Tag: forthcoming
one or two news items
The new novel is finished subject to tinkering (also to waking up at three in the morning, looking at part of it & thinking: what on earth did you think you were trying to do there?). I can't say what kind of novel it is because I don't feel I know yet. Maybe I'll never know, but I can say that it's set now, it's odd, and it's not a space opera, so that gives you some idea of what it isn't. After that, things take on, as they should do, a slight, puzzling shimmeriness.
No title as yet. Publication details as and when I have them. And maybe the odd little excerpt to tease & confuse.
I started a version of this novel in 2008, looking to pick up where I had left off in the mid-to-late 90s with Signs of Life and Travel Arrangements. I wanted to take advantage of the things I'd learnt from the kind of short stories I began writing around then. That process was interrupted and modified by Empty Space; then the post-2012 version itself was interrupted by a house move and a heart attack, with an accompanying sense that I'd better get fit, go climbing again and generally take charge of myself from then on if I wanted to keep pushing and not give in and become old; and also by the recognition that this novel didn't represent a direction I was going to be encouraged to take (& that therefore it was exactly the right thing to do). So I'm glad to have got to this point and be able to move along one way or the other.
In the last five or six years I've received such support, from so many new, exciting and unexpected directions, that I've had more sense of the fun of being a writer–not to mention the worth of it–than at any time since the early 1970s.
Next year I'll transfer my attention to the other new novel I've been working on the sly: but also enjoy the luxury of finishing two short stories that have been slowly ungluing themselves from the edges of what I laughingly call my "mind"; and two really exciting collaborative projects nothing to do with on-the-page fiction. I also hope to do more readings, because I enjoy that kind of ephemerality of presentation, that way of entertaining people. Readings are a good way of finding out who you are and what you write, and extending that; and they offer audiences a new way in, too. I'll be back to reviewing in the new year, for the Guardian & the TLS, and I'm hoping to collect a "personal anthology" of favourite short stories for Jonathan Gibbs's excellent series here.
Sadly, The Course of the Heart, Signs of Life and Things That Never Happen remain out of print. Perhaps something can be done about that in 2019; I intend to be rather more energetic, and rather more vocal about the problem in certain quarters. Whether anything can be done or not, there'll be a "selected" short stories to include material from The Machine in Shaft Ten onwards, introduced, I hope, by someone young, lively and cleverer than me, and aimed at an audience I didn't until recently know that I had.
My slogan for 2019 will be: We go through the doors that open.
Always a disjointed time of year. Sometimes charming, sometimes ugly. Two and a half chapters remaining of the new novel to write–should be finished around Christmas. All downhill but still no title, although I expect to find one at the last minute. That will be an adventure. Also, "What kind of book is this going to be?" you ask. Reader, I have no idea, nor want one. Maybe it's a romance. Maybe it's Weird. Maybe it's set now. It's certainly got some peculiar stuff in it. The one rule–written in "spidery" handwriting in red Muji 0.5mm and placed on the desk next to my inspirational Jenny Holtzer postcard, WORDS TEND TO BE INADEQUATE–was "flatten it off". It's odd, sad, oppressive, disturbing. It's strange, but not in Aickman's sense; maybe a touch eerie, but not necessarily in Mark Fisher's sense. It's sly. If you've spent time here you'll know what to expect.
Speaking of which I'm off to Sheffield tomorrow to read some of the previously unperformed blog pieces you chose for my part in Tim Etchells' Strong Language project, alongside Vlatka Horvat and Courttia Newland. So thanks everyone who put forward their choices for that.
After that, on Wednesday 24th October, I have another gig in Sheffield's Off the Shelf festival, this time with the revered Iain Sinclair. We'll be introduced by my friend & climbing partner, physicist Richard Jones.
If you're new here, why not skim the bio or dip in at random; or if you feel like something longer & more involving, well, obviously, You Should Come With Me Now
across the grain
After that, the great dark charcoal-coppices drew her in: Bosle, Swiney and Leasow; Factory, Workhouse and Suicide. These old woods, draped over the mess the 18th Century made, were warmer than the exposed dip slope; their labyrinthine topography of track and knoll, prolapsed limekiln and pennystone spoil hill, sprawled away silent and dark to the edge of the Gorge, where every winter on the scarp one more beech tree levered itself out of the mud and leant tiredly into the catch of its nearest neighbour. Across the grain, syke to syke, Victoria's progress–if that's what it could be called–was by short steep uphill struggle leading inevitably to a kind of exhausted, cautious slither down the other side. Her arms windmilled. She was lost. She did not feel entirely in charge of herself. Eight deer ran past her from nowhere, down a narrow salient between two overgrown rock quarries. All she could do was watch as they flickered away, in and out of the trees, pale in the moonlight, on some business of their own. Enchanted yet anxious, a London woman in a lot of mud, she wandered about all night until the sinister half-light at the hour before dawn brought her to the edge of the woods again; from which she looked out this way and that.
