I joined Twitter a good while ago now (I suspect it’s about 3 years, scarily enough), and almost 12,000 tweets (oh, god) later, I finally discovered what it’s for.
I’ve been vaguely aware of the Dark Tower series for a while, in a-on-the-periphery, oh-I’ll-read-that-someday sort of way. And so, on a whim the other week and passing my local bookshop, I picked up the first book: The Gunslinger.
I finished it this morning – having stayed up late to almost-finish it, woken up early to even-closer-to-almost-finish it, and finally got to the last page over breakfast.
I should also add that in between the “waking up” and the “over breakfast” bit, there was the “trudging through the rain and wind back to Waterstones, where I dripped my way up to the second floor and bought the next two books in the series” bit. And then sloshed my way back home.
I’ve not been this immersed in a book in ages – and apparently I’m not alone in that.
When I mentioned I was reading The Gunslinger on Twitter, I got a deluge of Dark Tower-related tweets back. I had no idea how much love there was for these books – and if I’d brought it up before I read one, I wouldn’t have got it, not even slightly. Some people liked the first book most of all (and I’ll be honest, I’m pretty besotted with it at this point); others told me that it gets better from the second book… and several people knew it well enough to quote bits at me.
On the latter point, I’m not surprised. The Gunslinger has proved itself to be eminently quotable. I sat in the hotel at AltFiction at one point reading a section aloud to anyone who would listen, and have gone so far as to turn down the corners of pages to mark bits I’ve particularly liked. That’s quite a big deal for an ex-librarian, I can tell you.
Something that struck me while I was reading was the depth of the world – and the sheer ballsiness of King’s refusal to explain it. He expects you to pick it up as you go, following the trail he’s left. And he knows the way – it’s clearly a world he’s been carrying around with him for a very long time. How closely you follow – or, indeed, whether you do – is up to you. But he’s going on ahead with or without you.
I have a feeling I’m along for the ride. And that – despite reading being by its very nature a solitary exercise – I’m not alone.
I’m one of the book givers for this year’s World Book Night: I’ll be giving out copies of John Ajvide Lindqvist’s Let The Right One In, somewhere in Brighton.
I’ve got 24 copies, all neatly stacked up and ready to go. Each is labelled with a unique reference number, so if you get one (and this applies to any of the WBN books, anywhere in the UK) do go and register it on the website – it’s a bit like BookCrossing; the idea being to follow the books as they get passed on from one person to the next. I rather like the idea – and somehow, with vampire books, where themes are often contagion and transmission, it feels even more appropriate.
“Let The Right One In” is a vampire story, or it’s a coming-of-age story, or it’s a love story. Or it’s all three. It’s a story about abuse, and about friendship, and about fear and about freedom. It’s horrific and haunting and oddly sweet and beautiful. Whether you’ve seen one of the two recent adaptations of it, or whether you’ve never heard of it before… once you’ve read it, you’ll never forget it.
As an experiment, by the way, in one of the copies I’ve been given, I’ve hidden a quote from the classic Bela Lugosi version of “Dracula” on one of the pages. If you happen to find it, let me know what I’ve written (and which page it’s written on) either via the blog or Twitter. A quick tip: this is the book’s WBN insert page.
Look out for mini-Vlad in the corner, and you’ll know you’re in the right copy…
This year sees an overhauled system with a view to creating more interesting and relevant awards: one which nominees are genuinely excited to be shortlisted for, and which the eventual winners feel proud to be taking home.
We want people to care about these awards. We want them to reflect the passion that so many of you have for genre literature – whether you come down on the horror or the fantasy side of the fence; whether your thing’s major publisher or independent press… or whether you love all of the above.
We want it to mean something when a book wins a BFA: we want it to be seen as an endorsement of quality, voted for by readers, writers, editors… anyone who loves genre.
We can’t do it without you.
Without your votes.
Without you shouting for the books you’ve loved; the books you think deserve it.
You don’t have to have read every single book out there. You don’t have to have read every genre book published in the last year. You don’t even have to have an opinion on every award category. All we’re asking is that you recommend a couple of books. That’s it.
You can recommend three things in each category (ideally giving us as many details, like publisher, as you can – it makes our lives easier and helps the team check that your recommendation is valid). You don’t have to recommend three, though: one recommendation in one category is enough, if that’s all you want to include. It still counts.
