US proofs of Ecko Rising just landed on my desk. These moments make everything worth it – bring me out in chills because I still can’t quite wrap my head round the fact that they’re real. Then the book is in my hands, new quotes and new accolades, and I wonder if I could pinch myself and wake up.
Ecko might reckon he’s King of Cynics… but I love my goosebumps and I hope they never fail me.
Ryde, like all little seaside towns in the off-season, is a very peculiar little place.
Walking along the bleak and windy seafront, it’s very beautiful – the tide low enough to look like you can walk over the Solent, the wind cold enough to flay the skin from your face. There are follies here, strange towers long unoccupied, deserted funfairs and seaside rides; there are huge estates of derelict property. As the sand blows past your feet and the empty tourist attractions stand stark against the sky, the whole damn thing does just look like its waiting for the Zombie Apocalypse.
My guesthouse is out of time – some vision of the 1950s, with rocking horse and gingham curtains and winding, endless stairs. Sapphire and Steel have been here – it should have a little plaque to say so – or perhaps its from one of Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected, and there’s a body in a back room that’s been decaying there for years.
Like the beach, though, it has an allure all of its own.
The island continues to offer oddities – tourism and militaria are everywhere, as expected – but so are endless charity and vintage shops, numbers of harmless loonies in curious hats, and every house seems to need some stone creature or gargoyle lurking on its front porch. Protecting it, perhaps.
Derelict property – and churches – recur with alarming regularity.
Going on holiday by myself has been an experience – kind of lonely (but in a good way) and kind of empowering. Next year, I’m going back to Ryde and I’m filming Sapphire and Steel face the Zombie Hordes.
Move over, Doctor Who – it’s a guaranteed winner!
Take a long drive via the scenic route, the rising slopes and rearing rocks of Snowdonia, the sheep in the road, the tumbledown stone cots and the villages on the edge of nowhere.
Take a holiday caravan with a choice of old VHS tapes. Take giant deckchairs and cawing rooks and strange chainsaw-carved creatures that looked like something out of Spirited Away. Something waiting.
Take twelve-hour days on our feet, selling copies of Avengers Vs. X-Men and Assassin’s Creed cosplay stealth blades (so was there that game of Dancefloor Hitman in the end?). Take many friends, old and new; take a very different kind of stock, and a very different kind of fan.
Take a plethora of authors at the Forbidden Planet table. Take notes on how appearing on a panel can affect a subsequent signing. Take nineteen copies of Ecko signed and sold – and take an interesting lesson in authordom from, at various points, David Moody, Stacia Kane and Peter V Brett. Take time to wonder: just how much of an author’s persona is donned?
Take costumes (of course) – take a cardboard Blood Angel and five fans dressed as a game of Pac-Man. Take every kind cleavage, every pattern of waistcoat, every steampunk cog and goggle; take every lightsaber, every sword and bow and zap-gun. Take every plastic and pointy ear.
Take a breath, and go outside.
And finally, take a walk in the early morning, down to a beautiful little beach and great shadows of mountains – take a moment of tranquillity that makes the high energy madness of the Con all wonderfully surreal.
And take a consensus?
A subtly different event – very much a con for cosplayers. In some ways, it felt more like Expo than EasterCon. The facilities were better than previous years and the business was very good, but perhaps a little bit warmer, next year?
This is post where the author puts up their schedule for the Con – you know the ones: this panel, this talk, this signing, this kaffeklastch (if you’re lofty enough to have earned such things), and then I’ll be in the bar. If it’s the SF(X) Weekender, it normally comes with a reminder to take your own toilet roll, towel and sense of humour.
Take the bar as read, the sense of humour as blue, and the Forbidden Planet trading table as where you’ll usually find it – and it seems that the Haven on offer this year is a cut above some of the comedy chalets we’ve deloused in the past.
I even hear rumours of Laser Quest.
My own schedule is, as ever, fairly straightforward – you’ll find me behind the Forbidden Planet trading table and (at at least one point) changing hats to take a seat (if you see what I mean) and joining Peter V Brett to deface some books.
