We race towards the finish line on the Benny Inside Story, though I am beginning to feel a little like Peter Davison in Castrovalva episode 2. With the pressure almost off my synapses are coming undone.
Still, the new DWM has a lovely plug for the book, and also announces details of The Pirate Loop, which I’ve not been able to talk about for months. And then, just when I feel a little good about life, I see the results of the readers’ poll.
Time Signature is bottom of 12 Doctor Who fictions; Benny takes the six bottom slots in the Other Big Finish audios – and it’s my Summer of Love that comes last.
And so back to the Inside Story and chapter 11, which details the mistakes I made last year.
Ho hum. We keep buggering on…
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
How the Doctor Changed My Life
The BBC's official Doctor Who website has announced the winner of our short story competition. Some other exciting news in there too.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Word from the coalface
After a great weekend's cutting and pasting - plus a few desperate fact-checking calls - the Inside Story of Bernice Summerfield currently stands at a whopping 76,205 word. So only 123,795 left to be done in the next 20 days. That's 6,189 per day, if any one is counting.Sight of Alex Mallinson's beautiful cover helps to keep me going. And there's a whole bundle of Benny blurbs and pictures and news at the Big Finish website.
Off to Chelmsford tomorrow to speak to Big Finish's very first customer, and have appointments in posh clubs and Reigate. Just a teensy bit manic, so apologies for the pink, scary eyes. Am trying not to blink.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Never knowingly understood
After a long day’s transcribing yester-afternoon, I arrived in the pub about 9ish. Lots of fun drinking catch-up and I got to see folk I’ve not seen in ages – and to buy the birthdaying one some beer.
Amidst the shop talk was some stuff about semantics and how the foolish plebeian masses will use some words. Now, I generally have quaking rage and hellfire at snooty finger-pointing smugness of things like Never Mind the Full Stops, and had to buy the Dr a second copy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves because the first one accidentally got written over, torn, thrown across the room and even an occasional bit stamped on.
I don’t really care if people are confused by semi-colons or slap apostrophes any old which ways. We all have our blindspots and which is worse; some wobbly punctuation or the institution of the monarchy? (Before you write in, that is a joke from Time Trumpet.)
But this is also my trade. And tedious etymological one-upmanship is moderately less annoying than listing Things That Are Wrong With Dr Who.
There were the usual chestnuts, like the difference between “infer” and “imply”, and how you’re “jealous” of something you possess and “envious” of something you don’t. Then there was people who say “quite amusing” when they mean “I didn’t actually laugh”. I also got to share that a teacher at my school insisted “knackered” was a naughty sexual swearword, and not slang to mean “exhausted like the old horse sent off to be dog food”.
A particular joy among my fellow mercenary hacks was people who claim to be “managers” but do their best to shirk any responsibility. And I dreamt up a handy definition, which I shall share with you now for free:
A manager manages people. If you don’t have underlings, you’re an administrator. (Not, I hasten to add, that that's a pejorative term or not a noble and fine profession.)
Amidst the shop talk was some stuff about semantics and how the foolish plebeian masses will use some words. Now, I generally have quaking rage and hellfire at snooty finger-pointing smugness of things like Never Mind the Full Stops, and had to buy the Dr a second copy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves because the first one accidentally got written over, torn, thrown across the room and even an occasional bit stamped on.
I don’t really care if people are confused by semi-colons or slap apostrophes any old which ways. We all have our blindspots and which is worse; some wobbly punctuation or the institution of the monarchy? (Before you write in, that is a joke from Time Trumpet.)
But this is also my trade. And tedious etymological one-upmanship is moderately less annoying than listing Things That Are Wrong With Dr Who.
There were the usual chestnuts, like the difference between “infer” and “imply”, and how you’re “jealous” of something you possess and “envious” of something you don’t. Then there was people who say “quite amusing” when they mean “I didn’t actually laugh”. I also got to share that a teacher at my school insisted “knackered” was a naughty sexual swearword, and not slang to mean “exhausted like the old horse sent off to be dog food”.
A particular joy among my fellow mercenary hacks was people who claim to be “managers” but do their best to shirk any responsibility. And I dreamt up a handy definition, which I shall share with you now for free:
A manager manages people. If you don’t have underlings, you’re an administrator. (Not, I hasten to add, that that's a pejorative term or not a noble and fine profession.)
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
"Make her posh"
Nimbos had us round for bacon sarnies and beer last night, so we got to see The Family of Blood.
Cor. Just cor. One of us wept, one of us gaped in uncharacteristic silence and one of us texted Paul. Yet the rotter didn't smuggle in a reference to Bernice (the nice lady in the original book version which he created and who I'm now in charge of), or even of Wolsey (the cat Joan bequeathed her, and who I killed last year).
Anyway. After last week's interview with Paul Cornell from the archive, here's us again on 20 December 2005, for my article about companions for Doctor Who's Magazine:
Cor. Just cor. One of us wept, one of us gaped in uncharacteristic silence and one of us texted Paul. Yet the rotter didn't smuggle in a reference to Bernice (the nice lady in the original book version which he created and who I'm now in charge of), or even of Wolsey (the cat Joan bequeathed her, and who I killed last year).
Anyway. After last week's interview with Paul Cornell from the archive, here's us again on 20 December 2005, for my article about companions for Doctor Who's Magazine:
ME: So, what can you tell us about Circular Time?
CORNELL: It's four short stories featuring the fifth Doctor and Nyssa, largely. But they scatter across the different kinds of story that Dr Who does. There's a historical, there's a weird one, there's a far future one and there's a kind of pastoral one. They're each set in a different season as is my want and they're sort of me having fun going back to my earliest days of fan fiction, sort of doing the kinds of stories I did back then. It's also because I so wanted to work with Peter Davision before I stopped doing this kind of stuff. It's just me playing around with stuff I haven't gone near since Goth Opera really.
ME: One of the things that's very telling about your work generally is that it's very character-based. We know that one of the things Russell said when he commissioned you for Father's Day was that he wanted the character depth that you put into your books. So are you similarly exploring somes sides of the characters we haven't seen before?
CORNELL: To some degree, yes. A lot of it was a desire to get back to the fifth Doctor's speech patterns, which I really adore. And to give Sarah Sutton something to do as Nyssa. That doesn't happen very often. Yes, there's character-based stuff in there. There's a nice little romance for Nyssa. There's some nice stand-up arguing between Davison and Isaac Newton. It's a very character-based set of stories. One of the things I think the new show has taught us all is that you can do a very good, complete Dr Who story in 42 minutes. So these four half-hours are all complete stories which I think certainly run as complete as four-part stories do.
ME: You say with Nyssa that's she's not always been very well served by material –
CORNELL: She doesn't get the service.
ME: Where do you begin with giving her something more?
CORNELL: Giving her humour is I think the starting place. I see no reason why that character shouldn't have a vein of wry humour, and that's a good place to start. Making the relationship between her and the Doctor much more one-to-one so that they have an ongoing relationship you can believe in. And giving them certain points of disagreement, a couple of flashpoints in there. There's a lot of threads that run through all four, and put together all four of them form a greater story again in character or thematic terms.
ME: You said making them believable. Another thing in your writing is that, for example with Bernice, she may be a space archaeologist but she's very real, very believable.
CORNELL: Cool.
ME: Similarly, in the commentary to Father's Day you're asking the actors how they prepare for something so unreal.
CORNELL: It does boggle me because... Sorry, I won't go on about that.
ME: The thing I found really interesting was Billie and Shaun's response, which was that there was something believable about the lines which they were given, even if the situation was very strange. Is that based on observation, or where does that come from?
CORNELL: Well, it's typical me, living with one foot either side of a particular fence. And this covers several different fences in my life. In this particular case it's about one half of me being a hard-core fundamentalist geek who doesn't give a damn really about the mainsteam audience and would like to present the most far-spun fantasy imaginable with very little connection to the real world, and having another half of me that very much wants to tell stories about people who live in the real world. Rather than doing those two things separately I always seem to do things that do them both at once. I think if there's one thing that my stories are about it's the effect on people of quite extreme fantasy circumstances. Certainly way back in the New Adventures, my New Adventures are full of ordinary people encountering very, very weird stuff.
ME: It's about the consequences of the stuff, but also how they're changed by it.
CORNELL: Absolutely. You cannot come back through the door and be the same person. It gives them a different insight into the world they're in.
ME: So is that where you come to with Nyssa: you try and develop her in some way, having something that happens that changes her?
CORNELL: The thing is with Nyssa, she's entirely from the fantasy end of the world. Certainly in the TV series she didn't really get attached into the actual world at all. Almost nothing for an actor to play in that part on TV. There's some nice fairy-princess stuff in Traken, but after that. At least Johnny Byrne gives her some stuff to do in Arc of Infinity, but you don't really learn much about her in doing it. There aren't any shades of grey there. Really this is having her live in a small village while the Dr plays cricket for one summer. The story covers the summer and what happens to her while he's having fun.
ME: On the depth and you don't really learn much about her, one of the things that Big Finish have done which is also in the new series is that companions have a history, and friends and family. In Big Finish we've met sisters and brothers... Pete really grounded Rose into something that was real and believable. How much more difficult is it to manage a story when you've got other character to deal with? Does it give you more perspectives, so it's easier to cut to somebody else, or does it actually make it very cluttered?
CORNELL: Um...
ME: I mean, how comfortable are you working from a shopping list of things that need to go into a story?
CORNELL: Every writer loves a shopping list. There's nothing worse - we're in cliche city here - than a blank sheet of paper. Genocide, misery, bus stations - there are lots of things worse than a blank sheet of paper. You can make a paper airplane out of a blank sheet of paper. But... every writer loves a shopping list, especially when it's a shopping list that somebody else has made out that's got lots of lovely presents for me on it.
ME: So for example when you have little Mickey in Father's Day, was that something which you were asked to do, or something you threw in for a laugh?
CORNELL: I think... I think that was Russell's idea. I find it very difficult to play "whose idea was what" through Father's Day because it's quite a long time ago and it's all so much a team game. He wasn't on the original shopping list, he would have been there once we got into it.
ME: There's a suggestion there that things are prefigured for his relationship with Rose beforehand.
CORNELL: Absolutely. There's the imprinting of the chicken thing.
ME: Another thing you say in the commentary about Pete and I've also heard you say about Benny is that they're based on people that you know.
CORNELL: Oh yeah, hugely.
ME: How much do you cut-and-paste from things you've heard and people you've seen to create a real character, and how much can you create something real by making it up?
CORNELL: I think the really difficult job as a writer is to create people who aren't you, who don't think like you and act like you. Obviously every character you write will have some degree of you in it, but it's where you get the other point of view from. Certainly I tend to cut-and-paste from people I know. Sometimes from people I know quite distantly, but often people I know very well. Writers whose characters are all them, sometimes it can work very well. Aaron Sorkin, all of his West Wing characters are different assets of his personality, but that just feels like a wonderful way in to a wonderful mind every week. In my own case, I don't think I've got that depth of ability and so need to find other voices.
ME: So do you find when you're talking to your mates in the pub or something that you'll think, "I'm having that!", or is it something that occurs to you later, when you're writing it and you think, "I remember that time that so and so..."?
CORNELL: It's very rarely individual lines. It's usually a vague impression of people. Do you think I've stolen some stuff from you, is that where this is going?
ME: No, no.
CORNELL: I'm trying to think of examples from Bernice.
ME: I've noticed from doing the Benny history that early on you say Benny is "you in a frock". Which gets very disturbing when Jason Kane is apparently Dave Stone.
CORNELL: I know, I know. And there's Justin running the Collection... But Benny is very close to my viewpoint character. So much so that I quite like the fact that so many voices have ruffled her up a bit since then.
ME: How much did writing for Benny change, or thinking of her, as a result of Lisa getting cast?
CORNELL: It's very hard to say. Lisa's voice infected me so quickly, I find it very hard to think of any primordial Benny that wasn't her. Certainly the Emma Thompson voice on top of me and my frock would be the primordial Benny but Lisa really nailed it.
