Aaron Dembski-Bowden's Blog, page 16

Alexander at 2 Weeks

Alexander is two weeks old. While our sleeping patterns seem irrevocably fucked (and I'm often so tired I forget my own name) things are starting to settle down.

I've started working again, which means the blog will go back to more work-based stuff and the usual ranting.

For now, to answer the plaintive cries of friends and family, here are some of eight million photos from Alexander's first 2 weeks outside his tummy pod. Doctors and midwives alike are sick to Christ of my questions, now. "How long will his eyes stay blue?" "When do baby spots go away?" "Are you sure he's not ginger?"

About a minute old, and hunting for boobies.

Two hours old, and yawning.

Two hours old; so begins the first nap.

[image error]

One day old, and my first photo with him.

First week. Yet more sleeping. It's the only time he's still enough for me to take a photo.

First week. Blessedly asleep.

One week old. A rare occasion: sitting in his bouncy chair without wailing.

One and a bit weeks old, and half-asleep in my arms at 5am, while I try to finish the synopsis for Betrayer. Rogue Trader photocopies stuck to the wall behind.

Sleeping on Uncle Barney. Awwww.

Meeting Louise and Kev (Katie's cousin and her boyfriend).

Two weeks old. Managed to get him still enough for a single shot, which sounds unhealthily like something a sniper would say.

Just over two weeks old. This gives the impression he sleeps a lot, which is sadly not the fucking case.

 

Some Names for a Future Novel

My desktop is covered in these little note bastards.

Here's one at random, from the patch of my second monitor reserved for post-Betrayer notes.

Yes, that's the cover for Betrayer you can('t) see in the background. Yes, some of these names are Babylonian and Carthaginian. No, I'm not showing you the Betrayer cover yet, so don't ask.

Really, the nature of this distant novel shouldn't be too hard to guess.

 

First Photo

The first photo of me and Alexander.

(Taken by Katie who, it must be said, makes my phone camera work a lot better than I do.)

Dear Fuchsia – Part IIIb: Dear Alexander

Dear Fuchsia,

Obviously, you were never going to be called Fuchsia. As I've said, Katie would never let me get away with it. You were supposed to be Annah. Or, rather, Savannah Lily Dembski-Bowden. I was going to change Dear Fuchsia to Dear Annah.

"It's a boy."

I've now dedicated two novels to you, under the wrong fucking name. Thanks, man. No, don't worry, that's not massively inconvenient. Not at all.

Admittedly, it doesn't really annoy me, as it makes for a cute story for me to tell now – and a cool one for you to tell in the grim darkness of the far future. Even so, the dedications to Void Stalker and The Emperor's Gift now make no sense, and I have to use yet another dedication to make all of this stuff fall into order. You owe me for this, kid. Feel free to pay me back by not pissing all over me in the months to come. I'd appreciate that.

So. "It's a boy."

Those are the first words I said when you were born. I was the first one to say it, and I said it several times.

Picture the scene: a small delivery room; three midwives; Katie in birthing stirrups; Katie's mum standing at the bedside, and me standing next to her, closer to Katie's head. I was very much at the Top End. I saw practically nothing (just as planned…) until you came popping out of there like a slimy goblin squeezed from a… whatever goblins get squeezed out from. The look of relief on Katie's face was such undiluted, complete, raw relief – such pure, wide-eyed emotion – that I almost laughed. Humanity stripped bare. It was amazing.

She was looking up at me with almost no understanding, just this plaintive, bunny-in-the-headlights look. "It's a boy," I said, again and again and again. She clicked on the fourth or fifth time. "Really? Really?" I was laughing and crying and nodding and could barely see a fucking thing through my blurring vision, but trust me, I was sure. I'd checked it out with lightning speed – mostly because I've been secretly expecting it for months. I didn't know, of course. I still thought you'd be a girl – you trolled us good. But I'd been half-expecting it, nevertheless.

