Tag Archives: NewCon Press

In print

I’m still not sufficiently jaded a writer that I don’t feel a thrill at seeing my name in a byline, and that goes doubly so for fiction work, and for work that appears in actual physical dead-tree media. (I know, it’s just so archaic of me.) So fiction work that appears in dead-tree media is the best byline of all:

Noir anthology: author copies

Those are my author copies of the Noir anthology from Newcon Press, which contains my story “A Boardinghouse Heart”; you can buy it for your Amazonian e-reading device for just £2.01, as a paperback for £9.99, or a signed hardcover for £15.99. (Still no sign of any direct-from-publisher options, so you may need to drop Newcon a line if that’s your preference. Or catch ’em in the dealer’s room at pretty much any UK convention…)

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So last week I went down to That London for the Clarke Award, which was not only my first experience with 1st-Class trains both ways between Sheffield and London (1st-Class Advance tickets for midday trains are usually only a few quid more than the Standard option, so why not?), but also with AirBnB; both of which were agreeably affordable solutions to the Evening Shin-dig In London Conundrum.

The Clarke was a good bash as always; nothing quite beats catching up with literary chums (daaaahling!) while swanning around the reception rooms at the Royal Society, and Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice took the gong. No arguments from me with that result… nor, unusually for the Clarke, anyone else (perhaps because it seemed something of a foregone conclusion as soon as the book started turning up with reviewers and critics). One assumes everyone’s storing up their annual stock of outrage for the LonCon Hugos… *sigh*

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My late train out of London meant I had time to allow Charing Cross Road to relieve me of my money. Apparently the first step is admitting that you have a problem…

Books from Charing Cross Road

One of the downsides of starting a PhD is that it has acted as a hideous enabler of my book jones (see previous). Ah, well; better books than fast cars, hookers and blow, right? Nice bit of McLuhan (who seems to be undergoing something of a renaissance, viz. this Will Self piece at Teh Graun on the senescence of the novel, which prompted just as many canonical displays of denial from the writerly twittersphere as one would expect); an intro to Adorno, who I keep bumping into in citations and notes of late; some Bookchin, who is that rarest of birds, the truly citable left-anarchist; some hermeneutics, because, well, why not; and a book that has provided me with a new pat answer to the question “so what is it you actually do?”: mappin’ the futures, man. Stand well back and hold on to your fedora!

Was wryly amused to find the GC hardback of Chairman Bruce’s The Hacker Crackdown; for that book to still exist as a prestige-format physical object is a glorious double anachronism. And Foyles had the Kathy Acker just sat there all on its lonesome in the regular fiction run… which is all the more impressive, given I thought Acker was out of print in the UK. Maybe someone ordered it in and never collected it? I dunno. I still need to get a copy of her Empire of the Senseless

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What else has been happening? All the things, it feels like. I’ve been to assorted seminars, including a fascinating talk by Luke “Bunkerology” Bennett, academic psychogeographer and penetrator of pillboxes (bring your own Jungian metaphors), and my PhD confirmation report is starting to take shape, but that’s all probs a bit too inside-baseball for blogging.

Coming up soon: this time next week I’ll be somewhere in the Lake District beyond the reach of the cellphone networks, as a bunch of folk from the Institute for Atemporal Studies conduct experiments on the successful use of Kendal mint cake as hallucinogenic ritual sacrament, and into just how long it takes internet habitués to go mad without the internet…

Poppytar noir

So, I sold a story a while ago. Not quite as long ago as I wrote the story in question, mind — that was during the second semester of my Masters, which feels like a lifetime ago.

Anyway, the sale went to Ian Whates at NewCon Press. Here’s as much as anyone other than Ian knows about the project in question:

“… the project that started life as ‘write me something featuring a femme fatale’ has evolved considerably.  In fact, what began as a single anthology has subsequently budded, amoeba-like, and developed into two independent volumes; a duo-anthology (no, I’m not too sure what that means either, but it sounds impressive).  La Femme and Noir, two thematically linked books, each with their own distinct identity.

Both books will be launched on the Friday evening of this year’s Eastercon in Glasgow, 6.00 pm on April 18th, unveiled at a launch party which will also see the release of a new collection from Eric Brown and “The Moon King”, Neil Williamson’s debut novel.”

Two books, two TOCs:

La Femme:

  1. Introduction — Ian Whates
  2. Stephen Palmer – Palestinian Sweets
  3. Frances Hardinge – Slink-Thinking
  4. Storm Constantine – A Winter Bewitchment
  5. Andrew Hook – Softwood
  6. Adele Kirby – Soleil
  7. Stewart Hotston – Haecceity
  8. John Llewellyn Probert – The Girl with No Face
  9. Jonathan Oliver – High Church
  10. Maura McHugh – Valerie
  11. Holly Ice – Trysting Antlers
  12. Ruth E.J. Booth – The Honey Trap
  13. Benjanun Sriduangkaew – Elision

Noir:

  1. Introduction — Ian Whates
  2. E.J. Swift – The Crepuscular Hunter
  3. Adam Roberts – Gross Thousand
  4. Donna Scott – The Grimoire
  5. Emma Coleman – The Treehouse
  6. Paula Wakefield – Red in Tooth and Claw
  7. Simon Kurt Unsworth – Private Ambulance
  8. Jay Caselberg – Bite Marks
  9. Marie O’Regan – Inspiration Point
  10. Paul Graham Raven – A Boardinghouse Heart
  11. Simon Morden – Entr’acte
  12. James Worrad – Silent in Her Vastness
  13. Paul Kane – Grief Stricken
  14. Alex Dally McFarlane – The (De)Composition of Evidence

Very chuffed to be there… and very chuffed to have sold that story, which collected apologetic personal rejections from all of the best genre ‘zines on the interwebs. Just my luck someone was doing an anthology where grimly ambiguous tales of monumental self-pity, possibly fraudulent magic, police violence and certifiable drug abuse would be a good fit, eh?

In other writy-publishy news, I just finished a commissioned book chapter. Don’t congratulate me; it was originally due in November last year. Given it’s for a collection of scholarly essays, I expect it’ll take at least as long to get to press as the story above, if not longer… always assuming, of course, that the editors don’t wisely decide that the piece I’ve sent them is that little bit too much weirder than even my abstract had led them to expect. Guess we’ll see…