As ever, the FP table will be hosting a series of such events throughout the weekend, so do make a note:-
FRIDAY
14:00 – Stacia Kane and Francis Knight (following ‘Here Come the Girls’ panel)
15:00 – David Moody (following ‘Here Come the Boys’ panel)
16:00 – Paul Cornell and Christopher Brookmyre (following ‘Have I Got News For You’ on the main stage)
SATURDAY
13:00 – Gareth L Powell (following ‘It’s The End’ panel)
16:00 – Peter Brett and Danie Ware (following ‘Fantasy Worlds’ panel)
17:00 – Hugh Howey (following interview on the main stage)
18:00 – Simon Morden and James Smythe (following ‘Asimov’ panel)
So please come and join us, buy books, meet authors, talk geek, and make sure you save enough energy for Craig Charles on Saturday night.
After all, he is bringing the funk back.
Anxiety is a funny thing.
Sickness in your stomach, reasonless and unnameable. Agitation in your blood, burning from the inside out; that constant undercurrent of adrenaline that you can neither focus nor master. That relentless feeling of tension – like there is something over you, or behind you, or something you haven’t done, or some confrontation you’re anticipating…
And that exasperating, hovering sense of inadequacy, buzzing at you flylike – that, really, you’re better than this and you should get a fucking grip.
Exercise helps, then at least the adrenaline is useful for something, Walking brings focus and clarity of mind, running allows you to channel your tension into the release-high of endorphins – enables your body to function and it should and – amazing! – the nameless deamons of your fear are gone in the steam of breath and sweat.
Alcohol helps, bringing contentment and that glorious warm glow of actual weariness – it lures you with sweet relief and the empty promise of a good night’s sleep. But that way madness lies; it’s the ‘easy way out’ and the exit point is nowhere you need to be.
There are pharmaceutical options, offered by Doctor or friend, some legal and some not, all enticing for the offer of quiet they bring. But though they will not wake you in the small hours of the morning as booze will, just to taunt you with how they’ve cheated you, they will lull you into a semi-permanent doze, a somnolence that blurs your life to apathy and soft focus.
And that comes with a price – an inability to write. Words need passion, and their absence is not a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
And yet.
In the words themselves there’s relief. It’s not the exultant ‘fuck you’ offered by maniacal exercise, it’s not the comfortable seduction offered by alcohol or drugs. It’s a third option, a clean option, a route to somewhere outside – it’s as though a door opens to a new place – a place you know and that you’re familiar with, a place you can relax and be at ease with the world around you.
A place where you’re in control, perhaps.
I’ve written almost all my life; in the times where I forgot how, I missed it like a friend.
This is the first time I’ve ever realised why.
So, Ecko we pretty much know about. What else has happened during 2012?
Rain. It started when we got back from EasterCon and it fucking rained until the end of July. Between all the water, and London being awash with the Jubilee and the Olympics, perhaps this was the right summer to be fingers welded to keyboard, frantically trying to edit one book and hand in a second on time. In amidst the frenzy, there was one wonderful weekend at MidFest – a weekend in the best company, where I found family I’d not seen in far too long, and remembered a part of myself I’ve never really left behind.
Cats. In January, while during Jury Service, my poor bonkers Lilith finally went to sleep – and I missed her more than I thought possible. Fifteen years, one of my last links with my simpler life in Norwich, she left a cat-shaped vacuum that had me roaming the house, lost without her company. This vacuum led to new cat company in April – which has been something of an adventure. I still miss my Lilith, but can’t bear a house empty of creatures.
Bikes. With my courage battered by last year’s road incident and facing a maniacal summer of book deadlines (and rain), finding the will to pedal again wasn’t an easy thing. Once Ecko was sorted, I got back in the saddle – only to have my bike written off by a tosser in a Range Rover, speeding through a red light at a major junction. He would have killed me had I been a few inches further forwards.
Which brings me to the big thing, the thing I don’t really have words for.
My Mum has had cancer this year – had it, beaten it, come out healthier than she went in (takes more than the Big C to defeat my Mum). For a moment, there though, that was a terrifying thing – losing one’s Mum doesn’t even bear thinking about. And it hasn’t only been Mum – I’ve had a slew of friends this year who’ve had a cancer scare of one form or other, one at least staring his own mortality in the face.
