Author Meet Reader

Today I spotted a notice that someone had put up for submissions for a short story anthology scheduled for release late next year. For the first time in many moons it seemed to me that I might have something that met the guidelines and did not exceed the word limit. The piece in question was something that I tossed off about five years ago, presumably when I was in Taiwan or Japan, and which I happen to remember was inspired by a phrase someone had used in a book which had described religious people as fervently guarding an empty box, or something of the sort. As with much of my writing, the story was deeply influenced by Mishima Yukio and his vision, as expressed in the likes of The Decay of the Angel, of the spiritual desolation that swept the world in the twentieth century – the death of the soul. I sent the story off in a fairly casual manner, but decided, on a whim, to re-read it. Technically, it was well-written, I think, and the concept itself was fairly well-executed, but, well, apart from that the whole thing was like some dreadful childish parody of poetic fantasy. I sighed to myself. There was a fellow on Friday – the first of this month – who made a remark that stuck in my mind, and, I thought, perhaps he was right, after all. That story was so bad it made me despair of ever writing anything decent. It was so bad that I felt I should disown it. And yet, in a way, I did not care that it was a bad story. When it comes to this, is there any point in writing at all?

I met the man at an open night of the British Fantasy Society. It was the first I had been to for a while. Perhaps I should pause here for a moment to explain that, unfortunately, there's nothing very kinky about the British Fantasy Society. I keep forgetting the kind of connotations the name seems to possess. I was reminded of them when making arrangements with a friend. My Friday night was taken, because I was attending the aformentioned open night, and my friend said, "British Fantasy Society? Have you decided what costume you'll be wearing? How about a gimp suit?" And so on. No, the British Fantasy Society is, well, I'm not really sure, as I'm not a member, but it's something to do with fiction in the genres of horror, fantasy and science fiction.

The open night was held upstairs at The Devereux. Is it really almost a year since I last came to this pub, to a previous BFS open night, I mused to myself, as I wound my way down Devereux Court. BFS meetings are attended by those with an interest in the genres mentioned above, either as a producer or a consumer, or, more likely, as both. If I said that famous people are often in attendance I might be accused of grossly overstating the case. I'm not talking about fame on the level of… oh God… Paris Hilton? Please feel free to insert your own celebrity cypher. No, I'm not talking about any sexy kind of fame – after all, it's not that kind of fantasy, remember? – I'm talking about literary fame, and fairly minor literary fame at that. I can give you an example by saying that I was once very excited, at one of these meetings, to see Basil Copper eating fish and chips at the next table.

Anyway, I'm sure there's a lot of networking that goes on, and I won't sneer, because you never know when you might need it yourself. I simply mention that to give an idea of the milieu. There are some people here who may just be able to advance your career as a writer. There are sometimes others whose career has already been advanced. But all of us are basically ordinary people sipping pints in a pub, and if any are tempted to pretend otherwise we run the risk of looking ridiculous. I haven't done much networking myself, mainly because I'm shy. I tend to sit with the same people every time, and this is what I did on this occasion, too.

Well, there was the usual talk. I say the usual, I don't mean to imply that it was boring or a mere repetition of previous conversations, just that it was general chatter and I won't reproduce it in detail. In fact, if I was confident that people would not mind being named on my shabby little blog, I would give more details, but perhaps it's best, even in this world of electronic communication, to keep some things private as the grave.

Anyway, someone complained about the formulaic nonsense written by the hordes of career writers licking their way up the ladder of arses, and became quite heated in his talk about shaking things up. Someone else, in a similar vein, gave vent to his frustration at the tediousness of the Hugo Awards and certain other awards. "It's like the World Fantasy Award. Do you have any French writers? No. Any Portugese writers? No. It's the American Fantasy Awards. All the nominees are American. How is that the World Fantasy Award?" And so on. Someone mentioned that he had read something on my blog and that it had changed his mind about something – and I felt a sudden terrible weight of responsibility. I spoke to someone else about the film, The Notorious Bettie Page. The evening wore on.

Somehow or other, at some point in the evening, people unknown to me joined the table, and began to engage me in conversation; one of them was the man mentioned above. I can't remember exactly how the conversation started, but there was the usual thing about my name, and whether it was real. Then there was the question of why I was there at the meeting. Since I was not giving out much information, the man asked in an exasperated manner how long it was going to take to get it all out of me. I smiled.

"Okay, I have had three collections of short stories published, the most prominent of which is probably Morbid Tales from Tartarus, and I've also had stuff published elsewhere occasionally. So, that's why I'm here."

It turned out that the man was familiar with one of the pieces that had appeared elsewhere, in the anthology Strange Tales, also from Tartarus (they love titles with the word 'tales' in).

