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Rick Hautala

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 18:38:57 +0100

It’s been a bad few days. First the news that someone I admire is critically (probably terminally) ill, then the death of Jim Herbert and now, just today, I heard from Glenn Chadbourne that my good friend and New England frightmeister Rick Hautala died yesterday (Thursday 21 March).

The last I heard from Rick was a few weeks back when he asked if I'd consider blurbing a new venture for him: Star Road . . . a collaborative SF novel with Matt Costello. Boy, what a joy it was reading that baby! The publisher took a pithy sentence from what I said about the book—not sure when it'll be out—and that was that.

And now this.

He was out walking with his wife, Holly and complained of not feeling well so she told him to go home and she finished the walk. Rick never made it back to the house: he collapsed in a neighbor's driveway and that was it. This kind of stuff pulls you up short: he was a forty-niner, like myself . . . just four months older than me. If you haven't checked out his stuff, go treat yourself.

In light of this, it seems kind of fitting that the whole Crowther quote should now see the light of day.

You know, the future isn't what it used to be. I'm talking here about the way the great SF writers of yesteryear imagined we'd turn out some five or six decades--or even an entire century--on. I grew up on those folks . . . writers like Verne and Wells, Clarke and Asimov, Heinlein and, of course, Bradbury--there are many many more, and all of 'em doing marvelous stuff. But, for my money, the best of the lot was Gardner Fox, who wrote probably hundreds of comicbook stories for DC Comics' Strange Adventures and Mystery In Space titles back in the 1950s. Okay, Gardner may not have known what spaceships would really be like or how it would really be to live in the 21st Century, but he sure as heck knew what it should be like. And he knew how to tell a story that'd have your mouth hang open for a full half-hour. Alas, since those magical days, SF has gotten a little dry . . . like a slice of peanut butter where the blueberry jelly is spread so thin you can barely taste it. Oh, the thrills are there--usually--and the Bigness (usually SFX) but something, while not entirely missing, is in pretty short supply. And that is the two-headed beast of Awe and Wonder. Well, the good news is that, thanks to another two-headed beast--and one not usually associated with this particular branch of our glorious field--there's Awe and Wonder aplenty. Yes, Matthew Costello and Rick Hautala have teamed up to create in STAR ROAD a near-on mythical mixture of thrills and spills in a galaxy-spanning tale of interplanetary excitement and derring do. Shoot, I never thought we'd see its like again. God bless you, fellas--you've given us back the future we always wanted. Mmm, taste that jelly!

Yep, and a double 'God bless you, fella' to Rick. He was a fine writer, a truly lovely guy, a formidable darts player (NeCon will never be the same again) and a great friend to Nicky and me. We're devastated and our thoughts are with Holly. Happy trails, Rick. Be seeing ya!

Happy New Year

Fri, 11 Jan 2013 11:14:02 +0100

Ah, if you just popped in from the latest PS Newsletter. I bid you a wintry welcome!

You’re probably all jazzed up with the news of our Anniversary Editions of Christine and Pet Sematary and so you should be: we’re working on all kinds of things to make them really special. It’s a tough call to single out novels from Steve’s stable that stand proud of all the others and I don’t propose to try doing that with these two because we’ll all of us end up in a massive argument. But I will say that Christine holds a special place in my affections. In the spring of 1983, Steve came across to England to promote his new novel and London’s Forbidden Planet organised him to make a special appearance at the store. But—and this is real horror, boys and girls—I couldn’t be there on the day of the signing, so I asked the guys at FP if they’d get Steve to sign my copy and I’d pick it up the following week. No problem (it’s hard not to love FP!)

But then came the $64,000 Question: what did I want him to say? Holy Moley! Without much thought, I said how about: “To Pete & Nicky, Ollie and Tim, and, of course, Kay” Hell, he’s written whole chapters not much longer than that!

Anyway, a few weeks later I was back in the store—I almost lived there in those days—to pick up my book. I opened it up and there it was. A dedication to Nicky and me, our two sons (to whom I was already reading strange bedtime stories) and my mother, Kathleen, a gentle Geordie lady (from Durham) who devoured Steve’s books almost as ferociously as I did.

Mum passed on more than 10 years back and, although I’ve met up with Bangor’s Finest a time or two and even exchanged emails, I never said thanks for that lengthy note on the first page of my copy of Christine. So I’m remedying that right now. Cheers, mate. My mum thought you were the bee’s knees. And so do I.

