The Liar's Club

Skyrim is a Girl's Toy

2012-02-15T18:42:00.001Z

The writing of The Copper Promise part 2 continues pottering along on its own meandering course, so I thought today I’d do a little post about that other obsession of mine: videogames.

A great many hours have been spent in Skyrim recently. I shall briefly share the sort of info you traditionally have to bring up in any discussion of this game: I’m a female Nord with a leaning towards one-handed and two-handed weapons, destruction magic and conjuration. I’m also a werewolf, have been playing for approximately 95 hours and no, I’ve barely made a start on the main storyline yet.

Skyrim is an extraordinary game. What makes it so staggering, I think, is the sheer level of detail involved, and the real sense of exploration you get as you go wandering off around the map. You are frequently distracted from quests by mysterious looking paths that lead to secret dungeons, or you stumble across two mages having a tiff, and if you're not paying attention a dragon might swoop down on you from nowhere and chew on you for a bit. I have spent a ridiculous amount of time just making swords and enchanting them, and have now saved up enough coin to buy a big posh mansion in Solitude, which I'm gradually decorating…

It is, I realised the other day, the ultimate fantasy play-set. It’s like having a giant dollhouse, except the house is an entire land, and the dolls wear armour and have magical swords and go on adventures with werewolves and vampires. You can spend forever just accessorising, collecting spell books to go on your shelves, mucking about down the blacksmiths, crafting potions. And then if you feel like it you can pop out to kill the occasional dragon. In short, I love it. And how I wish I had an Unrelenting Force Shout of my very own…

The SFX Weekender: Wine and Wookies

2012-02-06T14:55:00.001Z

Back from another marvellous SFX Weekender; tired perhaps, reeling slightly from all this sudden snow business (it was mild in Prestatyn, despite my fears of freezing to death) but filled with the knowledge of a weekend well geeked.

Highlights for me included – getting a hug from a wookie (very cosy), singing along with Robert Rankin to Perfect Day, witnessing China Mieville shamelessly derailing everyone else on Just a Minute, listening to Brian Blessed describe chasing Ben Kingsley around an airport lounge, dancing like a fool to various funk tunes, meeting up with old friends and making new ones… too many great things to list, really. I think everyone who was there and heard it will agree that the Brian Blessed talk was a bit special; not only was he in fine, booming form, he was also delightfully rude and utterly joyous. It was, I think, genuinely life affirming to hear him talk with such passion about how we are all “children of stardust” and how human beings are destined to move out into the solar system. Or that could be the pint of wine I consumed while he was talking. Either way, I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house.

My favourite thing about the SFX Weekender, (and it was the same last year) was the sense of being at an event with thousands of people with a shared love for fantastical things. Not everything went according to plan, this is true, but the slightly grim aspect of Pontins itself only seemed to enhance this feeling; yes, our electricity ran out at 1.40am, and you have to keep whacking the button in the shower to make it work, and I had to queue for an hour for a handful of possibly the worst chips in existence… but at least we were doing it together. I was also reminded how much I love fiction, and how our favourite stories can become such important parts of our lives; beloved signposts on a wayward journey, if you will.

Geeks of the Weekender, I salute you, and I sincerely hope to see you all there next year.

The Copper Promise: Some Post Publication Thoughts

2012-01-25T13:02:00.001Z

The Copper Promise started, in my mind at least, as My Small Self Publishing Experiment. The idea was to produce something longer than a short story that I could pop up on Amazon as an ebook – it would be written, edited, re-drafted, edited, edited some more, and then it would go out into the world and I would see how it would do. Originally this was going to be a horror novella, but that idea became The Snake House instead and was much too long in the end.

Well, in my usual tradition of making everything more complicated than it needs to be, My Small Self Publishing Experiment turned into a serial, and then a series of novellas, and then a series of fantasy novellas that will be, once they are all finished, as long as your average fantasy book. So the project wasn’t so Small anymore; in fact, it had become The Self Publishing Experiment That’s Going to Take Up About Six Months of my Life, Crikey, How Did That Happen?

And so, the first part has been out in the world for about a month, and part 2 is busy being poked into readiness for a release date hopefully at the end of February. And so far, it has been an almost entirely positive experience. Mostly the people who have read it seemed to have enjoyed Ghosts of the Citadel, and I’ve had some overwhelmingly lovely feedback, including blog posts and reviews that have made me very happy indeed. I’ve also received a tremendous amount of support from people (through buying it, spreading the word and general encouragement) which has been genuinely touching and confirms that the writing/reading community online is one of the best around.

One of my favourite parts of having a novella length work out there to read rather than a short story has been watching how people react to my characters – what sticks in their minds about them, which ones are popular with readers and why, and what they hope happens to Wydrin, Sebastian and Frith in the future. It’s exciting, and scary too, because beforehand these characters only really existed in my head and on tattered bits of paper, and now they exist in other people’s heads too, which is a strange and marvellous thing. And it is nice to know that I am no longer the only one who cares what happens to them.

Yeah, it’s been good. So thank you everyone. J And I’m looking forward to sending part two out into the world very soon.

Fantasy Characters I Would Like to get Drunk With

2012-01-11T16:02:00.001Z

I was talking to the lovely Ren Warom the other day about the potential mead-soaked mess that would be a night out with Wydrin – of all the characters I’ve written, she is the one I would most like a night on the town with. It would be dangerous, that’s for certain, and everyone would likely come home with a certain amount of memory loss, a pounding headache and several more tattoos than they had at the beginning of the evening, but it would be fun. So that got me thinking: which fantasy characters would I most like to share a tasty beverage with?

Tyrion Lannister

Charming, witty, and the cleverest character in a book series full of clever characters, Tyrion would be an excellent dinner companion (and it would have to be dinner as well – I could hardly resist the chance to try out one of the endless medieval banquets continually happening in A Song of Ice and Fire); not only is he funny and shrewd, he’d happily talk books all evening, and you know the wine would be the finest vintage imaginable. Just don’t mention his sister.

Nanny Ogg

Really, who wouldn’t want a drink with Nanny Ogg? (apart from her many daughters-in-law, perhaps). A woman of rude wisdom and deep earthy intelligence, you would certainly go home knowing a few more things than you did previously – mainly about who is doing what to whom, and whether her husband knows about it yet. I imagine drinking scrumpy with Nanny by the fireside, slowly getting sozzled and learning the words to various rude songs, before passing out in a rocking chair just before the sun comes up. A perfect evening.

Oghren

If you haven’t played Dragon Age: Origins you probably won’t be familiar with Oghren, which, believe me, is a shame. Think of him as a cross between Yosemite Sam, Gimli, and a vat of ale. When you first meet Oghren he is wandering Orzammar as an occasional angry drunk, although once convinced to join your quest and seek out darkspawn to destroy, he fully commits to the cause of drinking and shouting, and quickly becomes one of the more amusing companions to spend time with. In one memorable scene, you can talk to Oghren at the camp site while he apparently ingests alcohol through his skin until he finally shouts “ASSLESS CHAPS!” at you and falls over. I love him.

So tell me what characters you would most like to share an ale with? All genres welcome.

Some Things I've Come to Know About Writing: Or, Stating the Blindingly Obvious

2012-01-06T15:17:00.001Z

I thought that for my first post of the year I would do a bit of a round up of some of things I’ve learnt about the writing process. I’m not keen on those “These Are The Rules Of Writing, So Listen Up!” posts, so this certainly isn’t one – indeed, the stuff that I’ve come to know about my own way of writing may not apply to you at all – think of it as more of a “Hey chaps, here’s some points I think I should make a note of because you know I’ll only forget otherwise” post.

Write Every Day/Don’t Write Every Day

Yes, I shall start off by being very vague and indecisive! Write Every Day is one of those writing rules that gets bandied around quite a lot, and largely it does indeed make sense; the more you write, the better you get at it. However, I have come to realise that it’s just as important not to beat yourself up if you don’t manage it. Writers have lives too, with day jobs and families, relationships and birthdays and video games, and there are days when you just can’t do it. For example, I have found that I’m pretty terrible at writing at the weekends, but quite good at writing in the mornings before work. So I devote my mornings to stories, and don’t get all guilt laden on a Saturday when I’ve done nothing but sleep and eat toast and push goats off of mountains in Skyrim.

Your Muse is a Flighty Cow

Like every romantic idiot that wore a lot of black jumpers and stared moodily out a lot of windows as a teenager, I do love the idea of a muse; that a winsome, mysterious figure will tap me on the temple on a dreary afternoon and fill my bonce with the greatest idea there has ever been. It’s bollocks though, unfortunately, or at least, it is for me. It’s true that I’ve had the occasional idea drop fully formed into my brain while I’m having a shower or waiting for the bus, but mostly ideas come from thinking a lot, all the time, and writing bits of ideas down and herding them around until they actually work. The key is: don’t wait for your muse. She’s probably off gambolling in the woods somewhere anyway.

Finish It/Or, the 60,000 Word Wall of Pain

I’ve written six books and finished them. With every one of them, I got a sizable chunk of the way in (usually around the 60,000 word mark) and I suddenly found that I violently hated it. Hated everything about it. Hated the characters, didn’t know who they were or what they were doing. Didn’t know or care where the story was going. Worse than that, it was suddenly very clear that everything I’d written up to that point was a massive pile of fetid garbage. How could I have been so deluded to think it was worth writing in the first place? WHY?

This is the dangerous time. It is a demon of writing. The voice that tells you, always at least once during the writing of a book, that you’d be better off scraping the whole thing and starting again.

Do not listen to it. It will say, “Oh hey, what’s this other idea your flighty muse just appeared with? That’s a lot better than this one. Look at it, all shiny and new and not stinking of garbage. And I bet it would be twice as quick to write as well...”

Do not listen! Squash that demon, keep going, and finish. I have written six books, and in truth I probably only really like 3 of them, but everything I’ve ever written to completion has taught me loads and has been invaluable.

Do Not Let Them Taste the Unbaked Cake

Or, resist the temptation to send your first few chapters around to friends to gather their opinions. This is hard, because you might want to know if you’re heading in the right direction, or it might just be that you’re proud of something you’ve done and want to share it, but either way, it’s best not to. Your first draft should be a secret, private thing that only you ever see, so that you’re allowed to make huge mistakes, and the story is entirely yours. Other opinions so early on could change the flavours and make it taste funny.

Be Brave!

Because in the end, you can’t please everyone. It’s a terrifying thing, to share your work with the wider world and watch as it raises its eyebrows in a sceptical fashion, but we are word-warriors, book-wranglers, and story-smiths. We can do this. Tell your stories, listen to your characters, and when in doubt, add a three-page long fantasy banquet. That’s what I do (there's even a mini one in The Copper Promise, no honestly, go look...)

Guest Post! Emma J. Newman and His Black Heart: A Split Worlds Story

2012-01-03T20:55:00.001Z

Hello everyone! An extra special thing for you today (after weeks of putting up with me talking about the same thing every week) - a rather fabulous story from the awesome Emma J. Newman (@EmApocalyptic on twitter). I first met Emma at a launch for her short story collection, From Dark Places, and believe me, she writes stonking short stories. You're in for a treat. And so I will hand over to Emma...

This is the tenth in a year and a day of weekly short stories set in The Split Worlds. If you would like me to read it to you instead, you can listen here. You can find links to all the other stories, and the new ones as they are released here.

His Black Heart

Carn Brea, Cornwall, 1861

Denzel listened to the booming pulse of the beam engine pumping the water out of Dolcoath mine. As he arrived for his shift in the pre-dawn darkness, the huge black engine house was only visible as an absence of stars.

"Mornin' y'Majesty," he muttered, doffed his hat. His fellow shift workers thought him strange, but it was only polite to greet the Queen of Cornish Mines properly. In the twenty years he worked there he'd never had an accident, because he paid the proper dues to the correct parties. He might doff his cap to the Bassett family if he saw their carriage, but he felt no respect for those getting fat off their labour. He respected the mine's solid beams and pumps, and the Buccas and the Knockers who kept him safe every shift in return for a morsel of food.

"How's your little'un Denzel?" Jack asked as they queued for their turn on the man engine.

"Better," he said, a smile slipping free. Tamsin's fever had broken just before he'd left the house, as he was putting his wrapped pasty into the pail he'd heard a thin "Da?" from the corner. It was the first time she'd spoken in two weeks. He gave her a little milk and kissed the damp black curls atop her head with tears in his eyes. He couldn't bear to lose another.

He lit Jack's helmet candle, his friend returned the favour and Denzel took his place on the wooden tread. As he always did when he grasped the handle, he silently thanked the man engine about to carry him into the deepest workings of the mine. His father had had to climb down hundreds of feet of ladders, reaching his pitch half exhausted before he'd even begun the shift. Now he and Jack and the others just had to stand and step on and off bits of wood in the right places. They'd all turn into lazy buggers if they weren't careful.

The air was warmer the lower they sank. Some said the deepest shafts were getting too close to hell and one day they'd blast their way into the devil's parlour. Denzel smirked at the thought. Old Nick wouldn't dare come through the hole if it happened; everyone knew he was too scared to come into Cornwall.

He worried about Tamsin, hoped the neighbour would take good care of her during his wife's shift at the mine. Then he realised he'd left his pail on the kitchen table, the pasty warm within it.

He swore and hit the handle. First time in twenty years he'd forgotten his lunch. As the spike of anger receded, it left worry behind. Was it a sign? Was Tamsin's recovery false? Would there be an accident today? What did it mean?

"Means you forgot your pail," he muttered to himself, trying to keep the fretfulness at bay.

When they finally reached the bottom, the air was thick with powder smoke from the last shift, he'd be coughing up black lumps by the end of the day. Down this deep, it took too long for the blasting fumes to clear, they couldn't afford to wait before starting the shift. The candles flickered in the gloom as they trudged their way through the tunnels. He peeled off his shirt when he got to his pitch, left in only his flannel trousers and boots, sweat rolling down his back already. He got to work, the air so thick with dust he could barely see the end of the drill steel, missing it a couple of times as he tried to hit it into the rock. He wiped a drip of sweat from his eyebrow and tried again, the hammer striking true and the steel driving into the rock, settling him. He worked through his lunch break, not wanting to stop and sit there, hungry and miserable. "Sorry," he called into the shadows down the tunnel, imagining the Knockers waiting for their tithe. "I forgot m'pail. I'm hungry too."

A chip flew up at his face from the next strike, it hit his helmet a couple of inches above his eyes. He set the hammer down, wondering if it was their revenge, and took off his helmet to check for damage. Embedded in the stump of clay holding his candle in place was a shard of 'black tin' ore. He pulled it out, finding it was shaped like a heart, like the one his wife had embroidered on the handkerchief she'd made him for Christmas.

The black heart was the size of his thumbnail, he decided to take it home for Tamsin to tuck under her pillow as she got better. This was a good sign, the tunnel giving him a gift, as if to reassure him all would be well.

The rockfall came without warning. No creaking joists, no tell-tale knocks, just a terrible roaring noise and then pain. The candle was snuffed out, it took him a few moments to work out he was on his back, a terrible pain radiating from the side of his head and weight pressing down on his legs. The gentle patter of falling dirt faded until he was left in the silent darkness.

He could still breathe, even though the air was foul. He could feel blood running down into his ear, if he hadn't taken his helmet off to pull out the heart, his head would have been better protected. He followed it back to the moment he forgot his pail. It had prevented him from tossing a pasty scrap to the Knockers, and in their anger, they'd failed to warn him about the fall.

He became aware of a sharp pain in the palm of his hand, discovered the heart had cut him as he'd clasped it tight in the fall. He traced it with his thumb, its surface slick with his blood and he knew he couldn't die down there, he couldn't leave his last child.

There was no prayer in him, his faith had left him a long time ago. How his wife still sang in church for a God who took three boys and two girls from them he'd never know. The Knockers were angry with him, the Buccas wouldn't grant a wish without food either. Who would help him?

The darkness pressed in, so complete he kept blinking to check if his eyes were open or shut. He wondered whether he'd fallen through to hell, the devil taking him for all the angry words he'd shouted at God over those tiny graves.

There was nothing to call upon, nothing to focus on other than the sharp edges of the black heart and his blood bathing it. "I swear," he whispered, "if I live to see the sky again, I'll mine more tin than any other bastard 'ere. I'll put every last drop of my body into this mine." He'd live to give his girl the best start in life he could. "I swear it."

The heart was warm, he fancied it pulsed with his own heartbeat as he slipped closer to the pit of sleep and death, but then a shout, a tumble of rocks a few feet away and then a chink of light fell onto his hand. "Denzel!" Jack shouted.

"Here," he croaked, gazing at the black heart in the sliver of candlelight. "I'll keep m'word," he whispered. And he knew he'd never forget his pail again.

---

Thanks for hosting Jennifer (I want to call you Senny…)! I hope you enjoyed the story. If you would like to find out more about the Split Worlds project, it's all here: www.splitworlds.com. If you would like to host a story over the coming year, either let me know in the comments or contact me through the Split Worlds site. Em x

Waving a Blood-Stained Flag for Old School Pulp Fantasy

2011-12-27T16:18:00.001Z

Hello all, hope you had an excellent Yule and all that. I'm spending today eating too much chocolate and playing Skyrim (death to all giant spiders!) but I thought I'd just pop up to point you in the direction of this rather lovely review of The Copper Promise.

I am tremendously proud to be described as a "successor to the Pulp authors of the 1920s and 30s"; it's a part of fantasy I love dearly, and I hope I'm doing it justice.

Wishing You a Fabulous Yule! With Optional Sprouts

2011-12-24T20:19:00.001Z

It's that time - the first box of Matchmakers is already half finished, there's a giant piece of meat defrosting in the kitchen and the cat is trying to open the presents with the power of her mind.

I hope you're all having a most excellent and joyous Christmas holiday, with the teeniest of hangovers and no sprouts (unless you like sprouts, in which case I hope everyone around the dinner table donates theirs to you).

And if you happen to be getting a Kindle for Christmas, I hope you might consider entering the universe of The Copper Promise for a bit of pulp fantasy action - it's here, and it wants to give your Kindle an xmas smooch.*

*apologies for the blatant plug, but the novelty of hearing people say "I've bought your book!" has yet to wear off. I doubt it will.

The Copper Promise: Ghosts of the Citadel is here!

2011-12-22T19:16:00.001Z

Well, technically it was here yesterday, but Amazon were a little faster out of the block than I expected, and my book was all suddenly available and I had no time to write a blog post! Goodness me. So, you can buy it here. I hope you do, and I hope you like it. J

But yes! Very exciting. It was a strange feeling, seeing my cover up there on that big proper website, next to other books with proper covers, and now anyone can read it. Excitement! Terror! Snoopy dancing! I went through the whole range of writerly emotions (snoopy dancing is an emotion, shhhh).

So, what do I think you should know about The Copper Promise: Ghosts of the Citadel?

It's a novella, and it's the first of a series of four. I wanted to write a sword and sorcery serial, one that would be a quick and fun read, full of adventure, peril and occasional scary bits.

You can download it straight on to your kindle if you have one, or you can download various bits of kindle software from Amazon that will let you read it on your computer like a kindle. It's also possible, I am told, to get an "app" on your "super-intelligent awesome-phone", although that level of technology is a bit beyond me, to be honest.

I have been lucky enough to get a few good reviews already. There is this rather spectacular one over at Colin F. Barnes' website, which I am well chuffed about, Adam Christopher has done a marvellous blog post about it, and there are a few great write-ups on Amazon now too. The reviews that are up are especially lovely for me as they all (so far) seem to really get what I was trying to do with this series; the novellas are, in their own small way, a love letter to Fritz Leiber's Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser stories, as well as the reams of adventurous fantasy they inspired, and it seems there is a great deal of love out there for this kind of “pulp” fiction.

And so, I must say a huge thank you to everyone who has bought a copy so far, and all those fabulous people leaving reviews and spreading the word; you are aces, and I owe you all some sort of fancy drink with an umbrella in.

The Copper Promise: An Early Review

2011-12-21T14:47:00.001Z

Part one of The Copper Promise will be with us tomorrow (probably around lunchtime, by my estimates) but until then here is a lovely review by Colin F. Barnes, a writer and editor responsible for many cool and scary things, such as The City of Hell anthology (a beautiful looking thing which is currently lurking on my kindle).

Now, I shall go back to staring anxiously at the amazon page, hoping I don't experience some sort of technical cock-uppery...

Beware, Here Be Covers: The Copper Promise has its face on

2011-12-19T21:33:00.001Z

Here it is! Partly to stop myself from getting overexcited and plonking The Copper Promise up before everything is quite ready, and partly because it is so pretty... a little look at the cover. The Copper Promise Part 1: Ghosts of the Citadel will be available as an ebook on the 22^nd of December, which is to say Thursday, which is to say the winter solstice, which is to say... soon.

If you would like to receive exclusive news, stories and general blatherings about the series, drop me a line at copperpromise@sennydreadful.com

Extract of The Copper Promise at GeekPlanetOnline! Snoopy Dance Ahoy!

2011-12-15T22:34:00.001Z

A bit of late night news! The lovely people at GeekPlanetOnline are hosting an exclusive extract of The Copper Promise, giving you a sneaky peek at the world of the haunted Citadel.

Choosing the extract was a tricky process: what can I put up without spoilerfication? How long should it be and what do I want to reveal? In the end I chose a sequence that I hope is fun but also poses a number of questions. I'd love to know what you all think!

The Copper Promise: Frivolous Anticipatory Post

2011-12-12T16:03:00.001Z

It’s been a busy week or so, what with getting The Copper Promise ready for its Winter Solstice release date, and all the other December related nonsense that crops up at this time of year (bah, humbug) so I’ve been a bit light on the blog posts recently – many apologies.

Hopefully, it will be worth it. This whole project has subjected me to a pretty steep learning curve; writing a serial, writing a serial made up of novellas, self-publishing, marketing, how to spread the word without being annoying... And in a way it’s a weirdly personal project too – ultimately, I have to trust my own judgement and hope that my eventual readers are as ready to embrace old school serial fantasy in the same way that I have done. I am very aware that I have taken certain risks… Sword and sorcery done for fun might not be very, well, fashionable, at the moment, and I’ll admit I’m not sure how people feel about novellas these days, especially novellas that are designed to leave you wanting to read the next one... is that annoying? Will everyone hate me? Will I receive tiny decapitated goblins in the post, with cut and paste notes demanding “UPDATE OR THE UNSEELIE GETS IT!”? Will people leave steaming piles of dragon dung on my doorstep? Will burly knights give me dirty looks outside Morrisons? I do not know.

