Yes, it's true: Drunk on the Moon is now available in print, too. Those of you who've been putting off getting it because you don't read them fancy ebook whatchamajiggers can now retire to your boudoirs with a good ol' paperback of Mr B and the pack.
Here's a silly thing I wrote back in the day for Mr B's blog when I first wrote "It's a Curse":
In the Mind of the Wolf
When Mr B asked me if I wanted to contribute to the Drunk on the Moon series, I knew I had to get into the head of the werewolf. How could I write from Roman Dalton's perspective if I had not lived in his world? I had to know him from the inside out. I immediately set up a plan to immerse myself in the wolf mind. I set my plan in motion leading up to the full moon.
I listened to The Fall non-stop, The Infotainment Scam. Not only had I chosen the song "It's a Curse" as my touchstone, but I knew the hypnotic drone of Mark E. Smith's voice and the grinding pummeling of the music would help me reach the altered state I sought. After twenty-four hours without food or drink, just the steady beat on repeat I was feeling the effects. My hair grew, my nails sharpened. I began to drool. Right on schedule.
I moved outside; the wolf must be wild. Fortunately I live right above a park. There's not much land, but there are hedges along the edge that I thought might provide enough cover for me. I crouched in the green border and watched the people. They were my prey. I had to know their weaknesses. They had many. And few defences. But as the sun set, they thinned out. Also, there was too much broken glass and SuperMac wrappers in the hedges. I needed another hunting ground.
I moved to the cemetery. There was more cover there and since I had ripped off my clothes I needed to stay warm. Winter is harsh on the wolf. I chewed on a bone to sharpen my teeth. Despite my focus, they were not sufficiently lethal yet. The dead were good company. However, there was a shortage of victims. Perhaps a disaster of some kind would provide more fodder for the chase.
Memory sketchy. Trees scratchy. Dirt cold. Throat sore from howling. Running so far, so far. There were others. I was not alone. Something squeaked. Older woman made hand signals at me, sketching a five-pointed star. Bite marks on my flesh. I may have grown a tail, not sure.
DAY FIVE: FULL MOON
Blood. Flesh. Teeth. Profiteroles.
DAY SIX: RECOVERY
I returned indoors. Dressed and ate food that I had not killed myself. Got the computer out. Typed madly, in a trance. Remember nothing. Grammar inexcusable. Older woman reappeared; asking for recommendations of internet suppliers. Emailed story to Mr B. Slept for fourteen hours. Filed nails. Applied moisturizer. Brushed teeth. Remembered to use cutlery. Started a new story. Buried bones. Write more...