My Strange Addiction - Bad Reviews & Where To Find Them.

Bad reviews.

They're nothing new. They are part and parcel of being a published author and, if there is one thing I've learned after seven years of writing and being published, you are bound to get one - or two.

You know something?

They still hurt.

Even with all of the advice I've received about bad reviews and the knowledge that you can't please everyone all of the time, there are occasions when the bad review cuts - and cuts deep.

(image credit: Goodreads.)

Of course, one nexus where authors can almost be guaranteed of seeing bad reviews of their work is Goodreads. The Amazon owned, global hub of just about any book that has ever been published is either a blessing or a curse for the working author.

I still haven't decided which.

Sure, it's a platform that gives exposure to an author's work, allows discussion and interaction about that work and literature more broadly. 

In the past couple of weeks, some reviews have appeared on the Goodreads entry for The Recipient that are less than kind. In a word  - they suck. I won't relay the details of them for you here. You can visit the entry for yourself and check them out. Suffice to say, there are no positive take aways in them. There is nothing in them that I could use to apply to better myself as a writer. Over the course of several hundred words, their basic take-home is, 'This is shit. Move on.'

You maybe asking, why would you do this to yourself Dean? Why would you visit a site like Goodreads, if you know that the reviews may not all be good?

Well - because reviews matter. Reviews are still the pre-dominant indicator of an individuals decision to purchase or not to purchase. If the reviews are bad, and they come from a reviewer of influence, that is quite a powerful position to be in.

I've had plenty of advice, saying to avoid reviews - good and bad - and I know, intellectually, that is the right thing to do. 

But sometimes, I have moments of weakness. I've had a few moments of weakness recently.

I'm close to a stage of burn out. I've recently had two patients at my work pass who I were really close to and I think they affected me more than I am willing to admit. There has a constant pressure associated with the daily grind. Work, the school run, the weekend sports, juggling the house hold budget, my health. Not to mention the challenges of trying to remain creative and finish a story that I've committed quite a lot to emotionally over the past year.

I missed a pressure release valve somewhere along the way.

In those moments, I find myself indulging in a crazy little game of self flagellation. There is something about bad reviews that is strangely attractive. It's almost like, seeing a bad review acts as a sort of leveler. That, even after multiple titles, you're not actually top stuff at all. You're not even decent. You're a fraud.

(image credit: REUTERS/Mohammad Ismail.)

The best place, it seems, to do that is by visiting Goodreads and checking up on your reviews. Ignore the good reviews and go straight for bad ones and bask in them like some strung out drug addict. 

Feels good, don't it. 

I've endeavored to adhere to the idea that all reviews are valuable. All reviews offer something that an author can use to better themselves. Truth is, not all reviews are helpful. In fact, there are actually bad, bad reviews. 

And it still hurts.

DFA. 

The Involuntary Pause - Misadventures In Writing & Other Things.

I wasn't feeling it today.

Maybe it was because I'd indulged a little more than I'd planned to last night at the Pub when I was catching up with family. Maybe it was because it was such a lovely morning this morning and I found myself tending to my garden and lawns while listening to an ever enlightening episode of the Osher Günsberg podcast.

Whatever it was - I just couldn't engage my creative impulse today and, despite the eventual two hours I spent at my computer, my output wasn't good. I think I stared at my screen more than I did input anything of value. I'm struggling with the challenge of bringing two people together in a way that is gentle and convincing - and not soppy. So far, it has involved my protagonist, Hayden Luschcombe, helping my co-protagonist, Isabelle Sampi, with a blocked fuel line in her car and her showing him her bakehouse that she pretty much built herself. There's gotta be romance in there somewhere right.

It's a long story...

...And it's not easy.

Traditionally, I've been really hard on myself and overly criticized myself for not being productive. It's sonething that has caused me considerable distress - unnecessary distress. But I've slowly learned to accept that, sometimes, I'm simply not going to be able to tap into whatever it is that allows me to write freely and easily. When that happens, I've given myself permission to step away and disengage and it actually helps a lot. Of course, as with any learned behaviour - particularly those that have been learned over a long period of time - it's not easy to shake the anxiety and the tendency to be self critical. It takes effort to deprogram yourself and that can be pretty tiring. As I sit and I type this however, I'm okay...

