Egads!

So, I just realised: the book launch is in two weeks.

Two weeks, people!

And, in just twenty-three days, Solace & Grief will be available on shelves.

I am yet to adequately process this information.

Squealing may follow.

All Bank And No Sense Makes Foz Go Something Something

OK, so, Twitter – I love it to death, but you know what’s  not cool? Tweeting sarcastically about a problem I’m having with my bank, and then recieving a reply tweet from my bank’s Twitter account asking me to DM my details so they can try and sort it out, after I’ve already spent twenty minutes on the phone doing just that.

Here’s what happened: for reasons which, I suspect, have to do with the fact that Toby and I went overseas and then had the temerity to come back when we said we would without informing Westpac a second time, our credit cards were cancelled last week due to “suspected credit card fraud”. Because our old address details had changed, Westpac was forced to contact Toby via email and ask him to ring them. He did, providing our new address in the process. Westpac noted it down, and his new cards arrived two days ago.

Mine, however, did not.

So, this morning, I tried to find the number for my local branch to call and sort this out. Irritatingly, no such number exists – instead, I had to go through a 1300 number, wait for the right option, then sit through a session of unbearably cheerful muzak until Hugo came on the line. I explained my dilemma. Hugo looked up my details and informed me that my new cards had been sent to our old address. I asked how this could be, given that Toby’s had arrived just fine. Hugo explained that whoever had fielded Toby’s call would have only had Toby’s details on screen, and not mine, and therefore only changed the address for him. My new cards, he said, had been sent to our old address. He started justifying this by saying we had different customer numbers, at which point, I cut him off.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t matter. Neither of us knows our customer numbers, and we don’t have to provide them when calling. I didn’t now, and he didn’t then. When my husband rang you, it was about the cancellation of two sets of cards: his, and mine. The person on the other end knew that. It would seem, then, like a fairly obvious intuitive leap for them to have asked if we, a married couple, were both living at the new address, rather than only changing one set of details.’

Hugo blustered. ‘Look, like I said, only his details would’ve come up – ‘

‘But you’re looking at both sets right now! And even so, that doesn’t explain why they didn’t tell Toby that mine would also have to be changed, or request that I call separately, or even mention that both sets of cards weren’t getting sent to the same place. If he had done, I would have called, and I would have my credit cards by now.’

Hugo apologised and asked whether or not I had any way of going back to my old address to collect the cards. Seeing as it’s only a few streets away from where we’re staying, that isn’t too big an ask, but still: I told him that, in all probability, the new residents had thrown out any letters not for them, as this is what normal people tend to do.

At which point, Hugo started saying that he’d have to cancel both sets of cards all over again, because if the people at our old address had opened up the letters with my cards in them, they would need only sign the back for the cards to work, and that, seeing as how the original concern in cancelling had been fraud, he would just -

‘No,’ I said, trying not to shout. ‘This whole mess is your fault. Not yours, personally, but the fault of your organisation. If you cancel those cards, again, I will be very angry.’

Hugo agreed to have the cards resent to my new address.

So, that’s sorted. But somewhere during this process, I tweeted:

fozmeadows: Urge to stab Westpac in the face…rising…

- which left me, internally, grumbling to myself about the fact that I couldn’t just call my branch, and that banks are so distanced from real life that every time they implement a new technology designed to help communications, they inevitably end up using it as a barrier between their employees and we, the people.

‘I just bet,’ I thought to myself, ‘I just bet they have a Twitter account, because they think it makes them seem Hip To The Young People, whereas in actual fact, it only goes to show how out of touch they are.’

