There are distributors such as BBR, and market news, mainly from USA sources, via weekly newsletters such as Jobs In Hell and Hellnotes, as well as the reliable ralan.com. and John’s Lights List. But look at those message boards to see if there is any interest in horror in UK. Some people are never off them; goodness knows when they find time to write. Except of course the contributors are not just writers, they are editors and publishers and rarity of the rare the occasional out and out reader.

Often the majority of people who take an interest in the genre seem to get overlooked, the silent majority as they are. As at conventions, as in life, there are some who shout more loudly than others and their opinion becomes mistaken as the only one that counts.

   How rich is the creative diversity that makes up the British supernatural fiction scene at present. That’s is not a question, but a statement. Forget the doom-merchants who predict (again) the end of the genre. Someone once said that “horror” is not a genre, so as a style of literature let us be under no false illusions that it is teetering on the edge of some great back abyss.

   Magazines come and go in the small press, but the market is buoyant. Major publishers may seem to shun new names but some will filter through. Not always the best, sometimes the well connected, but that is always the case, in all walks of life. The Internet provides a forum for expansion, but so does the development of small presses into hardbacks. Does the small press magazine resemble what it did two, three years ago? Greater professionalism on the back of desktop publishing, coupled with stylish printing has made even amateur magazines have the look and feel of “real” books. There is print on demand, not to be mistaken for the vanity presses which are to be avoided.

  The biggest asset though is the talent and sheer dedication of the people who work within the genre for little or no monetary reward. They do it for the love of what they do and because they want to make a difference.

   So, is running a small press for you? You’ll make no money, and it will actually more likely cost you money. You need constant publicity to keep the name known. You need a constant supply of subscribers and single sales to keep you afloat. You will discover bookshops and distributors and arrange a few deals that shift a few more copies. At a price of course, none want less than 35% discount. That added to the postage and the cost of producing the magazine and will mean producing at a loss. You will fund it from your personal pockets and do so willingly, but not in a very business like manner, because you love what you are doing. The creation of the website will be another step forward, but more work of course.

    You will be working never less than 30 hours a week on each of the projects you decide to do. Add that to the hours at day jobs, and multiply in the family life and occasional snatched hours of sleep and you discover another pitfall of running a small press – the time element. Dr Who and his Tardis have nothing on the small press editor in their ability to cram 24 hours into a pint pot – or something similar. Then there is the marketing and distribution to arrange, the dozens of stories to read and edit if accepted and reject if not. This will involve dealing with writers most of whom are very nice, but occasionally you will reject a loser who wants to tell you how wrong your opinion is.

    Then there are the critics. No matter that you are doing all this unselfishly for no real personal gain. Someone will tell you, or more likely let you know on a board or in a review that you can’t recognise a good story let alone publish one, you can’t be really part of the independent press because you get funding, your print is too small or too large, your artwork is inferior, you cost is too low or too high, you should publish daily/weekly/not at all. The camaraderie of the small press gets stretched to the limits at times.

The argument seems to be that the market for supernatural fiction is a small one, which is why it is best catered for by the small press. That ignores the fact that until a major publisher is brave enough to market such a book, to open up potential sales to the general reading public, the size of the market hasn't been tested. The reading habits of people are vastly different from say ten years ago, yet the majors seem to be basing their opinion of sale ability of certain genres on old experiences. There doesn't seem to be a lack of interest in supernatural content; just look at the recent spate of movies that succeeded. There is always an interest in ghosts and the supernatural amongst the whole spectrum of society. The trick for a publisher is to tap into that with the right marketing to promote worthy books. Too many publishers allowed violence and sex to dominate their titles in the last rush of publishing, so that horror as a genre was able to perpetuate the myth of it being less than important as a literary outlet and a rather juvenile pastime to read and write such material. At WHC in April esteemed panels of experts never quite reached any conclusions about why the big publishers ignore horror, or when if at all this will change.

  As with life there is no answer only more questions. The small press is as healthy as the people in it, be they publishers, editors writers readers or all of those. The small is for the number of sales, the money, but certainly not the enthusiasm. Most small press people will fade away into legend or obscurity, some will stay around forever publishing and getting published and good luck to all who sail in them; and some, a few, will progress to get books published by ‘real’ publishers. Who in the small press does not want to be James Herbert, or fiction editor at HarperCollins? Who does not want to do it, whatever part of the ‘it’ is your interest, for a living? Be honest, look in the mirror, are you not wanting your piece of the small press to one day a piece of the majors?

Until then, as we all try to do, let’s enjoy it and have some serious fun.

THE END

STORIES & STORYTELLERS
from 2001 Masters Of Terror (now HorrorWorld) website run by Andy Fairclough

So, what if there were a shortage of stories and storytellers?

    You go into a bookshop in the high street and there are no horror books there. Okay, that may not be so far from what real life is actually like in 2000, but what if there were none at all? And, what if there were no stories that you could read, because the major publishers were picketing the small press so that the price of books, or paper, or printing ink, or, well fuel to power the distributors lorries, could be reduced? The Internet? No, that had been suspended because of fears that security, or morals, or copyright were being breached and legislation was being rushed through parliament to curb the situation.

    You’d miss them wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you? As a reader you would have to find something else to read, or talk to your partner more, or watch more television, or, sorry to mention this, take more exercise. Sure it might be novel (pun) for a while but just think if it dragged on for over a week, or more. You hadn’t read a short story for a few days, or dipped into a novel since last weekend. Think of the withdrawal symptoms you would experience. The narrative drive on the breakfast cereal packet would begin to take on aspects of supernatural fantasy; the daily newspaper would rustle eerily as you unfolded it on the train.

    Eventually the crisis blew over, as they all do, and books began to fill the shelves again. The main sellers put their stock back up, the small press pulled out their scheduled publications, and the websites got their accepted work online.  Then something began to dawn on them all. Something far more serious than a shortage, a temporary hiatus in book production; there were no more stories coming in; the postman was bringing only bills and the odd postcard. The contributions were lacking.

     Where would we be without the storytellers? Almost from the outset, and certainly once people had learned they could trust us, we were getting on average four stories a day in for Enigmatic Tales. Not a huge amount perhaps, but just think of nearly thirty stories a week, and we published quarterly, so that is more than 350 stories a quarter, and we published maximum 20 each issue.

     The demand to tell a story in Britain is vast. There are all kinds of storytellers out there, some good, a few very good, and some needing some guidance and help as they fashion their craft. We accepted all styles of supernatural fiction from traditional to modern, from ghost, through horror to psychological. Don’t forget we weren’t yet a paying market, and still the writers sent their stories in.

     One of the joys since we announced our suspension, and occasionally before, was to get a letter of thanks from a writer whose story we were the first to publish. To think that you are helping forge a possible career is remarkably rewarding. So where would we have been without all those storytellers? Publishing very little, obviously, but also very much the poorer in terms of enjoyment and creativity.

     So, why do the tellers give us all their stories? Ego sometimes, because they feel what they have to say is important and it needs, it demands, to be shared with an audience. Pride sometimes that they have created something they think is worthwhile and they want to have it admired while they smile uncertainly. Payment, there are paying markets and a career can be made from writing. Before that stage is the making a name for yourself furlongs, where the exposure is the critical thing. If a critique mentions your name favourably the chances may be that the next contribution you send in might get a more appreciable reading from the editor. Often the story just burns to get out and you can no more keep it locked inside than you can prevent a belch at that first meeting with the prospective in-laws.

