Elspeth Cooper's Blog, page 11

Fan mail

[image error]From time to time, I get emails out of the blue from people – complete strangers – who've read Songs of the Earth. So far, none of them have been complaints. Shocker, I know.

In fact they've been highly complimentary. Some of them have subject lines of "Thank you". One chap told me he'd bought the book at lunchtime and read it straight through in one sitting. The fellow yesterday said he'd devoured it like a good Sunday roast, and was aghast to learn that the sequel, Trinity Moon, won't be available in his country until next spring.

This blows my mind.

These people took a punt on a brand-new author, handed over their hard-earned cash, and not only enjoyed the ride but  enjoyed it enough that they felt moved seek me out in the dark and vasty interwebs and tell me so.

Mind. Blown.

This is what brings it home to me that yeah, actually, I can write a bit. This makes up for twenty years spent convinced that I wasn't good enough to be published, so it wasn't worth trying. It thrills me beyond words to know that you want to come along on this journey with me, and find out What Happens Next.

I'll do my best not to let you down.

ARCtastic!

It's been a busy week here at Cooper Towers.

A few days ago, the UPS man brought me a parcel all the way from New York – ARCs of the Tor release of Songs of the Earth, which is due out in February 2012.

If you are desperate to get your hands on a copy (which you are, aren't you?) you will no doubt be pleased to hear that the hardcover is available to pre-order now on Amazon.com. You lucky, lucky people.

And as if that wasn't enough awesome . . .

Yesterday, our postie-in-a-van brought me another parcel, this time from la belle France: an ARC of Les Chants de la Terre, Tome 1 de La Chasse Sauvage (bet you can't work out what that means) which Bragelonne will be releasing into the wild on 18 November 2010.

Look closely, and you can even see what the French cover will look like.

I'm not sure that my schoolgirl French, largely unused these past twenty seven-anna-bit years, is up to the task of translating what the lovely Stéphane Marsan of Bragelonne has written on the back,  but I think I can manage Ce livre est un enchantement.

Cor.

Or maybe that should read: c'est formidable!

 

 

Harvest

I harvested the first pears yesterday and today: Williams Bon Chrétien; the Conference ones on the other tree aren't quite ready to come away, although I suspect today's high winds may have a say in that matter. I see pear and almond crumble in my future!

It's taken seven years from planting for the Williams to mature enough to fruit – there is some truth in the old saying 'pears for heirs'. In previous years we've had plenty of blossom but that's been it. The Conference crops heavily in alternate summers; this is its third 'on' year and the fruit is so heavy the lower branches are barely inches from the ground. This making it somewhat awkward to reach the shed . . .

 

Book porn

I've been threatening to do this for a while. Pile up all the unread books I've got and take a photograph of them, just for giggles. So I did, and slightly scared myself. Clearly, I get far too much pocket money.

Here is Ellie's to-be-read pile, in no kind of order, just how they came off the shelves. That's over six feet four inches of books. Yes, I have just measured it; no, I do not think that is remotely sad.

This mountain of words does include some books I was given as presents Quite Some Time Ago, and a couple of them I've started and put down for whatever reason (Tad Williams' River of Blue Fire, I'm looking at you here – and Trudi Canavan's Magician's Guild, don't think you can hide at the back).

What it does not include is all the books I will have to re-read before I attempt to conclude various series, like the Dresden Files, and The Wheel of Time. What can I say, I have a terrible thing for completeness.

Whimper.

Still, they do say that the first step in overcoming addiction is admitting you have a problem.

My left foot – the war continues

Well, that'll wake you up good and proper.

Wednesday is bin day here at Cooper Towers. When I opened the bedroom curtains this morning, I noticed that my beloved spouse, when he left for work at oh-my-god-o'clock, had neglected to put the blue recyclables bin out for collection. Not to worry, I thought; I'll put it out after breakfast.

Except by the time I got down the stairs, I could hear the bin lorry in the next street. Oh noes!

So out I trot, barefoot but otherwise dressed, opened the gate and trundled this big 240-litre wheelie bin out to the path. Since wheelie bins are not the nimblest-handling things, I managed to trundle it over my left foot in the process.

More precisely, over my toes. And the bin was full.

All together now: owyabuggershitthathurts.

Sigh.

Are we cool?

Hey, guess what? Songs of the Earth got a mention in the Sunday Times!

Unfortunately, that mention turned out to be little more than a single line of internal dialogue quoted out of context†, with the admonition that lines like that aren't going to do anything to make fantasy cool.

Um, what? Who says a particular genre of fiction is cool or uncool? Is there a Department of Cool somewhere in the bowels of the Home Office that makes these distinctions? Do I have to apply to them in triplicate for an EC Certificate of Cool Conformity before I'm allowed to write books?

Bollocks to that.

As a reader and writer of the genre, I already believe fantasy is pretty bloody cool, thank you very much. Where else can I get to play with kingdoms all day long, and weird beasts (come on, dragons? Could they be any cooler?), and sharp, pointy weapons. Just because there's a castle on the horizon, or we're in some fantastical city run by thieves doesn't mean the writer can't examine the human condition just as deeply as anyone else – in fact fantasy writers often get to examine it from new and exciting perspectives, like the inside, amongst the tubes and wobbly bits.

