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Wednesday, January 06, 2010
2010
Happy New Year to you all. It's been snowing here in the Scottish Borders for about three weeks, off and on, and we currently have about a foot and a half of the white stuff lying on the ground. All very picturesque. All the usual traffic chaos. The BBC is devoting all its news time to "Frozen Britain." The country seems to have ground to a halt. If only people living in places like Canada or Scandinavia could see our news reports. I think they'd laugh.
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Thursday, December 24, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Another Story Competition
It's the BBC again, this time looking for extraordinary true stories. Fifteen of the best will feature in a new TV series. Five people "win the chance to have their stories turned into books with an advance of £20,000." I'm not sure what they mean by "win the chance", or how many of the five will actually be turned into books, but £20,000 isn't bad.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/mystory/
Anyone with a current publishing contract is not allowed to enter -- which rules me out. Not that I have the time to spare anyway (or much in the way of extraordinary true stories that anyone would be remotely interested in).
http://www.bbc.co.uk/mystory/
Anyone with a current publishing contract is not allowed to enter -- which rules me out. Not that I have the time to spare anyway (or much in the way of extraordinary true stories that anyone would be remotely interested in).
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Christmas Story Competition
BBC's The One Show are holding a Christmas story competition. Entries must be 200 words or less, and reach them by noon on Monday. You can enter online. The winning story will be read out live on air by the great Bernard Cribbins.
I had a go myself, but my story is too long at 300 words. So I thought I'd post it here. I'm not convinced it really captures the spirit of Christmas anyway.
-- Jason and Cressilda --
Once upon a time a little boy and a little girl were wandering through a forest at night. The air was crisp and clear and the snow lay in soft white hummocks beneath the pines. The two children were named Jason and Cressilda, and they each carried a present they had wrapped carefully in bright paper.
"We can't give him two scarves," said Jason.
Little Cressilda ran to catch up with her big brother, who was so much taller than she. "I made mine specially. You just bought yours in a shop."
"At least mine is red," Jason said. "He only wears red, you know."
"I didn't have any red wool," Cressilda replied glumly.
Jason just laughed and marched ahead.
At last they came to glittering clearing among the trees. All was dark and silent. Jason strode on out into the centre and gazed up at the stars. "We'll be able to spot him from here."
But then he heard a sudden cracking sound under his feet. The snow had been hiding a frozen pool. The ice broke and he fell through into freezing water. He tried to climb out, but his hands kept slipping.
Cressilda tore open her parcel and threw the end of her scarf to her brother, who held on tightly and managed to pull himself out. He sat on the ice for a long moment, shivering and gasping for breath. Finally he hung his head and moaned. "I lost my present."
"We can still give him mine," Cressilda said, "it can be from both of us."
Jason picked up the wet, miserable clod of wool that had been Cressilda's scarf. "You can't give him this thing now," he said. "Look at the state of it." He tossed it into the water.
Cressilda began to sob quietly.
Three years later she died of leukaemia.
I had a go myself, but my story is too long at 300 words. So I thought I'd post it here. I'm not convinced it really captures the spirit of Christmas anyway.
-- Jason and Cressilda --
Once upon a time a little boy and a little girl were wandering through a forest at night. The air was crisp and clear and the snow lay in soft white hummocks beneath the pines. The two children were named Jason and Cressilda, and they each carried a present they had wrapped carefully in bright paper.
"We can't give him two scarves," said Jason.
Little Cressilda ran to catch up with her big brother, who was so much taller than she. "I made mine specially. You just bought yours in a shop."
"At least mine is red," Jason said. "He only wears red, you know."
"I didn't have any red wool," Cressilda replied glumly.
Jason just laughed and marched ahead.
At last they came to glittering clearing among the trees. All was dark and silent. Jason strode on out into the centre and gazed up at the stars. "We'll be able to spot him from here."
But then he heard a sudden cracking sound under his feet. The snow had been hiding a frozen pool. The ice broke and he fell through into freezing water. He tried to climb out, but his hands kept slipping.