Don’t tell me you’ve not read at least one genre book in the last year that you think is worth nominating – I simply won’t believe you.
You will need to be a member of the BFS (or a member of FantasyCon 2011 or FantasyCon 2012) to be eligible to vote. If you don’t already fall into one of those categories, why not join the BFS? Or get your membership to FCon 2012 – I can guarantee you’ll have a great time.
And if you are already eligible, go and vote. Now. Use your voice. Thank the writers, the editors, the artists, the publishers… everyone involved in making the books, the stories, the art you’ve enjoyed over the last year.
This is your chance to champion them. Don’t waste it.
I was never much into horror when I was a kid. My best friend, Becky, and her older sister were hugely into it – they’d seen every Stephen King adaptation going by the time we were 12, and I remember reading the copy of It she’d lent me… or trying to, anyway.
I think I got as far as page 24 before I had to close the book and put it in a drawer. On the other side of the room. Under another book. And then put a cushion in front of the drawer. Just in case.
I wasn’t exactly a robust child.
The aversion to horror evaporated soon after: literally, overnight, when I saw “The Lost Boys” for the first time.
I can’t remember quite why, but we (my parents and I) were staying with my aunt & uncle overnight. The house wasn’t that big, and my parents were sleeping in the spare room, while I had the sofa in the living room. I was 13, and my aunt put a video on.
No prizes for guessing what that was.
After everyone else had gone to bed, I remember opening the living room curtains and looking out of the window at the night. My aunt’s house was opposite a large area of open ground – a sort of common-slash-playing field – and I stared straight at the dark. To this day, I have no idea what I thought (hoped? feared?) I was going to see. And yes, I do feel like an idiot every time I think back to it. But I was 13. We’re all idiots when we’re 13.
The thing about “The Lost Boys” was how immediate it felt. As a teen horror-avoider, I was vaguely aware of vampires in the sense that they lurked in mansions wearing big black capes and… stuff. It wasn’t scary. It wasn’t particularly interesting, either.
But my encounter with these particular vampires coincided with my American phase. I had pictures of American landmarks stuck on the ceiling of my room, and was planning my roadtrip. Beyond that, even: I had it in my 13 year-old head that America really was the city on the hill (yes, not only was I an idiot, I was probably the only teenage girl in Wales to be obsessed by JFK). So suddenly, I was seeing vampires in a whole new way – a way that dovetailed with the stuff I did care about.
Blew. My. Mind.
I fell in love with the Frog Brothers’ comic shop; with Santa Carla’s boardwalk (my husband, all too aware of my love for the film, is convinced this is why I love Brighton’s pier as much as I do…).
I fell in love with the cave David & his boys carved for themselves, all candles and Jim Morrison posters (along with vampires, my love for The Doors was another infection that stemmed squarely from the film). I fell in love with the utter amorality and absolute freedom the Lost Boys stood for. And I was quite taken with the bikes, too.
I was completely oblivious to any subtext – there’s the usual vampire themes rattling around in there, but being a film of the 80s, and a West Coast one, there’s more than a hint of gang mythology in there (the dinner in the cave smacks of a hazing, and the attack on the Surf-Nazis on the beach is a gang initiation if ever I saw one). But that was what made it frightening – particularly so. Not because this was the first time you saw the vampires for what they were, but because you saw them through Michael’s eyes. These were his friends: the people he thought he belonged with… suddenly become truly monstrous. When you’re a teenager like I was, the idea of belonging is so important, the desire to belong so all-consuming that it made Michael’s dilemma even worse. Lose your soul or lose your friends… you’d actually have to stop and think about that, wouldn’t you?
“The Lost Boys” was my vampire gateway-drug. After that, I convinced my dad to buy me the first three of Anne Rice‘s vampire books. We were on a ferry, and the newsagent-slash-bookshop happened to have all 3 of them in the wire spinner-rack outside. I knew enough to realise that if my parents were to pick one up and really look at it, I’d never be allowed to get the rest… so I went for broke. I read them back to back through northern France. I still have those same copies, broken-spined and dog-eared and smelling of teenage rebellion.
