Christopher Golden talks Cemetery Girl

Jo Fletcher has recently published Cemetery Girl, a graphic novel by Charlaine Harris and Christopher Golden. I recently reviewed it on the blog and Chrisopher Golden was kind enough to answer some questions about it.

What is the difference in writing novels and graphic novels?

CG: The two mediums are entirely different, actually. In format and discipline, they require different skill sets from the writer. Novels are both more textured (writing-wise) and less structured. There are a thousand ways to go about writing a novel, but the graphic novel requires a certain format and structure–panel descriptions and dialogue, the only movement that which is implied too exist in the space between panels. Of course, the other major difference is that a graphic novel is an entirely collaborative piece of art. Without skill and talent from the entire team &emdash; writer, artist, colorist, letterer &emdash; fine efforts on the part of one or two may turn out utter crap.

How did the character of Calexa come about?

CG: Oh, she’s Charlaine’s baby, no doubt. Charlaine had imagined the character and her basic story arc, being dumped in the cemetery, losing her memory, even some of her true identity and secrets and most of how she survives, before I came into the picture. When she asked me on board I obviously added my two cents, gave it a spin, but my most substantial contribution was to the plots of the individual installments. I’d like to think that I helped to forge who she is, and I think Don Kramer’s artwork also contributes a great deal to the character. But she’s Charlaine’s brain child, and we did nothing that strayed from her vision of Calexa.

How did it change things creating a book with other people?

CG: When you choose the right people, or are chosen by the right people, it’s a pleasure. I’ve collaborated loads of times and it can be tough, but working with Charlaine has been a wonderful process of give and take, exchanging ideas, teasing each other, apologizing for holding things up (usually me), and more than anything just being excited about Calexa. That’s the best thing about collaborating..the shared enthusiasm.

Cemetery Girl explores the problems of identity and accepting or creating it? The book seems torn between trying to remember the one(s) given= to her and making her own one from memories and items around her.

CG: For me, it’s all about a process that each of us goes through our whole lives…balancing the family within which we are born with the one we make of our own choosing. I love my family &emdash; I’m fortunate in that way, because many people don’t–but I also feel so lucky to have built the family of friends that I’ve had in my life. Identity is linked inextricably to those elements–where we come from and where we’re going.

You seem to have a balance between the morality of people who plawith the idea of magic without considering either the morality or the ethics. Is there a balance between a belief in the the afterlife and playing with it?

CG: Personally, I see no reason not to use such elements in fiction. Faith is a part of life for huge swathes of the Earth’s population. A belief in the afterlife is a major foundation of faith for nearly all of those people. Ghost stories–and this is, in some ways, a ghost story–are just looking at the belief in the afterlife through an entertaining prism.

What freedoms or challenges does the ghost form give you and co-artists with Cemetery Girl?

I’m not an artist, so that’s not something I can really answer.

What might we see next from Calexa?

Book two of CEMETERY GIRL, called INHERITANCE, is due out in late 2014 or early 2015. As to the plot … well, I’m not going to tell.

Thanks, Christopher.

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The howl of ghosts – Wolves by Simon Ings

Simon Ings’ Wolves is an unsettling read: playing with form and expectation. It is an almost sociopathic novel that perhaps affirms the motion of life. It echoes the Harrisonian hatred of the ennui of life yet does not quite go as far as imploding to see what will happen. Instead we are caught up in the characters’ own version of imploding with equal disregard for each other or themselves.

Out of the blue, Conrad is contacted by Michel, his childhood friend and invited out to see him. Initially believing that it is just a way of being shown Michel’s new partner, Conrad goes and finds a forward momentum that has eluded him. He leaves his partner and begins working for an augmented reality start up.

In between these gaps, memories of childhood sneak through and begin to work their way out as a noir crime narrative. Conrad found his mother dead in the back of his father’s car in the midst of one of her trips to a nearby protest camp where it sounds like she is also being mistreated. Conrad fixates on the albino whom his father, a maker of prosthetic vision equipment, has helped.