Cressilda tore open her parcel and threw the end of her scarf to her brother, who held on tightly and managed to pull himself out. He sat on the ice for a long moment, shivering and gasping for breath. Finally he hung his head and moaned. "I lost my present."
"We can still give him mine," Cressilda said, "it can be from both of us."
Jason picked up the wet, miserable clod of wool that had been Cressilda's scarf. "You can't give him this thing now," he said. "Look at the state of it." He tossed it into the water.
Cressilda began to sob quietly.
Three years later she died of leukaemia.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Life as a Writer
My brother Neil phoned me from the SFF section of a bookshop in Brighton, asking for any recommendations. Someone standing nearby overhead him and said, "The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss."
Neil asked me my opinion.
"I haven't read it," I replied. "But I've heard it's really good."
And then the passer-by asked Neil if he could recommend a book in turn.
Neil picked a copy of Scar Night from the shelf and handed it to him. "The author's on the phone," he said, "if you want to speak to him."
I remember feeling suddenly uneasy. He's going to feel obliged to buy my book now. What if he hates it?
---
My phone woke me at 3am. Groggily, I answered. It was Neil.
"I'm at a party," he said. "Ian Rankin is here. Do you want to talk to him?"
"Eh?" Before I had a chance to figure out what was happening, a new voice came over the phone. Now, I've never spoken to Ian Rankin, but I know that he's Scottish. And the accent in my ear was about about as far from being Scottish as the White Cliffs of Dover.
Neil, the bastard, had woken me up at 3am to speak to some random dude at a party who – for some unfathomable reason – was pretending to be Ian Rankin. They were probably all pissed, and I was not happy. I can't remember exactly what I said to – or possibly shouted at – the unfortunate guy, but I think I made it clear that I thought his accent was ridiculous and he wasn't fooling anyone. Then I hung up.
Flipping cheek.
But as I calmed down, I realised that Neil hadn't said "Ian Rankin" at all. He'd said "Robert Rankin", the very successful Brighton-based Fantasy author.
I met Robert a few months later and apologised.
---
I played Monopoly with my agent, Simon, and my partner, Caragh. It was an ancient Monopoly set and most of the money had been replaced by bits of paper with the denominations scrawled across them. I knew Simon was cheating, and he knew I was cheating. At every opportunity we snatched street cards and notes from the bank, completing sets by subterfuge.
As the game went on, the cheating became more blatant and outrageous. Whole sets vanished into our hands. Mortgaged properties mysteriously flipped round again. Hotels sprung up when nobody was looking.
Caragh refused to play with us any more.
We finished the evening by pinging little green Monopoly houses into the fire.
---
A friend I've not seen for a while emailed me. He'd been given the task of looking after an independent assessor assigned to his workplace. Chatting with the guy, my friend discovered that he was an avid SFF fan and was currently halfway through Scar Night. So he asked him what he thought of it. The guy said he was really enjoying it, and planned to buy the second book.
These are the little things that make this job worthwhile.
---
Another friend emailed me from Canada to say he'd seen a couple of my books in a shop over there. I didn't know you could buy them in Canada. Little things again.
---
When Simon phoned to tell me that Bantam had bought the US rights to Scar Night, I was on holiday in Paris, standing on top of the Eiffel Tower.
---
We had the launch for Scar Night in Edinburgh. Iain Banks came along, and then very kindly took us all out to his favourite Indian restaurant for a curry. Between courses, a few of us nipped out for a sly cigarette with Iain.
After Iain went back inside, my partner's dad Jim, said, "I've been reading his book about whisky. The strange thing is, I'd just last night finished the part where he talks about nipping outside this restaurant for a sly cigarette."
---
The day after the book launch, I drove Hal Duncan, my editor Peter Lavery, and my agent Simon Kavanagh back to my place, which is out in the country. The sun was shining and Hal and Simon sang "Road to Amarillo" in ridiculously loud voices.
Whenever I hear that song now, it makes me smile.
