Launch of Marcher (new and improved version)

• July 26th, 2014 • Posted in All posts, News & events

The new and extensively revised version of Marcher from Newcon Press, with its striking new cover by Ben Baldwin, will be launched at the World SF Convention in London on Friday 15th August 16.30-17.30, Library (Fan Village).

At the same event Newcon will also be launching: Nina Allan’s new novel The Race, Adam Robert’s collection of sssays and criticism, Sibilant Fricative, a new edition of Kim Lakin-Smith’s Cyber Circus, and a new anthology, Paradox.

aaa marcher cover

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Apocalyptic

• July 20th, 2014 • Posted in All posts

I’m taking part in several panels at the World SF Convention in London this August (details here).  Below are a few thoughts for the panel ‘Not with a Bang, but with a Metaphor’ (Thursday, 14th August, 12:00 – 13:30 Capital Suite 2 (ExCeL)).  The other panellists will be Jacob Weisman, David Hebblethwaite, Paul Weimer and Noa Menhaim.

From Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ to McCarthy’s ‘The Road’, apocalyptic and dystopian futures are a perennial favourite with writers who might be labelled ‘mainstream’ or ‘literary’. Why do such scenarios have an appeal that goes beyond a genre readership? What does a non-genre apocalypse have to offer that a science fictional one might not, and vice versa? Do we all share broadly similar nightmares, regardless of what ratio of science to sensibility we prefer?

Apocalypse is indeed a perennial theme, and to say that its appeal extends beyond an SF readership, is a fairly massive understatement. Look at the story of Noah’s Ark. The whole of civilisation is wiped out except for one man and his family, who have to start all over again, alongside the few animals they’ve saved from the flood. What is that if not a classic apocalyptic story? And the familiar Biblical story, old in itself, is based on a much older story which can be found in written form on a Sumerian tablet some 3600 years old. The story of Sodom and Gomorrah is equally apocalyptic : two cities completely consumed by fire .

In fact the use of word ‘apocalypse’ to describe such scenarios is itself Biblical in origin. The word means ‘revelation’ in Greek, and has come to mean global destruction because of its association with the Book of Revelation, the final book of the Bible, which prophesies the end of the world. Not that the concept is unique to Judeo-Christian tradition and its Middle Eastern forebears. Flood stories are found in divese cultures all around the planet, including Native American cultures isolated from the rest of humanity for tens for thousands of years. Norse mythology imagined the destruction of the world in a cosmic battle called Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods.

So, yes, apocalypse is hardly a specialist SF interest, though SF certainly provides some excellent tools to tell apocalyptic stories in the context of the modern world.

As to their appeal. Well, we humans are aware not only of our own vulnerability and mortality but of the vulnerability and mortality of our civilisation, our species, the universe itself. It’s quite a thing to know about. And for tens of thousands at least, we have made pictures of things that are important to us, things that we long for, things that we dread, perhaps in the hope that by containing things in this way, reducing them to something we can shape and control, we will be better able to get hold of the things we want and stave off the things that threaten us.  I guess those two things go some way to explaining why we keep coming back to apocalyptic scenarios?

An interesting question, though, is which category the apocalypse story really belongs in, the things we dread or the things we long for? Millions of years of evolution have ensured that all our basic drives make us struggle against death, fiercely defend the fantastic complexity that makes us alive against the forces of disintegration. Yet at the same time we know, because a capacity for reason also part of our evolutionary inheritance, that death is the end of all longing and fear. The story of the Flood, the Book of Revelation, and the myth of Ragnarok all envisage a purified new world arising from the ruins of the old one, and it seems to me that apocalyptic fiction, while ostensibly about disaster is often rather appealing, to its readers at least and sometimes (as in Ballard’s Drowned and Crystal worlds, for instance), even to its characters. Perhaps the sweetest state of all is to be alive in the world, but freed by a time limit from the burden entailed in living?

 

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Dickian

• July 10th, 2014 • Posted in All posts, News & events, Other people's books

I’m taking part in several panels at the World SF Convention in London this August (details here).

Below are some preliminary thoughts for the panel on Philip K. Dick. (Through a Hollywood Adaptation, Darkly: Thursday, August 14th, 18:00 -19:00). The other panellists will be Christi Scarborough, Grania Davis and Malcolm Edwards, and the blurb for the panel is as follows:

Thanks largely to the ever-increasing number of film adaptations of his work, Philip K Dick is one of the small number of genre authors whose names have been commoditised: “Dickian” is now a shorthand for paranoia, shifting realities and unstable identities, or even for the condition of twenty-first century life in general. But to what extent is this cliché precis an accurate reflection of the breadth of Dick’s work? What other themes and preoccupations can we see in his novels and stories? How far does his influence on modern SF really extend — and what rewards does his work offer to new readers today?