Countdown Time In Outer Space

Fri, 21 Dec 2012 09:05:18 +0100

Some years back, I started a little series of barroom stories set in a two-flight walkdown just a stone's throw from Manhattan's Chelsea Hotel. I've done four novelettes now, collected into a book under the bar's name (THE LAND AT THE END OF THE WORKING DAY) and I have to say they've been well received.

They're all on the whimsical side (like me, I suppose) but one of them -- 'Cliff Rhodes and the Most Important Journey' -- is wilder than the others. The gist of these tales is pretty straightforward: the bar's regulars hang around telling jokes and reflecting on life while the owner, Jack Fedogan, serves drinks, plays jazz music and, every once in a while, gets himself embroiled in whatever conversation is going. Coincidentally, the music Jack is playing in these tales is the same music as I'm playing while I sit in my office writing. Who'd'a thunk it, huh? Go figure.

Well, it's into this situation that a visitor usually comes to pay a visit. In the case of 'Cliff Rhodes', it's two visitors. And the story that usually unfolds is, on this occasion, several stories. Now these are not Christmas stories--and what I mean by that is, it's not December, there's no snow on the ground and, instead of playing, say, the Ramsey Lewis Trio's fine Christmas albums, Jack Fedogan is stoking up a long-time passion for the great Dave Brubeck. So, no, it's not a Christmas story but then again, it kind of is. And that's why I'm offering it to you with just a few days to go before the old fat guy starts his rounds of the world's chimneytops.

I'm also offering it as a doff-of-the-cap to the late Dave Brubeck who has given me and Jack Fedogan countless hours of enjoyment down the years. Oh, and yes . . . there's a nice postscript.

The American poet Dana Gioia -- a good friend and a keen supporter/promoter of my work -- called me up excitedly to comment on the copy of the WORKING DAY book. He's enjoyed it immensely, he said. Loved all four stories but the 'Cliff Rhodes' one took the buscuit. "And," Dana said to me, "it'll tickle Dave, too. I'm meeting him for lunch in a couple weeks: why don't you send me a copy inscribed to him and I'll pass it along."

So I did just that . . . though I found it a tad difficult to precis five decades of enoying COUNTDOWN TIME IN OUTER SPACE (it came out in 1962) into a single pithy sentence. And whan the dust settled on that luncheon meeting, I did hear from Brubeck, who thanked me for what I'd written about him and his music. And that's it.

Give it a read. But do me a favor: pretend it's late December, there off the Manhattan sidewalk. Close your eyes and you'll be able to smell it, New York, and you'll hear the faint rim-clicking of Joe Morello's sticks, Brubeck's playful fingers on the ivories, Paul Desmond's mourneful alto sax and the deep-bass thrumming of either Norman Bates (no, the musician, meathead!) or Eugene Wright.

As they used to say on The Fast Show . . . nice!

Happy Christmas, folks.

CLIFF RHODES AND THE MOST IMPORTANT JOURNEY

Not a day goes by that I don’t spare a thought to Ray Bradbury

Fri, 14 Dec 2012 09:27:00 +0100

The chill is setting in, guys so I figured this week you could do with something to warm up the old heart-cockles (whatever the heck they turn out to be!).

Not a day goes by that I don’t spare a thought to Ray Bradbury and his work . . . but then, that’s not just as a result of his departure to that big mid-west in the sky. Nope, not a bit. My mind has wandered of its own accord into all things Bradburian pretty much every day since I discovered THE ILLUSTRATED MAN aged 11.

So it was a great surprise when Michael Bishop drew my attention to news from the Los Angeles Times that the intersection of 5th and Flower streets in downtown LA had been designated Ray Bradbury Square. The location, near the front entrance to the Central Library, is a fitting place to honor the author who was, after all, a lifelong supporter of libraries and wrote his early short stories and novels on library typewriters that were available to the public.

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-bradbury-square-20121207,0,7487265.story

The photo shows Ray’s daughters Alexandra Bradbury, left, Sue Bradbury Nixon, center, and Ramona Ostergren, right, celebrating with others. (Photo by Mel Melcon, Los Angeles Times, December 6, 2012)

Ray Bradbury's writing career began at age 12 when he met a carnival magician called Mr. Electrico, who touched him with his "electric sword" and caused his hair to stand on end (an event the author later described as an epiphany).

Well, here’s potentially another one . . . and this time to a lad who’s even younger!