...I think.

To contrast this with something completely opposite, something ratrathgroynd shaking has happened with The Recipient in the past couple of weeks. Back at the beginning of this month, my publisher wrote to advise me that The Recipient had been accepted for a Goodreads promotion that would see it be featured prominently at Goodreads as well as being included in a subscriber email mail-out.

Well, as the result of this promotion, The Recipient embarked on a rapid climb up the Amazon charts, peaking at a ranking of 735 a couple of weeks ago (out of several million titles) and it entered in the Top 100 across several fiction categories. It's since settled back into the mid 10,000 range as I write this but, it's selling at least a half dozen copies daily rather than say one or two copies a week. It's safe to say that I've never experienced anything like this and I'm kind of unsure how to see this. Further, I've just been informed that Amazon itself has selected The Recipient for its Kindle Monthly Deal mailout for November which has the potential to continue this run of high sales through its high visibility promotion. This includes prominent placement across the Amazon site as well as its social network.

In a word, I'm flabbergasted.

In the six years since my first novel, The Hambledown Dream, was published, I haven't had this level of exposure nor sales and it's a little hard to believe it's actually happening.

It's all a little bit of yin and yang today (is that right?)

Have you experienced something similar this past week? Let me know in the comments section below.

DFA.

Talking The Recipient With Our Time TV.

A couple of weeks ago, I recorded an interview with Adelaide's Our Time TV, a magazine styled program on Channel 44. Over the course of the 10 minute interview, Sue Cardwell and I explored the inspirations behind the novel, how my background in Intensive Care Nursing helped shape a compelling medical thriller and how I juggle a busy Nursing career, parenthood and being an established author. 

Our Time TV is a Channel 44, Adelaide production airing weekly across Australia. 

Visit Our Time here. 

DFA.

#SpecFicFest Adelaide - I'm Gonna Be There!

Calling all scifi and speculative fiction fans! If you're in Adelaide this coming weekend, consider checking out the annual #SpecFicFest to be hosted by the South Australian Writer's Centre. Over two feature packed days Australian authors from around the spec fiction and sci fi genres will be participating in panel discussions, Q&A sessions, and workshops covering all areas of speculative and science fiction.

It'll be one of the most exciting genre festivals to feature in Adelaide this year! For further details, visit the event registration page now at the South Australian Writer's Centre.

FEATURING: Gillian Rubinstein, Sean Williams, Lisa L Hannett, Ben Chandler, Jason Fischer, DM Cornish,  Tony Shillitoe, Jo Spurrier, Tehani Wessely and Dean Mayes.

Yep - that's me at the end of that fine list. 

And I'm a touch nervous, I'm not gonna lie.

I'll be chairing one of the panel discussions on Saturday May 7th along side New York Times best selling author Sean Williams (Twinmaker, Star Wars - The Force Unleashed) and Aurealis Award Winner Jason Fischer (Everything Is A Graveyard, Quiver). We'll be discussing the genre of Speculative Fiction and how it has evolved over the past 50 years. 

And on Saturday evening, in the company of these amazing authors, I'll be performing an original piece of speculative fiction at the #SpecFicFest's "Quick & Dirty" Event at the Producers Hotel, Grenfell Street in Adelaide. 

This is a free event where you can come along, enjoy some sweet wood oven pizza, some cold beers and listen to some amazing stories in a relaxed atmosphere. 

Exciting times! I'm really looking forward to the event and I'm sure it'll be a grand weekend. 

DFA.

Meet The Recipient - Release Day.

The Recipient, the kinetic and pulse pounding new psychological thriller from Australian author and Intensive Care Nurse Dean Mayes is officially available where ever good books are sold. 

Set in Melbourne, Australia, Mayes' immersive novel follows a troubled young heart transplant recipient, Casey Schillinge who, in the aftermath of her life saving surgery, begins to have terrifying nightmares that slowly drive her towards the edge of madness. In a quest to understand the reasons why, Casey makes a shocking discovery about the fate of her donor and is soon drawn into a deadly conspiracy that will threaten her life all over again. 