I scoured bookshops for vampire collections (chief among them, Parragon’s 1994 edition of The Giant Book of Vampires, edited by none other than Stephen Jones… Sometimes, I wish I could go back and explain to my younger self just how amusing I find that. She wouldn’t get it: how could she?) and smuggled them into the house, under the nose of my by now disapproving mother. I watched every vampire film I could get my hands on – and even waded my way through a not-terribly-well-dubbed version of “Der Kleine Vampir“.
It wasn’t all bad: watching all those vampire films meant I eventually discovered Near Dark – which I maintain is the best vampire movie ever made. It’s better than “The Lost Boys”, I admit… but while I love it, it’s never quite managed to edge David, Marco, Paul & Dwayne out. Nothing has. In such appalling affection do I hold that film, I’ve bought it three times (once on VHS, when I wore out my aunt’s copy; and twice on DVD. It was the very first DVD I bought).
If it had been the film it was originally intended to be, complete with the tweenage, not teenage, vampires and the set-up for the sequel that never happened, “The Lost Girls”, I don’t think I could have loved it as much. Perhaps if I’d seen it at a different time, it wouldn’t have had such a hold on me – a hold that has lasted 17… 18 years thus far and shows no sign of letting up.
But these are moot points. I saw it when I saw it, and it was the film it was: noisy, snarky, silly, flashy, bloody in places and heavy on pop-culture. I’ve written about my love for it before, and a lot of what I’ve said here echoes that earlier article. I’m consistent, you have to give me that. This particular outpouring of Lost Boys love stems from two places: the wonderful article on Ghostbusters from the Guardian’s site, and Damien Walter’s piece on vampire novel, “Stainless” (as well as his referring on Twitter to “The Lost Boys” as “Probably [the] most influential vamp movie ever.”)
I’m a little behind on things at the moment (I’m fairly sure I’ve still not got round to rambling on about the House of Fear launch yet….) as it’s been a pretty solid week. But really. Fantasycon. Wow.
This year’s convention, organised by Paul Kane & Marie O’Regan on behalf of the BFS, was held in Brighton, in the same hotel as WHC2010 (an event with the dubious honour of being my first ever convention!), and – ever contrary – Brighton laid on its best and hottest weather of the year. In a packed hotel. With enormous picture windows. And broken air-con. Score!
Minor niggles about the hotel aside (it’s an eccentric place, but the location as a Con hotel couldn’t be better) this was roundly declared the best Fantasycon ever, and the best convention many attendees had ever seen. Beautifully run and with a packed, varied programme spanning all aspects of genre writing and film (including film shows, masterclasses and panels on editorial practice, YA literature and how to scare your readers…) it was an excellent example of a convention put together with the broadest possible tastes in mind. As a result, the convention sold out, with 500 weekend memberships sold, and around 100 additional day memberships for the Saturday. To put that into perspective, that’s a higher attendance than Fantasycon has ever seen – including for the year when Neil Gaiman & Clive Barker were guests.
One particular high-point for me (nerve-wracking as it might have been, and indeed was) was that I got to do my first ever public reading from “Blood & Feathers”. The fact I was doing this in Brighton – where I now live, of course – and in the very same building that saw me walk in 18 months ago without the faintest idea what I was doing; in front of a surprising number of people, many of whom I’ve come to see as family… it was very, very special. I’m immensely grateful to everyone who came – and only partly because they didn’t throw things – and asked questions which were far, far too clever for me…!
I went to a couple of other readings, too: notably by Tom Pollock (whose book I’m so excited about), Adam Christopher (whose book I’ve already read… and am still excited about!) and Helen Callaghan‘s (which left me basically wanting to find myself a man who can rip a stiletto apart). I really do wish I’d been able to make it to Anne Lyle and Gaie Sebold‘s readings, but just couldn’t get there.
The YA panel was interesting – and, I think, the only panel I made it to, thanks to all manner of scheduling clashes. After a lively debate about what’s appropriate in a YA book, and the challenges of writing for a teenage audience – and the dangers therein (a point raised by Sarah Pinborough, who talked about having seen some YA readers “stick” there and not progress further) the panel wound up wondering what YA really was. It was a good panel, and it was great to see serious programming time given over to discussing YA.
I was proud to see how packed the Solaris Books event & signing was… mind you: free books, free wine… at Fantasycon, this is always going to guarantee a full house. Even better, they made the fatal mistake of putting me in charge of the bar for a while….. That was a good afternoon.
