Paul L. Mathews: Struggling On

Follow You, Follow Me

2009-03-03T09:24:00.000-08:00

I think my life is drawing to a close...

I was driving home the other night, and it suddenly occurred to me that I've hit that awkward age where navy blue doesn't seem that bad a colour, Genesis don't seem to be that bad a band after all, and the speed limit is (almost) quite fast enough, thank you. Oh dear. It'll only be another few years and I'll be tootling along country lanes at 15mph followed by a crocodile of angry young men in Suburu Penises and BMW Wankers. They'll be venting their frustration by tooting their horns whilst I remain oblivious in my bobble hat as I hunch over the wheel and piss into a plastic bag. I can't wait.

I'll also be one of those old men who seems to struggle with the most rudimentary of technology. Mind you, I'm not a million miles way from that now. For a man who runs a website, I barely know how to string two bits of HTML together, never mind how an FTP works.

With this in mind, it is with some surprise that I can announce The Valentine
Chronicles (AKA the best British sci-fi the British have never heard of!) now has not only its own Facebook group, but a Twitter thingy as well! Gosh!

Admittedly, I have very little to so with these developments, and all kudos must go to Mister Matthew Birdsall AKA Mr B, or Hellbelly, depending on who you ask. I've known Mr B since I was 9, and he's stuck with me through even the darkest moments in my personal development (Dragonlance, Phill Collins, poncey shirts) to become one of my staunchest supporters. I can honestly say that without the encouragement of mates like Mr B, there wouldn't even be a Valentine Chronicles. He's also a flippin' good photographer. Matt, mate, I salute you.

So, please, show Mr B your appreciation and head over to the Facebook group, and follow The Valentine Chronicles on Twitter. As for me, I'll see you in a few year's time. In my rear-view mirror...

I Love You

2009-02-10T12:52:00.000-08:00

It's Valentines Day again, and that means The Valentine Chronicles is celebrating its second birthday. So it's time I gave you a gift or two, right?

Well, how about I give you the conclusion to our current serial, Frozen? And what about a brand NEW gallery, one that features sketches and artwork by some of the UK's best talent, including:-

Duncan Fegredo (Hellboy, Judge Dredd, New Statesmen
Sean Phillips (Marvel Zombies, Hellblazer, Third World War)
Frazer Irving (Gutsville, The Simping Detective, A Love Like Blood)
Peter Doherty (Batman & Superman: World's Finest, Judge Dredd, Armitage)
Jock (Green Arrow, The Losers, Lenny Zero)
D'Israeli (Stickleback, XTNCT, Lazarus Churchyard)
Dylan Teague (Judge Dredd Megazine)
Wynn Ryder (Cannibal Island, Flight of Moths)
James McLean (Quarry Grove, Beowulf, M.A.S.K.)

Would you like that? And would you like to get all this good stuff, for FREE, on a site devoid of ads and pop-ups? You would? Okay. Take them. They're yours.

Because I love you.

Do You Love Me?

2009-02-10T12:38:00.000-08:00

As ever, Screaming Dreams (the publisher of the fine Estronomicon eZine) is holding its annual Dead of Night Awards, and yours truly is humbled to be included in the list of nominees for "Best Author".

So, if you fancy voting for me, then please e-mail steve[at]screamingdreams[dot]com and let him know. I'll love you for ever if you do. If not, then you can kiss my arse, you snivelling ingrate. ;0)

Exposure

2009-02-05T15:24:00.000-08:00

This week sees the release of the latest Twisted Tongue magazine. This latest edition brings you a great article on the evolution of the Valentine Chronicles, detailing the site's initial conception through to the creative juggernaut you see today. Have a gander and you'll see not only the mammoth team effort behind the Chronicles, but also what a devilishly handsome group of people the creators really are! ;0)

If that weren't enough, you also get a corking variety of fiction and poetry from more then FIFTY authors, as well as articles, interviews, and another fine cover from the uber-cool Steve Upham.

As ever, you can download Twisted Tongue for FREE from Lulu, or pay a scant £4.50 for a printed copy.

This is Halloween

2008-11-06T13:16:00.000-08:00

As an affect of the peculiar time lag that haunts my blog, I am now able--albeit a week after the event--to announce the Halloween issue of the excellent Estronomicon e-zine features my story Ein Normales Leben.

I urge you to download this fine e-zine and indulge yourself. It is, after all, both completely free AND a damn good read.

Time

2008-11-04T11:59:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I'm late again, aren't I? You came here expecting to hear all about my new course, and how it's changed my writing and transformed me into a god astride the your puny world, right?

Wrong? Probably just as well, because instead you're getting this: a blog about time.

Now, for the word 'blog', you can substitute any of the following: whinge, rant, diatribe, moan, beef, lament, grumble and all the other words my handy Thesaurus can recommend. Because that's essentially what I'm going to do today: complain.

Recently I've stumbled upon a happy place in my work. I'm getting bits and pieces in print (with more on the way!), the Valentine Chronicles continues to gain more and more hits per month, and I'm happy with the way my writing's developing. I've noticed a hardening in that little kernel all writers must nurture; that belief that maybe--after all the rejections and hard work and self-doubt--just maybe, I can make it. It's a belief I hope other writers I admire like Lee Moan and Allyson Bird have discovered: the belief that they can take the next step and make this writing lark a career. Because that's what I'm starting to believe. I could do it, I really could. If only I had the time...

And that's the thing, isn't it? If I didn't have to work do a Normal Job to pay all the bills and loans and mortgages that make a Normal Life, I could just and concentrate on my work. I could produce tale after glittering tale of wonder and daring do. I could write that "third time lucky" novel, or that comic series, or finish the Valentine Chronicles etc. But, dammit, Real Life just keeps getting in the way, doesn't it?

I'm sure this is a barrier all successful writers must overcome... have overcome... and I'm sure that, if I am to succeed, I have to as well. Maybe this is the biggest test? Maybe the next barrier isn't the material I'm producing, but finding the time to produce it?

Only time will tell.

Lead a Normal Life

2008-10-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

There are highs and lows to any given pursuit. Be it a leaning toward sporting excellence, a high standard of artistic accomplishment, the satisfaction of a job well done, or the thrill of a well cooked meal, each carries presents us with those days when we throw our hands in the air and decry a cruel and petty world that thwarts our every move.

