WHC 2010- Part The First

Right, here it begins. I made a promise to the lovely Cate Gardner (yes, that's her over there) to blog about World Horror 2010, and I always keep my promises, especially to women who have Colin Firth chained up in their basements. Thusly and heretofore, the first instalment:

The convention started on Thursday 25th, but the preamble to it was pretty entertaining too, so I thought I'd shoehorn that in and all. So, here goes...

Wednesday 24th
The calm before the storm, the day before the Con.

Finish work at 12.30 and head for home with plans to carefully pack stuff and get the house reasonably tidy for soon-to-be new housemate who’ll be moving stuff in over the coming weekend. Fail miserably and veg out in front of the internet connection for several hours, throwing everything together at the last minute and dashing for Swinton train station. Catch the train with literally seconds to spare and buy return ticket to Leeds- home of the lovely Gary and Emily McMahon, with whom Your Humble Author is hitching a ride- changing at Salford Crescent and then at Oxford Road. Once in Leeds, all that’s required is a simple phone call to Gary who’ll pick me up at the station. Simple as clockwork and smooth as glass.

Yeah, right.

At Salford Crescent the unwelcome discovery is made that the mobile phone has been left back at Castle Bestwick.

Oh shit.

Too late, though, to turn back now. We are now committed to the path.

The plan was to work on the rewrite notes for The Song Of The Sibyl en route. No soap as succession of anxiety attacks ensue. In the train carriage are mobiles, mobiles everywhere, nor any one to call on. Fail to work up the nerve to ask a fellow passenger for the loan of theirs. Doesn’t help that I can’t remember Gary’s home or mobile numbers beyond the first four or five digits.

Don’t panic. Remain calm.

Thank god Leeds train station has a payphone. But still no memory of Gary’s phone number. Whose phone do I still remember? Calls follow to: Joel Lane (answering machine), Paul Finch (doesn’t have Gary’s number but will try and find Gary Fry of Gray Friar Press’ number as he’s good mates with Gary Mc- are you getting confused yet? Imagine what it was like at this end) and then Bernard, my neighbour back in Swinton (sheer desperation is kicking in by now) who got on with Gary last time he was up my way and became friends with him on Facebook…

Finally another call to Joel gets through and, just as all hope is about to be abandoned he finds Gary’s number. All three mates are automatically owed a pint.

Ring Gary, who’s been ringing my mobile in the growing conviction that he’ll have to pay half the parking fees when he gets to Brighton rather than only a third (private joke). He hoots with laugher and informs me that my life is a cross between a tragedy and a farce.

Thanks, mate. I think.

Back to Gary’s for corned beef sandwiches, coffee, and a late-night viewing of the brilliant Harlan Ellison documentary Dreams With Sharp Teeth. Brilliant stuff, with both of us nodding along and uttering heartfelt agreements with virtually everyone of the great man’s pronouncements on creativity, writing, and life in general. We are, truly, not worthy.

And so to bed. Tomorrow, the Con begins.

And may God have mercy on our souls...

Next instalment as soon as I have the time and energy.

Brighton Rocks (Hopefully)

So, tomorrow I'm off to World Horror down in Brighton.

It promises to be a lot of fun, although maybe not the informal boozeup that is Fantasycon. There will be many publishers, editors and writers there and there'll be opportunities to pitch stuff. Sadly I have nothing, as yet, to pitch- The Song Of The Sibyl (undergoing rewrites) is earmarked for a particular publisher, so it'd be bad form to offer it elsewhere till they have said yea or nay. Probably say nay, now... ah well.

But it'll be a chance to meet the likes of Barbara and Chris Roden, who published my first collection, and Ellen Datlow, face to face at last. And also there will be: Dennis Etchison, Melanie Tem and Steve Rasnic Tem, Roberta Lannes, Lisa Tuttle, Lisa Morton... and that's just a few of the American authors whose work influenced me as a writer coming on song in the mid-90s. Most of these names will mean nothing to you unless you read a lot of contemporary horror fiction. But if you do, they'll mean plenty.

And there'll newer writers on the scene, like John Avjide Lindqvist (Let The Right One In) and Gemma Files. And, of course, a host of names I know all too well and I'll be glad to sink a pint with once more...

Oh, and Ingrid Pitt. Takes deep breath and releases it- I'm not of the generation that grew up seeing the Hammer horror films at the pictures, but the one just after that never missed a chance to catch them on the TV.

Meanwhile, I have a new housemate due to move in over the weekend while I'm absent. Hopefully I can trust her not to burn the house down, but tomorrow afternoon, before I set off, I have to knock my pesthole of a house into shape.

I was sure I'd rung a Brighton guesthouse (which shall remain nameless here) and booked a room, but when I rang last night the response was : 'Sorry? We've nothing booked in that name.' And they were now fully booked. A tad mortifying. Either I've had a fairly ultimate blonde moment here and noted down the wrong guesthouse (I'll find out this weekend I suppose, when the real one bills me for not showing up) or they ballsed up.

But hey-ho.

Of course, that wasn't my feeling last night. More like 'OH SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!' Two days to go till a fairly huge convention and now having to look for a place to stay...

Fortunately I found somewhere, which basically seems to be even nicer than the original choice. 'Breakfast served in your room,' the landlady- who had one of those bright, warm, jolly voices that immediately make you like the owner and feel like you'll be in good hands for the duration of your stay- 'either a bacon roll'- fandabidozi- 'or a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel' -squee! (sorry Chris) '-and your choice of douche.'

EH?

Of course, she meant juice, but by the time we cleared that one up it was a toss-up which of us was more embarassed.

Ah well.


Anyway. This should be fun...