shape of it, and if not all the words are right, then some of them are. If you’re lucky, and mostly I am, there are words here and there strung together in the proper sequence and saying what you want to say. It’s something to go on with, and you do.

But there times, as I am experiencing currently, when you feel lost. In this case, I have words on a page. I know the scene I want to write, but I’ve seemingly lost the facility. I try, again and again, trying this, trying that, the stenographer for a dull brain, all of it lifeless and none of it true.

The particular issue this time is the fundamental and needful challenge of narrative. It’s joining things together and fixing them in the earth so they become lifelike and credible.

The smart thing would be to take a break. That’s what I tell myself, but I can’t. It’s like the last clue of the crossword that’s been bugging you. It’ll come to you if you let it go, but you can’t wait. It’s not just a matter of patience. You have to conquer it. And so rather than letting it go you return to it, trying to fit different words into the allotted space, to no avail and worrying about it when you should be sleeping. And going at it again when you wake, thinking your nocturnal prognostications might be onto something – but they’re not.

I haven’t forgotten how to write. I’ve forgotten how to be me. I’ve done it before. Its there. It will come again. Until then – let’s try something different…

Q&A part 5: about the novel

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Question: Without giving too much away, what can readers expect from your debut novel?

P.J. Moroney: Hopefully an entertaining read. I think the protagonist is complex and interesting. The themes are pretty universal. And I think it has some good twists and surprises, though I’m not much of a judge of that. I’m told that’s the case.

I set out to write a book I’d like to read, but I hardly considered the audience when I wrote it. It makes the question a bit hard to answer. Readers will get their own thing out of it, hopefully something good – but, at the end of the day, it’s their business. And while I hope people enjoy it and I sell a million copies, I’m not too fussed.

I’ve heard a lot of writers say they write for themselves. I think I have, anyway. But it’s true for me, and think it must always be the case for any attempt at serious literature. It’s different if you’re setting out to write a commercial best-seller, a potboiler or whatever. Fair enough if you do your research to write what people want to read. I’d love to write a bestseller, but the reason I write is not to be acclaimed or make a million dollars or even to be read – though I hope all that happens. I write because I feel like I have something I have to say. Something I have to get out. My process is just the opposite of deliberately writing a popular novel.

I know it sounds a bit pretentious. And I note that I’ve inferred my book is serious literature. It isn’t, though it’s got things in it. It’s a detective novel. It has crime and murders, and it’s even got porn. I think it’s well-written. Some of the dialogue is snappy – it was fun to write it. And it’s got a big sex scene for those easily titillated. That was funny to write also.

Question: The sex scene is quite substantial. Do you have a process when writing sex scenes?

P.J. Moroney: Nothing special. These days, I’m going by memory. I’ve read some pretty ordinary sex scenes in the past and reckon the mistake they make is being too literal. In my experience, anyway, sex is more a series of impressions and sensations, and that’s how I write it. Sex isn’t cerebral; it’s in the body and the sense of self, merging and embracing and shifting, and the sensations, sudden sometimes, and sometimes slow. A build-up that includes anticipation and imagination. The best sex is always a bit of a trip. That’s how I write it. I don’t plan it. I let it happen, like the real thing – impressionistic, edgy, raw, a bit sloppy, but a lot of fun.

Question: Are any characters or events in your book inspired by real-life experiences or people?

P.J. Moroney: Everyone always wants to know this. Most of this story came into being 20 years ago. If there was anyone in mind, they’re long forgotten. Having said that, you borrow people from time to time in your writing. There’s never a complete person, but you might take aspects – the way someone talks or walks, little idiosyncrasies and tics here and there you re-purpose. Sometimes, when writing, I’ll be reminded of someone I know or have met, but it’s that way around. It’s possible they’ve been in my subconscious all this time and come out on the page, but you’d have to ask my Id.

There’s one character in the book who had the physical description of someone I used to work with, though the personality is very different. Sometimes, I imagine faces, and I’ll see someone and think, yep, that’s so and so. For the record, Kurten isn’t me.

As for events? I can’t think of any. Places a bit. Melbourne plays a big role in this story. There’s a pub I’ve described, as well as a bar that fits pretty well with the generic Melbourne bar vibe. There’s Brunswick Street, trams, footy, and so on. But that’s pretty standard.

Question: Was it a deliberate decision to make Melbourne such a character in this story?

