Wednesday is bin day here at Cooper Towers. When I opened the bedroom curtains this morning, I noticed that my beloved spouse, when he left for work at oh-my-god-o’clock, had neglected to put the blue recyclables bin out for collection. Not to worry, I thought; I’ll put it out after breakfast.
Except by the time I got down the stairs, I could hear the bin lorry in the next street. Oh noes!
So out I trot, barefoot but otherwise dressed, opened the gate and trundled this big 240-litre wheelie bin out to the path. Since wheelie bins are not the nimblest-handling things, I managed to trundle it over my left foot in the process.
More precisely, over my toes. And the bin was full.
Hey, guess what? Songs of the Earth got a mention in the Sunday Times!
Unfortunately, that mention turned out to be little more than a single line of internal dialogue quoted out of context†, with the admonition that lines like that aren’t going to do anything to make fantasy cool.
Um, what? Who says a particular genre of fiction is cool or uncool? Is there a Department of Cool somewhere in the bowels of the Home Office that makes these distinctions? Do I have to apply to them in triplicate for an EC Certificate of Cool Conformity before I’m allowed to write books?
Bollocks to that.
As a reader and writer of the genre, I already believe fantasy is pretty bloody cool, thank you very much. Where else can I get to play with kingdoms all day long, and weird beasts (come on, dragons? Could they be any cooler?), and sharp, pointy weapons. Just because there’s a castle on the horizon, or we’re in some fantastical city run by thieves doesn’t mean the writer can’t examine the human condition just as deeply as anyone else – in fact fantasy writers often get to examine it from new and exciting perspectives, like the inside, amongst the tubes and wobbly bits.
Maybe I’m reading too much into a couple of sentences in a review round-up. Maybe the reviewer was not approaching from a standpoint of “I already think fantasy is deeply uncool and slightly icky, so go on, try to change my mind”. Or maybe I’ve just heard one too many people sneering at fantasy lately, because, you know, it’s all just made up stuff.
Newsflash, people: all fiction is ‘just made up stuff’. Even the kind of fiction that wins the Booker.††
It’s not my job to try to make fantasy cool to people with attitudes like that. Prejudice is their problem, not mine.
It is my job to serve the story, to tell it to the best of my ability, and transport the reader somewhere else for a few hours. My job is to entertain with words. If I happen to also inform, elucidate, illuminate or otherwise make the reader say “Huh, I didn’t know that”, then that’s just gravy.
So here’s my book. Try it, don’t try it, it’s your choice. But why not forget what all the other cool kids are doing, stop trying to be so achingly hip you can barely walk, and make your own mind up for a change. Try some fantasy; it won’t kill you. It’s rousing, riotous, heroic, horrifying, absorbing, philosophical, thrilling, heartbreaking, edge-of-your-seat fun.†††
Hell, you might even get over yourself and enjoy it.
Or is it better to be seen to be cool than be entertained?
***
† I’m not saying it was the best line in the world, but in context it was appropriate, dramatic and effective. Stripped of context, pretty much any ten words (short of Shakespeare) are just words.
†† Keeping it topical. But seriously, is the Man Booker Prize awarded to the best book of the year, or just the best book of a certain type?
††† Not necessarily all at the same time. Obviously. But some books, like Martin and Rothfuss there, will give it a damn good try.
The Cooper family is proud and excited to announce the arrival of a new baby girl, Kathryn (Katie for short), who was delivered on Friday afternoon.
She is very, very red, but very, very pretty – a sister for three-year-old Lara. Mum and baby are doing well; dad’s wallet . . . not so much.
Oh, the weight? 8 07lbs.
No, not 8lbs 7oz, eight hundred and seven pounds, wet weight.
Yes, you read that right. This is not your average bundle of joy: she sleeps through the night, never cries or complains and only needs feeding every 220 miles or so.
Ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to the Triumph Rocket III Roadster, the largest-engined production motorcycle in the world . . .
Who’s a pretty girl, then?