My new collection will be published later this year by Comma Press. It's taken a while to get this sorted, and I want to thank everyone involved–also apologise to everyone else for the wait. Details as they arrive, here and from the Comma team. The book features eighteen short stories–five of which are original, unpublished & unavailable anywhere else and a further half dozen that will be new to most readers–and some flash fiction, much of which will be recognisable to habitues of the Ambiente Hotel. Contents include: a distributed sword & sorcery trilogy; two or three full-size sci-fi novels, one of which is two sentences and forty eight words long (fifty if you count the title); several visits to Autotelia, some that identify as such and some that don't; and two final dispatches from Viriconium, neither of which would get house-room in an anthology of epic fantasy.
signs of relief
The Gollancz reprints of The Course of the Heart, Signs of Life and Things That Never Happen are up at Amazon UK, with a release date of 8th September 2016. Pre-orders are encouraged. No images available. There was some interesting art & design for the covers, which I saw way back at the end of 2014, but I believe that's been toned down a little now. Even so, they should look quite grown up. If this is good news to you, you can't be any more relieved than me. Along with Climbers, these books have a central place in my heart–the idea that they'd never be in print again was gnawing at me a bit.
victoria's gift
They met at a pub on King Street Hammersmith then ate tandoori trout at one of the new upmarket Indians just along from the Premier Hotel. Victoria seemed nervous.
"How do you like my hair?" she said.
Thinned out in some way, centre-parted, chopped off with a kind of calculated incompetence a little above the jawline, it clung lankly to the sides of her face and head, curling out tiredly at the ends. "Neo-bluestocking," she said. "Very effective from certain angles, though I can see you don't think so." Over the evening she drank a bottle of house red– "Nothing to see here. No change here" –and talked about her car. Alex said he would stick to beer. When he said he wasn't much of a driver, she looked down at the charred tails and dyed red flesh of the remains of their meal, the filmy bones like the fossil imprint of a leaf, and said, "Who is? It's not really about driving. I go to the coast a lot now." She laughed and made confused steering wheel motions. "Up and down. Hastings and Rodean. Very slowly. Dungeness, of course." Then: "I think I've grown out of London." And finally: "I love the little spines of these fishes, don't you?"
"All I see," said Alex, "is my dinner."
He then admitted: "I was in a bit of a state when we last met."
"You aren't all that much improved." She laughed at his expression. "Come on! I should talk! I don't believe I've been entirely sane since I was thirteen–"
Alex filled her glass again. "Is that when you saw the corpse?" he said, hopefully.
"–although I did have a moment of clarity in a sauna in about 2005." She stared around the restaurant as if expecting to see someone she knew. "Eventually you take what you can get where that's concerned. You have to feel you're steadying down."
"There's some value to that," Alex agreed, though he had no idea what she was talking about.
"Actually, I'm not even sure it should be called clarity," she said.
She was too drunk to drive. They left the car where she had parked it in Hammersmith and walked back to 17 Wharf Terrace along the river. There, she poked around his room as if she was out for a bargain in used furntiure. "The bed's a bit small," she said, looking at him brightly. Picking through his books, she found a John Fowles; made a face. "You can't like any of his stuff. Not really." Then: "And is this the famous shared wall!" She tapped with one knuckle, as if sounding the ancient plaster for its weaknesses. She put her ear to it. "He seems quite quiet now, your unknown nemesis." Alex found something else they could drink–the end of a litre of Absolut so old the shoulders of the bottle were sticky with all the condensed grit airs of London–and, sitting on the edge of the bed, unwrapped the housewarming present. "Look at that!" she said, as if their roles were reversed and he had given it to her. It was made of silver, with an articulated body five or six inches long and hinged sidefins. "It's Peruvian," she said. "It's a fish. It's quite old."
Alex weighed the fish in his hand, moved one of the fins cautiously. Its scales were tarnished and cold. "Hi fish," he said.
"See," Victoria said. "You like it. You like it already."