ME: You've written for Benny since. Do you know find that you're writing for Lisa?
CORNELL: Very much so. In particular I think you'll find her speech patterns have changed a bit, because in Lisa's performance a lot of what she does is in wonderful hesitation. The points in Benny's sentence construction where she hesitates are very different now, I'm sure.
ME: How have things developed since Big Finish took on Benny? In many way, BF's ongoing work all comes from what they originally did with Benny. How much were you involved in setting up Benny's first stuff?
CORNELL: It's really complicated, and I think very apt for Bernice. I was, as always, very busy. I think it was about the time I first started working on Casualty. They asked em to adapt the books and I put forward Jac [Rayner] instead to do it. I think that changed the whole nature of what the range was going to be from an early point. Especially since Jac's voice really is not mine or Benny's at that point. I mean to say that... I'm trying to say something positive and appreciative which may already have sounded negative.
ME: It took it off in a new way.
CORNELL: Exactly. It added a new viewpoint to it.
ME: When they stopped adapting the books and came up with the Collection, how much were you involved in that? Was it just that they said, "this is what we're doing?"
CORNELL: To some degree. The relationship between me and Gary [Russell - who I've sinced succeeded] about Bernice has always been that if I feel I want to interfere, I can view every script, make suggestions and change things. I could pull the rug out from under them and give the licence to somebody else. But I've never felt the need to threaten that and I like the fact that it's something I can dive into, like doing Life During Wartime, and then dive out of again. I like the fact that it continues on without me.
ME: It has a life of it's own.
CORNELL: Exactly. And a life of it's own is very true to the spirit of the character. The purpose of Benny is one thing: a domestic observer character amongst cosmic vastness. Originally that was the cosmic vastness of a distant and alien Dr and now I would say it's the cosmic vastness of all of science fiction. Her brand of carry-on / absurd/ occasionally tragic life experience plays off always against what's happening in more spacey things currently.
ME: One of the things Big Finish is also very conscious of at the moment is that the guidelines for Dr Who have changed so that we have to be much more careful about suitability of content for a family audience and so on. As a natural progression from that, Benny has become much more adult. She now swears and its ruder. How much do you feel Benny works as a standalone, independent series and how much is it a Dr Who spin off?
CORNELL: It's not been a spin-off for a hell of a long time now. That's what I mean to say when I talk about a point of view as a format. She's got her own point of view which works whatever you play it off of. It certainly doesn't need to play off of Dr Who. In many ways it would be great if she could wander off into the Star Trek universe. Can you imagine?
ME: Actually I can.
CORNELL: It would be worth getting a licence just for a couple of months!
ME: Finally, then, if hypothetically Big Finish ever one day got Eccleston to do a series, we'd more than likely have to come up with a new companion who wasn't Rose. So what would she be like? If you were given that job...
CORNELL: Oh boy. I think I'm companioned out. Make her posh. That would be interesting.
ME: You don't feel that Charley is Rose-but-posh?
CORNELL: But Paul McGann is also. I think Charley would work quite well with Eccleston! Have the regeneration! "Do you want to come with me?" "No actually I don't. Take me home you lout."
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Twice shy
Spent the weekend in Polop de la Marina, visiting the outlaws. Worked my way through the manuscript of Missing Adventures, which begins with Stepford-meets-Malory Towers and ends with a leisurely tennis match, and is all rather splendid in between. Now have to think of which bit of it we’re going to stick on the cover.
Oh, I know…
Anyway, as well as having the best placename since Penge, Polop is a small town just a bit out of Benidorm, surrounded by vast and craggy hills. One is meant to be in the shape of a sleeping lion. We didn’t venture too far, but climbed up to the cemetery at the top of the town where the best views awaited. We managed a quick swim in the Mediterranean and I asked correctly for eggs in the supermarket.
Being a cultured sort, the place reminded me of Picasso’s Resevoir Horta, which I liked so much when I first saw it projected in the upstairs room of the Art department at Peter Symonds.
Mostly, though, it was the small English bars where I didn’t have to mention my Spanish. And in the evenings a Spanish bar where a beer and a wine were merely €2.20. The pretty girl behind the bar laughed at my paltry grasp of the lingo, but agreed that the Brits’ karaoke across the square sounded like “los gatos”.
Also spent both nights being eaten by mosquitos, which shows just how tasty I am. The Dr and the outlaws were entirely untouched, while I’ve counted some 30 nibbles. And now they are itchy and blobby and throbbing, as if they might any time explode…
Oh, I know…
Anyway, as well as having the best placename since Penge, Polop is a small town just a bit out of Benidorm, surrounded by vast and craggy hills. One is meant to be in the shape of a sleeping lion. We didn’t venture too far, but climbed up to the cemetery at the top of the town where the best views awaited. We managed a quick swim in the Mediterranean and I asked correctly for eggs in the supermarket.Being a cultured sort, the place reminded me of Picasso’s Resevoir Horta, which I liked so much when I first saw it projected in the upstairs room of the Art department at Peter Symonds.Mostly, though, it was the small English bars where I didn’t have to mention my Spanish. And in the evenings a Spanish bar where a beer and a wine were merely €2.20. The pretty girl behind the bar laughed at my paltry grasp of the lingo, but agreed that the Brits’ karaoke across the square sounded like “los gatos”.
Also spent both nights being eaten by mosquitos, which shows just how tasty I am. The Dr and the outlaws were entirely untouched, while I’ve counted some 30 nibbles. And now they are itchy and blobby and throbbing, as if they might any time explode…
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Harold, Saxon
Yesterday I enjoyed an excursion – my first full day off in some weeks. M’colleague M had promised some kind of day trip some 11 months, six days ago, and my next birthday fast threatened to lap him. Then he realised that because of a work thing he needed to do some reconnaissance; so helpfully killing both tasks with one stone, I was escorted down to Sussex.
On 14 October 1066 – even longer ago than my birthday – two armies met on a steep bit of hill and fought their way on to the national curriculum. Up top were the Anglo-Saxons, all knackered from a quick-march from the North. They looked down on a right bastard’s army – the descendant of kids’ telly’s King Rollo.
The Battle of Hastings (or, er, the Battle of Battle) was a right bloody affair. Bit shocked to discover that 7,000 people died there – three times the population of a big town from the time.
The English Heritage experience gives lots of gruesome detail, and the longer walk round helps you appreciate the main beats of the fighting. Harold is winning and the Normans run away, and some of Harold’s men chase them back down the hill. And then the Normans turn round and hack apart their pursuers, and William thinks, ‘Ooh, look – that worked.”
(In the pub later I recounted my analogy about the modern equivalent of Harold’s front-line.)
The pretty leisurely route round the field helped give a sense of the scale and practicalities. I remember being made to run up the hill as a kid, to see how the odds weighed against the conqueror. The estate is enclosed in fat greenery too, and you barely hear the busy road beyond the boundary. M’s another country boy living in the big city, and we wallowed in the verdant air. And sometimes the sun would bash through the light cloud and we found ourselves grinning giddily.
The last part of the tour, as you clamber up the gentle-seeming contours, debates the different ways King Harold died. Was he shot in the eye by arrow, or somewhere else in his body? Was he cut down by William’s assassins – who sliced off his head, his innards and a leg? And if there’s all this confusion, how come there’s a stone marking the spot where he fell?
Back at the top, the remains of the abbey and ice-house were teeming with schoolkids from abroad. We couldn’t guess the language in which they rabbited, and left them to climb over the bits of masonry that once held up the ceiling of the crypt.
The place stood for just a bit less than 500 years before Henry VIII thought monastic land better shared among his cronies. The only bit still standing was just an adjunct to the abbey – a huge single dormitory, the large rooms underneath boasting glorious vaulted ceilings, the ruins outside showing ambitious plumbing.
We were told how inconvenient the position was to build on – and that the monks originally tried to build somewhere else. But William, now the first of England, was insistent it be built where he’d won his kingdom. He cut people’s hands off for mentioning his illegitimacy, so it’s probably wise the monks did as he bade them.
There weren’t a lot of drawings of what the abbey would have looked like, and I’d assumed something reasonably modest and unassuming. I’ve been spoiled on majestic medieval building by growing up in Winchester – the great cathedral there makes these ruins seem small and paltry. Whereas the battlefield gave a practical sense of the fighting, I struggled to get a sense of the abbey – where it stood, where it pointed, how it big once had been.
Big yes, but how big? And thus how whopping was the conqueror’s sense of guilt?
On 14 October 1066 – even longer ago than my birthday – two armies met on a steep bit of hill and fought their way on to the national curriculum. Up top were the Anglo-Saxons, all knackered from a quick-march from the North. They looked down on a right bastard’s army – the descendant of kids’ telly’s King Rollo.The Battle of Hastings (or, er, the Battle of Battle) was a right bloody affair. Bit shocked to discover that 7,000 people died there – three times the population of a big town from the time.
The English Heritage experience gives lots of gruesome detail, and the longer walk round helps you appreciate the main beats of the fighting. Harold is winning and the Normans run away, and some of Harold’s men chase them back down the hill. And then the Normans turn round and hack apart their pursuers, and William thinks, ‘Ooh, look – that worked.”
(In the pub later I recounted my analogy about the modern equivalent of Harold’s front-line.)
The pretty leisurely route round the field helped give a sense of the scale and practicalities. I remember being made to run up the hill as a kid, to see how the odds weighed against the conqueror. The estate is enclosed in fat greenery too, and you barely hear the busy road beyond the boundary. M’s another country boy living in the big city, and we wallowed in the verdant air. And sometimes the sun would bash through the light cloud and we found ourselves grinning giddily.The last part of the tour, as you clamber up the gentle-seeming contours, debates the different ways King Harold died. Was he shot in the eye by arrow, or somewhere else in his body? Was he cut down by William’s assassins – who sliced off his head, his innards and a leg? And if there’s all this confusion, how come there’s a stone marking the spot where he fell?
Back at the top, the remains of the abbey and ice-house were teeming with schoolkids from abroad. We couldn’t guess the language in which they rabbited, and left them to climb over the bits of masonry that once held up the ceiling of the crypt.
The place stood for just a bit less than 500 years before Henry VIII thought monastic land better shared among his cronies. The only bit still standing was just an adjunct to the abbey – a huge single dormitory, the large rooms underneath boasting glorious vaulted ceilings, the ruins outside showing ambitious plumbing.We were told how inconvenient the position was to build on – and that the monks originally tried to build somewhere else. But William, now the first of England, was insistent it be built where he’d won his kingdom. He cut people’s hands off for mentioning his illegitimacy, so it’s probably wise the monks did as he bade them.
There weren’t a lot of drawings of what the abbey would have looked like, and I’d assumed something reasonably modest and unassuming. I’ve been spoiled on majestic medieval building by growing up in Winchester – the great cathedral there makes these ruins seem small and paltry. Whereas the battlefield gave a practical sense of the fighting, I struggled to get a sense of the abbey – where it stood, where it pointed, how it big once had been.
Big yes, but how big? And thus how whopping was the conqueror’s sense of guilt?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Travers was really a Nazi
The Dr has a thing for travelogues from yesteryear, and somewhen I managed to find her Seven Years in Tibet. It’s a battered, well-thumbed second edition from 1953, with the price 3/ pencilled on the inside back cover, and a “Boots Booklovers’ Library” sticker on the front. The sort of book that looks like it might have had as many adventures as its author.
I read a different copy about a decade ago, having had my interest piqued by Earthling. Bowie’s own Seven Years in Tibet,
In the last third, the book becomes something else entirely. Harrer and one other, Aufschnaiter, reach the capital, Lhasa, and suddenly find themselves accepted, so long as they’re of use to the government. They stay in Lhasa for five whole years, which Harrer glosses over rather briskly (1947 passes in a flash). Their public works include a dam and a water fountain, and eventually Harrer becomes tutor to the Dalai Lama.