When one of my Facebook statuses had been "Please be a girl, please be a girl, please be a girl," my friend Chuck Wendig had replied within seconds, saying "Enjoy your son." I've thought about those words many, many times during your time in the Tummy Pod, and secretly felt they had something threateningly prophetic about them. "You better not be a boy," I've said, six or seven million times since then, pointing at Katie's bump.

Another time, when she was out buying baby clothes, she bought something for a boy in amongst all the girl stuff. "Don't do that," I said. "You'll jinx her."

And then there was the last scan, which should have been confirming your gender (before, say, I did anything crazy like dedicate a novel or two to you). Instead, the midwife doing it was creepily cagey about it. When we called you "She" after the scan, the midwife asked "Have you already bought lots of pink things?"

I narrowed my eyes. I sort of looked like… Hang on, I'll go make a template.

[image error]

There we go. That's what I looked like, and that's what I said. "It is a girl, right?"

"I'm sorry." She seemed in a rush, all of a sudden. "I didn't check."

I waited. I waited for her to go back to scanning, or to elaborate, or to do anything at related to confirming your gender. She did none of those things. I found out later, from various sources, that it's Erne Hospital policy usually not to tell.

"They told us at the second scan that she was a girl," I prodded.

"They did? They don't usually tell people." She started talking about other midwifery stuff that I wasn't really taking in.

I narrowed my eyes further. They were so narrow at that point, I couldn't really see anything. I think I said "Hmmm." Inside my head, I was thinking "Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…"

There've been plenty of moments like this. Just little silly guesses and moments of imaginary symbolism. Even today, when one of the midwives asked for clothes to get ready for when you were born, Katie's mum and I handed her the first things that came to hand from The Bag of Baby Things. I watched her lay it out – all of it in gender neutral whites and greens.

"Hmmmmm," I thought. Gypsy-style alterations of fate crossed my mind. "I bet that's a sign." Rarely have any thoughts in my life been that clear, that cold.

But then, no, surely not. It's a girl. That's what we were told. Yes. A girl. No such thing as signs. Ha, ha. Hilarious.

"It's a boy," I said to Katie, while you were being wiped down. Her eyes lit up when it finally hit home. "Really?"

Several of my friends wanted girls but had boys, or wanted boys but had girls, and every single one of them always says the same thing. "Once you see the baby, you just don't care."

I've answered them all with the same refrain: "For you, maybe. But I have to have a girl. It'll be a girl, or it's going on eBay."

I usually hate being wrong. This time, as I saw this slimy, terrifying creature that cried enough to make the midwives and doctor smile (before you fell into wide-eyed silence) I'd never been so happy to have spent so long being absolutely fucking incorrect.

I feel like an idiot for thinking it mattered. At least it makes for a good story.

Still, you can imagine how glad we are that you have a gender neutral nursery in soft earth tones. We do, however, have to go clothes shopping. Unless you really, really like pink.

—   —  —

—   —  —

Alexander Timothy Dembski-Bowden. Born Tuesday 21st February 2012, at 4:30pm. You're named for Katie's grandfather and my father, with a convenient side order of Alexander the Great (I read so much history and historical fiction about Macedon; you have no idea), and the fact Alexander is one of mine and Katie's absolute favourite male names.

Back when we had doubts about your gender, we actually picked a boy's name in a matter of seconds, and never changed our minds on it – which, incidentally, was another sign I worried about. A girl's name took ages, and was in flux until 6-7 months. But the boy's name? Had that nailed in seconds.

But back to the day itself, while it's still fresh in my mind.

I'm writing this between 4am and 6am on Wednesday now, making you just over 12 hours old. I was so tired when I left the hospital at 8:15pm that I was out cold the second my head hit the pillow at home. While I only slept for three hours, it was the most insane, surreal, healing sleep. At one point, my phone woke me up. It was Jessica calling (I think she's in New York right now), and in addition to being my ex, she's also one of the kindest, sweetest, most considerate people I've ever met. I was desperate to talk to her today; she was one of the people I made sure I was going to touch base with.