No one could deny that paranoia, shifting realities and unstable identities are major themes in Dick’s work, and Dick is indeed sometimes hailed as a kind of uniquely prophetic voice on ‘the condition of twenty-first century life’, a post-modernist ahead of his time. But yes, this is a cliché precis. Not only is there a lot more to Philip Dick than it suggests, but, even as a summary, it is somewhat misleading.

First of all, while Dick’s shifting realities may seem post-modern, Dick wasn’t really a post-modernist at all. Post-modernists emphasise plurality and flux: there isn’t one reality, but many different realities. Dick’s work may superficially seem to conform to this view of the world, but in fact what he depicts again and again are people dealing, not with many different equally valid realities, but rather with falsehoods and illusions which seem real, but are actually fake. Dick’s characters are always searching for authenticity, for reality in the singular. They may never find it, they may fear that it can’t be found, but they never stop looking for it. This isn’t post-modern, it’s positively pre-modern, and the more so in Dick’s later works where he is increasingly drawn to Christian theology, albeit in a particularly dark, scary and Dickian form. (No one ever describes as Dickian the belief that the world is a battleground between the followers of Christ and the servants of darkness – it doesn’t chime so well with a vision of Dick as edgy, contemporary, prescient – but it’s very much part of the vision of his later work.)

Secondly, I think the conventional precis of Dick’s work overemphasises the extent to which his work can be read as a social commentary. I would argue on the one hand that his work operates much more at the psychological level (as opposed to the sociological one), and, on the other, that he is at least as preoccupied with things that he sees as timeless, as he is with the condition of society at a particular point in history. (One of the appeals of writing SF, it’s always seemed to me, is that it does allow one to step outside the parochial concerns of the present moment.)  Of course Dick’s work reflects the time it was written in – a time which was simultaneously one of great optimism and one of terrible darkness and violence – but the two deepest roots of his writing, it seems to me, extend outwards on either side of the ‘social’. On one side, many of his preoccupations are very personal ones: for instance the figure of the dead female twin, which appears again and again in his work (Valis, Flow my Tears, Dr Bloodmoney…) comes directly from Dick’s own biography: his own twin sister Jane died in infancy. On the other side it is metaphysical, concerned with the place of the human soul in the universe (which is where Dick’s quirky version of Christian theology comes in). His greatness lies in the way he linked up the personal with the universal.

Here are some recurring themes I’ve noticed in Dick’s work:

A sense of loss.

This, I imagine, had very personal origins for Dick. Parents grieving a dead child are not best placed to welcome a baby into the world, and I would guess his life felt very lonely indeed from the start. (Look at the dark, lonely and guilt-ridden childhood depicted in the brilliant short story ‘I Hope I shall Arrive Soon.’) Dick’s experience wasn’t unique though. A feeling of loss, of absence, of insufficiency, is part of the human condition. Hence the Biblical legend of the Fall.  Valis is a particularly terrifying vision of a fallen world, a world in the sway of darkness, but the same vision is to be found in Flow my Tears and Palmer Eldritch among many others. And the figure of the dead twin sister (elevated in Valis to a dead female demiurge), which so clearly comes from Dick’s own biography, is turned into a powerful metaphor for the feeling of loss and absence which we all know.

Even those famous ‘shifting realities’ are also in a way representations of loss. That’s what loss is like. We think something is real and then it is snatched away from us. Ragle Gumm in Time out of Joint (surely the prototype for the film The Truman Show?) imagines the world he’s in is real, but it turns out to be a crude set of stage props, Rick Deckard in Do Androids Dream finds what seems to be a real animal, and then finds the tell-tale battery compartment.

In the story ‘I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon’, we find another take on ‘shifting realities’ and their relationship to loss. The main character Victor Kemmings is starting out on a ten year journey to another planet, during which he is supposed to be in a state of cryogenic suspension. Something has gone wrong. He is still conscious and faces the prospect of spending the next ten years lying all alone in a kind of coffin. Realising that he will go completely mad, the intelligent spaceship tries to ease the situation by feeding him his own memories, but Kemmings’ past is so painful to him that this only makes things worse. Finally the ship hits on the idea of feeding him, over and over, the illusion of arrival. Again and again, Kemmings reaches his destination and disembarks, only for the illusion to unravel and the ship have to run it all over again. It keeps Kemmings sane for ten years, but at a cost. When he really does arrive, he still can’t believe it’s real.