As part of the start up, echoing his father’s footsteps, he comes into contact with the man, Bryon Vaux, again as an investor in the company. Mis-understanding the capacity for cruelty and humiliation, Conrad confronts him and finds that he was wrong and that he is also not as self-destructive. Michel, meanwhile, continues his apparently successful life ignoring the hollowness within and falls into his own madness and visions. Aware that Conrad is the father of his child, a short lived liaison after a party that featured destruction, he gives into his own obsessions as if he is enacting Vathek’s pursuit of selfish hedonistic destruction.

So what are the wolves? The nipping of history on their shared and very separate histories? Conrad, eventually faces himself, his destiny and begins seeing the world. Whilst his companions work on altering the surface of the world, he questions its narrative. It does remind me not only of M John Harrison but also William Gibson’s close questioning of the world. The technology here is superficial but it raises the questions of vision.

Through the novel, vision is impeded and altered. Conrad’s father uses echo location to help give a semblance of vision to blinded personnel and he becomes a sales person for augmented reality company. Selling dreams to be made into a version of reality, the product that he sells overlays a personalised version of the world into contact lenses, looking at ways of fooling the head further. It is a less extreme version of the obsession that Michel falls into: an all consuming love for the Fall in its many forms. Hedonistically falling for his own lie, Michel finally falls headlong into the collapse that comes after a life of pride, an echo of the other light bringer. He never seems to have come to terms with himself or how own mistakes in the same way that Conrad must do.

So perhaps the novel is somehow able to move through its own psychopathology and misdirections and find motion. It does not offer a quick and happy truth. Instead it works to question how we think we view the world and how to question the story it wants to tell us and that we wish to overlay onto it. Some while ago in a review of Neal Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon, the critic Gary Wolfe asked if such a beast as realistic Sf exists. He argued that it did with that particular novel and Wolves certainly joins and proves that this beast does exist. There is no future gazing or extrapolation yet asks fierce questions about versions of the world, and demands answers.

Wolves is a book that plays with our expectations of genre and merrily destroys them in a thoroughly pissed off manner. Like a judgement on the genre, he finds it lacking the critical gaze that it needs and looks at different ways of telling his story. Abstract, horrific, and passionate, this is not a novel to be missed.

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Raising the living – Cemetery Girl: The Pretenders

The Cemetery Girl: The Pretenders (Jo Fletcher Books) is a collaboration between Christopher Golden and Charlaine Harris, with illustrations by Don Kramer. A mix of crime and the supernatural, this is the first volume in a new series. Whilst it does appear to plough a furrowed field, there are some nice touches to the book with its characterisation and cast list.

After being thrown unceremoniously thrown into a cemetery, a woman must begin to build her identity from the little she knows. Deciding to play dead, she begins to fashion an identity for herself through borrowing items, from coats to names. Calling herself Calexa, she fashions a makeshift place to stay in a mausoleum and forays into the non cemetery world. Her ‘accident’ has left her with the ability to commune with the dead, giving her a foot on both worlds. A Charon of justice.

Removing someone’s name and memory is a fairly regular concept. However Golden and Harris seems to use it as a way of introducing Calexa, taken from a grave, to the reader and to play with our conceptions of the character whilst also seeing what she can get away with rather than to destroy her. Using the elderly and the caretakers, the authors move her from being morally dubious to part of a community where the needs are bartered to some extent. She, and her growing community, are social ghosts, seen but forgotten to society, seemingly held to a place by a sense of unknown purpose.

In contrast the teenagers’ clique who do not seem to understand themselves, perhaps the jocks of this world, seem unable to grasp their own moral or ethical roots. Using magic as an outlet to their social madness, their lives seem driven by media representations of the world rather than an actual understanding of their actions or that there are consequences to them. What does appear is the need for trust for the community to work, rather than using the desperate for an unknown goal. The authors briefly muse on the empty ritual actions with the apparent absence of faith in an afterlife, as if the cosmos is one large façade.