Oh well. The Copper Promise has been a lot of fun to write, regardless of supernatural vengeance, and either way it will be released out into the world kicking, screaming, and smelling faintly of mead on the 22^nd of December (please address all dragon dung to my upstairs neighbour).

The Copper Promise Part 1: Release date!

2011-12-01T18:01:00.001Z

I am pleased to announce that the ebook of The Copper Promise: Ghosts of the Citadel will be available to buy from Amazon on the 22^nd of December.

The Citadel of Creos: silent, forbidden, haunted. No person in their right mind would attempt to explore it, but then, as Wydrin was fond of saying, adventurers are rarely in their right mind, especially when large amounts of coin are involved.
For the young Lord Frith, the secrets within are his key to a bloody revenge; for Sebastian, exiled from his order for crimes he’d rather not talk about, thank you very much, it is a distraction from his recent disgrace. And Wydrin? For Wydrin it means fortune and fame, or at least the seeds of a good story she can embellish later.
But something ancient and hungry lies restless in the hidden depths of the Citadel, and the long years of its imprisonment are nearly at an end. The three adventurers are about to find out that ghosts are the least of their problems.

The first in a four part novella series, The Copper Promise: Ghosts of the Citadel is a sword and sorcery adventure full of danger, discovery, and dubious ale.

Ghosts of the Citadel is the first of four novellas, but it will not end there. Next year I will be releasing a number of short stories set in the same world, featuring events taking place before and after The Copper Promise storyline.

If you have any questions, thoughts, suggestions or sexy fanart (please send me your sexy fanart) then you can contact me at copperpromise@sennydreadful.com Email me also if you would like to be included in the Copper Promise mailing list; this way I can tell you exciting things, like when the second part is coming out, and sometimes send you lovely things, like snippets of artwork, competitions and exclusive short stories only available to people on the mailing list. Eventually, I hope there will be badges.

Cornwall Holipops

2011-11-19T18:45:00.001Z

Back from a week in Cornwall, which we largely spent eating, moving very slowly from pub to pub, and taking rather Scooby-Doo-esque photos in the dark, whilst demons watched us from the inky night.

I love the wildness of Cornwall, the on-the-edge-of-things feel to it. When you journey through the Cornish countryside and look out at the ominous rolling hills and the dark clusters of trees, you could well be looking out at Narnia, The Shire, or Westeros. In many ways these bits of England are the birthplace of Fantasy, and that pleases me.

Not only that, but the land at the very edges of this country feels old. I'm a sceptic down to my very bones, but when walking past a graveyard in the sort of dark you just don't get in London, it's all too easy to believe that a restless spirit might be haunting this tree or that stone. Ancient knights fight ghostly battles, over and over for the rest of eternity in these bleak fields. The shade of a drowned woman haunts the well at the local pub. And, you know, you get more serial killers where there's lots of grass. Fact.

Strong Female Character Wishlist

2011-11-10T14:46:00.001Z

Blundering my way through The Copper Promise Part 2 for Nanowrimo (tentatively titled “Wydrin and the Bloody Helm”) – quite good fun so far, slightly behind, not consuming enough caffeine.

One of the characters in particular, the eponymous Wydrin, is a complete lark to write. She’s a mercenary, selling her sword for fortune and glory, and she is, I’m finding, great fun; brave, rude, tactless, irresponsible. In short she’s exactly the sort of female character I like to see, and last night I got to thinking about what it is I like in a strong female character.

(Marty likes to tease me by saying that I like no lady characters at all. That I prefer, in fact, a complete sausagefest, and that may be true to an extent, but this is mainly because so many female characters drive me barmy).

Here are 3 things that I require in a decent female character:

1) She has a purpose outside of being a love interest for the main, male character.

2) If she is the main character, then she must have a purpose besides trying to get off with someone.

3) She is more than simply a man with boobs and conditioned hair.

Take, for example, Being Human, the excellent supernatural drama series from the BBC. I adore Being Human, let me say that from the outset, but I felt that towards the end they managed to ruin Annie’s character by sending her off to the Love Interest stable in the last series. To begin with, Annie had one of the best storylines in the show – the mystery over who killed her in the first place swiftly became a tragedy, followed by a rousing conclusion where she stood up for herself and generally kicked arse. Brilliant stuff. In the last series, following a couple of years of slightly flirty looks being exchanged, she fell suddenly and obsessively in love with Mitchell (he is very pretty indeed, but really, bad choice). Her character became rather whingey and annoying, her main goal in “life” was to save Mitchell, and I found that I really didn’t care any more. Very sad.

In comparison, I always hold up Farscape as a fine example of How to Do Female Characters Well. It’s chock full of them, for a start, and they’re all wildly different. Zhaan and Chiana are vibrant, and weird, and they can kick your arse all over the shop. They also do not need men to drive their storylines. You might argue that Aeryn Sun comes close to being a Man with Boobs, but I would say that her peacekeeper background actually does a good job of making that an explainable, vital part of her character. AND the ship is a girl. Come on. More Farscapes please.

Perhaps I am terribly fussy. Perhaps a lot of female characters simply aren’t aimed at me (I don’t read romantic fiction and I don’t watch rom-coms) but I don’t think I’m asking for too much; give me ladies who have fully fledged personalities, and something to do other than writing their beau’s name on the back of their exercise book.

Gravefingers in Estronomicon

2011-11-01T20:23:00.001Z

Three blog posts in one day? I can hear you spluttering from here, but I

Gravefingers in Estronomicon

2011-10-31T23:09:00.001Z

Three blog posts in one day? I can hear you spluttering from here, but I have good reasons, honest (mainly posterous being peculiar). Anyway, I am very pleased to tell you that my story Gravefingers makes an appearance in the Halloween issue of Estronomicon, and you can go and read it for free here.

All feedback greatly appreciated, especially as this is one of my personal favourites.

Happy Short Story News: Estronomicon

2011-10-31T21:52:00.001Z

[[posterous-content:pid___0]]

I am very pleased to announce that my story Gravefingers will be appearing in the Halloween issue of Estronomicon. I'm particularly happy about this because this story is one of my personal favourites - as soon as it's up I shall provide the linkage.

(please excuse zombie photo.... any excuse)

Happy Short Story News: Estronomicon

2011-10-31T21:51:00.001Z

(please excuse zombie photo.... any excuse)

Halloween Shorts: Wendigo by Jennifer Williams

2011-10-31T11:45:00.001Z

And so our final Halloween Short is from... me! I hope you've enjoyed our mini-season of scary tales; I know our various authors would appreciate your feedback, so if you feel inclined please do give us a shout in the comments or on twitter or any of the other interweb taverns we tend to frequent. And Happy Halloween!

Wendigo_final.docx Download this file

Halloween Shorts: Light You to Bed by Matthew S. Dent

2011-10-30T11:03:00.001Z

Normal 0 false false false EN-GB X-NONE X-NONE By day, Matthew S. Dent is a mild mannered blogger, but by night he dons a mask and writes dark fiction. No one knows what the mask is for. Or the meat cleaver. But it's probably safer not to ask. His fiction has been published in a range of anthologies and magazines, and is forthcoming in the Blood Bound Books anthology "Night Terrors II"

Light_You_to_Bed.docx Download this file

Halloween Shorts: What You Take With You by Kev Clark

2011-10-29T07:46:00.001+01:00

Introducing your second helping of Halloween Shorts! Please do continue to share and enjoy.

Daring adventurer! Swashbuckler! Exiled Prince of a forgotten land! Kev Clark is none of these things and more! He is in no way a professional writer, but would very much love to be one day. In the meantime, he writes for his own entertainment as much as anything else.

That said, he finds bios much harder to write than fiction.

What_you_Take_With_You_-Kev.docx Download this file

Halloween Shorts: Charlie and the Goblin King by Andrew Reid

2011-10-28T10:16:00.001+01:00

Welcome to the first ever Halloween Shorts post! And because Andrew is a generous chap, there's even a bonus story over at his blog. Who says we don't spoil you? Please do share and enjoy.

Andrew Reid is a displaced Scotsman who loves books, movies, computer games, cake, and writing. He can be found lurking on Twitter as @mygoditsraining and if asked very nicely can be talked into baking tasty things.

Charlie_and_the_Goblin_King.docx Download this file

My Brief But Obligatory Nanowrimo Post

2011-10-26T14:39:00.001+01:00

Far too many things going on this week for me to blog sensibly or in detail about anything, so given that we’re almost at the end of October, I would just like to salute those crazy novelists about to take part in a month of literary abandon, also known as Nanowrimo.

I’ve blogged about this many times before, and I know you’ll all have heard me hark on about how great I think the scheme is, and how useful, so I’ll keep it short. Today I came across Johanna Harness’ blog on “Telling Your Own Story”, and when I read it I nodded so hard in agreement my head nearly fell off (go read it, she is very wise). The fact is, every year at this time there’s always a flurry of anti-Nano types, talking about how Nano helps push into being a thousand rubbish books, how Wrimos don’t know the difference between a rough draft and a completed manuscript, or how outrageous it is that all these non-writers are writing.

Balls to that, I say. Not only is it snobbery of the highest order, it also ignores that fact that writing is often about different things for different people – a challenge completed, a way out of a rut, or just a bit of bloody good fun. Making things is one of the joys of human existence, after all. Aside from wanting to see my books in a bookshop one day, I also find writing stories the most marvellous form of escapism, and it gives me a sense of control that I crave in all other areas of my life (OCD does tend to make you a bit fond of controlling things). It’s very nearly therapy, is what it is, and Nanowrimo brings this fabulous and often frustrating activity to thousands of people every year. Yay for that, I say.

(If you didn’t guess, I am planning on participating again this year, with the intention of completing the next two parts of The Copper Promise. See you there, Wrimos!)

Halloween Shorts!

2011-10-22T15:18:00.001+01:00

Exciting things! Next weekend, in celebration of the spooky season, sennydreadful.com will play host to a set of scary stories from some funky new writers (as well as one from me). Woot! So join me back here on Friday the 28th of October for the very first session of Halloween Shorts.

Samurai Jack - Probably the Greatest Cartoon Ever Made.

2011-10-18T16:08:00.001+01:00

Cartoon Network have been repeating Samurai Jack over the last couple of weeks, so obviously this gives me a great excuse to write a blog post on how great it is, including lots of pretty pictures and general fangirling. I was a big fan of Samurai Jack when it first appeared on our tellies back in, oh jeezum cripes, 2001 (2001?! That’s ten years ago, my friends) and it coincided with my first forays on to the internet. In fact, my very first forum was a Samurai Jack fan forum, where I first learnt internet etiquette and the rules of fandom wank. It was run by a boy whom I always assumed was about 12 years old, but the forum itself was actually populated largely by older ladies, and I don’t think our administrator always appreciated our take on the cartoon. Ha. Good times.

Anyway, here are a few reasons why Samurai Jack is Pretty Much the Greatest Cartoon Ever Made.

It’s Beautiful: You could take any single frame of this cartoon and hang it on your wall, and people would come over to your house (probably people you’ve never met) to tell you what fantastic taste you have in modern art. Every backdrop is gorgeous, every character design clever and satisfying. Jack’s form is a brilliant collection of block colours and spare lines, every bit of it economical and right, and that’s all without even going into how everything moves – which is gracefully, and with perfect timing (both comedy and otherwise).

Samurai Jack Doesn’t Care About Your Attention Span: Everything in modern animation is fast, fast, fast. Look at this, now look at that, now over here… We’ve got to pack a billion things into this twenty minutes, so stay alert! Samurai Jack doesn’t do that. I convinced Marty to watch an episode with me the other week, and he was most amused by the drawn-out action sequences – amused and delighted, I think. In the episode we watched, a trio of arrows are approaching a target, all converging on the same tiny point. We switch views from arrow to arrow, to the faces of the archers, to Jack’s reaction, and then back again as they creep on to an inevitable doom.

And it’s not afraid to do that in quieter scenes too. We sometimes see Jack travelling the beautiful landscape alone, his figure lost amongst the bizarre alien foliage… all so we can appreciate the weirdness of his journey, and how alone he is.

It’s Also Fucking Funny: While I waffle on about the gorgeous backdrops and the ineffable awesomeness of Jack’s quest, I should also point out that it’s very funny. Even the action episodes will have moments of humour, usually dialogue free: Jack is the perfect straight man, and it’s a shame not to use him as such, after all. There are also episodes that are just straight up funny too, and it certainly never takes itself seriously: there’s the episode where Jack is zapped by a wizard for instance, and he has to survive as a bad ass Samurai… chicken. Or the one where he loses his lovely sandals, and at one point ends up wearing a pair of stacked pimp shoes, complete with goldfish in the heels.

Speed vs. Quality, Or Writing Around Your Inner Editor

2011-10-12T14:27:00.001+01:00

I’m thinking a lot about quality versus speed currently, especially as November lurks around the corner, ready to clobber us with cheap Halloween candy and miserable weather. November means NaNoWriMo, as I’m sure you know, and one of the chief lessons it has taught me over the years is to get the first draft out as quickly as possible and worry about making it pretty later. I’ve done Nano five times now, and succeeded each time (twice this year already, weirdly) so you’d think I’d have this lesson burnt into my brain tissue by now.

However, I’m working my way through the Copper Promise* at the moment, trundling along, reasonably happy, and suddenly my inner editor has started to get lairy. You want to go back, it insists, go back to the chapter before last and just fix that one bit where you forgot someone’s name. And go back to the part before that where one of the guards was a bit dopey and make him curious instead. Actually, sod it, go right back to the beginning and make it all fabulous and pretty and word-sexy, and then you can carry on to the final five chapters with peace in your heart and a smug look on your face.

I’m trying not to listen. But the Copper Promise is a novelette, about two thirds complete at this point, and it’s horribly tempting. What stops me is the certain knowledge that if I take my eyes off the ending I will lose it forever, and be lost in the world of word-sexy. I will be strong. I will finish. After all, this is only part 1 in a series…

* which may well now be The Sea-Glass Promise, or the Crosshaven Chronicles, or Tales from the Sea-Glass Road – I’m fluctuating at the moment. If you have a preference, do let me know!

Giant Worms! A brief note on playing Gears of War 2

2011-09-28T16:54:00.001+01:00

This last week we have been mostly playing Gears of War 2. Yes, Gears of War 2. I liked the look of the trailer for the newest game, but being all shiny and new, and given that I have no idea what these games are like, I decided to opt for the decidedly cheaper GoW2, to see if I liked that sort of thing or not.

As it turns out, I like it very much so far. It’s sort of like all the running and shooting bits of Mass Effect, with all the complicated thinking and decision making removed. I adore Mass Effect (as you can see from my previous blog post) but sometimes it is quite nice to disengage brain slightly and be taken on what is essentially a very violent Disney World ride of a game (honestly, that’s what it reminds me of).

The real fun with Gears of War 2 (or Geezer Horse as it’s now known in our house. Or Cheesy Whores) starts when you play co-op. So far Marty & I haven’t really had a game where we can both play together, meaning we’d have to take turns with the controller and try to avoid spoilers. With this we can shout at the screen together, feeling very manly and team-like: “I’m bleeding here, dude, medic me!”, “There’s a ticker behind you, yep, just there, behind the…*KABOOOOM*... nevermind” and “IT’S GIANT WORMS!!”.

In conclusion, it’s good, explodey fun, and I may even keep an eye on the price of Geezer Horse 3.

3 Reasons Why Mass Effect is the Greatest of All Video Games*

2011-09-20T14:30:00.001+01:00

I’m playing Mass Effect 2 again at the moment. Yes, again. I think this might be roughly my fourth or fifth play-through, but I do have an obsessive need to unlock all possible happenings, and this means it's time to play as super-ass-kicking-space-bitch Shepard, ramp up my renegade bar to the max and punch a few mercs through windows. In which case, I present to you three reasons why Mass Effect is the greatest video game series ever made.

All the Stories in the ‘Verse: It is enormous, and the attention to detail is staggering. Each civilisation, from the Asari to the Krogan to the Volus, has a complicated history, tricksy political problems and a unique outlook on the universe at large. On a smaller scale, every bit-part character you meet will have a decent voice actor and a wee story of their own to tell. Get absorbed into the story and you’ll soon start recognising ME’s own little in-jokes (Krogan have four testicles, so they’re referred to as “quads”, a certain part of the Asari body is nicknamed “azure”- because they’re blue, get it? And Issac Newton is the deadliest son of a bitch in the galaxy).

The Horizontal Charleston, Alien-style: At the heart of Mass Effect are the relationships between the characters, or, in other words, the “which of these fine sprites will I be boinking by the end of the game?” element. In the first instalment your choice was a little limited – for the boys there was poetry quoting xenophobe Ashley Williams, the girls had the easily embarrassed Kaidan Alenko, or for both there was Liara, the quiet and reserved archaeologist who was secretly the Normandy bike. In ME2 Bioware have very wisely thrown all caution to the wind and now practically everyone is bionkable, even your PA, and the Doctor seems quite willing to get you drunk too. Even Garrus, easily the coolest character in the entire Mass Effect universe, can be awkwardly chatted up in the battery array- is it bad that I find it all the more amusing because it’s a little bit weird? I secretly think even the writers of ME2 have decided Shepard and Garrus are BFFs foreverz. Just don’t ingest his fluids.

To Be a Shit, or Not to Be a Shit: Complex moral choices. Bioware seem to specialise in making the sort of games where you have to put the controller down for a bit & have a really good think about the consequences of your actions. Shepard is continually confronted with decisions that are actually morally very tough: whether or not to allow genocide for the greater good (a theme that turns up over and over in ME), which of your team to sacrifice, whether or not to buy those fish you know perfectly well you’ll forget to feed… It’s choices like these that add to Shepard’s heroic status- she may well be able to take down a charging Krogan with one well placed kick to the quads, but she also makes some hard decisions for the sake of the universe, and that makes her the greatest of galactic heroes.

*Other than Dragon Age: Origins... Look, you and I both know I'm too obsessed with that game to make a sensible judgement, so let's just drink the tainted blood and move on.

Campaign for Real Fear Review

2011-09-18T20:06:00.001+01:00

Just a quick note to flag up a nifty happening: Peter Tennant has been reviewing all the stories published in Black Static, including the Campaign for Real Fear competition. If you go here, you can read a lovely little summary of my flash fiction piece, The Price.

I'm so proud of that story, and it's appearance in Black Static- I remember being all excited at Alt:Fiction because they were selling copies in the dealer's room; the first time I'd seen my work in print.

On Finishing The Snake House and the Nature of Evil

2011-09-13T15:20:00.001+01:00

With all the stuff that’s been happening lately I haven’t had much of a chance to talk about finishing The Snake House. It’s interesting for me (if no one else) to look back on a project afterwards, especially one as fast-paced as this one, and have a think about what I learned from the experience and what I’ll take with me into the next book.

In terms of prep, this time round I wrote a big old plan over three pieces of A4 paper (I wrote most of it while on holiday in Conwy, scribbling away, huddled under a blanket- Wales is cold, yo), made some character notes, and then dived straight in at the beginning of July. In the end, I wrote the entire novel (around 100,000 words) in two months, which is definitely something of a record for me. The story wandered away from the set course a few times, and various nasty scenes I wasn’t expecting popped up here and there, which was nice (Snake House is a horror novel, after all) but mostly it went according to plan. I think what I will remember from this noveling experience – other than the faint squealing of my sanity as I raced to finish before the end of August – is how I was trying to consciously say something with this story.

Most of the time, themes and meanings grow with a book organically, and often I only notice them on the second read-through; Ink for Thieves is about change and responsibility, I realise now, and Bird and Tower is about growing up. These issues, for me, are usually bubbling under, to be brought out further in re-writes and edits, but this last book was slightly different.

The Snake House is asking questions about the nature of evil- whether it is a real, malevolent presence in human lives, or an absence of something that leaves the human animal easy prey to horrendous appetites (blimey, that’s a bit much. It’s something like that, anyway). When doing my research for TSH I inevitably had to read a lot about serial killers, and aside from being generally depressing and wildly unpleasant, such reading leads you to a number of uncomfortable questions. What makes these people kill repeatedly? Is such behaviour always born of a childhood of abuse, or do they come in to the world that way? Where can you draw the line that divides the sane from the insane in cases like this? Jeffrey Dahmer was thought by some to be experiencing severe psychotic episodes when he was torturing his victims, and maybe it’s easier to think of Ted Bundy as a monster possessed by a demonic presence, yet this was a man willing to drive for hours in a calm and rational state to spend the night with the bodies of the women he murdered.

Obviously I have no answers to these questions – perhaps no one does, or will – but when I started writing The Snake House those were the issues I wanted to explore; it is undoubtedly my darkest book, and in lots of ways it was the hardest to write. I grew up on Stephen King books, so you’d think I’d be fairly immune to the wibblies at this stage, yet there were times where I questioned whether I even wanted to carry on with the story. It seems that reading a book that deals with monsters, and inviting monsters to come and play in your head, are two very different things.

A Round Up: Dark Fiction Magazine, Pseudopod and the Cambridge Film Festival

2011-09-09T19:23:00.001+01:00

All right, not a very catchy title for the blog today, but a lot of stuff has happened this week and I’ve utterly failed to write about it, so it’s time for a quick catch up.

First of all, the finalists for Dark Fiction Magazine’s Epic Flash Competition have been announced - a big ol’ congratulations and a hearty huzzah to all those picked. I helped out with reading the submissions this time round and it was an amazingly difficult process. There were so many cool ideas and top stories, sorting out which ones should go forward to be judged by James Barclay was very tough indeed. Well done to everyone who sent in a story - you all rock. If you want to read the (officially "woobie") little short I wrote when inspired by the competition, it's still up on the blog over here.

I’ve been on the narration duties over at Pseudopod, the podcast that brings scary fiction to your lugholes. If you would like to experience the extra creepy thrill of listening to my sarf-lahdan accent read a story, Blue Eyes by Jay Caselberg is up at the moment, and a very unsettling piece of fiction it is too. Go listen!

In a change from all the short stories and editing, I wrote a little article about Silent Running and WALL-E for Take One, the magazine of the Cambridge Film Festival. It’s out now and you can read it here, or if you happen to inhabit the actual Cambridge, you should probably be able to pick up a print copy! This pleases me enormously.