God knows I'm no stranger to that feeling. From the time I was a young illustrator chasing that Big Break, to my present endeavours as a writer, there have been times I've almost wept with frustration. I've torn up rejection letters in fits of pique, I've hurled abuse at my unsuspecting computer monitor, I've stamped around the house like a petulant child, all the while pulling at what little hair I have left (hey, don't feel sorry for me; it's ginger. the sooner I lose the damn stuff the better). It's at times like those that little voice pipes up in the back of my mind, the one that always ask me if it's all worth it, if I wouldn't be happier leading a Normal Life.

You've heard of the mystical Normal Life, haven't you? One where your moods and outlook aren't so dependant on the opinions, whims, and needs of various editors. One where you can just enjoy a few hours relaxation without feeling guilty because you're not writing. One where those little flashes of inspiration and insight are left safely tucked away in your head and aren't exposed to the indifference and ridicule of others. You know: a kinda... well, boring life.

There are highs and lows to every pursuit, and the highs always make the lows worth while. This past week, for instance, I've been blessed with two bits of great news: two bastions of the UK's proud indie circuit, Twisted Tongue and Estronomicon, want to publish pieces of my work (brand new stories On the Air and Ein Normales Leben, respectively). This, my friend, is what it's all about. The feeling that somebody, somewhere, likes that little idea that you've nurtured, that little flash of inspiration, enough to publish it, to share it with their readers who trust them to entertain and challenge them. That's what it's all about.

Yes, the lows are frustrating, but aren't the highs worth it? Yes, I could lead a Normal Life, but wouldn't that be boring?

Here's to many more lows, and the highs that make them worth it.

New Beginnings

2008-10-03T07:47:00.000-07:00

Since the last time I was here, the course has finished, petering out in a dull, prolonged fart of feedback sessions which amounted to little more then the usual "That's really good" variety of platitudes. If only the editors at Interzone and Asimov's were so easily impressed...

It's easy to see just why the course had become so lacklustre and listless. Bearing in mind the majority of the students on the course--those few left by the end, anyway--were only taking the course as an elective to complement fulltime study, it was obvious that most were burnt out and disinterested after an arduous academic year. That and most weren't all that bothered. Of the eight who attended the last session, I would say only Lord Lawrence of Loud, Comrade Knobski, and myself were serious writers. Angry Angela would like to tell you she is, but--when she's not hulking out and throwing passing strangers through walls or complaining about how complicated her life is--she just doesn't have the application. She seems to prefer whining about life rather than letting it inspire or challenge her.

As insipid as the last session was, it did end with a trip to the pub, and I have to confess to having a great time. Damn me if Lawrence and Knobski aren't great company away from the class room. And, yes, I'll admit, we exchanged e-mail addresses etc. And yes, I also admit I've even had lunch with Lawrence a few time since. I might even consider him to be a friend. But don't tell anyone. I wouldn't live it down...

So, what's next for yours truly? Well, due to the tremendous time-lag that exists between my blog posts and the events they portray/distort, the next part of my course starts NEXT WEEK! GOSH! Yes, my friend, I stand at the verge of a whole new academic year of caustic observation and character assassination. Tell me, can you contain your excitement? Are you breathless at the thought of a whole new ocean of vitriol? Are you light-headed and flushed at the sheer prospect? Or is that your asthma?

Whatever the case, I will be back very soon, with a greater frequency. In a week's time I'll have a whole new group of unsuspecting victims to deconstruct and ridicule for your entertainment.

I can almost taste their tears.

Whore

2008-07-05T13:26:00.001-07:00

Hey, haven't I been here before? Didn't I used to write some sorta blog, or something? Is 'blog' the right word? Back in my day, 'blog' was shorthand for 'bolognese', but, then again, I remember when Dr Who wasn't camper than a row of tents.

So, how y'been? You look... a lttle tired. Shouldn't you be in bed at this hour?

Me? Well, I'm not too bad. I do, however,have a confession to make.

It may suprise you to know that I'm essentially a very shy person. Yes, really. I write under a pseudonym. I draw under a pseudonym. For all my burning desire for my stories and characters to dominate the world, I'm quite content to stay in the background. You won't be seeing me hog the red carpet when the Valentine Chronicles film premieres. I couldn't. I hate attention.

With this in mind, I'm deeply embarrassed to announce that the latest issue of Twisted Tongue magazine features an interview with yours truly (as well as the usual array of great stories and excellent value for money). It's a strange feeling. It makes me feel a little... exposed. Does that make sense? Is this, I wonder, what I can look forward to when my career takes off?

Is that part of parcel of being a writer? The ability to whore yourself without hesitation or shame?

I wonder if it's too late to employ a body double ....

Toys

2008-04-05T17:09:00.001-07:00

“...a quickfire trilogy of posts designed to fill you in on the last few sessions before the break.” I said that, didn't I? Quick fire? Like what? A musket?

Anyways, I’m back, and things aren’t good. Motivation’s low, esteem even lower. Symptomatic of this was the final session before the Easter break which… well, I just didn’t go. Simple as. In fairness, there was an element of illness involved, with my Myathenia proving problematic, but--and my friends’ll vouch for this--if I really want to do something, Myasthenia won’t stop me. I’m too stubborn.

So why didn’t I go? I dunno, it just seems that, recently, the sessions have lost direction. Useful exercises on challenges like Show, Don’t Tell; dialogue tags, and internal dialogue have been subsumed by interminable feedback sessions. That’d be all well and good if the feedback was actually incisive and constructive, but I’d have more luck trying to cut my wrists with abutter knife. Maybe it’s because the group is made up almost entirely of dilettantes and dreamers that the feedback I get doesn’t exceed vague mumblings of “Yeah, that’s great”, and “Sorry, were you saying something?”

Case in point? Poetry. Every poem I’ve read out in class has been well received, and yet I’m convinced it just can’t be that simple. A few months ago I wouldn’t touch poetry with a barge pole, but now I’m suddenly good at it? Just like that? I don’t think so… Take this for example:-

BIN
Straight on the ‘net, straight on e-bay,
Wondering what you can buy today.
Placing bid on your childhood,
Action Force and Baron Ironblood,
Dungeons and Dragons, dice and Venger,
Star Wars, Han Solo and Darth Vader,
Laserburn and Golden Heroes,
Terrahawks and Sergeant Major Zero,
V.I.N.Cent, Durrant and Maximillian,
The Magicians Nephew and Prince Caspian,
The Book of Three and Never Ending Story,
Scowering each and every category,
But in the end it does no good,
You can’t buy back your childhood.