      Once the muse has taken shape and the story has been written there is no more natural action than to want to get it read by someone. Friends are fine to begin with but are they really about to condemn your creation to the hell of unfavourable criticism when all they really care about are you and your friendship? Unless they are writers as well they can’t be expected to wholly appreciate what it means to write a story, to constrict your thoughts into a plot and a story narrative, and to consign that to the immortality of printed format. So you have to take that tentative step, akin almost to that first faltering step you took as a baby reaching out into pre-toddling stage, of sending your child out into the big bad world of editors and publishers and critics and other writers.

     Other writers, now there is an audience. They of course, know what a story and its structure is all about, after all they have the same desires as you to write and to become famous and rich and handsome and have a sex life. So their comments will be well balanced and constructive won’t they? So they don’t get jealous that you have appeared in XYZ print magazine and they have been rejected more times than they can count. They don’t think everything they write is better than your scribbling. They don’t see you as a rival and we all know there is only so much time the big boys can give to reading work sent in, so if yours gets read theirs won’t. They will be fair and honest and help you develop.

     Of course some, the majority, will, but as are all our opinions, all they can offer is subjective views. The editors of most of the small press operations are pretty even minded. It is in their interests to foster talent because as we found in the shortage in the opening paragraphs, the alternatives are gruesome. Okay, some editors are writers as well, and may be judging your work from a different standpoint than an editor pure and simple. (Can’t think of a pure editor – but plenty of simple ones – boom, boom.) But if you find an editor who offers criticism on your work that actually seems to be helpful and constructive, marry them. To get, especially at an early point in your writing life, someone who is prepared to work with you and develop ideas and styles with you, to explain where a narrative needs more drive, and paragraphs need cutting is invaluable.

      We had stories sent in from retired people who had just completed (too soon some of them) their first writing course and thought we would like to see their hand written account of a coach trip to see a castle that was quite spooky. We had stories, sometimes six at a time, yes six multiple stories, sent in from writers who knew we didn’t publish science fiction, but if we just read their science fiction, we would change our minds. There was the novella, again in a style – high fantasy – that we didn’t publish, but with a letter explaining that the story was written very quickly, so it might contain errors, but not to worry, because the author actually thought they could squeeze a short novel out of it, and anyway it had been sent out to five other magazines simultaneously so they knew one of us would take it.

     Storytellers need to be so much more these days. No longer is it sufficient to be ensconced in an ivory turret committing gems  of wisdom onto parchment with a fine quill pen. There has to be research into markets, reading of newsletters to see who wants what; there has to be an understanding of how to approach an editor, and what the editors name is – Dear Editors is as bad as Sir or Madam. There has to be realism that your story might not blow the socks off from the first person to read it. We all have different tastes. We published stories that other people said were amateur. We liked them so we published them. Sometimes it is the responsibility of an editor/publisher, certainly at our level, to encourage through more than fine words in a rejection letter. If there is latent talent there, why not publish?

     Stories. There are only six basic plots, or is it ten, or one? Anyway it isn’t that many. Therefore if an editor is reading a lot of stories they will soon get to recognise stock characters, ideas, plots, and so forth. Stories need to be told well. We published good stories that were told badly when we received them. With some work done at our suggestion by the author the telling got better. We published some bad ideas that were brilliantly told because the writer had enough style and flair to overcome the familiarity of the plot.

      We rejected quite a few as well. As storytellers ourselves we have had a couple of rejection letters and slips in the past. It hurts, don’t pretend it doesn’t. You don’t send a story in believing it will fail. If you do you may as well give in now and take up stamp collecting. You have to develop a well-tuned sense of the ‘keep it all in proportion’. Stay well balanced, be tough, believe in what you are writing, make sure it is the very best you can do and keep sending it out until there is not a single market left. Then start again; although it might be best to re-evaluate the piece at this stage just in case you finally have to admit to your own conscience that perhaps it may lack a certain something.

      Practice and practice again. You didn’t learn to ride a bike first go and you won’t get writing a story perfect the first time. There is so much to learn. You can read a How To book but better to write, throw away, write, throw away, write…hmmm, maybe. Never throw away completely any idea. Store it in a drawer somewhere so that when you reflect in the years and months ahead, and you recall that wonderful zombie story what you did write, you can call up the evidence for the prosecution and re-write or forget.

      How rich is the creative diversity that makes up the British supernatural fiction scene at present. That’s is not a question, but a statement. Forget the doom-merchants who predict (again) the end of the genre. Someone once said that “horror” is not a genre, so as a style of literature let us be under no false illusions that it is teetering on the edge of some great back abyss.

     Magazines come and go in the small press, but the market is buoyant. Major publishers shun new names but some will filter through. Not always the best, sometimes the well connected, but that is always the case, in all walks of life. The Internet provides a forum for expansion, but so does the development of small presses into hardbacks. Does the small press magazine resemble what it did two, three years ago? Greater professionalism on the back of desktop publishing, coupled with stylish printing has made even amateur magazines have the look and feel of “real” books.

      The biggest asset though is the talent and sheer dedication of the people who work within the genre for little or no monetary reward. They do it for the love of what they do and because they want to make a difference. As we expand this column’s thoughts in the coming months we will be looking at some of the British talent that helps to make the stories come alive through the editing, publishing and certainly the storytelling.

      For now, switch off the engine, preserve the last drops of unleaded, and reach for that final quarterly issue 10 of Enigmatic Tales and think of the talent of the writers, and artists that have made it, and its compatriot publications possible.

THE END
 

History & Traditions (March 2000) from At The Worlds End (Mark Chadbourn's website)

            One aspect for consideration when reading a supernatural tale is the circumstances under which the story was written. Should we involve ourselves in thoughts of what the writers life might have been like when they were toiling away at the PC, word processor, electric typewriter, manual typewriter, pen and ink, quill, cave wall, tablet of stone…?

Do the life and times of writers present and past affect our enjoyment of a piece of fiction?

            Clearly the influences on a writer, the minutia of their life, may have a great bearing on the style of their work. It can be of no little importance to wonder whether a change of life style would have meant a change in artistic direction. Was the writer married or single? Professional or amateur? Sad or happy? City, village; young, old; ill or in good health? Did they have all day to write or were they forced into writing in snatched moments? It is to no special advantage to have to spend all day at work then to come home and immediately place oneself in the frame of mind conducive to good writing. Even worse, horrors of responsibility, if there is a spouse who expects attention, concentration on conversation, help with washing up, children to entertain and put to bed.

There can be little doubt that the influences on the life of a writer such as Poe coloured his writing. No matter how great his natural tendency for the darker side of life, no matter how much a love of the night was born in him, the poverty and grief, which he knew, allowed his gift of eloquent woe to find its voice with deeper depths of agony and genius.