Featuring Mayes' signature style and engaging characters, The Recipient has already earned significant praise as a gripping thriller, a smart and meticulous mystery and family drama with a lot of heart.

Purchase The Recipient now in print or digital format from the following retailer, or ask for The Recipient by name at your favourite book seller.

                

The Recipient is Dean Mayes' third full length novel for Central Avenue Publishing and is distributed internationally by Independent Publisher's Group. 

DFA.

Talking The Recipient With Jogcast Radio.

Recently I sat down with broadcaster Alan R. Ryan from Jogcast Radio and together we had a wide ranging discussion about my writing career to date and how it has culminated in the much anticipated release of my new novel The Recipient.

Over about an hour we talked about where my creative impulse came from, how a certain pop culture franchise influenced my desire to tell stories and how I have refined what I now call "The Method" that I use in my own writing journey.

DOWNLOAD MP3 (Right Click then "Save As...").

DFA.

Pre-Order The Recipient Now.

The Recipient - Music That Inspired A Novel.

For those of you who know me, I have been described as a very musical writer and indeed, music is an integral part of my writing process. They are sources of inspiration that help me to conjure mood, create and refine scenes and lend an atmosphere to my work. 

During the writing of The Recipient, I drew upon my love of music once again and though it doesn't feature as prominently in this story as it did in my previous novels "The Hambledown Dream" and "Gifts of the Peramangk", there is a strong musical undercurrent that informs The Recipient. 

In that vein, I'd like to present a playlist of songs that were influential in the journey of The Recipient and a little bit of the story behind their contribution.

When I came to putting together the teaser trailer for The Recipient, I approached Aberdeen based rock band ElevenEleven to seek permission to use a track off their 2010 EP "Memoirs - Part One". Titled simply "Prologue" - this instrumental piece provided the perfect atmospherics I was looking for in creating a teaser that would draw the reader into the world of The Recipient. It's rumbling bass intro combined with frenetic guitar licks from Eliot Leonard and powerful drum riffs from Ross Senkbeil underpin the foreboding visuals in the 84 second trailer and I'm really pleased that the band allowed me to use the track. 

You can find more of ElevenEleven's music at their official Bandcamp page.

I've long been a fan of the Foo Fighters and when I was writing some of the very first scenes of The Recipient, I was listening their 2008 album "Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace". I eventually incorporated the first track off that album into one of the introductory scenes where we meet Casey Schillinge, 3 years after her life saving heart transplant. I was particularly drawn to these lyrics in the song - I'm the voice inside your head / You refuse to hear / I'm the face that you have to face / Mirrored in your stare. They fit with the battle that Casey Schillinge is waging inside her own head with the nightmares that plague her. Though she doesn't yet know why those nightmares are there, she has a sense that they are not her but, rather, someone else's. 

Visit the Foo Fighters at their official site.

Right the way back at the very beginning of The Recipient - even before I knew what this novel was going to be about, I was listening to Kate Miller-Heidke's 2012 album Night Flight. Whilst I was holidaying on Kangaroo Island, I became really drawn to two tracks off that album - "Ride This Feeling" and "Sarah'.

Last year, as I was approaching the completion of the first draft of the manuscript, I returned to Kate's album and became captivated by these lines from the song "Ride This Feeling";

"And I'm gonna ride this feeling / As far as it goes / I'm gonna ride this feeling / I don't know, I don't know / Whether I'm flying or falling / I'm gonna ride this feeling..."

These lines came to represent Casey Schillinge's determination to find out why she is experiencing her horrible nightmares. As she propels herself further into the mystery, Casey becomes single minded, she follows her gut - she 'rides her feeling' until she discovers the truth of her circumstance. 

I approached Kate's management team and Kate herself to ask permission to reproduce those lyrics as a quote at the beginning of the book and, to my utter delight, they kindly allowed me to do so. 

It was Miller-Heidke's track "Sarah" that really helped me to shape the tragic back story that would eventually underpin the entire novel. "Sarah" is about a girl who goes missing at a music festival and turns up much later having no recollection of where she went. I took that idea and re-purposed it and it became a critical element in The Recipient. 

