The Annual Mackerel Run

Okay, so not everything I write about here is science fiction related, so skip along if you find this boring. 

I'm getting excited about my upcoming caravan holiday in France. I'm not going as far into France this year because, well, there have been hidden costs: Insurance is more expensive, breakdown and recovery insurance is way more (it was free last year because we took a gamble on not breaking down, which we didn't, but I've lost confidence in Ada, my car.) And then there's the cost of putting fuel in the tank. Let's not go there.

So what's with the title, the Annual Mackerel Run? It's to do with diet. Mononsaturated fats. Omega 3. Lowering Cholesterol. After a year of miserable salads based around tuna, salmon and mackerel, I'm ready for something exciting in the food department, and for this, France is the place to go. No, no, not wine — I don't drink, not anymore. Not cheese, either because cheese is right at the top of the no-go, too-much-fat list. But one thing the French do way better than anyone else (at least as far as I'm aware) is Mackerel. 

Here in the UK we have a tiny choice: tinned mackerel in tomato sauce or tinned mackerel in, well, some sort of oily liquid. And the last time we tried to buy either, they were out of stock. But in France... well, take a look. The photo shows the mackerel aisle in one of the smaller supermarkets (this one was in Nemours). So many flavours. So many varieties. Mackerel in mustard sauce, Mexican mackerel, Mediterranean mackerel... My favourite is Mackerel in white wine with olives. Love it!

While we're in France, mackerel will be the focal point of our diets. What's more, we'll be bringing back cases of the stuff. When we pass through post-Brexit customs on our way home, and we're asked, "Anything to declare?" they're expecting us to say wine or tobacco. We'll have Mackerel. Tins and tins of it. Maybe there'll be a special line for Brits with car-loads of Mackerel. There should be.

So, there we go. Sorry for the non-sci-fi post, but I had to do this. Mackerel season is approaching and I'm giddy with excitement. However, I mentioned Nemours, so there is a tentative link to my writing, after all. I'm working on a fantasy story right now. It's about magic and secret societies. There's no mackerel involved, but I did set the story in Nemours, because I like writing about places I've been. So, watch this space for word of Le Deuxième Cercle. And top up your Omega-3s.  

  

I'm a person, not an AI and I've got the mistakes to prove it.

Once upon a time I had to show proof of age to buy a drink in a pub. Back then, a driving licence didn't work because it only proved a person was over 17. (I'm talking about when a driving licence was a piece of pink paper that didn't show date of birth. You know, deep time.) Or I could just go to the pub with a friend. I had a special friend, Paul, who was tall,  5' 11", spoke with a deep voice, and looked mature. Kind of. A friend who didn't mind buying all the drinks.

Years later I still have proof of age problems, only now it's to get me into places that do special rates for pensioners. 

When I go abroad, on holiday, I have to prove my nationality so they'll allow me to leave the country. So I have a passport. Which is even more important if I want to come back home a few weeks later. 

So, proving who I am is nothing new, but in the 21st century, I have a new problem of identity. How do I prove I'm human? At least, how do I prove that the books and stories I write are written by me, and not by an AI? Yes, when I'm uploading a manuscript I tick the declaration box that states, "I did not use AI to write this book," but come on, an AI could do that. And ticking a box is going to be a damn site easier for an AI than, say, calling a friend and begging him to come out to the pub on a Saturday night to buy drinks for me, when he'd rather stay home and watch TV.

So here's the point. I've written a book. Or ten, to be exact. Meanwhile, AI has written a book, or several million to be less exact. I need some kind of proof of life — some evidence that my book was written by me.

Right. Here's my attempt at proving that I am a living, breathing, starving writer. I'll do it with a series of photographs. Yeah, and AI could do this, too, but their notebooks wouldn't be as scruffy, and their spelling would be better. (I pay an editor a lot of money to fix my spelling and grammar and plot holes, but sometimes these things can be useful evidence of a flawed but human brain)

This is a tiny sample I've selected, from three separate notebooks, and from a sprawling, floor-sized mind map.

I should have photographed my litter bin on a weekly basis—lot of stuff went in there— but who takes photos of their bin?

What else? Oh, I know. How about a photo of my office chair, where I've worn the back out? (The straight line is because I tried to patch it with stick-on tape, then wore out the stick-on tape and it fell off) The arm rest looks good because I only just reupholstered it. 

Note the box of tissues, for when the whole job gets too much. That's another thing with AIs, they don't break down in tears of despair.   

And the cover design. No AIs here, either. Here's my wife holding the cover painting just after she'd finished it. It's still attached to the board on which she stretches her paper.

Sarah's a successful botanical artist, so usually she paints flowers. Instead I asked for a cartoon picture of two people in spacesuits chasing a suitcase with legs. She got the idea. She knows how my warped brain works. And she's read the book.