"Yeah, I read a story of yours in that Strange Tales. A bit old-fashioned, isn't it? But I like it."

At this point I felt the need to defend myself.

"Well, I don't really think of what I do as old-fashioned. I mean, I'm not like some writers who go out of their way to recreate a Victorian style or anything. I just happen to write in complete sentences."

"Oh, you write sentences, do you?"

My explanation was not going very well. Apparently I even looked like someone who had been born in the wrong century.

There was some talk about how expensive Tartarus books are, and how people are put off by the price, and perhaps because I didn't want anyone listening to be put off, I felt bound to continue this defence of my work. For some reason, the description of my writing as 'old-fashioned' rankled with me, however it was meant. And yet, the more I tried to explain why I wasn't old-fashioned, the less articulate I seemed to become.

And I have thought about this since, to try and find the words I couldn't find at the time.

And I still can't seem to find them.

I wanted the man to know that I'm not just some dandy who writes cosy ghost stories, who despises all things new and never reads any contemporary fiction. I wanted him to know that I am also cutting edge and dangerous, a prophet and experimenter, a maverick and visionary.

I just don't like so-called punchy literature. It's patronising, and it's boring, and it destroys the lovely modulated rhythm that the English language can attain in longer sentences. I think 'punchy' literature must have begun with the typewriter, and all those people trying to write the great American novel, grabbing their readers by the scruff of the neck and saying, "Look here, see. This is how it is!"

No, no, no. Take your hands off my ruff, you rough.

And I feel an urge to empty my stomach when I read any modern prose in which the author is obviously desperate to use as many buzzwords as possible in order to 'capture the essence of the times', or some such thing. This usually also means littering your story with brand names, as if you've actually been paid to advertise them, and, who knows, perhaps some of these writers have. I think of the words of Okakura Tenshin when I read these authors who advertise themselves and anything that they think will in turn advertise them: "Why do men and women like to advertise themselves so much? Is it not but an instinct derived from the days of slavery?"

Oh, I give in, perhaps I'm just an old-fashioned dandy, after all. Born in the wrong century, I should write my godawful stuff with a quill. I thought I'd talk my way out of it, but I've ended up talking myself into it.

Very well. So be it. Etcetera.

Anyway, the conversation continued, rather haltingly, because I am, I swear to god, a very shy person. People never believe you when you say that, but in my case it's true. I'm just not very good at conversation. And I wondered if this reader, who I might just have won over, even if my stories are "a bit old-fashioned" would think I was some kind of social imbecile, or whether he would think it was part of my affected persona – that I was a genius from another century, and quite above talking to the likes of him. No, nothing of the sort. It's a good job he wasn't a real fan, and didn't have high expectations, but it made me wonder what would happen – or what does happen – when I meet someone who is a fan. Do I spoil it all the moment I open my mouth? Do I spoil it all with my awkward silences? Are people put off when they read this blog?

I honestly think that art transcends one's personality. I remember reading somewhere a quote to the effect that wanting to meet a writer because you admire their work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like pate (there should be an accent on that 'e'). So, I would like to say, don't be put off by that fact that I am me; you might actually like my writing (my real writing, not this blog) anyway. But then again, maybe you should be put off. Why should I let the slave mentality in me take over?

Hmmm.

It wasn't long after the conversation with this man, that I left the pub. Before I did so, I said hello and goodbye to a rather distinguished seller of books, with whom I am acquainted. He told me that someone had come in the shop recently and bought four copies of my book Morbid Tales. Well, there's someone who wasn't put off by the price! Apparently, he had told his friends that he was going to get a copy, and they wanted copies, too. Such are the rumours that reach the ears of the author of what his literary offspring are doing in the world. The seller of books also mentioned that he might be having another party at the shop some time – we had held the booklaunch for Morbid Tales there – and that I must come along. After all, if he had another party, it would probably be because the bookshop was finally closing.

When it does close, it will mark the end of an era. As I made my way home, I pondered what a friend and fellow writer of weird fiction once said to me, that being a writer of weird fiction – in the tradition of Poe, Lovecraft et al – is a bit like being a member of the Catholic Church, keeping the faith that has been passed down since ancient times despite the ever-dwindling numbers of fellow faithful. That's certainly how I feel sometimes, not just writing weird fiction, but writing for book publication in any form. I often wonder if people such as myself will be looked back on as literary giants simply because we could write words like 'late' instead of writing 'l8', or because we used capital letters and punctuation, and other such archaisms.

And I thought of the declaration that Mishima and his men had written and signed before their failed military coup, which they must have known would fail.

"We consider ourselves to be the last… the end of history."