Dan Smith's Blog, page 11

The Child Thief Is Here

Wrap up warm. Lock your windows and bolt your doors. Be vigilant and keep your loved ones close. The Child Thief is here.

It’s publication day today for my third novel. The Sunday Times called it an ‘engrossing thriller’ and it’s been getting some great reviews at Waterstones so what are you waiting for?

And if you want to celebrate with me and you’re in the Newcastle area, why not come along to Waterstones in Newcastle upon Tyne on Tues 15th May 6:30pm.  Carolyn Jess-Cooke (author of The Boy Who Could See Demons – published today) and I will be having a joint launch event to celebrate our new books.

There’ll be refreshments . . .

 

Proof of Life

In light of my recent post about fish-keeping, I thought I should give you an update on the health of our aquarium inhabitants. I was feeling very excited about being able to report back that all fish are alive and doing well. Which, as a matter of fact, is true. All five fish are still swimming. Quickly. And . . . they’ve even had babies.

Our new fish are of the Platy variety which means they are live-bearers, so the babies have appeared fully formed. Which obviously makes them very tasty, because the parents have eaten all but six of the fry. Well, we were aware it could happen, but thought it best to let nature take its course. Only the strong survive.

Anyway, as proof of life, I took this little video a few days ago.

 

 

Lovely, eh? It’s very relaxing to watch them. Or, at least, it was. You see, since taking the video, things have changed. No, the fish are still alive, it’s just that it’s getting harder and harder to see them. The water in the aquarium has grown greener by the day until we have this . . .

 

 

And I had to get very close to the tank to record that otherwise all you’d see was me, filming, reflected in the murky green soup.

I know, you’re going to say ‘overfeeding’ or ‘water changes’ or ‘Green Water Control’ but . . . well, I’ve tried it all. They hardly get fed at all now, so it can’t be that. I’ve done loads of water changes, (which I’ve since learned can mean adding more and more nutrients to the water and so making it even worse), so I’m pretty sure it isn’t that. I’ve tried adding chemicals – not bleach, though, something else called Green Water Control which I put in one evening, as directed and came down the next morning  expecting crystal clear water but . .  no.

So for now it looks as though we’re stuck with an expensive green box in the corner of the room. Nice.

 

That’s all.

First Review – The Sunday Times . . .

Just a quick one – I received an email yesterday telling me that THE CHILD THIEF was reviewed in The Sunday Times last week. And you know what they said?

‘Smith succeeds in creating a narrative that is both an engrossing thriller and the story of a man struggling in the grip of historical events that he only partially understands.’

I’m pretty pleased with that.

Oh, and here’s the whole review.

 

That’s all.

It’s Coming . . .

We took the children to see The Avengers yesterday. They didn’t know we were going – we told them it was just a shopping trip into town and they were prepared for . . . bore-RING! But, instead they got the chance to see all those super heroes doing super stuff. The film was great and they spent the rest of the day being Iron Man/Black Widow/Hawk-Eye, which was loud and untidy but, well, you’re only young once, eh?

Anyway, not to be outdone, I had the impulse to get the istopmotion app out again and . . . well, it’s amazing what you can do these days with a phone and an ipad. I remember in days of yore, when my brother and I would spend hours typing code from a magazine into the ZX Spectrum so we could play the game that was advertised with an AWESOME picture of space rockets and aliens blowing each other up. After days of resolving ‘Syntax error in line XX’ problems, we might eventually get the rather crappy game to work and be thoroughly  disappointed that our efforts bore such dull fruit. But now? Well, everything works better now, doesn’t it?

But I’m digressing – this is not a game; this is a little stop motion film I was messing about with last night, using my first author copy of The Child Thief. Not Joss Whedon or James Cameron, I know, but, hey, those guys had budgets. And, besides. I kinda like the rough ‘n’ ready style.

Enjoy.

 

Oh. And as if that isn’t enough, the postman brought a big box this afternoon, and guess what was inside?

 

That’s all.

Fishy Death of the Avengers

Pets. We’ve never really done pets. See, my wife’s not an animal lover.

When I was growing up, there were always animals; in Sumatra we often looked after Orang-Utans or Siamangs or Gibbons to help out WWF friends. We had rabbits and guinea pigs and birds and cats and god knows what else. In Brazil we had a dog who came back to UK with us. We had chickens, too, and the occasional sloth or armadillo that might have wandered into the clearing and needed some help getting back into the forest. There were all the unwanted critters too – the spiders and snakes and bugs.