Final Submissions for Epic Fantasy at Dark Fiction Magazine! (plus one small celebratory short story)

2011-08-31T14:12:00.001+01:00

So, I finally finished the first draft of The Snake House! Huzzah, hooray, calloo callay and so on. I’ll do a proper blog post about that over the next few days, detailing the highs and lows of writing about a haunted Elephant and Castle, but for today I wanted to draw your attention to the date. It’s August the 31^st! This means you only have until midnight to get your submissions in for Dark Fiction Magazine’s Epic Fantasy Flash Competition of Epicness!

So in celebration of finishing my first draft, and to show solidarity to all of those brave fictioneers putting the last bit of polish on their flash fiction stories, I present to you the little story I wrote when inspired by the competition myself. Beware: this story is the woobiest* thing I have ever written.

*Shhh, I’m not sure what it means, but it feels right.

Skin_and_Scales.doc Download this file

Free Short Story at Hub Magazine!

2011-08-26T15:36:00.001+01:00

Snoopy dancing and general rejoicing! I am very proud to tell you that my short horror story “Wallflower” is in the current issue of Hub magazine. As I’m sure you know, Hub is totally excellent and totally free to read, so please do pop along here to have a butcher’s, and if you feel like making me super happy today, pop back here afterwards and let me know what you thought of it.

“Wallflower” was one of those oddly blessed stories, the ones that come out all in one piece and in a hell of a hurry, so that I found myself scribbling into a notebook on a train coming back from the SFX Weekender. I was hideously hungover and tired, but the story didn’t care if my brain was trying to crawl out of my ear, or that my mouth tasted like a dead badger’s armpit. If only all stories were so persistent.

Epic Fantasy Competition at Dark Fiction Magazine, and the Art of the Very Very Short Story

2011-08-15T19:33:00.001+01:00

Pop on over to Dark Fiction Magazine and you'll see a rather nifty flash fiction competition has just been announced: they’re looking for epic fantasy stories of a thousand words or under, and there are actual cash prizes! So you are cordially invited to dust off your broadswords, polish up those magical artefacts and get your dragon on. Full details (and a rather excellent picture) can be found here.

I do love the perversity of fitting an “epic” fantasy tale into less than 1000 words. I was lucky enough to have my flash fiction piece “Milk” selected for DFM’s Twelve Days of Christmas Special. I had to work really hard to get the story down to a very zippy 1000 words and because of this it remains one of my favourites- it’s as tight as it can possibly be, and every small piece of it pleases me. It doesn’t hurt of course that the very lovely Kim Lakin-Smith read it out for me and did a fantastic job. If you’d like to hear it (don’t worry, it isn’t actually that Christmassy) nip over here and press play.

Being a big fantasy fan I’d love to give this competition a go myself, but since I’m helping out DFM with their slush reading at the moment, I suspect I’m not really allowed. ;) However, I am very excited to see what people can cram into that neat little word-space, and I think we’re going to see some very interesting stories.

News From Dark Fiction Magazine

2011-08-11T15:46:00.001+01:00

As some of you will know, I've worked with Dark Fiction Magazine a number of times in the past, both as a narrator and as a writer with stories featured in a couple of episodes (the flash fiction short "Milk" read with grace and aplomb by Kim Lakin-Smith remains one of my proudest moments). These days I'm helping out a bit more, so I'm here to tell you that the magazine is open again for submissions of previously published stories- fantasy, horror, science-fiction, weirdness and terror and thrills, they're after them all!

I also have this message sent direct from the Dark Fiction offices themselves (carved into the bare rock of a mountain, you know, and staffed by the evil flying monkeys who thought the Wicked Witch wasn't wicked enough)

You already know that Dark Fiction Magazine are always on the look out for fiction of the creepy and fantastical variety- did you also know that we’re after artwork, too? And voices. Not in a steal-your-voice-in-exchange-for-a-nice-pair-of-legs way (we’re not Hans Christian Anderson) but we do like to have a good variety of interesting voices for our stories, so if you’re an artist or a narrator who could see their work being featured on DFM, please do send us examples of your work via our submissions site.

Hurrah! Get submitting.

Normal Service Will Be Resumed Shortly

2011-08-09T16:03:00.001+01:00

I had plans for a sensible update today but the violence and nastiness happening in London at the moment has pretty much consumed all my attention. Anyone who knows me will know how dearly I love the city, and it pains me to see it put through the wringer like this. Here’s hoping for a quiet night and a better tomorrow.

A Number of Small Updates Ultimately Signifying Nothing

2011-08-02T14:50:00.001+01:00

It occurred to me that I haven’t done one of those straight-forward, what’s going on at the minute sort of posts for a while, so here we go; prepare your ears for my latest escapades!

Ahem.

At the weekend I went to see Spirited Away on the big screen with my lovely friend Jenni. Spirited Away is one of my favourite movies (and I suspect one of Jenni’s too) so it was a real treat to see it in all its glory, and with an audience full of equally appreciative fans. Obviously Studio Ghibli have produced a lot of truly excellent films, but Spirited Away remains special to me for reasons that I can’t really put my finger on. Part of it, I think, is demonstrated by the picture above- the film makes me feel oddly peaceful, even in the midst of stink gods, No-faces eating everyone, and other weirdness. It’s impossible to watch this film and not feel quietly happy at the end of it.

Also at the weekend, I finished Camp Nanowrimo with a day to spare. Hurrah! And I appear to be doing the whole thing again this month, because I apparently want to test my sanity to the limits. This is good though, because it means I’ll have a complete first draft of The Snake House in two months, which I’m pretty certain would be something of a record for me. Dead Zoo Shuffle was almost that fast, but I wrote a Steampunk novella in the middle of it and that confused matters somewhat.

As for The Snake House itself, I will cautiously say it is going well. I’ve had to write about some very dark and nasty stuff, which has been more challenging than I expected, and in many ways I miss the freedom that straight-up fantasy books give you in terms of world-building and making up your own rules. However, my three old lady characters have been enormous fun to write and I’m finding out more and more about them every day, via that wonderful habit characters sometimes have of going off and doing whatever they like, or saying the wrong thing at exactly the wrong moment. This seems to happen even more with old lady characters.

I’m re-reading A Song of Ice and Fire. I know, I know, I only just finished A Dance With Dragons, but after a brief break to read Full Dark, No Stars (which was pretty good) I’ve decided to throw myself straight back in. There is a certain delicious fangirl joy in knowing what will be significant later, so you can pay extra special attention to certain events, and what this character says to that character at this time. I’ve got the first four books all together on a kindle edition, so I’ve been reading for a day and a half and I’m still only 1% in. Hmm.

And that’s it for now. There is other stuff to talk about coming up on the horizon, but I shall leave it where it is for the time being, like Chihiro’s distant lights. See you on the other side of Nano!

On Finishing A Dance With Dragons (no spoilers)

2011-07-26T15:14:00.001+01:00

So, that’s it. I have moved A Dance With Dragons from my “currently reading” file to my “finished” file (after having ritualistically read through the index of character names and houses- am I the only one to do that?) and I am bereft of book. I won’t do a big lengthy review or anything, but I will say it was great, I enjoyed it immensely, and that George Double R’d Martin is a wily sod. Despite the horrendously painful cliff-hangers he likes to torture us with, I can genuinely say that it was more than worth the wait. Big books take a long time to write (even small books can take a while, let’s be honest) and big excellent books with huge character histories, complicated intrigues and rollicking adventures… yes, they can take years to write. And I’m fine with that.

I expect I shall sulk for a while now, as I listlessly pick up other books and put them back down again, finding them lacking in some vital way (dragons, mainly) until I eventually have to accept the fact that A Song of Ice and Fire is pretty damn special, and I will have to read something else as we begin the agonizing wait for the next book.

Unless I just read them all again from the beginning. Then I can make a little folder on my kindle just for ASOIAF! Woot!

The Pea Roast Post: Manticores and Mondays

2011-07-22T16:25:00.001+01:00

Manticores and Mondays is an odd little story. It was one of the first written in what I like to think of as my “grown-up writing” period (that is to say, I wrote it in my twenties and actually managed to finish it) and it owes an awful lot to one of my favourite books, Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. I wanted to write something about how children behave when they are free of the watchful eyes of their parents. It’s also loosely based around tales my mum would tell me of her summer days spent in the fields behind my nan’s house.

It originally appeared in the Farrago Anthology.

Manticores_and_Mondays_PR.doc Download this file

Heroic Bastards

2011-07-19T15:02:00.001+01:00

Jon Snow

George Double R’d Martin’s most obviously heroic character in the Song of Ice and Fire series, Jon stands out for being relentlessly honourable and good amongst a cast of characters where even your favourites *cough* Tyrion *cough* could be considered “a bit dodgy”. As Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard he takes a lot of flack from Lady Catelyn and in a move worthy of a sulky teenager huffs off to the Wall, where he becomes a Brother of the Night’s Watch. However, thanks to being a good chap deep down and very handy with a sword, he soon gains allies and fancier weapons.

Jon is a particularly enjoyable character because there are so many question marks hanging over him (does he have a destiny? Is he really Ned’s bastard?) But I worry for him too; honourable characters who try to do the right thing often come a cropper in Westeros.

Alistair

Yes, alright, if you read this blog with any regularity then you are probably very sick of hearing about Alistair, bastard Prince and potential main squeeze of the Grey Warden in Dragon Age: Origins, but in terms of heroic bastards he has to be included. When he’s not doing relentlessly cute things like giving the main character roses or arguing with the Mabari hound, Alistair’s main function is to barrage into the centre of a crowd of darkspawn and kick the ever living shit out of them with a giant sword. He’s brave, unendingly loyal and utterly devoted to the kingdom of Ferelden, to the extent that he will quite aggravatingly dump the main character if he becomes King and feels that their relationship will get in the way of his kingly duties. Still, at least he's suitably angsty about it.

FitzChivalry Farseer

Another bastard with a thing for wolves, Fitz is the narrator of Robin Hobb’s Farseer trilogy, a young man gifted with both the Wit and the Skill, and a horrendously complicated and backstabby royal family. Fitz stands out for me as a fantastically likeable character, someone who you can’t help but suffer with as he grows up through the books (and wow, does he suffer. Hobb knows how to put her characters through it). He’s also a trained assassin, which makes him 20% cooler than your usual royal bastard.

The Pea Roast Post: Lights

2011-07-15T15:17:00.001+01:00

Lights came about because I wanted to write something about the family holidays I went on as a kid, specifically the very particular atmosphere you get in a caravan park at night. The place where Charley is staying, and indeed the shower block she visits is ripped straight from my childhood; I was even told the same story Charley is listening to at the beginning, although I think it was a mischievous older cousin that passed the tale on to me.

I sometimes think that our early childhoods become our mythologies, reinforced by the stories told again and again by family members at Christmases and weddings- “Do you remember when Daniel got us thrown out the slots?” or “Were you there when we saw the lights in the sky, and Nan fell in the ditch laughing?”. I look back on those days, and particularly the holidays we took in that caravan, and they seem both impossibly distant and gloriously strange.

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An Unexpectedly Sentimental Post

2011-07-12T15:13:00.001+01:00

As a result of recent events there’s been a lot of talk online recently about whether or not writing is a business or an art, or if one takes precedence over the other. In lots of ways writing for a living (in that you get paid for it and need those cheques to pay your bills) is very much a 9 to 5 job, with as many deadlines and commitments and consequences as any other occupation. In the end, there needs to be money coming from somewhere, and when money is involved, it’s a business.

However, I still believe it is an art first and foremost. This occurred to me yesterday when I finished reading Bernard Cornwell’s Warlord Trilogy. These books have been a happy surprise for me- a romping dark ages adventure with romance, betrayal, bloody violence and all that good stuff, but also curiously moving. The books talk a lot about legends and humankind’s need to believe in something, even if it is a fallible man who happens to good with a sword, and I find myself still thinking about that book and those characters today. I’m sure, in fact, that they’ll stay with me for a long time, and that’s art, if you ask me.

I’ve mentioned it on here before, but Lemony Snickett summed up how I feel about writing in an especially excellent Nanowrimo peptalk- the full version of which you can read here. When I’m feeling troubled about why exactly we do this and how I can possibly drag myself through another page of editing, I read those words and remember that I do it because making things feeds my soul.

“Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it.”

The Pea Roast Post: Barleycorn

2011-07-08T16:17:00.001+01:00

There are two main influences behind Barleycorn, a story which is quite short, not so sweet, and one of my favourites.

The first is Jeff Noon’s wonderfully strange novel Vurt, which my brother bought me for my birthday when I was about 16 or 17 I think. It was a book unlike anything I’d read before and it left me feeling both exhilarated and slightly ill; if you’ve never read it, I highly recommend you grab a copy, although don’t blame me if you feel woozy afterwards. I was fascinated by Vurt’s mixture of dreams, drugs and mythology, and a lot of that stayed with me.

The story is also based around some trips to the countryside I made as a kid, although I don’t think I was ever quite as sulky as the narrator (I hope not, anyway). For me the countryside seemed tremendously wild and green, and we did indeed make little dens within the crops, which I imagine cheesed off the local farmers no end.

Barleycorn_PR.doc Download this file

The Pea Roast Post

2011-07-07T22:24:00.001+01:00

I have decided to do a series of re-posts (or pea roasts, if you will) of older stories- stories that have popped up in other locations, or haven't been seen for a few years, or perhaps have just been hanging around on other pages of this website, loitering and causing trouble. I'll do one story each Friday, with a bit of a dvd extras introduction (where the story came from, influences etc) and it shall appear in a slightly more readable format.

This is mainly because I want to give some older stuff a bit of an airing, but also because... Pea Roast! Post! Love that title. So see you tomorrow for the first Pea Roast!

Women and Wizards- The Warlord Trilogy by Bernard Cornwell (potential spoilers for the first two books!)

2011-07-06T14:40:00.001+01:00

I’ve just finished the second book in Bernard Cornwell’s Warlord trilogy (a gutsy and gritty retelling of the Arthur mythos) and a bloody good read it is too. I’ve still got Excalibur to go, which I shall be reading as swiftly as possible before A Dance With Dragons comes out, and indeed these tales of swords, beards and heroism make a lovely almost-fantasy appetizer for the next George R.R Martin book.

What has impressed me in particular is the quality of female characters in the first two books (The Winter King and Enemy of God, go and grab copies) – previously my only experience of Cornwell was via the TV series Sharpe, which my partner is a big fan of (I rather like it myself), but it has to be said the ladies in the series don’t have a lot going for them. His first wife, sure, the Spanish rebel who kicked ass in her own right, she was excellent but inevitably she didn’t quite last the whole series, and then after her most of the female characters in Sharpe (the TV series, at least) are consigned to breathing heavily in garments not made to stand such stresses and throwing themselves (understandably, perhaps) at the eponymous hero. Even worse, one of his wives turns out to be an absolute rotter, who simpers and faints and gets off with Wesley Wyndham-Price instead.

However, in his King Arthur stories Bernard Cornwell has given us a cast full of extraordinary and interesting ladies; characters who are perhaps more memorable even than the male characters you remember from the Arthur mythology. There is Nimue, Merlin’s high priestess and childhood friend of our narrator- she is clever, ruthless, intermittently mad, and utterly determined. The portrayal of Guinevere is a fascinating one, as we meet a woman who is beautiful and knows it, and has infinitely more ambition than even Arthur himself- a woman constrained by the times she lives in, and looking for ways to break out. Even Ceinwyn, who could easily have been a winsome blond princess with little else to do but be the caring one, keeps things a little subversive by taking a vow never to marry, and instead takes her own path through life.

This is more like it. And there’s tons of other stuff to admire about the books of course, particularly Merlin, who is devious beyond measure and very, very funny, and Cornwell gives us a portrayal of pagan Britain that feels real, even if it is nearly impossible to know exactly how it all went down. I’m expecting to zoom through the third book now, and only partly because I know Westeros is waiting for me at the end of it.

Oh, and if you haven’t done so yet, please do check out the short story I posted below… it’s not Arthurian Fantasy but I am very close to 100 views and every plug helps! ;)

Alt.Fiction 2011: Cakes, Raffles and the Shepard Shuffle

2011-06-27T14:29:00.001+01:00

Things I learnt about at this weekend’s Alt.Fiction: the direction of modern science-fiction, John Wayne, 1980s toy related comics, memetic theory in relation to religion and mythology, the Gordon the Gopher novel, waxed moustaches, Thai food, and… lots of other great stuff.

Alt.Fiction is like that. It’s a whirling multicoloured pinball machine of an event, where you bounce wildly from one interesting talk to another- whether that’s in a panel, a podcast or just by the bar while you’re drinking a cider. I think this is why it is regarded as one of the friendliest of conventions, the one where you make new friends in a short space of time and have more giggles over the drawing of a raffle than is strictly healthy.

In my opinion the real heroes of Alt.Fiction* are those writerly people (I’m including all manner of authors, publishers and publicists here) who probably were amazingly busy and probably did have a hundred people they had to meet up with but still stopped to say hello and have a natter. It’s easy for the writer at the beginning of his or her career to feel like publishing is a big exclusive circus on the moon with clowns made of gold, where everyone already knows each other and you are a tiny orphan child with a homemade t-shirt saying “I luv cirkuses”: the publishing people who pause to make the experience an inclusive, positive one are absolute stars and I cannot praise them enough.

I was involved in two podcasts this weekend and was pleased (and slightly alarmed) at the number of people who turned up for both, even the one on Sunday when we must all have had thumping headaches and delicate stomachs. Big thanks to Adam Christopher and Kim Lakin-Smith who spoke more sense about steampunk than I was capable of, and much slightly hungover gratitude to the lovely Jenni Hill, Mark Charon Newton and Graham McNeill who were all utterly charming and gave me an excuse to blather on about video games. Adele Wearing and Vincent Holland-Keen kept the whole thing running smoothly with style and panache, and indeed were true podcasting heroes.

Other highlights include meeting up with twitter buddies Andrew Reid (@mygoditsraining) and Hollie Chapman (@holliechapman86); talking to Graham McNeill about Dragon Age 2; the Mythology in Writing podcast where a brass band attempted to upstage the panel; and Dave Moore’s impromptu grammar demonstration over sticky rice. There were loads of other great moments but I think I’ll need a few days for my brain to process them all, and indeed I wish I’d had the good sense to bring a camera- a few pictures would have helped me remember everything beyond the haze of coffee and alcohol.

Looking forward to next year already!

*the bar staff were also heroes.

The Meaning of Steampunk

2011-06-21T14:41:00.001+01:00

I was watching the eddies of conversation collide today on twitter, as you do, and I spotted a mini steampunk discussion. Given that I’ll be involved in a podcast on the subject this Saturday at Alt.Fiction, it caught my eye and now has me contemplating the actual meaning of the term “steampunk”.

Adam Christopher (also podcasting on goggles and airships this weekend) mentioned that he couldn’t see how The Anubis Gates was a steampunk book, as there are no steam-based technologies in the story. In fact, the catalyst behind what is, quite frankly, a fantastic book is ancient Egyptian magic and time travel (also magical) that has nothing to do with Victorian steam-tech at all.

This is a fair point. The reason it’s interesting to point this out with The Anubis Gates in particular is that Tim Powers is one of those mentioned in the famous letter to Locus magazine that coined the phrase in the first place.

…Personally, I think Victorian fantasies are going to be the next big thing, as long as we can come up with a fitting collective term for Powers, Blaylock and myself. Something based on the appropriate technology of the era; like "steampunks", perhaps...

—K.W. Jeter

So if The Anubis Gates isn’t steampunk, then what is? What does it actually mean? Personally I like to think of the sub-genre as Historical Science Fantasy, but even that is a bit wobbly if we want it to cover TAG. Where is the science, really? This got me thinking though- do we really take the “steam” in steampunk to refer only to outlandish steam powered technology, such as Abraham Lincoln robots or flying machines? Or is steam actually a shorthand way of referring to a certain period of history, namely the Victorian era? (Whether or not we uproot that era and place it elsewhere, I think that’s really the heart of the genre). In other words, is steam actually just referring to the time of the industrial revolution, regardless of how much unlikely tech you’ve got in your Victorian Fantasy?

I’d love to know what you all think! So put on your best automated top hat, fire up the steampowered abacus and tell me what you think the term steampunk actually means.

Alt.Fiction Approaches! 25th-26th June

2011-06-15T16:23:00.001+01:00

Alt.Fiction is very close indeed now, not this weekend but the next in fact. I went last year and had an absolute blast- I even, dare I say, learnt quite a lot about publishing and writing, alongside the lovely sense of community and shared geeky joy in discussing genre books. If you are at all interested in science-fiction, fantasy or horror this is the con to go to; it’s relaxed, fun and the schedule looks cracking this year too.

Alastair Reynolds and Dan Abnett are the Guests of Honour, there are workshops and screenings galore and no doubt a lively non-stop gathering in the bar, so do come along (you can see the list of guests and the full schedule here). My good friend Adam Christopher will be reading from his soon to be published book Empire State, and I’ll be talking on a couple of podcasts too- one on steampunk with Adam and the lovely Kim Lakin-Smith, and another on the rather juicily titled subject “Is Genre Just for Boys?” with Jenni Hill, Mark Newton and Graham McNeill. If you are there do pop over with your questions, moral support or flasks full of strong liquor.

See you there!

(ooo, look! Just noticed that my author page is up on the alt.fiction website! This pleases me*)

* The steampunk anthology, Her Majesty's Mysterious Conveyance, will be out soon, but more about that in another post.

Editing, the Second Draft and Serious Business

2011-05-31T15:01:00.001+01:00

So the second draft of Ink for Thieves is finally finished. I’ll probably need to give it one more read through before I pass it on to my brave and wily beta reading team, but for now the big chunk of work is done. At least, on that book it is. The next couple of months will see more pulling out of hair and knuckle chewing as I read my way through the rough draft of Dead Zoo Shuffle and realise exactly how much delicate surgery that book needs before it’s readable- along with plenty of merry hacking, amputating and other bloody works.

Last night I remembered something Stephen King mentions in his book, On Writing. He said, (I may be paraphrasing slightly here) that you “shouldn’t come lightly to the page”. The first time I read that I don’t think I really understood what he was talking about. I thought perhaps he was suggesting that writing, real writing, was always hard work and could never be fun, which clearly wasn’t true at all. Now, having slogged my way through my first novel-length edit and emerged with what is, hopefully, a much shinier and sexier book, I think I’m starting to understand.