You don’t need to be a sharp-eyed sleuth to have spotted our announcement that we were withdrawing from the shelves copies of the first volume in our run of PLANET COMICS. Not one to dwell on disappointments (nor, indeed, on the cost involved—sob!), I soldiered on with only a couple of extra visits to my therapist. But then, with Paul having bitten the bullet (which, for a time, he had considered firing into his temple) and shelled out for a full run of the beloved comic, we discovered a wonderful provenance. Here’s the story, pretty much word for word, from Louis, the comics’ seller.

“In the summer of 2011 my eight-year old grandson became fascinated with a cable TV show called Auction Hunters,” Louis tells us. “It’s about a bunch of guys who buy storage units and what they find in them.

“My grandson talked me into taking him to some here in Topeka Kansas. I’ve done this kind of thing before and it’s a lot of work . . . as he would soon find out. But he was a real hard worker: he had his flashlight and several paddle locks, and he would look in and then tell me where to start bidding and the max to bid.”

Louis and his son and grandson ended up with four units in the first two auctions. Three of them were nothing special but the fourth one paid dividends with a full run of one of comicdom’s most revered and loved SF titles.

“As you can imagine, he was very excited about the whole thing,” Louis says. “He scored just like the big guys.”

And gramps aims to make sure his grandson profits like the big guys, too. “I’ll make sure he receives half of the money minus expenses,” he says. “I’m not sure what he’ll do with the money but his parents will save most of it for his college expenses.”

Who’d have thought that the funny pages from some 70 years ago—and which the likes of Dr. Wertham and his Seduction of the Innocent book campaigned against so vigorously—would one day serve in at least one case to provide a springboard for the very thing they had been accused of eroding: education.

And as to the history of the comics themselves, from what Louis learned from the folks at the storage unit that the guy who collected them was a 1950 graduate from Topeka High. “Turns out he made a career of the military in the Air Force,” Louis says, picking up the story as he heard it. “It’s just a shame that all the personal papers that were originally in the unit were destroyed.”

Well, at least we can imagine him putting together his collection. And that’s what we’re about here: imagining. And who knows . . . maybe Louis’s grandson will become similarly inspired to Ray Bradbury and follow in the footsteps of the great man whose dream, after all, was to have his ashes put in a Campbell's soup can and sent to Mars.

One final thing: I promised (in the PS Newsletter) a piece on the late great Dave Brubeck. Well, it’ll appear next week along with a special story-download for the holidays.

Happy trails!

Pete

Guardian write up

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 19:29:24 +0100

I’m not really big on tub-thumping but I’m gonna break with tradition today cos I figure I’m not really yada-yada’ing about me but rather I’m directing folks’ attention where it should go.

As you may have noticed, Lavie Tidhar’s Osama was fêted a few days back with the coveted World Fantasy Award for Best Novel. And rightly so. PS Publishing put out the hardcover edition last year and I guess we’re enjoying some of the reflected glory. That’s great. Feels good. People are now stopping me on the street and touching the hem of my garments. I like it. But the best part of it all is the flurry of orders we’re getting as a result of the Award. And I don’t mean by that the extra money that’s coming in but rather that a lot of people out there are thinking to themselves, hey, this book must be good: I’ll buy it.

Let’s face it: Lavie Tidhar is not a household name. Not yet, anyways . . . though, one day, that may change. And we’ve got other folks on our back catalogue: people like Tracy Knight (The Astomished Eye), Sebastien Doubinsky (The Babylonian Trilogy and the recent Absinth/Song of Synth double-header) and Elizabeth Counihan (Forests of Eden) . . . relative newcomers all, but immensely talented newcomers. And the Old Guard, too . . . people like David Case (Pelican Cay), Basil Copper (The Curse of the Fleers) and Ron Chetwynd Hayes (whose Best Of volume edited by Stephen Jones we’re aiming to put out next year).

I remember having a conversation with the late great John Brunner and his telling me that he couldn’t get arrested any more (he didn’t phrase it that way, but you know what I mean)—and that’s just crazy! The author of Stand on Zanzibar and The Sheep Look Up couldn’t sell his new work? This just should not be allowed. Bringing the story right up to date, the same goes for my good friend Ed Gorman, one of the very best short story writers around (check out ‘Render Unto Caesar’ or ‘The Long Silence After’ and you’ll see what I mean).

