Alex Bell - fantasy author

So this hasn’t been the best of weeks. Not much in the way of writing has been done. Although I did go to the Orion Author Party at the V&A last night, complete with pre and post-party drinks at a nearby pub with several other boozy authors. The location was glitzy and beautiful as usual - and I really love that big squiggly thing that hangs down from the ceiling. Someone (I can’t remember who) said that it looks a bit like an evil balloon - which it kind of does. Perhaps that’s why I like it so much.

There was also the usual free-flowing champagne. The only problem with that was that I haven’t really eaten anything much over the last two weeks as one of my dogs became very ill with cancer, and died the day before the party. This was easily one of the worst days of my life - but I suppose that’s the price you pay for having one of the best dogs ever. It does turn out, though, that if you haven’t been eating, you can’t hold your drink as well as you normally can. I’m fairly sure I told both Suzanne McLeod and Jon Weir that I loved them during the course of the evening. This isn’t really too much of a problem as I do rather love Suzanne and Jon, because they’re both so flippin’ cool. I just hope I didn’t profess my love to anyone else. Total strangers, for instance; or dodgy looking men in back alleys; baffled reviewers; worried-looking agents; harassed waiters . . . But it was certainly nice to have a night of fun in the middle of a week of utter crap. And - once again - Mr Devereux and I were the last ones standing. I simply can’t get over what a load of lightweights all these other authors are! What’s with all this responsible grown-up stuff, eh? Eh? Now, more than ever, I can’t wait for Eastercon! And the all-night drinking and partying and misbehaving and silliness!

But for now I am simply looking forward to going to Florida on Saturday. After the week I’ve just had I don’t think I’ve ever been more in need of ten days of Mickey Mouses, roller coasters, sunshine and American junk food. Lots and lots of American junk food, actually, because with the amount of weight I’ve lost this week, none of my jeans fit me anymore and I really don’t want to have to spend more hard-earnt money buying new ones. Not when I could be spending it on buying as many Mickeys as will possibly fit into my suitcase . . .

Yeah, you’re shocked? Just think how I felt last week when I discovered that Richard Morgan and Alistair Reynolds were my real parents! Evil Overlord Spanton blithely revealed this heretofore closely guarded secret at the Gollancz Quiz on Thursday during the acting round. It was quite shocking for everyone present, actually. When I pencilled the Gollancz Quiz onto my calendar it never occurred to me that part of the evening would involve me stood in front of fifty booksellers trying to convince Richard Morgan of what I was - or was not - doing in my bedroom. Reading out scenes from films is only fun if it isn’t that embarrassing scene from Transformers. How I laughed and laughed at Shia La Boeuf’s discomfort the first time I saw that film but - believe me - it ain’t so funny when you’re on the other side of the camera . . .

Still - if Richard Morgan and Alistair Reynolds are my parents then I suppose this explains where my writing genius originates from . . . The press releases insist on referring to me as being “frighteningly” talented or ”distressingly” young - to the extent that I actually start feeling a little bit frightened and distressed myself. But it all makes sense now . . .

Moving on - the Gollancz Quiz was wonderful fun (even if I was a bit crap at getting the right answers - apologies everyone!). I think I might have behaved quite greedily - even gluttonously - when the food arrived half way through so I suppose I should also apologise to the other vegetarians who were present that night. Being the only vegetarian in a meat-eating family I am unaccustomed to the idea of leaving some for everyone else. But then I heard someone ask what had happened to the plate of veggie samosas and Mr Devereux loudly replying that: “Alex Bell happened to them!” And then I realised that I had, perhaps, been a little bit too enthusiastic in attacking that plate of tasty deep-fried goodness.

Before the quiz I went to a fancy cocktail bar at the Hospital Club with a host of Gollancz talent (including my new found parents) to be filmed with fellow fantasy princesses, Jaine Fenn and Suzanne McLeod. I thoroughly enjoyed this because I love anything that’s silly. And it did get a bit silly - even before the three of us knocked back our cocktails in almost hysterical relief at the fact that the camera was no longer being pointed in our faces. I’m sure the finished product will be highly embarrassing - but then if I couldn’t cope with being embarrassed and humiliated by my lovely publisher in the name of promotion on occasion then I’d be in the wrong business, aha ha. At some point during the interview I think I may have babbled a bit about how much I hated studying Law, but seeing as my drop-out status is a relatively recent thing, you could ask me what I had for breakfast and I would probably still reply that I loathed Law School and that I’m immensely proud of fleeing from that place (and then returning late at night to chuck eggs at the building . . .)

