Way back a few months ago you may recall a post about how the old publishing company was part of the Short List for the British Fantasy Society’s annual awards.

Earlier today (a couple of hours ago, I think), it was revealed that Tim Lebbon’s The Reach of Children won for Best Novella.

Congratulations to Tim are very-well deserved. Especially well-deserved as it was some of the finest writing I read last year, probably only second to Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes (which hadn’t been read before).

ADDED LATER:

For those who wish they had been in Nottingham when the award was announced, here’s the next best thing: VIDEO!

For an odd bit of fun, count the number of very un-hairy male heads involved in Horror Writing. No idea what this means, or which causes which to take place.

Only a few times is one presented with the opportunity to use a headline like that. Needless to say, there’s a reason for it probably.

You see, Lord Likely – the notoriously randy, mystery solving Member of the English Aristocracy; and not British Aristocracy, as this involves the Welsh, who don’t much take to that – has lost his pet feline and is seeking the same to be returned to him safely.

If anyone can help in that beng accomplished, please let him know.

More details can be got at the post on his blog which you can land upon merely by clicking that poster there.

Yes, it’s the one with the big pussy on it.

…and let the SPAM begin to flow!

Continuing in the pattern of “lemme tell you what I think about this”, here’s the book that was finished earlier this week. Once you’ve read it, you probably will read newspapers more carefully; no matter how carefully you thought you read them before.

First, however, let’s have one thing clear from the outset: this is not about how some minority group or secret committee is controlling the world and/or the media. While there may be decisions made about things by groups we know nothing about (that’s why they’re ‘secret groups’ after all), it’s all too easy to shuffle off one’s responsibility for not doing anything to change things by blaming an anonymous ‘powerful individuals’. Here’s an H.L. Menken quote included in the book (p. 395) which goes some way to explain how this sort of thinking can be rubbish:

…the central belief of every moron is that he is the victim of a mysterious conspiracy against his rights and true deserts … [He] ascribes all his failures to get on in the world, all of his congenital incapacity damfoolishness, to the machinations of werewolves assembled in Wall Street or some other such den of infamy.

This book is specifically about how there are few, if any, people in control of the media. While many reporters and editors find all too frequently that they aren’t able to do the fact-checking they wish to – and are frustrated at the situation’s stasis – they aren’t the cause of it through lack of initiative; they simply haven’t the time. According to the staggeringly persuasive argument of author Nick Davies, the newspapers of the UK are essentially now all owned by people who have little interest in publishing newspapers containing journalism. What these individuals are principly concerned with is simply ‘selling copies of the paper each and every day, and the more the better.’ This ‘quantity over quality’ approach is why they are termed “the Grocers” by Mr. Davies.

Certainly, any business must be operated with an eye to profit v. loss. However, there is so much an avoidance of idealism towards the media’s content, that the readers are being under-served to the point of unconscionable delivery of falsity on the part of the various persons responsible for the media outlets’ content.

While the book focusses much of its time upon the newspapers of London – including entire chapters each devoted to the Sunday Times, the Observer, and both the Daily and Sunday Mail newspapers – the problems and trends can all be recognised as being world-wide in scope. The newspapers of North America are, thankfully, prevented from out-right lying about individuals in print, owing to a reversal of the onus of proof in legal arguments here, when compared to the UK. That said, the habit of reporting quickly and loudly, then correcting slowly and quietly, is one which no legal or regulatory procedure can effectively prevent.

The other worrisome trend is the one first identified in the book: things being simply repeated from the texts of Media Releases without any effort to confirm that there is any validity within them, or even if they contain amplified – or ‘sexed up’, to use the UK Government’s term about the Iraqi WMD reports – versions of the truth which is then responsible for a snowball effect of panic about the subject in question; which then is fed-back into (EG: Iranian Elections get dropped to cover Michael Jackson’s death) or someone is able to stop the thing by explaining that it’s simply not true in the slightest and we can all relax now (EG: the nullification of the principle of habeas corpus in the USA is only applied to the cases of those naughty terrorists).

The fact that this book doesn’t cover is the recent development of newspapers closing due to financial decisions by their owners, despite any budget restraints they may have imposed prior to the shut-down. It would be fascinating to know what Mr. Davies’s views of the ‘new media platform’ might do to return journalists to the forefront of the delivery of facts. He suggests late in the book that an over-haul of newspapers is required, with the probable method of delivery being some sort of display screen.

Read this book, not to begin seeing some Secret Star-Chamber Cabal controlling the World’s fate, but in order to see that there is an ordinary group of men frantically pulling levers behind the curtain so as to continue making the Great Oz of the Media just as impressive and seemingly required as ever before.

