Emma Newman's Blog, page 26

A confession

I have a confession to make. I'm struggling.

Last Thursday a tsunami of anxiety hit me and I haven't found my feet since. I recorded an audioboo at the time, in the hope that talking would help, as I was by myself in the house. Then I worried about whether I should have put it out there, naturally, but I received so many private messages of support and also "I suffer from this too" notes that I don't regret it.

I've been quite open on this blog about how I suffer from bouts of anxiety. Some people think I am too open, and seeing as this blog is effectively the hub from which all of my writing and audio book work and other things can be found, I suppose that it might be a gamble.

But why? If I was a confidence coach, or an entrepreneur responsible for the livelihood of hundreds of people, I can see why admitting that I struggle sometimes would be worrying – and perhaps detrimental to my business. If I was selling a product designed to help people with confidence issues, and periodically kept being struck down by crippling anxiety and a complete lack of confidence, I could see that undermining my credibility.

But that's not my business. I write stories. I record other people's stories and often my own. That's all. It might be a risk being as honest as I am about these things, in as much as it is to admit this in our society at all, but I'd like to think it wouldn't hurt how my writing is perceived. Indeed, one of the small comforts I have in being so screwed up (and having unscrewed myself up a great deal compared to how I used to be) is that it gives me insights into the darker recesses of the mind that I would have been oblivious to, had I been a happy, stable, content person. Those insights get woven into the characters in my books, and I'd like to hope it makes them more believable. I don't have many comforts in this, so I have to take what I can.

I've seen a gradual shift in recent years towards people trying to be more open about mental illness. Stephen Fry (another of my heroes) recently recorded an amazing two-part documentary about bipolar disorder, and how it affects him. And there have been lots of other examples since.

Whilst my anxiety may be incredibly mild in comparison to many that suffer, I'd like to think that talking about this can help other people suffering from anxiety feel they're not alone. It's very, very difficult to understand unless it has been experienced, so if I write about mine, it's recognisable to other sufferers. Hell, even when I'm not in this state, I find it hard to remember what it's like.

What is this anxiety like?

It's physical, mental, emotional. At the moment, everything scares me. Writing e-mails, being on Twitter, phoning people up, and all of the other hundred things I should be doing to prepare for the launch of From Dark Places seem insurmountably difficult. I'm shaky, I've lost three pounds in the last week and feel tearful. I'm waking in the middle of the night with a racing heart and no memory of a nightmare, my body straining as if an assassin has burst into the room and I need to leap out of bed so he can't stab me.

I can unpick the underlying triggers (the ones accessible to the conscious mind anyway) and they are both internal and external. There's no getting away from the fact that there are things going on at the moment that are scary, and stressful. But none of them merit such extreme anxiety, and indeed, this response is tipping the stress over from being a helpful motivator and tool for keeping me alert, to overwhelming me, and damaging my performance.

The awful thing about anxiety like this is that an intellectual understanding of it cannot make it go away. Sometimes the uncovering of a root cause can ease it. Last night, for example, I began to suspect that it's particularly bad at the moment because I haven't been making time in my schedule to write. I've only been managing a flash a week (though admittedly the latest one, Control, might be the beginning of a future novel), along with three short stories in January. It's not enough. Writing keeps me sane, and that's partly why I'm here, writing this, instead of editing the latest chapter I've recorded. And whilst this can be cathartic on some level, and offers an explanation for my radio silence online lately, it doesn't nourish me in the same way as writing a novel does.

So that's the first thing I need to address; bringing the anxiety to a level that allows me to be fully creative. I'll get there. This has happened in the past and somehow I got through it.

What kind of author platform do you call this?

If you're a writer, you'll have heard all kinds of talk (and implicit pressure) related to building an author platform. The most cynical interpretation of this is having a website and presence online that sells your books.

In line with some of the driest advice about this I've read, I should be blogging about… post-apocalyptic fiction, or short stories, or all kinds of other topics related to my anthology and my novel, the idea being that I'll draw in people who are likely to buy my books.

Now, if I had written a memoir on how anxiety has plagued my life so far, this would be appropriate. But I haven't. And more than that, I'm telling you that I struggle, and I am scared and that no amount of book deals and exciting things can make the hard, messy stuff go away. Not the most positive message. Sorry.

But you know what? I don't care, because I think it's much more worthwhile describing what it's really like to be an anxious ninny who happens to have a couple of book deals. I don't want to build an author brand which portrays me as anything other than what I am, and this, my sparkling ones, is the rough underbelly of my creativity. My brain, that writes these books and stories for you, often screws up and tries to convince me that the world is ending any minute now. Hey ho. Rough with the smooth and all that.