That gem’s a poem I knocked up to e-mail to Angry Angelina and one of the Three Witches (“Hubble bubble, boil those bones. Look at us, we’re all clones.”) in the Easter break for, guess what, another feedback session when we returned. Joy of joys.

What feedback did I get? Well, tune in next post and find out. But don’t expect any surprises.

Eight Line Poem

2008-04-05T16:59:00.000-07:00

Class started a little late this week, mainly due to a very poor turn-out, and most of those who did turn up weren't on time. Hence, teacher gave us a quick exercise to do whilst we waited. Given the title The House is Empty, we were told to write, and to not stop until teacher said so. Quickly dispelling the thought of teacher in a dominatrix outfit (not a pleasent image, I assure you!), I thus trotted this out:-

The cottage is empty now, subsumed by dust and the smell of old, stale air. I look about, my feet planted firmly on the bare stone floor just as my hands are thrust deeply in my pockets.
I used to sleep over there. jammed onto a sofa because the cottage only has one bedroom. Beside me is the place the dining table used to sit, and I can picture the table laden with food, napkins and Christmas crackers. To my left is a staircase leading to the landing and, beyond that, the single bedroom.
When I think of the time I spent in that room and this, of the games I played and the toys I cherished. Of the family, of the love, of the meals and the not-so-endless summers. When I think of what we lost when Granny died.
I came here to remember, to try and recapture the warmth of those halcyon days. But the cottage is cold, and I leave, empty handed.

So, that was fun. Went down well with the class, which is always nice, but, strangely, inevitable these days. More on that thought next post...

Eventually, after that first exercise and a brief break, we moved onto the main business of the evening: Another feedback session! Because it's like, weeks since we last had once, right? And, as with the last one, I wasn't all that well prepared. I really did mean to have a new piece ready, officer, really I did, but I was so busy with the Valentine Chronicles I didn't get chance. Therefore, not wishing to be a wallflower and sit out the session, I dug this up.

An old piece (well, two or three years old), it was originally written as part of an ongoing series of shorts depicting a week in the life of WPC Constance Bullock, a faded, jaded copper in a near-future Manchester. It never came to fruition, with only two such shorts written in total, but one never knows, does one? I might go back to it one day.

Or maybe I won't. I'm never sure if old writing is like an old love affair: It doesn't pay to rake over old coals. It all seems like a good idea at the time, but nine times out of ten you leave--as with the opening exercise of the night--empty handed...

Stalakdrama

2008-04-03T10:05:00.000-07:00

Easter breaks are great, aren't they? Universally used to catch up on vital R&R, DIY, TLC etc, my current four week break from Uni (Yes. Four weeks. For Easter. God, I wish I was a teacher...) has given me a chance to forge ahead with the Valentine Chronicles, (check out this week's concluding part of Hearts and Bones, folks! You'll thank me for it!) pursue some interesting opportunities in the field of comics, and even get my pencils out to do some artwork for BBC's Casualty.

All of this has left my Blog lacking in recent weeks (okay, a month), so here I am, trying to address the balance with the first in a quickfire trilogy of posts designed to fill you in on the last few sessions before the break. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll realise there are better ways to spend your time on the internet. But, most of all, you'll be bemused at the notion that Jesus gave his life for this.

So, first up we had a session examining drama. Y'know, plays and the like. Now, unlike poetry, I like plays, so no grumbles there. It was fun a session. We read extracts from the likes of Beckett, Pinter and Wilde, and did some exercises including a brief six line play where only variations on one word were allowed, and another where characters A & B discused a subject without expressly mentioning it. Strangely, most of the group went for racism, with all manner of metaphors ranging for football managers, squirrels and--my personal favourite--gobstoppers being employed.

The best part of the session, however, was the final exercise. Asked to create a brief premise, we were then instructed to create a quick exchange between two characters a la a normal play, but with one difference: We were told to expressly describe each characters thought processes. Me, I had a lot of fun with this, but Comrade Knobski (a playwrite with a few plays under his belt, including one which debuted at that week's 24 Hours of Drama event at the Uni) was enraged by such a "nonsensical" idea, which undermined the "purity" of the medium, and "reduced the distance between drama and conventional prose". I think he needs to get laid.

Anyways, here's my effort:-

Drowning in the Belly of a Whale: Being an extract from an original play by the renown Paul L. Mathews.

(Boy and Girl blunder into each other whilst lost in the belly of a whale)

Boy: Oh! Hello! I didn't expect to see you here! [Thinks: I knew it! I knew she was having an affair with the captain of a Japanese whaler!]
Girl: Oh, thank God! I'm so pleased to see you! [Thinks: You make me sick, you fat, corpulent slug]
Boy: How did you get here, anyway? [Thinks: As if I couldn't guess. Just where is Whaler-san, anyway?]
Girl: I... errr, swam.
Boy: Swam? Into a whale?
Girl: It was dark?
Boy: It's noon out there.
Girl: I, ahem, had my eyes closed.
Boy: I'll bet.
Girl: What about you?
Boy: Err... I was looking for you.
Girl: You were?
Boy: Yes. Definately.
Girl: You know I can tell when you're lying, don''t you? [Thinks: Hmmm. Maybe he is having an affair with balloon-chested lifeguard Pamela Anderson after all...]
Boy: You can?
Girl: 'Course I can. You look up and to the left, but then you try and compensate and just go cross-eyed.
Boy: Damn. Busted.
Girl: Anyway, ever mind that. How are we going to get out of here?
Boy: Um. Not sure. Maybe if we had a knife, or something, we could cut our way out. [Thinks: I'll bet loverboy's got one, hasn't he?]
Girl: That makes sense. If only we had some sorta balloons, we could use 'em to float to the surface. [Thinks: Where is Pammy, anyway?]
Boy: Sounds like a plan! [Thinks: Cool! All I need to do is kill you and the Whaler, and me an' Pammy are home free!]
Girl: Ohm, yeah, it's a plan, alright... [Thinks: But it doesn't include you]

Like I said, much fun, and No, I didn't take the exercise all that seriously. But
will I do some more drama? I don't think so. It's the wirdest thing. Every since we did those sessions on poetry last year, I've been knocking out a steady trickle of poems, but I can't see me doing the same thing with drama.