So here's the final cover after I've added some text. I tell you, getting that word, SphereWide, to bend was hard. I admit, I asked AI how to do it. AI wasn't very helpful. AI made some suggestions. I replied with some rude words. AI didn't seem bothered.

Anyway, this isn't a promotional post to sell the book. I just wanted to prove that humans can still do the fun stuff: writing, painting etc. I'm not against robots and AI, but I'll be more open to their advances when they can cook my dinner, wash the dishes and do the housework. For now that's still down to me and Sarah. (My turn to cook tonight. Tuna pasta bake I think. I'd rather be writing. Damn you, AI)

If, despite all this human moaning, you'd like to get your hands on a copy of the human-written SphereWide:Adventures of a Deep Space Travel Agent. You know what to do. Just click the link.

The inside Story of a Failed Book Title (Part II)

A few months ago I posted about the abject failure of The Oneiromancer of Mars. Misleading title, misleading image on the book cover, wrong genre message. But hey, if you're going get something wrong then you may as well go all out and get it 100% wrong. It's taken me a while but at last I've coaxed myself into rolling up my sleeves and fixing it.

Why's it taken so long? Well, first of all I liked the title. The core idea for the book started with the title. "I've had a great idea for Martian Dreams book 2," I said to my wife while we were out walking. "What do you think about The Oneiromancer of Mars?"

"What's an Oneiromancer?" she asked.

That should have been warning flag number one. But instead, I set about explaining all about oneiromancy, that well-known science fictional trope. 

Another thing that has made this process of change so difficult to accept was that I loved the original book cover. Loved it. I'd explained the concept to my cover artist. I had spelled out my vision, and he delivered exactly what I wanted. Why on Earth would I ever want to change it?

But I had to. That lovely cover had to go, and more importantly, the book's title had to go, and here's the thing. Changing a book's title is not straightforward. There could have been tears. I had to unpublish the Oneiromancer – a brutal process that means losing all the reviews I'd gained, and to be fair they were good reviews. Average 4.8 stars. So the handful of people who dared to read the book actually liked it.

Starting from scratch has other risks, too. What if one of those handful of loyal, cross-genre fans thought I'd written a new book? They might go out and buy it again? Would they be annoyed to find they'd bought a book they'd already read? I would be. So there has to be a content warning right at the start of the book description. Not a great selling point.

But I've taken the plunge. Girl in a Spacesuit is a title that tells the reader exactly what they can expect - a story about a girl in space. It's also consistent with the title of the first book in the series, Old Man in a Spacesuit. And just in case that isn't enough, the new cover is a picture of, yes, a girl in a spacesuit.

I republished two weeks ago. It's still early days. I won't be buying a luxury yacht just yet, or even a toy yacht to sail on New Brighton boating lake, but still, so far so good.

Girl in a Spacesuit is out in the wild, on Amazon and most other platforms via Books to Read. 

A Story For Christmas - Dead Santa

Here's a fun Christmas story, just in case you've already exhausted all the offerings on Netflix or Prime or whatever.

No intro required other than that it's not fantasy, it's not sci-fi and it's probably not one for the kids.