The vast majority of the time I can watch a film just like any other normal person. But there are two things that - should they happen on screen - cause me to fidget about in a most restless - and even twitchy - way. The first thing is someone eating a carrot. If I see someone on screen eating a carrot I just have to have one too. It’s something about the crunch that a raw carrot makes when you bite into it. The second thing is someone brushing their teeth. As soon as I see this on the screen I experience the almost irresistible desire to go and brush my own teeth right away. Again, it’s just something about the sound of it. The problem is that you never know when a carrot-munching or a teeth-brushing scene might pop up in a film. I suppose I could make sure to always carry a carrot and a toothbrush into the cinema with me but - let’s face it - that would be taking this eccentricity thing just a little bit too far. So I try to stifle these impulses as best I can.

But yesterday I discovered an entirely new third impulse. It all started when I sat down to watch The Dark Corner as research for the Amazing Genius Idea ^TM that I’m working on making into a short film with my cousin (it was, in actual fact, his Amazing Genius Idea ^TM, but I am sharing in the glory). I’ve watched other noir films before but either this one was different or I am now different because I couldn’t stop looking at the telephones! There seemed to be one in practically every scene and they were all so gorgeous! So deliciously vintage, so fantastically retro, so stupendously stylish! They were, in fact, fabulous, in every sense of the word. I’m not sure what it is about them that appeals to me so much. Perhaps it’s how solid and clunky they look, not like these silly, cheap, plastic, horrible phones we get today. Half of which look like some kind of mobile rather than an actual honest-to-goodness, real life telephone.

In the end I was actually finding it hard to concentrate on the film because I couldn’t stop thinking about the phones. They were there on every desk, in every office and even in the femme fatale herself’s house. So, finally, I had to pause the film, go online and track down a vintage phone. I would have dearly loved a genuine restored original, but they were just too expensive. I did, however, finally find a lovely replica on http://www.presentprovider.com. I promptly ordered it, and only then was I able to go back and finish the film.

It arrived early this morning despite the fact that I paid no postage whatsoever. Here is a picture of it - feel free to marvel, and to seethe with jealousy:

Seriously - is this not an awesomely cool phone? Is it not utterly perfect in every way? I think you’ll find that it is . . . In addition to a sudden urge to procure a vintage phone, this film also made me want to get a car that looks like this:

Obviously I didn’t go onto the Internet and order one of these because, um, I don’t want to blow my publishing advance all on just one thing, aha ha . . .

I was just losing myself in the fervent, hopeless desire to live in the 1930′s or 40′s when I came across this photo of an old hoover:

Is it a rocket? Is it a hoover? Who can tell? Either way, this picture made me remember why I want to be alive now in the glorious, prosperous year of 2009: it’s because I love my Roomba, and don’t know what I’d do without that industrious little robot to vacuum my bedroom every day.

Right, I’m really going to have to stop reading books, I think, because amazing ones keep coming to my attention and then I feel compelled to write about them and then my blog starts becoming about other talented people rather than all about me. First it was the resplendent Deanna Raybourn, and now this.

So, here it is, Amazing Book, Part 2:

Eagle Rising, by David Devereux:

This is the second of David’s books featuring Jack - magician by profession and bastard by disposition. As well as being a mate of mine, Dave is one of the funnest (yeah, I know it’s not a real word - I am hereby creating it) guys I have ever had the pleasure of meeting - and he stays up until the early hours at the author parties with me, rather than going to bed early like all those other wimpy Gollancz peeps (although having office jobs/small children on the side may have something to do with that, I suppose).

Anyway - whilst reading Dave’s book I tried to put aside the fact that I know him to be a Multi-Talented Genius Party Man so that I could judge the book objectively. But even then I still thought it was awesome.

I don’t want to give away any of the juicy bits (and believe me, there are juicy bits), but I can certainly say that there are very few books that make me both laugh and gasp (in the oh-my-God that sounds painful sort of way).

