Authors Electric

Mass shootings in the USA, stabbings on the streets of London, the threat of Brexit, the overarching shadow of Trump, to say nothing of famine, drought, authoritarian governments and a rising tide of refugees and asylum seekers; there are times when the world seems such a fearful and threatening place that you want to run and find somewhere safe to hide, or stay in bed and pull the duvet over your head and pretend it’s nothing but a very bad dream. Or, if you’re a writer, you can move away into a world that you’ve constructed; a world where you are in control of events and characters; a world which is both familiar and therefore comforting, but also magical, exciting and full of possibilities. As the news grows more and more gloomy, the nights draw in and the days become colder, I find myself more and more engrossed in my city of secrets. This is an alternative Bristol to the city where I grew up. Something akin to Philip Pullman’s Oxford in his “Dark Materials” trilogy....

Disclaimer: what follows are my personal opinions and prejudices, not those of Authors Electric. I do realise how tedious I am with my constant references to Sisyphus, absurdity and connected experiences, but now that political manoeuvrings and personalities have confirmed that absurdity is the norm, I need to return to it. Don’t worry, though, this will not be me penning ‘variations on a theme of existentialism’ or theorising about whatever poses as sanity and common sense in the skulls of those at the apex of our society. No, I’m a writer, so it’ll be about words. The blog’s been inspired by an excellent article in the New York Review of Books   which analyses the various approaches of members of the US Senate Select Committee on Intelligence to the interpretation of seemingly straightforward terms. I won’t go through its contents because it does a far better job than I would about bringing the different threads together. It does, though, confirm Gore Vidal’s obs...

It's that time again. The third week in November: when, here in America, we give thanks for all our nonmaterial blessings a mere 24 hours before we quite literally try to kill each other over the latest toy or electronic gadget we just have to get our Sweet Baby Boo-Boo for Christmas (because of course, nothing says "Happy birthday, Jesus" and "Welcome Prince of Peace" like a bloodstained plasma television set with surround sound and built-in blu-ray player). Screw you, Tammy! Sweet Baby Jesus wants me to have this! Well, as I did last year, I'd like to take a moment here to give thanks, in no particular order, for the things reading/writing related that I am thankful for this year. Venture and Hold Fast Presses: This year has been good to me as a writer. The first two volumes of my Western retelling of the King Arthur legends, Guns of the Waste Land , were picked up by not one, but two independent presses. Venture Press  purchased the ebook right...

And now folks - Rump of Rump Hall! Somehow or other this blog appeared briefly on Weds, then just as mysteriously vanished. Hillary to blame, or Mr Trump - the choice is yours. Maybe the blonde bombshell himself will evaporate. Trump. Ooh, what a disgusting thought... Is it possible to watch the world events of today without despairing just a teeny weeny bit? In England the whole concept of truth is being redefined by the day, with political integrity leading the van. Men and women who pride themselves on their probity (they are honourable and right honourable members, for God’s sake) now talk about a ‘post-honest society’ as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Brexit battle buses festooned in blatant lies are now passed off jokily as rather neat examples of how to game an unimportant argument, while our new and unelected leaderene insists that she has an unshakeable mandate to do what most thinking people look on with growing apprehension. Ian Duncan Smi...

No one can cuss like a Scotsman. Or produce comparable musical pow. We may not always understand it (non-Scottish viewers of Trainspotting understood on average 3.5% of the dialect and no one understood more than 5.2%). And yet we are enthralled by the music, the vigor, the volume, the force of whatever it may be we've heard. Tourists may turn to cheat sheets like this for basic, cleaner Scottish slang: bairn - baby (jist a wee bairn!) or small child. baffies - slippers. bahoochie- bottom bampot - an idiot, unhinged person (He is a bampot) barry - fantastic (That's pure barry) bastart - bastard, also, rarely, a peculiar term of endearment ("Awright Ted ya wee bastart") bawheid - ballhead, bald, empty headed, stupid (oh, you ya bawheid!) belter - to be excellent, great, fantastic. But there's no way to prepare for the explosive impact of off the cuff Scottish invective. The good news is no help's required for us to be blown through th...