Sarah Cawkwell's Blog, page 12

Fire, Ice and Rage (Doctor Who: Tenth Doctor)

One Doctor Who ficlet for you.

A Martha-viewpoint set immediately following the events of the episode ‘The Family of Blood’. Contains, ergo, spoilers.

Fire, Ice and Rage

“He’s like fire and ice and rage…”

Tim Latimer’s words would more than likely echo around in his skull for many years to come, if not forever. The Doctor knew that. And if there was one thing he understood, and to which he could relate with no difficulty, it was the concept of ‘forever’.

Most humans couldn’t even begin to get their heads around such a thing, of course. The human lifespan was measured in blinks to an ancient race like the Gallifreyans. To be a Time Lord meant that forever was just that. Forever. Always. From here to eternity.

No, hang on, that was a film.

‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’

The voice behind him was soft and with a faintly apologetic undertone. Martha smiled as he turns, holding up the two steaming mugs of tea held expertly by the handles in one hand and the plate of biscuits in the other.

Tipping his head slightly, he studied her intently for a moment or two and she shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze. Tentatively she tried to break the ice.

‘My mum always says that there’s no problem so bad that chocolate bourbons and a cup of tea won’t help soothe it.’

It was the right thing to say.

‘Your mother, Martha Jones, is an astonishingly perceptive woman.’ The Doctor grinned infectiously, accepted a mug of tea from her and helped himself to a couple of biscuits which he crammed into his mouth cheerfully. ‘Overbearing and bossy, but perceptive nonetheless.’ Biscuit crumbs sprayed.

Martha visibly relaxed. Since the unpleasant business with the Family, life had become delicate. She had felt as though she was walking on eggshells around the Doctor who had slid into a state of brooding. He’d dealt with it in his own way, throwing himself into repairs and maintenance around the TARDIS like there was no tomorrow – even repeating jobs he’d done already. She had tried talking to him in those early, difficult hours after they had departed 1913 Earth.

 

Those early, difficult hours when he’d stood staring at the Chameleon Arch for extended periods with undisguised longing in his eyes. It had made her heart ache to see that expression. And always,

At first she’d been fearful that he would decide to undergo the change again; that she’d lose him to John Smith like she’d already done once before. Then the mood had shifted almost seamlessly from obvious misery into anger and then always, always he would turn and give her his brightest, toothiest grin as though nothing was amiss.

The doctor in her had tried to treat the situation with a certain clinical detachment, something which had not proved to be easy. She’d tried though. She’d assessed that child-like vulnerability in his eyes. The look that could change without warning into one of an ice-cold fury.

“He’s like fire and ice and rage…”

All three words were suggestive of primitive, basic drives. All of those things she saw in his actions and his words during his solitary phase. But he never directed the rage at her. No, it was all directed either at the TARDIS, which received more belts with the mallet than usual. Otherwise, he kept his fury locked up, turned in on himself.

Had the Doctor been human, she concluded, she’d have diagnosed serious depression. If he’d been human. But he wasn’t.

Over the past couple of days, that fact had repeatedly reared its head. Never, since she had taken his offer to travel with her, had she felt more keenly the insurmountable distance and the impossible differences that formed the unbridgeable gulf between them.

‘So… how are you feeling?’ The question was tentative, but asked with an encouraging, reassuring doctor-trained warm smile.

‘How am I feeling… how am I feeling… Never better! You know, I have to say that these are really good biscuits.’ The Doctor reached for another chocolate bourbon and waved it around as he spoke. ‘I always liked those lemon puff things, myself. Lemon puffs. Marvellous, really. Give humans a bit of sugar and some dodgy artificial flavourings and the world’s their biscuity oyster.’

A pause.

‘There’s something fundamentally wrong about a biscuity oyster.’

Having made this important declaration, he dove back below the TARDIS console, where Martha could hear a faintly tuneless humming  as he yanked out a handful of wires and then shoved them back in again for no apparent reason. But he was doing something.

Martha slid into one of the squashy, comfortable chairs strewn haphazardly around the console room and rested her feet on the rail, watching him as she sipped at her tea. For some reason which as of yet she’d been unsuccessfully able to fathom, the whole Joan Redfern incident had left her deep in thought about her feelings for him.

A small sigh escaped, unchecked, from her lips, bringing the Doctor out from beneath the console to peer up at her.

‘Everything alright?’

‘Never better,’ she replied, with a grin almost as infectious as his own. It was a grin that certainly carried about as much conviction as his had done only moments before – which was to say, none at all.

‘Good,’ he said, smiling warmly. A genuine smile for the first time in two days. It sent a flood of relief through her to see that face. She admitted it to herself – she’d worried about him. Before the Family, she’d often catch him brooding, staring down at the console, lost in memories that he wouldn’t share. She suspected that many of them were memories of Rose, who she still knew little to nothing about.

She suspected that he’d loved her though and despite her best efforts, she felt frequent surges of jealousy towards this mysterious Rose. And that was crazy behaviour.

In her quieter moments, she would try to analyse just what it was she’d found attractive in him. He was pretty easy on the eyes, there was no denying that. He made her laugh – and that was a big ‘plus’ in her ‘book of reasons to date men’. And when he was nice, he was very, very nice.

But when he was bad, he was frankly terrifying.

“He’s like fire and ice and rage…”

Tim Latimer’s words would stick with Martha for a very long time, too.

The Doctor had not expanded on the various fates that had been ascribed to the Family of Blood and she honestly didn’t want to know. She’d observed the boiling fury in his eyes and it wasn’t something that she felt she could bear to witness again. He’d returned from his task looking grim and sober and had then he had gone off to talk to Joan.

He came back even more grim, even more sober and had thanked her for looking after him, for looking out for him and for making everything right. Hollow. So very hollow.

And then he’d hugged her.

She relished those tactile moments. There was something deliciously exuberant about them. They filled her with all flavours of hope and every time she gave up a silent prayer to a God she’d long ago stopped believing in for them to mean more than she knew they meant.

Do you love him, Martha Jones?

Yes, she acknowledged silently. Yes, she did. But she was starting to come to an understanding with herself. This wasn’t a girlish infatuation. This was something more profound. She was more in love with who he was, what he was, rather than an adoration of the man himself. He represented all that she was not. A rebel, who fought against the system where she had always, according to her mother, been a ‘good girl’, whatever the hell that meant. He threw caution to the wind and acted on impulse. She tended to consider the consequences of her actions. He was a free spirit and what was she next to that?

An boring, dried-up old stick in the mud, that’s what.

“He’s like the night and the storm and the heart of the sun.”

Yes. He was dark and mysterious, staggeringly unpredictable – and there were times when she felt that if she gazed on him for too long, his radiance, his brilliance, would dazzle her.

She finished her tea and slid off the chair to collect his empty mug. There was a quiet companionship between them which was pleasantly relaxing. She no longer felt compelled to try and impress him, no longer felt the urge to try to be someone she wasn’t, nor could ever hope to be.

For now, at least, it was okay to just be Martha Jones. She was fine with that.

She watched him a little longer.

“He’s ancient and forever.”