Calexa appears to begin building trust in herself and the new found society. From this she begins on her own journey to renewal and rebirth. I am sure that more clues will appear in future books but for now Lucinda will need to keep scanning the papers. Harris and Golden leave the reader curious, with some fragments to go on, and a way forward with the right visual tone set up by the artists.

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Reaching for the Void – The Abominable by Dan Simmons

In the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, abominable is defined as:

Exciting disgust, offensive; odious

Its derivation could be seen as ‘a human, signifying “inhuman”’, from the Latin ab plus human. It seems appropriate for a book that approaches the notion of Weird from a very human angle.

Dan Simmons’ The Abominable explores how the search for the uncanny, the push towards the extreme, might make us either human or monsters. This novel moves from between being metaphysical to entirely physical wrapped in unreliable frame story, presented in another unreliable frame story. Using a reported diary from one of the participants, the novel becomes limited to the report of one participant of the climb. It might position this book in the same way that Henry James does with the unreliability of the narrator in the Turn of the Screw: using the technique to put the book in the cusp of traditions whilst also making the reader uncertain of anything being true.

It moves from a nineteenth century style of terror, one that uses landscape as an integral technique; is in awe of the sense of place, to a twentieth century terror that is more afraid of the human. The influence of Romanticism, the heightened emotions created by the landscape around the actors, gives way to the heightened emotions caused by the human. Using the early twentieth century Western exploration of Everest as the backdrop, Simmons moves from physical extremes to geographical ones. Everest was the final conquests and there were questions whether it had been climbed by Mallory. Richard Deacon finds funds from the Bromley family to discover the fate of their son, or retrieve his body. Having already chosen his climbing companions, the Deacon, travels around the UK and Europe to discover the variations on the tale.

At the same time, he uses the rise of Fascism and the claim that Hitler took gay, sometimes under age, lovers to create  very human tale of horror. Using the insinuations, the Great Game is brought to the Himalaya, the political safety valve is brought to the literary one. The climb becomes a pre-cursor of the conflict to come. The idealists become the monsters whereas it is only those on the edge of the system who are able to subvert it.

Underneath all is the conspiracy. The Great Game was, in part, an expression of a cold war in to which unwitting participants are drawn. Our narrator is deeply unimpressed about being caught up in the spy business. In this respect, I found myself reminded of Tim Power’s Declare, where Ararat becomes the locus of the action and the Cold War is made real. The Abominable declares the intelligence war but then does not deliver on it. It does something similar with the question of Orientalism and the fizzing resentment of the colonial rule but it is not really resolved. We are asked to understand the resentment and view the way that some colonists involved themselves in the culture to be part of it but not to conquer it, as an escape from their own lives and cultures, but the issue is a little sidetracked.

Although he draws in the mysteries of the mountain, the Yeti and the questions regarding Mallory’s success and location of his body, Simmons wisely tries not to answer them. Although he hints at an alternative history, Simmons seems more interested in the journey, the climbing towards the unknown or the uncanny. Those who force the answer are doomed to fail. Although he moves into the twentieth century tale of terror and explores the variations, he seems to come back to the idea that terror is a shifting target, ever changing and somehow unclimbed. Touching the idea of the abominable, he seems content with the concept that whatever excites disgust or is offensive is an ever shifting target. In this case, The Abominable is akin to the location of Mallory’s body: we can see it but are never sure whether it reached the summit or not.

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Christmas Ghost Stories from the Guardian

Christmas comes but once a year and it seems like a good time to send a shiver down one’s spine. The Guardian and its Sunday sister paper, the Observer, have joined in with the BBC in giving us some ghost stories.

The pieces have a way of making the reader very uneasy in a strange sense, even if they are not overtly horrific. The unease is probably a personal thing, everyone will find something slightly different for each reading.