---
I travelled to London once to have my photo taken for a magazine. The photographer was one of the most interesting people I've ever met. He'd photographed Mother Teresa, Donald Trump and Kylie Minogue, and, while I could have listened to his stories for hours, I felt like I owed him an apology for him having to travel across London to take a picture of me.
I dislike having my picture taken at the best of times, but its worse when the photographer is a professional and they have all the Paparazzi-style flashes and lenses, and it's out in public somewhere. The passers-by are all thinking "Who is that idiot? I don't recognise him."
At moments like these you are very aware of your cheap suit jacket.
---
Ghosts have been seen at my editor's villa in Italy. It's an old, old house, but very beautiful. One guest claims to have seen a whole family standing around his bed in the dead of night.
Simon and I were sitting in the living room one evening, drinking wine, when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye – a shadow seemed to have just darted across the hallway. A short while later, it happened again. I couldn't tell you what shape it was, just that it was dark and moved quickly. But whenever I'd turned to look, there was nothing there.
I mentioned this to Simon, who claimed to have seen it himself.
We decided to have a séance.
The Scrabble board supplied the letters. We upturned a glass to use as a planchette.
"Is there anybody there?"
The glass under our fingers began nudging letters. YES.
"Where are you?"
SHEOL.
This is the abode of the dead. (I Googled it). Now this meant that spirits really do exist, or that Simon had been steering the glass. Therefore, it had to be Simon. He denied it vigorously. I persisted. He continued to deny it. I had another think about this. Spirits of the dead? No, it had to be Simon.
Okay. Finally he admitted it.
The next day I sneaked up to his room while he was out. I took a piece of string and threaded it through the gap between the door and the frame, and then ran it across the front of one of the bookshelves next to the door. Finally I looped the string behind a tatty old paperback and sandwiched the end between two other books. In this way, one could pull on the string from outside the door, thus causing the paperback to leap from the shelf.
My trap set, I waited until dark.
After Simon went to bed, I crept out into the hall and yanked the string.
From the other side of the door came the satisfying thud of the book landing on the floor.
The next day we got to speaking about ghosts again. Simon told me what had happened. Frustratingly, he wasn't the nervous wreck I'd been hoping for. All these things have a rational explanation, after all.
If you're reading this Simon, sorry about that.
Neil asked me my opinion.
"I haven't read it," I replied. "But I've heard it's really good."
And then the passer-by asked Neil if he could recommend a book in turn.
Neil picked a copy of Scar Night from the shelf and handed it to him. "The author's on the phone," he said, "if you want to speak to him."
I remember feeling suddenly uneasy. He's going to feel obliged to buy my book now. What if he hates it?
---
My phone woke me at 3am. Groggily, I answered. It was Neil.
"I'm at a party," he said. "Ian Rankin is here. Do you want to talk to him?"
"Eh?" Before I had a chance to figure out what was happening, a new voice came over the phone. Now, I've never spoken to Ian Rankin, but I know that he's Scottish. And the accent in my ear was about about as far from being Scottish as the White Cliffs of Dover.
Neil, the bastard, had woken me up at 3am to speak to some random dude at a party who – for some unfathomable reason – was pretending to be Ian Rankin. They were probably all pissed, and I was not happy. I can't remember exactly what I said to – or possibly shouted at – the unfortunate guy, but I think I made it clear that I thought his accent was ridiculous and he wasn't fooling anyone. Then I hung up.
Flipping cheek.
But as I calmed down, I realised that Neil hadn't said "Ian Rankin" at all. He'd said "Robert Rankin", the very successful Brighton-based Fantasy author.
I met Robert a few months later and apologised.
---
I played Monopoly with my agent, Simon, and my partner, Caragh. It was an ancient Monopoly set and most of the money had been replaced by bits of paper with the denominations scrawled across them. I knew Simon was cheating, and he knew I was cheating. At every opportunity we snatched street cards and notes from the bank, completing sets by subterfuge.
