John Martin and the End Times

Before I gush about AltFiction (which I haven’t had time to do yet – too busy working into the HTTN groove again, post-con), time for today’s little trip into sunny Sheffield.

The Millennium Gallery has opened an exhibition of work by the romantic Victorian painter John Martin. My partner went to visit it last week and recommended it to me, so today we went to mooch around. Martin was a visionary painter and engraver, marrying highly detailed landscapes with apocalyptic visions of Biblical scenes and the End Times. His canvasses are huge – even those that are quite physically small – playing tricks with scale, perspective and distance in a way that can only be called cinematic. Obviously, he’s had a great influence on Hollywood: look at Harryhausen, or Roland Emmerich, or Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments, for example. But he wasn’t all that critically acclaimed in his own time; I think critics disliked him for the way he perverted their pure landscapes, and the way he tapped into the gloom that smothered the world in much of the 1830s was clearly something that some didn’t want to think about. But his public exhibitions were immensely successful and this exhibition is richly deserved.

John Martin - Sodom & Gomorrah
John Martin's Sodom & Gomorrah


Timely, too, in that it coincides with the economic and environmental troubles across the world. Alongside Martin’s work are several modern takes on his themes and specific works, substituting a Tiannamen Square protester for biblical Joshua, for example, and layering columns from the Financial Times in the background. The allusions are obvious, but no less powerful for that.

And so to Barker’s Pool, in front of the City Hall, where protesters, campaigners and striking unions had gathered to take on the ConDem pension plans. You want End Times? We got ’em.

Barkers Pool, 30/06/11
Barkers Pool, 30/06/11

There’s a slow-gathering momentum at the moment: you can see people walk down the street, staring nervously at the closed/closing-down shops and all those that seem to be closest to the waterline – JJB, Thorntons, TJ Hughes, HMV, Waterstones, as well as the 15000 announced by Lloyds this morning (none of whom will be an executive or one of the idiots in the City, I’ll bet) – and the fear and uncertainty is obvious. Who’s next? Us? What’s left? If we’re all in so much debt, who are we in debt to?

All this while our glorious leaders attempt to coerce councils into closing libraries and galleries left right and centre – libraries gave us power, after all, and wouldn’t we all be better off on a bloody bingo website? Patrick Ness was right when he lambasted that fool Gove, and the fellow from Unison who shouted out from the steps of City Hall this afternoon was right as well: the public sector is being made to bear the brunt of everything that the private bankers won’t take accountability for.

Meanwhile, overseas, Greece is in turmoil. Can’t happen here, Cameron must be hoping. Really? Remember that LibDem conference they held in Sheffield last spring? Where they had to cordon off nearly all of the city centre just so that the delegates could eat their croissants in peace outside the Winter Gardens? There was some ugly tension in the air that weekend, just as there is now. You can feel the trouble brewing, and right now it’s all looking as inevitable as a John Martin apocalypse.

Still, mustn’t grumble, eh?


Elephant Stops Play

Unfortunately, work on HTTN has ground to a halt: stress and irregular work patterns have made it impossible to keep inside the novel’s voice. This does happen from time to time anyway – which is why I always have a second project on the go somewhere – but it’s doubly frustrating this time since I certainly won’t have a finished first draft in time for AltFiction now.

So for the time being, it’s back to the Dance. And almost immediately I’ve got myself into trouble with a few dangling plot threads. With 20000 words left of my self-imposed floor limit for each volume, I’ve still got to tell the first half of Taylor’s arc and get the ball rolling on Ibsen’s side of the galaxy. The battle for Regina and the aftermath around Kantara have taken up a lot more room than I thought they would. I may be able to minimise Ibsen’s involvement in this volume, but that’s going to cause a different imbalance in Vol.4 – who would have to make way?

Anyhow, at least this is easier to write for now, and yes, Volume 3 should be out before Christmas. That reminds me; there’s a cover to design as well…..

It’s all booked…

AltFiction is upon us again – alright, it’s still a full month away yet, but definitely time for booking the tickets. Yours Truly will be there for both days. This time, unlike last year, I know what I’m letting myself in for, and I won’t be quite so overwhelmed with adrenalin and tongue-tied amazement.

Whether I have anything to take with me is a different question: I’m still roughly 15k away from a completed first draft of HTTN, and even that draft would be too many revisions away from a polished MSS. But yeah, I’ll have the computer with me anyway, so who knows?

Time’s a-pressing.

Big elephant, small room…

There’s an elephant in the room. What elephant? Which room? This one.

When I’m on fire, I can write like a demon. A slow, somewhat cranky demon, sure, but a demon nonetheless. When I’m not so hot, all I want to do is watch Doctor Who, roll dice, and play Championship Manager. On their own, none of these are neccessarily bad things. But in my lower moments, these things act as a focus for distractive obsession.

In other words, rather than sort out what’s worrying me and making me feel low, I’ll go play as Worksop Town for several hours – usually until I fall asleep in front of the screen. Not good.

Here’s your elephant. Not much writing going on while he’s around.

Digging into the archives…

Morning, all. A couple of years ago I managed to drag my attention away from Malessar’s Curse long enough to write a few short stories. Oddly, more were science fiction than fantasy – I’m not sure why, but it seems that my brand of fantasy just doesn’t suit the short form. My SF, on the the other hand (which usually has more F than S), does fit.

So, the point. Pantechnicon e-zine signed up my first effort, and kindly published it alongside Ian Whates and Ian Sales in its ninth (and last) issue. Whereupon, beset by hackers, Pantechnicon tumbled into the great black hole of lost sites.

But, not so! Very quietly, Pantechnicon’s back issues have appeared in a blog over here. So now you can read “This Place Sucks” all over again.