Nothing To Me

Caught, he could only stare.

She was gazing skywards, the volleys of colour reflected in her eyes, her lips parted with the wonder of the moment.  His face was flushed, he could feel the bolts of pleasure that sheeted through her body – feel them as if they were his own.  It took a moment for him to ask himself the question: why was she here?

His breath caught fire in his throat.

A lifetime, an instant for him to remember her face – oh, mercy of God, every plane and line.  She should have changed so much; she looked just the same.  He could not tear his eyes from her; not for the ballet of fireworks over the heads of the crowd, not for the full moon of the clock face over the water.  He was a fly, as helpless as if he had never been free.

 Even as he watched, a new blossom of light made her bite her lower lip with tension. Aching, he breathed the thrill in with her.  Look at me, he willed her to do it.  Look at me!

She turned.  His heart hammered once, and stopped. Long-past flashes of pain and longing – ridiculous! – shook him like a fool.

But she was only looking at the great fractal-flowers of light that leapt further up and down the river; her eyes had traveled across him as though he was nothing.

He swallowed hard, remembered to exhale.

Beside her, a tall figure laid a hand on her shoulder and she glanced back, smiling at the touch.  The look they exchanged made him inspect his boots; when he looked back, they were both gazing again at the sky.

She’d looked at him like that, once.  ‘You’re special’– he remembered the thrill it had caused.

So many years of wanting. And one mad summer—

Oh, Christ!

“Saul?” The gentle touch on his arm made him start as if guilty.  “Who’s that?”The intensity of his focus was broken, people and lights and noise suddenly confused him. Human sweat and human ecstasy. Fireworks shattering under their own joy.  Somewhere, voices sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, tuneless and ten minutes too late.  Closer by, he caught the faint, heavy scent of marijuana.

He blinked at Lynne’s mild expression.  Sensations swum, bewildering.  He heard himself say, “Who’s who?”

“The girl.”  Lynne loved him, unconditionally; she trusted him.  Her touch was his anchor.  The swirl of sensation started to lessen.  “Someone from work?”

He looked back, a reflex he could not avoid, but the shifting sea of people had blocked his line of sight.  A gang of lads shoved past him, wishing him a Happy New Year; teenage girls shouted defiantly at the night air.

Then they were gone.

And she was gone.

Bitter disappointment wrestled with a wash of shaking relief.  He rubbed a hand over his face as if awakening; perhaps some thing were just better left—


Oh, dear God.

The undulation of the crowd had released her; she was suddenly closer to him. He could see the line of studs in her ear, the hairs stuck to the lapel of her charcoal coat.  He hair was longer and fuller, her face smoother, her garments masculine, shapeless and layered against the cold.  With her were two – no three – companions, all male, all with faces turned raptly skywards.  As he saw her, she exchanged a brief glance with one of them, grinned, and pointed at something further into the crowd.

He stood on his toes to look, but she was too far up the bank and he could not see.

As the surge of fireworks died, her eyes continued across the sea of people. He resisted an insane urge to call out to her, or maybe it was to run, and run, and run, and never look back.

Oh, God, it was destined, it was inevitable.

Her gaze crossed his.

And the great clock stood still.

A single, crystallised moment that held him frozen.

He hammered at them, railing silently, God, why me?  Why now, why again?  The need still surged in his chest.  Like blows of a fist, images hit him; after five years, that moment when she’d kissed him for the first time.  They had dated all that summer, watching movies, walking the beach, racing like kids down the pier.  Lying on his bed in his parents’ house, trying to keep his teenage fumblings quiet…

The memory kicked and screamed to be reburied.  The purity of the crystal shattered.  A new blemish of radiance swelled against the orange sky, and her eyes glittered with its light.

Banishing the image, he shook himself, and tried to gain control of his thoughts.

She was moving.

The fireworks haloed her as she skidded sideways down the bank towards him, her hair loose in the riverside wind.  Her face softened into a smile, and he saw that she would greet him with warmth, and open arms.

How many times had he pictured this moment?

She jumped from the small wall down onto the pavement.

“Hello, Saul!”  She sounded genuinely pleased; before she could stop her, strong arms encircled him and her body was held against his.  Her hair smelled faintly smoky.  For a moment, his hands writhed in the air as if he did not dare touch her, then he gripped her shoulders and pushed her firmly away.