The Smith Avengers

Not here, though. Uh-uh. No way.

But children . . . y’know how persistent they can be. It was a ‘no’ to the dog (are you gonna walk it in the rain, pay for the vet bills and scoop its turds?) and it was even ‘no’ to the hamster but, well, the children finally went for the last option. ‘What about fish?’

Ah fish. Well, you can’t say ‘no’ to everything can you? And they have to learn how to take care of something, right?

Well, all I can say is, it’s a bloody good job we didn’t go for the puppy, ’cause they’d be sending someone round to take us away. If we went through puppies at the rate we’ve gone through fish . . .

 

The actual Avengers

So we bought a tank for – What? It costs HOW MUCH?! And then there’s the filter and the heater and the gravel and the plants and the ornaments – gotta have ornaments, right? And then we let it cycle for a week before having the water checked and being officially allowed to take some guppies home. Very pretty they were too.

And we sat back and relaxed and watched the lovely colourful fish swim around and cluster at the top of the tank and slow down and sink and . . . wait. Are they supposed to lie at the bottom upside down with their tiny mouths open? Within 48 hrs four of the five were dead. I’m guessing that 20% survival rate is not good.

As caring parents, we were worried the children would be upset. They had given the fish names and everything. Named them after Marvel’s Avengers, in fact, and Hulk was the first to die.

But you know what? Their only concern was who was going to get to flush them down the toilet.

What kind of monsters have we created?

 

 

The Child Thief – Book Launch

Publication day is looming closer. The Child Thief is almost upon us . . .

10th May is the day, and to lauch the book into the world, there will be an event at Waterstones in Newcastle upon Tyne at 6:30pm on Tue 15th May

Why not come along and celebrate the publication of my third novel, The Child Thief, and Carolyn Jess-Cooke’s second novel, The Boy Who Could See Demons, in a joint launch. We’ll both be reading from our novels and answering questions.

The event is free and . . . refreshments will be served.

 

See you there.

 

 

 

A Body on the Line

I ventured south yesterday. A fleeting visit. More fleeting than intended, in fact. I was supposed to arrive in time for lunch with my editor and agent, which I was looking forward to, but my train was cancelled. As was the one before and the one after it. I did eventually catch a train and ended up standing in the buffet car along with many of the other (mostly) good natured passengers without seats.

When I arrived in London, I then raced over to Orion House smelling like bacon sandwiches. I missed lunch, but my lovely editor organised something else and then told me how great The Child Thief is, so it's all good.

Apparently a man's body was discovered in a disused station on the line.

That's why I missed lunch.

Someone died.

It was inconvenient for me, but it wasn't the end of the world and . . . y'know, we're talking about a body, not leaves on the track. If we can't stop our endless rush rush rush for that, then there's no hope for any of us, is there?

Author in Prison

If you've read my blog in the past few weeks, you'll know that I was asked if I'd go along to prison to talk to some of the prisoners about my books. The Prison in question is HMP Low Newton – a young offenders and women's prison which has Category A status (due to a small number of prisoners), but is mostly Category C.

So I filled out the vetting forms, waited for clearance and arranged the visit to talk to a group of female prisoners. And, well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little apprehensive about it all. Although I enjoy events centred around yours truly (what's not to like about people having to listen to you?), there's always time for a touch of the nerves but . . . in a prison? Gulp. I didn't have a clue what to expect. When they said they'd go through a list of 'dos and don'ts' with me, I was thinking, don't give any personal information, don't stand close to the bars, don't talk about chianti and fava beans. And when they said I'd be taken to the 'search tank', I felt a little queasy. There's a tank? Where they search you?

In the words of my daughter – Oh. Em. Gee.

So when I stepped foot in the prison and the doors banged shut behind me, I wondered what I'd let myself in for.

It would make for an interesting blog post if I said it was awful and if I had some smart-arse comments to make about it but, you know what? It was fine. Sure, I was searched, finger-printed and photographed, but that's not so bad. And yeah, every door was barred and locked but it's a prison. Whaddaya expect?

My contact at the prison told me to treat the event just as I would treat any other event – to give the women an experience that would be the social norm away from the prison – so that's what I did and . . . well . .  it was just like any other event. Except, of course, the doors were locked and I had the ultimate captive audience.