Why? Well, for me, drama is just too close to prose. If I have a story I want to tell, I'll write just that: a story, not drama. Not to decry drama for one second--it's a fine, fine artform, and one it'd take me a lot of time to even begin to explore the subtle nuances, tricks etc. So, in the meantime, I'll stick to prose. At least I've spent enough time on it that I'm starting to find my way around. Just...

The Boy in the Bubble

2008-03-08T12:20:00.000-08:00

Last week's session was a feedback session. Feedback sessions are great--they're sessions entirely dedicated to the giving of... you guessed it... feedback.

Forewarned, the modest this week’s modest turn-out (including the return of Whispering Harry, still in his mock Victorian army jacket!) were all armed with various works in progress, poems, missives and--in Lord Laurence of Loud’s case--the latest sprawling, tedious instalment of his sprawling, tedious fantasy epic.

Me? Well, hard at work as I am on the Valentine Chronicles (check out chapter 2 of Hearts and Bones, kids! It’s Calci-yummy!) I decided to take a punt on a new poem I’d written. It went as follows:-

Bubbles
I stood and raised my voice today,
To make my feelings clear.
But nobody paid attention,
Because nobody could hear.

80 gig iMmersion chambers,
That save them from the trouble,
Of listening to me ranting,
As they drift by in their bubbles.

So if I want to reach them,
To get into their heads,
I’ll have to make an MP3,
To broadcast on the web.

Now, the thing that worries me about this poem isn’t how easy I’m finding it to write this shit, but how well it’s received in class. Split into groups of three as we were, my two victims (Auntie Agnosta and that dormouse woman whose name I can’t remember) were uniform in glowing praise. Auntie Agnosta even went so far as to say she “always looked forward” to hearing my poetry, and I was “a true poet”. One suspects--as much as I like her--she just doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Maybe I can tell her I’m a plumber too. And a plasterer.

As for their work? Well… I honestly couldn’t say what it was like. I was distracted by my iPod.

All the Things She Said

2008-03-01T12:01:00.000-08:00

Hey. Have you missed me? I know, I know, I’ve been AWOL a week or so, but I have an excuse. The Valentine Chronicles. God damn, it’s like a pit, and all my time and energy’s just being poured into it. But, damn me, I love it.

So, let’s get back to business, with one of my personal bugbears: dialogue tags.

When I started writing a few years back, my work was loaded with very word I could think of other than “said”. Enthused, blasted, spat, muttered, hissed, roared… You name ‘em, I used ‘em. Why? Because—as I’ve said elsewhere—“said” is such a boring word, isn’t it? It’s just so… invisible.

But that, it appears, is the point, and it was a point teacher illustrated in last week’s class. Said is meant to be an invisible word, with readers so conditioned and familiar with it they don’t “see” it when they read. Only by replacing said with something else do you grab a reader’s attention and, sometimes, jar him out of the story. If this is your intention, all well and good, if not, well, that’s a bad thing.

Another trick is to limit the people in a scene so there are only two people actually talking. Teacher illustrated this technique with Hemmingway’s Hill Like White Elephants. Once the order of speech between two characters is established, you don’t need to ascribe dialogue at all, thus eliminating the need for those tricky tags in the first place. Genuis! This is an approach I need to think about very carefully, as I have a history of cramming scenes with more bodies than a Roman orgy.

This is an approach I used in the writing exercise for the week, in which we were asked to write the dialogue from a scene. Truth be told, I think I went a little overboard and limited the scene to nothing but dialogue:-

“What did you say?”
“I said: ‘Who’s paying for the cab?’”
“Oh. I though that’s what you said.”
“Well, are you paying, or am I?”
“Well, I paid last time.”
“Well, yeah, but, last time I looked, your paycheck had more noughts on it than mine.”
“What’s that got to do with bit? You share my bed, we share the bills. It’s a simple equation.”
“But I work in Wendy’s, you work on Wall Street. Analyse that.”
“So much for little miss sexual equality…”
“Oh, for God’s sake… Hey, driver, here’s thirty bucks. Keep the change.”
“Hey, wait, where are you going?”
“I’m getting another cab.”
“Another cab? Where?”
“Anywhere away from you. And, by the way, you wanna tip?”
“Yes please!”
“Not you—I gave you ten bucks already.”
“Yeah, butt out, wet-back. What tip? What are you talking about? Get back in the cab. It’s raining out there! Come on up for a coff—”
“No. Keep your damn coffee, and your damn salary. You wanna share? Try the NASDAQ. Me? I’m going home. Alone.”

And off she goes, presumably, into the rain, looking for another cab. Me? I'm off to do more work on the Valentine Chronicles, but I'll be back next week. How do you know you can believe me?

Because I said so.

Growing Up

2008-02-13T17:45:00.000-08:00

Today is a special day for me. Today my little baby website, www/thevalentinechronicles.com, is one year old.

This is a big deal for me. A year ago I had no web-presence, a questionable knowledge of HTML and a little ambition. A year on, nothing's really changed, but at least I chug on!

I'm sure one day I'll look back at the Valentine Chronicles and cringe. I'm sure the stories, like new serial Hearts and Bones will seem badly written and embarrassing, but, right now, I don't care. All writers grow up in public, stamping their feet and crying for attention, and the Valentine Chronicles is no different.

Here's to many more years, and many more embarrassing stories.

Train of Thought

2008-02-10T03:54:00.000-08:00

Last week's class was all about characters, and, speaking of which, we did have a higher turn-out than the previous session. The usual suspects were there (Angry Angela, Lord Lawrence, Comrade Knobski etc), but we were also blessed with the heavenly Nigella. I’m pleased to report she didn’t get a breast reduction for Christmas…

So, characters, yeah. Funny old things, aren’t they. I can’t write ‘em, but I can’t write without ‘em. One of the problems I’ve been having recently is a reliance on interior dialogue, thought process etc to convey stories and a character’s stimulus/response process. Reams and italicised reams of the stuff. I never used to do this, but my continual struggle with Show, Don’t Tell (when I’m King, I’m outlawing that bloody phrase…) drove me to start showing a characters internal responses rather than telling them.

One solution I’ve stumbled across is the use of dialogue to show how the characters are feeling/reacting, as well as actions and physical description to convey a characters personality and attitudes. Here’s a sample I did in class when we were asked to do a character description:-

Wheezing as he shuffled into the room, Cyril paused by the kitchen table. Propping himself up against its edge, he scrabbled about in the pocket of his grubby overcoat, fingers searching through lint, tab-ends, mints and old lighters.