If we have to retreat into illusion to keep ourselves sane, the story suggests, the price we will pay in the long run is that nothing will ever seem quite real. This is very much a psychological explanation for those famous paranoid scenarios – and one consistent with the work of object relations psychologists such as Bowlbly, Klein or Winnicott – as opposed to a sociological, political or cultural one.

The cherished possession

Another figure I have noticed many times in Dick’s work is what I call ‘the cherished possession’. This is some treasured object which has huge significance for the character. In Do Androids Dream, for instance, Deckard longs to possess a real animal. He keeps an electric sheep as an affordable substitute, but what his heart is set on is a real one, and he spends a lot of time hanging around outside pet shops and thumbing through his catalogue.  In High Castle, Mr Tagomi possesses a jewel which somehow exists of itself, and not simply as a human projection. In Flow my Tears both the powerful policeman Felix Buckman and his sister-lover Alys are assiduous collectors of objects of many kinds and Buckman secures his sister’s co-operation at one point by making a present to her of a particularly fine postage stamp for her to ‘put it away in your album in your safe forever’. In the short story, ‘I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon’ (about which I once wrote an MA dissertation: hence my particular emphasis!), the cherished object is a poster of ‘Fat Freddy’ from the Furry Freak Brothers comics called ‘Speed Kills’, signed by the artist Don Shelton. (Both the poster and the artist are real, incidentally. The poster in question is below.)

FatFreddyPostCardSpeedKills

These cherished possessions are, of course, subject to the same anxious doubts as other aspects of Dick’s world. Supposedly real animals may turn out to be electric ones, a supposedly authentic object may turn out to be a fake. In High Castle there is a debate about the authenticity of a cigarette lighter alleged to have belonged to Franklin Roosevelt. Yes, there are letters of authenticity, but how do we know that they themselves aren’t fake? Exactly the same debate takes place about the Gilbert Shelton poster in ‘I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon.’

Hope

One other thing that isn’t so often commented on in Dick’s work is that, however dark the scenario, however terrifying the forces against which they are pitted, the characters themselves are never completely devoid of good humour or hope. ‘I mean, after all,’ says the indefatigable Leo Bulero in Palmer Eldritch, ‘you have to consider we’re only made out of dust… But even considering, I mean it’s a sort of bad beginning, we’re not doing too bad. So I personally have faith that even in this lousy situation we’re faced with we can make it.’

In the poisoned Earth of Do Androids Dream millions of people subscribe to the stoical religion of Mercerism, using devices known as ‘empathy boxes’ to connect themselves to the vision of their prophet, Wilbur Mercer, as he struggles eternally up the slopes of a bare mountain in spite of rocks and stones that are constantly being cast at him. At a certain point in the novel a TV programme exposes this central scene of Mercerism to be a forgery, faked up in a film studio with an actor playing Mercer against a crude painted backdrop (close examination reveals the actual brush-strokes).  And yet somehow in spite of this the truth of Mercerism – its utility in enabling people to engage with one another and with their harsh existence – remains undimmed while those who exposed the artifice turn out to be artefacts themselves.  (They are androids, famously distinguishable from human beings by their inability to experience empathy).

In suggesting that it is the would-be debunkers, not the Mercerists, who are missing the point, Dick cuts through all the paranoid doubts about reality and authenticity which are such a constant theme of his work, and challenges his own definition of reality (in Valis) as ‘that which when you stop believing in it, it doesn’t go away’. If we are to have a shared reality with other people then this has to be able to include things that are sustained only by belief. After all empathy itself depends on our belief in something that can never actually be proven to be true: that other creatures have feelings which are in some way equivalent to our own.

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My Loncon schedule

• July 10th, 2014 • Posted in All posts, News & events

LONCON3_logo_270w

I’ll be taking part in several panels at the World SF Convention in London in August (Loncon 3), and my schedule is below.

  • Not with a Bang, but with a Metaphor: Panel, Thursday (14th August) 12:00 – 13:30 Capital Suite 2 (ExCeL)

Blurb: From Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ to McCarthy’s ‘The Road’, apocalyptic and dystopian futures are a perennial favourite with writers who might be labelled ‘mainstream’ or ‘literary’. Why do such scenarios have an appeal that goes beyond a genre readership? What does a non-genre apocalypse have to offer that a science fictional one might not, and vice versa? Do we all share broadly similar nightmares, regardless of what ratio of science to sensibility we prefer?

Other panellists: Jacob Weisman, David Hebblethwaite, Paul Weimer, Noa Menhaim.

(A few thoughts about apocalyptic stories and their appeal here.)