Holding her still, he looked down into her face.



Her eyes were blue. Sea blue.  Sky blue.  Frost blue. They were not as he remembered.  There were lines around them, now;  tally-markers of the twelve years since he had seen her.


He realised that he was still holding her shoulders.  Flustered, he recoiled.  A heavy, leather-jacketed woman barged between them, jumped on to the wall, and was gone up the bank towards the river.

He had pictured this moment so many times – how they would meet, what she would look like. What he would say.

How he would make her sorry.

“Hello,” he said.

The last firework flared, sparkled, and died.

A cold, foul breath was exhaled from the tunnel-mouth, and Saul pulled his jacket tighter.  The platform was crowded with laughing, singing people, all of them high on themselves. They clamored with joy, and their hopes sparkled in the stale air.

A pretty, velvet-clad young woman staggered against him, giggling an apology.  He shrank from her; her pupils were as black as nightfall and as deep – it was like looking into the eyes of a fiend.  The smell of her body, cheap scent and perspiration, turned his stomach.

In the midst of the celebration that shouted all around him, he was alone.

Lynne still held his arm, smiling contentedly at the people.  Her gloved hand was an unwelcome restriction, preventing him from embracing his desolation.  He wanted to be—

“Happy New Year! Happy New Year!”  An older gentleman in a suit grabbed Lynne’s hand and shook it, fiercely, then went to do the same to him.  “Have faith!  A better world is coming!”  There was a small, fish-shaped pin on the lapel of his jacket, shining with the force of his belief.  Saul silenced the man’s enthusiasm with a curt refusal.  He turned away, breaking Lynne’s hold.

She looked up at him, hurt, her eyes wide with self-reproach, but her love and concern only served to isolate him further.  He wrapped his arms about himself and watched, unseeing, across the track.

A bitter, lonely taste had tainted the great, new confidence of the twenty-first century. In the damp chill of the Underground, he was remembering other things.  The holiday they’d taken together – a first real taste of their own independence.  They’d danced down the paved and sunlit streets, stood open-mouthed in the museums…

His mind coiled about its emptiness, chewing its own tail.  How was he supposed to have armoured himself?  How was he supposed to have known?  When their holiday had ended, she had wept with the loss of it and his heart had melted like wax in a flame.  He hadn’t known that she had already betrayed him.

Taken his wax heart and closed her grip around it, letting it squeeze though her fingers—


Lynne touched his hand, pulling his attention away from the devastation that his remembrances had left.

The tunnel-mouth was beginning to rumble like a great beast’s hunger, and a sigh was whispering through the crowd.  In thrall, the people began to move towards the platform’s edge.  Great, curved posters urged them to view, to buy, to visit, to behold.

The people were passive, aimless.  They meant nothing.

A red spark of hatred shot through the grey.

In the tunnel, white eyes were getting larger.  Something roared, and the rails rattled.

The moment of his comprehension had been branded into his forehead, so hot that she should have witnessed it, and shrunk from him in shame.

The tube train rumbled and crashed, its lights dazzling.  It was deafening in its anger, and in fallible in its advance.

Had she chalked it as another victory?  Laughed at his naïveté?

As the train screeched to an impatient pause, the crowd surged forwards, gleefully pushing and shoving.  Somewhere, Saul lost Lynne’s soft hand on his coat-sleeve.  He was carried forwards by the blind desire of the beast’s minions, shoved into its power without his consent.  A voice called his name, “Saul!  Saul!”  but it was drowned out by the cold, mechanical voice that told him to mind the gap.

There had been no guilt in her face, no shame, no apology.  No awareness whatsoever of the anguish he had suffered for her.  Without warning, he was furious, betrayed.  Years! He had loved her for years!  The greatest moment of his life had been the moment they had embraced after that first date; the most terrible, the moment he had seen the letter upon her desk.

The door behind him hissed shut.

The memory of that surprise made his hands clench into knots.  His jaw locked against the thousand vicious, wounding things that he needed to say to her.

Make her sorry.

The train lurched into motion.  He was aware of a hand, banging on the window; a figure, racing panicked along the platform.  Somewhere in his mind, he registered that it was trying to help him, but he turned away from it to stare blankly outwards.