I even took this book to the spa with me (and sort of dropped it in the Jacuzzi, which explains why the pages are now crinkly and scented - unless Gollancz actually scent them?? In which case why don’t my books smell of vanilla too?!). I’m afraid I may even have snapped quite viciously at the schmoozy couple in the Jacuzzi who asked me to press the button to get the bubbles going again but - in my defence - I was in the middle of the eyeball removing scene, and it’s really not one in which you want to get interrupted because of something to do with bubbles.

Another thing I particularly love about this book is all the Neo-Nazi, Hitler stuff. I studied Nazi Germany at both GCSE and AS level and it’s a historical period that I’m particularly fascinated by. The scene where the crazy fanatics are trying to bring Hitler back from Hell was one of the most spine-tingling I’ve ever read. I had goose bumps and everything.

I fully intended to save this book for my trip to Florida in two weeks (tomorrow and counting!), but then I read the first page, and then the first chapter, and it all went downhill from there and now it’s all finished and I wish I’d had more self-restraint. So I am putting my request in now to Dave/Simon/Gollancz Inc./whoever, that Dave’s next book must come out the exact day before I go away on holiday in order that I may keep myself thoroughly entertained on the plane instead of irritating the hell out of everybody around me by complaining that I’m cramped, bored and unreasonably paranoid about the possibility that the stewardess might give someone else my pre-booked vegetarian meal by mistake, thereby condemning me to nothing but over-salted peanuts for the next seven hours.

Yes, I know it’s terribly uncool of me. If you watch (and, God forbid, enjoy) The Waltons, you’re supposed to keep it to yourself - down in that dark, twisted little part of you that never sees daylight. You certainly shouldn’t admit such a thing without at least being horribly tortured first.

But to be quite honest, dear readers, I just don’t give a shit.

I gave up being cool back in secondary school and have never looked back since. So I will say it here. I’ll shout it even: I LOVE THE WALTONS! I love them, I love them!

I will admit, though, that when my Dad got the first season on box set for his birthday, last year my heart sank. Why on earth would I want to watch The Waltons when I could be watching, say, Lost or Merlin or Boston Legal, or some such awesome thing? Why, I ask?! What madness is this? But Dad insisted that I gave it a go, and now I am thoroughly and unashamedly hooked. And that’s only partly to do with the fact that I want to marry John-Boy Walton and live happily ever after with him (which is weird for me as I usually have a habit of being attracted to the villain).

On Monday I watched an episode from Season 1 called The Scholar, and I can’t stop thinking about it. In fact I cried quite a bit of the way through it. I know it ain’t good for the image, and obviously I try not to bawl through every episode (with varying degrees of success), but I’ll admit that this one got to me. There’s a misconception that this show is pious, anachronistic, goody-two-shoes, clap-trap rubbish. I know, because these are all the misconceptions I had myself. But that is simply not the case (I am, on occasions, wrong, it would seem). The Waltons achieves what very few modern-day shows are able to - it is heart-warming without being sickly; it espouses good values and opposes racism, bigotry and prejudice without being boring and saintly; and it makes you think a bit without ramming an idea down your throat to the extent that you choke on it. I firmly believe that if everyone were forced to watch this show from a very young age, the world would be a much better place.

So, anyway, the episode I watched the other day involved John-Boy teaching a grown woman how to read and write. I never really thought about it much before because it’s a skill most of us take for granted. He describes the process of writing and stringing words together to her as “magic”. And it is magic. Writing can take you away from whatever shit the world has decided to throw at you, and transport you somewhere else. It gives you something that real life cannot - and never will - give you.

The sense of achievement and pride the woman in this episode feels when she’s finally able to write out her own name . . . well, it made me think about stuff. I dunno what I’d do if I couldn’t write stories that took me to other worlds filled with real people that only exist in my head (be rotting in an asylum somewhere, I suppose). This story reminded me that it’s a privilege to be able to read and write - and one that you shouldn’t take for granted.

So this episode is just one of the many reasons why I love The Waltons. It isn’t all about wanting to marry John-Boy (although it is quite a lot to do with that). But it just goes to show that when it comes to TV, film, music or books, I should always - but always - listen to my dear ol’ Dad. Because he really is my Sam-I-Am.