Instead, as I lifted my head to check who was calling, I was asleep again before I could answer it. I woke up two hours later with my phone still in my hand, and a voicemail from her after I'd missed the call.

I'd never felt so tired. My friend John had warned me about the big sleep that comes after it's all gone down, but it's one of those many moments in all this that you can't get a handle on just from having a friend tell you about it. I didn't sleep for three whole days when I was finishing Blood Reaver. Three days without sleep, and I was starting to hallucinate at the edges of my vision. That had nothing on how tired I was this time. Admittedly, I'd not slept for two days with everything going on, but even so, it made Blood Reaver's final stretch feel like a cakewalk.

The first person I wanted to call was my brother Adam. I had the fiercest need to call him, but I knew Mum was waiting to hear first, so I called her. By the time I was done talking, I was in truly ruinous tears and had been outside the delivery ward almost half an hour, so I was desperate to get back in. The other person I'd wanted to call was Barney – and, again, I didn't do it. Straight back in. No waiting.

One of the more bizarre things about today – and bear with me, as this is difficult to explain – is that I was still me while it was happening. I was still me, thinking the kind of things I always think, with the same observations, insecurities and emotions. As a similar example, when I was a kid, I used to think "When I'm grown up, I'll enjoy eating vegetables," and "When I'm an adult, I'll enjoy going to work." But those things don't just magically change because you find yourself in those situations. You're still you. It's hard to make vegetables just suddenly taste great if your tongue finds them repellent. If you have a job you hate (or even one you enjoy, but with a long commute, etc.) you don't suddenly feel unabashed joy at the thought of leaving a warm bed. You imagine a disassociation, but in reality, you're just there, and you're just you.

In all my imaginings of the delivery room (which were very Hollywood-based, and therefore I now know are absolute fucking nonsense), I thought I'd be nervous. Attentive, but nervous. When it came to it, I was still me, carelessly saying the most inane shit with an "…is it just me?" expression etched across my face. About a minute and a half after you were born, when Katie was being cleaned up and the long process of fussing over you was really beginning, I said: "Hm, he's… he's kinda looking a little ginger, here. That's not good."

A couple of minutes later, when the midwives had joined in the fussing, I tried a bolder truth. "Well, I'll be the first to say it. We're all thinking it. He kinda looks like Gollum. I'm just saying."

You really did, too. Seriously, you made some proper I Hate Frodo faces. Ask me to do an impersonation sometime.

Once everything was cleaned up, as I was getting something I don't remember from Katie's bags, I passed the medical trolley with the afterbirth in a plastic tray. This gelatinous spread of Lovecraftian foulness made me stop and stare. "No one look in this tray," I said to both the midwives, to Katie, and to Katie's mum. "Dear God, no one look in this tray. I've seen things you wouldn't believe." 

Maybe this isn't entirely fair.

I mean, you're beautiful. You're perfect. I cried just from staring at you, even hours after you were born. Sure, you're "Baby Ugly" in the way all babies are a bit ugly when you pull weird faces and mangle your face against boobs, but you're also beautiful. One of the first things I noticed about you – besides the fact you, y'know, have balls – is that you've got little fingernails already. Little fingernails, and tiny fingers. Always reaching, in aimless, unaware baby movements. Heartbreaking, and I have no idea why. All I know is that it's a good thing.

Katie did well. That sounds like faint praise, but it's not. Her mum was with us the entire time, as were three midwives (and the occasional doctor), and the scenario went from Potentially Problematic to Ludicrously Smooth Sailing in a very, very short space of time. I'm aware that mums and midwives will always say a new mother did well, but there was genuine pleasure and surprise from all corners today. It could've gone a lot wronger given the meconium-in-the-fluid issue, and it was expected to be a lot more difficult, because Katie wasn't progressing with any real speed for quite a while. I won't go into any of the juicy details. Suffice to say that in early afternoon, it looked like a lot of work and patience, and an induction at about 5pm. We were waiting for a doctor until then. It wasn't looking bad, but it also wasn't looking natural or smooth.