He’d tried to explain the concept of forever to her only a few days before they had encountered the Family of Blood. They’d been circling around a veritable ballet of space dust and charged particles, a dancing whirlwind of motes that had been so beautiful that tears had sprung into her eyes. Lights that spun and shone before her. A scene a million times more outstanding than the Aurora Borealis, the thing she had always considered the most beautiful natural phenomenon she would ever see. And she had said to the Doctor that the memory of that breathtaking sight would stay with her forever.

‘Forever?’ he said, his voice uncharacteristically melancholy. ‘You have no idea what that word means.’

And in that moment she had started to understand him, to begin to get a real taste for his terrible aching loneliness. Her heart reached out to him, but he didn’t notice. He wouldn’t ever notice. She could declare her love for him, paint it in letters fifteen miles high and until he moved on from all he had lost, he would never see what was right there in front of him.

Moving on, he said wistfully during their conversation, would take forever.

“He burns at the centre of time and he can see the turn of the universe.”

Such things he’d shown her. Such concepts he had introduced her to.

And such heartache.

She remembered standing there, staring into the swirl of the dust cloud, her heart filled with the song of a thousand particles and she had, for a moment, touched infinity.

For that, she would always love him.

‘Hey, Martha, if you’re making more tea, I wouldn’t say no to another cup.’ She smiled at him.

‘You’ll be lucky. Besides, it has to be your turn. Do you really expect me to make the tea forever?’

She paused, bit her lip.

The Doctor studied her and smiled that smile.

‘Oh, I dunno,’ he said with a laugh and a twinkle in his. “It wouldn’t be that bad, I suppose.’

“And…he’s wonderful.”

 

It’s a bit dusty in here…

Thought I’d blow some of the dust off the blog.

I’ve been busy, lately. What with learning the ropes of a new job and generally keeping myself occupied with real life, I’ve made a discovery.

Life, when there are no immediate problems to vent about, is the most boring thing in the world to blog about.

About the most exciting thing of late… I had to fork out an inordinate number of pennies to get my kitchen roof repaired though; that was depressing. It was my planned holidays-for-the-year money that I’ve been carefully saving up – like a good girl. It was snatched out of my piggy bank and dropped into the pocket of the roofers. Admittedly, in turn, they did stop the persistent leak in the kitchen, so at least I can be grateful for that. And the roof looks much less like people chucked a pile of slate up there and just let it lie where it landed. So you know. Practical and aesthetic.

A holiday would be nice, though.

I’m mostly done with writing the second adventure for Gilrain, whose first outing was in the Tales of the Nun and Dragon anthology. That boy is a sheer pleasure to write for, because… because he’s utterly hopeless. But he’s eternally optimistic and there’s something oddly infectious about it. The style is loose and easy; very light-hearted and lets me stretch my comedy muscles a little. I’m a sucker for bad puns (I have that in common with Dan Abnett and Piers Anthony) and writing for Gilrain lets me use all sorts.

The short story I wrote for the Black Library Chapbook last year – Reaper - (known at the time as ‘Operation: Handbags at Dawn’)  is also now available as a digital short story. It’s a dirty story of a dirty man, and his clinging wife doesn’t understand… well, sort of. It’s the last moments of an unfortunate Empire soldier who, in his death throes, is tried and judged by the consort of the Blood God. I additionally got a little spotlight moment on the Black Library blog today as well, so that was nice.

I’ve been reading more than usual of late; have read Deceived, Fatal Alliance and Revan, all set in the Star Wars: The Old Republic universe. I’ve enjoyed all three of them for different reasons. But Deceived in particular was enjoyable because of Darth Malgus. I have a gamer-girl crush on Darth Malgus. It’s the voice. It’s certainly not the looks. That dratted Mr. Kemp. DRAT HIM.

 

This is the moment all fathers of daughters everywhere dread.

SW:TOR has gobbled up most of my evenings, really. I utterly  love it for everything it has to offer. The levelling is great, the storylines are amazing (I just finished the Imperial Agent storyline and it’s my favourite so far) and the roleplay is brilliantly creative given certain limitations. I had the utter delight of meeting a bunch of guildies a couple of weeks ago at a SW:TOR event down in  London. It was a great day out and already I miss them.

In short, life ticks on.

And that’s good, ‘cos it’s not bad.

Well, miserable, actually. To be completely specific, Les...

Well, miserable, actually. To be completely specific, Les Misérables.

Some background. I can remember the day that LesMis upped sticks from the Barbican and moved into the Palace Theatre. I had only recently become a Bit of a Fan (understatement) of West End musicals and it intrigued me. I was… I think, about fifteen at the time. I went out and I bought the soundtrack and although I liked it, it didn’t make me want to rush to go and see it live. Being a surly teenager, I liked my musicals to have a bit of a beat to them; not to be semi-operatic.

I still sang along, though. Loudly and with good cheer.

I recall a review somewhere saying ‘what a load of short-lived, self-indulgent tosh. It’ll be lucky to last the first year of its run’. Bet he feels stupid now, what, 25 years later? Shows you what these people know about what appeals to the Musical Theatre Loving World at Large.

So I didn’t rush to see the show. There were things in the queue before it. Cats. Starlight Express (for the 90th time). Five Guys Named Moe. Time. Return to the Forbidden Planet. I left it for a while.

Actually, therein lies the first of my great LesMis-related regrets. Leaving it as long as I did, I am possibly the only LesMis fan in the entire world who has never got to see the Great and Glorious Colm Wilkinson as Valjean on stage. The first time I finally went to see the show, the part was filled by Dave Willetts. I remember joking at some point that the esteemed Mr. Willetts was following me around the West End – he was also the Phantom when I saw that. (Yes, I missed Michael Crawford, too).

Regardless of seeing LesMis sans Colm, I loved every second of it. The way it was staged, the performances, the breaking down in tears every so often… loved it all. It was not long before I went back to see it again. And a third time. And to this day, I have never been as moved by a musical as I have been by this one.  Never have I had a crush on a character (not an actor – the actual character) as much as I had on (sigh) Enjolras.

So when the announcement came that they were finally adapting it for screen, I was delighted. I was prepared to accept that there would be necessary cuts and changes (more on that in a moment), but it didn’t matter. It was my Glums and there it’d be, on the great big screen, with great big sound and great big glory.

Well, guess what I went to see this morning? No, not The Hobbit, that was last week. Quiet at the back, you. It’s very rare that I have the urge to review something after seeing it, but given my inherent love for the musical, I can’t help it. It’s very hard to be detached from it when you  have such preconceptions, when you’ve listened to the soundtrack countless times over the past twenty odd years, but I have tried.

And it’s long. So consider it cut. Also, spoilers, although I’m sure you know most of them.

I know it’s a film. I could wax lyrical about the sets (which were superb), the cinematography (which was beautiful)… but it’s also a musical, and a much-loved one at that. It’s a musical with characters you actually want to care about and so the focus of the review is on them.

First of all, Hugh Jackman as Valjean.