The world around him clattered and shook.  The wind sounded hollow in his ears, but he could not feel it.  The floor jerked; he staggered.  Why could he not feel the wind?  The suited gentleman beside him caught his elbow and stood him up with a grin.

She must have taken the wind away.

Taken it from him, taken it from him, taken it from him, taken it fromhim, taken it fromhim…

Her bedroom, barely big enough for the tiny, hard bed and the desk beside it.  Her notice board, covered in the fantasy pictures she loved so much.  Her bookshelves, literature, history, philosophy.

One letter, lain open like a wound. 

I cannot stop reading.  The comprehension of her betrayal is a moment of anguish to me, but my understanding only grows greater.  It is an infection.  It grows past one lie, past another, past too many to count.  I cannot stop reading.  It grows into anger, and fear, and hatred, and humiliation, and fury, and disgust. I cannot stop reading.

Beneath his skin, tension and adrenaline rose to a choking crescendo; he was only dimly aware that he was standing, packed into a hot sardine-tin of people, all of them vibrating to the motion of the train.  He wanted to scream, to strike out, to release this massive uprising of resentment and dismay.  He could feel the heat swelling in his face, the muscles bunch in his jaw.  He could not breathe.

Dear God, how many have there been?  One?  Two? More?  Were you as passionate with them all?  The letter burns into my fingers, into my eyes.  I am blinded, but I cannot stop reading.  I am being torn apart.

“…you all right, mate?”

Reality was his hand on the upright rail.  Hard. Cold.  His knuckles has turned bloodless white, his fingernails had left tiny, stinging gashes in the palm of his hand.  He blinked at them dazedly for a moment.

The pain gave him focus, and he drove the darkness back.

“Been in the boozer too long, that’s your trouble, eh?  Eh?”  A bearded, middle-aged man in a grubby denim jacket slapped Saul’s shoulder.  He reeked of liquor.  “What’s your stop, mate?”

“What?”  His voice sounded hoarse, and faint.

“I said, ‘Where you going?’”

Confused, he could not assimilate the thought.  “’Where am I going?’”  He looked at his hands, chapped with the cold and scarred by his absurd career.  These battered hands had once lain upon smooth, pale skin.

That same smooth pale skin which had yielded to the filth of so many others.  Has she been as responsive?  As abandoned?  As sincere?

He cringed, curling up against the onslaught of shame.  How had he ever trusted her?


In his soul, pain and hatred fused.  These scarred hands were strong, capable.  He had the key he needed, he knew where he was going, now.

His focus was sharpened.  He was whetted, eager.


He raised his chin to answer his Samaritan.  “Back,” he said.  “I’ve got to go back.”  Something prompted him to say, “Thank you.”

The Samaritan blinked.

I can stop reading.  I have been given my answer.  My mind is clear.

The great clock moved faster.

         Fighting free from endless, sunless tunnels, Saul raced up the steps, pushing through the crowd’s flow like a man demented.  People swore as he knocked into them, cursed him as he fought madly ahead against the onward-swelling tide.

         Around him, the revelry still cavorted through the night-time streets; neon jewellery and glittering sparklers pricked at the corners of his vision.  He saw their optimism, but their seductiveness could not touch him.  There was one though, burning a hole in his mind – he must find her.

         So it could all be as he’d imagined it.

         He surged ahead, fighting for progress, oblivious of the people who barred his way. His certainty was absolute;  there was no question of her absence.

         Again, he heard her voice say, “Saul..?”

         He hard his reply, just ‘Hello’, as if he could not bring himself to say more.

         She had asked him questions, a barrage of questions.  “How are you?” “What do you do, now?”  “Where are you living?”  “Going to introduce me?” His responses had been automated, he was fine, an electronics engineer, living in Sussex, mostly, this was his fiancée.  The conversation had been so mundane, so predictable – it had been too surreal for him to understand.

He goaded himself, ‘Coward!’ 

         Twelve years, he had dreamed of her guilt; imagined how she could not forget, how she would lay awake at night.  So many times, he had fantasised about how he would meet her, and return that moment of horror.

         But – she had asked him questions!

         By God, he would show her that pain and betrayal.  And she would fold beneath its weight, and she would reach to him to love her.

         Oh, yes.  And he would turn away.