P.J. Moroney: Yes. I’m a die-hard Melburnian. Love the place and know it back to front. It’s got a broody face that suited the story well, plus I wanted to show it off a bit. I had a European reader tell me very enthusiastically that they felt like they were walking the streets of Melbourne reading it. I liked that.

Getting into shape

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I’m midway through the second draft of my novel, Unknown to God. I first began writing this several years ago and had completed the first draft before I was diagnosed with cancer. That hit my writing for six; it was over a year before I began on the second draft.

The sole novel I’ve published went through about five drafts. By the end, I was tweaking elements of it, trying to make it perfect. The heavy lifting and significant changes happened in the first few drafts.

I’m not an expert on this – I’m making it up as I go along – but I’ve got a fair idea of the editing process as it applies to me.

The first draft is pretty much a mind dump. You have an idea that’s ticking in your head like a bomb, and, in my case anyway, I’m dead keen to get it on paper before it goes off and there’s nothing left. Throughout this, I’m afraid the inspiration will leave me before I finish. I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I fear a sudden onset of amnesia. So, I’m not fussed over much with the first draft, and it can be pretty messy, and I’m mighty relieved once I’ve got it done.

I’ll take a break from it after that. Working so intensively it can get in your head in an unhealthy way. When that happens, it’s hard to think objectively about it, which is what you need. I take a few months off from it and work on something else. In the background, a part of my mind is still labouring on it, considering the changes I need to make. By the time I get to it again, it’s pretty ripe.

The second draft is about cleaning up the obvious crap and refining it into something more agile and readable. The story remains, but I’ll adjust the plot here and there, taking things out and maybe adding some in. I’ll look at the language and consider the motivations more deeply. There are more drafts to come, so it’s not about making it perfect but getting the shape of it right.

That’s my main focus, really. I may change things up in later drafts, but 95% of the story should be there after the second draft. I want to come to the next draft and know what it’s about without having to do all the thinking again. I can get stuck doing that, but it’s important.

The later drafts are about further refining it. It’s a bit like an athlete training for a big event. He starts fat and unfit but motivated, and as he goes along, he settles on a training plan, losing the fat and adjusting the program as he gets fitter and stronger, fine-tuning it as he closes on his goal. One day, he’s ready. That’s when I hope the book is ready, too – though it never is, really.

That’s where I’m at, midway through the second draft, and it’s been torturous. That’s partly because I got so busy with other things I couldn’t get a good routine going. In my experience, you need a pattern of work to get in the zone properly. When that happens, your mind remains fertile and productive so that when you return to the page, there’s plenty of stuff to go on with. But, up to a couple of months ago, I failed to get a work pattern going, and the writing came hard.

For the last little while, it’s been going well, but then I got stuck again. I didn’t know the right ‘shape’ this time. When that happens, I stare into space a lot, trying to figure it out. I want to get inside the story so the way forward becomes organic and natural. But it’s not always as obvious as that.

Sometimes, I’ll hook something I’ve written out to someone for feedback. What do you think? Does this work? How about x and y? It’s so choked in your mind you feel you can’t see clearly for yourself.

I reckon I must have rewritten this chapter five or six times. I’m tempted to go on to the next chapter sometimes and return to it later, but that doesn’t work. To start with, one chapter informs the next. It’s like trying to build a house without all the framework. And I’m pigheaded, too. I get so pissed with it I won’t move on until I’ve got it beat. I’ve always been like that.

It’s important though. It’s got to be authentic and move the story in the right direction. If I get the shape right now, it’s easier the next time. (By shape, I mean the basic plot and events of the chapter, the pacing and balance and, most importantly, the motivations that influence behaviour and action. It has to feel legit and make sense in the overall context.) If I get to the third draft without getting it right, I might find the story forks in a different direction from what I thought.

Finally, I’m nearing the end of the chapter and am satisfied with it – I think. It has the right balance now, which often equates to less is more. There’s been a lot of trial and error, a bit of experimentation, and everything short of mind-altering drugs. In the end, it’s a tried and true method that seems to have worked. I’ll write about that another day, but basically, it’s using the greats to inspire you to look at things differently.

Q&A part 4: challenges and triumphs

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Question: What have been some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced in your writing career?

P. J. Moroney: Most of it’s a challenge. No one does it to get rich, though that’d be nice. You do it for love. You do it because you must. You do it because that’s who you are. It’s all a challenge, but most things worthwhile are.