And, lo – not two seconds later, I check my @ replies, and find the following message from – yes – the Westpac Twitter account:

westpac: @fozmeadows Sorry to hear it, please DM some contact details and let’s see what we can do to get you sorted ..Ean

Since then, the dialouge has expanded:

fozmeadows: @westpac Oh good gods, you actually are on Twitter. Very hip, but it doesn’t make up for having to call a 1300 number instead of my branch.

westpac: @fozmeadows Thanks, please DM contact details and the specific branch and we’ll get the Bank Manager to call you ..Ean

fozmeadows: @westpac OK, you’re not even a person on the other end, are you? This is totally an automated response using a person’s name. Not. Cool.

westpac: @fozmeadows No, definitely a person, my name is Ean van Vuuren, I head up online sorry my previous messages gave that impression…

fozmeadows: @westpac Look, Ean. I won’t hold it against you. But rather than tweeting, maybe you guys could look into not making basic admin errors.

Will he tweet back? I’ll have to wait and see. But in the interim, it just makes me angry. I mean, why can I Twitter directly with an admin in Sydney, but not call my Goddam branch? Why are they supposedly interested enough in people to talk online, but not to make the basic assumption that a husband and wife will be living at the same address and change two sets of details in the first place?

Conclusion: Banks, man. They be all crazy ‘n shit. Damn authors of GFC be trippin’ for reals, yo. Word.

Storage Power

Firstly: my maiden guest blog is now live, courtesy of Katie over at Sophistikatied Reviews! You can read it here.

Secondly: I am currently obsessed with rummaging through our self-storage space.

As keen readers of this blog may have had occasion to note, Toby and I have been overseas for the past five months. Before that, we gave up our lease and stayed with his parents before flying out; now that we’re back, they’ve been kind enough to put us up again, while I’ve been dayjobhunting and the two of us have been looking for a place. This means that, barring a few outfits, a handful of books and some DVDs, everything we own is boxed, stacked and stored on the fourth floor of a neaby self-storage facility. Ironically, a lot of what’s there will be sold or thrown out once we’re in a position to reclaim it, but until that day comes, there it sits: a small mound of un-or-mislabelled boxes, bags of random crap, dodgy furniture and reams of household utensils, all serving to obscure the location of anything I might actually want.

We moved everything ourselves, so it’s not like we can blame this poor stacking on anyone else. Toby did most of the arranging, but seeing as how he’d also had to lift our fridge, a daybed, four bookshelves and two lounges virtually on his own after the Great Unmentionable Incident Wherein A Certain Husband Who Shall Remain Nameless Dropped The Fridge On His Wife’s Forearms And Hand, Thereby Bruising Her For Weeks And Rendering Her Even Less Able To Cart Heavy Things Around Than She Already Was, Although Why We Never Roped Some Stronger Friends In To Help From The Outset Is Beyond Me, I’m inclined to forgive him.

The point being, the room is disorganised, virtually impenetrable, and full of boxes whose contents cannot be ascertained by any lesser action than opening them. All the bags with our clothes are in the back lefthand corner, unable to be moved because (a) they can’t be reached and (b) even if they could, they’re the only thing stopping the lounges from falling over. All the tiny boxes with useful things in them, like my PlayStation and the X-Box controllers, are in the back righthand corner, hidden behind about 45 larger, decidedly heavier boxes containing a combined half-century’s-worth of books. The DVDs are interspersed with the books, and the only readily accessible things are, for reasons I cannot fathom, utterly useless, like – for instance – Toby’s Cylon bubble-bath container and my stuffed toy turkey. In order to achieve anything at all, I have to move three bags (two light, one heavy), a box of philosophy books, the TV (fortunately a flatscreen) and the case of my ancient desktop computer out into the hallway, stand on top of our ancient, surprisingly sturdy gas-heater, boost myself between the fridge and the edge of the bedframe to climb onto the upturned edge of one of the lounges, and spend five minutes surveying my weird, incessessable domain, like a cat who’s found her way to the top of the tallest cupboard. Only then may I begin the task of figuring out which boxes to move where in order to progress my excavations.