DEAD SANTA by Mjke Wood   While Shepherd watched his stocks go down, depleted, on the ground. The Angel of the Board came down and… “Mr Shepherd? Sir?” “Huh?” “Are you okay Mr Shepherd?” “Oh, it’s you, Angela. Yes, I was just… thinking.” Angela Booth was HR director for Shepherd Brothers department store. Her office, right at the top of the building, in the apex of the roof, like the top of a Christmas tree, earned her the nickname Angel of the Board. “You know what, Angela? No, I’m, not okay. You have shares in the company? Of course you do.” Shepherd stabbed a finger at his pink Financial Times. “Have you seen this? Their value, today?” “I know they’ve been slipping of late.” “Slipping? They’re down the toilet. We’re finished, Angela. Department stores are finished. We’re a broken business model not fit for the twenty-first century. Nobody shops in department stores these days.” “Well, right now that might not be the case, sir. There’s something you need to see. It’s why I came down,” said Angela. She held the door open and beckoned her boss to come out onto the mezzanine from where the entire store could be seen. Shepherd joined her at the balcony rail, and surveyed his domain, five levels down to the sprawling, ground floor perfumery department. “There’s a queue of people.” He looked at his watch. “It’s only ten-thirty. Why are they queueing? Something’s happened.” There hadn’t been a queue in Shepherd Brothers in years. “I think they’re queuing for the basement,” said Angela. “Follow me,” said Shepherd, setting off at a trot. The familiar smell of a thousand perfumes hit Shepherd’s nostrils as he came off the escalator. He followed the line of people down the stairs to the toy department. The grotto. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Mavis, head of department for toys and leisure. This month she was playing the role of Tinkerbell. Mavis tipped the scales at plus thirty stone, and, kitted out with tiny wings, a wand and an off-white frilly tutu, she was a force of nature. “All these people, Mavis. What the hell’s Santa done now?” Shepherd Brothers had the best Christmas grotto in the city. When all other grottos had gone minimalist and cynical, Shepherd’s grotto was a haven of magic where traditional Christmas could still be found. Ian Shepherd stood by tradition, even while controlling the department’s cash flow sometimes felt like holding back Niagara Falls with a flour sieve. The grotto, Ian was sure, would have been a hit, except for Santa, aka Peter LeFey, drafted in each year from dispatch. Ian’s father, Donald Shepherd, the older of the founding Shepherd siblings, had always insisted on Peter LeFey for Santa, because he was rotund, red-faced, and wore a white beard that was entirely natural. Peter LeFey was also a drunk, a lecher with the young mothers, and hated children. Shepherd knew he should have sacked Peter years ago. But getting someone to dress up in a red suit all day for less than minimum wage was challenging. Peter LeFey was the only staff member willing to do it; it got him out of dispatch for a whole month each year; it placed him within reach of all the young mothers, “who couldn’t resist his charms”, as he liked to boast. Peter LeFey was, of course, delusional. He had no charms. But in the Shepherd Brothers basement they had learned to work around his shortcomings. “Why are they lining up to see him?” said Shepherd. “Looks to me like he’s asleep.”

“Maybe that’s his secret,” said Angela. “He can’t get up to much debauchery, that way. The mums feel safe.” “He’s not asleep,” said Mavis. “I, er… I think he might be dead.” “What do you mean, dead?”

“I mean like, he hasn’t breathed in over an hour. Hasn’t copped a handful of any of the mothers. Hasn’t sworn. Hasn’t touched his hip flask. People are focussing instead on all the magic of a Shepherd Brothers Christmas. They’re loving it.” “Don’t be stupid, Mavis. He’s not dead.” “Feel him.” Shepherd reached out a hand and touched Santa on the back of the neck. “See,” said Mavis. “Cold as a fishmongers slab.” Shepherd pulled his hand back as though burned. “Why haven’t you done anything?” “Me? Why me? And done what? Tell all these children that jolly old St. Nick’s kicked the bucket? That there’ll be no more Christmas presents, ever? Please leave, kids, while we haul Santa off to the morgue? Do you want to tell them?” Shepherd thought about it. In his mind he was arranging mental images of how his toy department usually looked – devoid of customers and cheer. Complaints department, inundated. This, instead, was how a Shepherd Brothers grotto was meant to look. Lines of happy smiling faces; cash registers ringing like Christmas bells. He saw images of how his sales graphs usually appeared, like the ski jump at Innsbruck. He took out his smartphone and checked the live sales data, and felt his knees go weak. Come January, if this continued, his pink Financial Times stock market figures would be making front-page headlines. “And nobody has noticed?” Mavis shook her head. “They seem to enjoy my patter as Santa’s mouthpiece, though some of the kids have complained how he seems a bit cold to the touch.” Shepherd thought. His mind whirled, doing sums. Profit calculations. Possibilities. “Can we warm him up a bit?” Mavis stared. Angela gasped. “Well, it’s no less hypocritical than you hauling kids up onto his knee for the last hour, like everything’s fine and dandy.” “I’ll tell you what. Angela?” “Yes, Mr Shepherd?” “Nip up to Home Appliances and borrow a fan heater would you?” Angela gave him a look. “Just do it, okay?” Ten minutes later a warm breeze was emanating from beneath Santa’s red coat. Shepherd smiled. The plan was working, although Santa was doing kind of a Marilyn Monroe impression, with the hem of his coat flying, his beard sailing in the breeze. Worse. Peter LeFey’s solution to being dressed in fur fabric in the hot basement all day was to keep his trousers pushed down to his knees while going commando, so now he was flashing his crown jewels for all to see. “Jesus Christ, cover him up before anyone notices,” said Shepherd. He should close this down, he knew. It wasn’t right. But those sales figures on his phone were flying. He summoned Angela once again and sent her back to Home Appliances to swap the fan heater for a two-bar electric fire. A shrewd solution. Half an hour later, things were good. Better than good. The lines of customers were growing. A rosy glow had returned to Santa’s cheeks. The store photographer was snapping away, selling family group shots in record numbers, and not one person seemed to realise they’d be sharing on Facebook a Christmas photo of their little darlings perched on the knee of a corpse. The store music system played Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, and Shepherd, thinking of the imagery, tried to stifle a giggle. This was how Christmas should be. He could even smell the chestnuts and the smoke from the fire. Fire? Shepherd’s nose twitched. “Fire!” He didn’t shout the word, he hissed it, for the ears of only Mavis and Angela. “Bloody Santa’s on fire,” he said. Mavis held out her arms to hold back the throngs of children. “I’ll close the grotto. We’ll get everyone out.” “No, wait,” said Shepherd. “Just… I don’t know. Divert their attention. Tell them there’ll be a short break while… while Santa feeds his reindeer or something.” They’d used that one last year while they poured coffee down LeFey’s neck to sober him up. Shepherd yanked the plug for the electric fire and grabbed the foam extinguisher. In under a minute the burning Santa was under control, but foam was everywhere. A mess. “Look children, it’s been snowing,” shouted Angela. The children cheered. “Brilliant, Angela,” said Shepherd. “Tell all the staff to keep this quiet. I won’t forget their loyalty when I hand out the Christmas bonuses.” There would be Christmas bonuses this year. A tenner each, at least. Christmas was saved. Shepherd Brothers profits and reputation were saved. On his way out of the basement, Shepherd overheard two rosy-cheeked, smiling children talking. “Hey, Tommy. Have you come to see the dead Santa?” “Yeah, saw him on TikTok. It’s viral. A million hits. They say he’s stiff as a plank.” “And cold, like frozen turkey.” “Not any more. They set fire to him,” said another. “Woah, that’s way cool. I’m so getting on his knee for a selfie.”