I knew Hugh Jackman could sing. Who hasn’t laughed at the YouTube video of Wolverine in Oklahoma! after all? What I didn’t know was if he could sing Valjean. And the good news? Yes. Yes, he can, although I wasn’t sold on  his version of Bring Him Home.  Colm made this song his own. He always sang it beautifully softly – like the prayer that it’s meant to be. Also, be amused that Colm is so young in this clip.

(When he showed up as the Bishop of Digne, which I was expecting, I cheered. I was not alone. My fellow Glums were there in the cinema with me).

But I can forgive Hugh Jackman his less-than-sterling performance of my favourite song from the musical because of his performance right at the start of the film, in Valjean’s Soliloquy. Holy heavens, but he turned that into a wonderful bit of heart and soul-searching. He played the character delightfully, with just the right amount of guilt about him. You always felt that he, as a character, was so tense and anxious that he would snap at any provocation. An excellent performance and a brilliant bit of casting. He made a great hero.

And for every hero, there has to be a villain. And in this case, that is far more literal than I would otherwise have liked. Russell Crowe.

Russell Crowe.

Maximus Decimus Meridius. The man who moved me to tears in his performance in Gladiator and the man about whom I had the greatest reservations on hearing he had been cast in the role of the devilish do-gooder Javert. I’ve always felt sorry for Javert, seeing him as more of an anti-hero than a villain. After all, he’s only doing what he believes is right. He’s an object lesson in what happens when you become obsessed over something. Like, say, West End musicals. It’s a dramatic role. I believe, although I stand to be corrected on this, that it’s a part written for a baritone voice, where Valjean is a tenor.

(An aside: baritone = bad guy. Never have a deeper voice than your contemporaries, fellas).

And Russell Crowe, although he could carry a tune well enough, just didn’t have the oomph. He didn’t have the belting gravitas that for me the role of the tragic Inspector needed. Also, he sounded faintly as though he was holding his nose. I could have overlooked his sub-par singing if his acting hadn’t been dreadful. Seriously, at times, the guy looked as though he had wandered onto the set by mistake and just played along out of terror. During Javert’s Suicide, I believed that he really wanted to throw himself off the bridge. Just to get out of doing another song.

I may be doing him a slight injustice. He wasn’t awful. Just… not what I would have liked.

So we move onto the next tier. The supporting cast. Let’s talk about Anne Hathaway as Fantine. No, really. Let’s talk about her. Because for twenty five years, Fantine’s story has always made me say ‘oh, that’s sad, when does Do You Hear The People Sing? come on again?’ Today, I watched Anne Hathaway dissolve into a character completely and then watched that character descend into the very darkest pits of despair. And it was amazing.

‘Fantine’s death has never moved me to tears’. Well, there’s another statement I can send to the great phrase recycling bin in the sky. Because she was outstanding. She has an Oscar nomination, I believe? Does she deserve it? Yes. Will she get it? I hope so.

Eddie Redmayne and Amanda Seyfried as Marius and Cosette respectively (I did get that the right way round, didn’t I?) I was nonplussed and disinterested in the casting of these two, because I have very  little interest in their songs (apart from one) and yucky love story throughout the musical. Amanda Seyfried was fine, nothing spectacular. Nice enough voice,  played the part nicely.

Eddie Redmayne was brilliant, though. He had a youthful exuberance and innocence that fit the part so nicely with none of the bitter cynicism of (sigh) Enjolras. And by god, he belted out Empty Chairs at Empty Tables. This means that joining the phrase about Fantine’s death comes the phrase ‘meh. Marius.’ (Sorry, Michael Ball). Eddie Redmayne took the part, made it his own and made me actually care about his character, although I still wanted to slap him round the mush over the whole Éponine thing. Which  moves us nicely onto Samantha Barks as Éponine.

As any girl who likes musicals will tell you, we all want to be this character. We all want to be the tragic waif who blindly stumbles around the war-torn streets of Paris after a man she loves desperately and who can barely remember her name. We all want to sacrifice ourselves to save his life, even at the cost of our own because zomgoose he loves the blonde bimbo, why should I even care any more?

Yeah. I wanted to be her too.

Éponine is one of those roles that you can’t help but desperately fall in love with. She’s a fool, naive and innocent and A Little Fall of Rain, whilst cut (which actively annoyed me), was still emotional going. It was satisfying that there were a chorus of sniffles around the cinema from people pretending that they weren’t crying. Girl done good.

(Sigh) Enjolras. Yeah. Aaron Tveit… along with Russell Crowe was my second big disappointment in terms of the casting. Looked the part, acted the part, gave a 50% singing performance with very little heart in it. When singing One Day More, whilst convincing Marius to ditch the tart and come give his life on top of a pile of broken furniture, he sounded more like he was saying ‘are you going to the footy next week’? He had no passion. (Sigh) Enjolras needs more passion. More…

Sigh. Enjolras.

Of the remaining cast, the standouts were always primed to be the Thénadiers. I did get to see Alun Armstrong play this part on stage and he was bloody amazing. I’ve seen a couple of other Thénardiers and they were fun in their own way, but goodness me, Sacha Baron-Cohen was a revelation. When I saw the costume and the ‘look’, I wasn’t convinced. Then he strolled in, with his few on-screen moments, and stole every scene he was a part of. Really. He was great. Helena Bonham-Carter, conversely speaking, looked the part. But I was not captivated by her performance at all. I think she might have been on the ‘wrong turn’ walk with Russell Crowe.

The kids were very good; the young Cosette cute but not nauseating and Gavroche grimy and adorable. The supporting cast of students didn’t get the build up they deserved in my opinion and mention for ‘most surprising facial acting moment from an extra’ award goes to the leader of the militia who lowers his gun seconds after realising what a hero he is for shooting a little boy.

Overall opinion? It was excellent. I don’t usually bother with ratings, but I’ll do it to give you a feel. I’d give the film 8.5 out of 10 stars if pressed and present here my key likes and dislikes.

The Good

The performances of the majority of the cast.
Fitting Colm Wilkinson and Frances Ruffelle into the film felt like a lovely nod, and on that note;
The frequent nods to the stage musical; certain movements, certain scenes, the way things looked.
The mixing up of the songs that meant even for a veteran like me, you were never quite sure where you’d be next. After One Day More had finished, I was going ‘but, but, (sigh) Enjolras hasn’t done his Do You Hear The People Sing? goodness yet!’
The sets were outstanding. Visually, this film is gorgeous. The costumes are beautifully made and the squalor of the slums was palpable.
The fact the film had the power to move me to tears, both in the places I was expecting and also in a couple of places I was not expecting.
Russell Crowe’s one moment of redemption; looking down the line of dead rebels and finally losing his iron grip on reality.

The Bad

 Most of the rest of Russell Crowe’s Javert – although I did finally warm to him about six seconds before he chucked himself off the bridge.
Some of the ensemble cast were wooden and irritating. One woman in At The End Of The Day kept absently staring off to the left of the screen. It’s possible, I suppose, that perhaps that Russell Crowe had just walked in and she was wondering what he was doing there. Regardless, it annoyed me.
I was disappointed with Master of the House. On stage, that’s a big, in your face show-stopper. For my money, it felt a bit too subdued.
The cuts. In A Little Fall Of Rain, the line that always chokes me up is Marius singing ‘you would live a hundred years if I could show you how, I won’t desert you now’. They didn’t play it. I choked up anyway, but I’d like to see the uncut version of this film with the full versions of the songs where they were – in some places rather obviously – cut.