By 3:30pm, Katie was fully dilated out of the blue, and you were in a sudden hurry to get things done. Katie had progressed so fast she was past the point of being able to take painkillers, so she did the whole thing on gas and air. The really active parts of labour didn't last long, and Katie's pushing sort of sent you firing out like a cannonball. That's not an exaggeration. There was a genuine moment of being airborne, into the midwife's waiting hands.

Irish girls, man. Built to breed. Make a note of that.

Once you were in Katie's arms, she went through another transformation. She instantly (no, really, we're literally talking a matter of minutes) started talking about about having another baby, because you were so perfect. (See? Irish.) Panic started to set in. "One's enough, honey." I patted her head. I patted your head. I may have been crying again. "One's enough." 

You may be in the hospital for a day or two longer than usual, for some low-maintenance monitoring. Again, that's because you were gross and decided to shit in your gestational pod. Everything looks fine so far, though. Thankfully, once you were wiped down, you didn't smell like Pure Evil. You didn't taste like it, either. I know that because I kissed your tiny, tiny fingertips.

And cried a bit, on your head.

Sorry about that.

—    —   —

—    —   —

When it came time to get Katie back to the maternity ward, from the delivery room, I pushed you in your little plastic hospital tub-cradle-thing. You were three hours old, and heading down into your first ever sleep in the outside world. The photos I took of you were a few minutes before we moved you.

Baby Yawns. I didn't expect to find these adorable.

You're not crying there, you're yawning. I can only speak for how you acted from 4:30 to 8:15, but you cried for less than a minute in total, equally divided between "Holy shit, I've just been born," and "Ow, fuck, I've just been given a Vitamin K injection".

So I wheeled you through, like pushing a little shopping trolley.

It was almost funny. People kept congratulating me as I pushed you through; I was thanking them all, and I'd never felt prouder. Proud of what? I didn't even do anything. I didn't care. I was crying again, silently cry-grinning. Every tiny bump in the floor, as it changed from one kind of tile to another, was a tectonic event when the wheels went over them. You barely noticed, beyond a little hand-flex or a shake of the head. Katie kept looking back, checking on us. She smiled and smiled and smiled. I'd only seen a light in her eyes like that once before, and that was when the midwife put you in her arms.

You don't speak English yet, but while Katie was getting cleaned up in her bath and we were alone for 20 minutes, I told you three things. Three things, three lessons, that I want you to remember even when I'm no longer around to remind you.

Three things. I manage to do the first two, myself. I'm working on the third.

The first is a quote from Futurama. "When push comes to shove, you've got to do what you love, even if it's not a good idea." I live my life by that, and always had, even before I heard it put so clearly into words. It's not wise, but it's fun.

The second thing is wiser. "Always punch above your weight." It's how you get places. It's how you get better, stronger, smarter. Don't let it be a pressure to succeed. Just always make sure you try. Take chances. Always, always punch above your weight. With women. With work. With everything.

The third thing is from a novel by one of my favourite authors, David Gemmell. It's the Iron Code of Druss the Legend, and something I'm sure fantasy fan parents have been sharing since the 80s.

"Never violate a woman, nor harm a child.  Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil."

Some of that may seem like it doesn't apply to real life. Trust me, it does. My biological father (you're not named for him, don't sweat it) was an alcoholic who beat my mum. There's the first part of the code for you. The rest is morality, about living the way you should rather than the way that's easiest. I'm still working on it. I've made some strides in some ways, and stumbled in others. I've been snide, bitter, and tried to ruin other people through tactical whining and various pressures. I'm better than I've ever been, though. I'm a work in progress. The code's a good ethos to live by.

Rather than end this on something I've already told you, I'll tell you something new.

Always trust your mother, and your Uncle Robert. Katie is the most intuitive, strongest person I've ever met in my life. My friend Rob is the smartest and most perceptive. I admire the two of them more than anyone else in the world. If you ever find yourself needing advice and I'm too busy talking you into bad ideas because it sounds fun, then listen to their voices. Never listen to Uncle Barney, especially if he offers you advice about women.