I think he’s talking about an acceptance of the sheer work involved. Yes, it’s fun and there are moments when the story suddenly comes together and the characters wander off to do what they want, and then the writing is exhilarating, but what you are doing is serious business. It is art. And you may well have to write this damn book over and over again until it is any good, and that thought is daunting, but no one ever said this was going to be a walk in the park, where gnomes massage your toesies and butterflies waft their secret songs into your ear holes. Much of the time in fact it’s rather more like heaving a giant dung ball on your back (that may or may not have a diamond secreted in it somewhere) and hauling it to the top of an impossibly tall mountain while goats with sarcastic eyebrows frown at you in a judgemental manner. But that’s alright because this is hardcore, this is SRS BSNS.

At least, I think that’s what he was talking about.

A Brief Visual Blog

2011-05-27T23:21:00.001+01:00

And that pretty much sums up this week.

(Drommies, by the way, are small goat-like creatues quite essential for the survival of Juido and Andros in Ink for Thieves)

Upcoming Story in Hub Magazine, and Kittens

2011-05-17T15:17:00.001+01:00

So in celebration of the fact that I have a short story coming up in Hub Magazine soon, I will:

a) Do a snoopy dance (you will have to use your imagination here)

b) Post a picture of a kitten

a) and c) point you towards my previous two Hub stories, just in case you haven’t read them. The Sea, The Sea, The Sea is a tale of growing up, growing older and the terrible mysteries of, well, The Sea, and Jump is a story about how infatuation doesn’t always lead to flowers and chocolates. Sometimes, in fact, it leads to frogs.

The new story popping up presently in Hub is one of my favourites; a story initially scribbled into the back of my notebook whilst sitting on a train heading back from the SFX Weekender. As you can imagine, I was nursing a stinker of a hangover at the time and I think some of that hopeless terror and misery seeped through into the story.

Anyway, as soon as it’s up I shall shout and holler on here and possibly even post another picture of a kitten. Watch this space!

Douglas Adams: So Long and Thanks...

2011-05-11T16:15:00.001+01:00

When I was little two of my aunties worked in care homes, and I would sometimes be dragged along to visit if there was a teacher training day or some such. My mum and my aunts, in their trinity of wisdom, would sit me down in front of a bookcase full of second-hand novels, knowing this would keep me out of trouble for hours. On one of these visits I happened to pick up a battered paperback that was to change my life: it was The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.

I think I must have been around 10 or 11. That book coursed through my neural pathways, upgrading my brain in all sorts of exciting ways. My sense of humour changed drastically, moving from the Russ Abbott Show to Monty Python, from the Chuckle Brothers* to Blackadder. I began to think about the universe and my place in it, and got my first real introduction to science-fiction outside of Star Wars.

Ford Prefect became something of a hero to me, with his responsibility avoidance and blithe confidence. Ford didn’t want to save the Universe, he wanted to go to parties and get smashed. He wanted to do stuff and write things and not worry too much about the consequences of those things (like describing the Earth as “mostly harmless”). He was cool and interesting and didn’t quite fit in on our planet, and when you’re a teenager, these attributes are extremely attractive. Still are, really.

I read all the books in a fever of excitement, and then nearly expired with glee when I heard that there was not only a TV series but the radio series that had come first. The fact that each version veered from somewhat familiar to wildly different only pleased me more.

I look back on it now and I think I was supremely lucky to be introduced to Douglas Adams at such an impressionable age. Adams was witty and wise and a fantastically clever writer, whose tangents took you all over the wildly unlikely galaxy, often just to give you a punch line and something to think about. As I got older I read some of his thoughts on science, the natural world and Atheism, and much of what he said helped me to sort out my own confused thoughts on, yes, life, the Universe and everything. Just today I came across an article where Bop Ad talks a frightening amount of sense about the internet, and this was some 12 years ago.

When he died, 10 years ago today, I was a little bit heartbroken; I felt like I’d lost a hero, and the world had lost someone who knew more about what was coming to us than was reasonable or sensible. But I suppose, as I look back now on exactly how much of an impact that well-loved, battered paperback had on me, you don’t ever really lose your heroes. I still know where my towel is.

If you would like to listen to Marty and I blathering on about how totally froody Hitch-Hiker’s is, you can have a listen to the Box Room Special Number 42.

*Alright, to be fair, I never did like the Chuckle Brothers. Do now though, weirdly.

The Tasty Joy of Finishing the First Draft

2011-04-29T22:03:00.001+01:00

So, I finished the first draft of Dead Zoo Shuffle a couple of days ago. The last few chapters took a little longer than I anticipated, although so far every single book has been the same; you think you've got the ending all figured out, and then it throws up a few little surprises just when you're convinced you're on the home stretch.

This book has been an interesting journey. It was my first attempt at crime (er, as a genre, I didn't do any actual bank robbing) and my first attempt at novel length first-person narrative. It was the first book I planned chapter by chapter and my first real experiment with the trappings of science-fiction. And I think the risks paid off, at least in terms of how much I enjoyed the writing. In many ways I feel like I found my voice with this story, or the beginnings of it.

There's an awful lot of work still to be done, of course, with the editing and redrafting already looking to be a big job, and there's plenty of stuff I know needs to be tightened, or added, or cut entirely. Unusually though I'm looking forward to it (remind me of this when I actually come to edit the thing, I'm sure I'll be less enthusiastic then).

So now I'm putting Dead Zoo Shuffle aside for a short time while I finish polishing Ink for Thieves. I'm also starting to put together notes on a potential fantasy/steampunk novel called The Iron-Haunted Heart, a project that's been bouncing down my mental rapids for a while now (no, I don't know either) and fiddling about with a couple of short stories. I said in January that this would be the year for editing and submitting, didn't I? So as much as I might like writing books and then putting them in a drawer to forget about, I do believe it is time to embrace the red pen...

In Praise of HBO's Game of Thrones

2011-04-19T16:07:00.001+01:00

First of all, I should probably state straight away that I’m an enormous fan of George R.R Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series. I read them at the beginning of last year after hearing endless praise for the books, and immediately fell in love. Here was a fantasy series that knew people, one that was driven by fabulously written, utterly believable characters. There were no totally blameless goodies, and even the really bad baddies, the ones who you totally despised and hated with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, could end up being your favourite characters three books later. A Song of Ice and Fire is an excellent series because it gives us unforgettable, believable characters and it gives us staggering, heart wrenching surprises.

So, in the long tradition of the rabid fan, I was either going to violently hate the HBO adaptation, or love it. I’m pleased to say it was the latter.

We were lucky enough to go and see the Bafta screening of the first two episodes, followed by a Q&A with Sean Bean, Mark Addy and Harry Lloyd. It’s fair to say that Marty and I were entranced from the very beginning, and I may even have had a bit of a lump in my throat at the title sequence, a beautifully appropriate whoosh across the map of Westeros, where locations such as Kings Landing and Winterfell pop up as little clockwork confections, reflecting the machinations of power and the complexities of the story. Really, it totally gave me a fan-boner.

And that’s how I’d describe the whole thing really. For someone who adores the books, seeing the places and people brought to life with such love and attention to detail is like some marvellous, hour-long fangasm. The casting is nigh on perfect, with the young actors who play Jon Snow and Arya Stark standing out as particularly impressive, and in Peter Dinklage I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect Tyrion. The sets and the landscapes all look lived in, evidence of a fantasy world that has a long and relevant history, and everywhere you look there are details that let you know this is the story that George R.R Martin was telling in his books; Catelyn wears a fish-shaped broach on her dress, the sigil of the house of Tully, the spinning sun of bronze in the title sequence shows the defeat of the House of Targaryen through the symbols of deer and dragon fighting to the death, Winterfell is grim but sturdy, with Dire Wolves haunting every corner… a large portion of my second viewing was spent excitedly pointing out these details to Marty and the living room at large.

Obviously, as such a big fan it is difficult for me to tell if I am giving you an unbiased opinion, but I do also believe that this is good telly, well made. And as fantasy and genre fans I think we need to give it a bit of support. After all, how often to we get something like this? A fantasy series with actual money spent on it, on a channel known and respected for its approach to drama? A traditional fantasy series, in fact; a secondary world fantasy that is set entirely within its own reality with no links to Earth or Earth history. How often do we get that? I shall you- bloody never. So as a fantasy fan I will be clutching this series to my bosom and lavishing love upon it, for Game of Thrones deserves it.

If you’d like to hear more of what we thought, including much appreciation for Sean Bean and his ability to wear leather and look rugged, you can listen to our Box Room Game of Thrones special below (podcast contains plenty of swearing, but no significant spoilers). I also invite you to admire a picture of us watching Game of Thrones for the second time at home, wearing our Greyjoy and Targaryen t-shirts and drinking mead. Yes, we do love this programme.

The End Is In Sight- A Small Writing Update

2011-04-11T14:57:00.001+01:00

I’ve not done a writing update for a little while, so here’s a wee quickie.

Dead Zoo Shuffle currently stands at 98,000 words, and is reasonably close to being completed- I would say between another 5,000-10,000 words and I’ll be able to write THE END in a giant font and dance around the room. I already know that DZS will need a heavy beating with the editing stick, not to mention the addition of an entire subplot that needs to go in there somewhere, so the work is far from over. Still, I’ll be glad to have the first draft under my belt at least.

This is a strange stage. Now that I’m so close, finishing the book seems, for the first time, inevitable. At no other point in the first draft do I feel like I’m definitely going to get to the end. I spend most of the draft convinced that I will lose all energy and enthusiasm and splutter out at around the 65,000 word mark (I usually get this feeling most intensely at the 60,000 word mark, funnily enough). So this is a nice place to be. Another week, two weeks, and I’ll get there if I keep plodding on. Although, Marshall and Zootsi have been so much fun to write that I’m glad there’s going to be at least two books in the DZS series - I couldn’t bear to part with them at the moment!

So I'm thinking I need to develop some sort of writer's ritual for finishing the book. You know, type THE END, sit back, light a cigar. Or have a glass of wine. Or break open that special box of chocolates. Or sprint round the block banging a saucepan with a dessert spoon whilst singing Lady GaGa's Bad Romance.

Any suggestions? And if you're a writer, do you have a ritual?

The Littlest Hobo

2011-01-17T22:16:00.003Z

Time to be moving on...

But not that far, actually. The Liar's Club has moved to a new site with a slightly less fiddly domain name and less eyebleedy text. If it was a pokemon, it would have just evolved into one with like, super electric powers and shit.

So come here to see the new place, it's shiny and smells of raspberries: http://sennydreadful.com/

PIKACHUUUUUUUUUU!!

Sauce

2011-01-11T21:29:00.004Z

Just a brief update to say that so far this year, I am more or less behaving myself.

I don't really do New Year's resolutions, but the two words I do have in mind at the moment are EDIT and SUBMIT. Every six to twelve months-ish Marty and I will have what we call a "planning session" down the pub, where we get bits of paper and make lists of what we want to have done by when, and what we need to do to get it done. It's possibly the most informal planning session ever, with plenty of drink, doodling and amusing names for our plans, but I find it very pleasing and we stick our bits of paper up on the box room wall for all to see (us and the cat). Thanks to my aversion to a) editing and b) showing anyone my work, edit and submit were featured very highly on my list this year.

My current schedule is writing in the morning, editing in the evening. As simple as that, but, amazingly, I seem to be making some progress. Stuff that needs tidying up is getting tidier, and the Steampunk story is chuntering along slowly (Dead Zoo Shuffle is briefly on hold while I sort this thing out).

So let's hope I can keep up my slow and steady progress, and 2011 might be the year I let another human soul read one of my books for the first time. Possibly.

And more from the Chicken Machine...

2011-01-04T21:47:00.003Z

In a weird quirk of fate, the episode of Bang Bang It's Reeves and Mortimer I watched tonight features a sketch set in the seaside town I visited as a kid, and the actual Chicken Machine I wrote about in the entry before this one:

(laughingly to Marty) "Hey, that looks exactly like the Chicken Machine I was talking about!"

*spots "Mr T's" sticker and Cheeky Chic picture*

"That is the same bloody one! THE EXACT SAME ONE!"

*camera pans back to show the slots and the road opposite, revealing the second most familiar place in the world to me*

"AHHHHHHH!"

*freaks out*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezSX1gviUKQ&feature=related

The Chicken Machine

2010-12-31T12:34:00.004Z

Here's a wee short story to see out 2010. Thank you for reading and putting up with my endless blathering, and I wish you all a froody and fabulous New Year!

The Chicken Machine
By Jennifer Williams

The winter that the Chicken Machine told me what was what, we were visiting my cousin Michael. He was sick again.

They lived in a tiny seaside town and we normally went to visit them in the summer when the place was thrumming with holiday makers carting windbreaks down on to the sand, eating ice-creams and rattling buckets and spades. It was one of my favourite places, or at least the fun fair was. I spent most of those summer holidays hiding out in the amusements, or the slots as we called them, where I changed up all my pocket money into bags of smelly two and ten pence pieces. There were tuppeny pushdowns, with jerky outcrops of shiny plastic relentlessly pushing coins towards a gap they never quite reached; fruit machines lit up like Christmas trees; a teddy machine with a big silver claw that didn’t quite have the grip it promised; even the first video games like Space Invaders, Out Run and Wonderboy. And there was the Chicken Machine.

But December was very much out of season, and the fun fair and the slots were cold and dead when we arrived. I descended into a three day sulk in protest.

My cousin and I were both eight that year, but he looked half my age as he lay sunken into his bedclothes. His face was like a washcloth, crumpled and pale on his pillow. The room smelt of stale sweat and vomit, but my aunt chattered away like all was well. She was filled up with it; his symptoms, which doctor said what, the specialist they would see, the state of his bowels. There was a brittle cheerfulness to her that found no response in my mother, whose face was dark and full of worry when she looked at her tiny nephew.

“Lethargy, vomiting, diarrhoea,” my Aunt continued brightly. My uncle stood in the corner without speaking, like a piece of furniture. He didn’t look at any of us. Michael coughed weakly and my Aunt picked up a bowl of potpourri from the window sill. My Aunt was very keen on potpourri and made her own, so that the entire house was dotted with different sized bowls and small fabric pouches full of dried flowers. The scent of lavender and musk was everywhere in that place, but it did a poor job of covering up the smell of sick that clawed at the back of my throat.

“Think I’d better go freshen this up,” said my Aunt, smiling.

It was considered unhealthy for me to hang around the house so I was turned out to wander the sea front. It seems strange to say that now, but even in those days, which were not so long ago, we found it much easier to take our eyes off our children.

I walked down to the fun fair. The wind coming in off the winter sea was a terrible fierce thing, slicing right through my hat and anorak, but the sky had been polished clean. It was a silver day, a gun metal grey afternoon. The slots had their shutters down and the neon sign had been turned off, but someone had left the Chicken Machine outside. That was strange.

The Chicken Machine was one of my favourite things about the amusements. It consisted of a tall glass box with a wooden frame, an idyllic countryside scene of rolling hills and farmhouses painted on the glass. Behind it sat the chicken on a mountain of plastic eggs. The chicken itself was a moth eaten, mildly alarming looking puppet thing with orange and yellow feathers and big cartoony glass eyes. When you put twenty pence into the slot it would turn around slowly whilst a jaunty tune played. The chicken would cluck a few times and then one of the two-tone plastic eggs would drop down into the hole by the slot. Simply by giving your cash, you had won a prize!

The contents of the eggs didn’t vary all that much. Usually it would be a garish plastic ring that I could pretend had magical powers for the morning, or a toy soldier. Once it had contained a tiny rubber crocodile, the greatest of all prizes and the one I still hoped might turn up again one day. Even I had to admit it was mostly rubbish though, and it drove my Dad crazy that I continued to waste my money on it, but really it was the anticipation of what the prize might be that kept me coming back for more. After all, you always need more rubber crocodiles in your life.

As I approached the Chicken Machine, I noticed that had also been left on, glowing softly like a lamp against the blue shutters. I turned and looked around. The promenade was almost deserted. A man was walking his dog down on the beach and some older kids were passing a can back and forth further up the road, but there was no one around me, and no one in the fair ground to explain why the machine hadn’t been taken inside for the winter, along with the Postman Pat ride I was too big for now.

Seizing the opportunity I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and came up with three twenty pence pieces. Normally I would ration these out for the other games in the arcade, but now the Chicken Machine was my only entertainment there was no need to do that. I savoured the brief thrill of a reckless attitude towards money and pushed the first coin in. Immediately the chicken lurched into life. Without the background cacophony of the other slot machines the music was shockingly loud, and I could hear the low screech of the chicken turning on its rusty spike. I took a couple of steps backwards, suddenly unaccountably guilty, and certain someone would now be approaching to tell me off. You don’t get to play with Chicken Machines in the winter, everyone knows that.

But no one came. The kids on the corner had disappeared, and the man with the dog didn’t even look over. The music stopped at the same moment I let out a sigh of relief, and an egg rattled into the hole, followed swiftly by two more. The sudden influx of eggs overloaded the hatch and they scattered onto the floor by my feet.

The bloody thing must be broken, I thought, that’s why they left it out, but inside I was jubilant. Three prizes for twenty pee? Even my dad couldn’t complain about that.

I scooped the eggs up off the ground and when I was back on my feet I noticed that the Chicken Machine had turned itself off again, and now stood as cold and dark as the rest of the arcade.

“Totally broken,” I muttered, and sat on the concrete path looking out to sea, ready to open my bounty. The first egg was constructed of two rounded pieces of plastic, one pale green and the other pale yellow. I turned it over in my fingers, enjoying the moment of not knowing for a little longer. It didn’t rattle like they normally did. Eventually I took it between my thumb and forefinger and pinched hard, causing the two pieces to pop apart. A gritty white powder burst forth, covering my hands and gathering in the crotch of my jeans. It was so unexpected that I think I cried out a little.

I looked at my hands, and then inside the remains of the egg. The white substance, which felt a little like sand, was gathered up into little mounds inside. There was so much of it.

In an act of breathless eight year old stupidity, I touched the end of my tongue to the rough grains and grimaced.
“Salt?”
The machine really was broken then. In my confused mind, I imagined all the toys and trinkets inside the eggs growing so old they turned to dust and salt. It seemed to me with my child’s perception of time that it was quite possible for such a thing to happen, during the endless weeks between summer and winter.

I put the egg pieces on the ground and brushed the salt off my trousers. The second egg was pale pink on one end, and pale blue on the other, and this time it did rattle in a dry, bristly sort of way. My mind was briefly filled with images of dried spiders and earwigs but I popped it open anyway.

A handful of small dried brown things fell out, accompanied by a powerful waft of flowery scent that flew right up my nose and tickled it. Peering at the pieces a little closer I saw that they were made up of leaves and petals, even a tiny slice of hard orange, and a small pine cone. Potpourri, exactly like my Aunt made. It made me feel uneasy for some reason so I threw it down onto the ground and slapped my hands together, trying to get the whispery dead feel of it off my fingers.

I paused before opening the third egg. It felt heavier than the others, more solid even. One side of the plastic casing was white and the other was orange. The man on the beach was nearly out of sight by now, the tiny bounding shape of his dog close to the surf, and above the December sea there were darker clouds coming in. A winter storm, maybe. I should get back indoors soon.

Without another thought I snapped open the last egg, and immediately shot up in disgust, scraping my jacket against the wall behind me. My hands were wet with crimson fluid, shockingly bright in the middle of that grey day. I rubbed them fiercely against the bricks making a low, sick sound in the back of my throat. The blood was warm.

The empty shells by my feet were slick and red.

When I’d got my head together a bit I ran across the road and down to the sea, and washed my hands in the salty water. Waves came in and soaked my trainers and the bottoms of my jeans but I didn’t stop until my hands were clean and numb.

Back in the house I couldn’t stop thinking about the Chicken Machine. The salt, the leaves, the blood. They sat in my mind like flares, or flags, bright and impossible to ignore. Like a warning.

In the evening my mother and I went up to Michael’s room to sit with him while he had his dinner. My Aunt had made casserole for us, but my cousin had a special restricted diet. With a calm expression she spooned thin milky gruel into his slack mouth, while Michael made the occasional weak protest. We sat in uncomfortable wooden chairs next to his bed and my mother spoke to Michael in a low voice, talking of small things; what was on the telly, his favourite football team, the weather. And as I watched his lips turn down with each spoonful of food, I saw the eggs again. The salt, the blood and the lavender. And suddenly I knew.

Without announcing my intentions, I stood up and took the bowl from my Aunt, too quickly for her to stop me. I tipped it up to my lips and took a big gulp, ignoring the fact that it was a little too hot, and immediately spat it back out again.
“Salt,” I said.
“Ben, what on earth...?” My mother was on her feet, her face tight with embarrassment.
“Taste it, Mum.”
I passed her the bowl, and finally my Aunt reacted by taking a swipe at it but my Mother already had it in her hands. She must have seen something in my face because instead of telling me off, my Mother bent her head to the bowl and took a sip. Her face screwed up in distaste and confusion.

“Martha?” she said to my Aunt, who was now standing very still, the spoon still clutched in one fist. “There’s so much salt in this Martha, so much...”
“There’s more,” I said, and with the knowledge dropped chilly and intact straight into my brain, I knelt down on the floor and reached under the bed. The washing bowl was exactly where I had known it would be. Inside it was a number of syringes, mostly clean but a few still sticky in places. There were bloody tissues in there too.

My Mother pressed her fingers to her lips, her eyes as wide and white as eggs.
“Martha, what have you been doing?”

We never went back to Michael’s house, not on holiday anyway. There were questions and hospitals and police involved, and my Aunt didn’t see Michael for a very long time. His body, they said, had been badly damaged on the inside thanks to months of salt poisoning and he might not ever be completely better. My uncle took on care of him, once it was proven he’d had nothing to do with the salt, and moved far away from the seaside down with its slots and funfair.

I went back there to look for the Chicken Machine but it was gone, a small square of cleaner pavement where it had once stood. And perhaps that was for the best. I’d lost my fascination with rubber crocodiles anyway.

The Year that was Writing Dangerously

2010-12-28T23:04:00.004Z

So it’s that time of the year where we blog about the last twelve months, summing up the triumphs and the achievements and so on. Well, to be honest I’ve always been incredibly bad at remembering what happened in what year (I know, useless isn’t it? I have a great memory for pointless facts and a terrible one for the actual timeline of my life) so this blog post will be the vaguest sort of summary of 2010, including some of the things that I’m reasonably certain happened this year.