If you’re thinking that this all sounds extremely inconvenient and difficult, you aren’t wrong. It’s a cramped, dusty, sweaty environment, and though, after three lengthy visits, I’ve only managed to retrieve a smattering of DVDs, four books and our edition of Trivial Persuit, I cannot for the life of me keep away.

I don’t know what it is. Ever since Toby gave me the key, it’s been exuding a siren-song. Or, wait. I do know what it is: I want my goddam PlayStation 2. For about a week now, I’ve been dreaming of landscapes from Final Fantasy VII and XII, and every time I go there, it’s with the secret hope of striking the jackpot. Not, of course, that I can remember which box the actual games are in, and as I’ve discovered today, while the X-Box 360 and all its cords were in one place, the controllers most certainly are in another. Frustrating, to say the least. But on another level, it’s more than that. The feeling I get when moving the boxes around is almost identical to the way I used to feel when, as a kid or teenager, I’d take it upon myself to rearrange my room. I’ve never had much in the way of upper body strength, but that was part of the fun: with only me to lift the bed, mattress, books, shelves and furniture, I had to find a way of juggling, shoving things around until I could edge them all into their new locations. It was still physically tiring, but also an odd source of intellectual satisfaction. Here was something I’d done, despite the obvious difficulties, and with a visible result to show from it!

When she was younger, my grandmother used to get a similar kick out of rearrangement: my mother and uncle would come home from school and find that the whole house had been moved around. Right now, trying to clear a path through our storage room falls into a similar category of endeavour. Gods help me, it is actually fun.

Which worries me, on a number of levels. But not enough to stop me from going back. After all, that PlayStation has to be somewhere.

Publicity Week

Some more internet mentions this week, which is exciting! Danielle over at Reading Watching Living conducted this wonderful interview, while Katie over at Sophistikatied Reviews has done me the honour of a Waiting on Wednesday post prior to the appearance of the guest blog I’ve written for her, so watch this space!

I have also – and the sheer thought of it fills me with a gleeful, tingling sensation – come face to face with my first ever book review, courtesy of Kate  O’Donnell. Alas, there is no specific link to which I can direct you, as it was with Bookseller and Publisher magazine – a hardcopy publication, despite their website – who also interviewed me in the same edition. I can’t give you the whole review, but I can say that Solace & Grief was described as “a clever and funny supernatural romp, with a chilling underside to it…a smart and appealing read for the ‘Vampire Academy’ crowd.”

Which, you know. GLEE!

It Has Begun

OMG, people – my first ever author interview is now online, courtesy of the most excellent Steph Bowe! You will find it here, along with the details of my book launch, so if anyone out there is going to be loitering in Melbourne on February 20, please drop by and say hello. There will be nibbles and fun and quite a lot of exuberant geekness on my part, or possibly just some split-the-jaw grinning, but it’s also the day before my birthday, so even if you aren’t interested in procuring yourself a copy of Solace & Grief, your salutations and raisings of the glass will be more than welcome. Although if you did want to buy yourself a copy, it would sort of be a like a birthday present to me, only you get the actual present! Everybody wins!

Amateur Writing

Note: The following started life as a Facebook comment, in response to this article by Susan Hill on the benefits of reading established writers over amateurs.

Beneath the ire and invective, I think there were two main points in that article, and that, while individually interesting, they contradict each other in confluence.

Hill says, “If someone writes a marvellous short story I don’t care where they come from,” and that people who have done so should be lauded. By contrast, she despises those who are elevated “just because they have put one word in front of another, or because they’re asylum seekers.” That’s not an entirely unreasonable statement, I feel: the idea that positive discrimination should not extend to the fields of creative endeavour. Rather, everyone should start from an equal footing.

But Hill begins her rant by complaining about the idea of having her name taken off a piece of writing. Sarcastically, she laments of the idea that “names…are invidious. They might indicate to people that the story was worth reading.” Which, for me, given the fairly obvious fact that not everything a person ever writes is brilliant – even a professional writer, even a genius – this entirely negates the idea that she’s after a level playing field. It’s not enough that her story be good, or that it be displayed alongside other good works; we must know they are hers – and that her works have a pedigree, in the form of her previous publications – as distinct from the work of the unfamous.