Kundun (as his family call him) is barely into his teens, a rather lonely but keenly intelligent boy. He’s fascinated by telescopes and the cinema, and at one point – with Harrer’s encouragement – even makes his own film:
Oddly, we get very little on Harrer’s own background (bar his sporting achievements) and he hardly mentions the outcome of the war – which he discovers while in Tibet – or of the hardships being suffered back home. He and Aufschnaiter concede that they’ve little in the way of ties back home anyway. We get no sense of his own politics, other than the rallying cry for a free Tibet.
I read a different copy about a decade ago, having had my interest piqued by Earthling. Bowie’s own Seven Years in Tibet,
“coincided with a wave of high-profile American support for the country’s plight during the mid-1990s. Major motion pictures like Kundun and Seven Years in Tibet (a 1997 dramatization of Harrer’s memoir which had no direct connection with the Bowie track) made the subject Hollywood’s cause du jour.”
Nicholas Pegg, The Complete David Bowie, p. 138.
It begins as an escape story, unusual – at least as far as I’m concerned – because it’s teller is a German POW escaping English camps in India. We’re told that “the English took a sporting view of our bold [first] attempt” to escape (p.19). I like the swagger of the Germans’ next, more successful effort on 29 April 1944. They’re made up as Indians, with shaved heads and turbans, pretending to be a work party repairing the perimeter. (The posts setting out the barbed-wire fences were prone to attack by white ants.) In these brilliant disguises they just walk out of the camp with two colleagues in bored English uniform as escort.“We attracted no attention and only stopped once, when the sergeant-major rode by the main gate on his bicycle. Our ‘officers’ chose that moment to inspect the wire closely. After that we passed out through the gate without causing the guard to bat an eyelid. It was comforting to see them saluting smartly and obviously suspicious of nobody. Our seventh man, Sattler, who had left his hut rather late, arrived after us. His face was black and he was swinging a tarpot energetically. The sentries let him through.”
Heinrich Harrer, Seven Years in Tibet (trans. Richard Graves), p.21 (my edition, not in the one linked to!).
Once over the border into Tibet, Harrer and his fellows struggle to get food, shelter or any kind of acceptance. Tibetans living near the border, he comes to understand, are not encouraged to help or trade with foreigners. There follows a vivid, Boy’s Own account of hardship. The Germans press on into the interior, with lively adventures outwitting local dignitaries who want them deported, and brigands who’ll take even their scant few possessions. We learn of the temperament of yaks and the customs of the caravans. Though there’s no capital punishment, convicted criminals can die from the brutal state ‘revenge’.In the last third, the book becomes something else entirely. Harrer and one other, Aufschnaiter, reach the capital, Lhasa, and suddenly find themselves accepted, so long as they’re of use to the government. They stay in Lhasa for five whole years, which Harrer glosses over rather briskly (1947 passes in a flash). Their public works include a dam and a water fountain, and eventually Harrer becomes tutor to the Dalai Lama.
Kundun (as his family call him) is barely into his teens, a rather lonely but keenly intelligent boy. He’s fascinated by telescopes and the cinema, and at one point – with Harrer’s encouragement – even makes his own film:
“He had not, of course, had a huge choice of subjects. He had done a big sweeping landscape of the valley of Lhasa, which he turned much too fast. Then came a few under-lighted long-distance pictures of mounted noblemen and caravans passing through Shö. A close-up of his cook showed that he would have liked to take film portraits. The film he had shown me was absolutely his first attempt and had been made without instructions or help. When it was over he got me to announce through the microphone that the performance was over. He then opened the door leading into the theatre, told the abbots that he did not need them any more and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. It was again clear to me that here was no animated puppet, but a clear-cut individual will capable of imposing itself on others.”
Ibid., p. 251.
For something so briefly gone into, their friendship is warm and profound. By this time, there’s also an awareness of the political context, and Harrer reports on attempted coups, infighting and the growing threat from China. It’s not, it turns out, just a threat.Oddly, we get very little on Harrer’s own background (bar his sporting achievements) and he hardly mentions the outcome of the war – which he discovers while in Tibet – or of the hardships being suffered back home. He and Aufschnaiter concede that they’ve little in the way of ties back home anyway. We get no sense of his own politics, other than the rallying cry for a free Tibet.
Monday, May 28, 2007
But I am not a bank
Today I have written the whole of a story (though I'd about 800 words in my notebook as of Saturday). It contains the words "pollotarian", "shoelace" and "off-switch". I think it more-or-less works.
Have also had the okay to write something else entirely; announcements as ever will follow. (This blog isn't for you to understand now, of course, but for me to look back on from the future. And not remember to what I was obliquely wittering.)
Now back to the entry on Eternity Weeps for the ever burgeoning Inside of Benny. Dreary wet weather has helped lots of work getting done on what for some people is a bank holiday. And tonight I'm being taken for curry.
Good job I can avoid electric distractions such as blogging and my 48 friends on Facebook.
Have also had the okay to write something else entirely; announcements as ever will follow. (This blog isn't for you to understand now, of course, but for me to look back on from the future. And not remember to what I was obliquely wittering.)
Now back to the entry on Eternity Weeps for the ever burgeoning Inside of Benny. Dreary wet weather has helped lots of work getting done on what for some people is a bank holiday. And tonight I'm being taken for curry.
Good job I can avoid electric distractions such as blogging and my 48 friends on Facebook.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Little Englishness
Watched Human Nature at a chum's house last night, and general consensus was hooray! - even from those who've not been wowed by New Show recently.
I've been busy writing about the book version, which features Benny instead of Martha. Going through my old notes, I found this interview with Paul Cornell from 21 June 2001. It was originally for my old website thing, Concrete Elephant, and CONTAINS HUGE SPOILERS for Cornell's book, Something More...
It’s a beautiful Midsummer’s day, and Paul Cornell has spent the afternoon drinking. He politely declines the offer of a pint, and goes for a diet coke instead. We duck downstairs to the Writer’s Bar, to ramble about his new science fiction novel, Something More, about his Doctor Who adventures and about... well, all sorts really. To get him started, Elephant has devised five cunning and incisive warm-up questions...
Me: Brussel sprouts – are they good or bad?
Cornell: Oh they’re horrid! One of the most awful inventions of mankind – you take a cabbage and compress it down to horrible smooth size... and the thing to start with isn’t that good. The only good cabbage is when it’s chopped up into really tiny pieces and served with seaweed in Chinese restaurants. Anything else that’s green and that shape is bad.
Me: Even when they’re cooked with bacon?
Cornell: Even! Even the bacon can’t make up for them.
Me: Okay. Favourite character from the Star Wars universe?
Cornell: Oh.... When I was a kid I was always a big... this is the progression from when I was a boy. Han Solo when I was a kid, Luke Skywalker now I’ve grown up.
Me: Do you dunk biscuits in tea?
Cornell: Yes.
Me: How old were you when you first fell in love?
Cornell: Sixteen.
Me: And what’s the best word in the English language?
Cornell: [Long pause]. That’s a bastard question. [More silence, and then, to the tape recorder...] There’s a long pause. [More silence].
Me: Should we move on and talk about the book?
Cornell: Yes! Please! [He giggles, which sounds a bit like Captain Pugwash]
Me: First thing that struck me about the book is the definite sense of place. Bath, Winchester, Chiswick, Blackheath – in fact, all the places I live, which was a bit spooky. It’s all terribly British. Or rather Home Counties, which puts it beside the traditions of English sci-fi; Wyndham, Wells... And yet it’s not set the-day-after-tomorrow. In fact, the key date is 1998. Were you conscious of creating an alternate history?
Cornell: To be honest, I always thought it was a little awkward having it set ‘next year’. The time presented is the time that I actually wrote it, and I was aware that by the time it came out that would be the past. It seemed odd to be writing a present day scenario that might be different by the time it was out. Y’know? I couldn’t just say it’s the present day, write it as the present day and then be caught up in events. So I decided ‘let’s just root it in history, let’s say this is 1998.’ It wasn’t so much an idea of an ‘alternate’ as just a desire to be honest, to keep the present as the present and to go on from there. Britishness... is very important to the whole thing of it. I’ve always wanted to write science fiction that would seem to be in the same kind of world as Kingsley Amis or Evelyn Waugh.
Me: One of the themes running through the book is history and memory – how people misremember the past, how they remember Britain.
Cornell: It’s about how shit history is basically, and how history is always limited and contained. Well, not always, actually. Since the end of the War, history has limited and contained who the British are. It’s interesting to note that during the Boer War, the stereotype throughout Europe of the English was that we were the passionate people who would laugh or cry at anything. And that’s shifted since then. That’s become, I suppose, the Italians. These supposed traditions of what the British are like, most of them are... like panto. Some of the traditions of pantomime were laid down in the 1970s. We always think things are ancient and they never bloody are. And that’s because we’re tied to the past. That particular war especially has been something that has anchored British history. Only now are we making efforts to let go of that, and Something More is about how terrible it would be if we could never let go of that, if our future was entirely determined by our history, by our past. If we could never get on to the rather wonderful, Dan Dare, one-world superstate that I envisage.
Me: You feel that the Second World War has set in stone the politics of today? An old argument is that with World War One, the reasons people went to war are no longer relevant, but the reasons we went to war in 1939 have become more relevant – race and identity.
Cornell: Yes, yes. But on the otherhand... we now celebrate our sporting victories with the theme tune from The Great Escape. That chant, ‘One world cup and two world wars’... Yeah, two world wars, what, fifty years ago? It’s like we’re stuck in a post-imperial loss. It’s like we’re never going to move away from that, never going to go beyond that, never going to redefine what Britishness is. We’re still waiting for a truly inclusive sense of what Britishness is. There’s been gestures towards it, but even this week, this month [with the race riots in Oldham] there’s still signs that we’re not actually getting it. We’re still lost in history.
Me: So is Sir Edwin Lutyens (1869-1944), the architect leader of the heroes, the rag-tag rebels in the book, is he your envisioning of what Britishness should be?
Cornell: Yes. He seems to me to be historically one of those odd Englishmen that pop up from time to time who have just got the whole universe at their command. Englishness does occasionally produce these extraordinarily liberal thinkers who seem to be able to break from the confining code that created them. If I wanted a beneficent deity to be looking over me, I’d want it to be Lutyens, especially since he dealt to admirably in his own life with a wife who was lost in a fog of spirituality which never connected to the real world. And here he was, building buildings in the real world, really good buildings, and expressing himself in a very solid, very concrete way. I think he had a kind of spirituality of his own which is attractive and very interesting. He’s my perfect dad.
Me: So there’s the real history of his opposition to spirituality, and then in your book, Lutyens is fighting a war against a resurrected, alien Jesus Christ from Outer Space.
Cornell: Oh, now you’re giving away the ending.
Me: Jesus is the villain of the piece.
Cornell: One of the things I really like is people who read this before they read the book will wonder ‘How the hell did they get there from the first few chapters?'. I don’t think Lutyens was opposed to spirituality, he was always very supportive of his wife.
Me: There’s a genuine struggle in the book between the means and ends approaches of the great war. The Grey Namer, Jesus, is very much looking towards the ends, drastic solutions whatever the cost. He’s going to destroy the planet Earth – or at least kill everyone on it.
Cornell: But for the best of reasons.
Me: Yes, for the best of reasons. Whereas Lutyens is opposed to that because his idea is that you look to the details. He looks at the pennies and lets the pounds look after themselves. His idea of what a spiritual life involves is having a nice house, with a garden, and going boating with his wife. As opposed to the grand designs. Is that something that you believe yourself?
Cornell: Again it’s that ancient... well it’s not ancient Britishness, it’s a conception of Britishness founded fifty years ago, that the little things are important and big ideologies are rather scary. I quite like that, but I think we’ve carried it just a bit too far. I think Lutyens would say moderation in all things as well, but what does that remind you of? That scones are more important than fascism? I think that this is my Doctor Who heritage showing through.