The life pattern of a modern person can be thought in itself to be alien to the emotive force of dark fiction. For the most part living in clean, bright, centrally heated homes, with human companionship so near, even through such devices as the telephone, e-mail, mobiles, pagers, and more. It becomes increasingly difficult to grasp the feeling of living your work that writers of old must have experienced. Perhaps it is over-romantic to imagine the writer of the past huddled over the light of a flickering candle in an otherwise darkened room. Alone with their imagination, with no electronic stimuli, no diversions from the mood of their creation, sheltered from outside influences. By living the horror of the ghost story mood, or the atmosphere of it, could the same be more easily transmitted to the written page? The writer of today must first think themselves into the mood of their fiction by, to a large extent, ignoring the normality of their surroundings, rather than being able to feed from, and upon it, as would be ideal.

Then there is television; the numbing of the senses, the intruding into imagination, the believing in the banal. Where does it provide the creative stimulus for the supernatural tale? It tells when it should cloak, it reveals when it should mask, it explains when it should be enticing. No extension of the creative framework here; rather a bland catch-all formula that drapes a cloud of easy viewing that batters at imagination and its defences until the wall crashes and true creation is lost.

Leaving the sterile atmosphere of modern life to one side, one of the least advantageous influences on today’s writers must be the media of film; cinema and admittedly to a lesser extent with regard to supernatural fiction, the demon television. To say that all the best stories were written before the advent of screen horror would be wholly inaccurate but it cannot be ignored that the ability to see on the screen that which previously could only have been imagined from the written word has an immense affect on the modern reader, and therefore by extension the modern writer.

To take just one example, that of the vampire story, one of the most basic, and finest of horror vehicles. No matter how subtle the writer is, once it becomes obvious we are reading a vampire story then the images conjured are invariably not those intended by the writer but those of Schreck, Lugosi, Lee, or whichever cinematic character the story reminds us of. The force behind the writing is diminished because the vital ingredient of imagination on the part of the reader has been dulled by memories of film, or worse of the circumstances under which we went to see the film. So the writer of a vampire story may today be faced with a reader who does not pale at thoughts of the blood-sucking monster but rather one whose mind is busy recalling the delights of sitting in the back row of the cinema.

The basic and still much respected ingredients of the genre have been over-exposed by the film world so that their power does not work so deeply on today's audiences as they might have done a century ago. It might be offered that horror films have not only had an adverse affect on writing but also on the enjoyment of reading a good horror story. The words more often conjure cinematic images rather than the private images that they would have done previously.

The reader of The Seventeenth Hole At Duncaster today cannot experience the same atmosphere that the first reader knew in the 1920’s. Their lives are vastly different. Their knowledge is different; therefore their senses absorb the words differently and appreciate the meaning and the moods in different ways.

There is sometimes the temptation to consider works of old as being superior in some way, purely because they have the competency of longevity. Even allowing for the sentimental regard with which stories of the past are held today, there is a stylistic difference between them and their modern counterparts, and this cannot be ignored when discussing the influences on writing. While a story may have been effective in 1900 it may not satisfy today, may be inaccessible due to style, rather than content, because its message may already be over-familiar through cinema, television, other works of fiction. What convinced a century ago now appears merely dated and mundane. Creaking doors, and draughty ghosts do not convince us as modern readers. Where our ancestors dreaded their intrusion, we merely wait for the bigger terror, the higher fix of horror.

Each age has had its share of true horrors, the reality of which brings us to book when we worry about the fictional versions. Since the raw carnage of 1914-18 and World War Two we cannot look with the same concerned expression upon fictional fright. Add to that the daily horrors now so freely reported in an increasingly sensationalist media and we have a wall growing ever thicker through which the suspension of disbelief must break. The narrative drive must reach wrap speed these days before it engages a gear high enough for our attention to be provoked. So de-sensitised have we become to stories of children killing each other, to mindless violence, sex, drugs, corruption, infidelity and genocide, that the fictional terrors we create in our imaginations must be more subtle, more inventive than ever to jolt the reader out of their de-humanised veil of disbelief.

There are of course two ways to look at criticism. Many people would argue that art must live by today's standards, so that a film made fifty years ago must stand up to the techniques of today before it can be considered valid. This seems too easy an option. It places no importance upon circumstance, and indeed it seems to ignore the influences, surrounding the making of the film, or the writing of the story if considering fiction. This is not to suggest that excuses should be made for the writer if the story was written under difficult circumstances, If a wife has just left a husband should we excuse a poor story written as a result? Hardly. But if a work of art was considered valid when it was first created then it cannot be accurate if thirty years later it is deemed poor if it does not affect a modern audience in the same way. Is the modern audience a keener critic because a few years have passed? We may have become familiar with the style or the theme, but that is not the fault or responsibility of the writer. The art has not changed, merely the opinions and sophistication of the audience. Their views and tastes have changed but the words written remain exactly the same. It can surely only be accurate to take historical perspective into account when reading an old story. If a story fails to ignite us today we must look for a better reason than merely to suggest it has lost its spark along the way.

Would it be wholly valid to explore the avenue of thought that an influence on writing today is the greater availability of fiction to the mass market? After all it is within everyone's grasp today to buy a book at any one of numerous bookshops, or to borrow it from the Public Library. This availability was not always the case. A second rate work of fiction today may well reach a far wider audience than a better book years ago simply because the distribution channels are so much more diverse these days. The Internet has increased this phenomenon even more with its ability to access fiction on the web sites as an addition to the printed page. Another medium available now but not previously is the talking tape where stories and novels can be abridged and spoken without the need even for the effort of lifting a book in leisure. Allowing for his distaste for the general public, and that it was not his intention to write for critical acclaim, it is interesting to ponder how the writing of
H P Lovecraft might have altered if fed to a wider audience, and the difference it might have made if subject to a publishers deadlines.

Trends can sometimes be seen in current fiction that suggest a deliberate attempt to fool the voracious appetite of the reading public, sated as they are by these diverse images. Stories whose every intention is vagueness; over-explored themes deserted for stories of minimum plotline but maximum exploration of the mind of modern man. Then there are the stories of excess gore and sexual athletics. The intention of many modern stories seems to be to place Man as the monster, his way of life as the creator, and his mind as the catalyst that sparks the horror. To do this exclusively suggests that the writers believe the terrors of old are ineffective in today's society and that new and less traditional horrors are required. New approaches are always welcome but we should not ignore the classical in the pursuit of the wholly different just for its own sake. The meaning behind the words should not always be so obscure as to leave the vagueness so clearly worked for as to give any feeling, emotion of atmosphere, no chance of survival as the puzzle develops.

Stories that are obvious are never satisfactory be they one day or one hundred years old. The converse is equally true in that stories that baffle to deceive are simply infuriating. From what viewpoint should a work of fiction be judged? Some good stories are poorly told, others well written but clichéd in plot. In all probability the only true way to judge a story is objectively and yet that disavows the emotional pull that should exist if a work of fiction is to engage our full attention. It is possibly because many critics take the subjective path that arguments as to merit develop. The only true way is to read with a subjective eye whilst the objective mind can sort the poor craft from the well-meaning ideas. Merits to one are defects to another.

In terms of fiction the influences upon a writer are many and varied. This was always true and is more so today. The electronic stimuli, the modern stresses and pressures, the familiarity the reader has with themes and ideas, all conspire now to make the storywriter perform to their best if they are to emulate the writers of old. Because a story is decades old does not mean it should not be read and enjoyed today; though it should be treated with respect of age and not expected to perform as though a teenager in the prime of youth – make allowances for style, pace and even content - please.

