No, seriously, what the hell's that island?

J. J. Abrahams is the creator of Lost (with Damon Lindelof), Alias, and the director of Mission: Impossible 3. Via John Gruber's Daring Fireball, I stumbled across this talk of Abrahams discussing how elements of suspense can help propel a narrative. The talk was given at TED, an organisation that started out as the Technology, Education and Design conference in 1984. Now it's an annual meeting where luminaries get 18 minutes to give the talk of their lives.

"The first question people ask me is: What the hell's that island? It's usually followed by: No, seriously, what the hell's that island?"

Love it.

Science fiction and fantasy novelists

Via, Charles Stross's blog, I've just stumbled across a meta-blog of science fiction and fantasy novelists. It seems that blogging authors occasionally pen articles for this site and, so doing, advertise their wares. Noteworthy among the writers are Charles Stross (obviously), Simon Haynes (we share the same agent), Jeff VanderMeer, and Scott Lynch. For those interested in science fiction and fantasy, it should be a useful resource.

Pull!

Michael Stephen Fuchs - whose rather good novels I have reviewed for Pulp.net and on this blog - has written an article for the manfully-named www.shotsmag.co.uk. He writes about the difference between British and American authors in their treatment of guns. In summary, the Brits are less expert.

I've made my own, modest contribution to this trend by bungling a description of firearms not once but several times in the original publication of Déjà vu. I described the cylinder of a revolver as the barrel (hey, it's somewhat barrel-like!) and was very loose in my treatment of the term 'firing pin'. Fortunately, an American reader pointed this out - in a genuinely kind manner - and I've put it straight for subsequent versions of the book.

Says Michael:

This cultural difference also results in some very palpable differences between writing about guns and gunplay by British authors versus American authors. With American crime and action writers – if you know what to listen for, at any rate – it’s easy to get a sense that they are writing from first-hand experience. With Brits, it’s equivalently easy to get a sense they are writing straight from research. This is because, generally, at some point in the book, the British writer will let slip one small but enormously glaring boner about the makeup or operations of firearms. When this happens, it’s like getting a brief glimpse around the edge of the cardboard building facade in a Hollywood set: nothing else has changed, all the other details are still right. But, suddenly, the whole thing just looks irretrievably fake.

I'll get m'coat.

Hell, I am busting to fire a projectile weapon. I want to know how much it stings one's palm; what it smells like; how loud it is; does it make that PEEEEOW(OW)(ow) sound liberally employed on the foley track for The Professionals? I also wouldn't mind hitting something, as long as it's made of clay.

I wonder if Michael has any in his cupboard.

Come with me now...

Torchwood

What is it with Torchwood? Mad as a bag of sonic screwdrivers, this oddly regional series (that region being Wales) returned to BBC 2 in all its genre-bending, inconsistent and occasionally wonderful glory tonight at 9 PM. I'm not entirely sure how to judge Torchwood.

This is what goes through Hocking's head during a typical episode:

First minutes, the teaser: Observing that this kind of thing, a punchy intro, works much better on Lost.

Ten minutes in: Have laughed at several of the one liners, but struggling to see any real sincerity through the postmodern fog.

Twenty minutes in: Have winced at crap special effects that hark back - and not in a good way - to the original run of Doctor Who. (I'm sorry, Weng-Chiang, but those giant rats guarding your lair are so obviously normal-sized rats in EXTREME CLOSE UP. Get OVER yourself.)

Thirty minutes in: Have felt my liberal heart warmed by some en passant gay references that don't - perhaps because of my knowledge of the producer - feel gimmicky.

Forty minutes in: Bite down on my need to voice the words 'Gwen' 'teeth' 'gap' and 'get a bus through'.

At a point between then and end: Have nodded in appreciation at the one special effects element that finally worked, and wonder if Torchwood actually might be, on some level, quite good.

The end: Raise an eyebrow at a couple of twists in the story that demonstrate the scriptwriter, though not 100% capable of writing science fiction, knows his or her drama.

Overall, questions remain. Why doesn't it have a proper theme tune? How long before John Barrowman introduces his fine fore-fendered friend to Gwen in a show-stopping genre-exploding music number that involves a troupe of dancing Nargs (or whatever those dumbs aliens in the cells are called)?