But, yeah, that’s not the answer you want. Well, consider this. I’ve been writing since I was about 17. I figured it was something I wanted to do seriously from about my early twenties. I’ve been writing in all the years since and dreaming about it. I have a bagful of old notebooks with scratchings from when I was just a kid. There’s a hard drive full of stories and fragments and so on. All of that, and I’ve only just now finally got something published. You could say just persisting all that time is a challenge. I deserve a medal, and most writers do.

I guess the biggest challenge is mental. To keep going takes a fair bit of stubborn belief. You have to believe that you have something worth saying and something that people might want to hear or read. I don’t know what kept me going. Some of my early writing was awful, and if I knew it then I might not have gone on. Good thing I didn’t. But that’s the thing you have to deal with: doubt and discouragement.

I always felt the need to express myself by writing. It was like I had so much going on that I had to get it out somehow, and writing seemed natural to me. It was a way of interpreting and understanding things. What are stories but parables? Over time, you get better at it. You see and think with more clarity, and the words come more precisely. I always read a lot and loved it – loved the language as much as anything. I had things I needed to say, but I wanted to say them stylishly, too. So, you keep at it.

I’m half amazed that I published anything. It didn’t look good a while back, but I always said I would do it. Now it’s done. So, yeah, the biggest challenge is believing in yourself and staying the course.

Question: You have done it, and congratulations – but now you have, you must plan to publish more now.

P. J. Moroney: You betcha.

Question: Are stories only really parables?

P. J. Moroney: Maybe they’re a bit more than that, but not a lot in my book. Depends on the sort of writer you are, I guess. You hope your writing is entertaining and enjoyable to read, but you’re saying something, aren’t you, or showing it? And instead of saying it straight out, you couch it in the form of a story that people can sympathise with and understand without having to process it too much. It’s the old adage, show, not tell.

But that’s not true of every writer. It is for me.

Question: Can you share a particularly rewarding moment in your writing journey?

P. J. Moroney: My first interview? Maybe I do have something worth hearing.

But really, it’s probably being published, though it fades fast. It’s definitely a milestone and very satisfying, but once it’s done, it’s done. You’ve worked on it so hard for so long that it’s great when it pays off – that’s the point, isn’t it? – but then it’s finished and in the past, and you’re onto the next one. I find I live very much in the moment when I’m writing.

But I reckon I’ll be pretty pleased when they make a movie out of my book.

Q&A part 3: the creative process

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Question: Could you describe your typical writing day?

P. J. Moroney: There isn’t one.

I used to read about the habits of great writers and wonder what would work for me. Some of them got up bright and early and wrote till lunchtime and took the rest of the day off. Others were the opposite. I reckon at least one wrote standing up. I think Henry James dictated his novels.

I haven’t had the luxury of a routine. I was a working man, so I wrote when I could, which was mostly on the weekend. I think, in general, I write more in the afternoon than in the morning. I need to get into the day first. I feel I write better in the winter than in the summer, but that’s probably my imagination. I’m pretty disciplined, considering.

Early days, I wrote everything long hand. Eventually, I began to write using my PC, and I still do that, but do a lot of writing on my iPad now, too, away from my desk. Occasionally, I’ll jot a thought or an idea or a scrap of dialogue in a notebook or one of the apps on my phone. When the words come harder, I try to change things up and might head out to the garden or a local cafe with a notebook and a pen.

Things might change when I get rich and famous.

Question: How do you approach the development of your characters?

P. J. Moroney: I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t think I have an approach. As for development, it’s all in my head.

Most of it’s in my head. I’m not one of those writers who use cue cards or who do a lot of research. Character development is pretty organic – they’re just there on the page, and they grow from that.

It’s not something I’ve ever thought about much, maybe because it’s always seemed so natural. I guess I have an idea of the major characters when I start something, but most of their growth is spontaneous, and the minor characters sprout into being along the way. Character informs action, but I like to let it flow.

There are times when I get stuck – when it doesn’t come so naturally. I expect that. People are complex, and even if these characters are my creation, I want them to be as authentic as possible – that is, think and act in ways that are true to the person. Sometimes, I will create characters that vary from my personal experience of life, and so I have to reach to make them authentic. It can be hard to get the nuance right and true to personality. Occasionally, I’ll ask someone better placed to review what I’ve written to get their perspective. Otherwise, in those cases, I spend a lot of time trying to inhabit their character to see and act through their eyes.

