Cruel to be Kindle

Actually I'm not being cruel at all, I was just after an earth-shatteringly good pun, and there we have one, yes. So let's be clear on this: no one is being cruel.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Owners of a Kindle (or compatible device) in the UK can now get STAIRWAY TO HELL on their hand-held devices for a mere £3.80. Of course, the yanks have had it available for a few weeks now (for a mere $5.91) but we're all square now and no one's getting what others can't get. So no more bickering, OK?

Talking of cruel, though, check out this cheerful version of a classic Eastenders ep (nod to David Bishop). (And to Matt S for noticing the other stuff.)

Happy Friday.

Book Trailer

Alright, here's how book trailers should really be done (WARNING: contains guns):

Hairway to Stell

You're allowed to promote yourself every now and then aren't you? Good...

Buy Stairway to Hell.

Oh, you want a reason? How about because it's better than that other book you were thinking of buying? And if self-praise isn't enough for you, check out this review snippet from David Maine at Popmatters:

This novel works wonderfully well on multiple levels. First, there’s Rik himself, a man who is able to straight-facedly say things like, “I was someone who liked to remain cool and calm in his dealings. Emotion was for my music, and I didn’t want to waste it elsewhere.” Later, reflecting on what sets apart people like himself and Michael Jackson from the common run of humanity, he muses that “a member of the herd doesn’t achieve massive success and global fame. It’s only a special person who can do that, one who has conversations with chimpanzees… That was me.”

On top of this is an overriding, breezy sense of what-the-hell-is-going-on, a result of the contorted plot and even more twisted explanations of same. This is one of those rare books when, really, anything might happen in the next few pages. Rather than feeling contrived, Williams manages to create a milieu in which even the wackiest developments are both seamlessly logical and thoroughly unexpected, not to mention funny. Pop music, time travel, soul displacement? You bet!*

You want another reason? No problem, man. Stairway to Hell makes your hair shine in that non-greasy way, contains the secret to eternal life and is suitable for vegetarians. Also it is currenly only 4 POUNDS at Amazon UK. And $10.76 at Amazon US (is that good?)

And is that enough?


* Much obliged to Mr Maine

Inspired Lunacy

I'm in two minds about all these suggestions that Stairway to Hell is mad or preposterous - it all makes perfect sense as far as I'm concerned. But I'm not going to complain about this Booklist review for Stairway to Hell (which is out around now in the USA):

British bar singer Rik Suntan, winner of the local Pub Idol contest two years in a row, is quite confident that it’s just a matter of getting the right break before he becomes an internationally renowned rock star. The fact that he’s singing to 15 people at the Blue Cairo three times a week has done little to dim his aspirations for global dominance of the music industry. Then his gig is canceled, and his girlfriend throws him out of their apartment; even bigger problems loom when his manager attempts to convince Rik that he is really the “host” for the soul of ’70s rock icon David Bowie, a ritual performed on Rik when he was an infant by Led Zeppelin guitarist and black-arts practitioner Jimmy Page. A novel as barmy as this one is hard not to love, especially when Rik and a grizzled band of the halt and the lame attempt to take back the music from the greedy swill-masters behind The X Factor (what they do to Simon Cowell is worth the price of the book). Inspired lunacy for music fans.

— Joanne Wilkinson

For some reason

...Stairway to Hell is available on Amazon.com, even though it's not officially released over there until June 1st. Anyway, if you are even mildly intrigued to know how a man can be the reincarnation of David Bowie, sort of, even though Mr Bowie is still alive...please pick up this book. The more copies get sold stateside, the better chance I have of getting a proper American edition of my books one of these days. And the better chance of me jetting over there for a promo tour and being greeted by scenes not witnessed since the Beatles touched down at JFK. OK, I'm getting carried away by the rock 'n roll/fame thing, but that's what the book's about. That and urine. In a good way.

BTW, the Amazon.com page includes a kindle version. So if you're a techno-savvy reader, check the hell out of that thing.

Tight Pants

Hey, USA-ians, don't forget that Stairway to Hell is rocking over to your shores for a June 1st publication. In anticipation of that, here are a couple of recent reviews. Firstly Publishers' Weekly:

Williams’s fourth novel is a funny, absurd, and deeply nerdy channeling of his inner record store clerk. Richard Sutton, aka Rik Suntan, is a rock and roll legend in his own mind. He’s a winner in the local pub circuit in Warchester, England, but his harelip has prevented him from breaking into the big time. So imagine his surprise when he learns he has the soul of David Bowie, the result of a strange, convoluted bit of black magic conjured decades ago by none other than Jimmy Page, who, it turns out, was a warlock during the 1970s. Though the soul swapping is confusing (and involves urine samples), Rik comes to believe that several other locals—most notably a dwarf, who is hosting the soul of George Foreman—are also victims of Page. But all is not as it seems as Rik is approached by the shadowy record Svengali, Marino, and his arch enemy, the pop singer Zachary Bremner. Williams’s prose keeps its tongue firmly in its cheek throughout this spaced-out oddity, mixing a bit of Douglas Adams–style wit with a hipster’s tight-pants irony.