So that's where I am at the moment. Over there, in a little hole, shivering, for no good reason. If the world really was ending, the way I feel would be appropriate, but it's not. Until then, I'll be holding onto the little comforts that I can. Normal service will be resumed shortly… Keep calm and carry on… When in doubt, put the kettle on…

Friday Flash: Control

Her guts cramped at the sight of the Imperial Linguist entering the throne room, but on the surface, she was as serene as a frozen lake.

"Speak," she commanded, after his elaborate bow.

"Her Royal Highness, Princess of the twelve suns, daughter of The Magnificent One, has spoken her first word."

Every muscle clenched in her torso, hidden beneath layers of steel and silk. "What was it?"

"Her Royal Highness has said 'No', Magnificent One."

A thousand fears dissolved. She permitted the slightest smile to flicker across her face. "Excellent. Enter it into the Imperial record."

She watched him bow and walk backwards until he was at the doors, savouring the bliss of knowing her daughter wouldn't suffer pain and privation. Her daughter's first word had not condemned her, as her own had.

She lifted her right index finger and the Lord High Steward came forwards.

"Report."

"I have received word from those sent to investigate the claims made against the Sorrelin homeworld. It's been confirmed that they have been speaking in their native tongue. May I ask for your judgement?"

The Empress looked past him to the mural that covered the far wall. From here, it looked like a beautiful landscape, so realistic it looked like a view out of an immense window. It was made up of several billion dots of paint, each tiny and perfectly placed to create the whole. A dot for every soul in the Empire.

The memory of the artist returned. He spent years of his life in the throne room, silently painting every day. She had watched his hair grey, heard his mutterings as his mind started to wander, trying desperately to escape the weight of his life's work. It was a kindness to execute him, she told herself. He was half mad by the time he'd finished. Even now, after so many years of gazing at that painting, she still marvelled at his genius. A death warrant, painted in billions of beautiful dots. No man that could conceive such an idea and execute it so perfectly could possibly be allowed to live.

"Every Sorrelin native over the age of forty is to be publicly executed," she said. "Leave five regiments there. If anyone complains, or speaks in their native tongue again, have them killed."

As he bowed, her eyes flicked back to the mural. If her Empire were this painting, she was erasing a few dots from one tiny corner, nothing that would spoil the composition.

Hunger crept into the edge of her awareness. She needed distraction.

"The only other item for your attention, Magnificent One, is the matter of the Chamberlain's son."

That crushed her hunger. "Present the evidence."

"Our investigation has confirmed his guilt." He took a note from his aide and then, after a brief pause to politely convey his reluctance, he presented it to her. She broke the wax seal and opened it, recognising the elegant calligraphy immediately.

Magnificent One

Frozen on her throne of ice

Hides flames in her breast

It took all of her self control to keep herself outwardly still. She folded it closed, laid it onto her lap, pressing it with her fingers. "Bring him here now."

Having anticipated this, the guards had brought up from the cell and cleaned him. No amount of scrubbing hid the gaunt pallor of his face. His eyes still blazed though, he looked directly at her.

She couldn't remember the last time she had looked into a man's eyes. Not even the concubine that sired her daughter had had the courage to do that.

"If you were not the only son of a trusted and faithful servant, you would be dead by now," she said. "But as a kindness to him, I give you the opportunity to beg for forgiveness. If your words please me, I may spare you."

"Magnificent One," he began, his voice still as warm and deep as she remembered. "I cannot beg for forgiveness when I have committed no crime."

There was a collective, theatrical gasp from the courtiers. She pressed her fingers so hard into the note it crinkled beneath them.

"Are you so keen to die? You dare write a poem about me, when you know that both the form and the subject are forbidden, and then you dare to deny it?"

"I don't deny it," he replied, still looking at her, into her. "I disagree that it's a crime."

The head of her guard stepped towards him, sword half drawn.

She kept herself still, her heart thrashing inside her. How did he write those words? How did he know? She forced herself to look for the answers in his eyes, saw nothing but love there. She felt him willing her to go against the laws her grandmother had made, to ignore the danger of unregulated art, to forgive him for creating a touch paper out of words.

He knew her. Like no other soul, no other dot in the painting of her Empire.

"Execute him."

He crumpled, blanching. As they dragged him away, she fell back on the lessons that had been forced upon her all her life, lessons designed to correct her flaw, revealed by the first word she had ever spoken.