         His breathing was harder, now.  His body was trembling with anticipation.  He pushed through the flowing crowd faster, now almost running. Someone behind him fell, voices shouted indignantly, but he had a blazing purpose that was driving him relentlessly onwards.

         He must reach the river.

         There! As he turned a corner, there was the great clock, silent sentinel, watching him.  It stood stark, silhouetted against the clouds, but its ghostly face had lost all authority.  With his blood thundering in his ears, Saul raced to the end of the street.

         His lungs strained to control their impatient breathing.

         “Hey, you!  You’re late!” A bubble of laughter carried a dozen kids out of his way.  Snarling, he almost challenged them, but his anger was for greater things, yes, greater things.

         Trembling, he paused and stared up the bank.  The crowds by the river had thinned to a sporadic carpet of trampled grass and litter.  A few stragglers still loitered, but she was not among them.

         In rising panic, he scanned backwards and forwards, all around him.  Adrenaline made him feel sick.  When he still did not see her, he ran up the bank, skidding on the hard-packed mud.

         The river was mirror-black, whispering emptiness.  Arced over it, the sky glowed low and orange.  The mass had dwindled to small clusters, still high from the spectacle they had seen.  As Saul turned to watch across them, a trio of motorcycles raged up the road in a blare of engine noise.

         There – on the wall.

         Drowned in brightness for a moment by passing headlights, a quartet of figures that by the road.  She had her back to him, but he knew her hair, glimmering in the street-lamps; he knew the breadth of her shoulders.  As he saw her, she blew a long, reluctant tail of blue smoke into the night.

         A spark of disbelief died under absolute vindication – he had never doubted. Slowly, deliberately, his eyes not leaving where she sat, he began to move along the top of the bank.

         A predator.

         Now, his heart was pounding steadily, his blood beat hard in his temples.  His focus was sharpening to an exquisite, steel point; he was aware of where she sat, of her companions, but the night, the sky, the river -–they were all fading.  They were nothing to him.

         Only she mattered.

         She was talking, smoke escaping from between her lips in wisps and tatters. One hand gestured as she grinned, the other rested upon the thigh of the man beside her.  Saul remembered the thrill of her touch; that hollow, empty thrill. For an instant, he felt a peculiar empathy with the nameless man in the long leather coat – did he know what she was? What she would do to him, remorseless?

         She blew out the last trickle of smoke, took another drag.  He came closer, edging quietly down the bank.  His breathing was shallow and tight, his vision was narrowing to incredible intensity.  There was wind, rushing in his ears.

         He was shaking.

         His scarred hand found what it was looking for, deep in the pocket of his anorak. It was a gift.  A rare gift, for his first love.

         He gripped it like the last piece of his sanity.

         “…seen him in years.”  As he came closer, he caught the end of what she had been saying.  He froze, tension coiling about fear.  She shrugged, dismissing everything that he had ever been.  “I’d forgotten all about him.”

         A sharp convulsion stabbed through his soul.  That was it?  ‘Forgotten’? That was the truth, that was all she had for him?  It was the final cut; the crippling slash that tore out his heart and trampled it in the mud at his feet.

         He was nothing to her.

         He did not need his heart, it only bought him pain.  Stifling the fearful, animal snarl that rose in his throat, he exploded into a run, headlong down the bank.  His needs, his desires, his anguish, his life, had all been building to this moment – this was the very zenith of his existence, the instant where he was everything he could ever be.

         The clock watched him; it slowed the world for him.  It gave him the vehemence and clarity upon which to build his own new Millennium.


         One of the men was turning.  In serene slow motion, the figure began to stand, began to cry aloud.  But he was not fast enough, not strong enough. Driven by passion to wild to control, controlled by resolve too commanding for passion, Saul closed his fingers into a fist.

         She started to react.  For a split-second, he saw her face in profile, saw the horror that open her mouth.

         He punched.

         Her nose splintered; he punched again, fast, grunting with the effort it took.  She swore, tried to stand; he felt her muscles spasm as he punched her a third time.  She began to slide from the wall, and the pain in her eyes sent shivers right through his body.

         Oh God, how muchhe had wanted this!

         For one instant, one sliver of a moment, it was as he had always dreamed it would be. His fingers hurt, but they was alive with hunger.  She was down, helpless, and her eyes flashed suffering like the last of the night’s fireworks.

