…you wait ages, and then two come along at once!

As you may or may not know, Songs of the Earth is shortlisted for the David Gemmell Morningstar award for best fantasy debut. Final round voting is now open, if you feel so inclined. Not that I’m hinting, or anything.

Then at the weekend, I got an email to tell me that Songs is also shortlisted for the Compton Crook Award, awarded by the members of the Baltimore Science Fiction Society and presented at Balticon on Memorial Day weekend.

Maybe I should have got my passport updated into my married name after all – just in case, like.

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

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

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

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

Yesterday, our postie-in-a-van brought me another parcel, this time from la belle France: an ARC of Les Chants de la Terre, Tome 1 de La Chasse Sauvage (bet you can’t work out what that means) which Bragelonne will be releasing into the wild on 18 November 2011.

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

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

Cor.

Or maybe that should read: c’est formidable!

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.

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.

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!

To celebrate the launch of my book, Orion are giving away five advance proofs to you lucky, lucky people. All you have to do is answer a really simple question, and your name goes into the draw. Go here – you have until 20th May 2011 – and good luck!

Oh, and for the benefit of anyone who’s been under a rock/on the back side of the moon/in solitary confinement in some Level 10 slam* for the last couple of years, this is the book I’m talking about:

Go on. Click that play button, you know you wanna.
 

*with or without a horse bit in their mouth

On Tuesday 12th April, I went down to London Book Fair. I’d been invited  by Orion to meet up with those of my foreign publishers who were in town for the Fair, and they’d very generously thrown in a hotel for the night, so how could I possibly refuse? I’ve never been to the Book Fair, and I wanted to go and see what it was all about.

Plus I quite like travelling on the train. EastCoast actually make a reasonable cup of tea, and the shortbread fingers aren’t half bad.

I was also hoping to catch up with a writer friend of mine, Judith Kinghorn, who’d just recently been signed by Headline and was due to be at the Fair at the same time as me. We’d first met on the writers’ site Authonomy, and here we were, almost three years later, both with publishing contracts, both marvelling at our good fortune.

Anyway, I arrived at Kings Cross feeling virtuous because I’d managed to do some work on the way down. After freshening up and abandoning the Huge Blue Holdall of Doom at my hotel, I made my way over to Earls Court.

It’s quite an impressive building, if you’ve not seen it before, with the arc of steps leading up to the numerous glass doors that wink at you rather like teeth in a wide, grinning mouth. You get a little holder for your badge in the foyer, then a chap waves a barcode scanner over your left bosom (or wherever you happen to have pinned said badge) and it’s on into the exhibition space itself.

It’s big. Givvus-a-bag-of-crisps big (if that reference is lost on you, scroll down). Brightly lit, and full of people, and there’s books everywhere. All sorts of books. Cookbooks, kids’ books, thrillers, lad lit, women’s fiction, science fiction, you name it. Book porn, as far as the eye can see.

Whimper.

So I got my bearings, and headed for the Hachette UK stand on Aisle H. Head for HarperCollins’ less-than-subtle signage, visible above the heads of the other stands, and it’s just opposite.

And guess what was the first thing I saw? This.

Oh my sweet furry lord.

So I’m standing there, grinning like a loon, wishing I’d brought the camera instead of my crappy old mobile, and it hit me. That’s my book. This is really happening.

Continuing to gawk like a country mouse on her first trip to the Big City, I took a turn around the very smart stand and admired the manor-house-drawing-room styling. Round the far side I found the meeting area, and there was my editor, Gillian Redfearn, who found me a seat and a cup of tea. Over the course of the afternoon I met pretty much the whole rights team, said hello to some old acquaintances, and played text message tag with Judith until she escaped from her various appointments and we were able to meet at last (she’s lovely, and she writes beautifully atmospheric historical fiction).

Sadly, my Dutch publisher was unable to join us for drinks, but we chatted for a while as Day 2 of the Fair wound down, before we collected Stephane and Alain from Bragelonne (my French publishers) and headed off to the pub, where we were joined by Sacha from Heyne and José from Planeta (Germany and Spain respectively). We then ate well, drank well, and laughed much. I seem to remember discussing some sort of pan-European book tour/road trip/pub crawl, but that could have been the beer talking . . .