The Imperial Linguist entered moments later, holding the Imperial record open at the page for her to sign, as her mother had signed hers before. A servant presented a pen and knelt, the Linguist rested the huge tome on his shoulders.

She read her daughter's entry with satisfaction, signed it. 'No'. An excellent start. She would be known for her strength of character. Her eyes flicked up to the entry above. It took less than a second to read her own name and her first word. The word that had branded her as weak-willed, greedy, that had forced her to execute her own desires, endure constant hunger, all to prove she had risen above her true self, revealed so young.

"More."

Something magical

All my life, I thought that truly magical things only happened in my stories, or with a certain group of splendid friends that I don't see enough of any more.

But I was wrong. Something magical is happening where I live, in a small town in Somerset which feels like the poor cousin that everyone tries to forget.

I moved to Shepton Mallet just over three years ago. The decision to move here had nothing to do with the town at all, it had everything to do with being in the grip of severe post-natal depression and needing to be close to family. The little house we lived in 20 minutes out of London was a commuting professional's house, not a family home. We needed to reduce the mortgage, get away from the traffic and noise and be close to family who wanted to see more of their grandson/grandnephew anyway.

Two years ago, we started a local book club, in the hope of finding new friends, and it has been wonderful – I should blog about it actually. But in terms of the town as a whole, I've never really felt part of it. I'm not very good at real world things at the best of times, and most of my time here I've been either climbing out of the PND pit or writing in my garret.

Then they threatened to close our local library

The town meeting led to me going to take part in a film being made by a group of local people. I thought it was a couple of enthusiastic chaps with a handheld camcorder. Oh no, it was a professional shoot, with highly trained professionals, one of whom, Garfield Kennedy, has won an Emmy for his documentary film-making. He also happens to be a district Councillor, and he whipped us all up into action, leading to the We Love Libraries campaign, and the wonderful film embedded below.Pop over to the website, as there is a film of extra bits that made me cry.

It led to a local screening last week, at which I met other wonderful people, and discovered that there are people who care about what happens here, who are exciting, creative and energetic. They organised the Love Our Library event for Shepton, which was on Saturday, bringing over 500 people through its door in only one morning!

And it turned out to be my first ever "Meet the author" event!

I don't have to tell you how nervous I was, you know how much of a ninny I am. But I really enjoyed it once it got going. People came and asked me questions, I told them about From Dark Places and 20 Years Later. I read them the prologue and happily, it was all with a nice cup of tea in hand as it was at one of the local cafes called Chats. Even better, the café has started to run a book club, and the owner is more than happy for me to have a Shepton launch for From Dark Places there – yay!

So, even though it is an awful thing, the threat to our local library has invigorated the community in this town, restored my faith in people and made me proud to live here.

Magic, I tell you.

Friday Flash: The Artist's Defence

He knew she wasn't going to buy one, he'd developed an instinct for it. The elderly woman was moving along the shelves, inspecting the little stone heads, her face mirroring their grotesque expressions, but she wasn't going to leave with one.

"I've never seen anything like these," she croaked.

He smiled politely.

"Where do they come from?"

"An African tribe. I import them directly. It's a Fair Trade scheme."

"That's nice."

"A well was recently built there with the profits," he continued, his gaze drifting through the shop window to the street beyond. It was raining.

"I'll bring my son next week," she said, putting her plastic rain cap back on. He wondered if there was a special shop for people over seventy, shelves filled with flimsy rain hoods, pear drops and lavender water. "He likes this kind of thing."

He said goodbye, doubtful she'd remember. Soon after a couple entered. He remembered the husband peering in a few days before.

"Oh, you were right!" the wife gasped, pulled to one expressing an agonised grimace. "They're extraordinary!"

The husband came to the counter. "Saw these last week," he said, his voice leaning towards the bombastic. "Reminded me of our time in Africa. From a tribe are they?"

"Actually, no," he replied. "We found them in the loft of our house. We think the sculptor lived there. We tried to trace the relatives, but had no luck, so we opened the shop. We donate a portion of the profits to a charity for struggling artists."

"That's jolly decent of you," the man said. "Perhaps he imported them from Africa."

"Perhaps," he said. "I hadn't considered that."

Ego bolstered, the husband returned to his wife. He suspected he was a retired Major, and that they'd start a collection. Something to talk about after their dinner parties, the air filled with cigar smoke and a longing for colonialism. They chose three heads and paid in cash. The till rang brightly.

