Alex Bell - fantasy author

This is my skeleton.

His name is Erin. He was a present from my parents for my twentieth birthday. I think the only thing that can really top him gift-wise is the beautiful violin I got for my eighteenth. I love my skeleton - absolutely love him to bits. This is his winter outfit, and that hat is a genuine Victorian antique that I bought for him especially on Ebay (sometimes I use it as a hiding place for my Siamese’s toys if she’s keeping me awake by playing with them on my back when I’m in bed). Erin is a gentleman of quality - he wears only the very best. In the summer he wears an outfit that is worth a grand total of five hundred pounds (I let him borrow my Ralph Lauren sunglasses when I’m not using them).

The point is that not only is Erin exhibit number three in my Wunderkammer, but he is also my invaluable writing aide, friend and confidante. Seriously, I can tell him anything - he’s very discreet. And if I’m having a problem with whatever book I’m writing then Erin is sometimes able to suggest a solution. Of course, he only talks to me at night when the rest of my family have gone to bed, and even then he only whispers. It’s only when he decides to go downstairs in the middle of the night and start playing on the baby grand piano in the dining room that my parents and I have . . . had words about him. But I’ve told them both before: Erin goes, I go. It’s as simple as that.

Most importantly of all, he gives me an excuse to buy silly hats - because I’m not really buying them for me, I’m buying them for him.

When my Dad announced that he’d taped a subtitled French film for us to watch on a Saturday night I was, I will admit, dismayed. One might even go so far as to say that I was appalled. A French film? French? Really? Oscar-winner my foot - I just wanted to watch Kung Fu Panda . . .

I was determined not to like the film, and nurtured a faint hope that if I fidgeted about in my seat enough, it might get turned off and replaced with something better.

The fact that the recording had cut the first few minutes off didn’t make it any easier to get into for it seemed to start with a little kid running amok in a brothel - how very French, right? But then she was taken away by her father to join the circus, and suddenly the film was interesting. I’ve never been so engrossed in a film that wasn’t in English before. What I loved so much about it was the sense of melancholy captured not only by the truly outstanding acting, but through the music and cinematography as well. It reminded me a bit of Chaplin in terms of its nostalgia. The locations, too, were stunning, ranging from the slums of Paris to the glittering theatres of New York, spanning the 1930′s to the 1960′s and perfectly recreating a sense of lost glamour from yesteryear - all long gloves and cigarettes from when smoking was still elegant rather than a mark of - dare I say it - silliness (hurriedly apologises to all my smoking friends - you know I love you guys really).

Marion Cotillard is amazing as Edith Paif. Whilst I was watching it I half thought that perhaps the older version of the singer was being played by another actress altogether. It wasn’t just the effect of make up but the way she moved and spoke - even her voice sounded different. Her transition from vulnerable, wide-eyed teenager to a strong, forceful woman is incredible. A performance utterly deserving of an Oscar if ever I saw one. The sad parts of the film are gut-wrenching but the occasional sweet, tender moment is all the better for the fact that it is understated and never becomes cloying.

I thought about this film for days after watching it and ordered the DVD the same night. I can tell it’s probably going to become a film I obsess over a bit - the same way I obsess over Amadeus. I can watch that film and enjoy it; be fascinated and intrigued by it; totally lose myself in the magic of the story; read up all about Mozart (or, in this case, Edith Paif) and his life (or hers) . . . and then feel thoroughly miserable for the next week. But it is totally worth it.

Really, it just goes to show that when it comes to music, books or film, my dear ‘ol Dad really is my Sam-I-Am, and I’m a fool for ever hesitating to trust his excellent judgement. La Vie en Rose is a masterpiece and I’m extremely glad he made me watch it.

When my Dad joined the merchant navy (in the brief time before deciding that stockbroking was the way forwards) he was told that there were three subjects that must never be discussed in the officers’ mess: religion, politics and sex. If you don’t want to upset people then this is generally sage advice wherever the conversation happens to be taking place. Obviously I endeavour to ignore sage advice whenever possible on principle. And, indeed, the above rule is why I was very often shushed at any dinner party my parents threw for clients back in the day (although admittedly this was more because I wanted to talk to them about religion and politics rather than sex - even I am not quite that odd).

The point is that religion is a tricky subject. People get upset much more quickly when talking about religion than they do discussing, say, Hungry Hippos (although I guess it depends on how competitive you are at games). It’s therefore not my intention to go into great detail about religion on my blog, nor do I plan to respond to reviews (be they good or bad) for the simple reason that I find blogging about my animals and my love for strange headgear more entertaining.

But I’m going to make a bit of an exception with this post because I’ve seen - a couple of times now - reviewers state that Gabriel’s religious views in The Ninth Circle are clearly my own. When I talk to people about the book they often expect this to be the case as well. This week I spoke to a book club about The Ninth Circle. I’ve never done this before and I thoroughly enjoyed it. They were a lovely bunch of people who asked me some very intelligent and thoughtful questions about the book. I did, however, get the impression that some of them expected Gabriel Antaeus to walk through the door rather than me. Hopefully by the end of the session they realised that we are two entirely separate people - after all, at no point during the evening did I attempt to attack anyone, or suggest we engage in group prayer (that I can recall).

But - for the record - I am not Gabriel.

Gabriel is a fictional character that I made up and just because the book is told in first person does not mean that I’m simply writing down everything that I believe. It’s probably unavoidable that a little bit of the author seeps into the character, but it’s something I actively try to avoid even to the extent of deliberately distancing myself from my characters (this is another reason why I generally prefer to write male protagonists).