Visit Kate Miller-Heidke at her official site. 

During the writing of the latter part of The Recipient, when I was clear about the direction it was going to go, I was introduced to Melbourne based rock outfit Heaven the Axe by my brother. Fronted by quite possibly the most powerful rock chick I've ever heard in Phoebe Pinnock, their track "Enemy" became anthemic for the emerging battle Casey Schillinge wages within herself and without - against the unfolding conspiracy surrouding her donor and her tragic fate. Dark forces are disturbed by Casey's persistence and an Enemy will emerge that will threatens her life all over again. 

Visit Heaven the Axe at their official site.

Nashville based folk-rock band Swear & Shake have occupied a special place in my heart and my music playlist since I discovered them back in 2012. They are a sublime musical outfit who explore wondrous places and states of mind - in no small part due to the hypnotic vocal talent of Kari Spieler and Adam McHeffey. 

Their track "The Light", off their 2012 LP "Maple Ridge" offers a sense of reflection that informs the conclusion of the journey of my protagonist Casey Schillinge and I was really inspired by the soulful - almost hymnal - quality of this particular song.

Visit Swear & Shake at their official site.  

The Recipient will be out in stores everywhere from May 1st, 2016. Pre-Order you copy now from Amazon, The Book Depository, Boomerang Books (Australia) and where ever good books are sold.

For your chance to Win a Copy of The Recipient, a $25 Amazon gift card and a donation in your name to Amnesty International - Enter the exclusive The Recipient Competition NOW.

Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

DFA.

Seeing Double - A Look At The Doppelganger by P. Wish.

Having completed work on my own psychological thriller and engaging in discussion with other authors who have written in the genre, I am discovering some really unique and exciting stories emerging in this space. 

One such author, Manchester based, P. Wish and I found one another recently through a great discussion on book trailers and I quickly found myself drawn to her own exciting project which will launch world wide this week. 

The Doppelganger, a psychological thriller set in Chicago, promises all the great hallmarks of genre fiction, featuring, among other things, a strong but flawed female protagonist. 

Doppelganger (image credit: P. Wish).

From the liner notes;

‘They say when you meet somebody that looks just like you, you die.’

Darcy Godfrey lives a seemingly normal life as a librarian in Chicago. One day, she comes across a blog that is filled with accounts of her past. The blogger, known as 'D', seems to know everything about her life- even things that Darcy cannot remember. 

Things begin to go wrong when her nemesis is murdered, making her a suspect. Now, Darcy must find the person behind the blog before it's too late."

From the early reading I've been lucky enough to do on this book, The Doppelganger promises to be a tense and exciting thriller - and, if I may be so bold, it kinda feels like a spiritual sister to The Recipient.

Darcy Godfrey is an enticing character, replete with a tragic backstory that informs much of her presence in the novel. She is subsequently flawed and functions better as a loner - a'la Jessica Jones, which I think is really appealing. She also promises to be resourceful in the face of a terrifying antagonist who will push her to her limit. Wish's writing style is immediate and she instantly draws you into a dense and fully realized Chicago. In the exclusive excerpt for The Doppelganger (re-printed here with kind permission from the author) mood and tension are introduced from the get go - a great hook for this kind of genre fiction - and they lay the foundations for what promises to be a cracking ride.

I think it is our time. The psychological thriller feels as though it is emerging from out of the *cough* Twilight *cough* shadows as *the* next big thing in publishing and I am excited by voices like P. Wish who are bringing freshness to the genre. 

Author P. Wish (image credit: P. Wish).

P. Wish is an author of psychological thrillers and mysteries. She is a Law graduate from the University of Manchester, UK. The Doppelganger is her debut novel.

Excerpt: The Doppelganger by P. Wish.

Darcy’s eyes hung over the blog post. Her larynx felt like a thorn in her throat. She could barely breathe. Her heartbeat took over her ears. She teared up. She caught them before they fell on the keyboard. 

It was not a mere blog post. It was her story. 

Who the hell was this woman? 

Darcy clicked on ‘About’. The screen refreshed. A white image floated up the screen. It was a caricature. No photo. No name. No explanation. Just one useless cartoon of something that looked like a woman- from an angle. 