Me: There are a number of links through to your Doctor Who books. First of all, the emotional backdrop, the incredible sense of mourning, of the First World War is similar to parts of Human Nature. There’s the fact that Mary Poppins, a pop culture figure, comes forward as the Virgin Mary – a far more transcendental cultural icon – in the same way that Vic Reeves cameos in Love and War as the Trickster.
Cornell: Vic Reeves of course, is the Trickster. It’s Mary Poppins because I wanted people to get her straight away. Mary Poppins – that’s a scary movie. She’s all powerful. She’s an omnipotent deity who’s acting as a household familiar. It’s a very odd movie. And deeply English – that sense of the transcendant, coming down into your house and fitting in to the social mores of the time. Fluttering them about a bit, but it’s that wonderful English link between manners and the infinite.
Me: Cultural references play a funny role in the book. In the future, Empire of the Sun is the greatest film ever made.
Cornell: I’m glad you spotted that. Because it’s shifted. It’s Citizen Kane right now. And we kind of think that it must have always been Citizen Kane – but of course it wasn’t. It’s like it’s something that’s only happened to us in the last ten years.
Me: And the people of the future can quote Beatles songs and make reference to Winnie the Pooh, but Booth makes a comment about The Rocky Horror Show and nobody has any idea what he’s talking about. And, most importantly of all, nobody makes any reference to a man who travels round in a police box and saves people from monsters...
Cornell: Absolutely. Because what’s Paul Cornell going to do when he writes a mainstream novel? He’s going to put some kind of stupid Doctor Who reference in there. And I really didn’t want to do that. I don’t think that there’s a single in-joke. Is there?
Me: The only thing I could think of was that you have stately house that’s somewhere near Bath, with wild animals and a maze – and I immediately thought, ‘is that Longleat?’
Cornell: I think that kind of goes beyond an in-joke. I was thinking of a house called Castle Drago, which is a Lutyens house, was the map I used. It’s kind of Castle Drago in Longleat’s grounds. I’ve got really a strong mental imagery of those grounds, and I’ve always wanted to write something set in that area. What it is about Longleat to me is that when I was very little, you would walk through this incredibly well-kept-up stately home, past all these incredible angles. What I remember at Longleat as a kid is really solid angles of stone against a clear blue, empty sky. And you turn a corner, and there’s the TARDIS. As a kid, that’s magic here in the middle of this English manor. And there’s Lord Bath’s private maze which is only open every now and then, with his erotic murals inside. I never went to see those. I still never have. That was forbidden stuff in the maze. It’s not really, then, an in-joke as much as a deliberate setting.
Cornell: I don’t think I name him –
Me: He is actually referred to as Tony.
Cornell: Oh right. Well it’s meant to be him obviously. I think I’m the only New Labour zealot I know. I just think that if people actually do appreciate something, when things fall right, then they should stand up and declare it. And the British are very bad at that. So this a New Labour science fiction novel, and the Prime Minister presented therein is by no means heroic, or saintly, but is nevertheless decent.
Me: He’s the first person to talk to Booth after he’s changed, rather than at him. He addresses him as a human being and asks his opinion -
Cornell: Because I actually think he would.
Me: - and Booth walks into a committee of experts, and gets the feeling that they’ve been carefully selected to be racially representative. Which obviously contrasts with the future where even people from different families are suspect, homosexuality is a capital offence... it’s a tremendous contrast where the world has fallen apart.
Cornell: Absolutely. It’s the two approaches isn’t it? Humans can continue down this road of Horlicks and inclusivity, which I think, thank God, we’re finally shifting to, with this second election victory in a row.
Me: A damning indictment by the British people of the Conservative Party’s efforts over the last five years.
Cornell: Oh yes. The average age – the average – of Tory Party members is 68. The average, for God’s sake. I wanted to say that what people call political correctness now is actually just the first step towards a real, different society, a different Britain. A Britain of the future, the kingdom. What the book is about, the future it presents, is a world where that doesn’t happen. Where we stand-off from Europe, and declare ourselves alone and live for an Empire that no longer exists, and thus keep on degenerating and degenerating into a bunch of warring tribes. I really wanted to portray in a country-British disaster way, Britain like Mozambique or one of those terrible places in Africa where there is no law, through purely economic struggle, through wars that never end. It’s a bit of an overreaction perhaps.
Me: In the book, the history of the families and the nation are addressed by a house with it’s own history. And the house’s haunted past is a moment when Booth turns his back on the backward-looking people and their confused ideas about Britishness.
Cornell: Paul nods enthusiastically. Yes.
Me: All of the way through the book, faith is problematic. Having made Jesus the villain –
Cornell: He’s the hero in my next one. No he is. I think if you look what happens in the whole span of the book, he is the villain certainly, but it’s like grace does win through. His actions turn out to be exactly right for the greater good, that the actions of the book create. It’s almost like the Trinity warring against itself, like his dad is up to something that he hasn’t quite got yet. It’s interesting comparing the two books – British Summertime [due 2002]. When I finished it, I became suddenly aware that a lot of the same things happen in British Summertime as do in Something More. We have hangings, a touch of paedophilia, a huge presence of Christ at the centre of the narrative, except that things are reversed. It’s like a mirror image of the first one, and none of this was conscious. It’s just that my brain seems to want to sort through these things again. And it’s another version of history going in a particular way. In the second case it’s an ecological disaster, and how the future might work out that way. The way to tie it back up in a knot, to bring it back to where it’s supposed to be, a sensation of grace working through history. I think it’s also a question of where I was at the time. Something More is a violent battle with faith – it’s me really kicking hard. And British Summertime’s a very faith-full book. Something More is, in the end, a Christian novel but you’d be hard-pressed to see it, and British Summertime is much more of a CS Lewis-on-acid thing. I’m told it might actually be blasphemous, but I’m not sure. Being married to a vicar is going to be interesting, if some of her congregation actually read Something More. Hopefully British Summertime will be around by that point to reassure them. It’s strange because both books I think are equally... British Summertime is nastier if anything, it pushes the characters further. It’s nice that from a kind of fanboy point of view... that they couldn’t possibly exist in the same world, in that the central character i.e. Jesus is a villain in one and a hero in the other [laughs].
Me: Maybe he was just having an off day.
Cornell: Maybe he was. An off life.
Me: You’ve now been a novelist, a paid novelist, for ten years. Early on you carved a niche of what your themes are, what the things you’re interested in are. Women priests –
Cornell: It’s odd isn’t it! When you say ‘carved’, it’s more like ‘randomly had’. I take a couple of steps back and see that there are things there that were never meant to be. I had no idea that these things would keep on recurring.
Me: As well as the novels, though, you’ve done a lot of television work. There was your own series, Wavelength, and two years ago your episode of Love in the Twentieth Century - an insight into masturbation. And now you’re writing what seems to be half of the next season of Casualty...
Cornell: [Laughing] I’m writing three out of forty. Nearly a tenth.
Me: Yes, well, my maths is a bit ropey. When you’re writing a Casualty episode, do you find yourself pitching, ‘Well, there’s this woman priest, and she’s having problems with Jesus. And there’s an alien...’
Cornell: Yes.... There’s a priest fighting with his faith in the first one. The characters I created for Casualty, Comfort, one of the paramedics, is a Catholic, and that's an issue that keeps coming back. I’m having the time of my life on Casualty – they’re giving me incredible freedom, incredible support. The ability to be free to write novels, and also the freedom to express oneself in an ongoing Saturday night primetime BBC1 series – ooh I’m so satisfied. So the same themes do come up albeit using their characters. The BBC has turned down many, many vicar shows from me. I’ve had comedy vicar shows, I’ve had drama vicar shows. I’ve got to the point where when I present my latest batch of wannabe drama proposals, people will say, ‘Now there aren’t any vicars in this, are there?’ And The Godfather, the book I’ve just adapted for a BBC pilot script – I don’t know if it’ll get filmed but I’ve just delivered the script. Today, actually – it’s very much about ‘my’ themes. I really loved it because it’s slap-bang in the middle of my territory. It’s about a horror novelist, a very rich horror novelist, a bestseller, who inherits, through bereavement, these two godchildren and has to take care of them. In a big, sprawling gothic house. He has to deal with grief and... there’s no spirituality. I may introduce a vicar somewhere along the line. But it’s right up my street.
Me: And is television and film somewhere you see your future? Is that the dream?
Cornell: Yes. I want to write a film. I want to write my Battle of Britain film. I’ve got a plan for that, and that may happen. I’ve got a spy novel on the ramp, and a magical fantasy trilogy about magic throughout the last century, the twentieth century. Witches in 1939, and they have a little cosy Great Escape style witches' coven.
Me: And haunt women vicars?
Cornell: Yes, there’ll probably be a vicar in there as well. I’m marrying a woman vicar! How much more into this can I get? It’d be wrong of me to just say that writing pays the bills. It doesn’t. I find real expression there as well, and I’m having the happiest time of my writing life. All of those future projects are of course subject to the whims of the future. In the back of the dust jacket on the hardback [of Something More], it says ‘Paul’s currently developing a series for Channel 4.’ Well I was when that came out. Nothing came of it. I must stop saying that on backflaps. But yeah, it’s a nice place to be at the moment, and [he fingers the dog-eared copy of Something More on the table] I’m desperately proud of it. When I was little, my brother who introduced my to science fiction, would lend me his Analogs. I suppose it’s an association of my brother and a deep Englishness, that I actually lived in a little English village and had all this wonderful stuff in cardboard boxes that he’d show me, his old sf models and things, that got me this big association between spaceyness and little Englishness. I’ve written about my brother already. He’s Peter Hutchings in Timewyrm: Revelation and Happy Endings. He’s an absolute duplicate of my brother, apart from the fact that he’s a mathematician and my brother’s an insurance broker. Anyway, now I’m wittering...
Me: A couple of year’s ago, the Doctor Who New Adventures were reviewed by Foundation – the British academic journal of sf – and you didn’t come across brilliantly. In fact, some kind fellow had to step in to refute the accusation of Doctor Who as ‘sf’s imbecile’.
Cornell: Yes, thank you. I didn’t, did I? Foundation was after science fiction in the New Adventures.
Me: It seemed to be after ‘grit’ – it didn’t like the ‘nice’ stories.
Cornell: There’s nothing worse than grit.
Me: Their favourite story was [Ben Aaronovitch’s] Transit – which shows exactly what their sensibilities were. Not that I’m dissing Transit.
Cornell: Well, I was going to say. They have a point. I think The Also People [Aaronovitch’s subsequent New Adventure] is better than Transit, in that it shows that that author can kick arse without grit. Indeed, without any gestures in the direction of darkness or horror. Just by talking about nice people having a nice time. I think grit is teenage. There’s an awful lot of pain in Something More and British Summertime. People looking for grit will find it, but I think that the important thing about grit is getting past it. It’s what gets in the way, it’s the problem, it’s not what the books are about. It’s what the books are about getting over.
Me: Something More is about people living in an utterly different, difficult, violent world. And some of the violent scenes are particularly nasty.
Cornell: Oh, some particularly horrible things happen to Booth.
Me: And you have Rebecca being buried alive and standing on tip-toe just so that she can breath... all sorts of horrible things. But the whole point is about people overcoming this.
Cornell: And the fact that condition that they’re after is peace and happiness and scones. And a society that can make scones. I think all my books are about pushing that and trying to get back to it. I think there are certain authors who indulge in grit who actually like it. Who want to be there and want their characters to be in it. Which always sits very difficult with Doctor Who... ‘difficult’ isn’t the right word. Can you put in a better word than ‘difficult’?
Me: It’s against the ethics of the series?
Cornell: Yeah, so anyway, that’s true of Who books. But free to write my own stuff, it’s about the victory over grit.
Me: So do you find the violence difficult to write?
Cornell: Horribly, no. I was a little upset by what I did to Rebecca, and I was wondering if this was some kind of sadistic thing. But then I realised I’d done far, far worse things to Booth. Booth being my hero, and being immortal of course, I can do him far more damage. But it’s about him being better at the end, it’s not about the damage.