A writer draws on many influences in the pursuance of their craft; their life style, their past, their aims when writing, their known audience, their publisher’s wishes. Our modern emphasis on bodily comforts seem to spare the writer of horror the chance to experience the terrors at first hand, and yet each day carries with it some new nightmare from which to draw ideas. Dark fiction remains now as then, a valid release valve from the horrors of the real world, and a reminder that despite modern sophistication of living we should never get too complacent.

THE END

April 27^th 2000 deadline column for History & Traditions
Enigmatic Entertainment from Maynard & Sims


THE EMOTION OF FANTASY

 “Fantasy: ph.n. Faculty of imagination, esp. when extravagant; mental images fanciful design, speculation, fantasia, fantastic: musical or other composition in which form is subservient to fancy. Fantast: visionary dreamer. Fantastic: extravagantly fanciful, eccentric, grotesque, quaint.”

Within the bounds of artistic fantasy many diverse and often doubtful tangents are created in what seems to be an all-embracing desire to call everything marginally surrealistic, fantasy; this desire if all-suffocating.

            Human taste, coupled so necessarily with individualistic preference, is a precious thing, and who is to say what one person considers to be fantasy should be strictly ruled not so because another finds its inclusion to be unjustifiable. When one is dealing with facts it is far easier to reach a definite conclusion than when the subject for discussion is art, or concerns the artistic in any sense. Fantasy in art appears in as many guises as there are people interested enough in the subject to hold forth with their views. Similarly the particular art form can be divided into separate realms within the same subject. This is particularly true of literature and cinema the two fields where the fantastic is at its most recognisable. To complete the quartet of art forms would be to add painting coupled with sculpture, and music; these four being the most readily receptive media for the fantastic. Perhaps a fifth may be added, not forgetting the effect the 1927 Broadway production of Dracula starring Bela Lugosi had on Tod Browning’s excellent 1931 film version, and that is the live theatre, although the live play does not lend itself so readily to the dictionary definition. Whilst not intending to decry live theatre, it is difficult to create the correct atmosphere of fantasy from a stage play, and to an audience, coughing and sweet unwrapping at every turn.

            Fantasy in Art, meaning here the facility of painting, sculpture, and companion “high brow” forms, is a little appreciated, or publicised translator of the fantastic. Possibly because art is less widely available on such a mass scale as books and films, and because it does not hold such a universal appeal, it is often excluded from discussion on the subject of fantasy. Books and films can appeal on more than one level, whilst paintings are often a blank canvass to many viewers. Clark Ashton Smith was a fine sculptor, yet he is known for his poems and stories. Artists such as Coye and Bok are known for their illustrations for books but seldom hailed in their own right. At certain times books are available on the subject, such as The Artists of Fantasy in the 1970’s; and magazines used to feature advertisements for colour prints depicting scenes for Robert Howard’s Conan adventures, alongside prints from scenes from Rod Serling’s Night Gallery TV series. Further examples from this era were the album sleeve designs of Roger Dean, although the intention behind these works seemed not to stem from the basic emotion of fantasy. The most widely seen and accessible form of fantastic art is on the covers of books, especially paperbacks. This works well for the form as it complements the fiction within, as well as standing in its own right. Fantasy that is essentially static, as paintings and most sculpture must inevitably be, is always going to be less satisfying, for the elements of fantasy, than the other mediums into which so much more can be woven. While the painting can be discussed on a technical level, and whilst the emotion evoked from it is personal to each mind viewing it, the painting remains for all that merely an object to be viewed, for some an adornment for the wall upon which it is hung, which can at different times provoke different moods. Obviously a painter would think differently, and possibly consider painting the most important medium for fantastic emotion. The subject cannot be set aside without a mention of the wonderful artists that are currently at work within the fantasy genre, both mainstream, but especially in the small press where some marvellous work is being done.

            With the inclusion of music in any discussion of fantasy brings in the fundamental question of what we mean by fantasy. Music it would seem is on the fringe of the colloquial term fantasy, and yet the dictionary dictates otherwise. The first factor would seem to be the intention behind the act, or art. If an artist, in the general sense, intends their work to be accepted as pure fantasy that is one matter. What too often happens is that the person receiving the work considers it to be fantasy when that is not the intention. The strict term of fantasy encompasses a far wider field than the raw emotion of fantasy. With the medium of music it is hard to believe that however imaginative a musician, rock band or orchestra may be, the intention behind their music is the fantastic emotion. When listening for example to groups such as Soft Machine, Tangerine Dream, Pink Floyd or Hawkwind, to name only one facet of music, it is easy to conjure in the mind images related to the emotion of fantasy. How often though was that the intention of the musicians? The images conjured are but a shallow reflection of the real emotions to be wrung from a truly weird work. Similar ephemeral emotions after all may be attained from the pleasures of sex, and stimulants such as drink, tobacco or drugs. Listen to any piece of valid music under such influences and note the different mental images thus conjured by the stimulated brain as opposed to those of a sober one. Did the musicians intend such stimulants to be included in the appreciation of their work? The intention behind the fantasy is an important factor in its relevance and effect. Musical scores play a large part in the creation of mood within a film, and here it seems is one true place where fantasy and musical art can meet, with the music being the instigator of emotion behind the visual image on screen. Music in its own right though can only add to, rather than create its own, emotion of fantasy. Except Soft Machine where the music is simply fantastic. (Apologies for the personal preference reference.)

            The fantastic cinema demands a great deal from its audience. People come in from the street to sit in a darkened room where they watch moving images upon a white screen. The fact that they can see the images makes the fact that they are weird or unreal all the more difficult to believe. A horror is all the more frightening when we cannot see it, in the main, and for most people. It is the unseen horror that might happen that truly grips the imagination. The fantasy film therefore demands from the outset a belief from its audience, a belief in the unbelievable that, because they will see it, becomes believable. The modern, cynical, cinema audience is less willing to believe, or even to suspend disbelief, than their predecessors. It is often the fashion to sneer at fantasy films with the retort that it has all been seen before. Sadly too many films are guilty of repetition and even plagiarism, while the great majority are guilty of merely being too obvious, and far too many show their horror, at the same time lessening the emotional effect. Horror has recently been a good gross earner, with even small budget films, accompanied by excellent hype, getting good ratings. As we enter a new millennium we are it seems ever more seeking a journey into the unknown. For emotions rather than thrill alone, the good fantasy films perhaps are in the past, with the modern special effects replacements a poor substitute. In a materialistic society, the fantasy form can be sadly neglected, which clearly is more than a pity, because as we learn so much, we realise how little we, as a species actually knows. We also need fantasy as a release from the daily horrors of simply living. The film as an art form also tends to lessen the emotion of fantasy by the fact that the whole audience shares the images simultaneously. How more scaring it is to watch a late night horror film in your own home than in the communal setting of the cinema? When you switch off the television, video or DVD, to leave the room in total darkness, and the house is making those creaking noises they all do at night. Even the firmest cynic and disbeliever can become scared in a dark, not quite silent room. Silence or near silence is as important to the emotions as the darkness. Interesting though fantasy films undoubtedly are, they are not aided by their visual and communal form. Occasional additions of light or comic relief in a film also often, if not always, work against the creation of mood, and to the detriment of the film. Though light relief in the manner of the two old boozers in Stuart Walker’s Werewolf Of London and the wit of James Whale, nowadays seems to have been replaced by erotic relief or gratuitous nudity. Blatant sex, like blatant humour, rarely mixes with fantasy emotions.

