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.

Because some of you live in the Metro Vancouver area, but don’t necessarily check the Atomic Fez web-site, here’s a duplication of the event announcement over there.

• What: Launching an Independent Publishing House: Fab or Folly?
• Who: The Shebeen Club and Atomic Fez Publishing
• When: Monday, June 15^TH, 6:00 – 9:00 pm
• Where: The Shebeen, behind the Irish Heather, 212 Carrall Street in Gastown
• Details: $15 cash only, includes dinner and one drink (pint). No minors, please.
• Facebook Event Page: it’s got pictures and things, also a map; RIGHT HERE
• Blather: follows

MEET THE NAÏVE PROPRIETOR

The proprietor of Atomic Fez Publishing will engage the public in an all singing, all dancing event at The Shebeen Whisky House behind the Irish Heather Gastro-Pub in Vancouver’s Gastown district.

Ian Alexander Martin is expected to discuss his reasoning behind beginning a Small Press Publishing house in these days of financial turmoil which have seen several international houses drastically scale back their structures, frequently closing sub-imprints and selling off their intellectual assets like so much scrap iron. Likewise, when even local publisher Raincoast Books scales downsize their operation following the completion of the ‘Harry Potter…’ series, is there any point in trying to enter the market?

Additional topics will include:

• why be a small-press publisher if you’re not also a writer?
• what sort of books does Atomic Fez select?
• the answer to the question “dead tree books or electronic books” is “YES!”
• whither the future of independent bookshop?
• why can’t people buy any small-press books at Chapters or Smith’s
• why shouldn’t authors just self-publish and go straight to the readers and their money?
• just how insane are you?

Come and hear a 20-minute talk about what Mr. Martin’s approaches are, and what he thinks the state of publishing is today. A question and answer session with follow the presentation after a short break.

ABOUT THE NAÏVE PROPRIETOR

For three years Ian Alexander Martin was a Director in Humdrumming, Limited — a very tiny publishing company registered in England & Wales — during the last ten months of which was acting as President and C.E.O., Managing and Editorial Director, plus also being responsible for the contracting, editing, typesetting, publishing, and marketing of twenty different titles. Meanwhile, Humdrumming continually earned the respect and admiration of writers and readers alike, as well as seven ‘short-list’ nominations from the prestigious British Fantasy Society’s annual awards (and more to come in a few months).

In addition to the above, Mr. Martin has previously been an arts journalist; editor; professional photographer; photo-finishing store owner; web-site designer and consultant; theatre actor and director, as well as being the Founding Editor and Publisher of the theatre web-zine The Boards. If you had told him at the turn of the millennium that he would have accomplished these things, he would have laughed so hard he would have been physically ill at your feet.

He lives in Burnaby with his wife and two cats, all three of whom frequently succeed in dragging him kicking and screaming from the computer keyboard.

The trip to the UK provided a number of things which challenged me to view as things over which I had no control, and therefore had to accept their results without judgement. For instance, the trial resulting from the auto-mobile accident concluded with the jury returning a verdict of ‘not guilty’ for the individual charged. Knowing neither the exact wording of the charge nor any evidence or argumentative points raised when I was not actually in the court room, one can do nothing but accept that the conclusion was the just and universally acceptable one in the view of those in the best position to make that judgement. So goes life.

A second lesson in this was the Federal Election whilst in the Mother Country. The Canadian people participated in the typical democratic franchise method and returned the Conservative Party of Canada to the Lower House of Parliament to a minority government with a larger block of seats than was theirs previously. I was surprised, and yet, there it was. Again, better to accept than comprehend the ‘why?’ of the matter. We had a Provincial Election on Tuesday, complete with a referendum which, if passed, would have changed the process to a Single Transferable Vote method similar to that of Ireland or New Zealand. Again, results were not as I had both anticipated and hoped would be the case. Ah-well.

The third lesson from last autumn’s trip about how to accept that which one cannot change involved the publishing company Humdrumming, Ltd. At the time of the trip I was the titular Acting President and C.E.O. of the company, even though not being a resident of Her Majesty’s ‘green and pleasant land’ of England (which is odd, given the company was specifically registered in England and Wales). Less than a month following my return to the outer colonies, I was no longer in any way connected with the company for which I had pushed myself to the outer limits of success during almost the entire previous three years without a single cent of remuneration.

While I was entirely dedicated to the blossoming of the firm, and approached it as a corporate entity in both policy and procedure. Books should be got to both paying customers and people reviewing books promptly and without delay, and dealers who had taken delivery of books would either promptly pay or be hounded until they did so. My 100% assignment of waking hours to this effort was increasingly not shared by others, with the eventual result that the company was in a position of insolvency and the decision was to declare this officially to the world, effectively ‘lock the shop doors’ until things had got sorted out, and then see where things stood. Because I tried for the foregoing six months to ensure that state was avoided, yet was foiled in that attempt; and to declare such a state is tantamount to shoving a big sign out on the roof saying “Person in Charge Has No Clue; Apply Within as Replacement if Interested”, if not at least saying you’ve lost track of where you are and are so lost you can’t keep going and sort things at the same time. In the world of Big Corporate Business, ‘re-organization’ is another way of saying “the person in charge is out the door”, as in the case of President Obama telling the C.E.O. of GM to step down a few moths ago.