The Ugly

 Just the one. I will be spending a fortune on this film. I will buy the soundtrack, largely so I can compare it to the original and complain about the differences. I will probably go and see the film again, just to be sure. I will buy the DVD when it comes out and I will single-handedly keep the Andrex company in business.

I loved it.

Get Out of It, Old. Hey, New. Pull Up a Beanbag.

So here we are, a week into 2013 and so far, it’s remarkably like 2012. With slightly less rain.

Christmas came, Christmas went. New Year’s Eve was spent in that most traditional of ways; drinking tea and watching Season 2 of Downton Abbey. (Yes, I know, we’re already on about season 8,000,000, but we’re slow on the uptake around here. Shush.) It was a nice enough holiday period; might have been vastly improved by my not being ill and if Himself hadn’t broken his leg in November, but you know. The Not So Small Anymore Son had a nice day and got all he had hoped for.

2012 wasn’t the best of years, but certainly not the worst. If anything, I’d put it down as ‘largely indifferent’. I don’t have any resolutions for 2013, not as such… but there was a nice idea circulating on the interwebs that I’ve nabbed. Quite simply… I have a jar in the kitchen into which I put little slips of paper that detail Nice Things That Have Happened. At the end of the year, I shall upend it, re-read it and enjoy the fact that there are good things going on all the time. These might not be life-altering events, in fact, they might just be incredibly simple, like the one I’m about to write.

Finally stopped procrastinating, took the cellophane off and watched The Artist. It was awesome!

Mundane? Yes, maybe. But it gave me a feel-good factor. Also, Jean Dujardin is kinda cute. Also, I love the silent film genre. Small Himself will enjoy this film too, I wager. He has the right sort of mindset for it.

Speaking of kinda cute, and we kinda were… got round to seeing The Hobbit, again probably about sixteen bajillion years after everyone else. Now there’s been all kinds of interwebs-based whining about this film, but I am going to go out on a limb and say that I really enjoyed it. I liked the dwarves/dwarfs* particularly. I was gutted that all we saw of Smaug was a nostril and an eyeball but still. He’s my favourite dragon in literature. 

The movie version of Les Miserables is out next week. I plan to go. I will remember to take tissues.

Been writing a bit this last week, which is always a pleasure after a bit of a hiatus. One story completed, another story re-drafted and submitted for consideration, a third started and a fourth mostly planned out. I need to really pull my finger out and get some of them written. Star Wars: The Old Republic has largely sucked the last few months out of my life… and this is no bad thing. I’ve met a whole bunch of new folks, all of whom are frankly awesome and who have kept me sane.

Sanity is probably overrated. Sanity is that thing which has kicked in and said ‘yep. You need to fork out a metric fucktonne of cash and get your roof repaired. Forget your holiday plan for 2013, me ol’ bucko.’ With all that rain towards the end of last year, my aging house is feeling the strain. Shortly, soon will my ever-depleting bank account.

But, you know. Once it’s done, it’s done… and maybe it’ll be less money than I’m anticipating. After all, when we had to have damp coursing done, I’d steeled myself for a particular figure. The guy handed over the quote. I looked at it and said ‘um, did you put the decimal point in the wrong place and/or miss off a zero?’

I can but hope.

So… happy new year, folks. Onwards, upwards, backwards, sideways… and maybe even Up and Out…

Also, go watch The Artist if you haven’t seen it.

* I can never remember which fandom is which plural. Deal with it.

Housekeeping

End of the year hard drive clean-up and I found this, written idly whilst doing Not Very Much At All. Now I want to carry on writing it.

Departure

The College of Magic, City of Beara, Nerandor

“Master Pallerion!”

Taryn Pallerion, Elemental Mage of the Fourth School mumbled something incoherent and rolled over in the bed, only the top of his tousled hair visible from under the sheets.

“Master Pallerion!”

“Go ‘way,” he muttered, flapping one hand ineffectually from under the covers in the general direction of the voice. “Still ‘sleep. Not time to get up yet.”

Really, what was the point of taking the final tests of the College to become a fully fledged mage, no longer a Novitiate, only to be denied the simple pleasure of laying in bed far longer than you would have done when you were a student? Had he been more awake, and had he been inclined to be particularly bothered by the disturbance, he would have been most affronted. Taryn liked sleeping. It ranked right up amongst his favourite pastimes.

Instead of responding to the voice as his sense of duty suggested he ought to, he chose to attempt to will himself back into what had been proving to be a rather pleasant dream involving himself and the twin girls who served as assistants in that delicious little bakery in the Trader’s Quarter…

“Master Pallerion, Master Leondrin requires your presence now.”

The sheet was torn away from him and he emerged, blinking into the sunlight that streamed through the window on the east side of the room. As a senior Novitiate, Taryn had acquired the luxury of a single bedroom, after years of sharing with a minimum of four others, and because he was Leondrin’s favourite, he’d gotten the best room.

Hywel, his master’s man-servant was standing at the end of the bed, arms folded across his chest and a look of distaste on his face. Taryn rubbed his eyes and sat up with a groan.

“You never were a morning person, were you, Master Pallerion?” The elderly retainer moved to the wash stand and poured a bowl of cool water for Taryn to wash his face before heading for the small wardrobe that contained his clothing. He threw open the doors and considered the contents whilst Taryn slowly got himself from the horizontal to the vertical and performed his ablutions. He wore not a stitch of clothing, but Hywel had seen it all before anyway.

“Your clothes, Master.” Hywel laid out Taryn’s favourite white linen shirt and dark trousers on the bed. As ever, Taryn marvelled at just how sprightly the old man was. He must have been well into his eighties, but never once complained about aches and pains the way some of the mages in the tower did.

“Hywel, how many times? You’ve known me since I was eleven years old. Drop the formalities.”

The old man looked with a certain fondness at the tall, slender young man as he slid into his clothing. From the first day he’d arrived, Taryn Weaver had held old Pallerion Leondrin in a captivating web. Hywel knew, although he never spoke of it, that the boy had borne more than a passing resemblance to Leondrin’s own son who had died many years before during one of Beara’s less peaceful times. Hywel knew the danger implicit in such transference of affection, but fortunately, the young man Leondrin sponsored into the College had proven to be singularly different to the long-dead Shadan.

He was lazier, for one thing.

“Master you are, boy, and master you will always be. I would not be observing the formalities if I were to start calling you by your first name, now, would I?” Taryn shrugged his shoulders lightly.

“I’ve heard you call Master Leondrin by his first name on more than one occasion.”

“Ah, but that’s different. He and I go back a long time. Why, I remember Pallerion when he was naught but a whippersnapper hisself. He were just like you, boy, always a-bed until well past breakfast.”