I've been busy writing about the book version, which features Benny instead of Martha. Going through my old notes, I found this interview with Paul Cornell from 21 June 2001. It was originally for my old website thing, Concrete Elephant, and CONTAINS HUGE SPOILERS for Cornell's book, Something More...
It’s a beautiful Midsummer’s day, and Paul Cornell has spent the afternoon drinking. He politely declines the offer of a pint, and goes for a diet coke instead. We duck downstairs to the Writer’s Bar, to ramble about his new science fiction novel, Something More, about his Doctor Who adventures and about... well, all sorts really. To get him started, Elephant has devised five cunning and incisive warm-up questions...
Me: Brussel sprouts – are they good or bad?
Cornell: Oh they’re horrid! One of the most awful inventions of mankind – you take a cabbage and compress it down to horrible smooth size... and the thing to start with isn’t that good. The only good cabbage is when it’s chopped up into really tiny pieces and served with seaweed in Chinese restaurants. Anything else that’s green and that shape is bad.
Me: Even when they’re cooked with bacon?
Cornell: Even! Even the bacon can’t make up for them.
Me: Okay. Favourite character from the Star Wars universe?
Cornell: Oh.... When I was a kid I was always a big... this is the progression from when I was a boy. Han Solo when I was a kid, Luke Skywalker now I’ve grown up.
Me: Do you dunk biscuits in tea?
Cornell: Yes.
Me: How old were you when you first fell in love?
Cornell: Sixteen.
Me: And what’s the best word in the English language?
Cornell: [Long pause]. That’s a bastard question. [More silence, and then, to the tape recorder...] There’s a long pause. [More silence].
Me: Should we move on and talk about the book?
Cornell: Yes! Please! [He giggles, which sounds a bit like Captain Pugwash]
Me: First thing that struck me about the book is the definite sense of place. Bath, Winchester, Chiswick, Blackheath – in fact, all the places I live, which was a bit spooky. It’s all terribly British. Or rather Home Counties, which puts it beside the traditions of English sci-fi; Wyndham, Wells... And yet it’s not set the-day-after-tomorrow. In fact, the key date is 1998. Were you conscious of creating an alternate history?
Cornell: To be honest, I always thought it was a little awkward having it set ‘next year’. The time presented is the time that I actually wrote it, and I was aware that by the time it came out that would be the past. It seemed odd to be writing a present day scenario that might be different by the time it was out. Y’know? I couldn’t just say it’s the present day, write it as the present day and then be caught up in events. So I decided ‘let’s just root it in history, let’s say this is 1998.’ It wasn’t so much an idea of an ‘alternate’ as just a desire to be honest, to keep the present as the present and to go on from there. Britishness... is very important to the whole thing of it. I’ve always wanted to write science fiction that would seem to be in the same kind of world as Kingsley Amis or Evelyn Waugh.
Me: One of the themes running through the book is history and memory – how people misremember the past, how they remember Britain.
Cornell: It’s about how shit history is basically, and how history is always limited and contained. Well, not always, actually. Since the end of the War, history has limited and contained who the British are. It’s interesting to note that during the Boer War, the stereotype throughout Europe of the English was that we were the passionate people who would laugh or cry at anything. And that’s shifted since then. That’s become, I suppose, the Italians. These supposed traditions of what the British are like, most of them are... like panto. Some of the traditions of pantomime were laid down in the 1970s. We always think things are ancient and they never bloody are. And that’s because we’re tied to the past. That particular war especially has been something that has anchored British history. Only now are we making efforts to let go of that, and Something More is about how terrible it would be if we could never let go of that, if our future was entirely determined by our history, by our past. If we could never get on to the rather wonderful, Dan Dare, one-world superstate that I envisage.
Me: You feel that the Second World War has set in stone the politics of today? An old argument is that with World War One, the reasons people went to war are no longer relevant, but the reasons we went to war in 1939 have become more relevant – race and identity.
Cornell: Yes, yes. But on the otherhand... we now celebrate our sporting victories with the theme tune from The Great Escape. That chant, ‘One world cup and two world wars’... Yeah, two world wars, what, fifty years ago? It’s like we’re stuck in a post-imperial loss. It’s like we’re never going to move away from that, never going to go beyond that, never going to redefine what Britishness is. We’re still waiting for a truly inclusive sense of what Britishness is. There’s been gestures towards it, but even this week, this month [with the race riots in Oldham] there’s still signs that we’re not actually getting it. We’re still lost in history.
Me: So is Sir Edwin Lutyens (1869-1944), the architect leader of the heroes, the rag-tag rebels in the book, is he your envisioning of what Britishness should be?
Cornell: Yes. He seems to me to be historically one of those odd Englishmen that pop up from time to time who have just got the whole universe at their command. Englishness does occasionally produce these extraordinarily liberal thinkers who seem to be able to break from the confining code that created them. If I wanted a beneficent deity to be looking over me, I’d want it to be Lutyens, especially since he dealt to admirably in his own life with a wife who was lost in a fog of spirituality which never connected to the real world. And here he was, building buildings in the real world, really good buildings, and expressing himself in a very solid, very concrete way. I think he had a kind of spirituality of his own which is attractive and very interesting. He’s my perfect dad.
Me: So there’s the real history of his opposition to spirituality, and then in your book, Lutyens is fighting a war against a resurrected, alien Jesus Christ from Outer Space.
Cornell: Oh, now you’re giving away the ending.
Me: Jesus is the villain of the piece.
Cornell: One of the things I really like is people who read this before they read the book will wonder ‘How the hell did they get there from the first few chapters?'. I don’t think Lutyens was opposed to spirituality, he was always very supportive of his wife.
Me: There’s a genuine struggle in the book between the means and ends approaches of the great war. The Grey Namer, Jesus, is very much looking towards the ends, drastic solutions whatever the cost. He’s going to destroy the planet Earth – or at least kill everyone on it.
Cornell: But for the best of reasons.
Me: Yes, for the best of reasons. Whereas Lutyens is opposed to that because his idea is that you look to the details. He looks at the pennies and lets the pounds look after themselves. His idea of what a spiritual life involves is having a nice house, with a garden, and going boating with his wife. As opposed to the grand designs. Is that something that you believe yourself?
Cornell: Again it’s that ancient... well it’s not ancient Britishness, it’s a conception of Britishness founded fifty years ago, that the little things are important and big ideologies are rather scary. I quite like that, but I think we’ve carried it just a bit too far. I think Lutyens would say moderation in all things as well, but what does that remind you of? That scones are more important than fascism? I think that this is my Doctor Who heritage showing through.
Me: There are a number of links through to your Doctor Who books. First of all, the emotional backdrop, the incredible sense of mourning, of the First World War is similar to parts of Human Nature. There’s the fact that Mary Poppins, a pop culture figure, comes forward as the Virgin Mary – a far more transcendental cultural icon – in the same way that Vic Reeves cameos in Love and War as the Trickster.
Cornell: Vic Reeves of course, is the Trickster. It’s Mary Poppins because I wanted people to get her straight away. Mary Poppins – that’s a scary movie. She’s all powerful. She’s an omnipotent deity who’s acting as a household familiar. It’s a very odd movie. And deeply English – that sense of the transcendant, coming down into your house and fitting in to the social mores of the time. Fluttering them about a bit, but it’s that wonderful English link between manners and the infinite.
Me: Cultural references play a funny role in the book. In the future, Empire of the Sun is the greatest film ever made.
Cornell: I’m glad you spotted that. Because it’s shifted. It’s Citizen Kane right now. And we kind of think that it must have always been Citizen Kane – but of course it wasn’t. It’s like it’s something that’s only happened to us in the last ten years.
Me: And the people of the future can quote Beatles songs and make reference to Winnie the Pooh, but Booth makes a comment about The Rocky Horror Show and nobody has any idea what he’s talking about. And, most importantly of all, nobody makes any reference to a man who travels round in a police box and saves people from monsters...
Cornell: Absolutely. Because what’s Paul Cornell going to do when he writes a mainstream novel? He’s going to put some kind of stupid Doctor Who reference in there. And I really didn’t want to do that. I don’t think that there’s a single in-joke. Is there?
Me: The only thing I could think of was that you have stately house that’s somewhere near Bath, with wild animals and a maze – and I immediately thought, ‘is that Longleat?’
Cornell: I think that kind of goes beyond an in-joke. I was thinking of a house called Castle Drago, which is a Lutyens house, was the map I used. It’s kind of Castle Drago in Longleat’s grounds. I’ve got really a strong mental imagery of those grounds, and I’ve always wanted to write something set in that area. What it is about Longleat to me is that when I was very little, you would walk through this incredibly well-kept-up stately home, past all these incredible angles. What I remember at Longleat as a kid is really solid angles of stone against a clear blue, empty sky. And you turn a corner, and there’s the TARDIS. As a kid, that’s magic here in the middle of this English manor. And there’s Lord Bath’s private maze which is only open every now and then, with his erotic murals inside. I never went to see those. I still never have. That was forbidden stuff in the maze. It’s not really, then, an in-joke as much as a deliberate setting.
“We have friends in the Universe. Their ambassador’s an Englishman. Everybody’s going to be filled with hope again. What a great Christmas present.”
Tony, the Prime Minister, p. 216.
Me: I was reading the book as the General Election was taking place, and here’s a book set in 1998 and the Prime Minister’s name is Tony. He’s never sign-posted as Tony Blair, MA Oxon, Leader of the Labour Party...Cornell: I don’t think I name him –
Me: He is actually referred to as Tony.
Cornell: Oh right. Well it’s meant to be him obviously. I think I’m the only New Labour zealot I know. I just think that if people actually do appreciate something, when things fall right, then they should stand up and declare it. And the British are very bad at that. So this a New Labour science fiction novel, and the Prime Minister presented therein is by no means heroic, or saintly, but is nevertheless decent.
Me: He’s the first person to talk to Booth after he’s changed, rather than at him. He addresses him as a human being and asks his opinion -
Cornell: Because I actually think he would.
Me: - and Booth walks into a committee of experts, and gets the feeling that they’ve been carefully selected to be racially representative. Which obviously contrasts with the future where even people from different families are suspect, homosexuality is a capital offence... it’s a tremendous contrast where the world has fallen apart.
Cornell: Absolutely. It’s the two approaches isn’t it? Humans can continue down this road of Horlicks and inclusivity, which I think, thank God, we’re finally shifting to, with this second election victory in a row.
Me: A damning indictment by the British people of the Conservative Party’s efforts over the last five years.
Cornell: Oh yes. The average age – the average – of Tory Party members is 68. The average, for God’s sake. I wanted to say that what people call political correctness now is actually just the first step towards a real, different society, a different Britain. A Britain of the future, the kingdom. What the book is about, the future it presents, is a world where that doesn’t happen. Where we stand-off from Europe, and declare ourselves alone and live for an Empire that no longer exists, and thus keep on degenerating and degenerating into a bunch of warring tribes. I really wanted to portray in a country-British disaster way, Britain like Mozambique or one of those terrible places in Africa where there is no law, through purely economic struggle, through wars that never end. It’s a bit of an overreaction perhaps.
Me: In the book, the history of the families and the nation are addressed by a house with it’s own history. And the house’s haunted past is a moment when Booth turns his back on the backward-looking people and their confused ideas about Britishness.
“We are never going to get back to the Union Jack, to Britain, to one government over this island […]. We can’t start anything new, because we keep trying to build new things in the image of the old. We can’t get out of that mind-set. We are still too British, when there is not Britain to be British about.”
Booth Hawtrey, pp. 329-330.
That’s the starting point, and the resolution is to turn your back on history. The pivotal human action that causes everyone to forget their past, comes from Jane, who’s been this violent priest. It’s astonishing the barbarity her faith takes her to, but it’s actually her faith that takes them where no one else has succeeded. She’s able to turn back time.Cornell: Paul nods enthusiastically. Yes.