            Fantastic fiction is primarily a private occupation for the reader in that they sit alone reading and it is their brain alone that absorbs the meanings behind the printed words. Therefore from the outset it performs one of the fundamental and necessary functions of fantasy and its emotions in that it creates its effects upon one individual who is made to feel that they alone are experiencing the horrors created by the power of the writing. A mood shared can be a mood lessened so far as fantasy is concerned. Books as marketed today are categorised by the publishers so that even without reading them the reader is told what to expect. This is basically a failing because in the broad field of fantasy in general there is a thin dividing line between the different forms of writing. Terms used include Science fiction, Fantasy, dark fantasy, horror, and yet the dividing line between them all is less than often imagined. One essential difference could be that some deal mainly with experiences of the mind while possibly encompassing the spirit, while others deal with the body, the natural emotions. All however stem from the same womb, in many respects. Some look forward while some look back; some are concerned with the advancement of mankind and some with its downfall. Some are considered a higher art form than others? Sometimes, though the SF writers and readers would not believe they were favoured above Fantasy, and they above horror. Few horror writers are held in high esteem in the public regard and possibly this is due to the rigidity of the human mind in not wishing to believe in things or events that are unwelcome; they used to shoot the messenger didn’t they? Horror as an art form has been equated by analysts with the natural human desire to injure ones fellow. Note the crowds that gather around a car crash, not from sympathy, or even a desire to help. It is the rubberneck desire to watch, to see if anyone has been hurt, the staple element even in slapstick humour. A release of this desire in fiction is welcome, and it could be a day in the not too distant future when books are made available on the NHS, on prescription, almost a Fahrenheit 451 in reverse. With fiction, as with musical fantasy, the intention behind the writing is important, but to a lesser extent which creates a vital difference. Not only has the reader to interpret the writer’s intentions, but also because the medium is again visual, though more restrained, the reader can to a certain extent and with greater validity put their own interpretation to the printed words. The ability to “read between the lines” enables greater depth to be applied to the story form; while only in the work of written fiction can true subtlety of the emotion of fantasy be achieved. Only with words can the meaning be so well hidden from view. The emotion is developed by subtle hints, which upon canvas or celluloid or on CD can only be caught in part. With words the writer can create pictures, to the receptive mind they can also produce sounds. The emotion of fantasy is captured upon the printed page, or on the e-zine electronic pages, in so many different ways that the very diversity alone allows the story form to ensnare a wider audience into its mood, while at the same time keeping it a private experience. One reader may like the plot, another the style, another the story, but the result is the same; the emotion of fantasy has been recreated.

            The term fantasy is wide as the dictionary definition shows. The term fantasy to mean the weird in art is also widely interpreted but to such an extent that its natural impact is lessened. The unique quality of the true emotion of fantasy is lost when equated with so many diverse and doubtful elements. The final judge will be individual taste, yet the emotion of fantasy is a far more rare experience than is imagined. Everyone loves to be safely scared, fear is a primary emotion, but that does not mean that everyone has an appreciation of the emotion, and certainly not an appreciation of the genre. Similarly a mere love or even appreciation of the emotion is not by itself enough when possessed apart from the basic emotion itself. Individual taste of style or of a medium is not so important as this elusive quality, so that the true possessor of the emotion of fantasy may understand most forms of the artistic presentation.
 

THE END          

For the July 29th deadline At the World's End - History & Tradition

Enigmatic Entertainment from Maynard & Sims

A DIP INTO MEMORY’S BUCKET OF WHELKS

  So history is all in the past? Traditions are venerable crustaceans sheltering within their shells for fear of modern world scoffing? Nonsense! We live and read history daily, in our books, newspapers and ordinary lives. We create traditions each time we find a new writer we like and who becomes elevated to those who are admired by more than a couple of readers.

            Any time we read a Wakefield or a Benson we are picking the flesh from the shell of history. Each time an Ash Tree or a Midnight House publishes a “forgotten” writer of the genre they are helping build the traditions that sustain the genre.

            People who scorn the past generations of writers and dismiss their work as dated and irrelevant are missing the point completely. There is no finer literary tapestry than that woven by the crafts-people of years gone by. The stories they unfolded give the foundations to the master builders of today who can plunder ever-richer seams of ideas because of the solid footings left for them.

            As a youngster growing up in the exciting 60’s and 70’s there was a huge shell of books scuttling crab-like around in the myriad of pools that were the bookshops and markets of the day. The Pan series of horror books were a staple diet for the budding reader. It was the Hitchcock “edited” books that first caught some people’s eye, with their purple and black covers promising thunderstorms of terror. They were of course frowned on by parents brought up with something slightly more genteel – but then parental disapproval only added to the pre-punk attitude of rebellion that was prevalent in those heady days of spin before spin and hype before hype. 

            The slower paced stories that were represented by the Fontana ghost series and the books by James, and others, that were added to the ever-growing collection on top of the wardrobe were almost reverentially approached as though they were somehow more literary than their more lurid cousins. They seemed part of history whereas the stories of blunt cutting and thrusting and the Birkin’s were now and happening.

            That is until the novels began to appear. The Exorcist, Carrie, Hell House, Burnt Offerings, Mephisto waltz, Rosemary’s Baby – all added to the burgeoning atmosphere of a rich vein of fictional supernatural talent and range of ideas that could not fail to inspire eager young writers. Yes, a woman was physically sick at a screening of The Exorcist we saw in London. We know someone with 4 versions of the pirate video, as well as the handsome official issue. We do still have the album, long playing vinyl, of the Mephisto Waltz by Liszt. We can remember the evening, the seats, and the circumstances in which we saw the Hell House film.

            So keen were we to add to the size of our collection that we began to blur the edges of what we termed supernatural. We found fantasy creeping in, the odd borderline SF, and some thrillers that had a particularly enticing blurb. Then we purged the books, the magazines – Weird Tales, Famous Monsters, and so many more – and concentrated on the ones we felt added to the type of stories we wanted to write. Then of course, as we had no real appreciation at that time of the history or traditions of the genre we were trying to write in, we found we were blurring the edges of what we were writing. After a while we found we quite liked that, and like many writers today we found we were creating our own very small slice of history and creating our own blend of traditions. We do it by using our appreciation of the classical standards of technical skill with a modern freedom that gives free rein to expression when needed.

            And then there were the anthologies that grew like urchins on the bookshelves, swaying and enticing as each new publication filtered through. Haining, Singer, Dalby, Derleth, and of course Hugh Lamb. Mixtures of new writers and reprinted classics, themed and open anthologies; a true melting pot of history and today, of tradition and innovation.

            Today the market is as alive and as dead as you want to believe. There isn’t the proliferation of anthologies that there once were from the major publishers, but in their place are the marvellously inventive creations from the independent press; a case of artists making their own market to fill the vacuum. There are novels published with confident regularity from majors and small presses alike. There are the reprinted classics of yesteryear from the marvellous specialist presses that bring unobtainable books to our table like never before. Some professional looking outfits are bringing out even single author collections, those beasts considered untameable by some big publishers.                      