That's it. Hope you enjoyed it. Best wishes to you and yours. Have a great Christmas.

When Imagination Comes to Life

Now and again, as a writer, strange coincidences and serendipitous moments can happen.

In The Oneiromancer of Mars, one of the early segments takes place in Delft, in The Netherlands. I've been to Delft a few times, I've fallen in love with the city, and have set a couple of short stories there, and I chose it again for some of the scenes in this novel. One of the chapters takes place in a restaurant, not a real restaurant but one that was entirely fictional. I chose a street at random - HH Geestkerkhof - and imagined a restaurant with lots of greenery because it fit with the theme of the book. Here's how I described it:

A feature inside the restaurant was the profusion of hanging plants, their long, green tendrils reaching down almost to floor level from pots suspended from hooks on the high ceiling. Any space between the dangling leaves was occupied by tall potted palms, making the air itself seem green, cool and moist, with scents that, for Minra, had associations with the forest from the home she'd just left behind.

There's more of this, but you get the idea. Again, this was not a restaurant I'd ever seen, in real life or even on the internet. Just fiction.

So anyway, last month, Sarah and I revisited Delft, spending a week in our caravan, cycling, wandering around the narrow streets, seeking out new places we hadn't seen before.

We had coffee in one of our favourite coffee shops, overlooking the canal bridge on Oude Langendijk (yeah, a real place that also gets a mention in the book) then took a random turn down Kromstraat, a street narrow enough to be deemed an alley. There's a jazz club down there, a pub, and then, surprise, my restaurant.

Well, not mine really, but one that looked exactly like the restaurant I had imagined. Maybe even greener than how I'd described.

Here's the photo I took through the open window. 

It looked inviting but sadly we'd already eaten, and it was our last day in The Netherlands, but maybe next time we'll try the food there. Maybe the menu is the same. Maybe we'll get a table next to a mother and daughter called Minra and Lissa. As I say, strange things happen to writers.

The Inside Story of a Failed Book Title.

Been thinking about book titles a lot lately, and realising I should take more care. Much more care. My latest book is, I think, one of my best, and yet sales are a disaster, reviews are non-existent. It is a train wreck and it will never earn back a tenth of what I spent on editing and cover design.

Why?

The answer, I'm certain, is all in the title, which seemed so good when I first came up with it. I was excited. This is a cool title I said to my wife. She'd read the book. She agreed.

The Oneiromancer of Mars.

It mentions Mars. It uses the cool word Oneiromancer. What could go wrong?

I realise now that anyone seeing the title would think: Oneiromancer. Mars. This is a fantasy book. Nice. The book cover too, exactly what I asked for, shouts fantasy! So, readers of fantasy novels might just be tempted to click on the link and read its description. And that's where the disappointment would kick in. It is not fantasy. The Oneiromancer of Mars is science fiction. There is zero fantasy element. Even the oneiromancer bit is explained in cold hard terms of super-deterministic physics.

So, they move on.

And my sales figures stay at zero.

And my hopes of ever using the profits to fund the pre-publication costs of my next novel fade with each passing day.

Science fiction fans might enjoy it, if they ever get further than the title. And the cover. Even those who enjoy both genres—I'm one—would not likely be tempted, at that moment, when in the mood for some sci-fi.