She scrolled down for the author bio. 

‘D is a thirty-something who lives in the city. She enjoys reading and writing about her life, especially her childhood.’ 

No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. No expanded bio. Nothing. 

Just those two sentences. 

Darcy’s mind reeled. She clicked on the ‘contact’ page. At least, the blog had one. 

At the end of the page was an inconspicuous ‘Contact me’ icon. Darcy clicked on it. A contact form appeared. Blank white spaces, contrasting against the black background, haunted her. 

Her fingers drummed violently against the keypad. She re-read the e-mail. How was she supposed to ask the writer about her past? Maybe she wasn’t alone in this. There was someone else who had experienced something similar. The realization filled Darcy with hope. After all these years, she found a ray of hope. She couldn’t let it slip away. 

She quickly typed out an e-mail. She didn’t send it. 

She decided to wait for the next blog post. She deleted the e-mail and turned on the television. Her fingers restlessly traced patterns on the couch. She fidgeted with her phone. 

Curiosity nibbled at her. 

The final draft was only one sentence long. She read the words on the page. 

Who are you? 

The Doppelganger is out internationally on March 24th 2016.

Pre-order The Doppelganger here.

Visit P. Wish here. 

Connect with P. Wish here. 

Tweet with P. Wish here. 

Goodreads with P. Wish here. 

DFA.

The Recipient - Exclusive Extract from Dean Mayes.

This week, I'd like to share an exclusive extract from my upcoming psychological thriller, The Recipient which is available for pre-order now at Amazon and The Book Depository. Taken from the early chapter of the novel, this passage introduces Casey Schillinge - 3 years after her life saving heart transplant. In that time, Casey has undergone a tectonic change - and not all of it has been good. 

Enjoy...

A masculine fist rapped three times against the green metal
of a huge industrial door that faced onto a darkened corridor.
The owner of that hand, a tall and angular middle-aged male
dressed in an expensive grey suit stepped back, crossed his hands
low across his front, and waited patiently.

He couldn’t be sure if he could hear anybody behind the door,
though a cursory glance at the floor revealed a thin shaft of light
coming from inside.

Waiting patiently, he was distracted by the faint aroma of cinnamon
that seemed to surround him here in this dark and dingy hall.
A single light globe that dangled from a cobwebbed cable above his
head flickered in the gloom, illuminating the remnant of a painted
sign on the brick wall beside him. 

Mitchell & Sons Granary Supply, in a faded, antique font, was
declared proudly over an image of a pair of Clydesdale horses.
They were hauling a vintage wooden wagon, piled high with what
the man assumed were sacks of grain. Curiously, the visual cue
touched off an olfactory hallucination within him. He thought he
could detect the scent of oats—a hint to this building’s long forgotten
past.

He checked the face of his Tag Heuer watch and scowled. It was
10PM—a ridiculous time to be conducting business, he thought. He
had been given little choice, however. His superiors’ instructions to
him were explicit: Be at this address no earlier than 10PM and no
later than 10:05PM.

His lips shifted into a fleeting, ironic smile.

He would bet his left testicle that the instruction had come not
from his superiors, but from their contractor. And that very contractor
had earned a reputation for a being a hard arse.

Suddenly the green door groaned on its track and rumbled
sideways, revealing a petite young woman. Her tousled wet hair
was a dark nut-brown. He thought he saw hints of red in it, but he
couldn’t be sure. Upon first glance, it appeared to be a short bob
tied back in a pony tail, but he noticed that both the back and sides
were shaved close to the skin. A long fringe hung low over her large
green eyes. Those eyes were ringed by liner that made her appear
almost Gothic. Though her features were attractive and feminine,
her powdery visage was stony, dangerous even.

She wore a grey, long-sleeved Lycra gym top that hugged her
lithe figure and ended at the waist.

His eyes, almost involuntarily, scanned downward as he noticed
that she wore bikini bottoms only; her long legs and slender feet
were bare.

The corner of his left eyebrow raised appreciatively.

“What do you want?” the young woman snapped, jolting him
from his procession of impure thoughts.