  •  Through a Hollywood Adaptation, Darkly: Panel, Thursday (14th August) 18:00 – 19:00. Capital Suite 8 (ExCeL)

Blurb: Thanks largely to the ever-increasing number of film adaptations of his work, Philip K Dick is one of the small number of genre authors whose names have been commodotised: “Dickian” is now a shorthand for paranoia, shifting realities and unstable identities, or even for the condition of twenty-first century life in general. But to what extent is this cliché precis an accurate reflection of the breadth of Dick’s work? What other themes and preoccupations can we see in his novels and stories? How far does his influence on modern SF really extend — and what rewards does his work offer to new readers today?

Other panellists: Christi Scarborough, Grania Davis, Malcolm Edwards.

(Some thoughts of mine on this topic here.)

  • Autographing 3 – Chris Beckett.  Friday 12:00 – 13:30, Autographing Space (ExCeL)
  • Kaffeeklatsch.  Friday 14:00 – 15:00, London Suite 4 (ExCeL).  With Kim Stanley Robinson.
  • Launch oaaa marcher coverf Marcher.   Friday 16.30-17.30, Library (Fan Village).  Launch of the new and revised edition of my 2nd novel Marcher, from Newcon Press, along with Nina Allan’s new novel The Race, Adam Robert’s collection of sssays and criticism, Sibilant Fricative, a new edition of Kim Lakin-Smith’s Cyber Circus, and the new Newcon anthology, Paradox.
  •  The Canon is Dead. What Now? Panel, Saturday (August 16th) 19:00 – 20:00. Capital Suite 16 (ExCeL)

Blurb: On the one hand, initiatives like the SF Gateway are helping to ensure the SF backlist remains accessible to today’s readers, and an increasing number of “classic” SF writers are receiving the establishment seal of approval in series like the Library of America (Philip K. Dick) and the Everyman Library (Isaac Asimov). On the other hand, the SF readership is increasingly diverse, with fewer readers who have come to the field via those “classics”, and many who find little of value in them in any case. In other words the traditional SF canon is no longer tenable — but the history is still out there. So what alternative models and narratives should we be using to understand the field’s past? Should we be working to expand the canon, or to describe multiple overlapping histories — or something else?

Other panellists: Kate Nepveu, Connie Willis, Alvaro Zinos-Amaro, Joe Monti

  • Interzone and Beyond: British SF magazines of the ’80s, ’90s and ’00s: Panel, Sunday (August 17th) 15:00 – 16:30.  Capital Suite 3 (ExCeL)

Blurb: Interzone has been a stalwart of the British genre scene since it first launched in 1982, publishing early stories by Charlie Stross and Stephen Baxter, as well as authors from outside Britain like Aliette de Bodard and Eugie Foster. But the past thirty years have seen a number of genre magazines launched in the UK, including Postscripts, Black Static, Infinity Plus, and The Third Alternative. How have they influenced the British genre scene? How did they find their own niches in the UK SF market, and which careers have been launched in their pages? And what is the importance of British SF magazines in an increasingly global and online market?

Other panellists: Wendy Bradley, Malcolm Edwards, David Pringle, Gareth L. Powell.

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The Tour de France

• July 7th, 2014 • Posted in All posts

We went over to see the Tour de France as it headed out of Cambridge along Trumpington Street past the end of Brooklands Avenue.  Streets had been closed, and special trains organised to bring in people who wanted to watch, and the street was packed with people in both directions.   It was just after midday, and warm and sunny.  Behind us was the greenery of the Botanic Gardens.

A few motorbikes came by, and everyone cheered.  Then more motorbikes arrived, followed by the cyclists themselves, all together in a tight pack with the guy in yellow at the front.  We all clapped and cheered as they went past.   It took less than a minute for the entire pack to go by, and then they were heading out towards Shelford.   A calvacade of vehicles followed: ambulances, bikes carrying cameramen, official Tour vans, liveried cars from the various cycle companies with  roofracks full of  bikes…

And then it was over.   We headed back up Brooklands Avenue with a big crowd of other onlookers which filled the whole street.   What had we seen?  A bunch of cyclists in lycra, glimpsed (for most of us) between other people’s heads, passing very briefly in front of us.

But everyone seemed quite cheerful and content.

I love the human capacity to make something satisfying and meaningful out of nothing much at all.

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A time for every purpose…

• June 30th, 2014 • Posted in All posts, Other people's books

I spend a week every summer on my own on the North Norfolk coast – on this occasion I rented a place in Wells-Next-the-Sea – writing, thinking and reading, with beautiful North Norfolk itself to wander around in when I feel like it, and no internet, no company, no dogs, no nothing. It’s one of my highlights of the year. This time I took Karl O. Knausgaard’s strange novel, A Time to Every Purpose under Heaven, which proved to be fit in well with my state of mind.