He polished some of the heads, taking care not to look too closely at them, until a family came in. Rain water dripped from their umbrellas and rivulets of green slime ran from the children's noses. He forced himself to smile.

The mother didn't notice him, she had the grey skin and hollow eyes of the chronically sleep deprived. The father gave a curt nod, ignoring his children, a girl of about two and a son who looked about seven years old, as they went straight to the nearest shelf.

"Don't touch," the mother said weakly as the boy pulled the nearest head off the shelf.

"It's heavy!"

He left the counter to crouch next to him. "It's carved from solid stone,"

The father took a call on his mobile as the mother pursued the toddler. He stayed next to the boy, knowing this child would crack the glass shelf if he replaced the head, and that the slimy little monster would enjoy it.

"It's ugly." Like so many that looked into the eyes of the heads, he mimicked its expression, making the shop owner shudder. "Did you make it?"

"No."

"Who did?"

He leaned as close to the boy as he could bear to. "Want to know a secret?" he whispered. "I don't really know who makes them. All I know is that every morning, when I come in to open the shop, there are new heads on the shelves."

The boy's eyes widened, then narrowed swiftly. "You're having me on."

"It's the truth. I've noticed they look remarkably similar to children who come in and pick up things they shouldn't touch."

The boy's eyebrows wavered as he struggled to gauge whether his words were truth or lie. He handed the head over and the shop owner inspected it. "This one looks like a child who was here last week. He smeared bogies all over my glass shelves. Then that night…" he drew his forefinger across his throat, made the noise of a man being garrotted.

The boy's father called him and he rushed to his side, throwing a fearful glance back at the shop owner who smiled and said goodbye to the parents. He cleaned the smears off the polished stone, left by the boy's sickeningly sticky hands, and returned it to its place, satisfied.

It was getting dark. He flipped the sign on the door over to 'closed' and locked up. He stuffed the cash from the till into his pocket and went upstairs.

The flat was cold and dark. He switched on lamps and the electric fire but nothing took the chill away.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror. "Come on," he said to his reflection. "You can't put it off any longer."

He climbed the second flight of stairs up to the attic room and opened the door slowly. She was hunched over, sitting on her chair in the corner, casting a frightful shadow onto the far wall like a fairytale witch.

He crossed the room, making the candle flame waver, the scraping sound of her industry setting his teeth on edge.

"The demon has been so angry today," she said, hearing his footsteps. "But I've found a new one to keep him away. Look!"

She twisted in her chair and thrust a half carved head towards him.

He looked at her sallow skin, her drawn cheeks, matted hair that she refused to let him comb. Her arms were blotched and bruised, she'd been pinching herself again. He squeezed his eyes shut against the urge to snatch the carving from her and dash it against her skull, putting them both out of their misery.

"Come downstairs," he said but she twisted back into the corner, sculpting again.

"I'll just finish this one, then the demon will be gone for good."

Crumpling, he thought of the shelves of heads in the shop below. "That's what you said last time," he said, and left her to her madness.

Love for the library

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about the local meeting I went to about the fate of my local library, and also wrote a rather furious open letter to the head of Somerset County Council.

Well, it seems Shepton Mallet library has been saved from definite closure. The local powers-that-be have said they've noted the response to their public consultation, and instead propose to cut hours across all libraries by 20% and only (!) put six libraries at risk of closure this year. It should be noted that this isn't set in stone yet.

This is a bitter sweet victory. Whilst I am, of course, hugely relieved that Shepton's library may well survive, I am still deeply upset about the loss of the other libraries – undoubtedly just as loved and depended upon as my local one.

On Saturday, there are "Love Our Library" events happening all over the country, and I will be going to the one in Shepton Mallet. But I know many of you, dear readers, are in different parts of the UK, in America and also Australia, so I thought it might be nice to do something here to build up to the 5th together.

Something that has struck me about all the people I've spoken to online and in person about the threat to the libraries is how personal this threat feels. I think it's because we're united by a common experience: powerful, visceral memories of the joy libraries gave us as children. So many people, including myself, remember a childhood in impoverished towns, in which the weekly trip to the library had the magical significance of entering Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. I want to share my shiniest, brightest memory from my library, and would love you to share yours too.

Camborne library: the bright centre of the universe

I grew up in a small mining town in Cornwall. Many of my friend's fathers were miners in South Crofty tin mine, one that shut whilst I was still in primary school. It was a typical depressed town crippled by the loss of the mine, and at one point, it had 30% unemployment. I don't recall any bookshops, there might have been a WHSmiths, but back then they were probably still just a newsagent.