The staff were professional and friendly, and the women listened and asked questions, and after my talk, a few of them came over for a chat. The library itself was like any community library and it was great to see it so well used. It was encouraging to see that they had found something meaningful in books and had developed a passion for reading. I'm pretty sure that a few of the women were not hugely competent readers and, without wanting to sound condescending, it was great to see them trying to improve themselves.

So all in all, it was a positive experience for me and I hope it was for them too.

Related articles

Going to Prison (dansmithsbooks.wordpress.com)

A Memory Lane littered with Hammers and Sickles

St Basil's in Red Square.

My agent sent me a copy of AD Miller's Snowdrops – the Booker prize shortlisted novel set in Russia – and it took me down a memory lane that's littered with hammers and sickles. Set in Moscow at the beginning of the 'noughties', the novel has some great descriptions of both summer and winter in the Russian capital and recalled for me customs, stereotypes, streets and parks whose names I had consigned to the dustier places in my memory.

In 1991 I spent close to six months in Moscow, living in the (then) rather grim area known as Vykhino. I was supposed to be studying at the Moscow Institute of Management but  just finding enough to eat was a full-time job. Those were the final days of the Soviet Union, the last gasp as it began to crumble, and everything was still scarce. I went over there at the end of February and came back in July – the August coup happened just weeks after I left. Nothing to do with me, of course.

The view from my room. Lovely Vykhino.

So I remember sub-zero winter, the briefest spring and a sudden leap into the hot and muggy Moscow summer. I remember ration coupons, queueing for hours to buy bread or to use the telephone, or even to send a telegram. I remember buying rolls and rolls of toilet paper just because it was there. I remember the miserable woman in the embassy shop telling us we could only buy one of anything – one tin of beans, one pack of savoury rice, one pack of biscuits. Then there was long the trip to post office to watch the official tear open the food parcel my parents had sent to me. There was the bathroom that couldn't be left in the dark because of the cockroach infestation. The procession of mice that drowned behind the toilet. The creepy Georgian blokes who crept into your room at night to sell drugs or military memorabilia. The market stalls with nothing to sell but three carotts and a handful of potatoes . . .

Drunk man in the park.

But I remember good things, too. Gorky Park glistening in the snow. Izmailovsky Park shimmering in the sun. Blossom falling like snow on Tverskaya. Shashleek and a bottle of Pepsi from a vendor (only one bottle allowed per person of course). Metro stations like museums, with art that takes your breath away. The overnight train to Kiev and that first glimpse of the awesome Motherland monument. Euphoria at finding a taxi driver who'd sell you vodka. Discovering the black-market and being amazed that it was a real place with stalls to browse. A surreal week in Samarkand and Bukhara in Uzbekistan . . .

So it wasn't all bad, I guess, but it was hard. Very hard.

And guess what? I even found a few pictures I took. I never was very good at taking photos – I always forget – so these ones are not great but, well, they jog the memory.

That's all.

Click to view slideshow.

Going to Prison

Nothing like where I'm going. Probably.

I'm going to prison.

Not for a stretch, I should say, just for a visit. As far as I know, I haven't done anything that requires the intervention of the law.

Some time ago I was asked if I would talk to a group of prisoners about my books and I agreed . . . with a little hesitation. I have no experience of prisons – in fact I have a very healthy fear of them – so I'd be lying if I said I leapt at the chance, and I'm somewhat apprehensive of what to expect.

The only taste I've had of that environment is when I delivered my vetting forms to the prison. This is part of the process in place to check I don't have some kind of ulterior motive, I suppose, and that in itself was a little worrying. I know I've done nothing wrong, but there was still that niggling doubt about whether or not I would 'pass'. A bit like that feeling of 'have I done something wrong?' when you see a policeman. Or am I the only person who thinks like that?

Anyway, I stepped through the heavy gates, reported in, depositied my belongings in a locker, went through more heavy gates, metal detectors etc and waited while someone checked my forms. Then it was home to wait for the results.

Phew, I passed.

So now that's all sorted, I've arranged a date for a visit. I've spoken to one or two other people who have done something similar and all of them have concluded that it's been a positive experience. And really, why should it be any different from any other author event I've done? It's a little more difficult to set up – I  have to send my presentation materials in advance, follow some do's and dont's – but other than that (and the heavy doors) I'm guessing it'll be the same. Maybe even better attended!

I'll let you know how it goes.

That's all.