So what do I do? Do I change the title. The cover?

Well, that would be dangerous. The handful of readers who went against instinct and bought one, might then feel cheated if they found another book by the same author, bought it, and discovered it was the same as the last one. And it would be expensive: a whole new cover, change the links in all the other books.

No. I'll take it on the chin. It is one of life's lessons.

In case you are in the mood for some sci-fi, here's what it looks like:

The Oneiromancer of Mars.   is NOT Fantasy. It's Sci-Fi. Really. Book 2 in the Martian Dreams series (Ha! even the series name sounds like fantasy. What was I thinking?)

Book 1 is Old Man in a Spacesuit. (Yeah, that's more like it. Sounds like sci-fi and sold a heap more copies.)

 

A story for Christmas

 Here's a story. It's not sci-fi and it's not fantasy, just a Christmas story. Hope you enjoy it.

Theodore Grimaldi Lights Up

by Mjke Wood

“Sophie, what’s Grimaldi up to?” said Gwen. 

Sophie looked up from her computer and smiled. She beckoned her friend inside. Gwen slipped through the doorway of the legal secretary’s office and leaned against a cabinet. Gwen had noticed Grimaldi’s odd behaviour, days ago: smiling, being pleasant, and she had to know what it was all about.

Sophie held a finger to her lips and whispered. “Keep it down. He’s in his office.” She nodded towards the closed door. “I don’t know what’s happening, Gwen. He’s been like this all week.”

“Come on, Sophe, you must know something. Everyone’s talking about it downstairs. Rob says he even heard him humming Jingle Bells in the corridor. Like he was cheerful or something.” 

“All I know is, he’s been coming and going for days. He hasn’t given me any work to do since Thursday. And he’s been moving boxes. He comes in with a box, then a few minutes later he takes one down to his car. And another thing,” she added, “he’s signed the Christmas Holiday rota.” 

“What? He’s agreed it?” 

“Hardly looked at it. Didn’t seem to care. Just signed it.” 

“But he never agrees the holidays. He always has to knock someone back. It’s tradition. He hates Christmas.” Gwen’s voice had climbed an octave. Sophie flapped her hands and shushed her, nodding towards Grimaldi’s office door. 

Which opened. There was Theodore Grimaldi himself, carrying a large cardboard box. He was the ultimate grey man. Grey suit, grey hair, grey pallor… The other partners called him the Old Grey Litigator.

“Ah, Miss Quinn. No work today? That filing cabinet struggling to stay upright without your assistance?” 

This is more like it, thought Gwen. Here comes the bollocking. Normal service is resumed. 

“Well, if you have a minute, Miss Quinn… er, Gwen, would you and Sophie mind terribly helping me down to the carpark with two more boxes? They’re on my desk. They’re not heavy. It would be kind of you. Thank you, ladies.” 

Grimaldi turned and disappeared down the stairs. 

Gwen and Sophie stared at each other. Had Grimaldi just been nice to them? Theodore Grimaldi was not a Christmas person. He usually celebrated the season of goodwill by sacking at least one of his legal team. Before last Christmas, Grimaldi, Buttersmith and Dean, solicitors at law, had been Grimaldi, Buttersmith, Price and Dean. But Price had been caught aiding one of his clients in a thoughtless act of compassion. Rumour had it he was now clerking at the branch offices out in Mold, above the fish and chip shop.

Gwen picked up one of the boxes. It was even lighter than Grimaldi had suggested. The lid was sealed with tape. She shook it. It felt like... She didn’t know what it felt like. 

Sophie went out with her box leaving Gwen in Grimaldi’s office. Gwen looked around, just a glance. She felt guilty enough even being alone in here. 

Standing on the floor, in the corner, another box. Same as the others, except… 

The lid was unsealed.

Gwen looked over her shoulder towards the door. She listened. She calculated. Grimaldi had been gone... What? Thirty seconds? One minute to the car park, half a minute to unlock the car and put the box in the boot, another minute to return. Okay.

Gwen crept over to the box. She looked over her shoulder once more, her ears attuned for any sound. She reached out with her foot and, all careful and casual, she lifted one of the flaps – just an inch or two. She took a peek inside. 

What she saw amazed her. 

#

“So, why are we here, Gwen? What’s this thing you have to show us?” Sophie spoke from the back of the car. She was squashed-in between Connie and Tom. Rob sat in the front with Gwen. 

“Wait,” said Gwen, rubbing condensation from the windscreen with her sleeve. Her de-misters hadn’t worked for weeks. “I promised you a spectacle. Be patient. I am about to deliver.” 