         Make her sorry.

         Sea blue.  Haze blue.

         Pain blue.

         His hand was wet with red and sliding warmth. 

         Sudden pain exploded in the side of his skull.  Without warning, his legs were shaking and he was reeling sideways.  His focus had left him; the great clock had let him go.  He tried to catch his footing, failed, and crashed sideways into the wall.  A second heavy-fisted blow caught him temple and made him raise his hands to shield his head.

         Through the clangour, he groped for understanding.  What..?

         A heavy boot slammed his jaw sideways, shattered his collarbone, crunched through ribs. He curled up, hurting, uncomprehending; he could not move away from the white heat of the pain.  Spikes of agony shot though his head.

         He heard vicious swearing, angry voices.

         “Jesus fuck!  Is she all right?”

         He could no longer tell where the blows were falling.  It was just a sea, a blue-eyed sea.  White fireworks were exploding throughout his body; they were flowers against the clouded sky, bringing with them rushes of tension and release.  He really had shared them with her.  Slowly, he realised that the voices did not matter, they could not hurt him any more. 

         Dimly, he was aware of shouting, the indignant wail of a siren.  Dimly, he was aware that the vengeful, furious kicking had stopped.  Voices quarrelled loudly over his head.  He was awash with pain, the siren’s scream was all in his mind.  There was a woolen coat covering him.

         He tried to open his eyes.  He saw the mighty face of the clock, the vast stillness of the sky.  Nearly, there were heavy steps, the crackle of a powerful radio, but the sky was absolute and endless, and the clock face made no judgments.

         And there were tears streaking down the sides of his face.

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Interview with Erika Sampaio

As a thank you to Erika, who did such a beautiful job of illustrating Caph and Aden from Children of Artifice, some questions about her art, what inspires her to draw, and the things that she has drawn in the past!

Q) What inspired you to start drawing?

– As a child, when watching cartoons – I started to feel like i want to participate in that fictional world in some way. I didn’t just want to reproduce or copy what I saw, I wanted to create a version of me (kind of) in that universe. When i started to watch Pokemon, for exemple, i wanted to create my own pokemon trainer, even my own pokemons and their evolutions. Every book, comic, film that i liked was the same thing, so i decided to start drawing to give life to that characters of mine.

Q) Which artists do you admire?
– Oh, there are so many i follow and love!  But here are some who influenced me in creating my artstyle: Rebecca Guay, Erica Williams, Lorena Lammer, Djamila Knopf, and some old masters like Gustav Klimt and Alphonse Mucha.

Q) What do you like drawing most?
– Fantasy stuff for sure! Knights (specially women knights!), elves, magic creatures and weapons, all that kind of stuff with tons of details, patterns and arabesques.

Q) How do you find that Social Media feedback has affected your drawing?
– Goes in both ways. It affected me positively because it enabled me to show what I do to more people and thus have the chance to get more jobs and befriend other artists as well. But it affected me in a negative way too because i created a constant demand on me for always to be posting something. I have this sensation that if i’m not posting, the people will forget about me, about my drawings. I’m working on it and I demand myself a lot less now.

Q) Is there something – or someone – you’ve always wanted to draw and haven’t (yet)?– Yes, there is! I always wanted to do a fantasy book cover! i would love (and probably freak out) if I went to a bookstore and saw a book with an illustration of mine on the cover.

Q) If you could go anywhere in the world and draw the place/people, where would it be?– Oh, my…just one place? Taj Mahal, for sure. I only know the place through photos and documentaries, it would be a dream to visit it some day.

Q) Share with us a piece of art that you’re particularly proud of!
– This piece with my OCs (original characters) Lunnadan and Ranah. With this illustration I finally started to feel that i’m finally reaching a artstyle of mine and because of it too i started to receive commissions to make pieces with this style and theme i love so much.

Find Erika on Artstation – here!

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2019: My Year-in-Review

So, 2020. The year of boosted reflexes and black trenchcoats and mirror shades. In the early 90s, 2020 was the year of our own Dark Future – in our heads, we’d be street samurai, and we’d kick some serious booty.

