To kick off 2018, let me start at the end.

More precisely, a book about the end: Lucifer’s Hammer by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle.

Several people have recommended tackling this 1970s classic disaster novel.

So Christmas holidays… what better time?

The Hammer‘s premise is pretty straightforward — a massive comet collides with the Earth. Yet this book is anything but simple in execution.

The build-up is very deftly paced, but what’s most amazing is the portrait of America as disaster hits, especially the speed with which human society crumbles in the aftermath.

If you’re into post-apocalyptic fiction, this is an absolute classic.

It’s infused with curious 1970s sexual mores but this is just added flavour, it doesn’t really date the story.

Lucifer’s Hammer is certainly one of the original sources of paranoia for people across the globe who headed for the hills to await the end of the world… because what goes down here ain’t pretty.

But it is absolutely gripping.

It’s a long book — probably about 800 pages in old money. I read it on the Kindle (much easier to carry around when you’re travelling).

But I didn’t want it to end.

Which is sort of a strange thing to say about a book that is all about THE END.

It’s right up there with the best sci-fi of that era… definitely worth your consideration.

A peculiar sense of time travel took hold while I swayed in thrall to one of my all-time favourite bands at The Triffid, Brisbane’s newest and greatest rock venue.

My faith in The Church had just risen to a new high, somewhere outside the space-time continuum.

It was like the gigs of old, in music venues long gone. Perhaps because those of us gathered at this altar were all of a certain age. But also because there was that sense in the room that we were present to witness something truly remarkable — a glimmer of the zeitgeist that proves so foreign and elusive as years and decades roll on.

The Church formed in Sydney in 1980, finding great success in Australia and momentary fame in the US in 1988 with one big hit song, Under The Milky Way. A certain success continued into the ’90s, followed by the fade to black that grips virtually all creators of popular music.

Passion and talent must interact in equal measure for any work of art to rise above the noise and capture attention and acclaim. It’s also been my observation these key ingredients will only combine to make magic for so long.

Decline into mediocrity is usually impossible to avoid.

Which is why it’s so remarkable that The Church, all these years later, have found their way into a purple patch of awesome.

A number of factors are contributing to the relighting of the flame — former Powderfinger guitarist Ian Haug joining the band is undoubtedly one of them.

Then there is the incendiary songwriting of Steve Kilbey, who is somehow making music that sounds simultaneously brand new and 35 years old.

Renowned hypnotic signature guitar riffs mix with hints of New Romantic synth in songs that have been gloriously set free from the constraints of trying to be the next big thing in pop.

Good music always embraces a hint of the familiar, while likewise breaking new ground in rhythm and melody.

It’s easy to get that wrong by sliding too far toward the derivative. On any given day on any music station in the world there is ample proof of that.

That The Church are getting it so right is both remarkable and unexpected.

So here we were in the presence of brilliance, watching a band with enthusiasm for their work and a genuine appreciation for their audience.

It’s enough to make time feel like a fluid concept. No drugs needed. At least not on my part — I can’t speak for the band.

Their new album is called Man Woman Life Death Infinity. Yep, that pretty much sums things up.

Listen to it more than once. You won’t be sorry.

The Martian moon Phobos is doomed. Nobody is sure when, but one day in the future its orbit will decay sufficiently that it with either be pulled apart or will simply crash into the surface of the planet.

As if that isn’t dramatic enough, there is no scientific consensus on how Phobos came into existence.

Examination of its surface and composition suggest it might be no more than an orbiting pile of rubble covered in a thick layer of regolith (dust).

But rubble from what? Captured asteroids? Perhaps — the asteroid belt is, after all, not so far away.

Yet this wouldn’t explain the moon’s circular orbit, which is highly unusual for captured asteroids.

And how about that massive Stickey crater (pictured)? How did Phobos survive an impact powerful enough to leave a crater that large?

Could Phobos be artificial? It sounds like a grand conspiracy theory… doesn’t it?

I love the Red Planet. Not enough to want to move there, admittedly, but there’s plenty to inspire from a distance.

The more we look, the more mysterious it becomes.

My sequel to Sleeping Gods is heading to Mars. It’ll be out next year. It’s going to blow your mind.

If you haven’t already read Sleeping Gods, join my subscriber list and you get it for free.

Any chance you’ve caught up with sci-fi author Neal Stephenson?

He wrote a fine space epic called Seveneves, set in space right above our heads – the zone between Earth orbit and the Moon.

Seveneves is an incredible piece of writing. Maybe too clever for its own good at times (certainly too clever for me at times) but an inventive and compelling story that spans generations in time. Well worth a read if you haven’t tracked it down already.

I’m impressed by Neal’s decision to create an epic close to Earth rather than in deep space on the basis that, in his words, “interstellar travel is probably overrated. We’re not leaving the solar system any time soon”.

I really wonder if it’s physically and mentally possible for us to do so. I like the idea that there are electromagnetic forces tying us to our corner of space.

It’s one of the ideas I’ll play around with when I begin work on a sequel novella to Sleeping Gods.

That and the mythical, mystical planet we call Mars.

Which, for an author, is a bit like tackling Everest.

I’m hoping I don’t fall down a crevasse.