Finally he found the inhaler and withdrew it with a hurried motion, putting it to his lips the same way he would gin. One deep inhalation later, a pause as his head sank and he slowed his breathing, and he drew himself to full height, the dull light from the old bulb making his sweaty forehead gleam.

“You alright, Cyril?” his brother asked. Older than Cyril, he was just as threadbare. Presently he was watching his brother through wide eyes, a cigarette burning between his lips. Stock still, he looked like a knackered old hare caught in the headlights of Cyril’s infamy.

“Where’s ma?” Cyril said, his voice and breath soft and clean as shitty gravel in a fish tank.

“In there,” his brother said, nodding toward the living room. “She arrived in a cab twenty minutes ago.”

“For God’s sake, Bill,” Cyril said, lip curling back to expose ruined teeth, “why does she keep pestering us? Why doesn’t she just die? We could use the money.”

“Cyril, please, she is our mum.”

“She’s a vicious hag, and we’ve both got the scars to prove it, haven’t we?”

With that, he pushed by his brother, wiping his forehead with his sleeve before stepping into the living room and—with an expansive sweep of arms and a wide smile—declared: “Ma! It’s good to see you!”

So, no interior dialogue, no thought processes, but it seems (to me, at least) as though Cyril and Bill’s personalities and feelings are pretty well portrayed. This, and Penetration (yes, an unfortunate term, I know) may well get me out of this italicised rut of interior dialogue I’ve fallen into recently.

Only time will Show, Don’t Tell…

Back in the saddle

2008-02-05T15:20:00.000-08:00

Been a while, hasn’t it? How are you? You look good.

Last week saw the first lesson of the New Year for our writing class (all that time off over Christmas and New Year? When do these students ever get chance to learn anything?!?!), and the first week back saw an underwhelming turnout of seven students (including myself). Present and correct were Angry Angela (late gain, and angry as ever), Lord Lawrence of Loud (yep, still loud and about as funny as cot-death), that strange girl whose name I can’t remember who looks like a Fluck and Law Cherie Blair puppet, Comrade Knobski, Auntie Agnosta (nice woman, Brazilian ex-pat, mid fifties, very erudite and well read), Marigold the Mysterious Man-woman (‘nuff said), and myself.

The first ten or so minutes were nice and relaxed, with the group going to the tea room to get a hot drink and a gossip, exchanging best wishes for the new year etc. I was cornered by Lord Lawrence, who was very excited by the fact he’d sent his first query to an agent. Good luck to him. As I’ve said in a previous post, I’m watching his progress with interest.

Hot drinks and pleasantries secured, it was back to class for our first task of the new year, and teacher gave us fifteen minutes to write anything we wanted on the subject of trees. Yes, trees.

Now, beyond the guilt I endure when I think of all the paper I’ve wasted submitting stories to every magazine from Asimov’s to Today’s Donkey Fondler, trees don’t really move me all that much. So I wrote these two poems instead:-

The Schism of the Streets
Two shadows cast by yellow streetlights,
Twin shadows cast across the curb.
One is bold and seeks attention,
The other doesn’t like to be disturbed.

Two different people in one body,
Different paths taken by one soul.
They fight and cuss like little kids,
But neither ever gains complete control.

There are two sides to every story
Two sides to everyone you meet
Cracked and split like broken paving,
As they cast their shadows across the street.

IOU
She always steals my money,
Telling me to take the balance from her body,
And the thought always occurs to me,
Ours would be a strange economy,
If we relied on such I.O.U.s
When we came to pay or dues.
And if I passed on her debt,
Just how far would it get,
Before someone knocked upon our door,
Looking for ten pounds of flesh,
Or more?

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s probably a very similar to the class’s reaction: “But you don’t like poetry!” You’re right, I don’t, but, apart from incest and buggery, I’ll try anything once. Twice if I’m not sure. And I’m starting to get the sneaking suspicion that poetry’s a great way of getting assorted ideas, vignettes and images out of my head. Like a jumble sale for the mind.

But is anybody buying any of this tat from my cerebral car-boot? Well, I’m not sure. The class seemed enthusiastic enough, and Auntie Agnosta said the first one was “Brilliant!”, but I find it hard to accept that I can write “brilliant” poetry without very much experience, and so quickly. If it what easy, and if I was that good a writer, I’d have been selling stories to Asimov’s years ago (or Today’s Donkey Fondler, at least), and then all those trees wouldn’t have died in vain…

Children's Story

2007-12-22T16:16:00.000-08:00

There was something of a Christmas theme to last week’s lesson, being the last lesson before Christmas and all that. Teacher gave us lots of little packets of Maltessers and satsumas, and we sat around and read out either work we’d been working on/done before, or a quick piece written there and then on the subject of Christmas.

The results were varied. All the Christmas pieces were down-beat and cynical. I really did get the feeling these youngsters were disillusioned by the ‘winterval’—which I think is a shame, because I adore Christmas. Nearly all of the various poems and vignettes the other students (especially the younger one, curiously) read out were glum reflections on the evils of commercialism; the raping of the true spirit of Christmas; homelessness; God is for life, not just for X-Mas etc. What a shame. To me, Christmas is what you make it, and I make it a time for family, food and fornication. Each to their own.

Of the three pieces that were read out, three made the biggest impression. One was by my old friend Comrade Knobski; the other by Lord Lawrence of Loud; and the other by, well, me.

Comrade Knobski's piece was a quick satire entitled He's Behind You, Comrade. It lampooned both Christmas and the panto season by placing Karl Marx in a production of Dick Whittington. I hate to admit it, but I was actually quite taken with it. Damn him.

Lord Lawrence's piece wasn't so good. He introduced it as a chapter from his novel in progress, and proceeded to 'treat' us to a glimpse of his genius. The following 3,000 word torrent amounted to little more than fantasy torture-porn that centred about the plight of a vague, undefined girl being mutilated at the hands of her captors. I have to admit I lost the will to live halfway through, as did the rest of the class, but I'm fairly sure his writing isn't up to snuff (excuse the pun), and if he wants to get this novel in print anytime soon, he's gonna have improve. Rapidly. Nobody had a good word to say about it, not even the uniformily positive teacher. I almost felt embarrased for him. Almost.