Books are cool. Rain and deadlines are all very well.
But 2012 has been about mortality. Facing a scrape with my own, seeing Mum in a hospital bed after having several yards of intestine removed, knowing close friends have hospital appointments that tread a tight line between life and death…
Lilith left a vacuum. I feel very, very lucky that my Mum didn’t leave one too.
So this morning, ECKO RISING is named as one of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Books of the Year by the FT – that’s one hell of an accolade.
Also listed are Adam Christopher’s EMPIRE STATE, Kim Stanley Robinson’s 2312, Tim Powers’ HIDE ME AMONG THE GRAVES and JUGGERNAUT by Adam Baker.
Link is here – though you’ll have to scroll down.
Little stunned to be in such lofty company. Feel I should be standing on tiptoes or something. Um. Maybe high heels? o_O
Wow.
(Pic stolen shamelessly from Adam’s Twitter Feed – I’ve been at work all day!)
Pink.
I fucking hate pink. It’s a prejudice, of course it is, but one I’ve cultivated over a number of years. Never mind the all-boys school, spending my twenties running round with swords – this is something special, that’s only really hit me since I’ve been a Mum.
Let’s leave aside the whole ‘pink Bic biros for girls’ fiasco that was all over Amazon a few months ago. Let’s leave aside the ‘Pink Lucozade’ ads that I walk past at Victoria Station with some open-mouthed girly going ‘Oh Em Geeee!’ in what’s probably a high-pitched squeal (this is supposed to make me drink the stuff?). Let’s even leave aside the appalling and offensive horror that is LEGO Friends – (girls can be a gossip-girl, a housewife, a mother, or a vet – as long as there’s no, y’know, blood or actual operations or anything).
And don’t even get me started on the ‘what do you call your vagina’ advertising disaster (can anyone remember what that was – I think I’ve blanked it from my mind?). Actually, I’m known to call mine my cunt, but hey – that’s just me.
Back to the point.
Range of kids Star Wars t-shirts – Yoda, Vader, the usual suspects. One of these t-shirts is pink, with little puffy sleeves and (predictably) it’s the only one with a picture of Leia on the front. Now I know there’s nothing to stop little girls wanting the Trainee X-Wing pilot version (or boys wanting the Leia, for that matter), and I’m relieved she’s the strong character she should be, but this morning, this has just caught in my craw.
Little cubs get generic toys – but the second they hit their tweens (and that gets younger every year as the markets try to hit them earlier and earlier) they’re like meat for the processing mill. Little girls are conditioned – they must like pink and sparkles and babies and Disney fucking princesses and Lelli Kelly shoes (if I had a daughter that wore them I’d disown her); boys are likewise conditioned – they must like fast cars and gross science and monsters and eating zombie brains (same goes for those, in fact).
Most toy stores are careful not to actually label departments ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ though they still offer a floor full of pink sparkly shit and a floor full of superheroes, vehicles and action figures. Your local Disney store is one of the worst culprits, more guilty of demanding women love ‘traditional’ roles than Mitt Romney. (Let’s hope Princess Leia leads the revolution!)
The point of all this…. I was lucky as a cub. I had the opportunity to break my gender stereotyping and choose who I wanted to be. And I want to give my son that chance, as well.
This is why, when he sees an advert for Zoubles, or another soft furry cat-like thing that’s ultimately aimed at girls, I tell him that it’s okay, and that can he like Zoubles if he wants to – that he doesn’t have to worry because it’s a ‘girl’s toy’. That I’m proud of him, and always will be.
Even if the damn thing is pink.
They got me! Many thanks to both Adam Nevill and Liz de Jager for tagging me with The Next Big Thing meme… and a chance to share a little information about the next book!
What is the working title of your next book?
Opening with the big question, the shocker – the working title of the book is Ecko II. I’d go into the reasoning, but, y’know, that’s a tough one to break down…
Where did the idea come from for the book?
From a decade of shared creativity and story-telling, from friends with imagination and humour, from having too much time on our hands and the energy to dream whatever we wanted, limitless and occasionally ludicrous. Some people to use their youth and fire to change worlds – we made our own.