Flat Earth News: An Award-Winning Reporter Exposes Falsehood, Distortion and Propaganda in the Global Media by Nick Davies; PP 420 (including index), ISBN: 9780099512684; 2^nd Edition published in 2009 by Vintage, an imprint of Random House, London, SW1V

It’s not often that a review appears here, but as this book seems unlikely to appear in a North American edition, or any other, in the foreseeable future, let’s have give it the exposure and analysis it deserves, for the sake of “The Future Generations” if nothing else.

While not entirely linear, Paperboy follows Christopher Fowler through his formative years, beginning with mid-1960 to less than a decade later when he moved into his own flat, at the insistence of his Mother. The years between then and the present are concertina-ed into a few pages mostly focusing on Mr. Fowler’s development as a writer of tales, a self-described “mid-lister” – entirely skipping over his efforts as pop-singer/song-writer, cinema promoter, James Bond stand-in, and artist’s model for a Batman villain – as well as interaction with the Father whose emotional turmoil caused those he loved so very much grief; emotional turmoil which was itself caused by the inevitable conflict between human nature’s need for expression and a societal repression of those same expressions.

Bill Fowler, the author’s father, is chief among those within the pages whom one can view incorrectly as ‘uncaring’ or even ‘destructive’ toward those around him. One must remember that Bill was part of the last group of people for whom instincts were something to be not just ignored, but repressed and eliminated. This was the only option provided by ‘Civilized Society’ as behaviour deemed acceptable. Trouble was something to be avoided, rather than viewed as a challenge to overcome or deal with. ‘Have a scotch, sit by the fire, and keep your mouth shut’ was the nearest thing to therapy available at that time (which would have been fine had the individual not been sitting by the fire alone). Were things particularly bad, you were declared ‘too far gone’ and then sent to Bedlam until you died, probably more of shame than any other malady.

During the 1960s, people ‘did the best they could’ to get though their day with whatever financial or occupational position they had; and mutual support was far more prevalent, likely due to understanding that if everyone helped each other get through a rough patch, things were better for everyone. Something which is important to remember is that ‘community’ was something more highly valued then than it is now. Dinner with relatives on holidays, constant contact with one’s neighbours, each day brought news and fellowship with people and was more therapeutic than any number of appointments with either a doctor or priest. This difference in society, and the way that individuals interacted, is best expressed by the author:

Everyone tries the best they can, some people don’t fit together, but generally it gets sorted out in the end – I’m always amazed by people who need a third party (therapists) to sort out their lives for them. It never really happened in England. Everyone just went to the pub or had a cup of tea to forget about their problems. There’s a very good support system here in the sense that people like to get involved – although I think it’s getting less as I get older (friends dropping off one by one).

It is altogether simple to read about Mr. Fowler’s paternal grandmother and dismiss her as “a crotchety, old, perfectionist, control freak” and entirely miss the fact that not only was she able to raise children through a depression, then a devastating war, and then the equally devastating post-war condition of at least a decade of rationing on all but a few items. To do this at all is considerable. To do so successfully requires the skills of an accountant who is both infinitely patient and in full command of ESP. Certainly, her approach to social interaction left a bit to be desired by her relatives, but no one can really understand what influences others’ behaviour patterns, even if they happen to have grown-up at the same time in the same street. That said, the extreme behaviour of individuals such as Mr. Fowler’s Grandmother is bound to both affect and effect those with whom she came in contact, and the spreading of hatred – hatred of others or selves – is forgiveable only after time and distance; usually accompanied with an appreciation of their gifts, however small or infrequent they might have been experienced.

Many of those under fifty have had similar experiences to Mr. Fowler’s as they grew-up, especially those of WASP origin: conversation and references to anyone ‘different’ were filled with euphemisms. I recall someone in a local restaurant suffering from severe autism being referred to as ‘in a bad way’; even after Prime Minister Trudeau declared that “the Government has no place in the bedrooms of the nation”, certain males were described as ‘a confirmed bachelor’; and mental health wasn’t at all discussed, beyond some occasionally being termed ‘withdrawn’ instead of ‘living with depression’, or a very shame-filled declaration that someone had “suffered a Nervous Breakdown”. This attitude toward any personal state, or mental health in general, thankfully improved over the most recent three decades as self-awareness, medication, therapeutic techniques, and realistic approaches to life and love’s many forms became better understood. Those of us who have benefited greatest from these advances can only guess at what life might be like had their individual character traits been either un-treated, not respected or blasted out of existence by ‘cultural re-programming’. The path taken through life by anyone of an artistic nature is difficult enough without adding ‘shame’, isolation, or intolerance to the matter.

As incomprehensible as it seems to us now, people hugging their children – never mind telling them that they were loved — was not something which was done. It’s no wonder then, than when concern for one’s offspring turned to worry, then to fretting, then frustration, that the logical conclusion would be violence as a manifestation of that original interest in the well-being of others. It’s this predicament that Mr. Fowler witnessed, not just in the behaviour of his father, but also the effect it had upon himself, his Mother, and his Brother. All of the family – Bill Fowler included – coped admirably using nothing more than their own mental resources.