Alexander

Born at 4:30pm today. Katie's doing great, and so is he.

Huge blog post to follow when I've caught up on two days of missed sleep.

Thank you, and goodnight.

 

Also, a baby yawn:

The temptation to caption the last one "FOR THE HORDE!" was immense, but I didn't want to be That Guy.

Dear Fuchsia – Part IIIa: 21/2/12

Dear Fuchsia,

As I write these words to you, it's 1:34am on Tuesday 21st of February. Depending on which due date you prefer to believe, you're either due yesterday, in 6 days, or in a week and a half.

I'm listening to 'The Humbling River' by Puscifer – which, incidentally, is fucking awesome.

Right now, I look like this:

…only less blurry in real life.

Katie (your mum; calling her that is still very weird to me) just texted me saying she was trying to sleep, but not doing too well with it. The last time I saw her was just before 1am, and she was in behind these very doors:

I just went downstairs to get some stuff ready, before I inevitably forget to do it later. Katie wanted me to bring 5 things to the hospital tomorrow – five things in addition to the three bags of Whatever that I'm already toting around.

It's now 1:59.

I've remembered 4 of them: The book she was reading; The camcorder (which was a wedding present, by the way, and came with us on our honeymoon); some (more?) socks (for some reason?); and her phone charger. Whatever the fifth element in this continuum was supposed to be, I suspect it's banished from my mind forevermore. I could text Katie and ask, but I don't want to risk waking her up.

'Shake It Out', by Florence and the Machine just came on my random playlist. That's a cool song.

Last night, literally minutes after I'd arranged to go see Bruce Springsteen in Dublin with Katie (and our friends who're almost definitely going to be Uncle Rob and Auntie Erika to you), Katie informed me that her pee was a funny dark colour. This was rare. Dare I say it, this was exciting. I thought, for the first time in 9 months, this pregnancy was going to do something interesting. Frankly, it's been pretty tedious past the major milestones, so you owed us some jazz hands.

Like all adults in this exciting age of reason and rhyme, we Googled symptoms. As with all Google diagnoses, it turned out to be something between Nothing At All and Total Womb Destruction – the latter of which, now that I type it out, is sort of a rad band name.

Panic wasn't exactly setting in. As I said, you've been such a boring pregnancy event-wise that if I'm being completely honest with you, I've often forgot you existed, and stopped marvelling at the process months ago. For a long-ass time, you've been nothing more than a parasite that makes my beloved new bride into a swollen, waddling Sigh Factory. Weekly checkups always showed a very strong heart. You've been extremely active in the tummy (I call it the Fuchsia Pod) to the point where every single midwife making a note of it has become boring, too. Yes, it's hard to find the heartbeat because she always moves so much. Yes, we're aware she's an active baby. Yes, we're aware the heartbeat's very strong once you find it. These are the things I endure for you. It's like a shitty repeat loop of the most banal small talk. One of the most active babies you've seen? Wow. Woo. Yay. All that means to me is that when she's born, she probably won't sleep much. That's not good. Sleep is awesome. If you don't think that, Fuchsia, I'm not even sure you're the blood of my blood.

So even now, when something unusual happened, I have to admit I thought it was probably going to turn out to be nothing.

"But she never does anything interesting," I said. "It's a boring pregnancy. We know that already." There may have been a hint of whining in my tone, there. I won't deny it.

We tried calling the maternity ward, six times, without getting an answer. I wanted to make a crack about the NHS being shit, but that would be the kind of thing a Tory would do. Instead, I blamed the lack of an answer on the Tories, which made me feel much better and infinitely more indignant about the whole situation.

When we eventually got through, Katie explained the situation. They said we should come in, just in case, as it might be any number of things.

We reached the hospital just before 8pm. There were several more incidents with staff that made me think things like: "Hey, shut your mouth for three seconds so my wife can explain what's happening," and: "You, madam, are a cunt." But overall, it went pretty smoothly. Enter 800 tests, stage right, most of which involved me holding things to Katie's stomach to find your heartbeat. The phrases "The baby's fine" and "See, that's a happy baby" joined the rest of the pregnancy's tedious phrases that – because of their overall niceness – I can't bring myself to say were exactly unwelcome, but were still a bit, y'know, vague and boring.