The rest of the time, it just happens. You get to know these guys so well that it becomes second nature as if you’re spirit writing for them. You put them in the room and let them perform. The starting point for me is understanding what they look like, and from that, everything flows – their tics and idiosyncrasies, how they talk, what they say, their attitude to life and their flaws, and all the rest of it.

Question: Do you ever base your characters on real people?

P. J. Moroney: Not really. Not completely, anyway.

Of course, what I know of human nature and people comes from interacting with characters every day of my life. It’s natural that you’ll pick up things and use them along the way, mostly without being aware of it. How someone walks, say, or the verbal tics someone might have, as well as character traits, and so on, but it’s all pretty anonymous.

Occasionally, I will take the look of someone and use them, extrapolating from that into character and history – a different person altogether.

Back in the day, when I got pissed off with someone, I would sometimes think I’ll fix them up someday by using them as a nasty character in one of my stories, but I’ve never done that. There is no character I’ve written that is even 50% of anyone I know. Most of them are organic creations but often around the seed of a trait or attitude or look. They’re born in my mind, but they come to life on the page. I think of them as real people once they’re written.

Q&A part 2: about the writing

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Question: How do your travel and career experiences influence your writing?

P. J. Moroney: All your life experiences contribute to your writing. Everything you see and do counts, and many of the things you encounter along the way will end up fueling the creative fire.

Work is a big part of life. We spend half our life there, pretty much. It plays a huge part, even if it’s not conscious. You pick up a lot of subliminal material just going to and from work every day for years, and in your office, and getting your coffee and going out for lunch, and so on. And that’s just the surface stuff. It goes deeper.

Not all writing, but much of it is about characters. Work in an office, and they surround you. You get to see up close the human dynamics at play, different personalities and characters, different ways of being. Then there’s the politics of place, what people do and how they deal with it. A lot of it’s pretty raw. You see people under pressure, you see them happy and sad, you see them stressed, and you see them at their most ambitious. It’s a rich stew of human stuff, and even if you don’t use it directly, it informs your thinking and philosophy and maybe even your behaviour.

As for travel, that’s different. It’s handy seeing how other people live and absorbing different cultures and all that, but the value of it is that it enlarges your soul if you do it right. I mean, if you treat it as more than just a photo opportunity and immerse yourself in the history and culture of a place, you learn a lot – not just about the people and place, but about yourself as well. You come away as a bigger person, I reckon. I don’t want to use the word enlightened, but there’s a bit of that.

When I travelled, I would soak it up. I’d try to get off the beaten path. Half the time, I’d travel rough. I opened myself up – I wanted to meet the locals and see how they lived. I had some unforgettable experiences.

I don’t know if I ever consciously used that for my writing, but there’s at least one story set abroad. More importantly, travel broadened me as a person. Everything you write comes from inside, and the richer you become with experience and knowledge and perspective, the richer your writing should become.

If only it were so easy!

Question: What themes do you find yourself drawn to in your storytelling?

P. J. Moroney: Themes are things you figure out in retrospect. You start writing with characters and plot in mind and maybe a general idea of what you want to say. In my experience, themes emerge in the writing. You don’t start with them in your head – I don’t anyway – but then you write something and read it back and see the thread of a theme emerging. And it makes sense to you because it’s yours – it’s come from inside.

I guess I became more conscious of it after the first few times, and editing and rewriting, I would look to sharpen them a little. In between times, I’d wonder about it, exploring what they meant – not just in general, but what they meant to me. And why.

To answer your question, I think there are a few themes – maybe the critics will teach me a few more. I think redemption was one of the earliest themes I identified. As themes go, I think it’s a good one. The opportunity to come good, to change the course of something, to redeem yourself – if only to yourself – is pretty rich. Why me? I couldn’t say, but it matches well with the sense of a journey, which I’m also drawn to.

Otherwise, I think flawed masculinity is one of my themes – don’t ask. Except to say, I think a lot of macho bullshit is bullshit. I think many men lose their way for whatever reason, and I look at that.

That aligns pretty well with personal identity, also. I see that in my writing. I’m curious about it. I mentioned earlier how I like the idea of a journey, and that’s because we’re all on a journey whether we know it or not. We know how it starts, we know roughly how it ends, and in between, we have to figure out how to live and who we are. This might sound a bit new-age, but I reckon the ultimate journey is finding our authentic self. That’s the jackpot, but easier said than done.

Question: Why is it so hard?