If the insult of anonymity comes from having good works (hers and those of established writers) displayed alongside bad (the efforts of token, unvetted enthusiasts), she has no reason to be fearful that some ignorant member of the vox populi might express preference for the latter kind, simply because of a lack of nomenclature to guide them, because the whole burden of her argument is that this cannot actually happen. She has worked hard; her work is therefore better, and reasonable people should know this to be so. Nonetheless, this is the fear that comes across – and if you consider the idea, which Hill clearly hasn’t, that the token, unfamously authored works might have been chosen as much for their quality as because their authors were asylum seekers, then this fear, expressed through the removal of her name, completely undermines any claim that she would approve of any short story that was good, regardless of where the author came from.

Because if the origins of the author don’t matter, then why should their title? Hill simply wants us to know how successful she’s been, and takes umbrage at the notion that a chance might be taken – gasp! – on some unproven newcomer whose works aren’t necessarily up to her own calibre. Yes, names are an individual guide to what is worth reading, but only subjectively: we return to authors we like, but not everyone likes the same thing. Take away the names for an instant, however, and we are forced to contemplate flying blind. If, walking through that exhibit – assuming Hill had submitted – a fan of hers was forced to try and distinguish her contribution from those of a dozen anonymous others, and confess afterwards that though they liked six pieces, they couldn’t say for certain that one in particular was hers, then I’d call that a valuable exercise. Perhaps – and this, for Hill, seems the most dangerous thought – perhaps, without that signifying name, she might not even make the fan’s list in the first place.

As Hill herself points out, “you cannot get a single reader if no reader chooses you” – but choice can be made on grounds other than a name. The arts world is nepotistic, by its nature – that won’t ever really change. But if, for a day, we can pretend otherwise by letting someone whose name we don’t know stand alongside the greats – allowing other people to judge, name-free, whether they could potentially belong there – then that really is an example of democracy in writing.

Bottom line: Hill believes in the potential talent of new writers. She just wants to have heard of them – and for them to have heard of her – first.

Reasons For Blog Neglect

There are two, basically.

1. We just got back from the UK last week, and although I’m not jetlagged, I’d like to plead Temporal Disorientation While Having To Find A House And A Job And Get All Our Stuff Out Of Storage.

2. Books. Specifically, my books. Behold!

So shiny...

Squee!

2010, The New Year & Doctor Who

So, it seems that 2010 – the dawn of a new decade which may or may not be called the tens, teens, tweens or tweenies – is finally upon us. Huzzah! This was the first New Year’s Eve I’ve ever spent overseas, and the only one where it’s been cold. Toby and I put forward a few suggestions as to how we might celebrate, but in the end, a 24-hour virus/flu on his behalf saw us stay in by ourselves and have a pleasant, if very quiet, evening of geekery. I bought us a box of Indian food from Sainsbury’s, which actually wasn’t bad, and courtesy of our hosts – or, more specifically, their DVD collection – we watched Stigmata, which was very 90s, but not unenjoyable, paused to have a discussion about the apocryphal Gospel of St Thomas, and then watched The Lawnmower Man, which was sort of hilarious, but which made up for it by featuring a young, sometimes shirtless Pierce Brosnan wearing hot glasses and an a gold earring as the Rogue Scientist. Then we caught up with a bit of the classic Doctor Who we’ve been watching recently – Tom Baker in Pyramids of Mars – and went to sleep. Also, I may have done some writing.

Speaking of which: the first draft of the Ambush Novel is now complete. There’s one more scene I want to add in, a made-up word I want to change and a conversation to be fixed, but these are all little things, and otherwise, I’m extremely happy with the results. So if nothing else, I’ve managed to achieve my crazy goal of finishing it before we returned to Australia. Yay!

