Please sit on the other side of the confessional screen and listen to my sin: I’ve only finished reading five novels this year. I’m sorry, but I just haven’t had the time naturally occur. And because of this it feels that for most of the year something important has been absent from my life.
I have however not finished a bad novel this year. All of the books that I’ve forced myself through have been in their own way examples of excellence. I started the year with The True Deceiver by Tove Jansson and then moved onto the first Martin Beck novel Roseanna, by Maj Sjöwall & Per Wahlöö, for something easier to digest. It was after this I started reading Perdido Street Station by China Mieville. I only finished the crawl through it’s ~800 pages the other week, but it probably isn’t to blame for the limited number of novels, since I rattled through the last twenty-five percent in the space of a week. While reading Perdido I took a day trip to read Joanna Russ’s short novel We Who Are About To after hearing it being evangelised at Eastercon in Bradford. The most recent and last novel I’ve finished was The Man Who Went Up in Smoke, the second Martin Beck novel by Maj Sjöwall & Per Wahlöö. Again, something easier to digest after the heavy meal of Perdido.
The reason I’m sharing this dismal fact is not because I’m proud of it. And although I’m not sure if I’m utterly ashamed of this poor record, as it just happened, I don’t remember what I spent the time not spent reading doing. Yes, I’ve spent hours trying to write short fiction. And I’ve played video games and watched films and TV series, but not all the time. I don’t know where this year has gone. It has evaporated over the course of five novels.
Now I suppose that this is the point where I’m meant to share a solution to the current situation or raise a question from the audience/priest to find help, but that’s not what I’m interested in doing here. No, all I want to do is record my sin against literature that in the eleven months that have passed this year I have only read five novels.
It isn’t the worst crime, but I wish to remember it so that I will perform my penance of reading more next year.
Magnus, a friend of mine from back in the day, runs a weekly audiobook podcast called Telling of Tales. This week he’s recorded a version of one of my stories, Leicester Forest East. It was written at the start of this year after reflecting on Paul Kincaid’s review “The Widening Gyre: 2012 Best of the Year Anthologies” for several months. Leicester Forest East , then, is one of my attempts to write a science fiction that’s more quotidian than what’s generally out there and explores our shared common failures.
Please do tell us what you think of the story and podcast by leaving us a comment. I have also been told to share the fact that Telling of Tales is starting a short break so do send your stories to him if you enjoyed his efforts here.
Anna & Isaac dress up as Vikings. Anna & Isaac go on a quest. Anna & Isaac do the washing up. Anna & Isaac have an argument. Anna & Isaac goto outer space. Anna & Isaac take drugs. Anna & Isaac go to inner space.
Anna & Isaac kerb stomp Karl Jung. Anna & Isaac have sex. Anna & Isaac become Maoist revolutionaries. Anna & Isaac get married. Anna & Isaac form a suicide pact. Anna & Isaac trip the light fantastic. Anna & Isaac
get a kitten. Anna & Isaac start a family. Anna & Isaac get divorced. Anna & Isaac grow old together. Isaac dies of cancer. Anna goes to a home.
I visited my local independent (and favourite) cinema, Phoenix Square, yesterday to see the recent Ben Wheatley film ‘A Field in England’. It is superb. The film critic Danny Leigh praised the film concisely by describing it as, “A head-spinning trip into the far corners of the English psyche.” As you can see from the poster above it also receives publicity worthy quotes from the director Nicolas Roeg (‘Walkabout‘, ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth‘). Which is appropriate as one of the films A Field in England reminded me of in its style and attitude was Roeg’s ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth’.
‘A Field in England’ is as funny as it is weird and as horrific as it is beautiful. In the UK — and I suspect elsewhere — the film is available via all legitimate distribution channels, and almost certainly the less legitimate ones too. There are no excuses to miss seeing ‘A Field in England’ apart from your own apathy.
Script by Will Ellwood (www.will-ellwood.com). Art, layout, hard work by Calliope den Ouden (http://www.inktspatten.nl/).