           The outlets have changed though. Now one can be on the mailing lists of one or two excellent specialists; receive the catalogues of four or five first class booksellers; scan the Internet for websites, or Amazon, even order via credit card online. There are still a few quality bookshops, such as Fantasy Centre in London, Murder One as well. There are still the market stalls that occasionally allow a treasure to pop up as sure as if it had been thrown up by a tidal wave from a restless sea.

            Then, twenty, thirty years ago it seems, there were a myriad of sources. A day’s trip to London would yield dusty bookshops along Charing Cross Road, Dark They Were, Hatchards, Foyles, all worth a visit. Lunch in the churchyard along Regent Street, then on to the markets at Berwick Street, Leather Lane, before venturing back to the cinema bookshop near Tottenham Court Road. Carrier bags full to the brim with hardbacks, paperbacks and magazines. The Saturday market in Enfield Town Market Square was a shipwrecked oasis in a desert with its damp boxes of books picked over by wide-eyed beachcombers all looking for the next rarity.

             Now the bookshelves are an eclectic mix of history and tradition. The old books rub spines with the new, the classical writers with the modern. Uncanny Stories by May Sinclair next to the new Terry Lamsley; Arkham House’s Lovecraft books leaning against A Century Of Ghost Stories; R L Stine tangoing with Marjorie Bowen; Ligotti arm in arm with Dracula.

            Let history live, and traditions breathe. There is room at the top table for both of them. Room also, if we squeeze our chairs together, for all manner of modern ideals and theories to expound and add, layer upon rich layer, yet more ripples of richness to the supernatural fiction genre.

THE END
 

For theMay 25th deadline column for
History & Traditions

Enigmatic Entertainment from Maynard & Sims

DO FAMOUS FIRST LINES FUND FAME

OR

DO FAMOUS FINAL LINES FULFIL MORE?

We all think we know some famous first lines that we wished we had written ourselves. The clock striking thirteen at the opening of 1984, the last night of dreams from Daphne Du Maurier, The Old Man And The Sea. How have opening lines changed over the years? Do they have to grab the attention quite as dramatically as the “how to” books would suggest? Do they have to engage the reader more now than in the past, and if so why?

            And what about the closing line of a story? Does it have to wrap it all up neatly, or can it be enigmatic? Can be happy or sad, relevant to what has gone before or can it suggest another possibly different avenue?

            ‘“I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full Term is over, Professor,” said a person not in the story…’ That ‘ a person not in the story’ is a wonderful way for a traditional ghost story like “Oh, Whistle, And I’ll Come To You, My Lad.” to begin, and the easy, seemingly casual, commencement of a story with dialogue, immediately puts us amongst the characters, thus giving such stories as the M R James classic its bedrock in characterisation, which, if given sufficient room to move and breathe, in other words a decent word length, allows this form of the genre to be so successful. Does it grab the attention, this first line, or was that perhaps not the intention in those days when Dr Johnson’s, “The public are the ultimate judges; if they are pleased, it is well; if not, it is no use to tell them why they ought to be have been pleased.” was, possibly rightly, regarded as the common critic.

            ‘His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a surplice hanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in a field late on a winter afternoon has cost him more than one sleepless night.’ The conclusion to Parkins’ tale is a fine summing up, as though we are truly listening to the words spoken whilst seated in a leather chair, in an oak panelled room, and with a fine Macanudo cigar and a vintage Port for company. The line encompasses what had gone before, and should we perversely have glanced at it before beginning the story, as we all do on occasion, we should have been more than tempted to read the story in full.

            A fine modern exponent of the ghost story, Terry Lamsley, often favours more direct openings that tempt the reader into his world by a statement. ‘Nathan was on the lookout for the woman most of the time now.’ This line from the story Back In The Dunes from his third collection Dark Matters from Ash Tree Press is a variant on the Hamlet opening. Without meeting her we want to know who the woman is and why Nathan is keeping watch for her. It draws us in through curiosity, making us want to read on to satisfy what killed the cat, but which itch we can only scratch be learning more about these characters.

            Here the ending, ‘They sounded genuinely happy now, and were obviously eager to begin the anniversary celebration.’ will not mean much without the story having been read as a whole. It is an example of the explaining/summing up last line that acts as a full stop without adding further mystery to the piece. It works well because it serves to underline the story and bring down the final curtain neatly and effectively.

            Our own ‘The silver helicopter flowed with insistent noise through the lazy tropical air.’ taken from Ashushma, the opening novella from our collection Echoes Of Darkness, Sarob Press May 2000, is an attempt at a descriptive opening that uses the language to paint a picture – here of a tropical island and visitors approaching it – to set up an atmosphere from which the characters and action will develop. It is a long story, 19000 words, and the reader knows that before they start reading. That may make a difference with the opening line, as longer stories sometimes tell their tale at a slower pace, usually in a more complex manner as well. A short, punchy opening line may not always work.

        "It was difficult to see in the full darkness, with the sea struggling around and over the stones, but it seemed as if the shapes merged into one huge misshapen mass that swallowed Sybella, leaving the storm to rant in futile rage.’ The finale continues the theme of using atmosphere as one of the characters in the story, and concludes the telling of the story by focussing on one of the main characters, Sybella, who has, hopefully, become sympathetic to the reader, so that her fate affects us as we learn of it.

             Over the years opening lines have changed from the occasionally slow, deliberate preambles into the body of the story, to almost an art form of their own. The intention now must be to engage the readers (or editors/publishers/agents etc.) quickly so that the story is not cast aside and another selected instead. There is fierce competition for acceptance; there is a plethora of other preoccupations that divert attention away from the telling of a story. There are intense pressures in daily life, as everything gets faster, more instant, and much of our entertainment becomes increasingly visual. The luxury of starting a story in slow time, with the pace of a waltz rather than a frenetic break dance is becoming ever more dangerous.

            Yet, ‘“He had heart trouble,” the woman was telling Carella.’ Is how Ed McBain chooses to begin The Last Dance, the fiftieth novel in the 87^th Precinct series of crime novels that began in 1956. The books have consistently featured several city cops who, if one has read all the books, have grown and developed over the years. Because the books are so well established, and work so well, we know that Carella, the “main” character, and the one closest to the authors voice in the stories, is investigating a death; and because the suggestion is natural causes we know it will turn out to be murder, just as we know that the policemen will go through various stages to establish this, and they will be slightly changed by events as they unfold. Just as with a familiar friend we can relax and forgo certain formalities, so with an author we know and respect we can accept some leniency.

            The ending displays this even more than the beginning, with its, ‘At last, Kling said, “Wanna dance?”’ So casual, so informal, we feel privileged to be amongst people so comfortable with themselves. They have just been through so much, in which we have shared, and the last line allows us a small smile with them.

            ‘During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House Of Usher.’ Who else could it be? Atmosphere, menace, some action, the introduction of the main character (well, two main characters – the man and the house), and an all-pervading sense of dread. Already we don’t want to enter the house, but then again of course we do, but we know we’ll be scared every step of the way. As potent now as when first written, here is respectable pace yet attention grabbing of the highest order.