José also brought me this beautiful boxed proof of the Spanish edition of my book, which is how Planeta are sending them out to the trade. It’s utterly gorgeous: the statue and the ivy are varnished so they shine out from the matt box. You expect to find expensive chocolates inside, or something equally precious. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it before.  The photos don’t do it justice.

On Wednesday I had lunch with my old acquiring editor, Jo Fletcher, pretty much the grande dame of UK genre publishing, who brought me to Gollancz in the first place. It was wonderful to catch up with her; just a real shame we both had to dash off before we got to the bottom of the bottle of wine, her back to the Fair and me to Kings Cross to catch my train home.

The reality of being an almost-published author (63 days to go, not that I’m counting or anything) still hasn’t quite sunk in, but I will admit to feeling a bit more like one now.

——–

McEwan’s Best Scotch TV advert from some 25+ years ago. I’ve scoured YouTube but I can’t find it, which is a shame, because it doesn’t really work in text. Scene: interior, pub, barmaid is pulling a pint of the aforesaid ale (tagline: the one you’ve got to come back for) for a customer recently returned from Germany.

Barmaid: “So how was Munich?”

Customer: “Big.”

“How was the beer festival?”

“Massive.”

<Meaningful pause as she tops off his pint> “And how were the lasses?”

<Cut to flashback of hefty Oktoberfest fräulein> “Oh, give us a bag of crisps.”

Always a daunting moment, reading the first review of your first book. Will it be good, filled with effusive praise about my world building, my fascinating characters and original plot? Or will it be “D-. Must try harder.”

Judge for yourself, over at the Wertzone. I’ll wait.

. . .

. . .

[whistles tunelessly]

. . .

. . .

Ah, you’re back. Well? What did you think?

Solid, I thought. Very fair. Well pleased with the liberal use of “intriguingly” and “subtle” and “interesting”, and the lack of words like “dull” and “predictable” and “unconvincing”.

Cheers, Adam. The cheque’s in the post.

I can’t believe my eyes – I must be dreaming… — Jack Skellington

A parcel just arrived here at Cooper Towers. A thick, heavy parcel, bound in sticky tape and bearing the blazon of none other than Orion Books.

So, naturally, I opened it – or tried to. Application of fingernails, scissors and finally brute strength was required (I don’t know where Orion gets their Sellotape, but this is definitely not regulation Sellotape, being fiendishly sticky and stubbornly durable).

Eventually, the ungodly stuff was overcome, and the parcel disgorged this:

Yup, the page proofs for Songs of the Earth just thudded onto my desk. Ooh. Exciting.

Now I get to read my book for the umpteenth time, looking for errors, misspellings, infelicitous word-choices etc – though hopefully I’ve already eliminated most of the outright clunkers by now, leaving only my prose, to stand or fall on its own merits.

It looks lovely, by the way. Absolutely lovely, like a child in its christening robes, all white and perfect. Sniffle.

Sorry, I seem to have got something in my eye.

There’s white things in the air — Jack Skellington

It bloody well is, you know.

Songs of the Earth is now manifest in physical form, and doesn’t it look pretty, all shiny and clean, ready to be launched into the big bad world to be variously picked apart, analysed, sneered at, reviewed, raved about, blogged over and ignored. Gulp.

I feel like a mother on Junior’s first day of school. Proud, and slightly nervous, smiling brightly and waving goodbye with an emergency hankie or two stuffed up my sleeve.

Actually, scratch that. Junior’s got rather more to worry about than a wedgie and having his lunch money stolen. Some of those reviewers can be downright merciless; it would be an entirely fitting allusion to say I feel like a gladiator’s mum before his first bout, having just walked through the armoury and past the wild-animal enclosure with the screams from the infirmary ringing in my ears.

Still, I’ve done my best, and he’s on his own now. I’ll be proud of him whatever happens. Go get ‘em, kid.