Me: All of the way through the book, faith is problematic. Having made Jesus the villain –
Cornell: He’s the hero in my next one. No he is. I think if you look what happens in the whole span of the book, he is the villain certainly, but it’s like grace does win through. His actions turn out to be exactly right for the greater good, that the actions of the book create. It’s almost like the Trinity warring against itself, like his dad is up to something that he hasn’t quite got yet. It’s interesting comparing the two books – British Summertime [due 2002]. When I finished it, I became suddenly aware that a lot of the same things happen in British Summertime as do in Something More. We have hangings, a touch of paedophilia, a huge presence of Christ at the centre of the narrative, except that things are reversed. It’s like a mirror image of the first one, and none of this was conscious. It’s just that my brain seems to want to sort through these things again. And it’s another version of history going in a particular way. In the second case it’s an ecological disaster, and how the future might work out that way. The way to tie it back up in a knot, to bring it back to where it’s supposed to be, a sensation of grace working through history. I think it’s also a question of where I was at the time. Something More is a violent battle with faith – it’s me really kicking hard. And British Summertime’s a very faith-full book. Something More is, in the end, a Christian novel but you’d be hard-pressed to see it, and British Summertime is much more of a CS Lewis-on-acid thing. I’m told it might actually be blasphemous, but I’m not sure. Being married to a vicar is going to be interesting, if some of her congregation actually read Something More. Hopefully British Summertime will be around by that point to reassure them. It’s strange because both books I think are equally... British Summertime is nastier if anything, it pushes the characters further. It’s nice that from a kind of fanboy point of view... that they couldn’t possibly exist in the same world, in that the central character i.e. Jesus is a villain in one and a hero in the other [laughs].
Me: Maybe he was just having an off day.
Cornell: Maybe he was. An off life.
Me: You’ve now been a novelist, a paid novelist, for ten years. Early on you carved a niche of what your themes are, what the things you’re interested in are. Women priests –
Cornell: It’s odd isn’t it! When you say ‘carved’, it’s more like ‘randomly had’. I take a couple of steps back and see that there are things there that were never meant to be. I had no idea that these things would keep on recurring.
Me: As well as the novels, though, you’ve done a lot of television work. There was your own series, Wavelength, and two years ago your episode of Love in the Twentieth Century - an insight into masturbation. And now you’re writing what seems to be half of the next season of Casualty...
Cornell: [Laughing] I’m writing three out of forty. Nearly a tenth.
Me: Yes, well, my maths is a bit ropey. When you’re writing a Casualty episode, do you find yourself pitching, ‘Well, there’s this woman priest, and she’s having problems with Jesus. And there’s an alien...’
Cornell: Yes.... There’s a priest fighting with his faith in the first one. The characters I created for Casualty, Comfort, one of the paramedics, is a Catholic, and that's an issue that keeps coming back. I’m having the time of my life on Casualty – they’re giving me incredible freedom, incredible support. The ability to be free to write novels, and also the freedom to express oneself in an ongoing Saturday night primetime BBC1 series – ooh I’m so satisfied. So the same themes do come up albeit using their characters. The BBC has turned down many, many vicar shows from me. I’ve had comedy vicar shows, I’ve had drama vicar shows. I’ve got to the point where when I present my latest batch of wannabe drama proposals, people will say, ‘Now there aren’t any vicars in this, are there?’ And The Godfather, the book I’ve just adapted for a BBC pilot script – I don’t know if it’ll get filmed but I’ve just delivered the script. Today, actually – it’s very much about ‘my’ themes. I really loved it because it’s slap-bang in the middle of my territory. It’s about a horror novelist, a very rich horror novelist, a bestseller, who inherits, through bereavement, these two godchildren and has to take care of them. In a big, sprawling gothic house. He has to deal with grief and... there’s no spirituality. I may introduce a vicar somewhere along the line. But it’s right up my street.
Me: And is television and film somewhere you see your future? Is that the dream?
Cornell: Yes. I want to write a film. I want to write my Battle of Britain film. I’ve got a plan for that, and that may happen. I’ve got a spy novel on the ramp, and a magical fantasy trilogy about magic throughout the last century, the twentieth century. Witches in 1939, and they have a little cosy Great Escape style witches' coven.
Me: And haunt women vicars?
Cornell: Yes, there’ll probably be a vicar in there as well. I’m marrying a woman vicar! How much more into this can I get? It’d be wrong of me to just say that writing pays the bills. It doesn’t. I find real expression there as well, and I’m having the happiest time of my writing life. All of those future projects are of course subject to the whims of the future. In the back of the dust jacket on the hardback [of Something More], it says ‘Paul’s currently developing a series for Channel 4.’ Well I was when that came out. Nothing came of it. I must stop saying that on backflaps. But yeah, it’s a nice place to be at the moment, and [he fingers the dog-eared copy of Something More on the table] I’m desperately proud of it. When I was little, my brother who introduced my to science fiction, would lend me his Analogs. I suppose it’s an association of my brother and a deep Englishness, that I actually lived in a little English village and had all this wonderful stuff in cardboard boxes that he’d show me, his old sf models and things, that got me this big association between spaceyness and little Englishness. I’ve written about my brother already. He’s Peter Hutchings in Timewyrm: Revelation and Happy Endings. He’s an absolute duplicate of my brother, apart from the fact that he’s a mathematician and my brother’s an insurance broker. Anyway, now I’m wittering...
Me: A couple of year’s ago, the Doctor Who New Adventures were reviewed by Foundation – the British academic journal of sf – and you didn’t come across brilliantly. In fact, some kind fellow had to step in to refute the accusation of Doctor Who as ‘sf’s imbecile’.
Cornell: Yes, thank you. I didn’t, did I? Foundation was after science fiction in the New Adventures.
Me: It seemed to be after ‘grit’ – it didn’t like the ‘nice’ stories.
Cornell: There’s nothing worse than grit.
Me: Their favourite story was [Ben Aaronovitch’s] Transit – which shows exactly what their sensibilities were. Not that I’m dissing Transit.
Cornell: Well, I was going to say. They have a point. I think The Also People [Aaronovitch’s subsequent New Adventure] is better than Transit, in that it shows that that author can kick arse without grit. Indeed, without any gestures in the direction of darkness or horror. Just by talking about nice people having a nice time. I think grit is teenage. There’s an awful lot of pain in Something More and British Summertime. People looking for grit will find it, but I think that the important thing about grit is getting past it. It’s what gets in the way, it’s the problem, it’s not what the books are about. It’s what the books are about getting over.
Me: Something More is about people living in an utterly different, difficult, violent world. And some of the violent scenes are particularly nasty.
Cornell: Oh, some particularly horrible things happen to Booth.
Me: And you have Rebecca being buried alive and standing on tip-toe just so that she can breath... all sorts of horrible things. But the whole point is about people overcoming this.
Cornell: And the fact that condition that they’re after is peace and happiness and scones. And a society that can make scones. I think all my books are about pushing that and trying to get back to it. I think there are certain authors who indulge in grit who actually like it. Who want to be there and want their characters to be in it. Which always sits very difficult with Doctor Who... ‘difficult’ isn’t the right word. Can you put in a better word than ‘difficult’?
Me: It’s against the ethics of the series?
Cornell: Yeah, so anyway, that’s true of Who books. But free to write my own stuff, it’s about the victory over grit.
Me: So do you find the violence difficult to write?
Cornell: Horribly, no. I was a little upset by what I did to Rebecca, and I was wondering if this was some kind of sadistic thing. But then I realised I’d done far, far worse things to Booth. Booth being my hero, and being immortal of course, I can do him far more damage. But it’s about him being better at the end, it’s not about the damage.
“Things seemed to be different already. All the new growth. All the new systems. Anything that fell apart just got replaced by something better.”
The happy ending, p. 420.
We mug at each other for a bit. ‘I think that’s it,’ I say. 'Cool!’ enthuses Cornell. ‘Wonderful. Good stuff, nice questions.’ We head back upstairs for more drinks. Later, over pizza, he comes back to that question about the best word in the English language. If he has to choose a word, it’ll be something silly and onomatapaeic... like ‘plop’.Friday, May 25, 2007
How to say "no" nicely
With the gracious permission of its author, here's the rejection letter I received for my first ever Doctor Who novel submission, 13 years ago. (You can read "Mondas" here.)
11 October 1994It's funny how much of this has stuck; I still see red when other people write "any more" as one word.
Dear Mr Guerrier
Thank you for your letter telling us about your Doctor Who proposal. We do our best to read everything that gets sent to us, and we’ll certainly consider any material you care to submit.
I have to say, though, that there are already clear problems with your proposal as far as we’re concerned. The first point is simply one of presentation: we ask for a full plot synopsis and two or three chapters of sample text before we can give an idea proper consideration. Nice as it would be to work in tandem with every author from day one of their story, there are something like six hundred people out there trying to write for us and something like one of me. (Given the other lines of fiction that we publish and the fact that there are only four people in the department, it works out that there’s about one person dealing with Doctor Who.) Also, your letter is handwritten – we must insist that all proposals are typewritten or word-processed. But all that’s in the guidelines, which are enclosed.
Now, the more serious issues. Continuity references are a moot point, but I’ll argue them as far as I can. While there have been a number of old characters and other references to the show’s past in the New Adventures, we don’t encourage them – particularly from first-time authors. Firstly, we want to keep the New (and to a lesser extent the Missing) Adventures new, introducing exciting new races, settings and characters. You’ll notice that even when old elements are reused, they’re usually mixed with something original. Secondly (and this is usually the cruncher), many writers fall into the trap of relying solely on the old faces for the entertainment and drama value of the story. We might take an excellent submission if it happens to have familiar faces in it, but if the central premise of the book is simply the return of the character the plot is likely to suffer. Finally, many Who fans are rather conservative. They don’t like people messing with their favourite characters. If we ever do use Daleks, Cybermen, Time Lords, etc., we try to make sure we have an experienced and popular author is (sic) handling them.
Similarly, we don’t like stories which come about largely in a bid to clear up continuity; they can do so incidentally, but the way to go about a book in the first instance is to start with plot ideas, characters, situations and images. You’re trying to do far too much with this idea: explain the origin of the moon, the destruction of Venus, the exodus of Martians from Mars and the hibernation of the Silurians (who, incidentally, couldn’t possibly predict such and event!). It adds nothing to the story and smacks of tokenism.
I’m afraid to say that there aren’t many new ideas in the plot. What it boils down to is some people on a planet fighting. I don’t think there’s enough action to stretch to a full-length novel, and what there is doesn’t sound very spellbinding. For me, it was all summed up by ‘running down a few corridors etc. etc.’, which is not the sort of plot detail we look favourably on.
Things that made me go ‘Ouch’: what was the vague ‘force’ that pulled the TARDIS down on Mondas? How could the Cybermen possibly know the TARDIS was going to land there? Where does Benny’s info about the projectile hitting the sun come from (the TARDIS only knows as much as the Doctor)? Moreover, where on earth does she get the notion that a ‘child prodigy’ is involved? Why mention Mondas and the Cybermen so early in the story when you could get lots of drama and suspense out of it? How can you send a group of Cybermen back in time to ensure the race is not wiped out by the Doctor when you don’t know the race is going to be wiped out by the Doctor? (The Cybermen in their arrogance would never consider this contingency, and they’re hardly clairvoyant.) Why is the Doctor allowed to live so long in captivity (the Cybermen must know how dangerous he is by now)? Isn’t the ‘delaying genesis by a few millennia’ too similar to Genesis of the Daleks?
Things that made me go ‘Yeuch’: ‘the Ice Warrior’s exodus’; they replaced limbs for metal and plastic; befreind; Jurrasic; anymore; suprises; eighteen years-old. This sort of thing needs a lot of work before your writing will be of publishable standard.
I hope you’ll understand, then, why this isn’t too upbeat a reply. A lot of the faults, you’ll doubtless be annoyed to hear, can be put down to your age. It seems writing is one of the last abilities to fully mature in human beings. Some people never learn how to write well at all. But even the most talent authors started late; I think it’s because the more experience you have, the better you write.