The book is not filled with tear-stained examples of ‘this is why we don’t act like that any more’, however; as helpful as that illustrative material is when taken as such. When in the midst of it, no child will think to themselves ‘goodness, if only we had socialised mental health programmes, my parents would be so much better!’ Well, granted, the teen-agers of the 1990s probably did…

Right from the outset, the reader is immersed in wonderfully humour-filled descriptions of a life filled with Hancock’s Half-Hour (wherein the GLBT community was given the stereotypical voice of “I’m Julian and this is ‘my friend’ Sandy”), the importance of comic book heroes being true to their character forms, an improving sense of others his own age accepting and supporting others no matter who they happened to be, the sensuous frisson of fear delivered by the horror films of Hammer Productions, the increasingly racially desegregated populace, a number of musical influences, and the author’s joyful discover of libraries (the first of which surely formed the base for one appearing late-on in the “Bryant & May” series of mysteries). All of this contributes directly to the inevitable conclusion of selecting ‘writing’ as the last to which Mr. Fowler has chained himself to so successfully. We know it must end this way — his vast output as an author makes this abundantly clear – but the manner in which he arrived at his ultimate destination is none the less fascinating in the examination of it.

Yet, more than anything, one acquires an understanding of what it takes to create a writer from whole cloth. Simply to say ‘it’s hard work’ or ‘you just feel the need to write’ is hardly enough to put the matter into words, albeit entirely correct. Page 295 of Paperboy finds the following explanation of how the drive to be a writer – a really good writer – creates a yearning in someone in order to accomplish it; whatever the cost may be:

The author, as photographed by Mr. Martin Butterworth

Novels, I was told by one publisher who had rejected my work, were commodities sold like tins of biscuits, and the sweeter the taste, the more you could sell. But to me, the most important thing was that they had to contain fresh ingredients, not recycled ideas from other people. I realized now that my mother had been trying to tell me this for years; I had simply not been listening to her.¹

Still, I had delayed. I had been afraid to try, and risk failure. I remembered my father angrily snapping off the volume dial on his transistor radio while listening to Movie-Go-Round because an actor had said that performing required an act of courage. Courage, said Bill, was still working on the roads at sixty-five, spreading tar even though you knew it was giving you lung cancer, as his own father had done. Courage wasn’t mincing about on a stage or fiddling with a pen.

But in a way that Bill could never understand, it was. For years I was sure that if I failed as a writer, there would be nothing else left for me. If I could not achieve the one thing in life I tried hardest to do, it would be tough living with the loss of my dreams. How many people set out to change their worlds, only to find themselves in a state of perpetual downward revision and disappointment?

The events told in this book ring all the right bells to provide both an entertaining read, as well as a view of the life of a gifted writer. One reads about the encountering of an obstacle with a feeling of sorrow for the boy, and then a resultant triumphal cheer as the same obstacle is overcome. To not only be interested by an autobiography, but to care about its events and those experiencing them, is something altogether too rarely seen. While avoiding the easy choice of only including the happy sort of ‘and then I read…’ events, this memoir stands as both a microcosm of London in the last century both holy and profane, as well as a damned good way to have the reader appreciate just what ‘being a writer’ is all about.

It is unreservedly that Paperboy is set upon the shelf with both reverence and an intention to re-read it at some point soon. Equally unreservedly I shall state that this book was well-written, readable, and very enjoyable. You’ll do well to locate a copy in the library, or perhaps order a copy directly from an English book dealer.

Paperboy (A Memoir) by Christopher Fowler; PP 304, ISBN: 978−0−385615−5−70; published in 2009 by Doubleday, a imprint of Transworld Publishers, London, W5; a Random House Group Company.

A bit odd celebrating the achievements of a publishing venture I’m no longer associated with, but the work of my fingers and mind-bones is still there in black-and-white, so there’s something. News of the following reached me awhile ago but as it’s only been announced now, I’ve kept my lips restrained.

The following books and heir contents have received short-list nominations for the 2008 British Fantasy Awards, with winners to be announced at the convention in September of this year in Nottingham, UK.

	Best Anthology: The 2ND Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories, Ian Alexander Martin, Editor
The August Derlith Fantasy Award for Best Novel: Rain Dogs, Gary McMahon
	Best Novella: The Reach of Children, Tim Lebbon
Best Artist: Lee Thompson, cover artist for The Land at the End of the Working Day, by Peter Crowther
	Best Short Fiction: “The Tobacconist’s Concession”, John Travis, appeared in The 2ND Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories Best Short Fiction: “Pinholes in Black Muslin”, Simon Strantzas, appeared in The 2ND Humdrumming Book of Horror Stories

So, get out there! Vote early & vote often via the BFS site: CLICK THIS BIT HERE ! If you are a member of the British Fantasy Society or if you attended FantasyCon ’08 last September, then you are able to cast a vote to determine the winners in each category.