“That’s Grimaldi’s house isn’t it?” Rob pointed to the grey building that brooded over on the other side of the busy traffic roundabout. They were parked in a tree-lined side road, concealed by shadows, but they had a good view of the main road. Darkness gathered. Rush hour was cranking up. A twinkling line of headlamps stretched back towards town. The air was foggy with exhaust from many cold engines on this muffled December evening. 

“Just wait,” said Gwen. “Not long, now.” 

Each of the five watched. They hardly dared breathe. The minutes on the dashboard clock moved like syrup. 

“I’m starting to get cold, Gwen.” Connie blew on her hands and rubbed them together. 

“Wait.” 

And then it happened. 

There was an audible woosh. There was light. Lots of light. Colour. Strobe effects. Elves. Reindeer. A giant, pulsating Christmas Tree. 

The grey Grimaldi mansion had become Vegas, or Blackpool, and with a bigger carbon footprint than East Coast USA. 

A shimmering red sleigh came swooping down over the road, suspended on wires. It bore an illuminated automaton Santa, ho-ho-ho-ing at a thousand decibels, a unearthly noise that drowned out the traffic, a noise that would leave everyone with rock-concert-ears for a week. 

And then, there was Grimaldi himself, barely recognisable. Where was the fabled, Old Grey Litigator? This Grimaldi was wearing two things never before seen on his person: a Santa hat... and a smile. 

“Merry Christmas,” he shouted, to the passing, bug-eyed motorists. Me-rry Christmas.” 

Five legal execs sat in the car and goggled. 

“He’s gone and done a Scrooge on us,” said Rob. 

“He’s lost his marbles,” said Connie. 

“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” said Sophie. “It’s a miracle, that’s what this is. A Christmas miracle.” 

And then came the first accident. A three car shunt. Then another. And another. Carnage. Broken headlamps. Steaming radiators. 

Grimaldi was there before the first wheel rims had even stopped rolling. His face was suffused with joy. 

“Grimaldi, Buttersmith and Dean,” he shouted, handing out business cards. 

“No win; no fee. Me-rry Christmas.”

Thank you to Wombo.art for the image.

Songs in a Lesser Known Key - on Pseudopod

Imagine a musical key so dangerous it's been erased over time.

Imagine a song so dark it was banned by governments.

But someone's playing it again, in that forgotten key.

Dare you listen?

Songs in a Lesser Known Key, a story that's more true than you might imagine. Hear it told on Pseudopod - the sound of horror.

Attention! Not one of my usual light and fluffy stories. This one's way dark, and comes with an explicit warning.

Old Man in a Spacesuit – New Cover

 

I really should make an effort to keep this blog up to date, because now I'm late announcing that Old Man in a Spacesuit has a spanking new cover. It's from Kritzelkunst (Doodle Art) in Germany.  

I was never fully happy with the old cover. Probably because I designed it myself. I am not a cover designer, and yes, it showed. But this one?

 I love it.

The expression on HBs face is worth a thousand words. He seems to be saying, "Okay, so I'm here on Mars. Don't expect fancy speeches or even a smile. I don't have to pretend that I like this, but I'm here, and that's how it is."

If the previous cover didn't grab you—and who would blame you for that?—then maybe this one will.

Try the book, on Amazon, here.

Old Man in a Spacesuit

I launched a new book this week. Old Man in a Spacesuit is a near future sci-fi, that's light hearted, but also has a serious side.

Harry Burton – HB to his friends.

Ex-author: old, knackered, and psychologically fragile.

As a candidate for First Man on Mars, HB isn’t just the wrong stuff; he’s the wrong stuff that got lost in the post.

But they’ve sent for him anyway.

Others, too. Others nearly as unqualified and unwilling as him.

And while HB would rather sit in a coffee shop and pretend to write…

He’s curious.

You can find it on Amazon here.

This one started out in the Odeon cinema in Bromborough, a year or so ago. I was looking a film post that showed an old cowboy, I don't even remember what the film was, and I started imagining the character in a spacesuit. I filed it away. Then a few months later I found myself in Utrecht, in the Netherlands, and came back to that Old Man idea. I started creating a character who lived in Utrecht. I decided which street his house was in. I walked the route he would walk, or cycle, into town. I had coffee in the coffee shop that would be his regular haunt (after a bit of geographic relocation). Then I wondered about the circumstances that would get Harry Burton into space. I got on a train to Cologne and Frankfurt, a trip Harry would make.

And it all came together.   

Ad Astra

Went to see Ad Astra yesterday. Yeah, I know, I'm a little late to the party, but I'm an Odeon Silver Cinema addict, where those of us of a certain age, and can do daytime cinema, go to watch a film that came out a few months earlier for just three quid, and there's tea and biscuits thrown in for free. What's not to love about that? 