She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the
door frame suggestively, maintaining an interrogatory glare at the
stranger before her.

“Schillinge?” he queried, shifting uncomfortably.

She nodded once.

“Is it done?”

Wordlessly, she reached down to the elastic waist of her bikini
bottoms and plucked forth an object.

The man watched as she flipped the shining golden object into
her palm and held it up for him to see. It was no bigger than a stick
of gum; an ingot that was perfectly smooth and shining in the halflight.

With a flick of her hand, one end of the ingot suddenly swung
open on a hinge revealing its true nature as an ingenious, delicate
container.

The man leaned in closer to see and found himself gazing down
on the small ingot. His brow furrowed. Squinting in the low light
of the darkened hallway, he attempted focus on something printed
on the high capacity USB key, but all he could make out was a
symbol—a single octagon etched into the golden surface.

He looked up at Casey. “Is that it?” he questioned incredulously.
Casey merely shrugged.

Slowly, the man reached up to take the key from her when, without
warning, the lid snapped shut and she whipped it away before
he even registered what she had done.

“Money first,” Casey snapped as the man blinked at her.

Brushing down his jacket, the man reached into his inner pocket
and took out a thin rectangular box. He held it out and she took it,
stuffing it into the elastic of her bikini bottoms. Without taking her
eyes off him, she handed over the golden key.

The man took it and pocketed it, then glanced down at her hip,
at the shining rectangular tin tucked there.

“You’re not gonna check it?” he queried.

She allowed herself a smirk.

“I designed your people’s system, remember? You fuck me over,
all I have to do is press a key.”

The man grinned. “They told me that you’re a hard-on,” he
leered. “So, all they have to do is plug this in?”

Casey nodded. “It’ll do the rest. Deployment should take a half
hour at the most. Your entire network will be upgraded to the new
protocols, as per the contract.”

The man raised one eyebrow, impressed. “Sounds good.”
Casey watched as he turned on his heel and disappeared down
the stairs. Once he was out of sight, she retreated into the semidark-
ness of her warehouse apartment, locking the heavy green door
behind her.

In stark contrast to the dingy hallway outside the door, Casey
Schillinge’s apartment was an altogether different environment.
The converted granary and flour mill offered a spacious living space
that was modern and comfortable while incorporating elements of
its historical past. A fully equipped, yet minimalist, kitchen lay to
her right while a luxurious living area occupied the space to her left.
Two leather sofas sat facing one another, watched over by a large,
flat panel TV and entertainment centre. Up a steel staircase that was
bolted to the exposed brick wall was a mezzanine level populated
by a master bedroom and bathroom. Casey hardly ever went up
there. It acted as little more than storage. Near a large window and
balcony that extended the full width of the building, the space had
been converted into a stylish bedroom that was divided from the
main living area by a tall, Gothic-styled wardrobe.

It was an item in the centre of the apartment, through which
Casey passed now, that presented the most divergent example of
decor in the otherwise stylish home. A large architectural workbench
with a tempered glass surface stood in middle of the room.

On it sat an LCD screen and a keyboard that had been fashioned
from a piece of glass. The light from the LCD screen accounted for
much of the apartment’s illumination presently, bathing everything
in its immediate proximity in a turquoise light. The work bench, the
screen, and keyboard were her tools of trade.

She set down the metallic cash box and she regarded the LCD
screen fleetingly. With a quick tap of the glass surface adjacent to
the keyboard, the screen went dark; its unearthly glow vanquished
for the time being. Casey considered opening the case, but she decided
to leave it untouched.

Having performed work for this particular client several times
before, she knew they were good for the money. And she knew the
payment was considerable.

For the past three years, Casey had employed her remarkable
skill set—gleaned from her double degree in mathematics and com-
puter science—and directed it into a career in which she operated
on the edge.

On one hand, she contracted herself out to big businesses, providing
her expertise in constructing and maintaining security systems
and network infrastructure that was considered second to none. On
the other, Casey performed work for various underground groups
who would be considered an enemy of the legitimate corporate interests
from which she earned her considerable living.

She was a “grey hat” in every sense.

A grey hat who was, finally, in between jobs.