Outside Camborne library there is a statue of the town's famous son Richard Trevithick. Every time I went to the library, I'd look up at him and feel the sense of pride my primary school had instilled in me. "We might be a tiny, forgotten town," it used to say, "But that doesn't stop you doing something amazing that can change the world."

It was a good message to get on the way into the library.

The moment I want to share with you, one which changed the course of my life, happened in this very library. Even now I can see the light streaming in through the high windows, countless motes of dust tumbling in the cavernous space and everywhere books, books, books! Ones I could thumb through and sit with and explore and choose to take home. Bliss.

I don't know what day it was, or my exact age (I think about 7 or 8 years old) but I do remember drifting along the bookshelves, that delicious, musty, unmistakably bookish smell filling me. I came across a shelf I hadn't yet discovered, a book was sticking out a little further than the rest. I reached up and plucked it out. It had a cover unlike any I had seen before.

It was Trillions, by Nicholas Fisk. It was the first science-fiction book I had ever really seen, let alone read. I sat down, read the first page and that was it. The beginning of a journey that led me to Asimov, Moorcock, Wyndham, Bester and of course, my hero, Ray Bradbury.

And what do I write now? Speculative fiction, with large dollops of sci-fi. What is the genre of my debut novel? Dystopian, set in post-apocalyptic London. I can truly say that day in Camborne library changed my life forever.

What's your brightest library memory? I'd love it if you could either share it in the comments, or if you want to write a post, please do put the link in a comment so we can all share each others memories.

Friday Flash: In the basement

"Louise, will you marry me?"

His hopeful, earnest smile lost its lustre when she paled. "Tim, come and sit down with me, there's something we need to talk about."

"You had no idea I was going to propose?" He set the ring, still in its velvet box, on the table and sat next to her.

"None! And I haven't said no. It's just that there's something you need to know before I can answer."

He breathed again. "Oh. Okay."

"Actually," she took a swig from her wine glass. "It'll be easier just to show you." She stood, pulling him to his feet.

"Where are we going?"

"To the basement."

"I never knew this place even had one."

She couldn't help but smile. "That's the way I like it."

She led him through the double doors into the hallway.

"So you have a dark secret in the basement that might make me reconsider my proposal?" Tim said, only the slightest edge of nervousness in his voice.

"Something like that."

"Like Chunk in the Goonies?"

She laughed. "No. It's not a monster either."

"It's not a collection of creepy porcelain dolls, is it?"

"Stop it."

"I could forgive that. Oh God… it's not a secret passion for Take That is it?"

She stopped, wearing her most serious frown. "What do you take me for?"

They kissed, she took him through the kitchen and into the walk-in pantry. She lifted the rug on the floor, revealing the trapdoor.

"A secret entrance," he whispered. "This is so cool."

She flipped on the light switch, illuminating the metal stairs. Nerves burnt her guts. The contents of her basement had cost her the only other serious relationship she'd ever had.

She went down the stairs into the tiny space. He followed her down, slowing on the last few steps as he saw the reinforced door ahead of them, looking like it would be more at home in a submarine. His joviality faded.

She fished out the key from her pocket, then released the secret catches, making sure she was standing between them and him. Then she twirled the huge wheel, releasing the seal with a hiss.

After switching on the light inside, she beckoned him in and watched the expected dropping open of his mouth as he took the room in.

His gaze swept along the rows and rows of metallic shelving, filled completely with meticulously labelled supplies. Cans, vacuum sealed packets, military grade rations. He studied them all, before his eyes fell on the second door.

"What is all this stuff?"

"Supplies."

"What for?"

"The end of the world." When he didn't respond, she went over to the second door. "Want to see the rest of it?"

He nodded and she unlocked the door. Following her in, he took in the bed, the unlit wood burning stove, the racks of medical supplies, again all labelled, and the gun cabinet.

"You have guns?!"

"They're all licensed," she said defensively, unlocking the cabinet. "I have two shotguns, two hand pistols and-"

"A machete!" he gasped.

She shrugged. "I like to have options."

"There's another two doors!"

"One's just a fuel store, the other is more supplies and the bathroom. Oh… and the… well, that's probably too much."

"No, I want to know," he said firmly. "What else?"

"The dungeon."

He blanched and she burst out laughing. "I'm joking!"

Tim puffed out all the air he'd sucked in, smiled. "Show me."