The collection:
In Autotelia
Rockets of the Western Suburbs
Cicisbeo
Imaginary Reviews
Entertaining Angels Unawares
Elf Land: the Lost Palaces
Psychoarcheology
Royal Estate
Last Transmission from the Deep Halls
Places you Didn't Think to Look for Yourself
Not All Men
Dog People
Jackdaw Bingo
Keep Smiling (with Great Minutes)
The Theory Cadre
Recovering the Rites
Anti Promethian
In the Crime Quarter
Name This City
The Old Fox
Awake Early
Explaining the Undiscovered Continent
A Web
Back to the Island
Cave & Julia
Alternate World
Getting Out of There
an irregular event
Reading "The Crisis" last Thursday at Irregular Evenings 2, a hidden venue deep in the religio-industrial complex of Stoke Newington, ably organised by Vlatka Horvat and Tim Etchells. Jonathan Burrows and Matteo Fargion were a hard act to follow. A great, mixed audience which included everyone from the #LossLit team to Michael Caines of the TLS and Canongate co-founder Whitney McVeigh. The evening was notable in another way for me, but more of that some other time. If you couldn't be there for reasons of because, you can still catch the Warwick University audio of the original reading, online here. It looks as if "The Crisis" will have its first print outing in the short story collection–tentatively entitled Found & Lost–which is working its way up the femoral artery and into publishing's dark heart etc etc even as we speak. News of that very soon, I hope.
Photo: Aki Schilz.
Some reminders & updates: I'm at Totleigh Barton on Thursday (23rd Oct) to read for my supper at Liz Jensen & Simon Ings' SF course; Birmingham Library on the 30th October, to remember Joel Lane & read from SALT's Best British Short Stories 2014; Manchester (John Rylands) Library in December with the Curious Tales team. An exciting talk possibility has turned up for next autumn, I'll keep you informed; and having missed Claire-Jane Carter & Tess Lyons' Hagglers Corner event in Sheffield (not to say missing the chance to meet the frighteningly determined Nick Bullock) on Saturday (25th October), I'm hoping to contribute to whatever they do next–news on that if & when. If you'd like to pay me to read something, or do some other kind of appearance, leave a comment here or follow @mjohnharrison on Twitter and DM me. New & recently available stories: "The 4th Domain" is up at Kindle Single (where you can still get "Cave & Julia"; if you missed the delightful Night Jar Press edition of "Getting Out of There", it's available in the above-mentioned & equally Royle-edited Best British Short Stories 2014, from SALT (both paper and electronic); "Animals", an untraditional traditional ghost story, will appear at Christmas in the Curious Tales anthology Poor Souls' Light. I'm thinking of saving "The Crisis", which I debuted at Warwick U's Irradiating the Object conference, as a kind of bonus for the new collection, which will contain a couple of other previously unpublished and similarly raw items. There's progress on that, including a new and I hope final title, but I'm still trying to finish The Last Viriconium Story to go in it, so don't necessarily hold your breath. The new novel is looking round so many different corners at once that I couldn't tell you anything about it anyway.
another little taste
Annie Swann had other clients. He never saw anything of them–although he once found a yellow plastic bag of CDs that she said someone must have left under a chair–except at the regular mass seance, which took place in the evening on the second Tuesday of every month. For this event, most of the furniture would be relegated to the kitchen. The curtains were drawn and the sofa dragged in front of the empty fireplace.
"Mass" was perhaps too ambitious a word for what happened. It was formal in an amateur way, as if the participants weren't really used to being with other people. The downstairs room would fill up from about seven o' clock with a dozen men wearing business suits or Australian oiled cotton jackets. Collar-length white hair, mustard-yellow corduroy trousers and navy blue Guernsey pullover indicated a retiree. Each of them seemed to have a single prominent defect–a thickened jaw, one eye too large for the other–and while they presented as well-off, they lacked the healthy patina and slightly overfed look you would expect of West London. There were rarely any women. Packed into the tiny front room, forced to regroup every time the door opened to admit a late arrival, they shouted cheerfully enough at each another but lacked confidence. He recognised one or two of them, but he couldn't think from where.
After perhaps half an hour, during which Annie asked her favourite of the week to hand round glasses of medium dry sherry and Waitrose nibbles, she would take her place on the sofa, smile vaguely around for a minute or two, then slip stage by difficult stage into the mediumistic coma. The men gazed uncomfortably past her at the wall above the fireplace. None of them spoke or moved, although sometimes a quick sideways glance might be exchanged. It was less pleasant, more of an effort, for her to produce anything in these circumstances. She was tired afterwards. There was a prolonged period of disconnection, a shallow delirium in which her legs twitched and shook.
The men, released slowly, as if from a similar psychic bondage, coughed and shifted their feet. They regarded one another as blankly as animals of different species finding themselves in the same field; then, after staring at Annie for a while–in the hope, perhaps, of something more–left the house one by one, letting in the cold evening air. Shaw, who often stayed behind to make her a cup of tea and help drag the sofa back into its usual position, watched them drift away across the graveyard. When they had quite gone, Annie would smile tiredly, pat his forearm, touch his shoulder. If there was a kind of tired flirtatiousness to these gestures, she was, he thought, only trying unconsciously to make a bond with him. It wasn't something she could see she was doing.
One evening before the mass seance he saw that the map from her brother's office, or one exactly like it, had appeared on the front room wall.
From "The 4th Domain", out as Kindle Single in the next couple of weeks.