Well, if it’s left to PS—and to other small specialist presses such as Bill Schafer’s Subterranean and Rich Chizmar’s CD and, of course, Ray Russell’s Tartarus—it won’t be allowed. Thus it’s with great pleasure and pride that I announce that we’re scheduling big retrospectives of both John’s and Ed’s horror stories (John’s being compiled and edited by John Pelan). So let me draw your attention to the first of two links, both of which shower me and PS with lavish praise (I’ll mention the second link another time).

www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2012/nov/08/2012-world-fantasy-awards-triumph

Like I said earlier, I love that . . . the praise bit. But I love it because maybe, just maybe, people will go as a result of that and try something hitherto unknown, take a chance on someone new, something that’s maybe just a little unsafe. That’ll make me a happy and fulfilled man. And if you buy me a beer next time we meet up, then we’ll be friends for life.

Ghosts With Teeth

Wed, 26 Sep 2012 15:26:31 +0100

Every once in a while, I come down to start work and discover a pleasant and totally unexpected email from a happy bunny customer. Actually, to be honest, we have a lot of happy bunny customers here at PS Towers (indeed, as I’ve said on many occasions, our customer base is the most loyal and generous in the biz) but it’s the ones that come for my own work that really strike home.

This one—from a fellow author who is also an actor of some considerable repute—came just a few days ago when we were in the thick of preparing for FantasyCon. Here it is:

Hello. My name is Michael XXXX. I just wanted to drop a line to thank you for your brilliant story, Ghosts With Teeth. I read it last night in an anthology called A Book of Horrors. I bought the book for the names I recognized, (yours among them) and, as is my habit, immediately dove into the entry by Stephen King. But afterwards, I casually started reading Ghosts With Teeth, having no idea of what to expect. I have to admit that your story took me to a place that, as a reader, I hadn't been in decades, one of pure, childlike terror; a sense of looming dread that, quite honestly, I hadn't felt since reading stories by flashlight under my blanket as a kid; stories by Ray Bradbury (and King). I finished Ghosts, utterly horrified, then ran to lock all the doors and windows in my house, only to realize that doing so wouldn't save me from predatory poltergeists! Sick with terror and vaguely nauseous, I then went and locked myself inside my bathroom. To make matters worse, last night in suburban New York was "a dark and stormy" one: halfway through Ghosts . . . the power went out! I've read hundreds of horror stories, but Ghosts was easily one of the best. I blame you for the ensuing nightmares. Thank you for a GREAT read!

Naturally, I responded immediately and said thanks and Michael and I will, I’m sure, carry on our dialogue. But I wanted to mention it here because—aside from my having received several other letters of congrats and applause and my wanting to bring the tale to your attention (in the event you haven’t seen that wonderful book)—like so many tales, it owes a huge debt of gratitude to the editor. In this instance, Stephen Jones.

It was Steve who approached me and suggested I might like to try him with something ‘cutting edge’ . . . in other words, something particularly dark for a new anthology he was putting together to be entitled A Book of Horrors. I was flattered but, as I explained, my stuff is generally lighter in tone, often nostalgic and frequently whimsical. Steve was having none of that. “Try it,” he said. “If I don’t like it, I won’t buy it.”

He’s some salesman, that Steve Jones!

So I sat down and decided to do for poltergeists what I’d done for witches in By Wizard Oak, my Hallowe’en novel for Earthling. In other words, something exceedingly nasty this way comes!

When I sent it in, Steve tickled it here and there, sent it back for my approval and pretty soon it was all done and dusted. So to all those who liked ‘Bedfordshire’ then you owe a doff of your cap to editor Ramsey Campbell. All those who enjoyed ‘Rustle’ give a pat on the back to Rich Chizmar over at CD. For ‘Eater’, give a cheer to Marty Greenberg and Bob Bloch. And, for ‘Ghosts With Teeth’, Steve’s da man. As he so often is.

If you want to check out ‘Ghosts’ then be aware that a paperback edition is due soon from Jo Fletcher Books. If you’re hell-bent on shelling out £35 for a copy of the PS/CD edition (signed by me, Steve and artist Les Edwards) then go here.
http://www.pspublishing.co.uk/a-book-of-horrors-signed-bookshop-edition-edited-by-stephen-jones-1012-p.asp

Happy trails.

