Transported: 0 days to go – Enough Already / On National Radio Sunday 8 June

Enough already! Transported has been published. It will be in bookshops – Whitcoulls, Borders, Unity, Dymocks, Paper Plus, Parsons, and others – shortly, if it isn’t already. You can buy it online from New Zealand Books Abroad (who, despite their name, also sell books within New Zealand) or Fishpond.

I’m going to finish sorting out the running order of JAAM 26 and catch up on housework. Then it will be back to working on my novel, and blogging about what really matters: Buffy Anne Summers, for example.

So, enjoy the silence.

Or not: following a day on which I twice darkened the doors of Radio New Zealand House, I will appearing twice on National Radio on Sunday 8 June! From 10.05 to about 10.30am, I’m taking part in the Sunday Group on Chris Laidlaw’s morning show. We’ll be discussing Peak Oil and the future of world oil supplies.

Then, some time between 2 and 2.30pm (all being well), I will wear another hat, appearing on “The Arts on Sunday” to discuss Transported with Lynn Freeman. Emily Perkins will be on the show as well.

Shortly after these shows, podcasts will be available, and I’ll add links to them here.

UPDATE: A podcast of the Sunday Group discussion hasn’t been made available, but the Transported interview is available in MP3 format (a two-minute excerpt from the book plus a seven-minute discussion).

FURTHER UPDATE: The Sunday Group discussion on Peak Oil and the future of oil supplies is now also available as a podcast in MP3 format (12.5MB, about 35 minutes).

Transported: 1 day to go – Dedicated to Writing Groups

My previous books have been dedicated to individuals – my wife and son; my parents – but Transported is dedicated to the members of three writers’ groups: the Writers’ Intensive Care Group (WICG) (Dunedin), the Phoenix Writers’ SIG (Wellington), and the Writing Crew (Wellington).

The reason for this dedication is that many of the stories in Transported received their first public airing in front of one of these groups, and that they have, at different times and in their different ways, provided me with a great deal of support as a writer – plus, I’ve made some really good friends in them .

WICG was the first writing group I joined, and I’m still a corresponding member – at least, when I visit Dunedin at the time a meeting of the group is on, I take great pleasure in attending one of the meetings, as I did a few weeks ago. WICG has always consisted of artists and musicians as well as writers, and in fact, it is now largely an artists’ group – including some artists whose names are not yet widely known, but which should be! What I valued most from WICG was the encouragement it gave me at a time when I had little confidence in my writing.

When I moved to Wellington, I joined the Writers’ Special Interest Group of the Phoenix Science Fiction Society – a group that has produced a number of writers who have gone on to significant success. I found that the Writers’ SIG gave more detailed critiques than had WICG, but less encouragement – and, at that time, I had a thinner skin, so I found the critiques harder to take than I do now (he says, wondering if he is deluding himself …)

I’ve already blogged about the Writing Crew, the group that came out of the 2003 Writing the Landscape course at Victoria (CREW 256, hence the name). We’re not meeting regularly at the moment, as members disperse to various parts of the globe, but I hope we will again – and I keep in touch with many of the members in the meantime.

I was (am?) a little odd, because, for a long time, I found it easier to send my work off to editors I didn’t know than show it to fellow writers. But, if you are a writer, then I encourage you to find a group of other writers who are prepared to met regularly, be honest – but not destructive – about each others’ work within a framework of support and encouragement, and want to write and keep writing (or paint and keep painting!) and get better at it. If you already belong to such a group, formal or informal, you are in luck.

Transported: 2 days to go – Getting Around

A lot of people, a lot of places, but what the stories in Transported have in common is that they all feature journeys of some sort – journeys ranging from a few hundred steps to many light years. Actually, all the stories in my first collection, Extreme Weather Events, include journeys as well. Could there be a theme emerging here?

The term “Transported” shouldn’t be interpreted in purely physical terms – some of the characters are transported by love, others by envy, fear or greed – but in the book, characters:

walk
trudge
hitchhike
travel by ferry
travel by jetboat
travel by tractor
run up and down the pitch
move house
take the train (to Lower Hutt; to the Finland Station)
fly into space
fly through space
skateboard
fall in the pond
set the matter transmitter for the banks of the Dnieper
drive back home from kids’ cricket
run the 100 metres in the school sports
run for their lives
set sail surreptitiously
emigrate
drive a bulldozer
drive a Lotus 49T
fly in a plane
soar aloft on their pinions
plunge to earth
walk with a limp
dance (fast)
dance (slow)
drift in a dinghy
sail in a yacht
go out for a few quiets
climb to the top of the mountain
climb the walls
climb trees
spelunk
slide
jump in the water
wade in the sea
go under
dissolve
reconstitute
hop to it, and
walk some more

No bikes, eh? Must try harder next time.

