Erica’s on the committee of the Doctor Who Appreciation Society and they’ve asked us to start contributing to their monthly members’ magazine, the Celestial Toyroom.
This is our first contribution. It’s a joint effort, being Erica’s recollections of the fan convention life as written down on paper by me.
If you’re having trouble reading the version above, the full text is available in modern all-legible format here.
Erica, my wife, has produced about ten Doctor Who conventions under the aegis of her production name, Fanslikeus. For the past couple of years they’ve been at The Hilbre pub in West Kirby, where we live. Any proceeds go to cancer charities following Erica’s mum having her own brush with cancer a while back (all going well so far).
This is the write-up we got in the local press. Incidentally, the way this worked is that they sent a photographer down and asked me to write the copy, which they then cut to length. They cut out some nasty remark I made likening the local council to the Daleks, but Erica got on the front cover so I didn’t complain too bitterly.
I do not own laburnums bred and arched
And forced and bent and formed to formal terraces;
No ramrod rows of roses straight and starched,
Nor ancient groves coralled at England’s genesis.
Such regiments of nature seem to me
No testament to nature’s true imperatives –
Give me a leafy mess where bumbles be
With at its heart a bright, imperfect clematis.
Herewith, a book review of The da Vinci Code I posted way back when…
The morass of text residing here (click the link if the above scan’s too hard to read) was a look back at the Regenerations convention which, in September last year, I somehow got strong-armed into going to for my honeymoon. At the time that excellent convention was supposedly going to be the last one of its ilk. Thankfully, the organiser – our good mate Cary Woodward – subsequently relented and did more. This article was written for the Celestial Toyroom magazine.
Sir Terry Pratchett once said that the problem with aspiring writers is that too many of them want to have written. They’re not interested in putting hours upon hours into sitting with a blank piece of paper and filling it; they just want a shelf of lovely books with their name on the spine, and a succession of J.K. Rowling-sized royalty cheques.
Well, that’s me. I love words and stories and novels and etymology, and I would love to be a writer, but I’m damned if I can be bothered to put pen to paper. I’d far rather just…have written. The closest I get to being a prolific writer is being a prolific reader, damnit.
This site gathers together the few paltry scribblings I have managed to put together over the years. The plan is to update it roughly once a week while stocks last.
Elmore Leonard once said something to the effect that in order to become a writer you had to write a million words, throw them away, and then start writing.
Welcome to my first million.