I started and finished The Steel Walk, a sword and sorcery novel about an ex-prostitute turned swordswoman forced into protecting the unwanted child of an evil family, whilst fighting off the evil machinations of the Green Council and their dreaded “dead walkers”. It was a book that didn’t go exactly according to plan, but it taught me lots of lessons that I’ll take on with me to the next book. And I did finish it, always the hardest bit.

Short story wise I’ve had a reasonably successful year, achieving way more than I ever thought I would. I’ve had a tiny wee piece of flash fiction published in Black Static as part of the Campaign for Real Fear- picking up a copy in Alt:Fiction and seeing my name in print was particularly exciting! I’ve been published twice in Hub Magazine and received some fabulous feedback on the stories. I’ve found homes for other stories in the From the Dark Side and Farrago anthologies, had a spot on the Un:Bound blog for Barleycorn (one of my favourites) and recently became involved in Dark Fiction Magazine where I had a lot of fun reading out Sarah Pinborough’s Do You See? I even had two of my own stories included, the second of which was a Christmas ghost story read out by Kim Lakin-Smith (who did a beyond fabulous job!). It’s been a good year for me and short fiction, and I owe a huge thanks to everyone who took a punt on an unknown writer. I hope I can keep it up in 2011!

Speaking of Alt:Fiction, I am pleased that I got my arse out of the house for once and attended a proper convention, meeting many lovely people and hearing so much writerly wisdom that I was filled with huge optimism and enthusiasm as well as dread and terror at the size of the task in front of me. Mostly, I just loved geeking out about books for an entire day with a bunch of like minded people.

I started writing Dead Zoo Shuffle in November with Nanowrimo. DZS was a big challenge for me; it was science-fiction/crime, and written in the first person, neither of which I had tried with a full length novel before. I got through 50,000 words in a month, and of course I’m still writing the bugger. Mainly I’m pleased with how much this book is making me think- trying to figure out the plot of a crime novel at 9.30am in Starbucks really sets you up for the day.

So at the beginning of 2010 I christened it “The Year of Writing Dangerously”, and in many ways it was. I formed a routine and forced myself to stick to it, and wrote more words in one year than I ever have before (the quality of those words is quite another thing, of course). I wouldn’t have had such a fun and groovy year without the help of a number of people, so since I’m here I’d like to say a quick thank you! Firstly, to my partner Marty Perrett (@Boxroom on twitter and go here for his website-http://boxroomboy.co.uk/ ) who has provided endless support and chocolate in the face of my erratic enthusiasm and changeable moods, whilst also putting together some amazing creative projects of his own. Thanks as well to Adam Christopher (@ghostfinder on twitter and go here for his blog-http://www.adamchristopher.co.uk/ ) a friend and writing buddy who has beta read for me all year, always giving useful advice and a kick up the arse when needed. I also owe Adam specifically for his ability to remind me of the right writing competition at the right moment, and for singing my praises to others. I’ve been lucky enough to meet a whole gang of marvellous people on twitter too, including Sharon Ring (@DFReview) and Del Lakin-Smith (@dellakin_smith) in charge of Dark Fiction Magazine http://www.darkfictionmagazine.co.uk/, and Neil C Ford (@nubenu) who was kind enough to lend a struggling writer a netbook, enabling me to construct my coffee shop related writing routine. Thanks also to the lovely Adele (@Hagelrat) at the Un:Bound blog http://hagelrat.blogspot.com/, and the charming Alasdair Stuart at Hub magazine http://www.hubfiction.com/ who were kind enough to give my stories a home. And a general hug and slurred drunken “love ya!” to all the fabulous twitter peeps who have kept me sane and entertained this year- you know who you are!

So if this was The Year of Writing Dangerously, what is 2011? The Year of Getting My Arse in Gear and Finally Editing Something?

The Twelve Days Anthology from Dark Fiction Magazine

2010-12-21T20:18:00.003Z

So it's here, on the darkest and spookiest day of the year- twelve stories to captivate, amuse, and give you the shivers. My story "Milk" is the first one on there, narrated by the lovely Kim Lakin-Smith (go find out more about that talented lady here: http://www.kimlakin-smith.com/ ) and I am tremendously proud of it. I've been full of the flu for the last two weeks so I wasn't able to read the story out myself (I sound rather like a bucket full of poorly frogs) but this turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as Kim's voice suits the story so well I actually fidgitedy about with glee while listening to it. I'm also proud of "Milk" simply because I rather like it myself for once, and I don't often have a lot of affection for my own work.

Go here to listen to some excellent short fiction: http://www.darkfictionmagazine.co.uk/episode/twelve-days-anthology/

I'm working my way through them all now, and it is a marvellous little treat of wintery goodness.

The Brave Bit

2010-12-20T16:12:00.000Z

And lo, we enter the armpit of my writing year, the blind boil on the bottom of my writing schedule; here we come my friends to December, the worst of all writing months.

It’s easy for me to appear to be a fantastic, productive writer in November. Nanowrimo surges me through the month on a tidal wave of word counts, calendars, countdowns, word sprints and all nighters, presenting me gleaming and victorious on the other side with 50,000 words and a certificate of win clutched in one triumphant fist. I write my socks off that month and kick writerly ass in all directions; I even wrote a short story this time, as if I didn’t have enough to do, and managed it all with, if not grace, then at least relentless cheeriness.

So it is always painful to come immediately to the bumhole that is December, when you have so recently bathed in glory and achievement. In December I am exhausted, for a start, burnt out from all the late nights and early mornings of the previous month, and there’s the sudden looming horror of Christmas, which I am inevitably underprepared for because I’ve been throwing my heart and soul into Nanowrimo. I suddenly need to figure out what I’m getting people and how, and when, and with which magical beans, and there are social gatherings happening that might require my attendance and for me to wear something other than an old chocolate encrusted jumper.

And the real bitch of it is, thanks to Nanowrimo I’m also at the hardest point in the book, that stinking gulf of words between 50,000 and 70,000 words where anything and everything can go wrong, and usually does. Every time it is the same for me- this is the point where I desperately want to give up and start something new, where I’m convinced I’m a terrible writer and the story I’m telling is boring, pointless and barely makes any sense. Every word is an agony and all attempts to make something new and shiny shrivel and die on the page.

Oh December, what fresh hell is this?

So this is the Brave Bit. Nanowrimo makes you look exciting and bold and impossibly glamorous, with your thousands of words under your belt, but if you’re like me and the book needs another 50,000 words to finish, then December is where you show your true bravery; where you screw your courage to the sticking place and bear down for the sheer excruciating agony of writing. You’re in for the hardest part of the journey now and there’s no comforting community to keep you going, no sense of a joyful challenge or even the false assurances that you’re not that bad a writer- there’s only all those blank pages to fill, a worryingly tight shopping schedule and a parade of increasingly threatening Santas.

So, I’ll come back to it all in January, yeah?

Dark Fiction Magazine's Twelve Days Anthology

2010-12-03T21:26:00.003Z

So Nanowrimo is over, Dead Zoo Shuffle is half way through, and hopefully I'll be back to blogging again regularly. Phew!

Just a quick note today to do a brief snoopy dance of Christmas joy- not because I've actually done all my Christmas shopping (pressies bought = 2) or because I remembered to buy an advent calendar, but because my short story "Milk" has been chosen as the "maids a milking" section of Dark Fiction Magazine's Twelve Days Anthology.

All the details are here: http://www.darkfictionmagazine.co.uk/blog/twelve-days-anthology-the-winning-stories/

I've also been lucky enough to have another one of my stories included in Dark Fiction Magazine in Episode 2: Dystopian Desires. If you haven't heard it yet, On the Last Wave is here: http://www.darkfictionmagazine.co.uk/episode/issue-2/

Obviously, I'm dead excited about this because it means my name is appearing next to some authors who I really admire- a truly fab christmas present. ;)

Dead Zoo Shufflings

2010-11-29T15:43:00.000Z

At risk of jinxing myself, since I haven’t actually crossed the finish line yet (800 words to go!) I thought I’d do a quick post about this year’s nanowrimo experience, and the first 50,000 words of Dead Zoo Shuffle.

It started off rather peacefully, with a week in less than sunny Cornwall to bash out as many words as possible. Despite being largely sozzled much of the time I did manage to get a reasonable amount done on the incredibly long train journey, and in small country pubs with roaring fires. Really, I wish the entire Nano experience could be as picturesque and relaxing.

The following three weeks however, with work and my occasional attempts at a social life, have flown by at an alarming rate. So quickly in fact that I think I’ve barely been on the Nano forums this year, and have had none of the usual encouraging nanomail chats and banter. I’m a bit disappointed about that, as I always enjoy the sense of writerly community November brings, but it seems this year I had no time to do anything but get my head down and write.

Dead Zoo Shuffle itself is proving to be an interesting book to put together. I knew it would be a challenge, because it was both crime and science-fiction, both genres I don’t normally have much to do with aside from reading them, and I wanted it to be in the First Person. Since the only other book I’ve attempted to write from that viewpoint was a massive failure I half expected to give in during week 2 and make the whole thing third person after all.

But I haven’t. It’s hard, and I struggle with some of the twists and turns, but so far Dead Zoo Shuffle has managed to do something quite rare- it’s kept my interest at all times. Not to say that I’ve been bored shitless by my previous books, but there’s almost always a moment where I think “Ye gods, if I have to write about one more night by the campfire I am going to kill someone” or “How can I make their journey over to this place remotely interesting?”. DZS, with its teeming city planet of dodgy bars and even dodgier mercenaries, with its aliens and spaceships and artificial moons, has been strangely refreshing. Dead Zoo Shuffle has so much to keep me occupied I can barely keep up with it.

So hurrah for Nano for providing me with another interesting November. And here’s to the next 50,000 words!

Exciting news from Un:Bound

2010-11-28T20:51:00.003Z

Remember the rather groovy blog that published my short story Barleycorn? Well, more exciting things are going down at Un:Bound- here be the press release:

Un:Bound Video Editions

For Immediate Release

They told me I was crazy and i'd need a team as crazy as me to pull it off. Fortunately I knew exactly where to get them. Admittedly my crack team of presenter Kat Heubeck, director and video editor Vincent Holland-Keen, news anchor Alasdair Stuart and grizzled editor Lee Harris are not the team I would put together for a lucrative casino hit. Pulling together a show like Un:Bound VE though? I couldn't ask for a better squad of genre fiction grifters.

Don't believe me? I talked to Catherine Rogers of Writing East Midlands about the heist, I mean the show, and here's what she said:

“This, it seems to me, is a natural move for George, sorry Adele as he, sorry, she has been taking over the genre world with her extraordinary team.

Sorry Adele as what , George Clooney, Oceans whatever c'mon? Un:Bound being compared to Oceans numbers - no way. I'm thinking more along the lines of Neo, red pills, Morpheus etc.

So red pills aside / taken etc ... Writing East Midlands' mission statement says something about nurturing new writers in the region ... yes so that includes new writing talent and this by all accounts is just that .... on vidcast. Yay! Check it out.

That was 'red' right?”

Yes, Catherine, yes. No chunky knit wear or unnecessary dance routines here, just a cool, suave look at the latest in genre fiction. And Cthulhu. He was very insistent I mention him.

Fellow Evil Genius ™ Alex Davis had a slightly different take on things, which also makes a worrying amount of sense:

'It sounds more like the A-Team to me than Ocean's Eleven... This truly is the crack commando unit of the genre - in fact the recording equipment was constructed from four elastic bands, three toilet roll tubes and a broken down ZX Spectrum. So if you have a problem, and you need help, and you can find them, maybe you can hire... the Unbound Video Editions team.'

Danny Ocean's team of elegant con men and the world's least violent lethal commando unit. That's heady company to be keeping. So when does the con begin? I mean the show air? And where? Simple it's going to go live on 6th December 2011 at 8:00pm (GMT) at the site http://www.unboundve.com . Except, much like that bit with Brad Pitt walking through the casino talking on the phone? We're not quite done. The following weeks will see additional footage of the interviews go live as we continue to plunder the vaults of genre fiction for all things bright, shiny and awesome.

So why not join us? Just remember, don't take the blue pill, don't take your eyes off the vault door and always, always, bet on Unbound.

UBVE will be running a giveaway as part of the launch week so please look out for further details and prizes.

If you want to go and check out the current cool stuff available, get yourself over here http://hagelrat.blogspot.com/

Nanowrimo & the Small Plastic Dragon

2010-11-10T14:51:00.001Z

So we are ten days into Nanowrimo. I’m glad to report that it has been proceeding reasonably well, and Dead Zoo Shuffle is 15,000 words in at Chapter 5- amazingly enough, exactly where I am supposed to be. The first five days were relatively easy, given that I was on holiday and had the rather lovely landscape of Cornwall to look at (which is always fabulous, even in November- possibly especially in November, with all the mists and autumn trees and fierce waves. If anything I was vaguely disappointed I wasn’t writing an epic fantasy of the sort that starts out in grassy hills and ends in perilous mountains…). I did my writing on the train, at the dinner table and in small country pubs, and had no trouble reaching the daily word count.

Writing while also having to go to work is a little bit trickier, but luckily I have formulated a routine over the last few months where I sneak into libraries and coffee shops and get it all done before I even have to think about the day job. This has set me in good stead for Nanowrimo, although that’s not to say it isn’t a struggle; the pace and the pressure are somewhat more extreme, after all, and I can’t give myself the night off just because I’m feeling sleepy.

The book itself is both hugely fun to write and incredibly challenging. I’ve written in the First Person before for short stories but keeping it going for an entire novel throws up all sorts of difficulties, not to mention the complications of writing about a human character on an alien world- and at its heart this is more a crime novel than a science-fiction story. But I’m loving Dirk Marshall and Zootsi, even Fredo and his dubious personal hygiene, and the dialogue in this story feels more natural than I’ve managed before.

So in celebration of my wobbly progress, I offer up some things I have learnt over the last few years of Nanowrimo that seem to have helped me:

Tell everyone you know that you’re doing it. I found this awkward and embarrassing the first year, as trying to explain why you’re writing an entire book in a month isn’t easy (“Yes, 50,000 words… Yes, I have to write them all myself… No, you don’t get a prize or any money at the end of it… well, it’s more about having, you know, written an entire book…”) but if everyone is expecting you to be flourishing 50,000 words worth of manuscript at the end of the month you’re less like to give up when you’re feeling a bit tired.

Rewards! Yes, the book at the end is the true reward, ahem, but that’s not to say that you can’t treat yourself with cool stuff as well. Don’t save it all for reaching the end either; 20,000 words is especially sweet when you can finally eat that special bar of chocolate or buy that CD. This year I have a Duncan the Grey Warden action figure on order for my future glory (What? Toys are rewards. Toys are allowed).

Speaking of toys, see if you can find a writing space! They probably aren’t essential, and to be honest I have used mine exactly 3 times so far this month, but having a little nook that is dedicated to writing and your book can help you feel like you’re taking it seriously. My desk is surrounded by pictures of things that interest me, and covered in toys, or, uh, writing mascots. This year I am assisted by Charlie the My Little Pony (a Nano veteran), Tyrion the Small Plastic Dragon and a couple of gaming dice for the cat to push onto the floor to wake me up (hopefully, they will soon be joined by Fully Articulated Duncan).

And there you go, those are my three main tips for Nanowrimo success, or at least, Nanowrimo fun. And if you are doing it this year, tell me what you’re writing about- my favourite form of procrastination is reading other people’s synopsises…
Good luck!

So much news my head may fall off!

2010-10-27T15:28:00.003+01:00

I have so much exciting news this week I hardly know where to begin… So let’s start with this!

Dark Fiction Magazine (www.darkfictionmagazine.co.uk) is pleased to announce the launch of a new service for fans of genre fiction. Beginning Oct 31st (Halloween), Dark Fiction Magazine will be launching a monthly magazine of audio short stories. This is a free service designed to promote genre short fiction to an audience of podcast and radio listeners. A cross between an audio book, an anthology and a podcast, Dark Fiction Magazine is designed to take the enjoyment of short genre fiction in a new and exciting direction.

Dark Fiction Magazine publishes at least four short stories a month: a mix of award-winning shorts and brand new stories from both established genre authors and emerging writers. Each episode will have a monthly theme and feature complementary tales from the three main genres – science fiction, fantasy and horror.

Co-founder Del Lakin-Smith said: "I love reading short stories, and with the increased uptake of mobile and portable devices this really is a growth area. But like many I find I don't have as much time as I would like to read, so I tend to listen to many podcasts on the go. The idea of replacing my podcasts with high quality, well performed audio short stories is something I find highly appealing, so Sharon and I set about making that a reality."

Sharon Ring, co-founder of Dark Fiction Magazine, said: “From technophobe to technophile in less than two years; I spend a great deal of time working online. To while away those hours, I like to listen to podcasts and drink copious amounts of strong coffee. Now, while I don’t recommend you drink as much coffee as I, I do recommend you check out what Del and I have created. We love podcasts; we love genre fiction; we built a site to bring the two together.”

The theme of Dark Fiction Magazine’s first episode is The Darkness Descends and will feature four fantastical stories:
‘Maybe Then I’ll Fade Away’ by Joseph D’Lacey (exclusive to Dark Fiction Magazine)
‘Pumpkin Night’ by Gary McMahon
‘Do You See?’ by Sarah Pinborough (awarded the 2009 British Fantasy Society Short Story Award)
‘Perhaps The Last’ by Conrad Williams
Lined up for future episodes are Pat Cadigan, Cory Doctorow, Jon Courtenay Grimwood, Ramsey Campbell, Rob Shearman, Kim Lakin-Smith, Ian Whates, Lauren Beukes, Mark Morris, Adam Nevill, Gareth L Powell, Jeremy C Shipp, Adam Christopher, and Jennifer Williams, among others.

With a team of dedicated and passionate narrators, a central recording facility and a love of genre, Dark Fiction Magazine delivers a truly outstanding aural experience.

Dark Fiction Magazine will also be producing special editions with seasonal stories and topical issues, competitions, flash fiction episodes and novel excerpts. Each episode aims to shock and delight, to horrify and confound as Dark Fiction Magazine takes its listeners on an aural tour through the world of genre fiction.

Dark Fiction Magazine is a collaborative project, created and developed by Del Lakin-Smith and Sharon Ring. For further information, contact Del or Sharon at
editorial@darkfictionmagazine.co.uk

You might have noticed my name on the end of a pretty impressive list there, so unsurprisingly I am quite chuffed. But not only have I got a story coming up in later episodes, I am also doing some “reading out loud” duties- Nerve-wracking indeed, but I can tell you now that the story I got to do my Jackanory voice on was aces. As soon as it actually launches I will be straight on here to do a little snoopy dance for you all.

In other news, the lovely people over at the Un:Bound blog have let me taint their marvelous pages with a new short story at part of their Writer Wednesdays. This odd little thing has long remained one of my favourites, even though I sense it may be an acquired taste- I’d love to know what you think!

http://hagelrat.blogspot.com/2010/10/writer-wednesday-barleycorn-by-jennifer.html

Possibly Pointless Mini-Sulk

2010-10-19T14:21:00.001+01:00

We watched Fanboys at the weekend; an enjoyable little film about a group of friends who set off on a road trip to steal a rough cut of the Phantom Menace some six months before it is due to come out (not knowing, of course, exactly how crap it is going to be). Hit and miss in places maybe, but there were enough geeky references to keep me happy and the beardy Hutch was entertaining enough on his own, as a sort of poor man’s Jack Black. I laughed a lot and even felt a little sad at the poignant ending.

There was one bit that did annoy me however, and it’s taken a couple of days to figure out why.

At one point their female geek friend has to rescue them from their own stupidity, and she comes into conflict with Windows, the bespectacled object of her affections. When she starts doing stuff he doesn’t understand, i.e. behaving like an emotional human being, he essentially tells her, “Look, you can’t pull this girl stuff and still want to be one of the boys”.

At first I thought I was annoyed at the character, and then I realised that was sort of the point. He was being a berk. And then I thought I was annoyed at the film, in a knee jerk reaction sort of way- “how dare you say I can’t be a girl and be friends with boys!”

But I think it was actually more complicated than that. What aggravated me, I believe, was the inference that by being a geek, she was attempting to be one of the boys.

Which is all wrong.

The majority of my friends are male, and all of them are geeks. I didn’t start reading 2000AD when I was kid so that one day, just maybe, I could hang out with blokes and know what they’re talking about. I don’t spend way too much time being Commander Shepard on the Xbox so that men will be impressed by my fairly amazing biotic slam, and I don’t know all the words to Ghostbusters because boys dig chicks that do (and I don’t think they do). I am a geek because that is what I enjoy, and I am friends with people who enjoy the same things- as it happens, most of them are male, but I’m sure this is just because I don’t know very many ladygeeks. And I know you’re out there, ladies!

Being a geek isn’t a “boy thing”. It’s a “people with intelligence and taste” thing. ;)

Scale

2010-10-10T18:43:00.002+01:00

Scale
By Jennifer Williams

The first thing it changes is your sense of scale. Not that I think we’ve ever considered ourselves the biggest animals on the planet by any means; I’ve been to the Natural History Museum and stood under the Blue Whale like everyone else, after all.
And of course those old movies don’t seem so funny any more. I don’t know when we last had contact with the Japanese, but I bet they aren’t laughing.

I stood by the entrance to the hangar, just daring to poke my head out, watching the creature as it moved over the distant remains of the city. It was night time, and cold, and I could see my breath in the air.
It roared, and I winced, moving back again so I was slightly hidden by the hangar doors. You’d think I would be used to it by now, but the edges never get any blunter. They brought a terrible instinct with them, these things, one that I suspect Man hasn’t felt for hundreds, maybe thousands of years; we know ourselves to be prey, so we cower.
“It’s time.”
Halloran laid a hand on my shoulder and tipped his head back towards the shadowy recesses of the hanger.
“Already?”
“You sound apprehensive, Bill. This thing is your baby, aren’t you ready to see it do its job?”
I shrugged, and looked back at the dark shape moving on the horizon, impossibly big. The moon was bright and full, and the light picked out its huge fleshy flanks and dorsal spikes. If there’s one thing you can say for them, they definitely hold your attention.
“I just… There’s an awful lot riding on this, you know? And it’s not my baby, Hal, we’ve all had a hand in this.”
I was a little angry with his inference that this was all down to me. Perhaps I was annoyed on behalf of my team, who had labored nearly non-stop for the last few months, or perhaps I just didn’t want the responsibility if it went wrong.
“I know, Bill,” he said. “Come on, you want to be there when she wakes up.”
Tearing my eyes from the immense creature roaring in the distance, I walked back into the hangar towards the thick plastic sheet that took up half the floor. Something twitched sleepily beneath the folds.