            The ending is equally fierce. ‘While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened – there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind – the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight – my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder – there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters – and the deep and dank tern at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of The House Of Usher.’ Fantastic stuff that completes a circle from the opening line, and rounds off the intervening story with an atmospheric and chilling conclusion.

            There could be the argument that the opening and ending of any story are the two defining moments that dictate whether it will find favour with the reader or pass into obscurity in their memory. Certainly when writing stories these are often the two lines most thought about; the two lines most revised. We often find we write a story, and upon revision lose the original beginning (sometimes the opening paragraphs), as its purpose has been served; it has got us into the meat of the tale and overcome our initial shyness at meeting the new characters. Occasionally we start a story with only the opening line, a thread of an idea that has insinuated itself in our sub-conscious and from which the rest follows. Rarely do we revise the last line, because by that stage we know our characters, know what they will do – not always, as they can be independent little beggars – and the ending evolves from the plot. Always, though, the ending has to match the beginning, so that there is symmetry to the story telling, a roundness that acts as a final farewell.

              ‘Outside the walls of the Crimson Cabaret was a world of rain and darkness.’ Instantly we want to be inside those walls, out of the rain and the dark, somewhere that sounds safe. Gas Station Carnivals from The Nightmare Factory by Thomas Ligotti won’t be safe, and somehow we know that even as we enter, but still the words used, and their context, entice us in. By the time the last line, ‘Perhaps then I will discover what it was I did – what any of us did – to deserve this fate.’ we know, like the character Quisser, that safety was the least appealing aspect of that opening, and again the ending brings us neatly and very effectively to that conclusion, although we were well aware of it throughout our journey.

            Which is more important – a good opening or a good finale? Starter or dessert? Well, can we have one without the other? Each performs a very different function. An opening can set up mystery, atmosphere, action, characters, mood. It can hook, grab, entice, cajole, bully sometimes – ‘So you think you know pain?’ from Jack Ketchum is fairly provocative – anything it needs to make one read on. What follows then must stand on its own two feet, but the opening line is like a parents guiding hands, showing the way, finally letting go of the bicycle before the child goes wobbling off on its own first solo ride.

            Having survived the journey of the whole story, having read on from the first line, and enjoyed, to whatever degree, the intervening story we come to the last line. The final memory we will have of the story. Will it please or disappoint? Satisfy or frustrate? Without a superb last line a story is like sex without an orgasm – pleasing and exciting, but ultimately frustrating. The last line is like a comforting embrace in the dark of night, something we all need on occasion.

            Before you go back to the top of this essay and check out our first line again – a quiz. Whose first lines, and a few last lines too, are these? Answers on a postcard (J)

 Here’s some firsts –

 ‘When a traveller in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the junction of the Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean’s Corners he comes upon a lonely and curious country.’

HPL – The Dunwich Horror

‘Just when the idea occurred to her that she was being murdered she could not tell.’

Ray Bradbury – The Small Assassin

‘One split into two became three, and the world spun on, but not as we know it, and nevermore became today, with yesterday little more than a song, and a future mapped out like madness from the mountain, with extra pepperoni.’

The Hidden Language Of Demons

‘Mr Baxter sauntered out of his office in the Dormy House at Duncaster Golf Club, just as the sun was setting one perfect evening late in September, 19-, his meagre labours finished for the day.’

HRW – 17^th Hole

‘You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.’

Frankenstein

And in conclusion –

 ”Merry Christmas,”’ he repeated softly.’

Hell House

‘In forgetting, they were trying to remember.’

The Exorcist.

‘The hammering and the voices and the barking dog grew fainter, and, “Oh, God,” he thought, “What a bloody silly way to die…”’

Don’t Look Now

‘In those previous seconds Gerald had become aware of something dividing them which neither of them would ever mention or ever forget.’

Ringing The Changes

‘Subsequently the body was again secretly dug up, and the coffin was found to be full of blood.’

The Room In The Tower.

THE END

For the June 22nd deadline column for
History & Traditions

Enigmatic Entertainment from Maynard & Sims

 THE SOUND OF HIS PAST (In search of the lost anorak)

 The young man’s eyes scanned the books laid out on the stalls of the street market. He had already collected a pile of them, now wedged firmly under his arm – some books he had been after for ages, new titles by new authors he thought might be worth a look. When he saw the slim grey cloth-bound volume his heart skipped a beat. The Sound of his Horn, “Sarban”, Peter Davies, the faded lettering on the spine proclaimed. He had read the book as a Sphere paperback with a gaudy, uninviting cover. He never thought he would ever find the hardback version.

            He reached out and closed his hand over the spine. He pulled it from the pile and opened it. Inscribed on the endpaper was “To Frank, Regards, JWW”. As he read it a man’s hand reached out and made a grab for the book.

            ‘Hey,’ the young man said. ‘I saw it first.’

            ‘I think not,’ the man said.

            The young man looked up at the man’s face. As he stared into the man’s eyes he was hit with a jolt of recognition. He felt a tingling in his fingertips and his head started to swim. The man’s face drifted out of focus and the young man felt himself falling, tumbling over and over in space, books spinning about his head, pages flapping, dust-wrappers fluttering, creating a kaleidoscope of swirling colour.

            He was brought back to reality as the book was snatched from his grasp. Gradually he re-focussed his eyes and looked about him. The rank of market stalls had gone to be replaced by a few rows of battered books, placed on the pavement in no particular order. The old man who ran the book market had gone. The person who was now overseeing the remnants of what had once been a London institution sat in the open back of a blue Ford Transit, smoking a cigarette. His face was familiar and the young man realised with a shock that it was the stallholder’s son now running the much-diminished show.

            ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said the man who had snatched the “Sarban” book from him.

            ‘I don’t understand,’ the young man said, then for the first time noticed the cars that were passing by. The unfamiliar makes, the futuristic designs. His jaw dropped open.

            ‘Welcome to the year 2000,’ the man said with a smile.

            ‘Rubbish,’ the young man said. ‘It’s 1976. July the first, 1976.’ But then he looked about him again and knew he was wrong.

‘I think you could use a drink.’

            The young man looked flustered and confused. ‘I have to pay for these first,’ he said, indicating the books wedged firmly under his arm.

            ‘You can’t afford them,’ the man said.

            ‘Rubbish. I’ve got a pound in my pocket,’ the young man said indignantly.

            The man smiled indulgently and called to the stallholder. ‘How much for these, George?’

            ‘How many has he got?’

            The man counted the books quickly. ‘Twelve.’

            ‘Twelve quid then.’

            The young man took the crumpled one-pound note from his pocket and stared at it forlornly.

            ‘It’s okay. Have these on me. Then we’ll go to the pub.’

            The young man nodded dumbly.            

             Almost everything about the pub was alien to the young man. From the huge flat TV screen hanging in the corner to the name of the beers on display.

            ‘What will you have?’ the man asked him.

            ‘Pint of Red Barrel,’ the young man said distractedly, gazing at the sights inside the pub with awe-struck eyes. He was watching a girl sitting in the corner. She had a stud in the side of her nose and a tattoo on her shoulder. She noticed his attention and stared back at him incuriously. He averted his eyes, focussing instead on the flashing lights of a strange looking machine in the corner. It was only after he had studied it for a while that he realised it was a type of one-armed bandit. He shook his head in disbelief.