This morning’s Observer has a short story by Penelope Lively called “Stairs“. Currently in the news not only for her new book, Ammonites and Leaping Fish: A Life in Time, but also Hermione Lee’s acclaimed biography of her, Lively’s story has a domesticity that revolves on something quite empty.

Yesterday they published short stories by Ned Beaumont, Jeanette Winterson and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. The one that really got me was Winterson’s story, a more traditional one of an old house and forgotten crime that came back to haunt the present. Beaumont’s story, centring on a piece of art that haunted its creators, was technically very good but it felt cold; as if it is an exercise. I felt the same about his novel, The Teleportation Accident as well. Looking back on it, the Adiche story didn’t really leave much impression on me but that is probably more my taste or experience than her writing.

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Unwriting the Fables

A wolf and Boy Blue on the cover of fables 143The page is blank. The colour and lines have leached away like a printer running out of ink, despite the black frames. Characters wander across it, conversing, whilst aware of the fact. Curiously this is not the end or the beginning but the middle.

The world no longer exists, merged and un-merged. In the beginning the page is full as the writers and artists plotted and created.

Fables 134 is the culmination of the Little Blue Boy arc and the renewal of the Bigby Wolf one. It is a coda that interacts with the Unwritten issue 54, the dark cross over narrative between the universes.

Bigby’s voice narrates the first part of the comics, stating “I’m in Heaven. The forest is vast, endless, and incandescent with life”. Chasing a variety of strange objects, he muses on him regarding the need to be tested and to test himself but cannot face the larger mythical beasts. At the beginning of the Fables run, the Wolf ruled with an iron thumb but has gradually become domesticated and sidelined until Fables: Wolves of the Heartland, where he began to get his mojo and purpose back. Even his moral purpose. Meanwhile, he has been largely absent from the storyline where Dare and his daughter went to the land of the lost and broken toys.

Time for a Reckoning.

Boy Blue comments “I thought I’d find you here” and confirms that he is “very much dead”. Just like Bigby, who was killed in a fight.

The forest, or wood between the worlds if we follow William Morris or CS Lewis’s example, is a place of waiting. We stand in limbo and are made aware of this fact with the conversation moving on between creation and un-creation, life and death, and heaven and hell. It is a rare space of real conversation, where assumptions cannot be applied. Blue’s role is to remind Bigby of what he is as well as where he is. The wolf is able to change the rules as a god and also an agent of change.

Blue’s conversation about the cult of Boy Blue that has started is clearly a comment on the return of the King myth. Rather than seeing the potential return of the king in battle, like Arthur or Charlemagne, who will return in the hour of need, Blue decides that no-one can get, or perhaps even deserves, a problem free life. The refusal of the king is an echo of Arthur’s acknowledgement of Will in Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising as he floats past on the barge. The hope for a saviour, or the resurrection to come, is denied time and belief.

Tommy Taylor blowing a horn in the cover of Unwritten 54This is made more concrete in The Unwritten issue 54, itself the culmination of the coming together of the Fables and Unwritten worlds. Boy Blue appears with the Witching cloak and sword, apparently undefeatable, though only because he is held together by his “master’s will… The ash is only to fill out space between his thoughts” (The Unwritten 54, DC Comics, Vertigo, December 2013). The fake Boy Blue is aware of his nature and is invulnerable to attack until both Tommy Taylor and Bigby appear in the universe. This issue of the Unwritten appears to be the singularity point of both universes: that they are powered by the nature of story. Bill Willingham has perhaps been here with the Literals but this gets to the heart of the current Vertigo universe; that it is about story. Matt Sturges’s run on House of Mystery explored the same world but not in the same depth as Willingham and Mike Carey/Peter Milligan.

Whilst he and Blue talk, he suddenly realises that the world has disappeared around him, apart from the boxes around them. Blue has moved them to a place where he can move on and Bigby will get his second visitor; his son, Dare. Echoing the cat’s comments in Neil Gaiman’s Coraline about the edge of the house being the boundary of the other mother’s imagination or the notion of ghost’s not being trapped in a limited world, Willingham seems to try to use it to go beyond. The whiteness is not a gap but a chance for a rewrite. Perhaps it is a more honest way of rebooting a universe ad imagining its end.