Guess I hadn’t twigged that I’d be in my fifties (seriously, how the hell did that happen?), juggling a teenager and a writing schedule and a job that’s taken me to some weird and wonderful places. And I certainly hadn’t realised that I’d have given my black leather longcoat to my son.

But, as we cross into the future, 2019 has been a good year. Work has been amazing – securing the Dark Crystal puppets in the store windows was a personal highlight, plus meeting a wonderful assortment of celebrities, including James Murray, David Harbour, and Kevin Smith. Isaac got meet Dan Nerd Cubed and Ashens, and we were both bowled over by the presence of the wonderful Tom Baker.

I’ve made a point of finding time to read, taking a journey through some of my teen favourites and find that some of them really held up to the intervening years – reading them as an adult opened out whole new depths and facets that I’d never seen before – and some of them, sadly, didn’t. But hey, I guess that’s all a part of bring fifty and not fifteen.

I set myself the target of walking 5000km, and am coming in at just under the intended total. I’ve been veggie all year, and developed a taste for (who am I and what did I do with me?) green tea. I’ve cut out the booze almost entirely, and likewise cut right back on white flour carbs – bread and pasta.

I’ve fulfilled a bucket list ambition and gone to see the Bard at the Globe, plus done a round of conventions and exhibitions and presentations – including delivering my first actual proper talk at Edge-Lit, which was a tough call, but successful.

Honestly, isn’t getting old wonderful.

Seriously, though, the worst – and the best – thing about this year has been my age. No, really. I’ve been batting the menopausal brain-fog, and and off, for the last three (?) years – parts of Artifice took me months to get right because I just couldn’t think clearly, and some of my Augusta content has been the same. When I have so little writing time anyway, it’s incredibly frustrating when I do get a moment, and my head is full of porridge.

But – fabjous day! – it seems to finally be clearing. Not sure if it’s the diet, or the tumeric supplements, or I’ve just come out the other side, but I’m finally feeling like myself again, and I’d honestly forgotten what it was like. I wrote two 5k stories in three weeks flat and than sat back blinking, wondering where the hell all that wordcount had come from. I’m still slightly reluctant to trust my own clarity – like I’ll wake up one morning and it will all have gone again – but hey, if my head stays clear for 2020, I have LOTS that I want to do.

With or without boosted reflexes!

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Black Library Weekender

Very happy to be going back to the Black Library Weekender, this weekend!

Had a fantastic time last year, met lots of wonderful people, and had the opportunity to see the BL authors I usually see at FP… all in their natural element. Which was a whole new perspective…!

This year, I’ll be there from Saturday early evening, so please do come and find me (probably in the bar). Or you can come and throw things at me on the Sunday, where I’ll be talking about my newest Sisters of Battle novella, Wreck and Ruin, and then signing from 12:30.

Wreck and Ruin will be available at the Weekender as part of the BL’s second novella series – plus there’s more Sisters goodness in the Event anthology. And you can always find more tales of Augusta and her intrepid squad on the Black Library website!

Cover Art by Nemanja Stankovic

Look forward to seeing you there!

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MCM – and Doing It Before It Was Cool

So – MCM.

Fun, hectic, rammed with more people and costumes that I’ve ever seen and always a great opportunity to catch up with the lovely people from across the greater industries of geekdom – books, comics, toys, the whole kittencaboodle.

During the weekend, though, one of my work-mates commented, ‘Why didn’t we have stuff like this when we were young?’ He’s of similar age to me, and he completely understands that we grew up in a time when being a geek was something to be hidden. If you liked comics, or science fiction, or fantasy, or gaming, or wargaming, of dressing up, it was something to which you didn’t admit (only to your circle of geeky mates). Hell, my own mother was ashamed of my loves and hobbies. 

But we were geeks, and unashamedly so. I used to do cosplay, such as it was at the time – I still own the ubiquitous thighboots, and the chainmail bikini that my friend made for me (though I would NOT wear it in public now!). I’ve been to Cons in ludicrous dress-up, and before such things were cool, before anime brought us credibility and bright wigs and fabulous, outrageous weaponry. 

We were the generation that played dungeons and dragons before it arrived on our computer screens, before your humble adventuring party was celebrated by vlog and podcast and graphic novel. We did LARP and re-enactment before such things were ever popular – and long before Kathryn Winnick ever donned mascara, and kicked some serious booty. 