It’s particularly worth noting, I think, that there were a lot of first-time attendees there: newbies not only to Fantasycon and the BFS but to conventions in general. Hopefully, like me at my first one, they liked what they saw enough to keep coming back. With the exception of the disco. I could totally understand if that made them run like their lives depended on it in the opposite direction. I know. I was there. I’ll be sending the therapy bills to all involved.
For me, though, the convention was – as ever – about the people. I got to spend time with old friends, and to make new ones. Fantasycon is, in my experience, a very relaxed and sociable place – too sociable, maybe, as there were at least five people I would have liked to spend more time with (or indeed, any time at all with!). And let’s not forget the unique double-act that Bella Pagan and I developed on the Saturday night: standing around, looking similar…
Spot the difference...
Like all these things, it’s the people who make it. So enormous thanks to Paul, Marie and all the team who organised a convention we’ll all be talking about for years to come – for all the right reasons. And thanks to everyone who made my convention so much fun: in no particular order….
Will Hill, Rob Shearman, Vinny Chong, Jenni Hill, Jon Oliver, Mike Molcher (chopstick ninja!), Scott Andrews, Tom Pollock, Lizzie Barrett, Anne Lyle, Adam Christopher, Michelle Howe, Paul & Nadine Holmes, Mike Shevdon, Sarah Pinborough, Guy Adams, Rio Youers, Gary & Emily McMahon, Joseph D’Lacey, Adele Wearing, Amanda Rutter… and so many more people I’ve lost track of.
"End of the Line": Solaris books. Artwork by Luke Preece
Last night, I headed off to the launch of Solaris Books “End of the Line” anthology: a collection of horror stories set on the Underground (and the Metro, and the New York subway… but you get the idea).
It was an interesting evening: Jon Oliver chaired a small panel consisting of Christopher Fowler, Pat Cadigan & Adam Nevill, all of whom feature in the collection. There was talk of why going underground is scary – for Adam, it’s the clautrophobia, the confusion and the packed-in flesh. For Pat, it’s the idea of being buried alive, of descending into an untimely tomb; while for Chris, the Tube was such a part of his childhood that he can’t bring himself to fear it – although he’s not terribly keen on the sliding flood doors. (I’m with him on that, actually. I remember seeing a few of those when I first came to London in 1998, but now I come to think about it, I’ve not noticed one for years. Maybe they’re all gone – or maybe they’re just not obvious enough to make you notice them and immediately think “OhmigodI’mgoingtodie!”)
There was a brief discussion, too, of the Underground in movies: Creep, Death Line and Control being the notable mentions, along with An American Werewolf in London. There was a small signing, where we had another classic Lou-fail (note: must learn to stop presenting my book at signing tables with a cheery: “Hi! I’m Lou!”. It only ever ends in, “Well, that’s nice for you,” from a slightly bemused and wrist-weary author – this time, Christopher Fowler, although he did go on to tell me how big the new Superdry store in One New Change is, so I may not have broken him entirely. This is good, as despite having used “Disturbia” as a virtual guide to London when I moved here, I’ve not long discovered the Bryant & May series, and would kind of like to see how that pans out…) and then on to the Phoenix Artist Club for drinks.
These things always remind me how absolutely right the decision to go to WHC in Brighton in March was. I went there alone, knowing no-one, but it served as the most incredible introduction to a group of people who are – individually and collectively – genuinely lovely. I had a great time – I was only sorry I had to leave as early as I did, as I’d have loved to stay longer and talk more (you know me. Talking. It’s what I do. A lot).
As it was, I contented myself with having a good read on the train on the way home (note #2: best not to read horror stories set on any kind of railway while you’re sitting alone in a train carriage with slightly dodgy lights. It’s not good for the nerves).
Thanks to the Solaris team – Jon, Jenni and Dave, all of whom are most excellent people – for a great book and a great launch. And if you’re looking for something to read on the commute (and your boss doesn’t mind if you arrive in the office a bit pale & in need of a stiff drink) you could do worse than look this one up.
I was never much into horror when I was a kid. My best friend, Becky, and her older sister were hugely into it – they’d seen every Stephen King adaptation going by the time we were 12, and I remember reading the copy of 
I fell in love with the Frog Brothers’ comic shop; with Santa Carla’s boardwalk (my husband, all too aware of my love for the film, is convinced this is why I love Brighton’s pier as much as I do…).