Anyway, I digress. Ad Astra. Brad Pitt et al. It's had mixed reviews. I went along with a nagging feeling that I'd be in for a long afternoon, wondering when it might end. I got a surprise. I loved it! Sure, there are issues: like how come the 1/6 lunar gravity only applies outside? Ditto for Mars. And if they could build a radio transmitter that reaches up to LEO why not strap a lift (elevator) on the side and save on a few trillion tonnes of rocket fuel? And then there's... Okay, there were other things. But I'm staying off that road, because the film, overall, as an entertainment, was so good. The images and moodiness. The music. The sense that there are goodies and baddies in the near future, but who are they and what do they want? Which are we? The psych testing – something that will be coming to an app near you, soon, I'm sure of it – and the general sense of disorientation that pervaded the whole thing. This was a film in which to immerse, to lose a whole afternoon. Great stuff. Wish there were more like it.

Sansevieria slickerii

I found this in Ikea of all places. It's a Sansevieria. Okay, it's not quite the same species as the Sansevieria slickerii that appears in The Spherical Trust – I'd have to travel two hundred light years to Pinky Space to find one of those. I'm not sure if they'd have a branch of Ikea out there, either.

Anyway, when you come across the plant that forms the main plot focus for your series finale, and it looks kind of alien, much how you imagined it, and even though you're only there for the veggie meatballs and maybe for a new drainer for the kitchen sink, well, you just have to buy it don't you?

It's sometimes called Snake Tongue, and... yeah I see it.

The Size of the Universe

I'M IN OXFORD at one of my favourite museums, the Oxford Natural History Museum. Apart from the fact that it is a beautiful building, it's also full of the most fascinating collections. I could spend weeks here, looking at all the fossils and crystals and bones... Every time I visit I find something new.

I just noticed this (see photo below) which seems oddly out of place here, amongst all the ammonites and sabre-toothed tigers, but maybe this is the perfect place for it, after all. There's a model of the sun sitting on the balcony. Nothing special, just a football-sized golden globe. But then on the opposite balcony is a case with a model of the Earth and the Moon, which are to scale in terms of size and distance from each other, and also to scale in terms of their distance to the sun model on the other side of the museum.

In the photo, I've tried to show all three. The Earth and moon are at the bottom, tiny dots – the Earth is the size of a petit pois pea – held on bits of wire; it's the dark area of the photo, with the circle showing the Moon's orbit. Now look across the gallery, between the third and fourth columns counting from the left, and you'll see a golden ball, the sun. That is to scale. Impressive, huh?

Next month, 4th August, a spacecraft will be making that trip. The Parker Solar Probe will be launched on a Delta IV Heavy and by 1 November it will make its first close pass, about 30 solar radii from the sun's surface, then getting closer and closer with each orbit until it's about 6km from the surface, and within the sun's atmosphere, the corona. I was impressed by that even before I saw the scale model of the distances involved.

There's one other fact that really blew me away though. At these scales, if we wanted to include Alpha Centauri, our nearest stellar neighbour, where do you reckon we would have to position the model star? Across town in the Ashmolean? No. How about where I'm staying, in Abingdon, a half-hour bus ride away? No. Okay, then, what about putting it in London, in the Science Museum, about 50 miles away? No, not even close. At these scales, we'd need to position our Alpha-Centauri model about 1 million kilometres away. That's about three times the distance of the Earth to the moon. And Alpha Centauri is our nearest star.

Oh yes. Space is big!

This has nothing to do with Alpha Centauri. It's a T Rex, and too cool to leave out.

Electric Vehicles, Driverless vehicles – the future is backwards

In a few years, we’re all going to be jumping into our electric cars and putting up our feet while we’re driven to work. We might even read a book on the way, or our car might do the reading for us while we gaze with bleary eyes at the passing scenery, not quite awake from our slumber. Sci-Fi would have us think this, but there’s a sci-fi future that looks a little different. Technology does not always move in the direction we expect.

Take your morning bowl of cereal, for example. Perhaps in the future our milk will come to us, fresh each morning, delivered by an autonomous, intelligent drone with a super-low-carbon footprint.

Well, a century or so ago that’s exactly what happened. The vehicle was a horse-drawn milk cart. It knew the route; the driver/milkman didn’t need to guide the vehicle, it knew the way. Then, when they reached a row of houses the four-legged AI processor was able to keep the cart moving, in pace with the human, who took the bottles to each doorstep. Very efficient. No noise apart from the restful clippity-clop of hooves, and low carbon emissions from the 100% bio-fuel power unit.