In the confused months after the first wave of behemoths appeared we launched ourselves into research of all kinds, despite the restricted circumstances. We moved what we could underground and hurriedly threw everything we had at the problem; conventional weapons did nothing, nuclear warheads only made them bigger and more powerful, extremes of heat and cold had no effect.
As an expert in the field of entomology I believe I was brought in as a last resort. We went through all the rare toxins we could think of, one after the other, all the time aware of how difficult it was to get hold of the blood samples we were using, and how many men and women had died to bring them to us. When the breakthrough came it was so unlikely that I refused to believe it for some days, and had the team run the tests over and over.

On the surface of it, the moth isn’t an obvious choice. They are a nuisance, certainly, and people have been known to have severe allergic reactions to the bristly hairs of some caterpillars, but toxic?
To the behemoths, they certainly were.
But it wasn’t enough. Getting close to the creatures to deliver a dosage of the toxin proved near disastrous, with whole military units wiped out in gouts of radioactive fire, or crushed under the enormous claws. And when we finally succeeded, the toxin failed; for whatever reason, the refined material had no effect on the monsters.
So we were given access to the project that started this whole mess.

Outside under the starlight, she twitches faintly as we move down her thick body with the adrenalin shots. We are all working as fast as we can, all too aware of the dangers of being above ground and exposed. Halloran stands by her huge, swollen head, making sure the tech department’s equipment is properly attached. He stands away and gives me the thumbs up. When the last injection is completed, I motion at them all to stand away, and our creation flickers into life, crouched on her coarsely furred legs.
She is beautiful.
Her huge dusty wings, each a hundred feet long, blur into sudden flight, knocking us all back on her feet. She lets out a high pitched squeal and as one we cover our ears, and then she is off, up into the night air like a dream, a soft cloud of silky dust drifting down after her. Not toxic to us, luckily.
“Look at her go!” calls Halloran.
I nod, and risk a smile. The banks of computers whirr into sudden life and the tech team busy themselves at the controls. Far above, our moth spins and twirls as the lights on her helmet blink on, blue and green.
“It’s all good,” says a man by the controls, Jim, I think his name is. He tweaks a dial and the squeal comes back into range for us all. It is steady, attentive, everything it is supposed to be. “She should be moving into range now.”
We watch, barely daring to breath. Above us the giant moth flutters and jumps and twirls through the air. And by the crushed buildings, eyes that are a baleful green turn in our direction.
“It’s coming our way,” said Halloran. He doesn’t sound panicked, not yet.
“Give her a moment,” I say. “The impulses will need a few seconds to kick in.”
There are two sounds then, equally dreadful. The thunder of the approaching behemoth, and a screaming over the speakers.
“What’s that? What’s happening?”
Our moth, our last chance, spins away from the roaring lizard and up and up and up… Up towards the moon. She travels so far that even at her great size she begins to look tiny, and then she hovers there, back and forth, in front of that great white light, dipping and swerving crazily. She shows no interest in us, or the monster. Only the moon.
“Oh, shit,” says Halloran.

Stealth post!

2010-10-08T21:33:00.003+01:00

Hello! Yes, here I am! I've cocked up the last couple of weeks, bloggingly speaking, so here is a random update.

I've been away mostly because a) I finished The Steel Walk finally (thank christ) and b) threw myself immediately into planning the Nanowrimo book, which has a working title of "Dead Zoo Shuffle".

The Steel Walk was a rough journey at times, and it very nearly went all tits up at the 60,000 word mark (I seemed to be cursed at that stage of the book) but I dragged myself through and although I believe it is somewhat flawed, I'm glad I got to see what happened to Eri, Joseth and Saul. In that weird slightly lost state you have after finishing such a big project, I started to think about what exactly I've learnt over the course of the last four books, and what I'll take with me into Dead Zoo Shuffle. I actually wrote some of it down, due to my memory being like one of those things with wotsits in.*

1) You need a subplot to balance the main narrative.

2) I like writing about cities. Lots of trees- not so much.

3) You've got to have some idea where you're going. Let's not do another "A Boy of Blood and Clay".

4) Stories are secretly all about people and how they deal with each other.

5) Know your characters.

6) Don't worry so much. You're trying to find your own voice.

7) Chapters are useful. Try and keep track of them, yeah?

*holes!

Pop Quiz, Hotshot!

2010-09-22T16:44:00.003+01:00

I don’t have a huge amount to say at the moment as my brain is well and truly frazzled trying to finish The Steel Walk (whilst also trying to fend off the part of my brain that really wants to be writing the next book now)…

On a subject vaguely related to the as yet untitled November project, I have a question for you: what is your favourite example of the First Person narrative in a book?*

*I would probably nominate everything Michael Marshall Smith has ever done, but no surprise there...

Friday Fiction!

2010-09-17T12:07:00.003+01:00

Stud
By Jennifer Williams

“And how much of the planet does your company own, Ms Myatt? Real estate here must be very expensive.”

Ms Myatt smiled at the question, and tapping her heels to her horse’s flank led them to the edge of the path. There was an especially spectacular view from that position. Expensive maybe, but worth every penny.

“Call me Lavinia, please. The Ranch owns this entire valley, right up to the hills you can see there.” She pointed with her free hand. The sky was a deep blue at the moment, but the sunset later would be violet and pink, which always struck Lavinia as particularly apt. Escapar really was the perfect planet. “There are ten separate complexes in this valley, all entirely self contained and remote enough that we can keep the illusion going as long as you need, Kia.”

The woman on the horse next to her stiffened slightly, obviously put out by the use of her first name, but Lavinia just smiled some more. Nobody kept to formalities very long when they planned to stay at the Ranch.

“Shall we go down and take a tour?” she continued. “It’s a beautiful day for it.”

Kia nodded, and the two of them took their horses down the final part of the path and into the soft grasses of the valley itself. In the near distance was the first complex, a simple fenced paddock and a robust but quaint looking little house. It had been designed very carefully to be as quaint as possible. The scent of the grasses greeted them like a friend from a dream, bringing half forgotten memories… Lavinia almost laughed at herself. This place even got to her, sometimes.

“And the men? They are all in on it, are they?”

“Of course.” Lavinia bit down her impatience. Kia was not like most of the other clients they had. It wasn’t unusual for them to want to have a look at the place before they signed over their credits, but they didn’t normally have so many questions. After all, most of the information was there on the adverts, and besides, most of the clients didn’t want to know too much about it. That would spoil the fun. “They all have a degree of acting training and are fully committed to the experience. Oh, here we are, look, Troy is a great example of what we offer.”

A tall, bronzed man had stepped out of the wooden house, a coil of rope slung over his naked shoulders. He had glossy black hair, a hint of stubble, and was ridiculously handsome. Lavinia waved at him, and he waved cheerfully back, flashing a perfect white grin.

“Troy used to be the villain in a long running TV show, The Chambers of Our Love Collide. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? He did that for a few years and then the character got killed off, so he works for us now.”

Troy walked to the paddock, where a chestnut mare waited to be brushed down. Lavinia was particularly proud of the horses, all of which were shipped in from Earth or bred from original Earth stock. They were beautiful animals, and a large part of the attraction of the Ranch. All ridiculously expensive, of course.

“And how does it all work, exactly?”

“We have a number of different scenarios.” They rode past Troy’s paddock and passed a wide strip of grassy land. Ahead there was an almost identical complex. The wooden house was a little larger and perhaps more recently painted, but there were horses in the paddock and Lavinia could already see a tall figure toiling outside, oiled muscles glistening in the sunlight. “Our clients often go with the more traditional storylines. A single woman, lost in inhospitable country. Perhaps her travelling party suffered a hit by raiders, or there was a terrible storm. She comes across a little ranch in the middle of nowhere, and asks a man there for help.” Lavinia grinned, warming to her subject. “Of course at first he will be a terrible brute, full of stormy rages, and a dark past is absolutely a given, but eventually through persistence and a good heart she will win him over. As well as his love for her, he will reveal himself to be a deeply kind man whose passions are as big as his rages. He probably looks after stray animals too.”

Lavinia caught the look on Kia’s face, and shrugged. “What can I say? Those are the classics. Sometimes our clients want to reverse the situation and our men are the ones who turn up on their doorsteps, but it all amounts to the same thing.”

They had drawn level with the house, and again Lavinia waved to the impossibly perfect man tending the horses. He had tousled blond hair and a tiny scar on his cheekbone. The women went crazy for that scar.

“Ray there is one of our most popular models.”

“And the men…” Kia shifted uncomfortably in her saddle. She was looking at Ray with keen interest. “They sleep with the women?”

Lavinia laughed.

“I’m not altogether sure exactly how much actual sleeping gets done, but believe me, all the women are very satisfied by the end of the week. And it’s never longer than a week. We don’t want anyone getting too attached.”

“And what about the men?” Kia had still not smiled, not once. “How do they feel about all this?”

Lavinia shrugged.

“They get all their food and bills paid for, generous holiday entitlement, full medical insurance. Free accommodation, obviously. And an unending parade of women to adore them. Everyone is checked out before they come, by the way. No one’s health is ever at risk.”

“But they are just puppets,” said Kia. “Objects for these women to lust over, to control.”

The horses had taken them past Ray’s paddock and on to the next. A man younger and slimmer than the previous two stood at his front gate. His soft brown hair was artfully combed to fall over his big blue eyes, and he had cheekbones to die for.

“These men find it empowering,” said Lavinia. She was beginning to tire of the questions. “None of them has ever complained about their treatment.”

“It’s prostitution!” said Kia hotly. “Slavery!”

“That’s ridiculous.”

The slim young man at the gate watched them approach with interest. Kia called out to him as they got closer.

“You, what’s your name?”

He looked briefly to Lavinia before answering.

“Carlos, ma’am,”

“Are you happy here, Carlos? Do you like being a pet?”

Carlos blushed slightly, and looked up at them through long eyelashes.

“In truth… it is a little degrading.”

“Oh, come on now.” Lavinia held up both hands. “We treat you well Carlos, and I don’t remember anyone giving you permission to talk.”

“I’ve had enough of this.” Kia tugged at the reins, turning the horse so that she faced Lavinia, and took a petite handgun from within the folds of her loose blouse. “I’m giving this boy his freedom. He’s coming with me!”

Without hesitation she shot Lavinia square in the chest, sending the older woman flying off the back of her horse and into the dirt. A dark red stain spread across her shirt and she did not move again. Giving Carlos her hand, Kia helped him up onto the horse to sit behind her.

Lavinia waited for the hoof beats to retreat a fair way before sitting up. The safety mat had broken her fall well enough but the thump from the blood squib would probably leave a bruise. She patted gingerly at her damp chest and clambered to her feet. Kia and Carlos were a dot in the distance, riding off together into their own story. An unusual request perhaps, but Kia was an unusually rich client. A bruise and a ruined shirt wouldn’t matter much one way or another.

The sunset, thought Lavinia as she clambered back onto her horse. A few hours later and the sunset would have been a treat.

Space Bitch

2010-09-15T17:31:00.000+01:00

Forgot to update yesterday- my blog sense appears to be slipping a bit. I’ll blame it on The Steel Walk nearing the end, and the Bird and Tower podcast project, both of which are nibbling away at my every spare thought.

I’m also trying to up my short story output, but this is a goal that continues to be frustrated. While ideas for novels tend to stew away for years and finally become ready gradually, short story ideas seem to pop up from nowhere when you least expect them; perhaps they brew in a deeper, darker part of the mind. And of course when you really could do with one popping up, all goes silent.

I’ve written two or three short stories that genuinely came to me fully formed and out of the blue, and they were scrawled into notebooks in a feverish state. A recent (and very short) short was partly given to me in a dream, which sounds like complete arse, I know, but it’s true. So the rest of the time I am left staring sulkily at half formed titles and snippets in notebooks, willing them to suddenly become gorgeous little storylets, and… absolutely...nothing…happens.

So that’s my writing update! In other news I’m contemplating playing Mass Effect all the way through from the start, on Hardcore level, and as Space Bitch: The Shepard Who Taketh No Shit, Especially Not from Annoying Reporters. I just have to work up the patience to go through all the Mako levels again.

Post-its and Planning

2010-09-07T15:34:00.002+01:00

So I completely forgot to update last week. I can’t even remember why now, but let’s just pretend it was due to a flurry of productivity on my part, and not just huge laziness, which is more likely but less heroic.

The Steel Walk is edging towards 100,000 words now and alarmingly enough, shows no particular signs of being near the end. At least I am well into the third act and having fun with the story; Eri is angrily traipsing through the swamps of the Green Jenny Council while evil things are afoot in all corners of Ferrum, and Saul has some difficult choices to make. I may even have some clue as to how the whole thing ends.

Writing The Steel Walk has been an education in the process of how to put a book together, although I’m not sure I’m any closer to figuring out the best way of doing it. So far each book has been approached differently, and I have learnt different lessons.

Bad Apple Bone- Started writing it before I even knew it was a book, and consequently I only had a vague idea of the plot by around the 30,000 words mark. An exciting if agonising way to put a novel together, it did however all fall together with surprising neatness. I’m sure this was a fluke, and unlikely to ever be repeated.

Bird and Tower- When I started this one for NaNoWriMo, I was very clear on the beginning and the end, and had a vague structure for the middle (“Quint searches for other siblings, hijinks ensue”) but what with the fabulous by-the-seat-of-your-leg-hats* approach of NaNo, if I did any more planning than that I don’t remember it. A joy to write, quite honestly, even if I kept forgetting one of the characters existed.

A Boy of Blood and Clay- A lesson in how it is wise to have, you know, even the slightest clue of how the plot will develop and who your characters are. Not sure what I was thinking with this one (I still believe that when it’s finished, it might be the best thing I’ve written)

Ink for Thieves- This book was a return to a vague plot outline and detailed character notes, and thanks again to the backside-wallop of NaNo, largely quite fun to write. It had it’s moments of “I have shamed myself and my ancestors with this book” but the characters came to life for me and behaved in naughty ways, the plot headache of the Embers resolved itself and I got to the end of it. After A Boy of Blood and Clay, that was a big relief.

So, what have I learnt? Mostly, that no planning is bad, except when it works, and over planning is good, except where it doesn’t. Does that make sense? I had detailed character notes for Eri and Saul before I started The Steel Walk, but they still went merrily ahead and behaved in all sorts of unexpected ways anyway, and Alice, a character who barely existed at the planning stage, has come to impact on the plot in all sorts of drastic ways.

The next, as yet unnamed project, is a sort-of-science-fiction first person narrative with strong crime elements (and a girl called Zootsi) so I think I have no choice; planning will be done, notes will be made, and post-its will be wasted, until I can go into NaNoWriMo this year knowing that I just have to fill in the fun bits. I may restrain myself from drawing a map though.

*for an explanation of leg-hats, please go and listen to The Soldiers of Tangent, the fab new comedy podcast from those behemoths of audio genius, Danny “The Accent” Davies and Marty “Churlish” Perrett. http://thesoldiersoftangent.mevio.com/

Of Swords and Deviltry

2010-08-24T16:01:00.004+01:00

I’m reading The First Book of Lankhmar at the moment, and I have to say it’s bloody good fun.

Fritz Leiber’s tales of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, barbarian warrior and thief/dark magician, are vibrant, adventurous and ever so slightly rude, taking you off to distant exotic lands full of evil dukes and treacherous beauties, shoving you right into the middle of fist fights and duels, while at the same time tipping a sly wink to the pettiness of human nature; even in the wild worlds of Nehwon, people are ultimately badly behaved and out for what they can get.

I stumbled across this (huge) collection of stories thanks to a number of articles I read concerning “sword and sorcery”. I had come to the conclusion, to my own vague surprise, that The Steel Walk falls firmly within this genre, when I had never really thought about what “sword and sorcery” actually entails. And you will find that any blog on the subject will mention Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, and with good reason; there are swords aplenty, and dark magic, betrayal and lust and greed, and all the really good stuff that epic fantasy sometimes forgets about when its off on quests to defeat The Big Bad Thing in the East/West/Alternate Dimension.

Working my way through it whilst trying to ignore the cover (jeez, the cover is ugly. I have no shame at all about being a fantasy reader, and will gladly wave about on the bus a book with any number of dragons or scantily clad ladies on the front, but this is almost too embarrassing even for me. The huge tattooed man in the foreground looks more like he belongs in Eastenders, whereas the tiny bloke in the background looks a wee bit like Richard O’Brien about to whip his harmonica out. Neither remotely resembles the two main characters, so it is all a bit mystifying. Why, Fantasy Masterworks, why?)- I found myself vaguely reminded of Terry Pratchett. It’s the barbarian heroes, of course, and the Thieves Guild, and the dangerous magic. What it is, of course, is the source. Pratchett without the satire (but certainly not without any humour; Fafhrd’s dealings with young ladies had me chuckling out loud more than once), and it’s a joy to realise that the Discworld had a bigger, juicier older brother… Silly me.

These are the pitfalls and joys of accidentally working your way backwards through a genre, I suppose; I can only say that I wish I’d met up with our young warrior and thief much, much sooner…

The Worrying Rise in Omnivore Related Violence

2010-08-17T15:24:00.003+01:00

Now, how to dress this blog post up as more than a simple plug for my story in the new issue of Hub? Hmm.

What’s that over there? Is that a badger with a gun? Goodness me, the moral decay of our natural wildlife continues apace.

And now, look at this:

http://www.hubfiction.com/2010/08/issue-125/

Ahem. I’ve had some lovely feedback for this story, which is always a huge encouragement and an even bigger surprise. Big ol’ sweaty thanks to everyone who has read it so far and been kind enough to say lovely things at me.

The Game is On!

2010-08-10T21:21:00.002+01:00

I love the new Sherlock Holmes! Yes I do!

I’ve never been a huge fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories; or that is to say, I have always appreciated them from a distance. It’s a good thing, I like it, but I have never sought it out. So I was rather lukewarm to the idea of a modern remake, and only really sat down to watch it because Stephen Moffat was involved (or SteMo, as we now call him post-Bearcast), along with Mark Gatiss- both quite nifty gents when it comes to these telly box programmes.

I was prepared to like it or hate it, perfectly poised to swing either way (I was slightly wrongfooted by the trailer, which I saw only once and half way through- “Who is this stroppy bastard?” I proclaimed, “He’s strutting about like he’s Sherlock Holmes or... Oh.”). As it turned out, I loved it.

London looks as gorgeous as ever, Martin Freeman is restrained and showing his acting chops for once, rather than Timming it about all over the place, and the stories (only 3, alas) have been tightly written, tense, and with a sprinkling of humour. The real revelation has been Benedict Cumberbatch, the moody, cold, frighteningly clever and strangely feline Holmes, continually bristling with grace, whether he’s sweeping from the crime scene in that fabulous black coat, sticking a row of nicotine patches up his arm, or deducting at the speed of light.

There are other things to say about this modern retelling- the supporting cast are all top notch, particularly Mrs Hudson, the affectionate nods to the source material, Mark Gatiss pulling off being both sinister and endearing at the same time... But at the heart of it is the instantly appealing partnership of Holmes and Watson. Watson is amazed by Sherlock’s abilities, but he’s by no means a dullard himself, and although Sherlock finds it nigh on impossible to relate to anyone not super intelligent, it’s already clear that his relationship with John is keeping him from collapsing in on himself.

In short, it was great, and I sincerely hope we get some more episodes as soon as possible, because well-written, stylish drama is a rare joy. And I need to know what happens next.

Blankoids

2010-08-03T17:04:00.001+01:00

Not much to say blog-wise today as I am suffering from the Tuesday-Blankoids. The writing is going steadily enough, although as @mygoditsraining described it on Twitter, at the moment it feels rather like a self imposed bi-polar disorder. I’m good/I’m shit/I’m good/I’m shit/I’m good/I’m shit, all the live long day. This is all part of the charming struggle that is writing a book, no doubt, and it’s important to remind myself at times like this that in the end, I’m telling the story because I want to know what happens. It pleases me to piece the story together to see where it goes- the rest of it I can worry about later.

Blank-Spacing

2010-07-27T15:59:00.000+01:00

A sort of updatey blog post today.

Progress on The Steel Walk continues in patchy fashion. I have to admit, writing for an hour in the morning before work does appear to work, and I’m certainly getting more words done on a regular basis than I have ever done before. I’m up to around 63,000 words at the moment, which is traditionally where the story grinds to a halt and I wrestle with the idea of just jacking the whole thing in (A Boy of Blood and Clay imploded at this point). Fingers crossed, that hasn’t happened yet, but I do know from the previous two books that the last 40-50,000 is always a bitch, and it certainly isn’t going to get any easier.

In happy news, I’ve had another short story accepted by The Hub, which should be in the next issue. Hurrah! I’ve been reading George R.R Martin’s short story collection Dream Songs, which is equal parts inspiring and daunting. I think what impresses me the most about his short work is that with many of them I could see an entire book written about the characters featured, or just set in the worlds he has created. I’d love to get this sense of scope in my own work, but I think that’s a way off yet.

I have also been thinking about blank-spacing. You know how you often find that ideas occur to you when you’re doing some sort of monotonous physical task and you’re not thinking about anything in particular? It’s day dreaming I suppose, and it’s an important part of a writer’s life. I notice that a lot of writers talk on their blogs about going for walks (especially when stuck for ideas) and this often helps them on their way. Justin Cronin, author of The Passage (soon to be gracing tube carriages everywhere, no doubt) came up with most of that book while out running. I have found that I often come up with short story ideas while I’m in the shower or washing up (this rather suggests that I need wet hands to think of anything good…)

Anyway, it appears that simply sitting and staring into space is not enough; we need to be physically occupied, as if once our bodies are distracted our brains can start thinking again. I have decided to call this Blank-Spacing- mainly because it sounds all business wordy and more official than Day Dreaming, and it sort of describes how you need to empty your head about before excellent ideas fill it up. When I was little, I used to ride my bike around the close on an endless circuit with one of my soft toys stuck in the basket, and I used to tell him or her stories as they occurred to me (usually it was Louie, Donald Duck’s green baseball cap wearing nephew, or Mousie. I think you can guess what sort of toy Mousie was).