As the game went on, the cheating became more blatant and outrageous. Whole sets vanished into our hands. Mortgaged properties mysteriously flipped round again. Hotels sprung up when nobody was looking.
Caragh refused to play with us any more.
We finished the evening by pinging little green Monopoly houses into the fire.
---
A friend I've not seen for a while emailed me. He'd been given the task of looking after an independent assessor assigned to his workplace. Chatting with the guy, my friend discovered that he was an avid SFF fan and was currently halfway through Scar Night. So he asked him what he thought of it. The guy said he was really enjoying it, and planned to buy the second book.
These are the little things that make this job worthwhile.
---
Another friend emailed me from Canada to say he'd seen a couple of my books in a shop over there. I didn't know you could buy them in Canada. Little things again.
---
When Simon phoned to tell me that Bantam had bought the US rights to Scar Night, I was on holiday in Paris, standing on top of the Eiffel Tower.
---
We had the launch for Scar Night in Edinburgh. Iain Banks came along, and then very kindly took us all out to his favourite Indian restaurant for a curry. Between courses, a few of us nipped out for a sly cigarette with Iain.
After Iain went back inside, my partner's dad Jim, said, "I've been reading his book about whisky. The strange thing is, I'd just last night finished the part where he talks about nipping outside this restaurant for a sly cigarette."
---
The day after the book launch, I drove Hal Duncan, my editor Peter Lavery, and my agent Simon Kavanagh back to my place, which is out in the country. The sun was shining and Hal and Simon sang "Road to Amarillo" in ridiculously loud voices.
Whenever I hear that song now, it makes me smile.
---
I travelled to London once to have my photo taken for a magazine. The photographer was one of the most interesting people I've ever met. He'd photographed Mother Teresa, Donald Trump and Kylie Minogue, and, while I could have listened to his stories for hours, I felt like I owed him an apology for him having to travel across London to take a picture of me.
I dislike having my picture taken at the best of times, but its worse when the photographer is a professional and they have all the Paparazzi-style flashes and lenses, and it's out in public somewhere. The passers-by are all thinking "Who is that idiot? I don't recognise him."
At moments like these you are very aware of your cheap suit jacket.
---
Ghosts have been seen at my editor's villa in Italy. It's an old, old house, but very beautiful. One guest claims to have seen a whole family standing around his bed in the dead of night.
Simon and I were sitting in the living room one evening, drinking wine, when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye – a shadow seemed to have just darted across the hallway. A short while later, it happened again. I couldn't tell you what shape it was, just that it was dark and moved quickly. But whenever I'd turned to look, there was nothing there.
I mentioned this to Simon, who claimed to have seen it himself.
We decided to have a séance.
The Scrabble board supplied the letters. We upturned a glass to use as a planchette.
"Is there anybody there?"
The glass under our fingers began nudging letters. YES.
"Where are you?"
SHEOL.
This is the abode of the dead. (I Googled it). Now this meant that spirits really do exist, or that Simon had been steering the glass. Therefore, it had to be Simon. He denied it vigorously. I persisted. He continued to deny it. I had another think about this. Spirits of the dead? No, it had to be Simon.
Okay. Finally he admitted it.
The next day I sneaked up to his room while he was out. I took a piece of string and threaded it through the gap between the door and the frame, and then ran it across the front of one of the bookshelves next to the door. Finally I looped the string behind a tatty old paperback and sandwiched the end between two other books. In this way, one could pull on the string from outside the door, thus causing the paperback to leap from the shelf.
My trap set, I waited until dark.
After Simon went to bed, I crept out into the hall and yanked the string.
From the other side of the door came the satisfying thud of the book landing on the floor.
The next day we got to speaking about ghosts again. Simon told me what had happened. Frustratingly, he wasn't the nervous wreck I'd been hoping for. All these things have a rational explanation, after all.
If you're reading this Simon, sorry about that.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Literary Taliban
Fellow Tor writer Anthony Huso emailed me the other day to let me know his website was up and running. Anthony is a newly-published fantasy author with whom I've been corresponding. As I looked at his website, these thoughts went through my head:
Hmm... Nice graphics... What does the blog say...? Uh huh... Woah.