Pete

The turnover of seasons

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 11:12:15 +0100

There are two special times each year for me—well, to be absolutely honest, there are hundreds and maybe even thousands of them . . . but you know what I mean. Things that happen that foretell of a significant change . . . that kind of thing. And one of them happened this week the way it always happens.
    There’s a place barely a mile from the crumbling turrets and ornate edifices of PS Towers that features a collection of animals and birds and fish (not to mention an ice cream parlour of rare delights) which exists solely to entertain and educate those small people in our midst: children (though I confess to having enjoyed a considerable degree of both entertainment and education—and ice cream, dammit!—when Nicky and I have taken Orla Plum and her sisters, the twin terrors known around these parts as Edie Serene and Elsie Blue (though I’ve taken to calling these two six-year olds Heckle and Jeckle) for a recreational break.
    Here it is, look: http://www.honeysucklefarm.co.uk/
    It’s a fantastic place, clean as a new pin (well, as clean as a livestock environment can be) and operated by delightful people. But it isn’t open all year. It starts up for business around the Ides of March and closes its doors some six months later . . . whereupon it hangs a sign on the old oak tree at the end of the lane. That sign went up this past few days:

CLOSED
REOPENS 9 MARCH 2013

    Of course, it’s just one manifestation of the kind of widespread change that occurs on the turnover of seasons but that change is more profound in a seaside holiday resort, even a small one such as Hornsea. The kids have pretty much all gone back to school (save for the errant duckers-and-divers who see more to be gained roaming the long grasses and skimming stones into the North Sea than in studying History), the amusement arcades and one-armed bandit machines have all quietened down, and it’s even possible to be able to pick up a pint of milk or a loaf of bread any time of the day in the supermarket now that the caravan-owners have all gone back to wherever they spilled from in the first place.
    But as enjoyable as it is to get our town back to ourselves, there’s a muted sadness as well. Change is afoot . . . and for Cancerians like me, change is not always good news. However, it isn’t all doom and gloom—far from it. For this time of year also promises that most wondrous of weekends in the British genre calendar: FantasyCon . . . this time offering another opportunity to spend time in Brighton, the jewel of the south coast.
    And my, oh my . . . what a galaxy of stars we have in store for you.
    The Convention team—under the steady tiller-hands of Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan (with, as ever, the always dependable Stephen Jones beavering away behind the scenes)—has left no stone unturned in putting together what promises to be the best FantasyCon yet. Check it out here:
http://fantasycon2012.org/joelansdale.htm
    But I just wanted to pause for a moment to mention how we should all spare a particular above-the-call-of-duty thought or three for Paul and Marie, who have been operating under very intense difficulties . . . with Marie’s mother seriously ill and Paul’s father losing his battle and moving off to the next stage of the adventure just a few days ago as I write this. How they’ve managed it, well . . . I’m damned if I know. Me, I get a cold and that’s it—I’m out for the count. These guys are just the tops. But you can tell 'em for yourselves in three weeks.

Touchstones

Fri, 13 Jul 2012 08:55:50 +0100

Hey, you know the old chestnut about remembering where you were when you heard that JFK had been murdered (yeah, murdered; ‘assassinated’ always sounds to me like a kind of veiled justification)? Well, as time has gone by, there’s the whole 9/11 thing as well . . . and I’m guessing that if I were to ask my mom and dad where they were when war (that’s WWII, history buffs) was declared then I’m betting they’d be able to tell me to the second.

Touchstones. That’s what things like that are and, in a strange and almost magical way, they get you through life’s darker moments . . . provide a commonality so that groups of folks can say, "hey, yeah, I remember that." Well, last night, when I was out with Paul Stephenson (from the PS Artbooks studio) and George Moody (a mutual friend), I came across a whole load of other memory-joggers.

We meet up every four or five weeks, the three of us, have a meal and talk about books and comics, movies and TV. Last night, though, it took a strange turn even for us when George mentioned my recent birthday (4 July) and, congratulating me on surviving another year (hurrah!), he said, with a nostalgic twinkle, “Ah, 4 July . . . that was the release date of Showcase #4, the first appearance of the Silver Age Flash.” And then, George turned on Paul and, jabbing a finger in his direction, said “And 24 May, same birthday as Carmine Infantino.” And barely pausing for breath, George shrugged and concluded with his own ‘claim to fame’ (almost): “29 August . . . the day after Jack ‘King’ Kirby’s.”

George, as you can probably tell, is something of a comics buff. Well, we're all of us comics buffs on here but, man, George is like something from another planet. He can recall the stories--the panels even--in the various issues of DC and Marvel comicbooks from the 1950s and ‘60s, can give you the running order, can recall where he encountered a first-time-seen ad in a specific issue, and can even tell you when DC’s covers went from ‘small’ 10c to ‘Still 10c’ before shifting to ‘large’ 10c and ‘large’ 12c (which featured a whole interior page from DC—addressed to “boys and girls” as I recall—explaining why they’d had to hike the price an extra couple of pennies) and finally to ‘small’ 12c. Wow! Two pennies. Hard to figure why we all had such a hissy fit when you think that today’s equivalent (though it’s probably fair to say there isn’t an equivalent today . . . but you know what I mean) will set you back five or six bucks!

