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desperanceBear with me, people, this one comes with a story attached.
["Chaz, all your stories come with stories attached."
"Well, yes. We are the storytelling animal."]
...Long long ago, back in the '90s, I wrote a ... novelette, I guess, a long short story: about a boy trying not to live with a burden of shame in the years immediately post-WW1. Stones in his pockets and a jump off the bridge, that was his idea. But he inherited a house: and found it cold and clear and dangerous, a ruthless focus to his feelings. Not haunted in and of itself, but an amplifier to his own haunting.
That story - "The Keys to D'Espérance"* - was published as a chapbook by Subterranean Press, way back when it was tiny, when it was so small Bil Schafer only had one 'l' to his name (he saved ink, I think). He's kept it available all this time, if any of you fancy grabbing a copy. The story was also picked up for Year's Best, and then again on the internet for a number of years (tho' that link is now broken).
I always meant to write more stories about the house: it was supposed to be a series about the history of England in the twentieth century, told through this rather skewed angle. But, y'know. Time passes. Some stories happen, others don't. Priorities shift. Like that.
Nothing ever dies. Nobody understands this about me, but the ideas I was excited about twenty years ago? Still exciting, just ... waiting. Not quite deep-frozen: vacuum-packed might describe it better. They keep warm, but they don't go off.
Anyway. An old beloved editor-friend of mine (I claim her as a cousin, for she is a Grant and so am I) shifted job, started a new line, spoke to my agent. Mentioned me.
Sunday, I wrote a proposal and sent it to my agent.
Monday, he passed it on to her and she responded.
Tuesday - today - I responded, she offered, we said yes. Subject to terms, of course, but that's between John and Kate, I don't get involved in terms.
So: this has been both the slowest-to-germinate - fourteen years, or thereabouts? - and the quickest-to-fruit (two days!) deal I've ever done. Two books, to be published (under my own name, mirabile dictu!) both sides of the pond, the first in September of next year.
Now all I have to do is write them.
*Why, yes. This is where my nom-de-guerre came from. That story has always mattered to me, this much exactly.
["Chaz, all your stories come with stories attached."
"Well, yes. We are the storytelling animal."]
...Long long ago, back in the '90s, I wrote a ... novelette, I guess, a long short story: about a boy trying not to live with a burden of shame in the years immediately post-WW1. Stones in his pockets and a jump off the bridge, that was his idea. But he inherited a house: and found it cold and clear and dangerous, a ruthless focus to his feelings. Not haunted in and of itself, but an amplifier to his own haunting.
That story - "The Keys to D'Espérance"* - was published as a chapbook by Subterranean Press, way back when it was tiny, when it was so small Bil Schafer only had one 'l' to his name (he saved ink, I think). He's kept it available all this time, if any of you fancy grabbing a copy. The story was also picked up for Year's Best, and then again on the internet for a number of years (tho' that link is now broken).
I always meant to write more stories about the house: it was supposed to be a series about the history of England in the twentieth century, told through this rather skewed angle. But, y'know. Time passes. Some stories happen, others don't. Priorities shift. Like that.
Nothing ever dies. Nobody understands this about me, but the ideas I was excited about twenty years ago? Still exciting, just ... waiting. Not quite deep-frozen: vacuum-packed might describe it better. They keep warm, but they don't go off.
Anyway. An old beloved editor-friend of mine (I claim her as a cousin, for she is a Grant and so am I) shifted job, started a new line, spoke to my agent. Mentioned me.
Sunday, I wrote a proposal and sent it to my agent.
Monday, he passed it on to her and she responded.
Tuesday - today - I responded, she offered, we said yes. Subject to terms, of course, but that's between John and Kate, I don't get involved in terms.
So: this has been both the slowest-to-germinate - fourteen years, or thereabouts? - and the quickest-to-fruit (two days!) deal I've ever done. Two books, to be published (under my own name, mirabile dictu!) both sides of the pond, the first in September of next year.
Now all I have to do is write them.
*Why, yes. This is where my nom-de-guerre came from. That story has always mattered to me, this much exactly.