And then we broke them.
And then we made some more.
From the concepts initially explored in the first novel, this one takes Ecko’s fundamental culture-shock and savage denial to a different level, but also moves in new directions, looking at a more politically involved storyline and dipping a curious toe into the concept of a fantasy dystopia. Can such a thing exist – or do you need urban/modernisation before you can add the decay?
What genre does your book fall under?
Apparently, I’ve committed the cardinal sin, written the unthinkable – though I wasn’t aware of this when I started. The Ecko books are science fiction and fantasy fused, they’re a hard-edged SF character in an essentially fantasy world – a mix that can result in hard violence, sharp insight and dark humour, and often in all three combined.
What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?
That’s always a tough one. Andy Serkis was one of our first ever guests at the FP Megastore – and watching him do Gollum for real was both transfixing and terrifying. In some ways, he has the capability to craft a perfect Ecko, but my inspiration (one of them anyway) has always been Michael Keeton’s Beetlejuice.
You know he’d do a good job!
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
The strapline for the first one was ‘a unique and stunning debut novel’. Marketeer I may be, by writing my own publicity defeats me!
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I’m represented by Sally Harding at The Cooke Agency, and Ecko II will be published by Titan Books next September.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
And here we come to the old joke – twenty years to write the first one, I want the second one in six months…
In fact, like ‘Rising’, this book was originally written in the 1990’s, though has been revised and re-drafted in keeping with the changes to the overall story, the requirements of characters and editors, and (not to put too fine a point on it) that fact that I’m now in my forties and have a slightly different take on the world/s around me…
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Is this a trick question? ‘Rising’ was compared to everything from Game of Thrones to Neuromancer to Thomas Covenant to Michael Marshall Smith. Go figure!
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
In the first instance, my friends. Coming back to the story after an eight-year break from writing? Um, that would kind of be my friends.
What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?
Ecko is difficult, dissonant, foul-mouthed and chaotic – in the first book, he was an explosion looking for somewhere to happen.
In this book, he finds it.
For next week’s NEXT BIG THING I nominate some of my fellow debut authors from 2012 – and very proud to be in such capable company…
Hereby tagging – Samit Basu, Adam Christopher, Paul Cornell, Lou Morgan and Tom Pollock.
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Bristol is one of those places that’s always drawn me back – friends there, and events, and FP. A slightly more hip Norwich, a slightly less smug Brighton, it’s a city that has a geek magnetism all of its own.
And nowhere is this magnetism stronger than at BristolCon.
This year, the Con seemed to be all readings and beer – thank you to those who braved the Big Hill and came up to the Megastore to the Ecko Rising signing, and to those who loitered after the Women in Sensible Armour panel for the hit’n'run five-minuter that was fluffing for Guest of Honour Gareth Powell. The panel itself was half-fun and half-serious – thank you to Philip Reeve for elegant and flawless moderation, and to fellow panelists Jonathan L Howard, Jo Hall and Foz Meadows and for getting a serious message across with a laugh.
Back in the dealers’ room, a big cheer for FP’s Dez who was a star at the trading table, and for Terry Martin and his uke (who knew?) Was good to meet Ben Galley in the flesh (nice stall, Ben) as well as to foist copies of Ecko onto some old friends (Ken and Nick, always unchanged) and some newer ones (Marc and Cheryl, be gentle with me!)
It was also a weekend of artwork – another painting by Jennie Gyllblad, featuring a lemur no less!, and I was fortunate enough to be given a piece of art by Tom and Nimue Brown – both of which are now in my front room and looking very fine indeed.
Finally, the event can’t pass without a mention of Colin Harvey, Ghost of Honour – someone I only really knew in passing, but well enough to spend my last hour at the Con listening to readings from his work, and to the voices of those who knew him far better than I did. It was a touching thing – and carried across the very strong sense of community that BristolCon is all about. You can find the Colinthology here.
So well done to Jo and her crew – may it get bigger and better with every passing year!
(And yes, David. I did have a hangover. Curse you and your pub-crawling!)