“I missed breakfast?” Taryn’s disappointment was palpable. The College served excellent food at all meal times, but breakfast had ever been the best. There was just something so extraordinarily comforting about the platters of bacon and griddled sausages, the fluffy scrambled eggs, the veritable mountains of toast…

Taryn couldn’t stop the sigh.

“Aye, lad, you missed breakfast. If you don’t get your arse in gear, you’ll miss lunch, too.” Hywel’s wrinkled face broke out in a grin and he handed Taryn his belt. Fastening it around his narrow waist, Taryn went through the ritual of checking all his spell component pouches were present. He twiddled at the gold stud he wore in his ear, a nervous habit, and then nodded at his reflection in the looking glass in satisfaction and pulled on his soft, leather boots. He would, he concluded, do.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, he was seated in the small study of his master, Pallerion Leondrin, the Fire Master of the College and head of what was rather grandly called ‘the Citadel of Elements’. The ‘Citadel’ was merely one of the many schools that together formed the College in Beara. Leondrin himself was not in the study, but Taryn lounged with easy familiarity in one of the comfortable armchairs, tempted to put his feet up on the desk – as he was every time he came in here – when the aged, and much-loved voice snapped him to attention.

“Where have you been at, boy? I was looking for you last night.”

“I was in Low Town, Master,” replied Taryn, getting immediately to his feet and moving to assist the old man across the study. Leondrin was younger than Hywel, but seemed older. A magical accident many years ago had lost him the sight in his left eye and given him a pronounced limp. Added to that, a natural weakness of the heart made him seem older and more frail than his seventy years. “You recall? I was arranging protection for my journey.”

“Your journey. Yes, yes, I remember.” Pallerion paused and sniffed the air. “You been drinking again, boy? Sort me a chair out will you? Do I look like a mage who wants to be kept standing?”

“I had a glass of wine or two.” Or three. Or possibly six. “To be sociable, Master. As you have taught us. The importance of being able to socialise on a level equal to those we would deal with.” Taryn’s eyes danced with an easy humour as he parroted the frequently spoken words.

“Smells like a gods-damned brewery in here. You been dealing with a Brewer? Mark my words, boy – you want to be drinking less. Do you not remember what you were taught in Anatomy? Alcohol causes damage to the liver. Do you really want to die in screaming, twisted agony?”

“I’m a Fire Mage, Master Pallerion. I’m likely to die in screaming, twisted agony at the hands of some fire demon or other anyway.” Taryn’s response was whip-quick – level and measured. “If my time comes before then, then at least at the hands of the dread-demon alcohol it might allow a moment’s pleasure.”

The old mage’s face broke out into a grin.

“Thrice-damn you and your sense of reason, Weaver, you always were too quick-witted.” He sat down gratefully on the chair that Taryn cleared for him and considered his student with a long, thoughtful glance. He set down the gnarled wooden staff that he carried and gracefully folded his fingers together before resting them in his lap.

“So you intend to go through with this journey, then?”

“Of course, Master. I have long yearned to travel the world and as you have always told us, there is no time like the present. Master Belamin has practically encouraged me to travel, to discover, to learn…”

“Belamin is a crackpot old Earth mage,” grumbled Pallerion, who was something like fifteen years that particular man’s senior. “More dirt in his head than brains, that one. You are able to tell him not to stick your nose into anything that’s your own business now you’re a Master in your own right.”

“He’s the Master of the College,” said Taryn, more shocked than his outward appearance let on. “One does not tell the Master of the College to mind his own business.”

“I do, all the time.”

“But that’s different, Master. You are a fully fledged member of the Conclave, whereas I am unlikely ever to attain such a position.” The bitterness in the young man’s voice was tangible. Pallerion reached across and brushed at Taryn’s shoulder, mock-playfully.

“That chip not getting any smaller, is it, lad?”

Taryn said nothing.

Pallerion leaned back in the chair and considered his favourite – and by far and away best – former apprentice. “Why is it that you have come to this decision and not accepted my offer of a teaching post here at the college?” The old man had never been one to tiptoe around a subject. He gave Taryn another of his cool, calculating looks and the young mage sighed heavily. With two Fire Mages in the small, confined space, the heat was stifling. Both men burned with inner fires that raised their core temperatures exponentially. It did little to quell the other burning passion that raged in Taryn’s soul.

“Is it a need to prove yourself, a need to demonstrate some sort of capability, or is it something more primal and basic than that?” The old mage persisted.

“Sir?” Taryn raised a brow, indicating that he didn’t understand Pallerion’s line of thought. Feeling uncomfortably warm now, he divested himself of the over-robe that he had put on until he was standing in the white cotton shirt and dark trousers. He sat down again and took the slim bladed knife from its place in the top of his boot. He turned the weapon over and over in his hands as the older man spoke.

“Are you taking on this foolhardy journey, which is likely to see you killed because you have no experience in the world beyond the College gates, or are you trying to seek out some long-forgotten artefact to prove your worth to the Conclave? What has Belamin promised you in return for such activity?”

Curse you, you old rascal, you miss nothing, do you? “Master, I cannot divulge that information, you know that a conversation between a mage and the College Master is sacrosanct.”

“I don’t give a horse’s rear end about that. You are my protégé and Belamin had no right…”

“He outranks you, Master. I believe you forget your place.”

There was a long, almost painful silence.

“No, Weaver, I believe you forget yours.”

“I spoke out of turn, Master. Forgive me. I wished merely to remind you that the College Master’s orders supersede any other given to an Apprentice, even those of his own Master.”

Pallerion scowled, his old, lined face crinkling even more. “Do you think I’m not aware of the covenants and rules that have bound me for more than sixty years, boy? Do you take me for a fool? Now tell me what was promised. If Belamin complains, point him in my direction. I’ll be glad to speak with him.”

There was a pause.

“And remember. You are an Apprentice no longer. Which reminds me. I have something for you…”

The old mage held out his hand and dropped something into Taryn’s hand. He stared down at the tiny ruby ear stud and felt an almost immediate lump of emotion in his throat. Each of the elemental houses received a jewel when they passed their tests: amber for the students of Earth, emerald for those of Air, sapphire for the Water Mages, and deepest ruby red for the Disciples of Fire. It was a singular honour to receive such an item and was normally accompanied with much pomp, ceremony and too much drinking.

This was somehow better. Although Taryn made a mental note to correct the too much drinking element later.

“You do me great honour, Master,” murmured Taryn, removing the gold stud and replacing it with the ruby.

“Nonsense. It is your due. You are a Master now, no longer a boy. But I will not lie to you. I am not happy about this expedition. Belamin is pleased by it. This naturally makes me displeased.”

Taryn had learned, in his time at the Citadel, that animosities and rivalries were commonplace between the Elemental Schools. Sometimes there were even rivalries between mages of the same calling, although those were generally down to more complex and far deeper rooted reasons. Taryn himself had gained more than one rival over the years from all of the Schools, his own included.

But the rivalry between Belamin and Pallerion was the stuff of legend amongst the students.

