Previously
Wednesday, September 18, 2002Necon was a wonderful convention. I had a terrific time and got to meet a lot of new people. It was an unusual convention in that there was more serious focus on playing softball and dancing salsa than on the usual literary discussions and ya-ya. The convention took place in Fall River, home of that woman who gave someone Forty Whacks. Not that I got to see much of it, though Craig Shaw Gardener did his best for my by leading a convoy of cars to an elusive restaurant. Quite thrilling. Handbrake turns. Roadside consultations with other members of the convoy who hadn't got a clue either. A chance to see Fall River by approaching from the other direction. The usual it's-supposed-be-right-here-somewhere stuff. Then back to the convention for ghost stories and beer. The empty beer bottles came in handy for fending off the bat-sized metal-clad mosquitoes that were finding my English skin particularly savoury. Imagine mosquitoes so tough you could chip a glass bottle on their hides. That was new. But that was all good practice for the softball that was to come. I drank with gusto (have I mentioned my friend gusto?) and such verve that this resulted in me falling >up< the stairs to my room. A kind of a first, really. It was an Escher-moment. I distinctly remember the shock and dislocation of anti-gravity. So, hungover, I missed the early morning mini-golf (for goodness sake!) though I did get recruited into playing softball. Very interesting, American softball and baseball games. While out-fielding we were all given hilarious gloves, but just for one hand. I don't think this was merely an effort on the part of the organisers to be humorous - I think it was because we were all writers, and there was some anxiety about our manicured hands and chipping our fingernails etc. The American guys were great; they kept teasing me that professional players wear these large catching-gloves too. I laughed along with it all. What next? Suits of armour for playing football in? Anyway I must have done okay because I was presented with the ball at the end of the game. There it sits on my shelf, even as I type these words. I made some great new friends at Necon. Thank you for inviting me, guys. It was a terrific party. Not all things American were good on this trip, though. Greenheads. Another nasty little insect I discovered in the US this year. They could chomp an elephant to death, those things. And something ridiculously called no-seeums. But you feel um. I tell you I was cake this year for all varieties of bugs. Was it my sweet English blood? Speaking of biting things, I should report on progress with The Tooth Fairy movie. Well it looks like it's going to be called The Wraith, despite resistance. Actually the producers are being extremely patient with me and my ideas. I hear patience in their voices. I completed the first draft of the screenplay and sent it whistling along, full of hope. They got back to me and told me it was one of the very best first drafts they had ever, ever seen, and would I rewrite it differently, and with different characters? I just wish it was someone else's novel I was chain-sawing into submission. I could rather enjoy seeing someone else's blood squirt up the walls. Call yourself a character arc? Take that! And that! I think the main problem is about ambiguity and ambivalence. These are not popular words in Hollywood. In fact these words are about as popular as veal pie at the anti-vivisectionists annual general meeting. About as popular as a greenhead at a July 4th beach barbecue. About as... oh you get the idea. Anyway, the idea of having an antagonist whom you fear but to whom you are mysteriously drawn doesn't go down well. Trouble is, that's what a lot of my writing is about. Isn't it. (Author pauses in middle of his rambling column to experience a moment of blistering ontological dread.) It's okay, I'm back with you now. I'll get the hang of it soon. It's a different currency, that's all. Just requires an adjustment. No, I'm cool. Really I am. Completely cool. Absolutely. Completely. What do you mean? What are you trying to imply? Why are you looking at me like that? Maybe I'm having a crisis after all. I don't know how it happened but I've started playing my Richie Havens albums all over again. This has forced a return to >vinyl<s;. I'm thinking of going into business selling tapes of my vinyl records advertising faithful reproductions of >genuinely scratched & defective & warped & pitted vinyl authentically created by hippies who smoked joints & fell asleep with their faces stuck to the vinyl, folks<. I don't know what it is about Richie Havens. Hope I'm not having a mid-life crisis brought on by Hollywood angst. Hope I don't have to wear flared jeans and take acid all over again. That would such a bloody bore. Particularly the flared jeans. Plus I keep dreaming about puffins. What does this mean? Some cheerful publishing news: I wrote a new story for a forthcoming anthology edited by the magnificent Ramsey Campbell. It's called Tiger Moth and it's based on a strange experience I had in Heacham on the East Coast when I was a boy. Everyone should have at least one strange experience in Heacham. In fact I'm probably not alone in finding Norfolk a strange place. And some of my best friends have been to Norfolk and came back. An excerpt from the new novel should also be appearing in the next edition of the superb magazine The Third Alternative, and if you haven't subscribed to it you should. Meanwhile The Facts Of Life is in the can and will be published towards the end of the year. It's my best yet. It's nearly as gorgeous as Conrad & Rhonda Williams' new baby. I went to Conrad and Rhonda's wedding. It was a lovely day. They're clearing off to a semi-derelict farmhouse with their new baby Ethan. Who says there's no romance left in the world? Conrad is a terrific writer. Other writers at the wedding included Mike Marshall Smith and Nick Royle, both of whom gave moving readings. One of them was a Native American Indian poem, saying >Now you will feel no rain<. I looked out of the registry office in Marylebone in London and of course it was bucketing down, and I thought heck you'd better have a bloody good tepee. Anyway it was such a lovely wedding my eyes nearly started squirting. You see, I >am< having a crisis. But never fear: anyone who wants to see me disintegrating in person should come to the British Fantasy Society event at Champagne Charlie's in London on September 21st, where I will be Guest of Honour. Come and say hello. Bring mosquito repellent. Bring Richie Havens albums. Bring beads. Bring caftans. We can freak out in the noon-day sun. Graham Joyce can be contacted by emailing graham@grahamjoyce.net | |
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