She took him through to the third room. Piles of logs and bags of coal took up most of it, with the only clear floor space taken up by three locked metal chests. One was labelled "Zombie apocalypse", one "Vampires" and the third "Werewolves" each in the same neat hand as the rest of the labels.

"Okay," he said slowly.

She bit her lip. "I should point out that I'm not expecting a zombie apocalypse."

"You just like to be prepared?"

She brightened. "Yeah. Wanna see what's inside?"

"Not right now. Let's… let's save that for another time. I'm assuming there's wooden stakes… holy water?"

"In the vampire one, yeah. Silver bullets in the werewolf one." She picked at a sleeve. "I always wanted to have these. Since I was a kid." She searched his face for anything other than fading shock. "I was a weird kid."

"Is there anything else?"

"No, this is it."

"Let's go back upstairs."

They returned to the dining room in silence, sat back in their places, the diamond ring still glittered in its box.

"The basement must be bigger than the house."

"It's twice the footprint," she replied.

"I thought you self-built to create your eco-friendly lifestyle. Was it just so you could have that basement?"

"Both. They're both the same thing to me. Self-sufficiency is great for the planet, but for me it's all about surviving if civilisation collapses. Do you see? If Tescos was blown up tomorrow, half the people in the nearest town would be screwed. We're too dependent. The solar panels, the reed bed system, the vegetables and fruit I grow… it's all to remove myself from a system I don't have any faith in. Does that make sense?"

Eventually he nodded, but his silence elongated into something unbearable. She felt her heart crumple. She'd lost him.

"You don't want to marry me anymore."

He jolted. "What? That's not true! I was just thinking."

"I guess it's a lot to take in when you find out the woman you love is a borderline survivalist nutjob. I understand."

"It's not that," he said, taking her hand. "It's just that there are no books down there. Or music. If there was a nuclear winter, we'd want something to do other than… I dunno, make love."

She beamed. "We can extend it."

"Good. So, will you marry me?"

Zombie-tastic

I watched the re-make of Dawn of the Dead this week. Well, almost all of it; I had to fast forward through the zombie pregnant woman scene. That was just too much for me, but otherwise, I handled it fine. In fact, I really enjoyed it. I thought the direction was excellent (especially the opening ten minutes) and the script was tight and funny. Yes, it ticked all the usual genre boxes, but hell, I don't mind. That's another blog post anyway.

I've seen woefully few zombie movies, mostly because I avoid horror movies at all costs. I'm wondering if I am finally old enough (approaching mid-thirties for heaven's sake) to watch them.

They linger with me, for days, sometimes years afterwards, that's the trouble. And I spent far too many nights as a child (and adolescent, and ok, yes, an adult) with the Fear, caused by some snippet or other that scared the hell out of me. I saw the end of Carrie when I was far, far too young, about five years old or so, and it scarred me. That sounds like a grand statement, but honestly, I couldn't see a hand stretching upwards (like the one that comes out of the grave in the film) without feeling a flash of terror. I even changed the way I dressed every day, pushing my hands through sleeves with closed fists, so I would see a hand silhouetted on the wall.

There was an unfortunate skirmish with Salem's Lot and The Fog, both before the age of ten (I think) that almost killed me with fright. What is it about my family and Stephen King?

I had this terrible talent for lurking silently in doorways. That same skill made me terrified of nuclear war (though I think that was very common in the 80's anyway) due to seeing graphic documentaries not designed for children. One in particular stays with me, in which the manner a human being dies was described depending on how far away from the blast they are. From "instantly vaporised" to having one's hair burnt away, eyes boiled etc. I had nightmares for weeks.

No wonder I write such dark short stories…

But anyway, back to zombies. One of my favourite films is 28 Days Later, and that was the scariest I could manage for a long time. So, so good. I especially love the early sequence of him wondering through post-apocalyptic London. Funnily enough, the title for my novel "20 Years Later" was originally only a placeholder in homage to the film (there are no zombies in my book, I hasten to add). Somehow it stuck.

I wasn't brave enough to watch another one until I saw "I am Legend" with my Dad last year. I'm ashamed to say I squealed and leapt across the sofa to bury myself under his arm at one point. It was very, very embarrassing. That film made me nervous, but I handled it. Soon after I watched The Omega Man, which had all the staples of living as the last human on Earth that I like, but one of the best things about it was discovering the source of some the wonderful quote samples on my much loved "White Zombie" album. Does he have the mark? Cracking!