Ideally I’d like to go for a few walks, or perhaps take up skipping. Or knitting. Or kung-fu. Or break dancing. This blank-spacing/day dreaming period is quite vital I think, but what with life and writing already taking up all my time, it is very difficult to allocate a decent amount of time to it.

I’d love to know how other writer’s handle day dream time. Is it vital to you? Does it happen when you’re supposed to be doing other things? Do you consciously pursue it? Tell me!

The Voices in Your Head

2010-07-20T16:31:00.002+01:00

Some writers hear their characters in their heads. Have running conversations, arguments, even have to put up with particularly pushy characters complaining about what’s happening in their story. I know this because I read about it all the time on other writerly blogs. It’s fondly regarded, I believe, as a sort of eccentricity that comes along with being a writer- if you write stories, you’re probably not alone in your head.

This makes me worry that I’m doing it wrong. My characters don’t talk to me. They’re not my friends and they don’t keep me company on the bus home by complaining about the state of my shoes or harassing me to get on to the exciting scene. This doesn’t mean that I don’t think about them, because I do, very much, but always in the context of the story. When I am following the story in my head, day dreaming where it will go next, I am observing the characters closely, and feeling what they’re feeling, but they don’t talk to me.

The reason, I think, (and this sounds weird) is that it wouldn’t be canon. My characters don’t know who I am because I don’t exist in their world, and my world wouldn’t make sense to them, so they don’t chat casually with me either. Eri Fellsmith lives in a world of swords and the walking dead- I’m not sure what she’d make of a receptionist from South East London, other than my clothes are really strange and I can’t hold a sword to save my life. It just wouldn’t be authentic, to me, which is why my mind seems unable to make that leap to conversations in my head.

Does any of this make sense? Does anyone else out there not hear the voices, and wonder if this will make them a less competent writer? Any writers who believe that it is essential to the writing process?

Book Meme!

2010-07-13T19:52:00.004+01:00

Here we go! This one is doing the rounds at the moment, and it gives me the opportunity to waffle on about books for ages. Excellent stuff on this meme over at Unbound: http://hagelrat.blogspot.com/2010/07/meme-with-relish.html and at Adam Christopher's Blog: http://www.adamchristopher.co.uk/

One Book That Changed Your Life

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams- I read this when I had just started senior school I think. I’d had one life changing book previous to that; The Lord of the Rings had blown my tiny little mind the summer before, and caused me to dump the chronicles of Narnia faster than a very hot thing. LOTR opened my mind to the idea of epic adventure, of truly risking your life for a noble quest, of heroics and true love and all that good stuff. Hitch Hiker’s Guide had a more subtle, but altogether deeper impact, because it gave me an adult sense of humour. I don’t mean I developed a love of knob jokes, but rather that my idea of funny was utterly changed. Over the course of that book I think I grew up a bit, and it introduced me to science-fiction too.

It’s also the sort of book you can read over and over again at different times in your life and get something new from it every time. Douglas Adams gave us a gem with that book, and he remains my hero because of it.

One Book You Have To Read More Than Once

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett- I’ve read HitchHiker’s Guide to the Galaxy around about 30 times now. Consequently, I don’t think I can read it again for a very long time without going slightly loopy, so for this one I’ve elected Good Omens. I have two copies of this book- the pristine one signed by Mr Pratchett and the copy that has since fallen to bits due to endless readings. It’s enormously funny, full of absolutely memorable characters and even has some nifty things to say about nature, nurture, and humanity. Odd phrases from this book continually float around in my mind, so that I will often think “Buggre ye alle this” when I’m stuck doing something boring, or think of Crowley when I hear Bohemian Rhapsody.

How could I not adore a book that combines two of my favourite authors?

One Book You’d Want On A Desert Island

The Stand by Stephen King- Now, if I was really stuck on an island I’d want quantity as well as quality, and The Stand certainly has that. I love that King appears to have avoided all editing on this book (well, mostly. I’d make sure I’d have the uncut edition) and gives us the juicy details on all the characters and shows us the world falling apart in widescreen. This is King at his absolute best, introducing us to characters we know and love within a couple of pages, then taking us with them on a truly harrowing journey beyond the end of the world. I remember them all, and what they went through, as well as if a good friend sat me down and told me the story.

If nothing else, at least I could reflect that I’m only stuck on a desert island, which isn’t nearly as bad as dying of Captain Trips.

Two Books That Made You Laugh

Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson- I don’t read much non-fiction. In fact, thinking about it Bryson is about the only non-fiction I do read, and that’s because he is both laugh-out-loud-on-the-bus funny, and incredibly knowledgeable. Small Island is my favourite because he’s writing about England, and even though I haven’t actually been to all of the places he talks about, the familiarity of the peculiar English character had me giggling like a loon. Gods, we are a strange bunch. An American with a deliciously dry sense of humour, he understands us better than we do, and managed the near impossible task of making me feel patriotic. Even if it’s only for our near obsessive love for stodgy puddings.

The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists by Gideon Defoe- These little books have me in fits all the way through. Written for a bet to impress a girl (supposedly) they contain more thrilling pirate action, monkeys, and prize winning hams than you can throw your wooden leg at.

One Book That Made You Cry

A Song of Ice and Fire series by George R.R Martin- Alright, I’ve cheated slightly with this one, but I think it’s worth noting that as a whole, this series has caused more actual blubbings than anything else I’ve read- even a few in public! I read them only recently, finally giving in to the general hubbub of praise surrounding the books, and my goodness… they were an absolute joy. Apart from when I was crying, obviously.

The thing is, Martin is excellent at creating characters you really love (Tyrion might be one of my favourite characters in a fantasy book ever) and then really putting them through absolute hell. I had the misfortune to read about the Red Wedding while on the way to work- I had to catch my breath and stare furiously out of the window so that no one else on the bus would see me struggling not to cry. Strong stuff. Excellent stories.

It’s also worth noting that A Song of Ice and Fire has also given me the biggest number of “OH MY GOD WHAT THE CRAP- ??!” moments. Seriously good books.

One Book You’d Wish You’d Written

American Gods by Neil Gaiman- One of my favourite books of all time, so yes, it would be lovely if I’d written it. It contains all the stuff I’m crazy about; mythology, gods, horror, mystery and weirdness. It’s the sort of book that pleases me deeply as a reader because it gives you credit- there’s stuff running all the way through that’s right there for you to figure out, if you can see it. Each time I read it, I see a little more. I would love to write something that has so many layers to it, and uses the wealth of folklore and mythology so well.

Just before A Boy of Blood and Clay imploded in on itself, I realized it was my own sort of American Gods- a London Gods, perhaps. I hope I can finish it one day.

One Book You Wish Was NEVER Written

Dark Tower 7 by Stephen King- I don’t want to speak ill of books really, especially not when two of the books in this series are some of my absolute favourites. But let’s be honest- this is an easy choice for me. The last book in a series of 7 written over, I dunno, a very long time indeed, this was the biggest disappointment I’ve ever read. I can’t really go into why without major spoilers and getting all narked about it again, but suffice to say that I’d rather have had no ending than the one we got. This is a book where Stephen King himself interrupts before the final chapter to tell you that you probably won’t like the ending, so maybe you’d be better off not reading the rest… The only book I’ve ever thrown across the room at the finish. And it’s a really big book.

Two Books You Are Currently Reading

Storm Front by Jim Butcher, Dream Songs Part 2 by George R.R Martin- I’m also reading The Book of the New Sun by Gene Wolfe, but I’ve finished the first part so I’m taking a little break (apparently “fantasy literature” means completely bananas, but I am enjoying it). The first Harry Dresden book is great fun so far, and G.R.R.M is a master of short stories.

One Book You’ve Been Meaning To Read

Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury- I’ve wanted to read this since I read Stephen King’s comments on it in Danse Macabre, but for some reason I’ve never gotten around to it. One of the panellists at Alt.Fiction mentioned it in the Genre Books You Must Read panel, so I really need to get my arse in gear.

From the Dark Side Anthology

2010-07-07T16:34:00.002+01:00

Hello all! I was very naughty and missed my blog window last week. I know, I shall send myself off to bed without any tea tonight. But to make up for it slightly, today I have a super exciting blog with links and a video and very exciting news! See? I'm not all that bad.

The From the Dark Side Anthology is very close to being released. Soon you will be able to get your mitts on some excellent short horror fiction and poetry from some up and coming authors of towering talent and amazingness. And I have a story in there too. If you would like to see some excerpts to get you in the mood, do go along to http://jennybeans.net/ where our illustrious leader Jennifer Hudock has been putting up some groovy little teasers of the fiction on offer.

It's not just about getting some chilling stories for a weeny amount of cash though- the From the Dark Side Anthology has been put together to benefit the Office of Letters and Light, http://www.lettersandlight.org/ . Now anyone who's been reading this blog for a while will know that I am a huge fan of NaNoWriMo, that crazy event in November where thousands of writers get together to encourage, cajole, bully and often bribe each other towards writing 50,000 words in a single month. Without the Office of Letters and Light we wouldn't have NaNo or any of the other lovely events they organise- events that encourage everyone to follow their creative dreams and get that secret novel out into the open where it can breath. These are important things, if you ask me. Their Young Writers Programme in particular opens up the world of writing to kids- I wish when I was little there had been such a fabulous group of people around to say "You go ahead and write that Unicorns in Space Saga- no one else will be able to tell that story quite the way you will!"

So watch the trailer, read the excerpts (mine is here http://jennybeans.net/2010/07/02/from-the-dark-side-excerpt-jennifer-williams-the-twin/ ) and then treat yourself to a copy on Friday 9th. Because we all deserve a bit of dark lovin'.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

The Most Important Question in Geekdom :o

2010-06-22T23:21:00.003+01:00

Today I must ask you the most important question in geekdom. Are you ready? Okay. Brace yourself.

Place the following science-fiction franchises in order of greatness:

Star Trek

Star Wars

Doctor Who

You might be able to guess my own preferences by the order in which I have already placed them, but here are some points to consider.

All three have been hugely influential to the field. All three have die-hard fans who are able to quote reams of dialogue, episode names, and inside leg measurements of lead actors. All three are pretty bloody brilliant, in my opinion.

All three have also had their dodgy moments. I grew up with the TNG crew and learnt to love the Original series of Star Trek, but gawd help me I am still to this day violently bored within minutes of most DS9 episodes, and I never felt like Enterprise was really Star Trek (Voyager is a sort of guilty pleasure; yes there was a lot of dreck but when it’s on I find myself strangely drawn to it…).

Star Wars- well, do I need to tell you where the crap set in? Jar Jar Binks and midichlorians and jedi moppets. The original trilogy gave us three of the best films ever made, and had an immeasurable impact on cinema and science-fiction in general. The prequels gave us boredom, disappointment and enough cringing to cause cramp.

As someone quite wise and possibly drunk pointed out to me a while ago, at its worst Doctor Who is a “bit silly”. At its best, it is some of the most thought provoking science-fiction we have on our telly. I don’t have the connection to Who that most fans will have, since I only saw two episodes of the McCoy Doctor growing up, and they scared the wotsits out of me, but I am a fan of the newer incarnations, which have done a fantastic job of creating future geeks in the children brave enough to watch it. Who has been going for so long that of course it has it’s weak moments, that for my mind largely involve female companions in questionable clothes running along bumpy quarries, and having witnessed the episode that is Delta and the Bannermen, I’m amazed anyone ever watched it again.

But yes. Three of the greats- I ask you, which is the greatest?

Alt Fiction 2010

2010-06-15T15:10:00.001+01:00

So this weekend gone was Alt Fiction weekend, and a marvellous time was had by all.

I won’t say too much about it, because I suspect it has already been blogged to infinity and back by better bloggers than I, but I will just run down a few personal highlights.

This was the first “big” convention I’d been to, and I don’t think I could have chosen a better one to start with- it was well organised, with no huge geek pile-ups, and plenty of room for people to sit comfortably in all the talks, and there was a general relaxed atmosphere that added to the friendliness of the event. There was a cafe/bar on the ground floor that served as a great “Let’s have a bit of a rest here and oh, go and talk to so and so…” area, and we ended up spending a remarkably long day having quite a jolly old time.

Things I particularly enjoyed:

Pete Crowther (publisher and writer and apparently very lovely chap) introduced the con, and then appeared on many panels, and was immediately tremendously friendly and enthusiastic. I think I could have happily followed him from panel to panel all day and had a most informative and enjoyable time.

The Hack and Slash vs Sparkly Vampires panel, where Kari Spelling (fantasy author and fan of duels) described the Angry Boner Man character apparently very popular in Paranormal Romance. I had no idea about Angry Boner Man, but described in that way I suddenly am able to spot Angry Boner Man cropping up everywhere. So to speak.

The How to Get Published Panel, which featured lots of great advice from John Jarrold and Stephen Jones and others. It was both inspiring and vaguely terrifying, realising not just how much work was involved, but also how much luck is needed to get anywhere. I’m not sure if I was exhilarated or depressed coming out of that discussion, but I did feel like I had more of an idea of how the whole thing works. (Jon Weir was on the panel too, that nice young man from Gollancz, and I had that creeping feeling of “Oh no, I’m fairly sure I spoke to you before when I was quite drunk….”)

And then there was the general chatting and meeting of people that forms so much of these things, all of which was a delight. I was tremendously impressed by the lovely hair of Mark Charon Newton (the charming author of Nights of Villjamur) , and amazed that Simon Guerrier (writes lots of things, but most excitingly for me, Being Human books) remembered talking to me at a previous thingy (again, I was quite drunk). I met the lovely Alasdair Stuart (The Hub and Angry Robot Books) while I was rather over excitedly buying a copy of Black Static and had a groovy chat about short story writing. And I am pleased to tell you that Paul Cornell (Doctor Who, comics, Pulse… many many things) likes the name of this blog. So there you go.

A great weekend, and in truth, there were too many lovely moments to list them all here. But a big thank you to everyone who took the time to have a chat with me, and I hope to not be quite so painfully shy at the next one.

7am is early for me, okay?

2010-06-08T16:31:00.002+01:00

Some things I am excited about this week:

At this very moment, the next issue of Black Static is winging its merry way towards me, bringing with it all the Campaign for Real Fear stories- including mine. I am very much looking forward to seeing it in print, of course, but I’m also excited to read the other stories and see what statistics were thrown up by the entries. You can find out about the Campaign here, if you’re not familiar with it: http://campaignforrealfear.wordpress.com/

I’ve started a new writing schedule, which involves me getting up brain meltingly early (well, 7am) and carting myself and my notebook off to a local Library, where I take up part of their Quiet Study area working on The Steel Walk (I’d feel slightly bad about this if it weren’t for the fact that everyone else appears to be there to read the newspapers). I’m hoping to do this as often as possible, because against all reasonable sense, I seem to produce some vaguely decent writing at that time of the day. Perhaps it’s the lack of distractions, or perhaps I’m in so much shock at being up early I forget to be tired; either way, The Steel Walk is chuntering on again, thankfully.

And on Saturday I’m going to Alt Fiction! Where I will get to mingle about with other writerly types, and many, many twitter peeps, and hopefully hear lots of interesting talks about genre writing. I will learn things! I will meet people! I will (quite possibly) get drunk! I haven’t been to many conventions, and this one looks like it will be both hectic and brilliant fun. Now, if I can only decide which of the talks to go to…

Fevre Dreams

2010-06-01T16:24:00.001+01:00

I recently finished reading Fevre Dream by George R.R Martin, and I thought I’d spend a little time on here recommending it as highly as possible to all of you. Yes indeed.

I don’t often do book reviews on my blog, partly because as an amateur writer myself I find it a bit rude to criticise the work of other writers (I know that might be a little silly) and partly because I tend to be reading back and forth through backlists- does anyone care, at this point, what I thought of The Stars My Destination? It came out quite a while ago, after all.

(This is especially daft because I love reading book blogs, no matter if they’re reviewing new or old stuff. Perhaps truthfully it is because I don’t think I’m very good at it)

And besides, I can’t say all that much about Fevre Dream without giving away all the juicy bits to people who have yet to read it. I think I’m safe in saying that it is about vampires, and it is set in the latter half of the nineteenth century, along the Mississippi river. If that feels a bit Interview with the Vampire-ish, then I suppose it is a little, but that’s really where the similarities end.

I wanted to say a couple of things about this book. Mainly, that I love the main character, Abner Marsh. A larger than life steamboat captain with a bristling black beard, warts, and a tendency to shout at people and poke them with his hickory stick, Abner is the sort of character that you might expect in a supporting role. When he turned up in the first chapter, I admit I thought, “Well okay, I suppose the dashingly handsome hero will turn up in the next scene”, but Abner is about as heroic a character as you can get, warts and all.

He reminds me of Martin’s other great hero-in-disguise, Tyrion Lannister from the Song of Ice and Fire books. Technically Tyrion is a dastardly Lannister, and you spend much of A Game of Thrones thinking you really ought to hate him along with Cersei and Jamie… but if you’re me, by the end of book two, he was fighting out the top spot for favourite character along with Jon Snow and Arya Stark.

Martin excels at the flawed, human characters, the ones who make mistakes and do bad things but then make it up in brave, human ways. They are the ones you root for in the end, and the ones that stay with you once you’ve finished the book, as Abner and his hickory stick will.

The Joy of Books

2010-05-25T14:32:00.002+01:00

It would be a bit of an understatement to say there has been a lot of talk about ebooks lately. Just yesterday I read a very interesting blog post about over at Angry Robot Books, by my good friend Adam Christopher:

http://angryrobotbooks.com/2010/05/the-future-is/

I think they’re a neat idea. Certainly as someone who has more books than actual physical space in my flat, I can definitely understand the uses of being able to have many many books on one small device. They also look very cool and swish, and it appeals to my love for all of this fabulous new technology we have- I may not use half of it, but it pleases me that it exists.

So why then do I read these articles and nod happily and still know that I have absolutely no intention of getting an ebook reader? If anyone needs one, it’s me- my appetite for books is clearly obsessive, and the regular argument with my Mum about where I can possibly keep them all gets more heated every week (not that I live with her- I think it just annoys Mum that I sort of filled up her house with books and then left, and now I’m doing the same with my own place…).

But in truth, they leave me cold. And it comes from a real, genuine (possibly obsessive) love for the physicality of books. We all talk about the pleasure of browsing shelves and the smell of second hand book shops, but for me it’s more than that even. I like the shape of them, the weight, the smell. I like that I can shove them in my handbag (sometimes two or three if I dump the nonessential items, like keys and wallets) or read them in the bath. I like the fine cracked lines you get on the spine as you read them- and it is the lowly paperback I love most of all, believe it or not. I like that feeling you get when you emerge from the bookshop with a bag heavy with new reads, each one a little world of new stuff.

When I am feeling sad- and this is possibly the most embarrassing evidence of my unholy book-love- I like to sit by my bookshelves and look at them all. Reading the spines, pulling out the occasional title that I haven’t seen for a while, smelling them… This has actually been known to make me feel better. It calms my soul and reminds me that books make everything right with the world.

Perhaps this book-love has been expanded by a number of sources. I studied book arts at college, learning about the beauty of a well put together book, as well as how to make them myself. I have a degree in illustration, and I’ve never met an illustrator who didn’t have an expansive collection. And I work for a company that are utterly committed to producing gorgeous, hard back slip cased books the old fashioned way. When I was very small I once accidently tore the page of my library book and I was inconsolable (I know, weird kid).

It’s not just about the story for me. Books are pages and spines and pictures and inky print. Books are sacred objects. Books are art. I love my battered old paperback copy of Perdido Street Station just as much as my signed, slip cased first edition of The Graveyard book- they are equally romantic and beautiful for me.
I am not an ebook basher. I think it’s a neat idea, I really do. But I cannot love them like I love the printed page.

Short Story News!

2010-05-18T15:42:00.003+01:00

Where did Tuesday come from? My grasp of time is a little slippery at the moment; as most of you will probably already know, I’ve had a sort of lingering cold type thing for a couple of weeks, and I appear to be conducting an experiment in to how many nights you can go without sleep before you go totally around the bend.

Apparently, thanks to a long parade of colds beginning with last year’s Week of Potential Swine Flu, I have managed to leave my lungs in a slightly less than operational state and now I’m huffing and coughing about all over the shop.

Despite the lurgy I do in fact have good news, news that I was too poorly to blog about yesterday. One of my short stories, The Sea, The Sea, The Sea has been published in the online magazine, The Hub- www.hubfiction.com

It’s pretty short and there are lots of other interesting things in the magazine, so you could go and read it now. Yep. I’ll even let you off this end bit here if you’d rather go and read the story. Because this bit isn’t all that interesting. I might add amusing tags at the end but that’s about it.

But you can still come back here and tell me if you liked it. That would be lovely.

By the pricking of my thumbs

2010-05-12T16:13:00.002+01:00

I realised an odd thing today. I identify with the witch.

Or at least, I am drawn to witches more often than almost anything else (aside from possibly, uh, child sacrifice). I was reading a short story by George R.R Martin called In the Lost Lands, a lovely thing concerning werewolves and a woman who, although she is never named as such, is almost certainly a witch of a sort. It occurred to me that I liked it especially because Grey Alys was written with sympathy, and not entirely as a dirty ol’ monster.

When I think about it, I come back to witches again and again in all of my work. Bad Apple Bone is the most obvious example, as it concerns a great many witches, some of whom are bad, some of whom are good, and some, in the case of Noon, who are just tremendously lazy. Even if I don’t have a witch by name in my story, I will undoubtedly have a crazy old woman who is more than she appears to be, such as Moony Sue in A Boy of Blood and Clay, a woman who is possibly an elderly wise woman and just as possibly the River Thames. Bird and Tower, and Ink for Thieves both have examples, and in The Steel Walk I have returned to big ol’ groups of proper witches, with the Green Jenny Council- and there’s not a single good apple amongst that lot.

None of this was deliberate, so where has it come from? When I was a kid I was a big fan of the more gruesome fairytales, and most of those involved witches (Hansel and Gretel- when you really think about it, how deeply fucked up is that story? Love it). When it came to Disney films, I was always vaguely on the witchy side, and who can blame me? We had Marvellous Madam Mim, Ursula, Maleficent and the scary old bag from Snow White, all of whom were more interesting than the supposed heroes and heroines of the movies. And the Wicked Witch of the West had flying monkeys at her disposal! That’s pretty cool, if you ask me.