Sunday Salon: Russian about

Oh dear Lord, has it come to this? A title whose punnish credentials might see it employed by Jasper Fforde? Too late to correct it, though! For, my friends, this is nothing less than a Sunday Saloon post, and is meant to be produced on the hoof, off the cuff and reeking of first draftiness. The Salon is about (or so it seems to me) things what one is reading. Today, then, I have been mostly reading Gorky Park by Martin Cruz Smith. It features a Russian militia detective call Arkady Renko and we follow him around Moscow as he attempts to solve the riddle of three bodies - shot, mutilated - dumped in Gorky Park. I'm about 25% of the way through and I'm actually staggered by the quality of the writing. This guy can write. I keep coming across fantastic snippets of prose, after which I tell myself: OK, he's hit the high water mark with that one - it'll be downhill from here. And then Smith tops it. All the while, the story is incredibly gripping. If I was on a beach, I'd burn through this is in a day. But I'm not; I'm at home marking essays, so I'll have to restrict myself to smaller doses. ...And, yes, I feel that there's no point trying to write a beautiful thriller. Smith - the git - has done it. And since it was published almost thirty years ago, he seemed to achieve this height without Wikipedia. What gives?

Can I get a little Holy Ghost power?

Sitting here at home, ill, feeling a little sorry for myself - and struggling with first-year student essays - is the perfect time to check out some of my subscribed feeds. Over at Neurophilosophy, I'm amused to see a link to 'Clothes for atheists'. That's right, brothers and sisters, buy a smug hoody from 'A production of evolution: casual designs for the free-thinking truth seeker'. Or perhaps a coffee cup that reads 'Meet my two best friends: reason and logic'.

I'd like to think of myself as a free-thinking truth seeker. When I was younger, I invited some Mormons into my house and proceeded to harangue them for about two hours on the logical difficulties of supernatural beliefs. They left exhausted. Nowadays, however, I'm much more polite.

But I see there are other businesses in the atheism game. Look at these crazy cats over at Atheists online. Love the atomic logo. They've got T-shirts reading 'Weapons of mass destruction' (accompanied by pictures of the Bible and the Koran); 'Atheists scream YOUR NAME during sex' (I'm sure we're all agreed that that will get the ladies going); and a picture of a red devil literally pissing on religion.

I still, however, say 'Bless you' when people sneeze.

Interview with Iain Banks

I've just heard that my agent, John Jarrold, will be interviewing Iain Banks at the Lincoln Book Festival at 8 p.m. on Monday, May 12. John's been a friend of Iain for years and it should be great fun. For further information, contact Sara Bullimore, Lincoln Council’s Arts & Cultural Sector Officer, by e-mail on: Sara.Bullimore (at) lincoln.gov.uk

India, baby

The human body might fly at the speed of a rifle bullet - and a bolus of dodgy curry slightly faster - but the soul, as we know, travels at a camel's pace. Britta and I are finally back from our adventures in India. At some point, I'll write something deep and possibly meaningful about the holiday, but for now I've uploaded some photos to Facebook (sorry they aren't on the blog, but they're really intended for close friends; if you want to see them, go ahead and register with Facebook (it's free) and ask to be my friend.)

Some abiding moments:

Walking into a restaurant in Chidambaram, Tamil Nadu, and suppressing a smile as literally all busy breakfast conversation ceases. Britta and I took our seats in the silence and tried to explain to the waiter that we didn't need knives, forks or spoons. After about fifteen minutes during which we demonstrated familiarity with finger-eating, the conversation of our fellow patrons resumed. Other interesting reactions: a boy on a bicycle staring, open-mouthed, as he passed, almost colliding with a bus as a result; babies pointing at our absurdly pale complexions; children too shy to say hello up close but plucking up the courage to shout "How are you!" when they're about almost out of earshot.

Taking a "short" (two hours each way) motorbike ride over potholes and through murderously anarchic Indian traffic until we reach the Indian ocean and spend the day with a ten-mile stretch of beach all to ourselves. Thanks to Mr Spielberg and his friend Bruce, I didn't enjoy the water overmuch.

Having the very enthusiastic students of Nagarajan's college interview me for their fiction magazine (which has been running for twenty years).

Staring slack-jawed at the way vehicles behave on Indian roads. Bus drivers pootle at Mach 1, lorries rattle at a slightly slower speed (with people perched on top), autos (rickshaws) make crazy zigzags, because lorries and buses feel free to kill them. Horn use is constant.

Punting through the titanic, submerged mangrove forest to the east of Nagarajan's village - the same forest that absorbed most of the energy of the Boxing Day tsunami and, thus, prevented thousands of deaths, including Nagarajan's.

Sitting with Britta in "tea chairs" as we gazed around the ball room of the Maharaja's summer palace in the mountainous city of Ooti.

Christmas Eve on the shore of the Indian Ocean with the full moon at our backs.

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Today, I ate paella with my fingers, but it isn't quite the same. There are essays to mark and emails to answer. England, baby.