            The man was speaking to him. ‘...I said they don’t do Red Barrel anymore. Will any bitter do?’

            ‘Yeah, fine,’ he said, barely able to comprehend that Watney’s Red Barrel was now a thing of the past.

            Once the beers were bought they settled themselves at a table in the corner.

            ‘Right,’ the older man said. ‘Let’s have a look at your horde,’ and picked up a slim book with dark brown cover. ‘The Rats, James Herbert,’ he said neutrally.

            ‘Yeah, well, it’s horror isn’t it? I know he’s a new writer and he’s come in for a lot of stick, but I really fancied reading this one. It’s the same with this guy.’ The young man pulled a book from the pile and held it out. ‘A friend of mine said he’s going to be huge one day. Can’t see it myself, but I read one of his called Salem’s Lot and enjoyed it, so I thought I’d give this one a try.’

            ‘I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, though you may be in some his later books. As for Herbert, he’s now the best selling horror writer in the country... actually one of the best selling writers full stop. The Rats is a modern classic, and people study its sociological subtext for their university courses.’

            The young man looked stunned.

            ‘Don’t look so surprised. Stephen King is now incredibly famous. They make films of his work. They started with that one there, Carrie. And you would do well to hang onto those two books. At their peak on the second-hand market you could sell them and buy yourself a week’s holiday in the Bahamas.’ He took a long pull on his beer. ‘Now this one,’ he said, pointing to a book supporting the weight of the others. ‘This one will always be a classic,’ He pulled the book from the bottom of the pile and ran his hands lovingly over the faded red cloth. Have you read William Hope Hodgson before?’

            ‘I read The House on the Borderland. Those are short stories, aren’t they.’

            ‘Men of The Deep Waters. Yes, indeed they are. And you must treasure this book. It’s very scarce and the stories in there are wonderful; very much of a time sadly long forgotten. Tell me, do you know what book radar is?’

            ‘Book radar?’

            ‘It’s a term used by a book dealer friend of mine. It’s the ability to know when there is a desirable book about. One can sense it. I go to auctions a lot, and I can look at a tea chest of books, and I can tell more often than not when it contains a book I want. It’s not infallible of course, but it works more times than it doesn’t.’

            The young man was nodding. ‘I remember last year I was out for the day with my aunt and uncle and we were driving through Norfolk. We were passing through a small village, Yoxford, I think it was, and I noticed a small bookshop. It looked very run down, almost derelict, but I made them stop the car so I could have a look inside. I had a gut feeling that there was something I would want. Charles Birkin’s Devil’s Spawn, what a find! Phillip Allan, 1936, and in such good condition. I only paid ten pence for it.’

            ‘There you are, you see. Book Radar.’

            ‘I put it down to luck.’

            The older man smiled. ‘Do you buy books through dealers?’

            ‘Sometimes. Fantasy Centre in Harlesden, G. Ken Chapman in Kent.’

            ‘Vernon Lay in Whetstone.’

            ‘Yes, the young man said excitedly. I’ve only just discovered him. He’s got some great stuff.’

            ‘Dead now, of course, as is Ken Chapman, but in their time they were really useful source. The Fantasy Centre is still going, though they’re in the Holloway Road now. What’s this?’ He took another book from the pile. The Doll That Ate Its Mother?’

            ‘Ramsey Campbell. It’s his first novel. I read Demons By Daylight and loved it. Thought I’d give the novel a try. Bit of a find really. Only came out this year.’

            ‘Of course he’s now regarded as our finest ghost story writer. But then I’m not really surprised; Ramsey has ploughed his own unique furrow. His novels aren’t as popular as some lesser writers’, but his short stories always hit the mark.’ The older man drained the last of his beer from the glass. ‘Come on; drink up. We can continue this back at my place. I’ll be interested to see what you make of my library.’

            The young man smiled and drained his glass.

             ‘My God!’ the young man said as he walked into the dimly lit room at the back of a 1930’s semi. ‘I’ve died and gone to heaven. The room was lined with books, from floor to ceiling. ‘Those EF Benson’s they’re all first editions. And you’ve got The Smoking Leg by John Metcalfe. I’ve been after that myself for the last few years.’ He crouched down to scan the books on the bottom shelf. Now some of these names I recognise. Bradbury, Bloch, Joseph Payne Brennan, Henry S. Whitehead, and of course Derleth and Lovecraft. They’re all the Arkham House originals, aren’t they?’

            ‘They are indeed.’

            ‘But what about these?’ The young man was almost beside himself with excitement and looking now at a series of books, decorated with fine dust wrappers and bearing titles that had been on his “wants” list for years. ‘Munby, Burrage, Benson, Wakefield. Who on earth are Ash Tree Press?’

            ‘Another speciality publisher, like Arkham House in a way. They are performing an invaluable service to book collectors and serious students of supernatural literature, by bringing these titles back into print.’

            Something else had attracted the young man’s attention. It was something that made his heart race faster in his chest. With shaking hands he took the book from the shelf, turning it over and over in his hands, looking at the dust wrapper; a representation of a water mill drawn by an artist called ionicus. He flipped open the book and looked at the contents. ‘But we’ve only just written...’

            The older man took the book from him gently, closed it and set it back on the shelf. ‘You weren’t meant to see that.’

            ‘What was the title again? Shadows At...’

            ‘Enough. Look at some of the other books in the collection. There’s Hodgson, James, Vivian Meik... now there’s a name from the past. Jasper John, Amyas Northcote, RH Malden, LTC Rolt.’

            ‘You haven’t got Carrie... or The Rats,’ the young man said critically.

            ‘No you’re right, I haven’t. I used to have periodic moments of madness, when I would cull the collection. Carrie ended up at Enfield Town Market. Got fifty pence for it, I seem to recall. The Rats? Well that’s a long story, and involves a girl I used to love and a holiday she desperately wanted to go on. I’ll say no more.’

            ‘And do you have “Sarban”?’

            ‘Oh yes, I have “Sarban”. Ringstones, The Doll Maker, and of course The Sound Of His Horn.’

            ‘I’ve just written to him, actually,’ the young man said. ‘His real name is John W. Wall. I wrote care of his bank to ask him whether he would mind me writing an article about him for the British Fantasy Society.’

            ‘He was a very private man. He’ll give you short shrift I’m afraid. Look, there they are.’

            The young man reached up to the top shelf and pulled a slim grey cloth-bound book from the shelf, opened it and read the inscription on the end paper “To Frank…”, ‘But that’s impossible...’  Then his vision clouded and he was falling, back through time, back through a thousand collected books, a thousand dusty memories.

             ‘Do you want those books, son, only I’m about to close up.’

            The young man blinked and looked around at George, the elderly grey haired proprietor of Farringdon Road book market, then he looked down at the book in his hands: the first edition of “Sarban’s” The Sound of His Horn. He flipped it open and on the endpaper was inscribed “To Frank, Regards, JWW.”

            ‘How many you got? Twelve. That’s sixty pee.”

              In another place and another time a portly middle-aged man pulled a book from one of the many shelves in his library. He turned the book over and over in his hands, studying the ionicus illustration of the water mill in the minutest detail. It was a good many years since he had done that. With a rueful smile he slipped it back on the shelf and pondered lost innocence.

 THE END