Any of those matters were enough to justify my resignation from the firm, and all of them together left me no choice but to leave, swallowing a good three-to-five thousand dollars of non-compensated expenses in the process.

So… whither the Colonial now?

Back to the fray, it seems. Yes, why leave well enough alone when one can continue the inane concept that it’s possible to make money at this publishing game. More tomorrow that’s more official…!

Thanks to the genius which is Mari Adkins, I checked out this post here: “[publishing] The banal evil of the Google copyright settlement | jlake.com”.

Apparently the Google plan of putting every book in the world on-line is cleared to happen, and all writers (or their estates) who do not wish their work(s) to be available to everyone without charge have a little under two months to state their objection in writing. If they do not do so, they have no legal right to control of their writing.

All over the world there is the sound of authors saying “Eh? How’s that again? Isn’t this completely opposite to anything that’s ever been agreed?” The answer to that is ‘yes, it certainly is, but it’s too late now.’

For a dose of “the new reality”, let’s try this on for size, shall we?

The real problem, the evil here, is the notion now being put into practice that a copyright license can be asserted by a third party in the absence of the copyright holder specifically forbidding it.

All through modern copyright history until now, a licensor seeking a sub-right was required to negotiate with the copyright holder before exploiting that license. No differently from a tenant seeking to rent a property is required to negotiate with the landlord before they move in.

As of now, I no longer control the sub-rights to my copyright. Under the terms that Google and the Authors Guild have set up, anyone who wants to make a commercial use of them can do so. It’s up to me to notice, to be aware, and to take steps to defend my copyright. If I don’t, well, too bad for me.

And if you don’t think Hollywood lawyers aren’t already all over this, you’re dreadfully naïve.

Have a read through the article for the complete run-down, especially you authors, as this will have an effect on everything you’ve ever written or will write ever again.

And I’m working on the long-mentioned post about my last day in London right now, so that’ll be here tomorrow. No really, it will! I swear!

None of you care do you…? Well, alright, my mother will, but that hardly counts, does it?

Due to popular demand… Many people have asked… Someone idly asked yesterday… ‘when would this series continue?’ And so, because I am here to give the people what they want, here is what happened on the day The Colonial Went to the B.N.G.

Arising around 8:00 (although the notes for the day state an uncertainty about that time), St. Pancras International Rail Terminal is headed for, with a desire to locate coffee and food. Also, connectivity to confirm that Trudi Topham is still meeting me for the purpose of both delivering some material to me which has been ordered from both small publishers as well as through Amazon UK (which wasn’t available through Canadian sources; mostly books with different editions and/or covers), as well as accompanying me around the National Gallery.

Happily, one can check e-mail over breakfast of coffee and muffin-thing, as St. Pancras Station has free Wi-Fi! HUZZAH!

Sadly, Trudi is at King’s Cross Station on the other side of Pancras Road, but I’m able to see the grandness of this international terminal with its impressive roof of the Train Shed [image, left] which was designed by William Henry Barlow (who’s been immortalised in a statue in the Station). So, in the end, NICE!

I wander across the road, and — after working my way through a teeming mass of humanity down the entire King’s bloody Cross Station’s bloody warren of platforms and levels — locate the lady herself, complete with massive box of books. Huzzah! We head to hotel, dump the shit in my room, and then head to the wilds of the underground, where I buy an Oyster Card so as to be able to move about easily on any number of methods of available public transportation without the need to ensure my tickets not expired, correct change, and so on. For anyone visiting London, this is a boon, as you are only charged for the tickets you would normally need, but the most you can ever pay per day with this card is the maximum daily charge for unlimited use of the system and that flat rate is less than the cost of several tickets. If you plan to use the tube or the bus more than three times a day (go somewhere, go somewhere else, return to where you began), you’ve just saved money, and all you had to worry about was slapping your card on a big yellow disc when entering the tube or when both getting on and off a bus. Brilliant! Get one and make your visit to the City of Western Culture a breeze. You’ll thank me for it, I’m telling you!

The card, oddly, comes in a little yellow wallet with an advert for IKEA on the back. “Oh…! It’s got IKEA on it”, I remark to Trudi, whereupon we say “Oooooooo-OOOOOO!” at each other. Why it’s called an “Oyster Card” and not a BLAN or TORVELD as a consequence of the IKEA sponsorship is good for a few minutes of discussion. It may have something to do with IKEA’s brand-new Family Mobile — a virtual mobile phone network — but I suspect the new London Buses will be built from flat-pack kits. Read the rest of this entry »