The College followed a traditionally strict hierarchy. At the top was the College Master, a mage elected into position by the voting council, known as the Conclave. The Conclave was formed from a representative sample of all four Schools, five from each, including the head of each school – the Fire, Air, Earth and Water Masters. When one member of the Conclave was elected into the position of Citadel Master, they were supposed to display neutrality and an additional representative was elected from their School to fill the place. The Conclave, when in session, therefore consisted of twenty Master Mages and one Citadel Master.

This meant that at any one time, one School held dominion over the others. True neutrality was, of course, hard to achieve and Belamin was as neutral as acid. Increasingly, Disciples of Earth had been attaining more and more in the world beyond the reach of the Citadel. It was often the way that when one School held sway, their disciples tended to grow in strength.

A Fire Mage had not been in the Citadel Master’s seat now for some fifteen generations and many had read the portents and omens as a sign that Pallerion’s time was right.

Yet Belamin had been elected to the position overwhelmingly.

Taryn had been furious that his Master had not achieved the position. There had been a steady decline in the numbers of Fire mages during the time he had been at the College and had Pallerion become College Master, the chances had been extremely high that once he passed his final Trial, he would have become the eldest Disciple and automatically been placed onto the Conclave.

“It is not our place to question games of divinity,” Pallerion had said at the time, after Taryn’s rather vociferous rant was over.

“But I was under the impression that nobody even liked Master Belamin.”

“You sincerely believe that this is a popularity contest, Taryanderon? Have you learned nothing in your time here? It is a political move and nothing more. Let it be, boy. If there is anybody in this College who has earned the right to dislike Belamin, it is me. Do not disrespect your elders any further.”

“Are you not even slightly angered by this turn of events, Master?” The twenty-one year old Taryn was every bit as blunt and forthright as his eleven year old counterpart had been.

“Angered? No. Saddened, yes. But what passes between Belamin and I is above and beyond such labels. I have made my peace with the situation, Taryn. I propose you do the same.”

It had done little for Taryn’s already low opinion of the Conclave. He now worked tirelessly towards his Trial, towards the time when he could stand for membership of the Conclave. Until the time when he, filled with the arrogance of youth, could step up and confidently show them how it should be run.

Belamin had, until his election to the head of the Conclave, taught Taryn twice a week in the art of herb lore and the making of elixirs. It was a subject for which Taryn had little enthusiasm and less patience and it had not made for a harmonious relationship. As he’d gotten older, Taryn had developed a quiet interest in the subject, proving himself to be a far more apt student than Belamin had previously given him credit for. He knew Taryn’s potential.

And though Taryn did not know it, Belamin feared it. He feared that some day, Taryn would rise beyond his station and take his place at the head of the College.

Thus, when Taryn had requested an audience with the College Master, Belamin, who had anticipated such a move, had arranged the meeting with alacrity. He had denied the boy’s request to be allowed to join the Conclave. There were precedents and traditions to be followed after all. But he had made Taryn an offer. He had made Taryn an offer that the impetuous, soul-searching young man could not have refused in the face of everything up to and including natural disaster.

He had told him to go on a quest. It didn’t matter what it was, only that it was a means to prove his strength and capability. Even now he could recall the College Master’s speech almost word-for-word.

“Return triumphant and bring me proof of the Elder Mages, and you will not only be granted your place on the Conclave, but you will become revered. Remain here as a teacher as that old fool Leondrin has suggested, and you will fade into obscurity.”

And there he had played on Taryn’s need for recognition and not inconsiderable arrogance. Without stopping to think things through, Taryn had agreed and was in the process of sorting himself out some kind of bodyguard. He wasn’t a complete fool after all.

He finished fastening the ruby stud in his ear and turned his head boyishly to one side so that it caught a glint of sunlight from the window. Pallerion nodded sagely.

“It becomes you, lad. Remember that this jewel marks you as one of us. Remember who you are, remember all that you have been taught and above all else…return home.”

A long silence fell between them, awkward and uncomfortable. Unsurprisingly, Taryn broke first.

“He has promised me my rightful place on the Conclave,” said Taryn, with a sigh, admitting what Pallerion already knew. The old mage nodded once as though this confirmed his suspicions. Taryn got to his feet and paced the room.

“I am a good mage, Master Pallerion…”

“I never implied you were not.”

“I have always studied hard and I have always excelled, you say so yourself.”

“I do not deny it.”

“Then why is it that Belamin will not grant me a place on the Conclave? I have so many ideas… so many… thoughts…”

“It is precisely that which prevents you from winning your seat on the Conclave. Belamin fears change. You represent, to him, all that he detests about the world. You are filled with youth and energy and radical thoughts. He is frightened of you, Taryn. Do you not see that?”

“Frightened of me?” Taryn laughed, humourlessly. “Am I so terrible?”

“No, boy, but what you are capable of is.” Pallerion’s voice was low, measured but filled with an underlying tone that Taryn had heard before.

“You know as well as I that the incident in the Tower was a freakish accident. It was a culmination of a surge of energy that discharged through me. No fire mage could wield that much power without some kind of supernatural intervention.”

“That’s right, Taryn. A freakish accident.” Pallerion got to his feet and caught the boy by his shoulders. “Harken to my words, Taryanderon Weaver. You have greatness in you. I feel it, you feel it – Belamin feels it. You are a potential force just waiting to be tempered – and he fears that you will alter the College beyond all recognition. Look back over the histories, boy, think what you have been taught. Think. Has there ever been a time when a Fire Mage has sat on the Grand Conclave in the head seat that war has not been upon us?”

“No, Master.”

“Hurrah, he is thinking. Belamin fears your ascendance. He fears war. It is up to you, Taryn, to prove him wrong. Going away will not make things better, it will merely put you out of his sight for a time. He will wait, eagerly, for news of your death and he may even request a minute’s silence at Conclave. But then you will be forgotten. You must live, Taryn.” The old man, over-exerted, began to cough, a rasping, painful cough that made Taryn wince and he guided the old man back to a chair.

“Master, calm yourself. Here.” Taryn handed him a glass of water. Leondrin took a long sip and regained his composure. “I will make a deal,” Taryn said, eventually. I will travel the world for six months. If, in that time, I have not found that which I seek, I will return. Will this appease you?”

The old man, incapable of speaking, nodded and clasped Taryn’s hand firmly in his own. When he released it, there was a small pouch which Taryn could feel contained a substantial amount of gold.

“Find… yourself the best bodyguards you can,” gasped the old mage.

“Master, I cannot take this…”

“I have no use for it, boy, not now. I have no children and you are my best hope for the future.”

“Ah. No pressure or anything, then?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Thank you, Master Pallerion.” Taryn pocketed the pouch of money and moved so that he was kneeling in front of his master. “I will return, I give you my word. I will leave this very day and in six months time, or less if the gods shine their light on me, I will be back here.”

Still wordless, Leondrin laid a hand on Taryn’s head in a silent benediction. Taryn clasped the old man’s hand briefly, then got to his feet, grabbed his over-robe and left the room.

Pallerion stayed where he was for a long time after the young mage had gone, staring at the door. Taryn’s final words echoed in his head.

In six months time, or less if the gods shine their light on me, I will be back here.