In case you were wondering, Lara is also a Triumph – a Speed Triple 1050 in matt black, for those days when one needs a little more hooligan in one’s motorcycling.
The postie brought me a parcel just now – my author’s copies of the Dutch edition of Songs of the Earth, Het Lied van der Aarde.
Doesn’t it look fantastic? The colours are much more muted and subtle than the early snapshots of the cover art led me to expect – so atmospheric, especially with the brass-bound look around the edges.
Flicking through, I discovered that there’s also a lovely script style drop cap on each chapter, which just makes the page, in my opinion. Mynx have done a super job; I couldn’t be more pleased.
The Spanish edition should be up next – I can’t wait!
Today I had an appointment with my neurologist, who gave me the results of my recent MRI scan. Compared to my scan of March 2009, it showed a decrease in both the number and the size of the lesions in my brain.
This is A Good Thing: it means my relapse rate has been stalled, and my poor beleaguered body has been able to start repairing some of the myelin damage caused by MS.
How much of this is due to the Tysabri infusions I’ve been on for the last two years, and how much is due to me finally acknowledging that the day job with its horrendous commute was no longer sustainable, I’ll probably never know. Bit of both, most likely.
Since I gave up work I’ve been able to get the rest I need, and be kinder to myself. That means on a shitty day, if I don’t get out of bed until 11am, so be it. On good days I’m up at 7:30. Most days it’s somewhere in between. Either way, these results confirm that quitting my job and changing my treatment regimen were the right things to do.
One small winged insect in the ointment: Tysabri (natalizumab) has an immuno-suppressant effect, and some immuno-compromised people, like MS patients and transplant recipients given anti-rejection drugs, have gone on to develop PML, or progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy, which is often fatal.
The science bit: PML is triggered by the JC virus, which is widespread in the general population, lying latent in the gastrointestinal tract. In an immuno-compromised patient it can “reactivate” and trigger PML, because JCV can cross the blood-brain barrier and directly infect (and destroy) the oligodendrocytes which protect the myelin sheath around the nerve-cells’ axons in the central nervous system – that’s your brain and spinal cord.
I was blood-tested last week to see if I’ve been exposed to JCV. The general risk of developing PML is about 1 in 1,000; if I’ve been exposed, that rises to about 1 in 400. Given that somewhere north of 70% of the population will have been exposed to it (usually in childhood) this, as you can imagine, gives me some food for thought.
I’ve had two very stable, relapse-free years with Tysabri. Back in 2009, when it became apparent that the beta-interferon therapy was no longer working, I looked at the risks, weighed up the benefits, and decided Tysabri was the best treatment option for me and my highly-active at the time MS. I still think that is the case, but when the blood-test results come in, if my risk profile changes, I am going to have to think through my choices once more and see if I’m still comfortable with it.
UPDATE:
I got the result of my blood test and I am negative for JCV. This means my chances of developing PML as a result of my Tysabri infusions have dropped to around 1 in 7,000. I think that deserves a woot, don’t you? WOOT!
With less than two weeks to go to the official publication date for Songs of the Earth, my author’s copies arrived today. Needless to say, that was the end of any meaningful work for the day – I was far too busy admiring them, and if you look down there a bit I’m sure you will understand why.
Feast your eyes, friends. Tuck a napkin into their collar and gorge them on the subtly matte hardback, and the gold-foil-embossed, spot-varnished fabulosity of the trade paperback:
Click on the picture for an even bigger helping – but don’t forget to leave room for the waffair theen meent.
I’ve recently ventured out of the writing cave to have a long chat with Niall over at The Speculative Scotsman, in the course of which we rode rollercoasters, chased butterflies, and talked about the voices in my head.
You can check out part 1 here; part 2 followed on Thursday. Perhaps I should point out that the bit of Newcastle where I grew up was rather more leafy and suburban than the picture accompanying the interview…
And if you still haven’t had enough of me, you might like to have a wander over to Walker of Worlds, where I’ve been chatting to Steve about influences, publishing myths and the appeal of organic gardening. Steve and Mark gave their impressions of Songs here, and do you know, I think they rather enjoyed it.