Finally, re my predictions for the second part of Doctor Who: The End of Time, I was right about some things, and wrong about others. I’m happy with that. It was, by and large, a good episode, although in all honesty, I’m keen to move on from the schmaltz of Russell T. Davies and see what Stephen Moffat can achieve – especially given that he’s been responsible for all my favourite episodes.

Rock on 2010!

Resolutions: Past & Future

So, with one day to go before NYE, I thought that, seeing as how I blogged my resolutions for 2009 at the same time last year, now might be a good point at which to figure out how many of them I achieved, and perhaps to set some new ones for 2010.

Most actively, my goal for this year was to try and read only new books. From long habit, I’m an inveterate rereader, and while this is still a policy I endorse, it’s been my habit for so long and to such an extent that it’s actively prohibited me from trying new authors. I am therefore proud to report that, with one exception, everything I’ve read this year has been virgin territory. All up, including individual volumes of manga comics, I have read ninety-five books since January 1, in an unprecedently broad range of genres: aside from the usual quantity of graphic novels, fantasy, steampunk, manga and YA titles, I’ve ventured into the realms of straight fiction, biography, autobiography, popular science, crime fiction, history, classics, political commentary and philosophy. Which, frankly, is astonishing, and something I am keen to keep up in 2010. I’ll still allow myself the comfort of an occasional reread, of course, but with so many new stories itching to be heard, it will become a very selective treat.

Otherwise: I didn’t take up tennis again, despite my best intentions. My short stories have improved, and though I still didn’t write too many, the important thing is that I’m thinking up more ideas for how they might work, with a stronger sense of my own style. All in all, I’ll call that a win. Undeniably, I have broadened my addiction to awesome TV shows, discovering Dexter, Dollhouse and True Blood all in the past few months. I’m not sure how often I’ve surprised other people this year, but I’ve certainly surprised myself, which should count for something. I have done nothing by the way of anarchism, and though my poetry output has been meagre, I’ve been happy with the results. My life hasn’t overflowed with an abundance of jigsaw puzzles, but more than one new pair of comfortable pants has found its way into my wardrobe, I have certainly delighted in silly hats, I have been caught in the rain more than once, and even if I haven’t always succeeded, I have tried throughout the year to listen more and talk less. I have given thanks to Vizinczey – and, even though it wasn’t on the list, I’ve signed the contract on my first published novel, which is the most exciting thing of all.

Which leads us to my resolutions for 2010, the last year of the noughties decade. They are as follows:

1. I will do everything in my power to ensure that Solace & Grief gets off to the best possible start.

2. I will continue to work on my short stories, and to submit them places. Optimistically, the aim will be to have one published somewhere by the end of the year.

3. In addition to finalising edits on The Key to Starveldt and completing at least a full first draft of Falling Into Midnight – respctively the second and third volumes in the Solace/Rare trilogy – I will complete the Mystery Ambush Novel, currently titled Finding Echoes, shop it around, and start the immediate sequel. Also, seeing as how I have at least three more stories planned for that universe in a sort of loosely linked, sequential-but-separate arc, I will aim to set down my plans for all of them in a vaguely comprehensive manner, and figure out if there are more to come.

4. An oldie but a goodie: I will embark on some form of regular exercise, and try to show a little more restraint in the presence of cheese and chocolate.

5. At some point, I will come back overseas.

6. I will continue to be thankful for the opportunities I’ve had and for all the amazing people who’ve brought me to this point.

Happy 2010, people! It’s going to be awesome.

Doctor Who – The End of Time

Warning: absolutely giant massive spoiler alert!