“Aye, lad,” he murmured. “Aye. But I may well not be.”

Dear Mum (2012 Remix)

Dear Mum

That time of year again. Seems to come around so fast these days. I suppose it’s true what they say; that as you get older, things seem to go by so much more quickly.

2012 hasn’t been quite so hectic as 2011, but no less fun and interesting for all that. The biggest thing of course is that Jamie turned thirteen back in February. You’d be amused to note that he is now not only taller than me, but he also has bigger feet. When he answers the phone, I feel like I should check it’s him and not his dad. He’s no longer a little boy, but a young man – and a very lovely one at that. He’s polite, well-mannered, bright and smart. Everyone says he’s  nice, that’s not just me.

Have been ‘out and about’ a few times this year with the whole writing thing; went to an event back in April down in London and then another in November. Still enormous fun, although the writing has slowed a bit. The second book came out in July and has been pretty well received. I’ve finished a third and it’s with the editor now. You were right. I CAN do it.

Both myself and Ben have changed jobs this year, although Ben wasn’t very far into his before he broke his leg. I personally blame him for saying back in January that he ‘didn’t want to do another retail Christmas’. Be careful what you wish for, as they say.

I’ve had a couple of really lovely weekends away with my friend Nik. She’s turned into such a rock for me; someone I can talk to. I’ve missed that sort of closeness in my life since you died and I just know you’d have loved her too.

Is it weird that I still have moments, sometimes days, when I still miss you as though you only went away yesterday? That I still have those moments of ‘I must just ring mum and tell her…’ only to then go through that ice-cold realisation that I can’t? Sometimes, I tell you anyway. Many times when I’m in the car I’ll hold a one-sided conversation with you. Maybe I’m a bit crazy. Well, that’s nothing new.

I dream about you a lot. I don’t mind. I like dreaming about you because it means I get to spend time, no matter how fleeting it may be, talking to you again. Sometimes, grandad’s with you, and we always catch up. I love that there’s this part of my consciousness that will always ensure you are somehow near and your timing is always amazing. You lend me strength and love at the times I need it most. Just the way you always did.

I miss you. I’ll always miss you. The pain has mellowed into something deep and regretful. I have said, on many occasions, that there are so many things to be grateful for. We never had any ‘bad blood’, there were no things left unsaid and I didn’t have to worry that you knew I loved you because it didn’t need saying.

You have been, even in the twelve years I’ve lived without you, inspirational in the way I’ve brought my son up. I know how proud you’d be of him. And I know you’re probably keeping that same eye on him that you always have. He takes his options at school in the New Year. In a couple of years, he’ll be doing his GCSE’s. Can you imagine that?

Dad’s full of talk about his bees. It’s been truly lovely to see him so animated about something and I can’t wait to see how he gets on with the process. No doubt I will have much to update you with next year. Assuming we get past December 21st without the Earth imploding or whatever’s meant to happen to it (according to the Mayans, who were so smart they became extinct).

We’ll be putting up the tree tomorrow night, just as we’ve done every year on the 10th since you died. Ben will supervise from his sick bed, Jamie will put three baubles on the tree then go and find something else to do and I will end up doing it all. I don’t mind, though. I do it for you, really, not for anybody or anything else.

On which subject, this is also for you, care of David Harkins.

“You can shed tears that she is gone

Or you can smile because she has lived

You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back

Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her

Or you can be full of the love that you shared

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday

Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

You can remember her and only that she is gone

Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back

Or you can do what she would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.”

On which note, I’m smiling, opening my eyes and going on.

Love you, mum.

Always.

Sarah

xx

A Rose By Any Other Name

At the BL Weekender event, I was having a chat with someone. The conversation was nice and lively; we were talking about how hard it can be to be a new author in an established tie-in field and as the conversation progressed, the inevitable question came up.



‘Did you ever think about using a male pseudonym?’

The answer was honest. Yes. I thought about it quite a lot at the start of my BL writing career. I thought about it probably for all the wrong reasons though.

So after much contemplation and discussing it with a few people, I decided to go with my Actual Name. After all, as one person put it eloquently, ‘you wrote the thing didn’t you?’

I don’t have the luxury of an ambiguous first name which is something of a shame – imagine the fun of turning up to a signing event and confusing the heck out of someone – something that I know the lovely Nik Vincent-Abnett has had happen. But then, if I’d picked something obviously male, would that have precluded me from signing events and things like BLW and BLL?

Initials, I could have used those. I toyed with that idea for a little while and still couldn’t get past the fact that I’d written the story, why shouldn’t I be proud of it?

So Sarah Cawkwell it was… and still is. It’s a truth that it has startled people in the BL fandom to see a female name amongst the others on the bookshelves. I know this because I’ve been in a GW store and heard people commenting on such. It’s hard at those moments not to chime in with ‘and why shouldn’t there be’? Instead, the last time I overheard someone say ‘hang on, this is written by a woman isn’t it?’ the question was answered with ‘yep’. Then the original question-asker bought it (Valkia, as it happens).

Should it matter remotely whether I’m male or female and writing in the Warhammer universes? What do YOU think out there? Should it matter? Of course it shouldn’t is my response. But things I’ve read in assorted dark corners of the Internet suggest that there are people who think otherwise. The face of the hobby is undoubtedly changing; you’re now far more likely to find female customers in GW store as much as you are male ones. Sure, less of them – but they’re still there. Some would-be female BL writers have told me that they feel more confident after I ‘trailblazed’ for them. That in itself is the best reason ever for not having chosen to go down the male pseudonym route. Be proud of what you’ve achieved. Don’t hide from it.

Would you consider going with a male pseudonym in the future?That is generally the other part to the question. The answer to that is ‘do you really think I’d tell you?’

The Next Big Thing

The lovely Josh Reynolds has tagged me in this self-promotional shenanigans, as have a few other people. In fact, so many other people have now tagged me that I break the chain. I have nobody left to tag. So I pass it to you all to pick up as you see fit. I also screw up the timing, because I think I’m not meant to do this for another week or whatever, but hey. At least I’ve answered it now!

♦WHAT IS THE WORKING TITLE OF YOUR NEXT BOOK?

Portents is the book I’ve recently finished for the Black Library.

Project: Backburner is the original novel I’m (very slowly) adding to over time.

♦WHERE DID THE IDEA FOR THE BOOK COME FROM?

Both books sprang, not exactly fully formed, out of the quagmire that is my head. 

♦WHAT GENRE DOES YOUR BOOK FALL UNDER?

Portents: Tie-in science fiction/science fantasy/space opera/whatever new genre people make up to fill up the bookshelves even more confusingly.

Project: Backburner: Urban fantasy.

♦WHAT ACTORS WOULD YOU CHOOSE TO PLAY THE PART OF YOUR CHARACTERS IN A MOVIE RENDITION?

When the first genetically-enhanced bio-engineered humans start appearing, I’ll let you know re: Portents.

Although I do have someone in mind as the lead character of Project: Backburner, and that’s Aidan Turner.

♦WHAT IS THE ONE SENTENCE SYNOPSIS OF YOUR BOOK?