Then "The Walking Dead" came along. I heard good things, and I love the zombie apocalypse sub-genre, so I recorded it. And I am so glad I did. It was fantastic. Which led me to recording Dawn of the Dead, thus completing the list so far. The only stupid thing I did was watch the first half just before setting out across black Somerset hills to pick my husband up from the airport. Really stupid. I watched the end at lunchtime, with a cup of tea. And a teddy bear. But don't tell anyone about the teddy, ok?

So, now that I am big and brave enough to watch zombie films, which would you recommend and why?

Sony Touch e-reader questions and answers

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post on life with a Sony Touch e-reader. As promised, here is a follow-up, in which I answer questions sent through to me on Twitter and that blog post.



If every book you wanted to read was available as an eBook, would you like to go 100% digital?

No. That one was easy! I can't imagine living in a house without books. I find them so comforting, having shelves and shelves of books makes my house feel like home. There is simple, tactile joy that can only be found in holding a book. Whether people will feel this in fifty years time, I have no idea.

I know that if I love a book discovered in e-format, I will buy it in print if available. That might seem odd, but I like to keep my books around me. Like TimeSplash – when that goes into print, I am buying it. Even though I have it on my computer, my e-reader and recorded the whole thing, I still want it on my shelf.

Do you have to use Sony software with it on your pc? And is it as horrible as SonicStage, that came with their MD players?

It comes with its own library software, but I downloaded Calibre before I loaded it, and have stuck with Calibre as it's so easy to use. I found the Sony software less intuitive, and it seems to gum up my poor old laptop terribly. I have no idea whether it's as horrible as SonicStage, as I've never used it I'm afraid.



Do you get weird formatting issues, like @gothick found with his Kindle, even on non-free books?

Yes. See the original post about PDFs in particular. I have also read some ePub books with paragraphs changing font size and being bolded randomly. That tends to happen more with the free books, I'm sorry to say.

What's battery life like?

Impressive. If I use the notes feature a lot it drains faster, unsurprisingly, but for standard reading it seems to last a long time.

Have you tried a Kindle… how does it compare? Is there a good selection of books, as you can't use Amazon?

I haven't used a Kindle. As for finding books, that certainly hasn't been too much of a problem so far, but then again, I haven't gone shopping for e-books as much as I'd like due to money constraints. Smashwords is easy to use and there are zillions of books on there, but I only to go find ones I've discovered elsewhere. Otherwise it's a bit like panning for gold.

The thing about "publish in some other format as well as PDF" is that it makes the difficult question of what software to use even harder. What would you recommend?

I would give Calibre a go first as it's free. I have no idea how reliable its conversions are in terms of formatting, with PDFs for example, it improves the paragraphs to a page problem, but the headers and footers remain troublesome.

Is it sploshproof? I like to read in the bath.

I wouldn't risk it myself, but I have heard tell of people putting their e-readers in Ziploc bags and the like. They are braver than I.

If you have any questions, ask away

Good news for short story lovers

It's nice to be able to blog about something cheery again after all of the severely depressing posts about our poor libraries, so I am delighted to make a special announcement:

From Dark Places, my short story anthology, will be released on March 1st 2011 in both e-book and print, with the audio book version to follow soon after.

Hooray!

If you'd like to be the first to know about special offers, competitions, launch parties (both online and in the real world) and other lovely things I have planned for you short story lovers, then sign up below. If you're using an RSS reader, you may need to come over to this post on my site, and don't forget, shining ones, to check your junk folder for the confirmation email….



Some of you may remember the first edition that I self-published last year. That e-book contained only eleven dark tales. This second edition, lovingly edited and published by the wonderful eMergent Publishing, contains no less than 25 short stories, one of which has never been read by anyone (except lovely hubby and Jodi, my editor) before.

A little heads up if you're planning to buy

The print and e-book versions will be available for sale in the usual places, but, they will also be on sale through this site. Anyone who buys a hard copy directly from me through this site will get a signed copy AND a free e-book version too.

The Short Story Club

This post marks the official first call for story prompts of 2011. I didn't manage as many stories as I planned last year, due to all kinds of reasons that are far too dull to list. Aside from being sucked into the sequel of 20 Years Later, which is acceptable (I hope).

Anyway, the first story of the year (from the last set of prompts) will be flying out to club members in the next day or so, so if you leave me some one-word prompts, opening line ideas or just random concepts, I'll pick the winner, and we'll get 2011 off to a good start.

In case you have no idea what I'm talking about, all the info and the place to sign up for the club is over here.

Yay! Let's make more stories!