I can’t really say anything without sounding patronising, so I might as well just go ahead and say it: eighteen is young. The youngest of our authors to be published was 23 when his book came out – and that’s very young by normal standards. I’m not saying you won’t be able to write something good enough for the series; just alerting you that it’s not very likely.
Having said all that, you’ll never get good enough if you don’t practise. By all means carry on writing – even the one you’re working on, if you don’t mind the fact that we won’t be interested in it as it stands. And as I said, we’ll read things that you send (though there won’t be anything this detailed again). Carry on trying, and enjoy it.
Yours sincerely,
Andy Bodle
Editorial Assistant
Thursday, May 24, 2007
TOTAL CYBERISATION
The final part of my first ever pitch for a Doctor Who novel, from 13 years ago. (Part one here.)
Episode Four
The Cyberleader gives orders for TOTAL CYBERISATION to begin.In the factory, the Doctor’s companions are very much alive. Cwej and his friends arrived just in time, killed the executors, and used a Cyberhead for the voice. The rebels, who had expected to find the Doctor here, now plan a seige on the Mondasian palace. They plan then to end the Cybernetics programme and concentrate on other solutions to their planet’s condition.
From the court, the Doctor et all watch squads of (Tenth Planet-type) Cybermen rounding up and shooting the terrifyed natives. However, a human force begins to form, and hit back at the machines. The Doctor comments on the similarity to the Cybermen’s future. He then sees his companions amongst the crowd, and taunts the Cyber Leader. The Cyber lieutenant strangles the Doctor.
While the PM remains scared and indecisive, the King seizes a Cyberman’s own gun and kills the Cyber lieutenant. He kills two of the three other Cybermen, leaving one and the Cyber leader, before being gunned down himself. The PM, inspired, takes the gun and kills the trooper. He wounds the Cyberleader with the last energy pulse of the weapon. However, as the Cyberleader (with a sizeable chunk missing from his head) stalks the PM onto the balcony, the Doctor comes from behind him, shoves and throws the Cyber-Leader over. He explodes.
The Doctor then calls up the Cyber Brain via the Cyber Communication system and announces their victory. The brain threatens to return to Mondas when they have beaten the human invasion on Telos. The Doctor knows the humans win.
Later, the PM calls for a CONSTITUTIONAL GOVERNMENT, and opts for a fertilisation programme and propulsion unit. As the Doctor and his friends leave, he tells them that for the Mondasians to become Cybermen is inevitable, but at least they’ve been delayed by a few millenia… THE END.
Next episode: The Rejection Letter.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Rise of the Cybermen
Part three of my first ever pitch for a Doctor Who novel, from 13 years ago. (Part one here.)
Episode Three
With the time-travellers at gun-point, the Cyber-Leader explains that Cyber control realised the FULL consequences of their “failed” attempt to wipe out Earth in 2526; that is the creation of themselves, but also detected that the TARDIS would land on Mondas shortly afterward. The Cyberleader, his lieutenant and a squad of Cybermen were sent back in time to ensure that despite thwarting them in the 26th Century, the Doctor did not erase their existence altogether.
The Doctor’s two companions are ‘taken down’ from the wall, and are to be taken as hostages while the Doctor is escorted to the King by the Cyberleader, who will then take over Mondas directly, completely determining the Cyber-destiny. However, on of the companions (Cwej(?)) escapes. A Cyberman shoots at him, and he fakes his own death by leaping from a gantry. While the Cybermen reports his death to the Cyber leader, Cewj heads off to the rebel camp to get help.
At the Court, both the King and Prime Minister are horrified by the Cyber-Leader, but the King comments that if this the ultimate state of his people, the “so be it”. The Prime Minister cannot accept this, and tries to side with the Doctor, suggesting either a programme looking into fertilisation, or emmigration to another planet, or hibernation or even a PROPULSION UNIT being fitted into Mondas to take her back to her old orbit. The Doctor replies that all but the first of these are to become the directives of the Cybermen anyway, with their single motivation for SURVIVAL. It is unclear whether he is for or against Cyber evolution.
On the outskirts of Mondas, Cwej and the Exile group he has assembled agree to rescue the Doctor before doing anything else.
In the courtroom, the Prime Minister is silenced by the Doctor admitting that nothing he can do will stop the rise of the Cybermen. The Cyberleader wishes to instill this powerlessness (and show dominance over all foes) and orders the hostages to be executed. Over the communicator, there is the sound of gun-fire, and a cyber-voice reports that the hostages are dead. The Cyber leader turns to the Doctor, who looks mortified, and almost gloats the word, “Excellent!”
Next episode: TOTAL CYBERISATION
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Corridors etc.
Part two of my first ever pitch for a Doctor Who novel, from 13 years ago. (Part one here.)
Episode Two
At the last minute, the King intervenes, refusing to allow the murder. However, when the Doctor and Bernice cannot help him as to the location of the exile’s camp, he agrees to have “the Pinks” locked up, pending an interrogation.
The Doctor’s other companion’s awaken from the “stun shot” in the Cybernetics factory. They are to be, as with all the other captives, made into Cybermen. They rally support for a jail-break, but after escaping their cell and running down a few corridors etc. etc. they are all recaptured.
The Doctor and Bernice are more successful. With a little bout of Venusian Akido, they escape their escort and head back to the TARDIS. They are not going to interfere anymore, letting destiny run it’s course. The TARDIS’s self-repair systems will soon be finished and they can leave. At least now, the TARDIS will be in a state that the Doctor can co-habit (the reason he was so ‘ill’ before was because of the pain and confusion the TARDIS’s “brain” was sending him).
These plans are messed up by their finding the TARDIS absent of the other two. While the Doctor attempts to trace his missing companions, Bernice plays on the other side of the controls, and finally finds what she is looking for. A computer simulation shows an object collide with the sun and explode. An anti-matter flame is caused, a sweep of very powerful energy. It wipes Mercury (presumably removing any remains of the Jagaroth’s Final Battle), turns the pleasant Venus and her people into a dead, fire world, kills the dinosaurs on Earth (the Silurians having the foresight to hibernate), breaks off a piece of the planet (where the Pacific Ocean is now) that becomes the Earth’s moon, knocks Earth’s sister, Mondas into space and bleaches and makes barren her people, and then fizzles out shortly after making Mars too uncomfortable for the Marsians. The Doctor is hardly listening, but has found his other companions, in the Cybernetic’s factory. He again expresses concern for the rapidity of events. Bernice makes a comment about it being a Child Prodigy being too-clever that has led to this. The Doctor ignores her and looks at her computer console. He seems to falter, and identifies the object that hit the Sun as the 2562 A.D. Space Freighter (from “Earthshock”) and comments that “his friend must have finally steered the ship out of Earth’s orbit. He then does a double-take on Bernice’s “Child-Prodigy” joke, and runs from the TARDIS. Shrugging, Bernice follows.
Arriving at the Cybernetics Factory, the Doctor, who seems jubilant with himself, comments “…he never could choose the right side to be on… I knew he hadn’t died!” He marches past startled staff and up to the “Cybernetics Controller”. “Hello, Adric” he beams, but the Controller is not Adric. He is a tall, life-less man with a large, metal device screwed into his face. The Doctor nearly collapses.
Bernice sees the other two companions amongst a group of figures in booths, being prepared for Cyberisation. She tries to rescue them, and the Doctor recovers his wits and assists her. Her brilliant blue pulse from a laser cannon sends them both sprawling.
From the floor, the stunned Doctor looks at the shooter. It is the Cyberleader (Earthshock – Silver Nemesis type Cyberman), who stands with his lieutenant and the humanoid Cybermen, obviously under their control. The Cyber leader speaks: “As we predicted, we meet again, Doctor!!”
Next episode: RISE OF THE CYBERMEN
Monday, May 21, 2007
Spare parts
Have been busy, sorry. But I've done all my reading for the Doctor Who short story competition, and we should have announcments soon. Am now well into Bernice Summerfield - The Inside Story, and have interviewed a great wealth of people in the last few days.
Got masses still to do, and fact-checking and transcribing and putting it all together. But pretty pleased with current progress. It's got to be delivered by the end of June, so I shall remain rather frantic till then.
Amid the research, I unearthed my own first ever proposal to Virgin for a Doctor Who novel - sent in September 1994, in my first week at university. It's eye-poppingly appalling, and in typing it up I have tried to keep in all the typos. Yes, the version I sent Virgin was handwritten...
It's in four episodes (I think I was keen it should have the feel of the telly show). Since I've been doing so much judging and lest should be judged myself, we begin serialisation today:
Got masses still to do, and fact-checking and transcribing and putting it all together. But pretty pleased with current progress. It's got to be delivered by the end of June, so I shall remain rather frantic till then.
Amid the research, I unearthed my own first ever proposal to Virgin for a Doctor Who novel - sent in September 1994, in my first week at university. It's eye-poppingly appalling, and in typing it up I have tried to keep in all the typos. Yes, the version I sent Virgin was handwritten... It's in four episodes (I think I was keen it should have the feel of the telly show). Since I've been doing so much judging and lest should be judged myself, we begin serialisation today:
Mondas
A Genesis of the Cybermen by S. Guerrier
Episode One
Bernice has been nagging the Doctor to investigate the Ice Warrior’s exodus from Mars. As it heads back to the end of the Jurrasic Era, the TARDIS is overcome by some extra-dimensional energy wave, and crashes violently on an Earth-sized planetoid situated between Jupiter and Saturn.
Wild and erratic – through his symbiosis with the damaged ship – the Doctor flees the TARDIS. Telling the others to remain, Bernice follows him. She follows him into a strange, alien citadel, where the sparsely seen inhabitants – cloaked and faceless – shirk away from the Time-Lord and his Minder. Soon, masked, armoured police arrive, arresting and dragging off the travellers, and ignoring Bernice’s pleas for the Doctor’s state of health.
Bored with waiting, the other two companions venture out from the ship, into the hands of a small group of rough-looking cloaked figures. They remove their hoods to reveal that they are ALBINOS – as are, apparently, all the inhabitants of Mondas, since the ‘Time of the Burning Skies’. This is a recce group, investigating the TARDIS crash site on behalf of their fellow exiles. They take the two travellers to their leaders encampment.
In a Mondasian cell, Bernice calls for her rights or an explanaition of her crime are ignored by the unmasked, albino guards. A sobered Doctor reveals that Mondas is the home planet of the Cybermen.
The exiles’ leaders welcome the “pinks” (the two companions) and explain how they too were “pinks”, until thirty years ago when they were bleached and made infertile by the “Burning Skies” that have sent their planet moving out to space.
In the cell, the Doctor explains how once, Mondas and Earth were twins, sharing the same orbital path around the sun. Then, for whatever reason, Mondas drifted outwards to become the Solar System’s tenth planet. The atmospheric changes of this shift were too much for the inhabitants, and herbal medecines could not help. Slowly they replaced limbs for metal and plastic… Bernice is concerned, and points out that this period at the end of the Jurassic Era also saw the Martian exodus, the Silurian hibernation and the total extinction of the Venusian civilisation! Such revelations are cut short by the return of the police men, who have orders to take the prisoners to the King!
On the outskirts of the metropolis, the exiles bring the cloaked companions to “convince the people of their aims”.
In the Court room, the Doctor and Bernice are taken to the King and his Prime Minister. The King, seen as strong and proud, is in reality weak and indecisive, following the instructions of the sly, manipulative PM. The newly begun Cybernetics programme is all the Prime Minister’s doing. The Doctor’s natural ability to befreind royalty is rebuked by the PM, who refuses to allow “Pinks” to upset the stable regime.
On the streets, hidden Mondasian police watch the exiles try to rally attention. When the two companions remove their hoods, their is a roar of shock, followed by the appearance of the troops, who mercilessly gun down all those present, including the two companions.
In the court, the Doctor and Prime Minister are arguing. The Prime Minister “cannot allow the travellers (as pinks) to incite further unrest”. He presses a button, and a lumbering “Tenth Planet”-type Cyberman enters. The Doctor’s fear that Mondas should not have Cybermen so soon is interrupted by the PM’s order, “Kill them!”