And my piece? Well, having spent so much time recently writing The Valentine Chronicles, I'll admit to not being prepared for this session, so I dusted off Children's Story (as previously published by the Deepening.com). It went down very well, with teacher enthusing about how much of a departure it was for me (got that right!), and even Comrade Knobski taking the time to say how much he enjoyed it and how he was impressed by the piece's rhythm and structure. After all the stick I've given him over the course of this blog, and the needle between us in the past, I was genuinely touched. Maybe I'm wrong about him after all...

Oh, by the way, Merry Christmas.

Good Enough

2007-12-16T08:11:00.000-08:00

Last week we received the marks for our first assignment. As some of you will know, I submitted my short Enjoy the Silence, and I keenly awaited the result.

As it transpired, I received a mark of 65. More familiar with a percentage based marking system as I am, I initially thought this was both a little low and a little disappointing, but teacher allayed my fears. The Uni uses its own marking system, and she directed me to the course handbook to get some sort of perspective on my mark.

It turns out 65’s not a bad mark at all, especially considering it’s only the second short I ever wrote, and that was some two years ago. In degree terms, a 65 is the equivalent of a 2.2, or “Good Pass”.

I find this heartening. It’s the first real, academic assurance I’ve received that, y’know, I’m not that bad after all. Little things like that mean a lot when the rejections are stacking up…

The one thing that I found amusing about this 65 mark, is one of the criteria these assignments are marked on is “professionalism”—and a 65 means, apparently, that Enjoy the Silence “approaches a publishable standard.” Having had this piece published online by the Deepening.com, in the pages of SciFantastic, Nowa Fantastyka, and in a forthcoming issue of the Willows, I think teacher’s sold me a little short there…

I think it’s only human to wonder how you’ve done compared to your peers (especially if you’re as competitive as me!), but everybody else in the group was playing their cards close to their chest, so I was unable to learn any scores. The pupil whose score I was most curious to learn was Lord Lawrence of Loud. Lord Lawrence is one of those kids who mistakes a genuine sense of humour for being able to quote Monty Python line for line in the loudest possible voice—which is ironic, because, with his plumy accent and private education, he reminds me very much of the Upper Class Twits from the famous Python sketch. He does have one use though: Angry Angela thinks he’s really funny, and we often use him to calm her down when she gets irate. It’s just like giving the Savage She-hulk something shiny to play with.

Apparently, having been brought up reading epic fantasy, Lord Lawrence is a big David Eddings fan, and isn’t shy about his ambition to have the first volume of his own fantasy trilogy in print “within a few years”. When I asked when he started this epic, he was vague, but I seemed to get the idea it was a recent undertaking. I went on to relate how I’d read somewhere that the average writer needs to work hard for seven years to reach a publishable standard, he scoffed. “It won’t take me that long” he said.

So, as of now, Lord Lawrence is one of the pupils I’ll be keen to keep an eye on—if only with the same fascination afforded by a car-crash. I’ll be very interested to see if he, more than anybody else in the group, is good enough…

Cinematic Soul

2007-12-04T15:55:00.000-08:00

A sleepless night later (memo to self: Avoid hotels in Golders Green run by Russians. They tend to have all the amenities and creature comforts of an Eastern European doss-house circa 1960) and my lovely wife and I headed into the heart of London. We spent most of the day in the British Museum’s Terracotta Army exhibition (well worth it—do make sure you go if you get the chance) and had lunch in a miniscule Chinese restaurant in Soho (now that’s what you call Chinese food!). A quick trip back to chez Stasi for a change of clothes and a freshen-up, and then we headed back to the concert venue for the second night of our Barry Adamson pilgrimage.

Entitled These Are a Few of My Favourite Themes, the set was an odyssey through Adamson’s favourite themes from TV and film (including The Man from UNCLE, Dirty Harry, and Shot in the Dark) and a selection of his own instrumental work. A plethora of guest stars were also on offer, including David McAlmont, Sarah Stanton and the inimitable Nick Cave (who, manic as ever with his waving arms and bared teeth, put me in mind of a militant Magnus Magnussen).

As with the previous evening, Adamson and his band were in awesome fettle, and it was a pleasure to be there. The highlight for me, however, was Adamson’s rendition of Elmer Bernstein's The Man With the Golden Arm. It’s a great track in itself, and it’s been one of my favourite tracks since it appeared on Adamson’s Moss Side Story album, but it was made so much better by the guest appearance of Immodesty Blaize.

For those who don’t know, Immodsty is a burlesque dancer of some stature. As opposed to the generic vanilla of Dita Von Teese, she's all double chocolate chip, with a stunning, voluptuous, and brazenly healthy figure. As her name suggests, she’s certainly not backward in coming forward, and she gave a bravura performance that ended up in a gyrating explosion of hips, nipple tassels and cellulite. God love her.

The night, however, wasn’t over. As mentioned in the previous blog, Adamson would be reading a short story after the show (a tale of—as he put it—“Griminality and woe”), and I was intrigued to hear what his work would be like.

Half an hour later, and the story had been read to a jazz backing. Once he’d finished, I felt drained—and confused. This story challenged everything I know about writing, from maintaining your perspective, to staying in character, and staying in one tense. Everything about it, technically, was wrong—but it was bloody good.

The story, like the jazz accompaniment, was free and unfettered, and its components parts were tight and so well written as to be astounding. He jumped from first to third person narration with wanton abandon, from tense and character at will, and there seemed to be no obvious plot, instead happy to move from vignette to vignette, all the while painting such a vivid and acutely observed portrait of the dregs of London life it was painful. Exhibiting a startling skill for regional accents, he brought us Poles, Jamaicans, Mancs, Scousers, Cockneys and Brummies as he painted a vivid picture of desperate, down-trodden and devious individuals bouncing off one another in an East-end suburb. His insight into the mind of the obsessive-compulsive main character was a fine an example of “Show, don’t tell” as I’ve ever encountered.

This lead to another sleepless night as chez Stasi—and much introspection since. If Adamson’s story could be seen as an analogy for jazz (free, well-written, crafted, an exhibition of peerless skill), then surely I was wrong about jazz, and finally I was getting an insight into just what it was my Grandfather enjoyed in those records and endless concerts. Thus, by extension, was I wrong about poetry, which I’ve so often likened to jazz? For all my dismissive attitude toward these little snap-shots that “don’t go anywhere”, that “pose and pontificate”, was I blithely ignoring the qualities that make poetry such a widespread and appreciated art-form—and one which is so hard to master? Does my brazen lampooning of poetry say more for my paucity of depth and skill, and an inability to read and decipher subtler texts that aren’t all tits and spaceships?