Gabriel is a fiercely religious man, but I do not believe in God. I’m not an atheist, but I am an agnostic. In its attitudes towards women, slavery, gay people, working on the Sabbath etc, I think much of what the Old Testament says is utter - utter - nonsense. That’s not to say that there isn’t a lot of good in the Bible too. But I would never blindly accept every word it says even if, much of the time, Gabriel does.

My name is not Gabriel, chaps. When I write about his faith I’m not writing about my faith, but imagining his. The first thing they always told us in creative writing classes at school was “write about what you know.” I’m afraid I would have to dismiss this completely. Where’s the fun in that? I might even go so far as to say “write about what you don’t know.” I don’t believe that I need to be religious to write about a religious character. Much in the same way that I don’t think I need to cut off my own hand before I can appreciate that it will hurt. Surely you can conceive of these things using your imagination alone.

It’s not that I would ever be offended by people mistakenly believing me to be religious. Far from it. Nor do I get offended when people see my name and automatically assume I’m a bloke. It’s not insulting; it’s just that it isn’t true. But considering what an odd character Gabriel is, it concerns me a little that people sometimes think I am him. It should be a common sense thing, really, and I’m sure most people don’t believe it. Otherwise no one would talk to me at the author parties (or at family get togethers, for that matter). But for those people who do suspect that I am Gabriel, I guess you’re just gonna have to take my word for the fact that I’m not. Honest.

When I was six years old (or thereabouts) I was running back to the cheese counter in Tescos because I heard someone say that they had taster plates back there with pieces of stilton on them (yeah, I really love stilton). Anyways, going round the corner of the aisle I somehow slipped over on the floor and fell on my face, whereupon I started sobbing pathetically.

Since that day I haven’t cried in Tescos, but I came pretty close yesterday when I was strolling down the aisles and saw this:

I know, I know - it probably doesn’t seem like a big deal. But imagine a vegetarian who loves meat, and to whom picnic eggs were once a particular favourite. Imagine that vegetarian hasn’t eaten a picnic egg for fifteen long, desolate, miserable years and then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, comes across this vision of delight just sat right there on the shelf!

Needless to say, I bought a packet (all right, all right, I bought every packet they had - like I was preparing for the blitz or something), and then I went home and had myself a picnic egg party with the only guest being me because I sure as hell wasn’t sharing.

I didn’t make too much of a spectacle of myself with the picnic eggs but the day I see vegetarian mussels, or vegetarian crab sticks, on the shelf in Tescos I know that I will break down and weep tears of joy right there in the aisle like a crazy person. Ditto for the day Proctor and Gamble stop being animal-testing bastards and I can buy Pringles once again. God, I really hate having ethics sometimes . . .

Well, I am now back in the good old United Kingdom. Hello Marmite and Branstone (smooth) - the two things I miss the most while I’m away after pets, relatives and friends (in that order, obviously). Since I got back yesterday my little Siamesey has hardly moved herself from my lap.

I had a great time in Disney World. This is mainly - although not entirely - because of the fact that they have a lot of silly hats there. I love silly hats - yes, I do, and I ain’t ashamed to say so. Mr Devereux demanded that I obtain a picture of myself wearing Mickey ears. I don’t quite have that, but I do have a pretty good substitute:

And this:

That’s a chocolate martini I’m drinking there. Er . . . not as nice as it sounds, actually. You can probably tell from the expression on my face . . .

Obviously I didn’t spend the entire ten days with silly things on my head but . . . well . . . I suppose I spent most of the trip that way (hey, if you can’t do it in Disney World, then where the heck can you?).

In other news - anyone who knows me personally is aware that I have struggled with the fact that one of my Dobermans died shortly before I went away. My Mum (who also happens to be my best friend) has had to endure rather more of my (slightly tipsy) sobbing over the bottle(s) of wine than anyone should really have to deal with in such a short space of time. But because she is an eminently classy lady (and always has been), she put up with it and leant a sympathetic ear, (or got a little bit drunk with me, as the occasion demanded) - which has helped quite a lot.

When we got back from our holiday yesterday I may have acted just a little bit pathetically at the fact that only one dog was welcoming us home rather than two. I really wanted another one, and my plan was to ask my parents for a Great Dane first, then plead for another Doberman if that didn’t work, and then - if even that wasn’t successful - beg on my knees for a chihuahua. Look, I’m a poverty-stricken author so I’m still living at home (and am very happy there as my parents are almost as eccentric as I am), so I am a bit at their mercy where adding more pets to our menagerie is concerned. But to my shock, they agreed to let me have a Great Dane at the first pitch (I am earning a bit of money from the writing now, after all - and we do have quite a lot of land).

A Great Dane! I’ve wanted one since I was about six years old and first saw this movie:

Seriously, these dogs are the size of lions! What’s not to love about that? What is not to love? They’re freakin’ huge! Even bigger than Dobermans!

So I’m writing it all down here on my blog because, for various reasons, I’m probably going to have to wait until August to get a puppy, and I don’t want my parents changing their minds in the interim. But now that I’ve recorded the agreement here it effectively constitutes a binding legal contract . . . er . . . despite the fact that there’s no intent to create legal relations, no consideration whatsoever (even of the peppercorn kind), no offer & acceptance, no meeting of the minds . . .

Look, I used to be a law student - trust me, it’s binding - binding, I tell you! That Great Dane is as good as mine already . . .

(And I really love my parents right now - seriously, this would be a very good time for them to ask me for favours . . . )