And when I went to college I spent a lot of time reading about folklore and fairy tales, even writing essays on it- I might have many issues with my time at art college, but I can’t complain about the freedom of the course; you could write about anything you wanted to, as long as you did it reasonably well. My dissertation was even about witches, in a way; I wrote about the evil mother figure that features as the enemy in so many stories, such as Coraline’s Other Mother, or Yubaba from Spirited away. That research was enormous fun.

But the biggest influence has to be, without a shadow of a doubt, the marvelous witches of the Discworld. I loved the witches novels the best I think, because it was always Pratchett writing at his best; about the conventions of folklore, and the strange and unfathomable ways of people. Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg were instantly deeply familiar to me, through my own Nan, through my aunts, various school teachers and even the dinner lady everyone was scared of- I knew these ladies, and they both scared me and made me laugh. They may seem like odd examples, given the dark nature of many of my own witches (Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg might have been fearsome, but they usually had your best interests at heart) but I believe that Pratchett’s witches showed me that witches were also people; capable of being good and bad, and therefore more realistic. And through that they became the characters I would be most excited to write about.

Go on, tell me. Which is your favourite witch?

The Fickle Story Pickle

2010-05-04T16:27:00.003+01:00

I was one of the winners of The Campaign for Real Fear, as you are probably aware by now- mainly because I’ve been harking on about it on twitter, and because the blog entry right next to this one is also talking about it...

Needless to say, I’m still over the moon. Not just because it means publication in a well respected and exciting magazine, and hearing my words spoken in a podcast version of the collection (which might freak me out a little bit, I think) but also because it will make me write more short stories. I have a slightly fractious, frustrating relationship with short fiction. Some days I will be in the mood to write one, and my brain will go utterly blank. I’ll sit and stare at my notebook and try to remember what I dreamt about the night before or trawl through some random childhood memories (childhood being what I like to write about the most) and nothing will come to me. Sometimes I’ll even get down (one of three) editions of Brewer’s we have in the house and choose entries from this at random, because this worked once before and produced possibly the best thing I’ve written (The story was called London Stone and you can still read it- there’s a link for issue 9 of Pantechnicon on the left-hand side). But invariably, that doesn’t work either.

So I’ll have a month or so of no short stories at all, but that’s okay because I’m normally entangled in a long term project anyway. Then out of the blue a story will come, when I’m not expecting it, and I will have no idea where it has come from. I have to get the entire thing out in one afternoon or I’ll lose it, but it’s there. I see writers on twitter and other interweb places and they are capable of pulling stories out of thin air and doing it over and over again- I am so jealous! The reason that The Campaign for Real Fear gives me hope is that, for once, the story came when I called it. And apparently, it was even worth reading!

Big thanks again to my proof readers, who spot all the stuff I never would, and I look forward to reading the other winners.

ps) I changed the photo from the one where I'm looking with distrust at a chintzy bed spread- I think this one is more engimatic. Best you don't know it was taken down the pub. I've also updated the links so they actually go somewhere now. Hurrah!

The Campaign for Real Fear

2010-04-30T12:31:00.002+01:00

What's this? A blog on a Friday, of all days?

I have exciting news though; my short story The Price was selected to be one of the final 20 winners in the Campaign for Real Fear competition. I am totally chuffed and dreadfully over excited about this- the victory dance I did around the living room was something to be seen.

I shall write about this properly when I have a little more time, but for now a big wahooo and thanks to Maura McHugh and Christopher Fowler, who have put this exciting movement together.

http://campaignforrealfear.wordpress.com/

Points of View

2010-04-27T16:22:00.004+01:00

Today I wanted to talk about viewpoint.

Yes, I can imagine you all back-flipping with excitement now, can almost hear the hisses of “Yes! Finally, she gets to viewpoint…” The joy is palpable. But I have some questions for you about it, and if you can bring yourself to read through this, I’d really like to know what you think.

I’ve been considering VP as I get deeper into The Steel Walk. I’m at about 16,000 words now, so perhaps you might say that I really should have thought about it before now, but bear with me. I have three main characters; Eri, Saul and Joseth. All three of them are deeply involved with the story and change throughout the course of the book; they go on “personal journeys”, if you want to put it like that, which I wouldn’t. Eri is the obvious(ish) heroine of the book, and Chapter 1 opens with a fight she is involved in, told from her point of view. Saul is at the emotional heart of the story, a boy going through a sort of “coming of age”, complicated by an evil family and a populace that wants him dead. He already has a number of chapters told from his point of view.

My problem is with Joseth. Technically speaking, Joseth doesn’t arrive in the story until the middle act opens and he meets up with Eri and Saul. I like Joseth, and I know him fairly well, although I won’t know him properly until I start writing him, which leads to the temptation of introducing him in the first part of the book; I’d quite like to know what he is up to before he meets the other characters, and I want to see things from his point of view.

My questions are; how many main characters is too many? Once Joseth comes into contact with Eri and Saul, will his viewpoint be redundant? After all, they will be travelling around together for the most part, getting into scraps together and having blazing arguments- how many VPs do I need of the same events?

Do you prefer books that see things from the perspective of one character, or do you find multiple protagonists challenging? I’ve been reading bits and pieces of Anne Mini's excellent Author!Author blog, which gives fabulous advice for those writers who handle a big cast of characters in their books (really, go read it. I’ve learnt some hugely useful stuff there) and it has made me look closely at VP and how I use it.

I know that in the end the likelihood is that I’ll have to figure this one out for myself, but I’m genuinely curious to know how people feel about this, or if they even think about it at all. My reading habits suggest I’m happy with any number of character VPs; two of my favourite authors, Michael Marshall Smith and John Connolly both write largely from a First Person perspective, which nails your viewpoint down to one immediately. I also enjoyed Joe Abercrombie’s The Blade Itself which has, I think, three major viewpoints and a large cast of supporting characters. That’s not even to mention George R.R Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire series, that has… cripes, I’ve no idea how many main characters (they’re also some of the greatest books ever written, if you ask me).

Tell me what you like, what you don’t like.What's for dinner, where my locker key is, how many Nutri Grain bars I've consumed in the last two days...

Dragon Age:Origins owns my soul

2010-04-20T14:46:00.005+01:00

I’ve actually put off writing about Dragon Age for a little while, unsure I’d be able to write about it without a) revealing lots of spoilers and b) sounding like a terrible fangirl. Now, I can’t promise I won’t go all gooey over it, but given that I’m halfway into my third play through I think I can now judge what is safe to reveal to the potential player.

We got Dragon Age:Origins at Christmas, the same time we got the xbox, and I can safely say I have barely stopped playing it since; what’s that, nearly four months? Blimey. So I’m writing this blog partly as a fangirlish squee-athon for the awesomeness that is Dragon Age, and partly to distract my friends from the intervention they are no doubt planning at this very moment.

Dragon Age is a cheerfully violent RPG from Bioware (who also brought us the extraordinary Mass Effect, as if you didn’t know) and I will admit immediately that I know very little about such things. Not that I’m a total video games noob you understand; I’ve been an enthusiastic gamer since I got my Gameboy back in, gawd, was it 1989? I had a SNES after that, and a Gamecube, inherited a Playstation and then borrowed a Playstation 2, but having now dipped my toe in the New Age of Gaming that is the Xbox 360 (and no doubt the Playstation 3) I know that my gaming education is somewhat lacking. Games these days are epic! *cough* Anyway, before I get carried away by how exciting video games are now, I’ll get back to my original point. Dragon Age: Origins is the best game I’ve ever played, and this is why…

Characters! A combination of top writing, excellent voice acting, appealing design and a system of approval/disapproval means that by the end of the game, you are likely to be as fond of your various companions as any characters you may have grown to love in any lengthy book. Relationships are complicated in DA, and this, I think, is the true genius of the game. You have to win your companions over, either by making decisions they approve of, or by giving them presents, but even that is not simple; one character will approve of your dodgy dealings with assassins, where another will get the proper hump with you. Pay too much attention to the dangerous elf with the amusing accent and the ridiculously cute ex-Templar will sulk. Appear to be taking things a little easy and the Qunari will lose his rag.

And they don’t just argue with you. Your companions bicker cheerfully in the background as you move from place to place, leading to some excellent dialogue that often had me laughing out loud. Eventually most of them will come to like and trust you as the great leader you are, and your attentions may even pay off in the form of some moodily lit sexy goings on. Score!

It is difficult to point to favourite characters here, because genuinely there isn’t an unlikeable character amongst them, but yes, alright, I do love Alistair. But, I would point out, this isn’t really my fault. They clearly have some sort of evil genius at Bioware, creating a funny, angsty knight in shining armour who I am utterly unable to resist. Honestly, third play through and I still haven’t been able to unlock any other romance achievements…

Aside from Alistair (who also has some of the best dialogue) special mention should also go to Zevram, the Antivan Elf of dubious morals who resembles an infinitely more cheerful Legolas, with the voice of Puss in Boots from Shrek 2, and Morrigan, the sexy apostate mage voiced, in a stroke of geek genius, by Claudia Black. And then there’s Oghren, a sort of 18 certificate Yosemite Sam who spends most of the game drunk and will occasionally stand around shouting “ASS CHAPS!” and Sten, a sort of klingon but without the cheerful disposition, and saucy Leliana and Shale and…

Well, you get the point. There are many other factors that make DA such a joy. You are asked to make difficult decisions at every point in the game, giving you a real sense of responsibility and often changing the outcome of the story. The story itself is compelling, and full of surprises (the first time you play the battle at Ostagar is pretty stunning). Visually it looks fabulous, with dangerous forests and claustrophobia inducing dungeons, and even out of the way, no mark villages like Lothering are fully realized spaces with their own atmosphere.

The game is also, in my opinion, very aware of where it has come from. I was reminded strongly of A Song of Ice and Fire several times whilst playing, along with Lord of the Rings of course, and Marty had echoes of Dragonlance. The people who made this game both know and love the fantasy genre, and aren’t afraid to inject a little humour into it.

The conclusion I came to, in amazement and with no small joy, was that playing DA was like playing a book, only you were allowed to be the main character and make all the important decisions. You can live in another world and go on adventures and at the end, it’s your name in the codex. It’s the purest form of escapism. This does of course apply to many, many other video games and won’t be a surprise to most, but you’ll have to forgive me; I’m a little new to this.

Anyway, since I could happily talk about this all day, and this blog is already much too long, I promise I will shut up about this for a little while. Can’t promise I’ll ever stop playing, though.

FOR FERELDEN!

The Familiarity/Comedy Hypothesis

2010-04-13T16:23:00.001+01:00

We have recently become converts to The Big Bang Theory (um, the tv show rather than the theory itself. Although we are fans of that, too).

I was initially wary of it as I had assumed it would mainly consist of geek-bashing. A little paranoid of me perhaps but, let’s face it, for the media in general geek-bashing is normally like shooting fish in a barrel, if rather more common. Did I really want to watch a show that was entirely about “Fnar fnar, geeks are losers, fnar fnar”?

As it turns out, TBBT is funny, well observed and well informed, and all mockery is done with affection. Perhaps non-geeks find it funny too, but I hope the majority of its audience are laughing because they recognise the references, and do indeed recognise that “Wednesday Night is Halo Night”. For me personally much of the humour comes from familiarity; we’ve had plenty of discussions concerning Superman down the pub for example, and Penny’s brief addiction to a dragons-and-sorcery type video game had me cringing with recognition ever so slightly too much (anyone who has tried to talk to me about anything other than Dragon Age: Origins for the last four months will know why).

It still has its wee problems for me- there are no female geeks present still (Leslie Winkle is a science geek, and I’m talkin’ about genre geeks, although it’s worth stating that I’m only halfway through series 2) and all the guys are depicted as being utterly useless with women*, which is a little unfair. I know geeks who are married, in long term relationships, or who date around a lot. But I’m just being whingy.

It doesn’t really matter. The relationships that are shown in TBBT are sweet and funny, and it has also given us a bit of a comedy legend in Dr Sheldon Cooper. Much of the humour is centred around his complete inability to interact with the human race, and his enormous superiority complex, but he remains likable. And worryingly, I find I understand his point of view more and more- not the super-genius side of it, obviously, but the general impatience for human beings and the unshakeable belief in how “right” he is… I sort of feel like that sometimes. Bit worrying. It’s my mum’s dvds we’ve borrowed, as she’s a huge fan; I hope that isn’t just because Sheldon reminds her of what a pain in the arse I was to live with…

*I sometimes wonder if it is in fact women who are useless with geeks. I usually think this when I hear a woman calling herself an “xbox widow” or complaining about having to go and watch the new Star Trek movie. What’s wrong with you?! But then, I have a slightly skewed perspective.

Fish Custard

2010-04-06T16:03:00.003+01:00

(there may be one very mild possible spoiler in this- not as in plot but as in "funny thing that happened"- you have been warned!)

A rare thing is happening across the internet at the moment- the Doctor Who fandom is in a good mood.

I know, weird, isn’t it? I dabble in fandom a little, as I don’t seem to have the real dedication it takes to stick to one or the other (I did once, in my Star Trek TNG and X-Files days, and oh my, there was fanart, oh yes) so I tend to be an observer more than anything. One of the conclusions I have made over the years is that hands down, Dr Who fandom is the grumpiest out there. You can forget your Harry Potter shipping wars, the shitstorm over the Avatar casting (Airbenders, not smurfs), Doctor Who fans can create a boiling sea of hatred just over a logo, for goodness sake.

There are certain science-fiction forums where the Who thread is a sort of no go area for casual fans, and the podcasting politics is mindboggling. But, let’s be fair, I have always forgiven them this. After all, of most fandoms, Who fans have had the roughest of deals. It has an epic history, and being a tv programme about time travel, the continuity is a glorious migraine inducer. During the Sylvester McCoy years it was largely ignored (possibly with good reason) and just when it started to find it’s feet again, it was cancelled. Then there were the wilderness years, where fans kept the spirit of the show alive through their own enthusiasm for it, and never quite gave up hope that it would be back in one form or another. In all of geekdom, the Who fans deserve the greatest credit for utter dedication.

So on Saturday night, Matt Smith had his debut episode as the Doctor, and you know what? I don’t know of anyone who didn’t absolutely love it. Well, maybe there are a few out there who just really thoroughly enjoyed it, but largely the Who fandom is currently basking in a warm glow of decent story telling and witty writing, that they can all agree on. Almost. It’s a beautiful thing.

And if you need to ask, I loved it too. My patience has been stretched thin in the past by RTD’s boomy music, nonsensical plots and Jesus-esque Doctor, but both Matt Smith and the story of Eleventh Hour were a joy. We’re back to clever writing, a story that is both fun and scary, and a Doctor who is both bonkers and confident. And Smith does have very lovely hair.

(The only voice of whinging so far has been, surprise surprise, the Daily Mail, although I’m not sure their article on it counts as a review as such. It was largely about the HUGELY scandalous fact that Amy Pond is a kissagram, and wore a short skirt. SWEET JESUS WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?! There were also some eyebrows raised over Amy watching the Doctor get undressed, because god forbid anyone see a woman finding a man attractive… I mean, where will it end?! Certainly men have never been depicted as drooling over young girls, because that never happens… Honestly though, how sad that the Daily Mail (or more accurately, the readers of the Daily Mail) find the idea of a young woman with a sex drive so distressing. Yet again, I wish the Daily Crapfest would disappear up it’s own bumhole)

The Terrible Consequences of My Little Pony

2010-03-30T17:03:00.003+01:00

I remembered a strange thing yesterday. I remembered the name of the first world I made up.
I can’t tell you the actual name of it, because it is hideously embarrassing*, but I can tell you I was probably about 7 years old and my primary interest in life was My Little Ponies and other mythical beasts- this probably gives you a good idea of what the name might have been like.

It wasn’t the first imaginary world I’d come up with, but it was the first I remember giving an actual name and political system to. Well, I say political system; essentially there were two sides to this world, a good one with forests and glades and rainbow strewn waterfalls, and a bad one with rocks and fire and stuff. The pleasant side was governed by an, um, unicorn, and the nasty side by a lion. Clearly, along with My Little Pony, I was somewhat influenced at the time by that old nursery rhyme “The Lion and the Unicorn”, which I vividly remember reading with great interest in one of my many nursery rhyme books- I still don’t know what plum cake is, but it sounds nice. I would also probably have been reading the Narnia books at the time, although it sounds as though I didn’t really take to Aslan, having cast him as a bit of a baddie in my own world (the Narnia books were abandoned a few books in thanks to my reading Lord of the Rings in the middle- Narnia struck me as rather tame in comparison, thank you very much. And that was before I was even aware of all the Jeebus nonsense).

This is interesting I suppose because it occurred to me that I am still doing the same stuff; making up worlds and then watching to see what stories come out of it. The Primary School Age was undoubtedly my most creative period, when my only responsibility each day was to come up with some new interesting world for me and my friends to play in (and if that world could involve undead creatures of some sort, I would be happy). I wish that was still my only responsibility, because it is brilliant. Still, I’m glad that I found my way back to doing this stuff, and I no longer have to force my small friends to act out scenes in a chilly playground.

*Two people in the entire world know the name, as it was with them I used to act out the stories set in this world. If you just happen to be reading this (you know who you are!), I’m sorry I broke your camp bed that time and sat in your cocoa pops.

An Extra Large Spotted Dick

2010-03-23T15:46:00.003Z

I’ve just remembered that it’s Blog Tuesday, and do I have something to talk about today? Do I buggery.

However, I have some vague thinkings that were circulating my head and in want of anything useful to write, I’ll stick those down instead. Someone asked me if I considered myself an “Englishwoman”, and if I was a patriotic person. The English as opposed to British question bores me a little bit, as I have never particularly cared either way. If I were filling out a form I would probably put down British, although I couldn’t really tell you why. Technically, I am English as I was born in England. Fine. In truth, if I feel like anything, it’s a Londoner, even though I grew up on the weird outskirts of the city, where no one is sure if they’re in Kent or not.
Am I patriotic? Well, I’m not sure. I’m no flag waving Royalist, that’s for sure, and I don’t watch the Queen’s Speech at Christmas (my Dad would be most annoyed at this. He made us stand up for the National Anthem). But in my own small, quiet way, I do love Britain; it’s lands and it’s people. And I started thinking about why.

1) I like our weather. YES, I said it, I like our crazy sunny one minute pissing down the next climate, because in truth, it’s not actually that crazy. We have marvellously moderate weather here, no matter how over excited we get about four inches of snow, or those two days in July where it’s unbelievably hot. It’s rarely so extreme that it causes problems, and on those odd occasions when it does, we get fantastically excited about it. Seriously, the snow we had last year that meant no one could get anywhere for one whole day, was the most excited I’ve seen this country in… well, ever.
Our weather is never likely to kill us, and I like that. I like chilly autumn days, and lazy warm summer evenings, and London rain.

2) Sense of humour goes without saying, doesn’t it? But I think it’s worth pointing out that it goes deeper than the obvious things, such as Monty Python and the Goons, Not the Nine O’Clock News and Alternative Comedy… British people just can’t help making jokes. In any conversation at all. Even if they’re bad ones- especially if they're bad ones. If you listen to any two British people talking, one of them will inevitably try to make the other one laugh. Maybe it is that stereotypical British reserve turned on it’s head; we don’t feel comfortable talking about important things, so we’ll make a joke instead.
In the car going to my Dad’s funeral we couldn’t help joking with each other. And once we’d noticed that my Uncle Alan’s leather jacket made a farting noise every time he moved on the seat, we were well away (oh, the British, how we love our fart gags). I clambered out of the car in the midst of a giggling fit, much to the disapproval of the vicar.

3) An appreciation of small pleasures. In my experience, you will only ever hear a British person say, “Oh, we’ll have a nice cup of tea when we get home,” and you know they are genuinely looking forward to it. And if there’s a biscuit with that tea, they’ll be over the moon. A chocolate biscuit?! TRUE FACT: There is no higher pleasure. I remember Bill Bryson writing something like this in his Notes from a Small Island, about how only the British could be truly excited about an extra large raisin in their spotted dick. When I read that I knew it was true; I don’t need any more evidence than the level of hysteria caused by a fresh tin of biscuits at work.

So those are a few of my reasons. If there are any small things you love about your place of birth, tell me; this Tuesday could do with a bit more love.

Blogging Keeps You Regular

2010-03-16T16:57:00.002Z

Blogging once a week should be pretty easy, or at least that’s what I thought when I decided recently that my blog needed a good kick up the bum. I had read in various places that writers should blog, and as often as possible, and it sounded like a good plan. Some suggested updating every day, but that seems, quite frankly, a bit unhinged. If you are a jet setting author with a mind-crushingly glamorous and exciting life, and the ability to get more done in one day than any human person, like Neil Gaiman for example, no doubt this makes sense. But I’ve no clue what I’d begin to tell you about if I were writing this every day. I think, to be quite honest, I’d bore myself. However, as it is time for my weekly blog (now sounding like a bowel movement of some kind) and I have absolutely no clue what to talk about, I shall regale you with the sort of inconsequential details I might tell you if I were writing everyday:

Our floorboards are being ripped up. Yes, when I get home, I expect to have to employ some stilts or the Force to propel myself around the flat. The alarmingly manky carpet has gone, along with its red wine and birthing fluid stains (yes, really) and supposedly something else will be taking it’s place. Not sure what.

I’m reading Magician by Raymond E. Feist. I am enjoying it very much, even if it is a dramatic change of tone from the Song of Ice and Fire series. I keep expecting people to be sleeping with their sisters and pushing people out of windows, but everyone in Magician is much too nice.

We finished watching Supernatural series one, alas. I have decided it is a Series Worth Following, and I’m particularly fond of the central relationship between Sam, Dean and Daddy Winchester. It is ever so manly and angsty.

The new book is puttering along, just starting to form into a proper story with a beginning, middle and end; as long as I don’t look at it directly or anything. In fact, I find if I turn my head to one side and squint at it with one eye shut, it appears to have vampires, witches, zombies AND pirates in it. This amuses me.

That’s it for now. Tomorrow I shall update you with whether or not that milk we bought at the weekend will last for the evening’s tea, and if I’ve managed to buy a new pair of jeans.