I say novel, but it’s not a novel in the conventional sense. It begins with an account of a 17th century Italian child’s encounter with real life angels. His name is Antinous Bellori and he stumbles on them in the mountains. Skull-faced creatures with cold eyes, bloodless lips, and green and black wings, they are hunting for fish in a river with spears, and eating them raw. Bellori becomes obsessed with angels and goes on to write a lengthy scholarly treatise on them.

The book then moves on into a lengthy discussion about angels and their nature and then, by way of the fiery cherubim that guarded the gates of Eden, it revisits in some detail the story of Cain and Abel. This is very different from the biblical account. The two brothers, while very different, are both tortured characters, neither of them wholly bad or good, with complex interior lives. They still live in a place so near to Eden that the fiery light of the cherubim can still be seen in the sky, but this place is distinctly Scandinavian. (In a nice touch, the narrator suggests that the story acquired its Middle Eastern details as a result of cultural assimilation, so that the fjords and glaciers of the original setting were gradually lost and forgotten, just as the characters were gradually simplified.)

We then shift to the story of Noah. The setting is again Scandinavian, but in the forests now there are strange giant creatures born out of sexual unions (actually mentioned in the book of Genesis but never explained) between ‘the sons of God’ and humans. (It is suggested that the sons of God must have been angels.) Noah himself is a strange unworldly man, an albino who can only come out at night, and something of a geek. The story follows him for a while, but then shifts to his sister Anna, her marriage, the birth of her children and grandchildren, and it is from her viewpoint that we see the rising waters. The Ark appears when all but the mountaintops have been covered, but Noah and his sons refuse to take anyone on board, killing with cudgels anyone who tries to climb up, as they would have to have done, of course, if the ship was not to be completely overrun by desperate people. Anna and her family all drown, along with the rest of humanity. It’s not clear what purpose drowning them served, and God himself repents of his decision to flood the Earth.

Now we come to the story of Lot who survived the destruction of Sodom with his two daughters, after offering food and hospitality to two angels. It is Lot who offered his daughters to the lustful crowd who gathered outside his house, demanding to… well, sodomise… the angels, Lot whose wife was changed by an angel into a pillar of salt when she looked back at the ruined city. What strange stories these are. How little there is in them which chimes with our own sense of what is either meaningful or just. But as Knausgaard points out, this will one day be the case with the values and ideas that now seem to us to be self-evidently true. And for this reason, he wisely takes older ways of seeing, whether they are Old Testament stories or seventeenth century theological speculation, quite seriously. (If we just laugh at old ideas, we are really saying that how we see the world now, our current idea of what is real, is also worthy of nothing but ridicule.)

The tour of the Old Testament continues with the prophet Ezekiel, who had his own encounter with angels. According to the Bible, they had four faces, the front face like a man’s, the side faces like an ox and a lion, and the backwards-looking face like an eagle. They had four wings each, completely covered with eyes, and each angel was accompanied by a rolling wheel which was also covered with eyes. Strange, strange, strange.

After the birth of Christ, though, angels change. They become less divine, less majestic. Bellori has his own explanation for this, based on the heretical idea (which he has to recant to avoid the stake) that the divine itself is not constant but constantly changed its form, until it eventually became human and died. After all, the Old Testament, as Knausgaard shows, contains instances of God being caught by surprise, and changing his mind, and regretting an action he has taken: very different from the eternal, all-knowing and omnipresent being of later theology.

Having lost their original status and purpose, angels roam the earth like vagabonds – Bellori has another encounter with them, and takes the recently-dead corpse of the Archangel Michael back to his house for dissection – but they continue to diminish, gradually becoming the little cuddly cherubs that we see in eighteenth century paintings. (There is a nice moment where three of these cherubs make a nuisance of themselves in a country house and have to be chased out by servants with brooms.)  And even that’s not the end of it, because then they grow feathers and beaks until at last these cold-eyed servants of God become cold-eyed seagulls, which, in this book at least, still have tiny vestigial arms and hands dangling beneath their wings.

Seagulls take us to modern Norway, and finally to the book’s narrator, Henrik Vankel. He is an odd man, emotionally disturbed, physically clumsy, haunted by guilt and self-loathing, and he has exiled himself to a remote island because of some unspecified thing he’s done that makes him feel defiled and ashamed. At first he projects his own negative feelings onto his surroundings, but gradually they change him:

Shame is a social mechanism, it requires a tight set of relationships to function, without that it withers, and this was exactly what happened after a few weeks on the island. The sun of today pushed the shadows of yesterday further and further back, it’s the only way I can describe it, because it was as if more and more light came into my life, while at the same time I moved further and further towards the front of my consciousness, until one day I stood right on the edge and stared out, filled with an enormous ecstasy: I was here! I could see this! It took less and less to kindle the joy of life in me.