Don’t get me wrong – in some ways I’m glad there’s so little record of the fun we had (cough!), and I’m over the moon that it’s acceptable today, that the geekcred of such things is as massive as it’s become – the acceptance and the reassurance and the sheer celebration of this huge community.

Watching the Watchwomen

But in others, I feel we almost missed out. 

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When is a Review not a Review?

Over on Twitter for the last week or so, there’s been a lot of talk about reviews. Good ones, bad ones, funny ones, ones that may or may not be justified.

Now, the general consensus goes that an author must never respond to a bad review. They’re a fact of life (whatever kind of creative you are, if you put your stuff out there, someone is going to hate it), and you’ve just got to deal with them. We don’t all like the same stuff, get over it, etc.

You so know there’s a ‘but’ coming.

These days, fan entitlement has become a Thing – we’ve all seen it. And it’s aimed at everything, from the biggest blockbuster movies all the way down to us humble mortals. If the offered creative doesn’t match exactly the individual’s politics, or headcanon, or expectations, then the kickback can be scathing and horrifically vindictive.

And there’s a fine line between a review and an attack.

You may not like an author’s book, or politics, or style, or swearwords, or their use of a pronoun with which you don’t agree. You may think their work is so godawful that it had no right to be published at all. You may read scenes that are not to your liking, or that create an adverse emotional reaction. These things are your right and prerogative. You’re perfectly entitled to hate a book, to give it a bad review and one star – that’s all fine.

But you DON’T verbally assault, judge and bully someone because of it. You don’t call their personality, their professionalism, their integrity, their sexuality, or anything else, into question because of it. Please, remember, whether you liked the book or not, a great deal of effort went into its creation – author, agent, editors, cover artists, publicists. Please, remember that an author is not necessarily what they write – we’re actors, we present characters on paper, facets of humanity (and otherwise) that may not be ourselves. Please, remember that we are people too…

A personal attack is a personal attack.

It is not a review.

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Mental Health and Writing

Some thoughts, following on from World Mental Health Day, and from a conversation that sparked up, quite spontaneously, with a fellow author a few weeks ago…

Children of Artifice was written over one of the worst times of my life. I was struggling to sell my house, and having a nightmare with the associated paperwork. I was unsure where Isaac and I were going to go, and had (quite genuinely) no idea if we have enough money to actually put a roof over our heads, or whether we would have to resort to Social housing (what there is left of it), or leave London completely. At the same time, I was dealing with the long illness and then the death of my Mother, and then with another horrific mess of tangled paperwork.

At times, the whole thing felt like some bloody Quest – and I looked forwards to the day I defeated the Final Boss, and could be in my very own kitchen, safe and free from worry.

That day finally happened three years ago, but the journey really threw something into the light.

Artifice – Caph and Proteus and their unfolding – kept me sane. It was where I went to escape, to pull the covers of another reality over my head, and to escape the darkness of the world around me. Much of my relationship with my Mother, and how I felt about her death, poured itself into the book – I think it’s one of the reasons why it’s as emotional, and as intense, as it is. And when it was done, I was absolutely drained – my tanks were empty and I had no creativity left.

But it was there for me. All the way through.

And Ecko – particularly the first two books – were very much the same thing. Ecko’s savagery and rage were a reflection of the helplessness I was feeling at the time, and how angry it made me. It was an outlet, a release – not only the place I could bury my head and leave everything else behind, but it was hugely cathartic and I can’t describe how much it helped.

It’s not just about being an author. You may be an artist, or an actor. You may pour yourself into your crafting, or your music. And it doesn’t matter if you make the thing for yourself, for your friends, or for a worldwide audience – it’s still your panacea. Whatever that chosen form of expression, it’s the release valve we all need – the thing that will be there for us, that can take all of the darkness that we loose into it, and turn it into something miraculous.

When it comes to your art, it’s good to let the madness loose.

And that’s pretty cool!

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Buffy Watch-With-Teen

You may already know that we’ve been watching Buffy/Angel, from the beginning. It took me some persuasion to get my son to start, but after the first episode, he was hooked. Yay, Geek Mom validation!

But it’s thrown up a curious thought.