His post about rejection stopped me dead.
Here Anthony talks briefly about his efforts to find an agent. One of the agents he approached sent him this reply:
"Seeing as how I find fantasy to be ridiculous and genre writing wholly without merit, I don’t think I’d be the right person to represent you."
Ridiculous? Without merit?
Okay.
All fiction is fantasy, because it is made up, but let's not go there. This agent clearly means fantasy in the sense of fiction that is – in some major way – unconstrained by reality: works that utilise settings, creatures or even natural laws that are plainly not, never have been, and – crucially – never could be, part of the real world. If you remove that last proviso, you get Science Fiction. The worlds depicted in Iain M Banks's Culture novels or Cormac McCarthy's The Road are entirely fictional. For a reader to accept either of these settings enough to enjoy the story requires a degree of trust in the author, and some imagination. Just how much imagination depends on both the strangeness of the world and the author's ability to paint it.
Of all the genres, fantasy seems to me to represent the greatest departure from reality. Yes, it requires the reader to suspend disbelief and use his imagination. And, yes, there's a lot of crap out there, just as there is in any other corner of the bookshop. But to dismiss fantasy outright is narrow minded and snobbish. What do we gain by restricting our literature to what we can perceive, rather than what we can imagine? Impossible worlds? Monsters and magic? Milton, Homer, and Shakespeare did not find them too ridiculous to write about. The Literary Taliban might look down on Fantasy with a vague air of contempt, but I think our culture would be so much poorer without Beowulf, without dragons, Titans, Oberon and Puck, vampires, hellfire and Quidditch.
Anyhoo, I urge you to have a look an Anthony's site. There's no Quidditch to be found, but there are other ideas to fire the imagination, which is, after all, what fantasy is all about.
Hmm... Nice graphics... What does the blog say...? Uh huh... Woah.
His post about rejection stopped me dead.
Here Anthony talks briefly about his efforts to find an agent. One of the agents he approached sent him this reply:
"Seeing as how I find fantasy to be ridiculous and genre writing wholly without merit, I don’t think I’d be the right person to represent you."
Ridiculous? Without merit?
Okay.
All fiction is fantasy, because it is made up, but let's not go there. This agent clearly means fantasy in the sense of fiction that is – in some major way – unconstrained by reality: works that utilise settings, creatures or even natural laws that are plainly not, never have been, and – crucially – never could be, part of the real world. If you remove that last proviso, you get Science Fiction. The worlds depicted in Iain M Banks's Culture novels or Cormac McCarthy's The Road are entirely fictional. For a reader to accept either of these settings enough to enjoy the story requires a degree of trust in the author, and some imagination. Just how much imagination depends on both the strangeness of the world and the author's ability to paint it.
Of all the genres, fantasy seems to me to represent the greatest departure from reality. Yes, it requires the reader to suspend disbelief and use his imagination. And, yes, there's a lot of crap out there, just as there is in any other corner of the bookshop. But to dismiss fantasy outright is narrow minded and snobbish. What do we gain by restricting our literature to what we can perceive, rather than what we can imagine? Impossible worlds? Monsters and magic? Milton, Homer, and Shakespeare did not find them too ridiculous to write about. The Literary Taliban might look down on Fantasy with a vague air of contempt, but I think our culture would be so much poorer without Beowulf, without dragons, Titans, Oberon and Puck, vampires, hellfire and Quidditch.
Anyhoo, I urge you to have a look an Anthony's site. There's no Quidditch to be found, but there are other ideas to fire the imagination, which is, after all, what fantasy is all about.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
WRITERS UNBLOCKED
As part of the Biggar Little Festival, Edinburgh-based Writers' Bloc (of which I am a part-time member) join forces with Biggar Writers tonight for an evening of radical readings, hubris and hilarity.
If you're in the area, we hope to see you there.
If you're in the area, we hope to see you there.
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