OK, so: part one of the final David Tennant episode of Doctor Who, The End of Time, has now aired in the UK. The fact that I’ve been predicting the return of the TimeLords ever since Tennant first announced his retirement has left me with a warm, glowy feeling of narrative vindication. (The fact that said glow has undoubtably been heightened by the large glass of eggnog sitting to my left is by the way and nothing to do with it.) As soon as the Ood declared that ‘they are returning’, I knew it was game on, which view was ultimately proven correct when Timothy Dalton appeared mid-episode wearing the unmistakeable red and gold of Rassilon. It makes perfect sense that the Tenth Doctor’s exit would in some way be tied to the return of the denizens of Gallifrey, as his tenancy (hah – pun!) has been entirely characterised by their absence. In terms of mining the original show, the other TimeLords are the single facet yet to be brought back, and as the Daleks have turned up numerous times despite their supposed destruction during the Time War, finding a means of resurrecting their enemies is an act of natural balance. In the trailer for the final act, it has also been revealed that the drumming tune in the Master’s head – the inspiration for the four knocks which are prophecied to preempt the Doctor’s death – is representative of the double beat of a TimeLord’s heart. Armed with this knowledge and a glipse of the final episode, therefore, here are my predictions for the final ever episode of David Tennant’s term in Doctor Who.

Back in The Sound of Drums, it was revealed that what originally sent the Master mad was the TimeLord ritual of staring into the Time Vortex through the Untempered Schism. From this point on, the drums in his head were always calling to him. We know, too, that the Doctor can sense the presence of other TimeLords alive in the galaxy – but there are exceptions to this ability. Consider that creator Russell T. Davies, much like Joss Whedon, has a habit of planning his storylines long in advance, such that he is in a position to drop hints as to their eventual conclusion. One such notable clue is the Medusa Cascade, a place the Doctor was reported to have sealed off during the Time War, but where Davros and the Daleks were later proven to be hiding, along with a number of stolen planets, at the end of Season 4, by being a second out of sync with the rest of the universe. I won’t venture an explanation as to how, but my speculative guess, after the Ood announced that ‘things which have already happened are happening now’, is that those TimeLords who survived the Time War did so by a similar trick of temporal displacement; perhaps even utilising one of the Nine Gallifreys of old. Which is why, when the Master gazed into the Vortex all those years ago, the sound of drums was embedded in his head: he could hear the future/present of the timeless TimeLords, and was irrevocably altered by their (which is to say, Timothy Dalton and his prophetess’s) call to war. The Ood can sense this displacement at a psychic level, and now that the Master has turned everyone on Earth into copies of himself, the fact of this will allow the rest of the TimeLords to return: because of what he is, and of what was originally done to him.

Which leads us to Wilf, who appears to be having visions of a female TimeLord council member, and to Donna Noble, who is no longer quite human, and who has been forced to remember everything she was made to forget. This is somewhat interesting, as the Doctor has explained that Donna can’t remember without dying; but if she can, then what does this say about her deeper nature? Perhaps – one might speculate – her survival has something to do with those Huon particles she imbibed so long ago, given their relationship to TimeLord technology. We were told ealier that there was no coincidence in the Doctor meeting Donna more than once, and now we know that there is no coincidence to Wilf’s continued appearences, either. Why is he the only man to remember his bad, precognitive dreams? Perhaps this is an example of cyclic time: due to the Doctor’s protection, he was never going to turn into a copy of the Master, and was therefore able to remember in the present what his future self would eventually learn. Wilf is a stargazer, a soldier who has never killed a man; alternatively, his significance might lie in the fact that he is human – wholly human, unlike Donna – and therefore represents a viable template from which the human race might be restored. But he also has a choice to make, a life to take: the Doctor’s, the Master’s, or perhaps Timothy Dalton’s.

So, to wrap up all these vague speculations, I’ll end on a more solid, if perhaps more obvious note: Timothy Dalton’s character will die; Gallifrey will return; the Doctor will be offered the mantle of Lord President (again) and refuse; the Master will escape to fight another day, as per his speciality; and Donna’s memories will be restored.

There. How’s that for a prophecy?