Next episode: CORRIDORS ETC.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Dead or alive
In between all the copious reading, I have sometimes escaped my pod. The Dr took me on Friday night for ramen and A Matter of Life and Death. It’s an expertly staged version of the Powell and Pressburger movie, full of vim and ingenuity. But I felt these rather detracted from the all-important love story.
The film (which I love but the Dr and Codename Moose both felt too boring) begins with dashingly handsome World War 2 pilot Peter (David Niven) on his way back from a raid over Germany. The rest of his crew have either bailed out or bought it, and Peter’s plane is bothersomely on fire. Knowing he hasn’t a hope of landing, and dashed well without a parachute, he natters to a pretty-sounding wireless operator – June, played by Kim Hunter (yes, hot chimp lady Zira from the Planet of the Apes).
After wooing this fine-sounding filly, Peter leaps from the plane… and miraculously survives. The after-life has made a balls-up in the typically English fog, and while Peter and June get to a-snogging, a celestial court hearing is being arranged…
The afterlife of the movie is full of deliciously over-the-top performances, yet all in cold black and white. The spirit world is a haunting and grey place. This contrasts with the staid, stiff-lipped Brits surviving world war in rich and vivid colour. The play nicely smudges the split between the two worlds – living and dead – so it’s less explicit that the court is all in Peter’s head. I was a bit worried by advance warning that the play featured several songs, but its all fun and rumble-tumble stuff, bringing to life the passion of life that Peter’s fighting for.
That said, this smudging does make things a bit tricky for the central wheeze – whether it’s right that Peter should get a second chance. For all Douglas Hodge does his best as Peter’s dead friend Frank, arguing in defence of the star-cross’d lovers, we’re not exactly convinced of the special flavour of the case when the afterlife seems so rosy. There’s passion and larking and sexy girls on both sides of the mortal divide, and the dead seem more happy and care-free.
The performances on stage were all excellent, though the plot was overshadowed by moving props, Kirby wires and pyrotechnics. I thought of my few lessons in audio drama – that the sound engineers can make widescreen baroque on stereo, but we need to hear the words people are saying to build a picture in minds. The play is a great, funny feast to watch and enjoy, but its real strength and cleverness get a bit lost in the mayhem. The larking about and jokes about drowning in bags of milk rather smothers the emotional core.
It doesn’t help that the play then brings out women killed in Coventry and Dresden on the sorts of mission Peter was flying. This departure from the film may make the story more complex and contemporary, but the random brutality of war also undercuts the right of Peter to get special leniency. In the film he’s fighting a war against grey bureaucracy – and one that’s made the cock-up in the first place. In the play his motivation is a bit more selfish.
The extra context did very effectively up the emotional stakes of the play, and maybe got the audience working more critically. It is very well done, and a lively, sparky night out was exactly what my sandpapered eyes were after. Yet in retrospect it doesn’t sit happily.
Perhaps it’s just the effect of living in a different time. The film originally played to a newly post-war audience, every one of whom would have lost somebody. The underplayed sentiment holds back a tide of evocations.
The film (which I love but the Dr and Codename Moose both felt too boring) begins with dashingly handsome World War 2 pilot Peter (David Niven) on his way back from a raid over Germany. The rest of his crew have either bailed out or bought it, and Peter’s plane is bothersomely on fire. Knowing he hasn’t a hope of landing, and dashed well without a parachute, he natters to a pretty-sounding wireless operator – June, played by Kim Hunter (yes, hot chimp lady Zira from the Planet of the Apes).
After wooing this fine-sounding filly, Peter leaps from the plane… and miraculously survives. The after-life has made a balls-up in the typically English fog, and while Peter and June get to a-snogging, a celestial court hearing is being arranged…
The afterlife of the movie is full of deliciously over-the-top performances, yet all in cold black and white. The spirit world is a haunting and grey place. This contrasts with the staid, stiff-lipped Brits surviving world war in rich and vivid colour. The play nicely smudges the split between the two worlds – living and dead – so it’s less explicit that the court is all in Peter’s head. I was a bit worried by advance warning that the play featured several songs, but its all fun and rumble-tumble stuff, bringing to life the passion of life that Peter’s fighting for.
That said, this smudging does make things a bit tricky for the central wheeze – whether it’s right that Peter should get a second chance. For all Douglas Hodge does his best as Peter’s dead friend Frank, arguing in defence of the star-cross’d lovers, we’re not exactly convinced of the special flavour of the case when the afterlife seems so rosy. There’s passion and larking and sexy girls on both sides of the mortal divide, and the dead seem more happy and care-free.
The performances on stage were all excellent, though the plot was overshadowed by moving props, Kirby wires and pyrotechnics. I thought of my few lessons in audio drama – that the sound engineers can make widescreen baroque on stereo, but we need to hear the words people are saying to build a picture in minds. The play is a great, funny feast to watch and enjoy, but its real strength and cleverness get a bit lost in the mayhem. The larking about and jokes about drowning in bags of milk rather smothers the emotional core.
It doesn’t help that the play then brings out women killed in Coventry and Dresden on the sorts of mission Peter was flying. This departure from the film may make the story more complex and contemporary, but the random brutality of war also undercuts the right of Peter to get special leniency. In the film he’s fighting a war against grey bureaucracy – and one that’s made the cock-up in the first place. In the play his motivation is a bit more selfish.
The extra context did very effectively up the emotional stakes of the play, and maybe got the audience working more critically. It is very well done, and a lively, sparky night out was exactly what my sandpapered eyes were after. Yet in retrospect it doesn’t sit happily.
Perhaps it’s just the effect of living in a different time. The film originally played to a newly post-war audience, every one of whom would have lost somebody. The underplayed sentiment holds back a tide of evocations.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Jason and Jason
New up on the Big Finish website are the cover and a sample chapter from new Benny novel, The Two Jasons. The book went to press on Tuesday.
Monday, May 07, 2007
"The growls will be added in post"
Much as it might be cheering on the opposition, you can hear the first installments of all-new Blake's 7 at scifi.co.uk. That's the sort of magnanimous fellow I am.
The whole thing's a bit damn brilliant, really. And plenty more of it to come, too. Hooray!
Had a nice chat with author Ben Aaronovitch early today, as it happens. He is happy with what we're going to do his space vixen Kadiatu, so now we just need to get her into a booth.
Great day in the studio yesterday recording "The End of the World", with a simply brilliant performance from Stephen Fewell as Jason, ably assisted by an exemplary guest cast. Couldn't have asked for better, loves.
In fact the only one to let things down was, er, me. Scene 22 worked a lot better without my monstrous growling (despite my best efforts to be Killoran) - and even gave our visiting reporter goosebumps. Woo!
The whole thing's a bit damn brilliant, really. And plenty more of it to come, too. Hooray!
Had a nice chat with author Ben Aaronovitch early today, as it happens. He is happy with what we're going to do his space vixen Kadiatu, so now we just need to get her into a booth.Great day in the studio yesterday recording "The End of the World", with a simply brilliant performance from Stephen Fewell as Jason, ably assisted by an exemplary guest cast. Couldn't have asked for better, loves.
In fact the only one to let things down was, er, me. Scene 22 worked a lot better without my monstrous growling (despite my best efforts to be Killoran) - and even gave our visiting reporter goosebumps. Woo!
Saturday, May 05, 2007
The chimpanzees of death
The official Droo website now has a funky comic maker wotsit. Cobble together your own novel graphics and sequential arts. You can surely do better than my effort.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
The write stuff
Ten years ago tomorrow I went to the Manopticon 5 convention in Manchester – which is where I first got to meet famous people who are now my pals. I know this ‘cos I found the souvenir brochure the other day, while researching for the Inside Story.
The autographs page shows my priorities even then; I’ve only got scrawl from the writers (Steve Cole, Paul Cornell, Terrance Dicks, Steve Lyons and Gareth Roberts, fact fans). The floppy-haired, wide-eyed, 20-year-old me had only the previous day handed in his undergraduate dissertation – comparing the TV Movie to Star Trek: First Contact – and little dreamt of all the mad shit and scribbling as yet to come…
Signed off on The Two Jasons yesterday and wrote up a quarter of my notes on the first draft of Nobody’s Children. Pretty damn delighted with this year’s Benny – and people are saying nice things about Judas Gift both on Outpost Golliwog and the Down Among the Dead Men mailing list (you’ll need to sign-up to read what’s been said, though).
Also got a lunchtime demonstration from Dr Davy Darlington of how you check a recording studio offers dead space: clap your hands and listen for the lack of any reverb. Look at me with my hang of the lingo.
Then put on a better shirt and jacket and tripped into town to attend my first ever Clarke Award ceremony. I first heard about the Clarkes while doing my MA, when I got to meet some of the judges on the morning after. They’d had no doubt about The Sparrow’s fabulosity, and so I sought it out myself. The Clarkes are generally a great recommendation. It’s like the older kid at school who can recommend the good stuff – there’s only one winner I wasn’t so swayed by.
Was wary about what it would be like, but the place was full of old chums and the beer didn’t need to be paid for. Got to meet Andrew Cartmel – who I’ve employed and am employing, but by proxy – and various other fine folk.
Was so busy nattering that I was one of the last to file into Screen 4 for the ceremony. Managed not to see a prominent step as I looked for spare seats, so went flying in front of everyone. Gah! The free honeycomb ice-cream helped to settle the embarrassment, and I hid at the back with Jim Swallow.
The speeches were all very brief, and having applauded Mike Harrison and the organisers, we beetled back out to the bar. I had fun asking different people if writing knock-off sci-fi tie-ins did you any favours in writing standalone sci-fi (there’s lots of ways you can articulate “No!”), and traded business cards, salacious gossip and hyperbole. Then followed some people to a pub round the corner, and did the same over pints of Green King.
And the only thing I paid for all night was a grubby pasty on the way home. Whee!
The autographs page shows my priorities even then; I’ve only got scrawl from the writers (Steve Cole, Paul Cornell, Terrance Dicks, Steve Lyons and Gareth Roberts, fact fans). The floppy-haired, wide-eyed, 20-year-old me had only the previous day handed in his undergraduate dissertation – comparing the TV Movie to Star Trek: First Contact – and little dreamt of all the mad shit and scribbling as yet to come…
Signed off on The Two Jasons yesterday and wrote up a quarter of my notes on the first draft of Nobody’s Children. Pretty damn delighted with this year’s Benny – and people are saying nice things about Judas Gift both on Outpost Golliwog and the Down Among the Dead Men mailing list (you’ll need to sign-up to read what’s been said, though).
Also got a lunchtime demonstration from Dr Davy Darlington of how you check a recording studio offers dead space: clap your hands and listen for the lack of any reverb. Look at me with my hang of the lingo.
Then put on a better shirt and jacket and tripped into town to attend my first ever Clarke Award ceremony. I first heard about the Clarkes while doing my MA, when I got to meet some of the judges on the morning after. They’d had no doubt about The Sparrow’s fabulosity, and so I sought it out myself. The Clarkes are generally a great recommendation. It’s like the older kid at school who can recommend the good stuff – there’s only one winner I wasn’t so swayed by.
Was wary about what it would be like, but the place was full of old chums and the beer didn’t need to be paid for. Got to meet Andrew Cartmel – who I’ve employed and am employing, but by proxy – and various other fine folk.
Was so busy nattering that I was one of the last to file into Screen 4 for the ceremony. Managed not to see a prominent step as I looked for spare seats, so went flying in front of everyone. Gah! The free honeycomb ice-cream helped to settle the embarrassment, and I hid at the back with Jim Swallow.
The speeches were all very brief, and having applauded Mike Harrison and the organisers, we beetled back out to the bar. I had fun asking different people if writing knock-off sci-fi tie-ins did you any favours in writing standalone sci-fi (there’s lots of ways you can articulate “No!”), and traded business cards, salacious gossip and hyperbole. Then followed some people to a pub round the corner, and did the same over pints of Green King.
And the only thing I paid for all night was a grubby pasty on the way home. Whee!
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