Carey and Milligan do this with the reference to Child Harold blowing his horn. The horn signals the current end of the story with the whiteness and references to the meta-narrative. A voice, whom we assume to be Taylor, comments “I can and will spit out this gospel. This unbearable truth. That we are such things as fables are made of , and live until our tale’s no longer told”. (The Unwritten, issue 54). It echoes Prospero’s speech in the Tempest where he continues musing on the way that artifice of the theatre and this speech muses on the artifice of the universe that Taylor and his crew are in.

Both issues make the reader uncomfortable in that they give themselves agency and awareness. Bigby becomes aware of his roles as father and monster, destroying the dark version of Snow White and his children by admitting his monstrous side on his explosive return to the Unwritten universe and perhaps the Fables one. Tommy Taylor needs to return to his own universe and continue the search for the meta-narrative. This moment appears to have been the realisation of their haeccity, their ‘thisness’. It takes a reckoning on both sides to see this and realise what they are so that they can continue.

The continuation text box in The Unwritten suggests that there is a break in the series whilst Fables 135 will come back to the Camelot storyline. It might be time to return to the Literals crossover story line and reflect on how these talk to each other.

Update: Comic Book Resources has the news about the relaunch of the Unwritten in January.

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Visiting Coffin Hill

Cover image of Coffin Hill #1: A lady with ravens on herI’ve literally just finished the first issue of Caitlin Kittredge‘s Coffin Hill and it is a great debut.

Eve Coffin is the daughter of an wealthy, established old family in New England. She is also the latest in a line of witches. After a catastrophic evening, leaving one friend insane and another missing, she leaves the family home and money and makes her own way in the world. Forced to return after being shot, she has to face the darkness in the forest.

There are elements, such as the punk look, the old family and so on that are hackneyed. Kittredge takes the elements and gives them a very human element. Eve looks like she is going to become an interesting character, torn between the needs of having her own life but also the responsibilities of what and who she is. As a teenager, the world is fissile given the possible choices.

It does, to be fair, have a touch of the Weird with the darkness in the woods but it appears to have the potential for echoing an early Poppy Brite (now Billy Martin) in starting as a pop culture lite but turning into something more substantial.

Inaki Miranda‘s art, last seen by me in the wonderful Lauren Beukes’ Fairest run (issues 8-13), completes the story and really accentuates the writing.

Worth watching out for or getting them as they come out.

She has posted the back story to creating Coffin Hill on her blog.

Update: correction to spelling mistake

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The stranger comes home

What would you do if you could swap identity? How would your past ever catch up with you? Christopher Ransom‘s new novel The Orphan muses on these whilst musing on the root of some horror being teen hubris and actions.

Darren is a successful entrepreneur, seemingly with everything: a happy family and a BMX collection to die for. When a box fresh Cinelli bike appears one evening, he assumes that it is a gift. His daughter starts getting strange texts about an orphan who is coming home. Just as Adam is getting concerned about her boyfriend. Meanwhile a series or ritualistic murders take place, leaving the town in some fear and disarray.

The strange kid, Adam, is coming back as are the stories of his family.

Darren begins reminiscing about his own teen life, the BMXing and Adam, the outsider with the wrong bike. He remembers that Adam had saved for a Cinelli, only for him never to get it. The Faustian pact that he takes is a slightly far fetched one but comes from an unlikely source with teen bravado not thinking about any form of consequence.

Ransom sets up a psychological narrative in which we see the childhood as a time of torment and horror. Clearly not a subscriber to the cult of childhood innocence, he takes and almost Jesuit line about the childhood shaping the person. Rumour and myth become the drivers of the horror, manifesting themselves as real in the reckoning in the school. The loss of identity is keenly felt by the men, particularly Adam, who is determined to retain his own version.

