Happiness Is…

…knowing I’m going to be able to visit the Black Dog Cafe by Lake Ella every morning this week and just write longhand in my notebook with my fish pen (form-fitting to my hand and thus not an affectation) for as many hours I want, before coming home to spend the afternoon editing the New Weird anthology.

Happiness is writing about people trying to cope with huge levitating bear creatures and intelligent sea anemones and rotting cities and swimming pools full of mushrooms and a giant grub and alcohol minnows and info beetles and love and death and everything inbetween.

Almost nothing is better than just writing for me. And getting to that place where something clicks on and you’re just a hand, writing, while the brain just watches.



  1. says

    I just like the idea of a writer whose hand is perfectly shaped for holding fish. Very Lovecraftian, if Lovecraft had the imagination of a Kafka or a Zivkovic.

  2. says

    Huh. I just had Graham Sleight tell me at Readercon that there is no such thing as The New Weird — that it was a term that had slight currency for about two months in 2002. I felt so embarrassed for the fact that I’d been calling novels like Steph Swainston’s “New Weird” in all the time in the interim.

    I’m looking forward to your anthology.

  3. says

    Ha ha. Tell me another good one. I have reservations about the term, but that comment from Graham is a bit of an attempt to rewrite history. Still, I think we’ll just let the antho speak for itself.


  4. says

    I don’t mind any kind of label as long as it gets people talking about exotic breeds of fiction. For the record, I am anxiously pacing a rut in my living room waiting for this book to hit shelves.