Transported: 3 days to go – Places

My second index (or, more properly, concordance) of Transported: a selection of places visited or referred to in those 27 short stories – the bulk of them real. I have put these in roughly south to north order, but there’s a little east and west as well, so don’t sweat a few degrees here and a few degrees there.

McMurdo Base, the Wright Valley, Lake Vanda, Don Juan Pond

Punta Arenas, Patagonia

The Sandy Point Domain, Invercargill, the flat Southland plains (as twilight flows in), Gore, Queenstown, Wanaka, Rabbit Pass and the Waterfall Face (experienced trampers only), the Waiatoto River, Haast

Dunedin, Tomahawk, Smaills Beach (warning: footing uneven), Flagstaff, Taiaroa Head

Christchurch Airport, the Clarence River, the Seaward Kaikouras

Wellington, Miramar Island, Oriental Bay, Mount Victoria, the National Library of New Zealand (Rare Books Collection), the Basin Reserve, Island Bay, an imaginary tryline, the Loading Zone, the Angus Inn

Mana, Kapiti, Shannon, Palmerston North

Ngaruawahia

Utley Terrace, Rosemont Primary

Canberra, Goulburn (which does little to break the monotony), Sydney, Dubbo, Parkes

Basseterre (capital of St Kitts)

Santa Fé, Gainesville, Quantico, Washington, DC, the East River, Wyoming

Thebes, Mount Athos

Exmoor, Porlock (a poor excuse)

Saxony (where exchange students come from)

Moscow (who lost 5-1), Gorky Park, Kazakhstan, Lake Baikal

The Finland Station, Murmansk, Magadan

The Northern Festival Circuit (Nuuk, Norilsk, Vorkuta, Longyearbyen)

The Valles Marineris (with robots running around)

Triton (a moon of Neptune; Samuel Delany got there first)

Felsen’s Planet (in the Arcturus sector)

The Virgo Cluster (fifty million light years away)

Looking at People and Places, I guess I could have called the book “Strangers and Journeys” – but that’s already been done.

Transported: 4 days to go – People

To initiate the new discipline of “indexing for surrealists”, here is a small selection of people (most real, some imaginary) namechecked in Transported.

George Gregan, Sheree (a Tier One poet), Miranda (a Tier Two poet), Carl Dooley (an ironmonger), V. I. Lenin, Arthur C. Clarke, Arkady Renko, Marilyn Manson (a musician), Bruce McLaren, M. Foucault (a philosopher), Lacan, Kristeva and Baudrillard (other philosophers), Wayne Foucault (a dairy farmer, brother of M.), Krystal (who’s at yoga), Borges (a librarian), Senor Borges (a Distinguished Visitor), Billie Holiday, Alex Lindsay (and His Orchestra), Lisa Bryant (who put up an umbrella), Losi (an engineer), Mrs Masters (who died the other day), Mrs Parsons (a governess), Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Jacques (who thought he was a parrot), Cleve Cartmill (but not this one), H. P. Lovecraft, Sir Timothy Hyphen-Hyphen (a spy), Velimir Grushnikov (also a spy, but more sinister), and Trevor (from Hamilton)

Transported: 5 days to go – Opening Paragraphs

Transported, my second short story collection, is published this coming Friday, the 6th of June. To whet your appetite, here are the opening paragraphs of five stories from the collection.


When She Came Walking

The first time she walked down our street, pots jumped off stoves, coal leapt from scuttles, wood went rat-a-tat-tatting down hallways. In our yard, a broom and spade got up and lurched around like drunks, trying to decide which way she’d gone.

The New Neighbours

High property values are the hallmark of a civilised society. Though our generation may never build cathedrals nor find a cure for cancer, may never save the whales nor end world hunger, yet we can die with smiles on our faces if we have left our homes better than we found them, if we have added decks, remodelled kitchens, and created indoor-outdoor flow.

Robinson in Love

Lisa gave Robinson a knife, a bowl, a chopping board, and three tomatoes. Later, she gave him lettuce, cucumber, and carrots. By the time he’d run out of ingredients, he had made a salad, and Lisa had cleared the table, split bread rolls, and set out slices of camembert and little pottles of dips and spreads. Robinson would have settled for Marmite.

The Wadestown Shore

I cut the engine in the shadow of the motorway pillars and let the dinghy drift in to the Wadestown shore. The quiet of late afternoon was broken only by the squawking of parakeets. After locking the boat away in the old garage I now used as a boatshed, I stood for a moment to soak in the view. The setting sun was winking off the windows of drowned office blocks. To the left lay Miramar Island, and beyond it the open sea.

Books in the Trees

As soon as I understood what a book was, I resolved to become a bookkeeper. To the dismay of my parents, I was forever climbing trees in hopes of catching an unwary volume. Of course, I never did; they were far above me, flapping unmolested from branch to branch.