P. J. Moroney: There’s a lot of distractions these days. Everything gets delivered to us, on the TV, on our phone, at the supermarket. We get caught up in lifestyle, seductive as it is, and lost in that is direct experience. It’s easy to accept the cushy ride, and before you know it, it’s all over, and you haven’t begun to get at the real stuff.

Everything is a fucking marvel, and we take it for granted.

Question: What is the real stuff?

P. J. Moroney: Let’s not go there – except, I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to write. That’s the journey.

Question: How’s that going for you?

P.J. Moroney: Still going. I’m on the road, though.

Excerpt from Send to Darkness

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No spoilers, you’ll need to buy the book – but here’s a tease:

You might think by the way that Helena Ryle spoke about me that I was a someone, except I wasn’t, not really. It was not fame I possessed but infamy, and even that, after two years, very much faded. People thought they knew me. I was one of those faces that stirred distant memories. Aren’t you that footballer, they might ask? Or was it you that…? And so on. Occasionally, they happened across the right story – oh yes, you’re the policeman, aren’t you, the brother? Even then, though they might look at me sideways, they made little of it – they expected to see something, some evil, horns or something, and instead, they found someone quite normal.

One man’s normal is another man’s weird, of course. It was different for me. I didn’t know what normal was anymore, and even if by now my story was one among millions, it was my story, and though I don’t like to admit to it, as fresh to me then as it was when it happened. It still burned in me, and because it did, it was not something I ever dwelt on. It was one reason why I didn’t stop to wonder why it was important to Helena Ryle, regardless of the clues that it offered to me.

My brother, Ray, was eight years older than me and shone so bright that I was lost in the shadows until everything changed. In his prime, Ray had been the pin-up boy of the force. When he turned it on, he was an oversized personality who was also – as the newspapers loved to proclaim – ‘police royalty’. Not just the son of the commish, Ray was also the decorated head of the drug squad and, to the tabloid audience, the cop they knew best. He was writ large, the police go-to man, the cop every punter related to and rooted for because they knew him and because he spoke their language. For a while, Ray was everywhere. He was a pugnacious, witty, almost comic-book version of what a 21st-century cop should be. None of it was false, but it was not altogether real either. Ray was more complex than that, and not just in the ways we soon learned. He was my brother, and I saw him as the public never did, felt the easy affection of an older brother for the younger, shared with him my exuberant hopes and witnessed the rare occasion when he was less certain or less boisterous.

To the broader world, to the media, to the public who wanted to know which nag ‘Razor’ had tipped for the Cup, and to the police PR department who egged him on, Ray was a commodity. He knew it and lapped it up. “Give ‘em a little of what they want,” he had once said to me with a smirk, “and there’s nothing they won’t give you back.”

Then it changed. There was a tip-off: Ray was dirty. From one day to the next, Ray went from folk hero to public enemy number one. It was a circus. The tabloids shrieked his name, and the talkback lines choked with outraged callers shocked that Ray had not lived up to the image they had thrust upon him. Ray was guilty of the one thing that could not be forgiven: he had betrayed the trust of the people – and the people’s proxy, the media.

Ray became Judas, and not even his death could appease the baying crowd. There was no satisfaction in that. Like a scorned lover, they were furious with their shame. They wanted answers. They wanted to hold him in the palm of their hand, and in their power, they wanted, should the law permit, to hang, draw and quarter the dastardly traitor. They got none of that. He’d played them for a mug and got away with it. Now, he was gone. But I remained.

None of you can understand what it was like. I wasn’t sure that I did. When the blood’s up, when tabloids scream headlines every day, and carnivorous reporters stake out home and work, the presumption of innocence is nothing more than a judicial precept. If I was not Judas, then at least I was Judas’ brother, was I not? I was guilty by association, if not in fact. At best, I confused people. I was the inconvenient reminder of their shame and cupidity. What I said or did or if I was guilty or innocent was beside the point. The point was they needed a living, breathing fall guy, and I was it.

There were TV cameras there the day I left. The sun blazed from a blue sky, and the cameras pointed at me. I stood where I was told, numbed by disbelief. There were speeches made and a presentation while I continued to play my compliant role. I was lauded for my service, praised for my accomplishments, commended for my sacrifice, and publicly consoled for the shame wrought upon the family name. You see, I was one of theirs, after all, officially, but the fine-sounding words did nothing to disguise their smug hypocrisy. As far as the world was concerned, I was innocent only because they couldn’t prove I was guilty, and that was that…