November, 2003

Straight on past where the Rialto used to be

The big news here is that I won the World Fantasy Award for The Facts Of Life. I went to the World Fantasy convention in Washington DC to collect the award, and I have to admit it, I had a great time.

Well what do you expect me to say? No I didn't burst into tears like those imbecilic crybabies at the Oscars, to whom I always want to say look Hank or Halle, a little less caffeine before coming on would be good. Is it because I'm British that I prefer to cry out of misery than out of happiness? Well, I'm not going to feel bad for it. But I was mighty pleased, and in my thank you speech I forgot to thank the judges.

What kind of an idiot thanks everyone except the five people who actually gave him the award? Oh dear oh dear. Well, even if I wasn't soaking my bib with tears for the beautiful mystery of myself I was certainly tired and emotional. I'd sat through the Banquet with various friends including Malcolm Edwards and Jo Fletcher, my publishers from Orion, who'd flown over from England and who, in a spirit of mischief, made me drink too much to calm my nerves. Of course I did my best to resist. But when the time came to collect the award I got up on the stage and heard myself speaking into the microphone with a voice that sounded like Gandalf The White on laughing gas.

I should have just said thank you but I couldn't go without insulting my father and then giggling uncontrollably about the fact that we encourage Americans in England to eat blood pudding by pretending it's a delicacy. What a forgiving audience.

Oh, speaking of Americans in England, if you go to http://www.salon.com/opinion/feature/2003/11/21/london_protest/index.html you can read the write up I did on the London demonstration against George W Bush's state visit to England. If you're not a subscriber you can get in but you might have to watch a pesky ad. The march itself was a great day out and I hadn't realised how much the character of demonstrations has changed. Used to be some agitprop heavy in a collarless shirt (working class, see) would commandeer a megaphone and front the march with some leaden slogan that you'd come to hate the more times you heard it bellowed in your ear. But this was much more fun, and probably more effective as a consequence. Drums, whistles, foghorns. Anyway got to Salon if you want to see my take on it. But don't read it if you're of the opinion that Dubya is a major statesman sent here by Secret Masters to help the world, cos I'm sorry I think he's a prize prat.

Unlike all the Americans I spent time with in Washington DC. A wonderfully friendly convention and I got to spend time with lots of friends, old and new. Plus I like to leave my American chums with at least one new British phrase or saying, you know, to help them out somehow. In this case it was the salutation my old gran used to greet me with, namely, 'How's your belly for spots?'

This was all going a little too far for Lou Anders (editor of the wonderful new Argosy mag) and Chris Roberson (Monkeybrain press) who responded by doing a nervous three-sixty, like those guys with the dark glasses who walk in front of George Bush. Come on. It's perfectly clear. It means How Are You? I'm not going to help any more Americans with useful phrases if this is what I get.

Outside the hotel on Capitol Hill the street was running with rats. This is not an exaggeration. The doorman told me it was because of building renovation, but I knew it was metaphor made corporeal. I'd do the novel but Albert Camus covered it in The Plague. In my version the rats would be nibbling chads.

Anyway I can report that The Stormwatcher is now available from Nightshade Books http://www.nightshadebooks.com And my collection Partial Eclipse is, I'm told, finally finally finally shipping from Subterranean Press, go to http://www.subterraneanpress.com Be aware that these are expensive ($40) editions but they are limited, signed editions, which might make it easier to swallow. It also has great cover art from John Picacio.

I got to "hang out" - see how effortlessly I take on these hip Americanisms, whereas they trouble so over the belly spot thing - with Jeremy and Jason, publishers of Nightshade. They treated me to inside information on the contours of independent publishing (the aftershock from 9/11 almost wiped them out) and I gave them a damned good listening to just so I could ponce their cigarettes. Nightshade are a very fine set up and these boys only publish what they love.

Speaking of Jason, I thought I'd escaped the annual dousing (see previous reports of World Fantasy depravity) until the delightful and urbane Philip from Fedogan & Bremer decided to congratulate me on the award on the Sunday evening. He placed his arm around me in that charmingly informal American fashion whereon I nervously studied the trajectory of the full tumbler of a very good single malt sloshing in his fist. Just when he was accurately telling me what a lovely cheese I am it all went down the right lapel of my award-acceptance suit. Philip coloured and went quiet, and then tottered off looking a tad depressed. I wanted to say it's really all right, mate, you Americans do it to me all the time. Anyway, whisky stiffens the weave of a good suit.

That last evening of the convention was the best, with or without lapel whisky. For some reason it improved or degenerated into party piece time. Various folk did acceptable impressions of drunks doing impressions, followed by contortionist tricks and climaxing when Al Beatts of Borderlands Books stepped through a wire coathanger. (Try it.) Lou Anders meanwhile spent hours practising the Alabama abbreviation of the celebrated Belly For Spots routine: Ashyirbellfrspo he declared gamely and often, before enthusiastically inspecting his own and other's midriff.

I shouldn't mock the way they talk in Alabama. For years my brothers and I have been trying to decipher the way my Mother speaks. Ever since we were small she's casually disregarded the way other people pronounce words in favour of her unique system. It's like a dialect, but for only one person. I'm thinking of publishing one of those humorous phrase books you can buy if you travel to places like Newcastle or Plymouth. Here's a sample glossary of Motherspeak in italics.

Rubbidge - Rubbish. Velcrum - Velcro. Oregami - Oregano. Rabbis - Rabies. The dooens - Any small object, attachment, nozzle, fitting, accessory momentarily misplaced. Force Four - Stage 2 (An electrical retail outlet, particularly puzzling this one. In fact this last example of Motherspeak has a generic form and goes back to one of the first albums I ever bought by a British rock band called Ten years After. She used to enrage me by constantly referring to them as Half Past Seven.) Go straight on past where the Rialto used to be. - General directions for absolutely anywhere in Coventry, England (the Rialto being some matinee flea pit she used to go to before the German Luftwaffe bombed it flat along with the rest of Coventry during the war, which I hasten to add was long, long before any of us kids were born.)

Right, that's my Dad insulted at my awards speech and my Mum mocked online. Don't worry, my karma is at the door shouting to get into my study as I type this.

After the convention I had a terrific few days in New York. Though I'd better save that for my next update and move onto book matters. The Limits Of Enchantment, I can tell you, is with the publishers now. The UK publication will, I believe, come out in July 04, whereas the US edition will be spring 05. It's a tale of borderline witchcraft set in the deep dark English Midlands where people say things like "rubbidge" and "How's your belly for spots".

I can't think where I get my ideas.

Graham Joyce can be contacted by emailing graham@grahamjoyce.net