Ah, how things change.

Things change for all of us as time drifts by but they’ve changed Big Time for George. He’s battling a very serious illness and, by golly, he’s doing it with style and stoicism . . . still managing to access the memory of those four-color fables he committed to a locked-away place in his brain, and howling (yes, dammit, truly howling) with sheer delight when he’s recounting how, as a baggy-assed kid, he bought such-and-such a comicbook at such-and-such a shop, way back in those hard-to-believe early 1960s.

It’s a shame that Reality has its downside because the world of make-believe is much less traumatic. Like Paddy Chayefsky said in Network, “Kojak always gets the killer and nobody ever gets cancer in Archie Bunker’s house”. And, in the world of comicbooks, at least until Jim Starlin’s The Death of Captain Marvel, nobody ever got cancer in Smallville . . . leastways nobody I can recall, and I read and re-read a whole slew of those mags.

But George doesn’t live in Archie Bunker’s house. He lives about twenty miles away from PS Towers and he doesn’t know I’m writing this stuff about him. He’s not particularly an ‘online’ kind of guy, and that’s fine. He won't see this and I don't want him to. You folks have never met him and you probably never will. He’s a fighter, George is, and he’ll keep on fighting and, hell, who knows . . . maybe he’ll lick this thing. I hope to hell he does. But he could do with a little help. So go ahead, open your windows a little and send out some of that Good Karma, send it spinning out on the night breezes all the way to George’s place. Like I say, he won’t know you’re doing it . . . but I will. And I thank you for it.

Ray Bradbury

Thu, 07 Jun 2012 16:16:57 +0100

I just heard the news--Ray Bradbury died this morning.

I really don't know what to say but I just wanted to say something. I wouldn't be doing any of this—not the editing, not the writing and not the publishing—if it hadn't been for Ray. But you don't need me to tell you; you feel the same way yourselves, I'm sure. It's the same way everyone else who has ever dreamed or loved or looked up into the night sky and just plain wondered feels right now. Just absolutely damned awful and totally empty. It's like someone has reached inside and stolen my very heart and soul.

I've written many stories that shamelessly wear my major influence on my sleeve, most notably, perhaps, 'Some burial place vast and dry'. I don't have that one electronically to hand right now but 'Songs of Leaving' comes a close second. It's my tribute to a great great man.

It's a sad day.

Pete

The Death of Light

Wed, 30 May 2012 20:14:43 +0100

Gosh, it seems so long ago that I was last here that it’s like . . . it’s like it’s a brand new house I’m walking into. Oh, sure, I recognise the dimensions and so on—same front door, same window, all that stuff (and I think those are my cuff-links)—but it’s like somebody sneaked in and did some plastering and painting. So, bravo! Looks good, whoever you are.

The reason I am here and, indeed, the reason why I haven’t been around for so long are, in fact, one and the same: the long promised/threatened second volume of the Forever Twilight sequence. The good news (if you enjoyed the first book) is that the new one is fast approaching (well, maybe best just to say ‘approaching’) a first draft stage . . . and much later than was agreed with those wonderful folks at Angry Robot. Their patience and their support and encouragement have been epic and generous to a fault. I’ve kept them posted, of course, and they’re taken the occasional disappointment with a calm stoicism. I’m hopeful that they’ll like what’s been happening.

So, what has been happening?

Well, you should be able to see for yourself from a series of two- or three-thousand-word slices—each one pretty much self-contained, and a fresh one replacing the old one every two weeks or so—lifted fairly arbitrarily from different parts of the book and presented here for your amusement and interest. One of the lifted quotes at the very beginning of the entire volume will give away some of the game, but not much. Other tiny revelations will follow . . . perhaps: because, face it . . . I’m not gonna promise you anything—and, frankly, there are changes that could still take place to any or all of these sections. It’s been that kind of a book and I’m betting “The Big Reveal” which will be volume 3 (when many of us will be convening in New York’s Central Park—though which particular version is not yet certain—and others on a pretty hostile and unnamed planet a long way away) will make this outing look like a Janet and John primer.

So, I guess all that’s left to say is have fun. Enjoy yourself. Drop me a line. Let me know what you think. There’ll be another piece in a couple of weeks either from before the one that’s going up to today or from after it. Time and space hold no sway here. As Vonnegut said many years ago: welcome to the monkey house.

Uh uh . . . waartt!