The author develops a sense of unease in the book as he thins his world and our expectations as readers. Drawing from the idea that hastily made choices inevitably have consequences that not every one could realise, he comes back to the notion of the individual responsibility and parental trust. He develops a sense of unease and choice for the true nature of the world, hidden from each actor and variously glimpsed.

The reader is introduced to the driver of the horror, the sister, but we never really find out much about her other than her destructive dive. Her sexuality almost condemns her and we never find out why she is as extreme as she is, disturbingly. The tone of her inner narrative suggests that she is kept in some sort of repressed childhood, an adolescence never quite contended with or accepted and has become unremittingly evil. Oddly I find this slightly more disturbing than her acts.

The Orphan is a solid novel centred on the Faustian pact of choice. Ransom develops the atmosphere whilst the stories come together and the world, temporarily, becomes while before being necessarily fractured in a new way. The world can only be glimpsed before it must change and hide itself away again, in that way horror demands.

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In search of the feather – an interview with Jeff Noon

It is sometimes hard to believe that Jeff Noon‘s Vurt was published twenty years ago. A madcap adventure in the dreamscape, chasing the Vurt feather, it is a book that was very much of its time and place but has grown beyond that now. His second novel, Pollen, brings us back to a similar landscape but Noon takes the reader somewhere else with the world. After several novels and collections, including Automated Alice (1996), Nymphomation (1997), Pixel Juice (1998), Needle in the Groove (2000),  Cobralingus (2001) and Falling Out of Cars (2002),  he was fairly quiet until the publication of Channel SK1N (2012). He publishes micro-spores of story on Twitter and micro-fictions of Sparkletown. He has also written for television, radio and the theatre. Jeff Noon was gracious enough to answer a few questions that I had after re-reading Vurt and Pollen.

Q: What did it feel like coming back to the world of Vurt and Pollen after twenty years?

J: It was strange. I always like to look and move forward, so revisiting old work was an unusual task for me. But I got into it eventually. SF futures always move on and die, and then we create new futures to suit our present day hopes and fears. Vurt and Pollen represent an older idea of the future, if you like, when the dream of a true cyber culture was still alive. Plugging back into that worldview and mindset and writing three new Vurt stories allowed me to re-examine those times, the good and the bad, in the light of what we’ve gained since then, and what we’ve lost. I’ve tried to weave these feelings of loss and hope through the new stories. They are me looking back, in order to look forward once again.

Q: In Vurt and Pollen, you take the idea of remix from dance and also folk music. What got you interested in this approach?

J: I’ve always loved the British folk tradition, ever since John Peel used to play tracks on late-night radio when I was a young teenager in the early 1970s. I can remember writing or trying to write theatre plays influenced by the old ballads. I just loved them as stories, as narrative, as catalogues of weird practices and magic and bloodletting and desperate love and transformation (women into swans, blood into roses). So it was exciting to link that to a contemporary technological storyline, especially in Pollen. The dance music craze in the rave era fed directly into Vurt. But the idea of remixing prose didn’t arrive for a few years later, in my work, around the time of Nymphomation. I’ve been following that pathway in various ways ever since. I just love music, more than any other art form. I’m always listening to new things all the time, exploring new genres. It’s a natural thing for me to feed that love of music into my novels and stories.

Q: In Channel SK1N, you describe the girls who follow Nola as having ‘their names and dreams jotted down on numerous talent show waiting lists’ in opposition to her change from manufactured to manufacturing. I always get the sense in Vurt that the only people who might survive are those who go to the edge. Is this the only way that you see art making a difference?

J: Interesting question. Yes, I think so. I tend to write about people who live on the edges of society or of normal behaviour, and are trying to forge a new understanding, a new life for themselves on the margins. A lot of my stories take place on borderlines, both in the world, in politics, and inside the body, the mind. I see art, especially SF, as an exploration of the possible (and the impossible.) We can’t always do that ourselves, in any safe way, so the novel and the film make that journey for us. We become both more individualistic, and more a part of society as a result. I’m not a “political” artist, in any obvious sense of the word, but I hope I bring some kind of poetic edge to that struggle, that tension between belonging and exploration.