 * * *

That’s actually a pretty accurate description of what invariably happens when I spend my week on the coast: I move towards the front of my consciousness. It doesn’t happen straight away, and it even when it does happen, it comes and goes (as is also the case with Vankel’s experience, for he descends again into self-loathing and violent self-harm), but always at some point I realise that I’m at home in the world, and no longer distanced from it, to the point where even the knowledge that this state won’t last forever is something that I feel entirely calm about.

It isn’t my normal state. Often I feel far from the world, tied up inside myself, like Vankel in knots of fear, shame, doubt, worry, and with the various activities, many of them meaningless, with which I fill up my life, as if stuffing my face with junk food. Typically, even when I’m in a place which pleases me, I have a sense that I am in some way cut off from it, so that I feel kind of nostalgic ache, even when the object of that nostalgia is physically present. I’ve always assumed that this sense of separation was the common state of humanity – we only exist, after, because, over millions of years, our ancestors have successfully guarded their separateness, as lumps of highly organised matter, from the much less highly organised surroundings into which entropy is constantly tugging them – and I’ve always assumed that the legend of Eden and the Fall was in part a way of describing it.

* * *

But I digress from Knausgaard’s book. I enjoyed this novel and was sorry to reach the end of it. It is a very rich book, both in terms of earthy sensory experience, and in terms of ideas: the fact it is rich in both these ways is appropriate in a book that challenges abstraction and makes ‘spiritual’ beings like God and angels into physical entities. One of the things I liked best about it was that it doesn’t have a plot to hold it all together, and yet it hung together aesthetically and thematically, like a painting or a piece of music. Plot is such an artificial thing, and so prone to take over from everything else.

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Three things I don’t write about…

• June 7th, 2014 • Posted in All posts

Neil Williamson, author of the excellent Moon King, kindly invited me to follow him in another of those writer blog chains.  In this one we’re supposed to name three things we don’t write about and three things we do.   Neil’s own answers are here.   And here, belatedly, are mine:

Things I don’t write about:

Galactic empires:  I know most science fictional ‘futures’ are futures which, even at time of writing, we know won’t really happen.  But this particular impossible future strikes me as having been somewhat done to death.

Ordinary life: I’d like to think what I write is relevant to everyday life, but I can’t ever see myself writing a book which is simply about ordinary people doing ordinary stuff, in much the same way that, if I was a visual artist, I can’t imagine I’d want (once I’d mastered the skills) to simply reproduce what I saw in front of me.

Action heroes:  I was surprised when a recent New York Times reviewer criticised John Redlantern in Dark Eden for being a stereotypical 50s action hero, because I’ve never liked those kind of ultra-competent, super-brave characters at all.  If John Redlantern does fall into that mould then it’s a case of parallel evolution.   I wanted to write a male protagonist who made stuff happen, unlike the somewhat passive, introverted and (in those respects at least) somewhat Chris Beckett-like protagonists of both previous novels. Trying to figure out something different about his mental make-up, that would drive John Redlantern to act and bring about change, I had him impose on himself at the beginning of the book the puritanical rule that every time he made a decision he would always think about the long-term benefits of the alternatives, rather than what he actually felt like doing at the time. But what drives him deep down, as Tina Spiketree observes, is actually a kind of fear.

Things I do write about:

Mothers: I didn’t set out deliberately to do this, but the main male protagonists of The Holy Machine, Marcher and Dark Eden all have what I can only call mother issues, as does the tortured poet in ‘Monsters’, which I sometimes think is my favourite of all my short stories.   And then of course my next book is called Mother of Eden…   Well, just think of the therapy bills I’m saving.

Transgression:  My characters are always crossing boundaries, both literal and metaphorical.  In the Holy Machine, George and Lucy escape from Illyria into the Outlands.  In Dark Eden, John deliberately breaks something that almost everyone holds dear, and then heads off over Snowy Dark in defiance of his own community.  In Mother of Eden, Starlight Brooking crosses Worldpool, and breaks a centuries-old rule which she’d promised always to keep.   As to Marcher, well, the word itself means a frontier-dweller, and the main character is a schizoid figure who obsessively guards a kind of metaphysical frontier while simultaneously longing to cross it himself.  Again: massive therapy bill savings here, I suspect.

Charisma:  Not quite such an obvious theme of mine, but the Holy Machine is a robot saint, preaching to huge adoring crowds, John Redlantern is able to get others to follow him through his steely certainty that he’s right, and Starlight Brooking, also finding herself venerated as a kind of saint, becomes a powerful and radical leader.