Last Wednesday, my partner, Jenny, had her graduation ceremony to formally receive her PhD. There was a party held at her parent’s house at the weekend to celebrate her frankly astonishing achievement with her parents and family friends. This was the cake commissioned for Jenny by her parent’s, Bob and Fran, to mark the occasion. It’s vegan. Also, the TARDIS is made from marzipan and the blue food colouring dyes tongues blue.
Yesterday, we both recovered from our hangovers by sitting in her father’s beautiful garden, reading, and drinking soft drinks until the sun set and the fire pit came out. I have had a lovely and restive weekend. Tomorrow I’m back at work.
It won’t be anywhere near as pleasant.
Yesterday, when talking about the New Weird with Jared of Pornokitsch and Jon Courtney Grimwood on Twitter, I shared some word documents containing the early forum discussions involving many of its key participants.  Not only do these documents have historical and critical value, but I’d like to think that those forum posts encouraged and inspired those involved to do cool shit. Now everyone uses Twitter or their own websites to publish opinions and because of this something seems lost in the jigsaw of tweets, posts and comments. Twitter is too limited for complex conversation, although it can prompt them. However, individual websites are too distant from each other to enable an overview of the conversation to be easily acquired.
An example. The recent discussion about the exhaustion exhibited in contemporary works of science fiction prompted by Paul Kincaid’s review The Widening Gyre elicited tens of thousands of words on blog posts, hundreds of comments, immeasurable tweets, and several hours of podcasts. None of this was bad, but a lot of energy was wasted repeating definitions and assumptions without moving forward, which has affected how the discussion has been received. And by being a scattered collage of essays, reviews and interviews the cycle of call & response that exists between writers & critics is weakened. As such, I doubt many writers of fiction see Paul Kincaid’s and Jonathan McCalmont’s position as challenges to be met and overcome. The disparate conversations make it easier for the substance of what is being said to be ignored or forgotten.
What I’d like to negate these problems is a progressive & intelligent forum or mailing list dedicated to talking about difficult & interesting things involved in the production and consumption of fiction. A place that allows for of conversations, like those New Weird threads, to exist again.
Am I alone in thinking that this is a good idea?
 The word documents were archived by Kathryn Cramer and can be found here.
 Paul Kincaid’s own further thoughts are here & here. Jonathan McCalmont’s essay on the subject is here. The two podcasts that I can think of are both episodes of the Coode Street Podcast that can be found here & here.
If SF is something more than fairy tale fiction, it has the right to neglect the fairy tale world and its rules. It is also not realism and has the right to neglect the methods of realistic description. Its generic indefiniteness facilitates its existence, for it is supposedly not subject to the whole range of criteria by which literary works normally are judged. SF is not allegorical, but then it says allegory is not its task: SF and Kafka are quite different. It is not realistic, but then it is not a part of realistic literature. The future? How often have SF authors disclaimed any intention of making predictions! Finally, it is the Myth of the 21st Century. But the ontological character of myth is anti-empirical, and though a technological civilization may have its myths, it cannot itself embody a myth, for myth is an interpretation, an explication, and you must have the object that is to be explicated. SF lives in but strives to emerge from this antinomical state of being. It becomes more and more apparent that its narrative structures deviate more and more from any real processes, having been used again and again since they were first introduced and having thus become frozen, fossilized paradigms. SF involves the art of putting hypothetical premises into the very complicated stream of socio-psychological occurrences. Although this art once had its master in H.G. Wells, it has been forgotten and is now lost. But it can be learned again.
On the Structural Analysis of Science Fiction, Stanislaw Lem
The parking situation for the day job is terrible. If you have a permit then you are one of the fortunate few. If like me you don’t, then you have to find your own. Where I attempt to park when working late shifts is an empty overgrown lot five minutes walk away. It isn’t ideal, but as it is the season for small flowers there are sometimes pleasant sights to start what is normally going to be a terrible day.