When I started this blog, I was (more than) open about my attitude toward students. But that’s an attitude that has softened the more I get to know the Nigellas and the Lornas and the Whispering Harrys of the world—would my attitude toward poetry change if I gave it a chance, took the time to explore it with less insolence and more cognisance?

I’m not saying I’m going out and buying Seamus Heaney’s Greatest Hits anytime soon, but maybe now I can start being less aggressive toward poetry. After all, as teacher pointed out, “music is just poetry with a beat”, and God knows I love my music.

Especially Barry Adamson.

Jazz Devil

2007-12-03T14:41:00.000-08:00

Okay, I’ll admit, I didn’t go to Uni last week. Not because I was still struggling with a heavy cold, but because I was in London to see a two night show by the awesome Barry Adamson.

I’ve been listening to Adamson since I was fifteen (yes, that’s nearly twenty years. Yes, I bought his first album on cassette, and, yes, we had electricity in those days. Smart-arse), and ever since I’ve loved the unique combination of narratives (Vermillion Kisses, A Gentle Man of Colour, Here in the Hole etc), instrumentals (The Man With a Golden Arm, Checkpoint Charlie etc) and flamboyant, clever songs (Here Am I, Can’t Get Loose et al) a new Barry Adamson album presents. He’s always been on my ‘Wish-list’ of artists I wanted to see live, so you can imagine how excited I was.

Unfortunately, before Mister Adamson came on stage, we had to sit through the support act. Now, as Barry quite likes—and is influenced by—jazz, he had a jazz four-piece as his support. I just don’t get jazz, and my opinion of it can be summed up with the following quote from Otis Lee Crenshaw: “I fuckin’ hate jazz. Jazz is what you get when you push a blues quartet down a flight of stairs.”. To me it belongs in the same category as poetry. What’s the point? To me, it’s just laziness and an inability to construct something with a beginning, middle and end. Maybe I’m missing something, or maybe I’m just opinionated, ignorant and blinkered…

I have no idea if this particular quartet was good or not, but the audience seemed to appreciate it. The only thing I could say for certain was the drummer needs to get laid. I have never seen a man look more orgasmic hitting some pig-skin with a stick. He hit every single irregular beat like it was some sort of money shot, and he got so carried away that, at one point, the bassist had to slap him to stop the poor lad from jazzing all over the sax solo.

Finally (thankfully), the support vacated the stage, the Ron Jeremy/Dave Grohl amalgam on drums so bereft he had a tear in his eye, and Barry Adamson’s show got under way.

The first of two nights, this first evening was split into a sampling of tracks from his new album, and a small collection of his older stuff—and jolly good it was too. He had a tremendous band, and keyboardist Nick Plytas blew me away. Never mind this writing crap—that’s what you call talent.

It was, as these things always are, over too quickly. I enjoyed it tremendously, but that leaves me with an odd dilemma. The jazz influences on Adamson’s work are so obvious as to be glaring, but why do I enjoy his music and not, say, John Coltrane or Sunny Rollins?

Part of me knows the answer: Adamson’s music is very narrative, there’s a definite beginning, middle, and end, whereas most jazz I’ve encountered (and I grew up with jazz, as my Grandfather was a clarinet player in a jazz band and had more jazz records than God) seems so directionless and meandering. I’ve already made the analogy between jazz and poetry and—although I like Blake because he has a fierce, javelin narrative that rattles through a story at a breathless pace—most poetry I know just seems to sit with its hands in its lap lamenting this or observing that and being so awfully clever—and I hate being talked down to. By anybody.

With Adamson, however (as with Blake), I don’t feel patronised. I feel like I’m being entertained, like I’m being invited into a story or piece of music and shown something secret and shiny, as opposed to being told “I’m clever, and you’re base. You can’t understand my work. Go back to your workhouse, plebeian,” by some poet or jazz wanker. Anybody who’s read my work knows there’s nothing clever or highbrow about it—it’s straight cut adventure with some neat characters and no heirs and graces.

With this in mind, I left the concert that evening looking forward to the following nights performance. Entitled “These Are a Few of My Favourite Themes”, it was labelled as a collection of Adamson’s favourite TV and movie instrumentals, with some of his own cinema work thrown in as well. More than that, however, after the concert he would be reciting a short story he had written. Having, for many years, admired the narratives on his albums, I was looking forward to this a great deal.

Little did I know how much it would challenge my perceptions of story telling, jazz, and poetry...

The Race

2007-11-27T15:02:00.000-08:00

I’ve made no bones about it in the past, and I won’t now: I don’t get this whole poetry thing. To me it’s like jazz—I just don’t understand what it’s for. As far as I can tell, most of it seems to be the random vignettes and observations of those who are clever enough to write well (in most cases very well), but don’t have the discipline to write a novel. Well, to me, that’s not enough. You wanna show someone how clever you are? Or how good your vocabulary is? Then take a MENSA test, because I’m not interested.

With all this in mind, I’m sure you can imagine how my heart sank when, at the commencement of last week’s class, teacher told us we’d be spending all lesson covering poetry. Still full of cold and drowning in my own snot, I really wasn’t in the mood, especially when she produced a huge stack of books and magazines on poetry and forced us to read them and then discuss them in pairs.

But, as often happens, I enjoyed this class much more than I would have thought possible. I think part of my pleasure came from being paired up with Comrade Knobski (who loves poetry… especially his own poetry) and having ample opportunity to mock his beloved medium with the most horrendous, sweeping and unfounded criticism I could muster (and those who know me well know I’m very good at that).

I could literally see his blood pressure rising, bless him, in his Specials t-shirt and matching wristband (because activists like accessories, don’t they folks?) I think the line “Poetry’s like socialism: It’s great in theory, but it stinks in practice” was the line that truly ensured I’m not going to be on the Peoples’ Christmas Card List this year.

The highlight of the evening, however, was the chance to write some poetry. Yep, that’s right—the highlight. Having been forced to read all this nasal gazing, self-absorbed posturing, we were then asked to take an element, or elements, we liked and use that as a starting point for our own piece. I turned this around by asking if I could write something that encapsulated what I didn’t like about poetry (a question that earned a snide “Oooo, how post-modern,” from Comrade Knobski), and I was delighted when teacher confirmed that, yes, I could.