Neil passed on this baton to three other writers including myself.  (The other two were Keith Brooke and  James Everington).  However a quick calculation tells me that if I were to pass this on to three authors, and they were each to pass it on to three and so on, in six months time we’d need more than two trillion authors, which would of course entail a vast emergency cloning programme between now and then, to be followed by catastrophic ecological collapse.   In order to avoid such an outcome, I’m just going to pass this on to just one person.

That said, I’ve often suspected Ian Whates of secretly being a set of identical triplets, simply on the basis of how much he manages to get done.  Not only is he a far more prolific writer than me, but he also publishes other people’s books in his capacity as proprietor, editor, sales director and administrator of Newcon Press, which publishes Neil’s Moon King mentioned above, as well as my own Peacock Cloak, and the forthcoming new edition of Marcher, amongst many other things.  He’s also an active member of the British science fiction community, maintains a vast network of contacts and friends that seems to include practically everyone, and still managed to find time to be a Clarke Award judge this year, which entailed reading more than 100 books.   Suspicious, I think you’ll agree.

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The new Marcher

• June 4th, 2014 • Posted in All posts, News & events

aaa marcher coverI just received a copy of the new Marcher today from Ian Whates at NewCon press.   It’s always a lovely feeling, that first time you put your hands on the actual physical book.  And I love the cover image by Ben Baldwin, loosely based on the famous painting by Magritte: ‘Not to be reproduced’.

The book won’t be available for sale until the August launch at Loncon.

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Croatia (2)

• May 18th, 2014 • Posted in All posts

Another good evening at Sferakon yesterday.

Here’s a further extract from the Croatian scene in The Holy Machine:

Help came in the form of a solitary figure in black hurrying across the square.  It was an elderly widow, tightly clutching an enormous brown cockerel in both arms.

                ‘What kind of monastery is this?’ I asked her.  ‘Who is it dedicated to?’

                I must have spoken something that at least approximated to her own language.  She stopped and looked at me.

                ‘You poor boy!  You must go in!  The monks are good.  They will give you help.’

                ‘But what kind of monks?  Who do they believe in?’

                ‘They are kind and holy.  They’ll help you.’

                ‘Please,’ I grabbed her arm.  ‘Please tell me.  What do they believe in?’

                She stared at me.  Something in my face shocked her.  She released the cockerel’s neck, so as to free her right hand to cross herself.

                ‘It is a monastery of the Roman Church,’ she said, ‘but now that it is given over to the Holy Machine, may the Lord bless his name, who knows what church it belongs to.’

                The cockerel, red wattles quivering, had twisted his neck round to stare at me with a fierce yellow eye.  It suddenly emitted a loud, cold shriek.

                ‘The Holy… Machine?’ I mumbled.

                ‘Yes.’ She gave a little laugh.  ‘A great miracle.  He is a kind of robot, but God has given him a soul – and not an ordinary human soul either, but the soul of a saint or an angel!’

                ‘But…  I thought robots were… bad…’

                ‘Yes, of course, and Mary Magdalene was a whore.  To God, all things are possible.’

                The woman smiled and patted me on the arm.

                ‘Go in, young man.  You’ve got a fever.  They’ll get you dry and give you something to eat.’

                A sudden eruption of activity and noise made me cower and cry out with fear.  But it was just the cockerel.  It had worked one of its wings free and was beating it frantically.

                ‘No you don’t!’ snapped the old woman, grabbing it grimly by the throat.

                ‘Go in,’ she urged me over her shoulder as she dealt with the offending bird.  ‘Go in!’

                The rain was starting up again.  She hurried on.

* * *

Even just the time I had spent standing and talking with the widow had left my body stiff.  I hobbled very slowly across the square, only to quail in front of the blue double door.  Here was food, warmth, rest.  Here more importantly than anything was the possibility of forgiveness that had been the whole purpose of this journey.  Somewhere within was that bright, silver being that I so longed to meet.  But now I dreaded that encounter.

                Very reluctantly I lifted my hand to the knocker.  A stab of pain ran through my body.  I let the knocker fall.

                Thud!

                Silence.

                Silence.

                A cold gust of wind blew the rain across the empty square.

                I give up, I thought.  Let me just crawl away to some hole in the ground and sink peacefully into oblivion.

                I had already turned away from the door when from within came the sound of sliding bolts.  The left half of the big door slowly opened to reveal a small, fat, balding monk.

                ‘I am…’ I hesitated for a moment before I could recall my own name.  ‘I am George Simling, an Illyrian.  I wondered…  I need food, somewhere to sleep.  I want to see the Holy Machine.’