Maybe I'm reading too much into a couple of sentences in a review round-up. Maybe the reviewer was not approaching from a standpoint of "I already think fantasy is deeply uncool and slightly icky, so go on, try to change my mind". Or maybe I've just heard one too many people sneering at fantasy lately, because, you know, it's all just made up stuff.

Newsflash, people: all fiction is 'just made up stuff'. Even the kind of fiction that wins the Booker.††

It's not my job to try to make fantasy cool to people with attitudes like that. Prejudice is their problem, not mine.

It is my job to serve the story, to tell it to the best of my ability, and transport the reader somewhere else for a few hours. My job is to entertain with words. If I happen to also inform, elucidate, illuminate or otherwise make the reader say "Huh, I didn't know that", then that's just gravy.

So here's my book. Try it, don't try it, it's your choice. But why not forget what all the other cool kids are doing, stop trying to be so achingly hip you can barely walk, and make your own mind up for a change. Try some fantasy; it won't kill you. It's rousing, riotous, heroic, horrifying, absorbing, philosophical, thrilling, heartbreaking, edge-of-your-seat fun.†††

Hell, you might even get over yourself and enjoy it.

Or is it better to be seen to be cool than be entertained?

***

† I'm not saying it was the best line in the world, but in context it was appropriate, dramatic and effective. Stripped of context, pretty much any ten words (short of Shakespeare) are just words.

†† Keeping it topical. But seriously, is the Man Booker Prize awarded to the best book of the year, or just the best book of a certain type?

††† Not necessarily all at the same time. Obviously. But some books, like Martin and Rothfuss there, will give it a damn good try.

An addition to the family

The Cooper family is proud and excited to announce the arrival of a new baby girl, Kathryn (Katie for short), who was delivered on Friday afternoon.

She is very, very red, but very, very pretty – a sister for three-year-old Lara. Mum and baby are doing well; dad's wallet . . . not so much.

Oh, the weight? 8 07lbs.

No, not 8lbs 7oz, eight hundred and seven pounds, wet weight.

Yes, you read that right. This is not your average bundle of joy: she sleeps through the night, never cries or complains and only needs feeding every 220 miles or so.

Ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to the Triumph Rocket III Roadster, the largest-engined production motorcycle in the world . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who's a pretty girl, then?

In case you were wondering, Lara is also a Triumph – a Speed Triple 1050 in matt black, for those days when one needs a little more hooligan in one's motorcycling.

Going Dutch

The postie brought me a parcel just now – my author's copies of the Dutch edition of Songs of the Earth, Het Lied van der Aarde.

Doesn't it look fantastic? The colours are much more muted and subtle than the early snapshots of the cover art led me to expect – so atmospheric, especially with the brass-bound look around the edges.

Flicking through, I discovered that there's also a lovely script style drop cap on each chapter, which just makes the page, in my opinion. Mynx have done a super job; I couldn't be more pleased.

The Spanish edition should be up next – I can't wait!

Some good news of a non-book kind. Sort of.

Today I had an appointment with my neurologist, who gave me the results of my recent MRI scan. Compared to my scan of March 2009, it showed a decrease in both the number and the size of the lesions in my brain.

This is A Good Thing: it means my relapse rate has been stalled, and my poor beleaguered body has been able to start repairing some of the myelin damage caused by MS.

How much of this is due to the Tysabri infusions I've been on for the last two years, and how much is due to me finally acknowledging that the day job with its horrendous commute was no longer sustainable, I'll probably never know. Bit of both, most likely.

Since I gave up work I've been able to get the rest I need, and be kinder to myself. That means on a shitty day, if I don't get out of bed until 11am, so be it. On good days I'm up at 7:30. Most days it's somewhere in between. Either way, these results confirm that quitting my job and changing my treatment regimen were the right things to do.

One small winged insect in the ointment: Tysabri (natalizumab) has an immuno-suppressant effect, and some immuno-compromised people, like MS patients and transplant recipients given anti-rejection drugs, have gone on to develop PML, or progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy, which is often fatal.

The science bit: PML is triggered by the JC virus, which is widespread in the general population, lying latent in the gastrointestinal tract. In an immuno-compromised patient it can "reactivate" and trigger PML, because JCV can cross the blood-brain barrier and directly infect (and destroy) the oligodendrocytes which protect the myelin sheath around the nerve-cells' axons in the central nervous system – that's your brain and spinal cord.

I was blood-tested last week to see if I've been exposed to JCV. The general risk of developing PML is about 1 in 1,000; if I've been exposed, that rises to about 1 in 400. Given that somewhere north of 70% of the population will have been exposed to it (usually in childhood) this, as you can imagine, gives me some food for thought.

I've had two very stable, relapse-free years with Tysabri. Back in 2009, when it became apparent that the beta-interferon therapy was no longer working, I looked at the risks, weighed up the benefits, and decided Tysabri was the best treatment option for me and my highly-active at the time MS. I still think that is the case, but when the blood-test results come in, if my risk profile changes, I am going to have to think through my choices once more and see if I'm still comfortable with it.

Table for two?

With less than two weeks to go to the official publication date for Songs of the Earth, my author's copies arrived today. Needless to say, that was the end of any meaningful work for the day – I was far too busy admiring them, and if you look down there a bit I'm sure you will understand why.

Feast your eyes, friends. Tuck a napkin into their collar and gorge them on the subtly matte hardback, and the gold-foil-embossed, spot-varnished fabulosity of the trade paperback:

Click on the picture for an even bigger helping – but don't forget to leave room for the waffair theen meent.