I am pleased to be able to let you all know that The Wild Hunt trilogy has been picked up by Tor Books for publication in the USA, bringing the number of overseas editions to six. Songs of the Earth is expected to hit bookstore shelves in the spring of 2012, followed by Trinity Moon and The Dragon House in due course.
This is the Big Kahuna, folks – the USA is a huge market for fantasy, and notoriously difficult for a debut to break into. I can’t begin to describe how stoked (and slightly scared) I am, and excited to be working with a publisher of Tor’s calibre.
I have no word on covers or definite release schedules yet, but as soon as I have something I can share, I’ll be sharing it. Now to find something to remove the silly grin plastered all over my face . . .
My mother-in-law was ruled by superstition. If she dropped a piece of cutlery on the floor, it would lie there until somebody else came into the house and picked it up for her – sometimes for days.
If two knives crossed on a plate, she’d spend the rest of the day waiting for a fight to start – and heaven help anyone who spilled the salt, or opened an umbrella indoors. Just as well I never told her Rob had seen The Dress before we got married, or I might never have heard the end of it.
But me? Not a superstitious bone in my body. I’ve never had a lucky pen to do the lottery, and if ladders are in my way I walk under them without a qualm. Dropped a teaspoon? I pick it up. If I’ve just come in from the rain, I leave my umbrella open to dry in the utility room because if I close it up wet it’ll go funky and smell bad.
I don’t even have any writing rituals. Some habits I’ve got into, maybe, like writing notes longhand, but not what you’d call rituals. Or so I thought.
Last night, making a cuppa, Rob fumbled the coffee jar and dropped it onto my favourite mug. This one:
and took a gurt chip out of the edge. And what was Ms Rational’s first thought? Sheer horror: how am I going to finish writing my books now?
[This space intentionally left blank for your gales of incredulous laughter]
I’ve had this mug a very long time. My best friend gave it to me years ago, for my birthday I think. I used to use it at work; first for its intended purpose, then, when I got sick of the horrible over-boiled taste of the water from the work kettle, as a pencil-pot on my desk. When I gave up the day job I started using it for tea again: it holds much more than the everyday mugs in the kitchen, which meant fewer trips up and down the stairs to refill it, and the handle was comfy to hold.
Now I am bereft. I know it’s only a thing, and things are not important, but I hadn’t realised just how accustomed I’d become to having it to hand whenever I was writing. Fortunately, it’s not terminally cracked and I can still use it, but clearly, its days are now numbered. This will not do.
Perhaps I can exploit my husband’s feelings of guilt and get him to buy me one of these:
There’s going to be no getting away from me in the next few weeks, I’m afraid. Sorry about that.
Aidan Moher has very kindly invited me to write a guest post for A Dribble of Ink, whilst he has a few days off to go and do something far more interesting than blogging. I’ll do my best not to tread mud into the carpets whilst I’m there. Check it out on Monday 9th May!
I’m also putting in an appearance in the June issue of Words With Jam, rubbing shoulders (figuratively speaking) with none other than J K Rowling.
Speaking of magazines, this time in print, SFX have an interview with yours truly in the current issue, available now.
Busy, busy, busy. It’s a wonder I get any writing done. Enjoy!
Elspeth Cooper is a British fantasy writer, author of The Wild Hunt series.
"Urgh, fantasy. All elves and prophecies and gnomic wizards, yes?"
Er, no. There's not an elf in sight. No prophecies either, and it is bereft of dwarves, orcs, generic Dark Lords and all the other familiar epic fantasy furniture. It's just a damn good read.
This blog is what she writes when she's not listening to the voices in her head.
Well, that’ll wake you up good and proper.
My mother-in-law was ruled by superstition. If she dropped a piece of cutlery on the floor, it would lie there until somebody else came into the house and picked it up for her – sometimes for days.