                ‘Come in then, come in.’

 *   *   *

And then I found that the closed door was already behind me and I was in a pale, stone-flagged corridor.  The monk took my arm.  There were many small blue doors down one side.  I caught a glimpse of a bright tree glistening in an empty courtyard.  Then many more doors.

                I felt myself coming to from a labyrinthine dream of mountains, wars and roads…  I woke up and remembered that reality was simply this: moving slowly along a corridor with calm blue doors.  On and on.  That was life.  Why bother to open the doors?  Why bother?  Why not just carry on along here?  It would be fine if it wasn’t so cold.  It would be just fine.

                I came to again.  There were voices.  Another monk had appeared, this one tall and sandy-haired.  The two men were conferring about me.  I couldn’t understand the words at first.  I think I was trying to listen to them in the wrong language.

                A blue door opened.  I was a little afraid.  But I went up into the sky and looked down from above, as if into a doll’s house.

In a small bare room with a single chair and a single bed, a monk was talking to a pale young man with bleeding feet.  (‘Not him again!’ I thought.  ‘Why is it always him?’)

                ‘Take off your wet clothes,’ the monk coaxed gently,  ‘We’ll get you some dry things and something to eat, and we’ll dress these feet.  Then you must rest.  You have a very high temperature indeed.’

                Another monk arrived.   Another little monk down there in the doll’s house with miniature dressings and a tiny bowl of water.

                ‘We’ll have to undress him,’ said the first one.  ‘I don’t think he can do it for himself.’

                ‘Are you sure he speaks Croatian?’

                ‘Yes.  Well he spoke it clearly enough when he arrived.  His name is George.  He’s from the City.’

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A previous visit to Croatia

• May 17th, 2014 • Posted in All posts

I’m currently attending the Sferakon 2014 convention in Zagreb as a guest of honour.   I’m being made most welcome and am having a great time.  (I’m also amazed by the fluency in English of everyone here: I have no conception of what it might be like to speak another language to that level).  Zagreb is a very attractive city too, even though currently somewhat grey and rainy.

I’ve never been to Croatia before, other than a single bus journey, back in the 70s, when I crossed what was then Yugoslavia from one end to the other, on my way back from Greece to England.   However, the Balkans have always had a strong hold on my imagination, and my first novel, The Holy Machine, was entirely set in this part of the world.   The novel deals with a conflict between atheism and various resurgent religions, and the Balkans seemed a natural setting for that because it is a region where religions and empires meet like tectonic plates:  Rome/Byzantium, Catholicism/Orthodoxy/Islam, Austria-Hungary/Venice/Turkey.  (And when I formed the idea the book, in the early 90s, there was of course a terrible conflict taking place along some of those ancient fault-lines.)

Croatia itself appears in the book in a rather crucial scene, when the book’s protagonist, confused, traumatised and feverish, arrives in a village where there is a large monastery:

Very slowly I made my way down the hill, dragging one leg like an old man. There was a lull in the rain, but water was everywhere. Streams gurgled and tinkled all around me. Muddy water ran in rivulets across the road. I remember I saw a lizard on the stony ground. Because of the cold, it moved away from me not with the normal darting motion of lizards, but in slow motion, one leg at a time.

At the outskirts of the village I met a young man with a long, wet moustache.

‘Excuse me,’ I murmured, ‘excuse me…’

I reached out to him and touched his sleeve. He pulled his arm away indignantly, then dived into a house and slammed the door.

The clouds were breaking up overhead into rags of grey and white and the sun shone through in patches: a tree illuminated here, a ruined house there… The mountainside which I had just descended was now blazing with brilliant, yellow light.

I passed closed doors and shuttered windows. A thin dog came trotting past. It paused to sniff at me, as if wondering whether there was any flesh left on me worth eating.

At the centre of the village there was a square with single shop and a police station, both of them closed and shuttered up. There was a ruined building and some deserted-looking houses. The long, white wall of the monastery formed one whole side of the square. It had barred windows with pale blue stonework around them, and a single, large ornate door.

I hesitated. Where was this? Bosnia? Montenegro? Dalmatia? Istria? Venetia? What alphabet was that above the door of the police station? What language did they speak? I swayed and tottered and nearly fell.

And what religion was it here, I wondered (for I had noticed that geography was the main determinant of religious belief)? Which God did they follow? Should I ask for alms in the name of Allah, or Jesus Christ, or Bogomil, or… who? Some Slavonic god of plenty? To my confused, feverish mind, the question seemed both insoluble and frighteningly important. That dull, persistent aching feeling was pressing heavily against the inside of my eyes.

Which God? Couldn’t I at least know which God?       

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