Anyway.

Katie's water had broken, but it was one of the slower, subtler ones rather than a brilliant piss-yourself-downpour, which she'd been dreading and I was totally looking forward to finding hilarious, like an insensitive jackass. And the reason her pee was a funny colour was because it wasn't just pee. It was, in fact, mostly amniotic fluid.

In what may be the most grotesque thing ever to be amusingly common in pregnancy, you'd triggered one of the signs of foetal distress by, uh, making meconium in the amniotic fluid. While I appreciate that means I don't need to clean it up (seriously, the horror stories of that stuff have been my Number 1 Terror), and while I know it's not exactly rare, it does tick a few danger boxes. I'll be 100% honest: Katie wasn't scared, she was disgusted. Being told by the nurse that it happens a lot didn't help her get over it. I wasn't scared, either. I thought it was gross and high-larious. "Good, strong heart," they kept saying. "She's a happy baby." And all I could think was "Why is she happy? There might still be some poo on her skin. I wouldn't be happy if I was her. Goddamn, babies are gross."

So Katie's staying tonight for observation. After about 5 hours, they kicked me out and told me to phone at 9am tomorrow morning to see if there was (in their words) "anything happening". Nice. Nice and blase'. Not even "Come back in visiting hours." It's "Call first, about mid-morning, or whatever."

This probably sounds scarier than it is. To explain it better, I've just spent those 6 hours listening to your heartbeat and movements, and – perhaps more reassuringly – listening to nurses bang on about how good your heart sounds and how your movements are fine. Katie's being induced, with proceedings aiming to kick off tomorrow morning. If everything goes wrong at the last minute, she goes in for a C-section. Right now, with her water broken, she's in the teeny-tiny contractions (and less tiny cramps) of early labour. I was fine to crash in a chair by her bedside, but no dice.

So now I'm here, home, at almost 3am and listening to 'Fuckin' Perfect' by P!ink on my playlist melting into 'Twilight of the Thunder God' by Amon Amarth. I can't sleep. I should probably try. The nurses kept telling me to. Katie kept telling me to. I can tell it's not going to happen.

So. Thanks for finally doing something interesting. Something not exactly unique, but gross enough to be notable. We'll call that phenomenon "grotable".

See you tomorrow.

It Wakes Up At Night

Here's a picture of me, the other night, as Katie and I finished Fuchsia's nursery, and finally put away all the clothes and toys our families and friends have been awesome enough to send us.

The reason I look confused isn't because I'm scared and lost and holding up clothing for a future person who only exists right now in Katie's tummy.

No.

The reason I look confused is because that bear behind me is actually alive, and none of us know how that's possible.

It goes through my bins at night, and occasionally eats my Frosties. Here we see it going through Fuchsia's stuff, perhaps looking for a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which is objectively the best book ever.

And here's the little fucker five minutes later, looking decidedly Blair Witchy:

 

 

So anyway, that's what's going on in my life right now.

How are you?

 

Post-Heresy Meeting, Pre-Baby. Plus, The Lord Inquisitor.

So, anyway, I'm back home.

On the banal side of life, that means sending half the internal components of my new desktop computer back to the lab, for a judicious application of Please Fix This Shit, Thanks. There's baby furniture to build. There's a new carpet to prepare for. There's the knowledge I now have that – after visiting my friend John's agonisingly middle-class suburban home (plus his wife, Liz; plus their baby, Henry) – that I've now actually become my parents, at the start of their parenting career. I'm starting to do the things they did, and have friends in similar situations to theirs back then. I have to do things like, f'rex, assemble nursery furniture, and hanging out with my friends no longer involves shivering in their shitty apartments on the stabby-stabby side of town.