Q: Alice in Wonderland features heavily in your novels, from the wonderland itself to the character of Alice (and the question of who is the dreamer in Vurt echoing Alice’s own question). What is it about Alice that interests you and brings you back to it as an influence, or even taproot text?

J: I see the Alice books as the expression of a very English kind of surrealism, which I hope to key into, and to channel into a science fictional landscape. The way the books trip between dream and reality has always fascinated me. I didn’t plan to have the books influence Vurt; it just happened quite naturally during the writing process. But once Alice arrived, she has been a consistent presence in almost all of my books, usually mentioned by name, or as some kind of effect or magical process. Without a doubt, the Alice books are a source code for so much of my subsequent work. And of course, the wordplay is spectacular, and the ideas still shine after all these years. Remarkable works.

Q: I remember the impression of there being a terrifically energetic scene in Manchester, with the Madchester scene. Was this something that you were plugged into or was it largely on the periphery?

J: I was on the periphery. I’m usually found out there, to be honest; it’s my natural place. Edge of the dance floor, and all that. I hope to speak for other peripheral beings, to tell some stories from the edges. But it was fascinating being in Manchester at the time, even as an outsider. So when I started to write Vurt I was conscious that here was a scene that could very easily thrive in a science fictional atmosphere. I used lots of the stories and characters I had seen and heard about, not in any direct way, but as metaphors, as dream events.

Q: Rather than being the medium is the message, is it now the case of how to become the medium as Nola does?

J: More and more so. I’m not saying this is a good or bad thing, necessarily, just that the process exists and seems to be speeding up. But, nevertheless, we remain analog beings in an increasingly digital world; out of that tension a different kind of future might yet emerge. SF is the number one prime medium to chart the transformations.

Q: What influences you in choosing form for your writing, such as the sentences that break down? Is this where the Cobralingus engine came from?

J: Almost all of the experimental work that I do comes from the world of music. I am basically taking musical processes such as the remix, dub, segueing, mash-ups, bootlegs and so on, and attempting to find their prose equivalents. We might call this Dub Fiction, as a short cut. Cobralingus came about when I first saw musical software devices at work, such a Cubase and FL Studio. I was listening to a lot of fairly advanced electronica at the time, and I was fascinated by the way in which the musicians pushed musical material through a series of effects, to mutate and extend and break down the original in various ways. So I created a series of similar gates or filters for myself, but ones that could affect language rather than music. Of course I did all this inside my head, not in a machine. Digital software cannot replicate that process for language. Cobralingus is both a self-contained book, and a first-draft manual for that kind of experimentation.

Q: What influences the genre(s) drawn from in the novels, such as psychedelic, almost Irvine Welsh style, in Vurt or road trip in Falling Out of Cars?

J: I’m trying my best to match story with form, events with mood. Each story has its ultimate form and expression; we hardly ever find that form completely, but the journey towards it is more than half the fun of writing. So, I always ask the question: what is being told here, and how best can it be expressed? How can what is being talked about affect the way it is spoken. And vice versa. So each book has a different language, sometimes drastically as in Needle in the Groove or Channel SK1N, where the subject matter seems to have directly infected the book itself. I love that sense of infection; it’s probably for me the most exciting part of the creative process.

Q: You have been publishing short fiction on Twitter. Does its character limit pose challenges for writing fiction, or a new freedom to explore its potentials?

J: Both. It challenges and offers freedom. I have recently been writing even shorter pieces, some of them as small as one word. The word EXI(s)T, for instance. It’s asking me to leave, and to stay at the same time. I’m into really peering at language under a microscope and seeing how words can be joined together, pulled apart, merged and mutated. I see the work on twitter as a laboratory of language.

Q: Do you have any new work in the pipeline?