1) The Silver Skulls rock into town and kick ass.

2) Ed sells sporting goods, but it’s not your usual quarry.

♦WILL YOUR BOOK BE SELF-PUBLISHED, OR REPRESENTED BY AN AGENCY?

Portents will be published by those lovely people at the Black Library at some point in the future.

Project: Backburner … well, I don’t know to tell the truth. I need to write it first.

♦HOW LONG DID IT TAKE YOU TO WRITE THE FIRST DRAFT OF THE MANUSCRIPT?

Portents: Just under three months, although I have been doing some re-writes of parts of it in conjunction with my shiny editor.

Project: Backburner - still writing it!

♦WHAT OTHER BOOKS WOULD YOU COMPARE THIS STORY TO WITHIN YOUR GENRE?

…more Warhammer 40K stuff. Heh. It’s hard to compare it to anything else. It is, as has been documented, a Silver Skulls novel. All Silver Skulls, all the time. Except the bits that contain stuff about the Chapter, who are and who boast a in their ranks.

Project: Backburner is decidedly less space-based and more urban fantasy. Bit Dresden-esque, only with an English sense of humour. Less serious than Felix Castor and more tongue-in-cheek.

♦WHO, OR WHAT, INSPIRED YOU TO WRITE THIS BOOK?

I wanted to. In both cases.

♦WHAT ELSE ABOUT THE BOOK MIGHT PIQUE A READER’S INTEREST?

One of them features a true revelation about three and half inch trowels and why it is that you should never trust your in-laws, the other features post-human supersoldiers righteously smiting and possibly making it back home in time for tea and medals.

Possibly.

Or possibly not.

Only one way to find out.

That Was the Weekender That Was…

So… just back from the inaugural Black Library Weekender event – and it was so much fun. Of course, I have returned home with ConLurgy, although Dearly Beloved is referring to it as the ‘Maidstone Lurgy’ as I think I may have picked it up from the gloriously wonderful Nik Vincent-Abnett whilst I was there.

Writing up these things retrospectively is always difficult. Every time I attend an event, I think ‘I’ll keep notes as I go along’. Every time I completely and utterly fail to do that. So, as best I can manage, here is what I remember.

Friday

With Dearly Beloved successfully busting his leg last weekend, I hit upon the bright idea of arranging hire of a wheelchair for him. This turned out to be a truly awesome idea as it meant he saved a lot of his strength and energy and managed to cope much better. It also meant, becaues the chair is one he can wheel himself around in, I was able to ‘leave him to it’ on occasion. So we arrived at the Belfry hotel in Nottingham around 2pm and were able to check straight into the room – which was quite lovely, spacious and very comfortable. We then proceeded to join up with people in the bar and watched as our little amoebic collective got bigger and bigger and bigger until the Circle of Nerds was almost all-encompassing. We retired to the corner to have dinner (mine failed to turn up with everyone else’s because they slightly messed up the order… so by the time everyone finished, mine just arrived. Nothing quite so embarrassing as eating whilst everyone stares).

We sat around and talked rubbish until we finally sloped off to bed.

Saturday and Sunday

A whirlwind of activity. Can’t even begin to tell you how many things were discussed, how many books were signed and how many promised hugs were collected. I will never get over how unfailingly generous and kind people are at these events; one fine chap even joined my signing queue just to say ‘I don’t have any of your books with me, but I really wanted to say how much I enjoyed them’. We had a great conversation and that left me feeling buzzy and happy. Other things I remember, in no particular order…

TEN MILLION TANKS!
I am Alpharius.
Horus Heresy graphic novel by Dan Abnett and drawn by Neil Roberts. The preview panes of this were… stunning. This will be something outstanding.
People cheering when I mentioned that my next novel is a Silver Skulls one.
Some nice guy stopping me in the car park to talk about Valkia the Bloody. “I reckon that book proves categorically that women are far more visceral than men,” says he. “Yes,” says I, not skipping the cue. “We do the whole childbirth thing.” He blinked. “Yes,” says he. “I’d never thought of it like that. You women are scary things.”
Sitting up until stupid o’clock reading excerpts from Dearly Beloved’s Very Silly Horus Heresy story and still not being able to get past Equerry Sock and Apothecary Cardboard without dissolving into fits of absolute giggles.
TEN MILLION TANKS!
Horus Heresy Seminar Bingo.
The many Alphariuses and the photo shoot. “What’s my motivation?”

Signing an Actual Copy of  Tales of the Nun & Dragon.

So much happened. Official reports and what-not will no doubt appear on the BL website in due course. But the venue was great, the organisation was out of this world and the attendees were brilliant, practically to a man. There were one or two ‘moments’ that soured things a little in the shape of the whining minority, but they were pretty much few and far between.

After a chat with my editor, I’m kind of taking a step back from BL writing for a little while. I effectively wrote three novels, a novella and six short stories back-to-back over eighteen months without a break and have also been maintaining a full time job at the same time. I need to take a pause for a while, especially as I’m starting a new job on November 26th! But there are still a bajillion ideas floating around in my head, so when I get going again, I’ll be right back in the thick of things. Also, depending on how things pan out, there may well be scope for Valkia 2… Women Are Definitely More Visceral Than Men…

This does give me the opportunity to move my head back towards Project: Backburner, of course…

Could You Say That Again?

Before I explain the title of this blog post, here’s a very nice review of the ‘Tales of the Nun and Dragon’ anthology. Proving to be a popular little collection, this one!

So… could you say that again? What’s that about, then? Well, it’s about one of my favourite things. Misheard lyrics. It comes about because I was sitting in the car driving home last night and Not So Small Son was poking around the iPhone play list, providing a derogatory running commentary on my decidedly eclectic mix of music. He eventually settled on listening to this.

It hit the chorus. Not So Small Son was singing along.

I looked at him. Briefly, obviously. Bear in mind I’m driving here.

‘What did you just sing?’

He looked back.

‘Stand .’ Remember, he’s thirteen. The power of speech has been temporarily taken from him to be replaced by this seemingly incoherent rambling.

‘Are you talking to me, or chewing a brick?’

He looked at me again.

‘Stand in the liver.’

Made my day, that did. I’m a huge fan of misheard lyrics. Many is the time that I’ve heard a new song, haven’t been able to make out the words and so I just sing along using random phonetics that seem to fit. There are some absolute classics though that always render me into fits of giggles. Examples of these delights include:-

From Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen: “Is this the real life, is this just Battersea?” Also, “Beelzebub has a devil for a sideboard.”

From Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf: “I’m gonna hit the highway like a battering ram, I’m a Cilla Black fan on a bike…”

From Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana: “Here we are now, in containers…”

And so on. Steve Winwood’s Higher Love of course has it in spades: ‘Bring me an iron lung, bring me an iron lung woh oh, bring me an iron lung, with an iron lung I’ll keep breathing on…’

Throwing this one open to the world at large because a good laugh is always a pleasant thing. What’s your favourite misheard lyric, either one that you’ve believed for years was the right one until someone stared at you like you were a bit stupid?

To close, one I saw last night that had me weeping with laughter.