This latest contract—the construction of a particularly complex
security system for a prominent investment firm—had consumed
her life for the past three months. It had involved writing a state-of-the-
art encryption language from scratch, deploying it across a vast
network, then testing it for weaknesses and flaws which she then
had to eliminate one by one, before testing the system again. She
put in long hours, had rarely left her apartment and had thought
of little else other than the contract. Now, with the exchange of her
signature gold-plated USB key with the company’s representative,
she had nothing left to apply herself to—at least for now. Casey
could finally relax.

But therein lay a unique and difficult dilemma.

Casey turned from the desk and faced the exposed brick wall
that separated the living area from the en suite bathroom. Hanging
from the bricks there, bathed now in a soft orange hue from
a street lamp outside, was a painting by the impressionist master
Modigliani.

The woman in the painting looked down on Casey with overtly
large, expressive eyes and lips that curled upward ever so slightly
in a smile that could, for all the world, have been meant for Casey
herself. Auburn hair hung down on either side of her elongated
features. There was a beauty about the woman in the painting, who
Casey knew to be Jeanne Hebuterne, Modigliani’s lover and muse.
Though not an original, the painting was Casey’s favourite possession:
a gift from her grandparents on her twenty-first birthday.

Her grandfather often said that she reminded him of a Modigliani
painting. Casey smiled at the recollection, then absently clutched
at the back of her head, feeling the short, sharp bristles of her dark
hair. It had once been as long and as beautiful as Modigliani’s muse.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Touching a hand to the glass that protected the print inside,
Casey went to the fridge in the kitchen and plucked out a bottle of
wine. A long-stemmed glass was already waiting for her on the adjacent
countertop and she poured a generous lug of the sauvignon
blanc into it.

Time to celebrate, she thought wryly.
Walking past the workstation, bottle and glass in hand, Casey
looked over to the entertainment centre, locking her eyes onto a
familiar looking object there: a voice activated R2-D2 toy from the
Star Wars saga. It was one of Casey’s little indulgences.

“Hey, R2,” she commanded.

The little droid’s flashing red and blue light winked to life and its
domed head swivelled in the direction of her voice.
“Play music.”

A door on the barrel chest of the droid flipped opened and an
extendible arm appeared from inside.

This was not an accessory that came “out of the box” when Casey
purchased it. Rather, its presence was a result of some considerable
tweaking and customising by Casey herself.

The little droid rolled over to the front of the entertainment centre
and aimed its arm at the infrared pick-up of the sound system.
In an instant, the frenetic rock music of the Foo Fighters filled the
room. Casey allowed herself a satisfied smile.

Setting her glass on the edge of the work bench, she peeled her
gym top off and tossed it at her treadmill in the corner of the room
where it landed on one of the handles of the machine. The cool air of
the apartment caressed her skin, causing her nipples to stand erect
and she shivered, invigorated by the sensation. Reaching up, she
massaged a knot of tension from her left shoulder. An intricate tat-
too of a Japanese cherry blossom adorned her left shoulder blade, its
pink flowers catching the light from the street.

For a moment, Casey considered remaining topless, but she
opted instead to take a linen shirt that was hanging on the corner of
her wardrobe. She quickly threw it on.

Collecting her glass and the bottle and opening the glass sliding
door, Casey stepped out onto the balcony of her apartment. Immediately
she felt the balmy summer evening air on her skin and she
sighed.

She set the wine bottle on a table and sipped from her glass as
she surveyed the bustling scene below her from the balcony railing.
This was the Esplanade, the main thoroughfare of the beachside
suburb of St. Kilda. The street was thick with Saturday night traffic,
both pedestrian and automotive, as people made their way to and
from the myriad eateries and entertainment venues that lined the
strip. To the north, Casey could see the lights from the iconic Luna
Park fun fair, as well as the equally famous Palais Theatre, where
large groups of people were milling about its entrance, waiting to
be admitted to whatever gig was playing tonight. Further on, she
could just see the famous Espy Hotel, another St. Kilda landmark
that routinely drew large crowds most nights of the week.