J: Yes. A few things. I’m still very interested in writing screenplays, and have just started a script based on my short story “Super-Easy-No-Tag-Special”. I’m also talking about a pilot for a TV series. There are always various things on the go, but not all of them come to fruition. It can get very frustrating at times, but we cross our fingers and persevere. Novel-wise, I am exploring some new pathways. Which of these I will walk down, and what I’ll find there, well then, let us see…

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Where the streets are paved with magic – Paul Cornell interview

I recently read Paul Cornell‘s London Falling (Tor UK, Kindle edition) in one sitting, a rare thing fr me these days. His take on London, which did remind a little of some authors mentioned below, is invigorating. He was kind enough to answer some questions for me about the book before dashing off to Edinburgh for the books strand and the Stripped comic festival.

Paul has written for television (Doctor Who, Primeval amongst others), comics (including Wolverine, Saucer Country, Batman and Robin amongst others) and two previous novels, British Summertime and Something More.

A recent vein about writing about criminals has been an apparent “honourable” criminal fraternity of the Krays and so on. How much of this was in your mind with the gangs and moving away from a new folklore? How much of this is reflecting changes in culture? How much of an influence/distraction are the work of Ben Aaronovitch, or Peter Milligan‘s Greek Street or Si Spencer‘s The Vinyl Underground?

I don’t believe in ‘honourable’ gangsters. Toshack certainly doesn’t fit that bill when it comes to dealing with the outside world, it’s just that his added dimension makes him able to treat a number of people close to him decently. I try and be as up to date as possible with the criminal London portrayed in the Shadow Police books, which my sources allow me to do. I’m a great fan of all three authors you mention, but the only one of those I’ve read is Ben’s. And that was just the first one, to check I wasn’t treading on his toes. I try not to read in the genre I’m in, but I regard the group of London urban fantasy writers as people like Sarah Pinborough, Sophia McDougall, China Miéville, Neil Gaiman, etc.

You have a slightly comical interlude with the representatives of three faiths. How much of this was a comment on the changed Britain and also updating one of the cores of Horror, the focus on Christian based solutions?

It was an attempt to include faith, which these days tends to get excluded, when, in this case, it would be the logical thing to look into. It’s slightly comical because my police heroes now, of course, have a much more concrete idea of matters numinous than the liberal clerics do. I’m a believer myself, so it’s trying to reposition where that lies in the modern world in terms of fantasy.

Yet under this, there is a strong adherence to the “laws” of Horror and magic. How important is it to use these to anchor the reader into genre whilst also updating them?

I rather think of these books as SF novels, in that they’re puzzle-solving stories, where the nature of magic itself is put on a dissection table (or rather an Ops Board). I see genre as a set of rules to play with or break. Rules are a bit different to genre expectations. I was surprised to find that London Falling was regarded as being more horrific than urban fantasy normally is.

A running theme in London Falling is memory and mythical memory. Part of it reminded me of Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, especially when Brutus appeared but also the soil. How important is it to build on these myths but also reflect on their changing nature? Given the work of Iain Sinclair and Peter Ackroyd in exploring the city’s history and mythology and also the native mythology of the area, how do these constrain or help writing about the city?

Mythago Wood is indeed a very important book for me. I think it’s true. Sinclair and Ackroyd are very much touchstones, very much what these books seek to be about. I’m looking to go forward in developing a fictional world that’s inspired by their work. And by the Situationists. I’m trying to set up absurdities in that tradition too.

You mention the “hidden culture of London” with the characters who become attuned to it getting the Sight. Is this something to do with writing about cities or England?

Well, every city has a hidden culture, but London, like with everything else, just has more of it. We’ll be getting down into the layers of it in the second book, The Severed Streets. ‘Jack the Ripper is back, but this time he’s killing rich white men.’

Are there going to be more novels with these characters or this version of the city?

Absolutely. The new one’s out in December, and I’m looking to write five in all, by the end of which the whole city, in time, space and other dimensions, will hopefully be laid out like a diagram. With characters at an angle to that, obviously.

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