An open letter to the leader of Somerset County Council

I have spent a miserable afternoon writing this letter, and another to the Secretary of State for Culture. I have posted the one to the leader of Somerset County Council below in the hope that if anyone else is in the uneviable position of having to express similar concerns to their councillors, it will help show you that you're not alone, and maybe give you some inspiration.

Feel free to adapt it for your own use. If you want to post it on your site, please link back here so that any comments can be seen and so that I can link back to your site with a pingback too.

Dear Mr Maddock,

I am writing to express my concern over the proposal to close Shepton Mallet library. This would cause irreparable damage to a town already on its knees and would have an incredibly negative impact on our vulnerable community.

I hope the strength, passion and desire to fight this proposal was adequately conveyed to you by John Osman who attended the meeting in Shepton Mallet on Friday night. I'd like to highlight some of the opinions expressed at that meeting, and my own observations.



The consultation process has been woefully inadequate

Right from the date of the announcement on the 16th of December (so conveniently close to Christmas that it cut out at least a fortnight of viable time for the public to respond) through to the fact that none of the consultation roadshows bothered to come to Shepton Mallet even though ours is one of the libraries slated for closure.



Doubts over the validity of the data being taken into consideration

For example, we were told that the number of people using the library, and their book withdrawals was used to determine how "busy" the library is. In my own household, my husband is the full-time parent and takes my son to the library every week. My husband withdraws books on his ticket that we both read – therefore my use of the library is not factored into your calculations. I wonder how many other households in Shepton share the use of a library card, thinking that it would be the most efficient way to enjoy those books and have the least impact on the service so others can enjoy the books too. Had I known, I would have been certain to make separate trips and created more work for everyone.

Lack of detail regarding alternatives

We're threatened with closure, but alternatives seem to have been grouped under a vague sense of "or run it yourselves" with no detail, practical advice or information to help us work out an alternative. Running a library requires trained staff and is more complex than book withdrawals and shelf-stacking.

Library provision in Wells, Frome and Street is NOT close enough

To quote the consultation document, Shepton Mallet has "a fairly busy library with a fairly big catchment area. Three major libraries would be provided within Mendip District (Frome, Street and Wells)." I wonder if the person who wrote this lives in Shepton Mallet. I doubt it, and I also doubt they depend upon public transport.

To catch the bus to Wells (the nearest town) costs £5 round trip per person and the service is infrequent. That too is also soon to be cut and subsidies substantially reduced. It is simply not viable for the most vulnerable families who don't have cars to pay £10 (assuming only one person is going to library) to borrow the books and then return them.

One of the few services left in Shepton Mallet

In addition, Shepton Mallet town centre needs the footfall the library attracts. At the meeting on Friday we were told the library has 300 visitors a day. The town centre is already struggling to survive. Close the library and you kill the town. Perhaps it would be seen by those who don't live here as a coup de grace. I can assure you it is not.

Closing Shepton Mallet's library to save money in the short-term is a horrifically short-sighted approach. It provides a critical service to our community, its success in encouraging reading amongst the young is superlative, with hundreds of children participating in reading schemes. Those without home internet access depend on it, the same people who doubtless won't be able to travel to other libraries should ours close.

I could write pages more about the reasons why our library shouldn't be closed. If it comes down to cold numbers at the end of the day then I ask you this:

If you save just under £80,000 in one year by shutting our library, how much will it cost to:

• Lose money in business rates when the last shops hanging on in the centre close due to reduction in footfall

• Police a town in which the young, having been cut off from the love of learning and any connection to their town centre in their childhood, seek thrills elsewhere

• Provide mental health services to those who have become isolated without the social contact provided in their library

• Provide income support and benefits to those who are unable to find work as they can't afford to travel to other towns and use the free internet access there, the staff associated with the library and all the people who will lose their jobs when the town dies

And if short-sightedness that impacts upon our town isn't going to sway you, then perhaps I can demonstrate how short-sightedness can be applied to your own career prospects? I wonder if you, and indeed this current government can have a hope in hell of winning the next election campaign when you have to try and persuade the voters to forget that it was YOU and YOUR COUNCIL who cut the heart out of our town.

Cut wasteful administration costs in the Council, negotiate better rates with suppliers, negotiate a better deal on the leasehold (currently £30,000 a year), reduce hours across the whole of Somerset libraries to share what is left of the funding across the entire county, help us to make up the shortfall in funding – all of these are preferable to pulling the plug on Shepton Mallet's library – and indeed the town centre itself.

Emma Newman