The sight of so many people below caused Casey to shiver. She
could feel an unpleasant knot of tension in the pit of her stomach.
She hated crowds as much as she hated being outdoors. The
very thought of being trapped down there in the throng of Saturday
night revellers filled her with dread.

Taking a larger gulp from her glass, Casey pulled her eyes from
below and cast them out across the inky waters of Port Phillip Bay.
A collection of flickering lights emanating from various ships and
boats captured her focus, taking it away from the chaotic throng
below. Her anxiety abated. Her breathing relaxed, the heartbeat
slowed.

The heart, she thought darkly as she retreated from the balcony
edge and sat down on a lounge chair.

Balancing her glass on her knee, Casey closed her eyes and closed
out the sounds of the street until there was nothing but the sound
of the beating heart inside her chest. Its thump was vital and strong.
Casey reclined on the chair, lifting her feet and laying her head
back on the cushion. She placed her glass on the table beside her
and reached towards the buttons of her shirt, undoing a couple of
them, allowing the balmy summer breeze to caress her chest, her
almost perfect skin. A single blemish resided there, dark red in the
half-light. A thick, raised scar that ran down her sternum, perfectly
centred on her chest.

She hated that scar more than anything.

Though it was from a life-giving surgeon’s cut made in order to
deliver the heart she now carried, it served as a permanent physical
reminder of the journey she had taken from the edge of death, an
abyss from which she thought she would never escape.

She was alive.

Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

She was alive but she was imprisoned by the realities of a life
post-transplant. The ongoing medical support and treatment and
medications were an omnipresent, oppressive fixture in her daily
existence. The regular visits to her doctors, the constant tweaking
of her medications, the continual tests to ensure that her new heart
remained functional and optimal. The medical team had inserted
themselves into every aspect of her life, observing how she ate, how
she drank, how she slept, how she worked. They were constantly
advising her and counselling her.

She hated it.

Casey felt like some bizarre human experiment, destined for an
eternity of analysis and scrutiny.
But there were also the other unanticipated things that no one,
least of all she, could have predicted. Her insomnia was foremost.
There were frequent periods where Casey could be trapped awake
for days at a time, unable to calm her mind. It was a phenomenon
that only existed since the surgery and it had not abated.
In order to function, Casey developed inventive strategies.
Work was one method. By taking on the most complex jobs she
could find, jobs that would occupy as much time as possible, she
would render sleep a luxury. So long as she was working, constructing,
testing and problem-solving she could avoid dealing with the
negatives of her insomnia. Medications helped too—and not the
type that were sanctioned by her medical team. Casey had done
enough research on the myriad of available stimulants and depressants
to know what she could take safely, and in what combinations,
if there was such a thing.

Despite this, Casey knew there was a limit to staving off sleep.
Her body eventually called time-out and she had to succumb.
Then she dreamed. It was the thing she hated most of all.
With the completion of the contract and no new work on the
horizon, she had run out of excuses to avoid sleep.
She drew the glass up to her lips again and sipped. Alcohol
would numb her, but only partially.

Looking down, Casey spied a small wooden box on the table.
Setting her glass down, she reached for it and balanced it on her
knees as she opened it. Inside was a small metallic pipe and a Zippo
lighter, both of which were surrounded by balled-up wads of green.
She plucked up the pipe and pressed one of those wads into the conical
spout, then lit the marijuana, taking a long drag. As the effects
of the drug worked almost immediately, she reclined and smiled.
Her muscles relaxed, the tornado of her thoughts dissipated.
If her physician knew what she was doing right now, he would
have a shit-fit.

His drug-addled heart transplant recipient.

Fuck him and his rules, she thought acidly. This is what changing
my life gets you.

Her life had indeed changed. It had shifted tectonically. No longer
was Casey Schillinge the wide-eyed, optimistic young woman.
The goody-two-shoes suburban daughter. The high achieving,
straight-A university student.

The heart had changed everything. It had taken as much away
from her as it had given her.

For now, the wine would anaesthetise her, but the weed would
knock out her subconscious and give her what she so desperately
craved: long, dreamless sleep.

DFA.

The Recipient by Dean Mayes is out May 1st 2016 from Central Avenue Publishing.