I’m both shocked and genuinely saddened by the news that writer Robert Holdstock has died this weekend following a short illness. He was 61.

I first met Rob at a convention in Hinkley. It must’ve been around 2002 or 2003. That same weekend I also met Ian MacLeod for the first time. Rob and Ian were then being published by Earthlight with John Jarrold at the helm, and John was in the process of bringing my own novels to publication.

The three of us crammed into the back of a taxi, and were taken to a restaurant and treated to a Chinese meal by our publisher. I remember the evening vividly: I suddenly found myself among people I’d read and aspired to be like. I felt as if I’d “made it”.

I’ve met Rob several times since then, most recently at the Arthur C Clarke Award ceremony in London earlier in 2009. As usual, Rob was full of beans, enthusiastic about writing, and always happy to spare some time to talk to a newcomer such as myself.

Robert Holdstock was a true gentleman, and a top bloke. He will be sadly missed.

Robert Holdstock website

Around 25 years ago a lad I was at school with was killed when the motorbike he was riding crashed into a tree. A 50cc something or other. L-plates and everything.

It was all Band Aid and Toy Dolls. Howard Jones and Nik Kershaw. Way back when.

I think of him sometimes. He was a good kid. Successfully managed to cruise the difficult border between the ordinary kids and the hard kids. Did a lot of laughing. Had a little brother we called Little Dosser.

Then he died. No more visits to the chippy by the Tam O’ Shanter. No more zipping around Coton Green. Across the railway line. Past the Fox.

So much has changed since then.

He wouldn’t even recognise most of the roads.

Where are you now, Dosser?

people often talk about being scared of change
but for me I’m more afraid of things staying the same
cos the game is never won by standing in any one place for too long

Jesus of the Moon ~ Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

20 years ago he came to me in New Street station when I was using a public phone. Remember the circle of aluminium booths that were in the station back then? Before the advent of mobiles? One of those.

He wasn’t very old. 20-something? He asked if I could spare some money. I said no, sorry. Firm but polite. “Oh, please, mate, I’m starvin’“.

Yeah, right, I probably thought. You’ll just use it on fags or booze. Such was my upbringing. But there was something in his eyes. A genuine desperation. I could see that.

Yet I turned away and dialled the number. When I looked back he had gone.

I sometimes wonder about him. More often than I’d like. I can see his face. That look in his eyes. I’ll always wish I’d bought him some food. Anything.

What became of you, homeless man? Where are you now?

She gave a little flirt, gave herself a little cuddle
but there’s no place here for the mini-skirt waddle
capital punishment, she’s last year’s model
they call her Natasha when she looks like Elsie
I don’t want to go to Chelsea

- I Don’t Want to go to Chelsea – Elvis Costello and the Attractions

The Conflict anthology, edited by Ian Whates, will be launched by Newcon Press on Friday 2 April at the 2010 Eastercon at Heathrow. As well as my own contribution – Songbirds – Conflicts includes the following stories:

Psi.Copath – Andy Remic
The Maker’s Mark – Michael Cobley
Sussed – Keith Brooke
The Cuisinart Effect – Neal Asher
Harmony in My Head – Rosanne Rabinowitz
Our Land – Chris Beckett
Fallout – Gareth L. Powell
Proper Little Soldier – Martin McGrath
War Without End – Una McCormack
Dissimulation Procedure – Eric Brown
In the Long Run – David L. Clements
Last Orders – Jim Mortimore

Newcon Press’s recent Celebration anthology includes my story Deciduous Trees.

As well as the publication of Conflict, editor Ian Whates is also celebrating news that his novel The Noise Within will be published by Solaris in the UK and US, also in May 2010.

Newcon Press website
The Newcon Press Celebration page
Solaris website

I have Scrivener open on my laptop.
It shows the novel I’m working on.
Someone’s standing next to me, looking at it.
An editor.
He says it’s good, would like to read it.
I point out that I’ve only finished re-writing a third of it
He looks at me as if I’ve let him down, as if I’m just another time-wasting wannabe who doesn’t understand what’s involved.
I say somewhat sheepishly that I’d better take it home and do it tonight.
He says nothing.

I’ve played a few gigs with PJ Harvey in the UK.
It was fun. I did well.
She asks me to go on tour with her in America.
We walk along a meandering light brown path alongside a river.
There are broad areas of dry grass on either side. A few trees.
People rush past us on bicycles as we walk.
I want to go, but think about my wife and kids.

bad men. gangsters or something. they wear black suits.
they take people somewhere.
a derelict building. large. middle of a field. deserted.
inside they torture people then set them on fire.
one day I see this.
then another day I’m there with someone else.
they threaten us. lots of them.
we try to hide but they catch us.
the floor inside the building is on a slight slope.
a group of them surrounds my friend.
they have guns.
my friend’s lying on the ground.
they gather round him and all shoot. his body jerks with the bullets.
bullets hit me too; I can feel them passing through me but they don’t hurt.
they stop firing.
quiet now.
my friend’s moaning, still alive.
one walks up and shoots him in the head with a shotgun.
he’s still moaning, still alive.
another one has a bottle of something.
shows me the label.
I don’t know what it is, but he points out the words “highly inflammable”.
he douses my friend in it, set him alight.
he screams as he burns.
then it’s my turn.
they pour the liquid on to me.

The Guardian recently published an article in which the majority of respondents to a “survey” claimed they would leave the midlands if widespread broadband Internet access enabled them to work from home. Here is the letter I sent in reponse. A link to the original article can be found beneath.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I write in relation to your front-page article of 26/08/09 headed – Home is where the heart is – unless it’s in the Midlands

A few years ago my wife and I considered moving our family to the South West of England as my internet-based job would allow this. We subscribed to a local newspaper in our preferred area. Looked at houses. Jobs for my wife. Schools for the kids. However, after much deliberation we decided against the move.

Property prices made an idyllic country cottage or house overlooking the harbour impossible. Transport infrastructure, journey times and the pressures of everyday life would likely make evening strolls on the beach the exception rather than the rule.

In Birmingham we have front-door to city centre in 20 minutes by local rail service. The city has a considerable cultural heritage, with art galleries, libraries, theatres, and a thriving local music scene, and there are a huge range of activities and attractions elseshwere in the region.

While it may not initially seem the most desirable of locations, as our children grow up Birmingham – and the midlands in general – offers a wealth of opportunities, and in truth no less exposure to drugs and crime than their counterparts in the South West.

The dream of a better life enabled by the internet is undoubtedly an appealing one, but the reality is unlikely to result in a genuine change of lifestyle for all but the most affluent.

“>Original article