Which, y'know, is a good thing as far as I'm concerned. Visiting your friends should involve liking their wives, thinking their babies are beautiful, and central fucking heating. It shouldn't involve prayers to a variety of pantheons that the shitheads on the corner will choose not to disembowel you with kitchen knives, or tazer you in the spine because they totally got a stun-gun on eBay.

A net gain, there.

I missed most of the last Horus Heresy meeting, which is fine as I didn't have that many questions anyway, and out of all the team, I'm probably the one who least enjoys discussing his in-progress stuff. I see the value everyone gets out of the chats, and how it can change stuff from, say, a detail here or there, to the entire course of a book. I mean, we've surely spent 6 hours or more at meetings discussing Fear to Tread in the last couple of years. I've known the storyline of that novel, and been around for the chats and feedback about it, since before The First Heretic was released. But I prefer to work in a little more isolation.

That said, Graham changed the entire focus of Betrayer with a single sentence last time, so… y'know, whatever. My point is this: I hate talking about planned or in-progress stuff, and prefer to retreat into my isolation chamber until the book's done. I did have a suggestion for Betrayer's subheader, which went down pretty well. That was about it.

The Emperor's Gift is finished, at 102,000 words. I picked up my proof copy of Void Stalker (which, to my surprise, was also on sale at the SFX Weekender). It's cute how it's 15% chunkier than Soul Hunter. Work-wise, fuck it, I'm taking a couple of weeks off to get ready for Fuchsia's arrival.

I didn't actually do much at the SFX Weekender itself. Graham (McNeill) is a master at interacting with fans, selling himself without being creepy, and just hanging out at the booth all day, chatting, laughing, etc. Me? Not so much. I am so, so, so very notoriously bad at that even at the very best times, especially when it's busy, like it was at SFX. That was magnified by the fact I was in the chalet most of the weekend, finishing The Emperor's Gift, so I was a bit of an invisible presence all 'round.

I surfaced long enough to be on a panel discussing space opera, alongside (among others) Dan Abnett, Peter F. Hamilton and Alastair Reynolds. There was another guest added at the final minute, which meant I surrendered my chair to sit on the end, looking like a fucking idiot. My bad.

As a massive fan of Alastair Reynolds and Peter F. Hamilton, that was a pretty amazing moment for me. Another step closer to being able to say "I've arrived" at some arbitrary point in the future.

I'm pretty terrible with photos, and didn't take any of interesting stuff that people would actually want to see. I tend to forget other people read this thing, and end up taking photos just for, well, me.

Like this one:

I screwed this one up because I was laughing. One of my traditions when I'm over for a Heresy meeting or a Nottingham signing is to go through the Citadel Miniatures Hall of Old Stuff, and just see what's been added. Anyway, just as I was taking this one, I heard someone over by the door say in that fake-quiet library voice: "That's Aaron Dembski-Bowden…" which made me smile and glance away the same second I took the photo. It was supposed to be of the huge Khorne symbol ruin, but as you can see, I moved. So now it's now a photo of… some guy's wings, and some lens flare.

I visited Forge World, through their public office and into the secret bowels of Stuff You're Really Not Allowed To Talk About. Stuff that'll be about in the next 6-12 months, etc. While all of that was awesome (and probably my favourite abuse of GW clout) best of all, I found this motherfucking thing:

[image error]

Which, as you can see, is rad.

"Dude," I said to Ead, Forge World's customer services manager. "Dude, get a photo of me with the storm bolter."

Worth it. Totally worth it.

Anyway, I returned home to Katie who is now, if possible, even more swollen with the Dembski-Bowden heir. As a general rule, I tend to avoid any conventions or signings where she can't make it as well, as her not being there only adds to my discomfort about the whole "surrounded by too many people" deal, and I feel shitty leaving her home while I go out and do cool stuff. Especially cool stuff like messing about with life-size storm bolters.