I enjoyed the next fifteen minutes so much I produced these gems:-

Untitled
I really don’t like poetry,
I don’t know what it’s for,
(Although William Blake appeals to me,
But that’s ‘cos he can draw).

The Old Woman’s Face
It’s like a broken window,
Lined, sharp and open.
It’s like a ruined building,
Skeletal and empty.
It’s like a winter’s graveyard,
Cold, forlorn and haunted.

The Love of My Life
My wife lives life at one hundred Marlboro an hour.
Our love is a bunch of poisoned, thorny flowers.

An’ there we are. My attitude toward Heaney, Owen, Duffy and all the rest—and the kind of pointless toss they produce—in three throw-away and unfulfilling poems. Blinkered, I know, but, as I’ve said before, it works for racehorses—and I’m in a race with my own mortality. I won’t win by writing poetry.

Can't Stop Messin'

2007-11-13T07:25:00.000-08:00

Last week's class was a bit of a bust for me. I’d started to feel a little off-colour the morning after John Cooper Clarke/Starbase 109, and by the time Monday morning came I was full of cold. By Tuesday I was suffering, the cold keeping me awake at night and impacting on my Myasthenia Gravis.

So, I didn’t really do a great deal in class. First we were put into groups to discuss the preparatory work we’d done for our next assignment (a 1000 word piece on “Why I Write”), but I didn’t really contribute all that much, to be honest. Thankfully I was placed with Mona and the lovely Nigella, and they took up the slack.

Like I said, bit of a bust...

This was the first chance I’d had to actually talk to Nigella instead of being mesmerised by her cleavage, and she’s a really, really nice girl. She’s at that nascent state in her writing career were she knows she wants to write, knows shat she wants to write about, but just isn’t sure if she can, or should. I was like that once. Actually, no, I wasn’t. Getting me to stop writing appears to be the problem…

We then took a short break just as Angry Angela finally arrived, this week blaming Archimedes for being late. I would have loved to find out how, exactly, but I spent the rest of the lesson in the canteen with a hot drink and chocolate.

Teacher said I should never have gone in the first place (apparently I looked like death), but if I did what I was told, I'd have stopped writing years ago, and there'd be no assignments on "Why I Write" at all. Then what would I talk to the lovely Nigella about..?

Space Dementia

2007-11-12T14:38:00.000-08:00

Having seen Paul Cornell do his stuff last Tuesday, last Friday I got to see both John Cooper Clarke and Starbase 109.

What has this to do with my Uni course? There’s a link, honest. It’s a spurious one, but it’s a link none-the-less… ;0)

I hadn’t even heard of this John Cooper Clarke until earlier this year when my lovely wife played Beasley Street on a punk compilation. Normally, as I’ve mentioned before, I’ve no time for poetry (apart from Blake), but Beasley Street really caught may attention. So when my lovely wife asked me if I’d like to go see him on stage, I decided to take a punt.

And who should I see lurking in the audience? Comrade Knobski, our classes premiere activist and punk poet. He was alone. Part of me felt a little sad about that. I genuinely don’t like to see lonely people, but a little bit of me—the nasty little bit of me—had a giggle. Socialists aren’t that sociable, obviously—either that or they piss off their mates ‘cos they’re always trying to steal a slice of the People’s Pizza…

That, by the way, was my spurious link to Uni. See? Told you it was tenuous.

So, getting back to John Cooper Clarke, he was pretty funny, and he’s got a great way with words—but I spent most of his gig marvelling at how thin he was. He’s the only man I’ve seen live on stage who could pick a fight with a box of strays and lose. Jesus, he’s thin. And that back-combed, Robert Smith style hair? He looked like a sunflower Van Gogh would paint if he only had blacks in his paint box.

Anyway, as entertaining as JCC was, he was nowhere near as much fun as the support: the awesome Starbase 109. Looking like Kraftwerk crossed with Manic Miner they treated us to what I can only describe as Salford’s answer to Gary Numan, Yello and the Sparks. Glorious. They did, however, get some real stick from sections of the audience who just didn’t get it.

Fancy making up your own mind? Check ‘em out!

And for the record, Comrade Knobski didn’t like ‘em. Not enough “gravitas” and “experimentation” for his liking. Give it a rest, mate, and try lightening up a little. You never know, you might make some friends…

O Superman

2007-11-10T08:24:00.000-08:00

So, as I mentioned in my last entry, Paul Cornell held “An Audience With…” affair at out University last week, and—as a student on the Creative Writing degree—I received free tickets. Whoop!

A writer for TV (Dr Who, Robin Hood, and Holby City,) comics (Dr Who, 2000AD and Excalibur) and novels (Dr Who, Something More and British Summertime), Paul talked for just under two hours about—and this came as a surprise to me—how his work has been (mainly) influenced by two things: being bullied at school, and being an Anglican. Now, I don’t know why I was surprised that he was a bullied Anglican (why would you want to bully an Anglican? That’s like kicking a puppy!), but there y’go. He also talked at length about how almost all his work, at some stage or other, involves him rewriting Superman II—and he cited his Dr Who story Human nature/Family of Blood as a good example. Again, and it made sense. Superhuman become human, falls in love, sacrifices humanity to fight three baddies, three baddies get their asses kicked and imprisoned. It’s all there when you look at it. Except Dr Who doesn’t have Terrance Stamp or Sarah Douglas in it. Which is a shame.

I have to admit, I did leave the audience a little disappointed. I wanted to learn a little about his technique, about his work ethic, about how he tackles Show, Don’t Tell and dialogue. Instead most of the questions directed at him were mainly by geeks and included incisive gems like “Who’s your favourite Doctor?” (apparently it’s a toss-up between Peter Davidson and Sylvester Mc Coy, which, again, is a surprise because McCoy’s just sh… it doesn’t matter, let’s move on), “Having written for Dr Who and upcoming issues of the Marvel comic Excalibur, how does it feel writing established characters like the Doctor, Captain Britain et al?” (“It’s intimidating, but you have to be able to meet a challenge like that if you’re going to be a successful genre writer.”), and my personal favourite “Where do you get your ideas from?” (“A little shop in Croyden. They do mail-order.”) Oh, and he spent a bit of time plugging his new novel, British Summertime.

Anyway, slight disappointment or not, Paul was a lively, engaging and very genuine speaker, and—having been a fan of Excalibur when Claremount and Alan Davis were on the title—I find myself looking forward to a new issue for the first time since I left school. I can’t wait to see how he’ll work Superman II into it.