Then we had technological progress. Enter the electric milk float in the early 1900s. Yep, that’s right, 1900 and we had electric vehicles. In fact, by 1967 the UK had more electric vehicles on its roads than the rest of the world put together. They were nearly all milk floats. But now the milkman had to stay awake and drive his milk round because he’d lost the AI module at the front. But still, milk floats were quiet – with their open or sliding door – they non-polluting, and they were efficient.

Then we had more technological “progress”. The milk companies started to switch to diesel vans. So not only did the milkman have to stay awake, he ensured that everyone else on his round, his customers, were awake also. Jolted from their dreams by the steady knock-knock of the idling diesel, the revving engine, the opening and slamming of the van door outside every house. And if the window was open they could smell the fumes, blue and oily, and laced with particulates. 

Progress didn’t end there. Now we drive to the supermarket in our own cars and load up with a week’s supply of milk. The milkman is virtually extinct. Electric vehicles – gone. Artificial intelligent guidance systems – gone. Until Google re-invent them.

I’m not knocking science fiction, I love science fiction. You want to try some of those futures? Here’s a chance to read 58 science fiction stories and novels, for free, courtesy of BookFunnel. Click on the link, here, for free e-books.

Interview with Author, Bonnie Milani

I always enjoy seeing how other writers go about the process of creating their fictional worlds. Each has their own approach to plotting, planning, character and setting, and their own likes and dislikes. Here's an interview with Bonnie Milani, an award-winning US author with a background in journalism.

When did you first realize you wanted to be a Sci-Fi writer?

About the time I figured out how to put words together.

What authors and books inspire your writing?

Wow, that's a tough one. Dickens (baaaaadddd style to copy but addictive reading), Austen, the Bronte sisters, up through Heinlein, Asimov, Pohl, Anderson, Norton, and the writer who quite literally got me to actually start writing Sci-Fi, C.J. Cherryh.

Are you an extrovert or introvert? How well do you like book signings and other interaction with readers?

Total extrovert. LOVE meet'n greets! LOVE signings - it's just that I'm here in LaLa land, so there're neither many bookstores left nor people willing to show up for a signing unless that person's a 'face'.

What is unique about writing in your genre?

Sci-Fi, to me, is a technological society's answer to the ancient world's mythology. We can't believe in anthropomorphic gods anymore; even accepting miracles is a challenge these days. Yet to be human is to need to let your imagination roam, to create, to explore. Sci-Fi is the one medium that lets us do so by exploring the possibilities in the tech we're beginning to create.

Have you ever created a character with an actor or a person you know in mind?

Only before I actually started working with the Industry.

What inspires you to write?

Life. News magazines. History. Politics. Religion. Crazy relatives...

Are you Self-, Indie-, or Traditionally published? Why?

Both traditionally (small press) & indie. I'm glad I went small press to start; my publisher was able to get my debut Sci-Fi novel, 'Home World' onto the shelves at Barnes & Noble, as well as into Canada's Indigo chain. I wouldn't change the experience for anything. But working Indie requires me to learn to understand the business side of publishing, and I think that's a necessary piece of knowledge for all writers. Besides, I LIKE working on cover art!

Do all authors have to be grammar perfectionists; or do you use a Copy Editor?

With a Master's in Communication from Stanford, I don't typically find grammar to be my greatest challenge in writing. There's such a wealth of alternatives...

“Writing is a get-rich-quick scheme.” And, “All writers are independently wealthy.” How true?

Hah! To quote Stan Lee: "'nuff said!"

Plotter or Pantser (free flowing)? Do you write from an outline, or just start writing and go with the flow?

I tried just going with the flow when I first started writing waaaaayyyyy back in the day. Never got a story finished that way; always landed myself in a corner with no place for the plot to go. It was terribly difficult to teach myself to outline, but I've found the discipline of making myself work out the whole story to be invaluable. Even if the final product winds up bearing no resemblance to the outline at all!

What is the secret to becoming a best-selling author?

You tell me we'll both know. In truth, I believe it's a combination of producing professional caliber work with a systematic, consistent dedication to market identification and outreach.

Do you write book reviews? How important are reviews for your work?

Definitely! I generally won't review a book I couldn't finish, but I believe reviews are essential to indie authors' success. Me, I am ALWAYS hungry for more reviews! Not that I'd stoop to hinting or anything...

Do you have a favorite book or series you have written? Which one?

Each story I write is my favorite until the next one comes along. But I have to admit to a special fondness for 'Liquid Gambit'. It's the Casablanca tie-in, y'know?

What are you working on next?

I'm trying to clear my decks to dive back into 'Home World' and get the series going. I have a generation of stories in my head for that universe!

Thank you, Bonnie. Good luck getting back to the Home World series. To find out more about Bonnie Milani visit her website at www.Bonniemilani.com.

You'll also find her on Facebook and Twitter: @homeworldnovel