In another abuse of power, I also asked if Graham would send me the Word.doc of his novel Priests of Mars when he's finished with it, because I didn't want to wait until it hit the shelves. Better than that, he's sending me it chapter by chapter, which is awesome to the power of killer. Out of Black Library's entire 2012 line-up, that's the one I've been keenest about for ages and ages, so getting hold of it is a bit of a personal coup. It's also got the very best cover. No, really, just look at this fucking thing. To say I'm "jealous" implies a mortal, human limit to my envy. I assure you, no such limit exists. My jealousy is a seething, eternal thing – a matter of primal instinct usurping all sentience and drowning all higher function. Love it to bits.

Returning home after 5 days away also means I had an inbox rammed full of jazz in desperate need of some attention. A lot of it was asking Fuchsia's due date, which is – depending which doctor or midwife you believe, Feb 20th, Feb 26th, or March 2nd. We tend to err on the side of 26th-2nd, but obviously she'll come when she's ready, so we're not holding our breath. If she does hit her target date, she'll actually arrive when our friend Barney is over for the week, which would be surreal and awesome.

And now, you may have heard of this:

http://www.thelordinquisitor.com/. And this: https://www.facebook.com/The.Lord.Inquisitor.

And maybe seen this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7glPda2Lcc.

I've seen those things, too. Hey, we've got a lot in common, right? Let's do lunch.

When I got back from the HH meeting and the SFX con, I had about eight million messages and forum comments that said "ARE YOU WRITING THE LORD INQUISITOR?!"

I've been following the project for a long time, and I've commented in various forums about how I was variously amazed at the detail, thought it was beautiful, and was mean enough to say I hated (I think I actually said "not a fan of") the voice-acting and the script. But for a proof of concept trailer, that shit is far beyond killer.

A while ago, the Lordi (teehee) overseer Erasmus Brosdau (which is surely the most 40K name ever) got the green light from GW's legal dept. and put out an open call for people to help out and make the thing happen as a 40-minute movie. That's sort of when I came on board. I asked what they were looking for, and how the process had gone with GW. Nothing major. It quickly turned into something a bit majorer, which isn't a word, but I'm going to pretend it is as I quite like it.

So, to answer your question(s): Yes, kind of. I'm not writing the movie all by myself. It's a collaborative effort, and I'm just one little gear in the machine – I didn't jump in and demand to run the show, or any shit like that. Obviously, everything's in early development right now, so no spoilers. Suffice to say that I'm on the team, and absolutely freaking thrilled about that fact. I may make a billion suggestions and they all get ignored. I might write the whole script and we end up using a single scene. That's just how this jazz works; I don't want people thinking I just moved in to rule someone else's show. This is still Erasmus' brainchild, I'm just on the team.

ARE WE CLEAR?

We're clear.

Excuse me now, while I go try to remember what the fuck free time feels like.

I have a feeling it'll feel like making furniture, tidying my office, and playing The Old Republic.

P.S. I'm not saying Craig Charles was high during his DJ set at the SFX Weekender, but I will say that guy needed to sniff a whole lot, and kept wiping his nose on his sleeve every three seconds.

I'm just saying.

Dreadnoughts

Since Forge World released the Contemptor-pattern Dreadnought, I've been extremely well aware that one of them is absolutely going to be a major, major character in my next Horus Heresy novel, Betrayer. I was originally tempted to try and get him on the cover, but in the end I wimped out and went with something reliable (and, I'll add, absolutely brutal in the final showing).

I also want one or two of them for my slow-growing Chaos Marine army because, hey, Forge World is totally cheap, right? And it's not like I have a baby on the way in 4 weeks, is it?

Anyway, on a break from work just now, I saw this on B&C's Post Your Dreadnought thread, by GuitaRasmus:

Now, using an age-old style of hobby craftsmanship that we call "copying", I'm going to try and do that wickedly cool Skaven wrecking ball on my future Contemptor.

Of course, seeing rad stuff like this just makes me despise the people who have armies looking that good, but whatever. Let's all be friends.

No bitz sites had any spare bits, but a couple of people on my Facebook page (go click Like, ta) have already offered a helping hand on that score.

Here's my formula for success:

[image error]

…plus…

…plus…

…equals Fucking Awesome.