Both series have dated really well. The special effects are very much of their time, of course, and Isaac’s been vastly amused by Willow’s computer equipment and skills, and by the absence of cellphones – all the technology that he grew up with and takes for granted, and that my generation remembers being without. But the characters and their roles, how they interact and fit together – outcasts and bullies, principals and princesses, social awkwardness and crushes and family tensions – they’re absolutely timeless, and they haven’t changed.

The thing that struck me, though, was his impatience. In any episode, he would keep asking me, ‘why’s that there, why does this happen, that doesn’t make sense’. And I would keep telling him: watch the story. Trust the narrative, relax into it and let it lead you. No writer – be they novel, script, comic – puts down a thread without picking it up again, it’s all part of the weave, and it’s all there for a reason.

Maybe it’s a generational thing – a good narrative is about creating tension, about building questions and answering them, and about finally making all those threads come together at the end. And, as our technology has changed, then so has our expectation – my son’s fifteen and perhaps he’s just so used to instant gratification that he feels adrift when its not there.

Rewatching them, though, has been magical – and seeing them through new eyes was like rediscovering all my favourite characters all over again. Isaac liked Spike (and will be attending MCM in suitable cosplay), and Faith; for me, it’s always been Wesley, as his character arc is just so fabulously extreme. It’s a tough call, though – as they’re all so good. Still!

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On Gatekeepers

As you may have seen on Twitter this week, some of our stores are putting in a display of genuine Dark Crystal puppets, straight from Thra and from the BFI. And, having taken Isaac to see the BFI display over the summer holidays and been suitably struck with wonder and magic, it got me thinking… 

Skeksis Banquet, BFI

The Dark Crystal was one of those movies that introduced me to everything I loved. I was still in my teens, and I fell head over heels, transfixed by its beauty and by the sheer skill and artistry that had gone into putting it together. Thirty (cough) years later, being able to interact with it for real, and help to bring it to others… it’s everything I could ever have dreamed of doing.

On Twitter, @jaygooby then commented that he knew of many people in film and sfx who’d been introduced to their careers because of their love of the movie.

And so, I was thinking about gatekeepers.

Baffi the Fizzgig

What starts you on the path of loving genre? Which images, books, comics, films, characters, experiences opened that door for the first time? Maybe it was Discworld, or Harry Potter. Maybe it was Terminator, or The Matrix. When I was ten, my cousin lent me The Warlock of Firetop Mountain, (and I spent a whole summer lost in the sodding maze). And I know so many men and women, who not only loved the book as kids, but who are now introducing their own kids, in turn, to the same experience. 

Whatever those keys may be, they remain special. And much as some part of me is exasperated by the constant remakes that plague our every news outlet, somewhere, there’s still that teen who sat in the cinema – and who shivered when the urRu lifted their chant. 

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Friday Night FireFight

King’s Drive, Eastbourne, 1991. My brother-from-another-mother Alan had been playing this new ‘CyberPunk’ game with his local mates. And, in as much as any GM has a single system in which they feel at home, a world and a set of rules that suit them, then this was his system. And, even then, it already had a huge backstory – elite characters, lists of guns and cybernetics and crime families that were not out of the books. I was 22 when I statted my first character – a dark-skinned, heavy-duty, ex-military sergeant-type solo, totally and shamlessly based on Apone, and (very creatively) called ‘Panther’.

CyberPunk 2020

And from there, everything spiralled.

That CyberPunk campaign has spanned three counties, some thirty (?) players (not all at the same time), and it still goes (I believe) to this day. It’s been one world, one storyline, one massive META-gaming brainstorm that we’ve all shared, and that’s been overturned, like an anthill, every so often, to give it a new lease of life. I played for ten years before my responsibilities caught me, and some part of me still misses it – though it inevitably veered towards too much intensity, at times.

I guess it was why I wrote Ecko. 

Here’s Johnny….

Seriously, though – CyberPunk 2077. This is my youthful aphantsia come to life, all the images given form, and movement, and a backdrop of neon. It’s our past, our creativity, realised in another format. It’s all the characters we drew, all the lists we made up. It’s all the movies we all loved. It’s all those core texts that we had to read – Altered Carbon and Snow Crash and Neuromancer.  

It’s been almost thirty years since Panther first took to the streets of Night City, almost twenty since I played the game myself. 

But I’m really looking forward to seeing what it’s become. 

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