Nerdy? Tight underpants? Implicit nods to Nick Hornby? What's going on??? Meanwhile Bill Crider says (and I snip):

This is a very funny book, and a lot of the humor comes from Rik's narration, as he's a guy sublimely unaware of his shortcomings, completely unable to see himself as others see him. When Rik loses his job at a local club, things start happening, most of them bad, and all of them extremely odd. Ted, Rik's manager, is gathering the people who, like Rik, have other people's souls (Rik, in case you're wondering, has David Bowie's). Ted's plan is to reverse the process. It's complicated, completely nuts, and, as I've said already, very funny. You definitely won't read another book like this for a while. If ever. Check it out.

You see? Not one mention of pants in there. That's my kind of review.

Many thanks to Messrs Crider and Weekly.

Happy Thanksgiving...

...to all yanks out there. As a special present (*cough*) to mark the occasion, I can let you know that Stairway to Hell will be published over there and in Canada by Serpent's Tail in June 2010. Any North Americans who already have it, you guys are ahead of the curve. You are able to speak several languages instinctively, work out the square root of any number in less than a second and jump over a car without touching it. You just don't realise it yet.

I am a mole and I live in a hole

Five Stairway to Hell-themed questions answered by me at 3am Magazine. They'll make you cry. They'll make you laugh. They'll make you blow your overdraft. On Stairway to Hell... which you can get in a nice double deal along with my first book Deadfolk for a nice £9.52 over at Amazon.co.uk. Hey, it's nearly Christmas.

(Shit, Charlie, didn't anyone tell you it's uncool to promote your wares on your own website?)

No, they didn't. And if anyone knows of someone else's website I can hawk my shit on, drop us a line. For we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.

Thank you Susan Tomaselli for the five probing questions.

Black Static

Stairway to Hell got a nice review in Black Static magazine (the UK's premier mag for horror/dark sf/slipstream etc). Many thanks to Mr Peter Tennant for the positive words, and for having a crack at nailing the genre:

"In the end, this is not so much horror fiction as a subversive text in which tropes of the genre are added on to a comic novel dealing with aspects of modern life, such as the lust for fame, reality TV and the superficiality of the media, all of which get the piss taken out of them (sorry, but I couldn’t resist that). Bottom line, Stairway to Hell is a barrel of fun, probably best read to a soundtrack of The Song Remains the Same and Ch-Ch-Changes."

The only thing real is waking and rubbing your eyes

Not been here for a while. It always goes the same way when I have a book out: intense burst of activity as you take the book by the hand and lead it out into the world. But Stairway to Hell can stand on its own two feet now, even though it has no actual feet. The book must walk out there and make its way in the world. If it gets run over, falls foul to drugs or becomes a member of Coldplay, well, at least I tried.

But it's doing OK so far, if reports are to be believed. Rob Chilver in Adventures with Words had this to say:

Williams’ prose is punchy, filthy and funny, littered with musical references and sideswipes at the state of the music industry today. The plot takes on a variety of twists and turns with some truly laugh out loud moments. While, the premise may sound bizarre, and it is, Williams creates a world and its character where by the end of the novel, bodyswapping and exploding record shops seem to be the norm. For those looking for a witty, entertaining and original read, this is a must.

You know, that makes me want to go right out and buy eight copies of the book. And I wrote it! Then there's Andrew Collins in The Word:

Charlie Williams' committedly silly novel about the eternal Faustian pact of pop stardom is difficult to dislike. A vivid turn of phrase ("chewing air" after puking up), witty touches (the pretense of teen idol Zak Bremner summed up in album titles Zakology and Bremnology) and fag machine philosophy (if you have an All Day Breakfast at breakfast time does it just become Breakfast?) sugar the pill of the ludicrous, scatological plot.

Ah, yes, the old pill sugar. I've never met a plot that couldn't be helped along with a shake of the sugar jar. Especially scatalogical ones. But "ludicrous"? "Commitedly silly"? Couldn't we just say "absurd"? Beckett was absurd. Ionesco and Genet were absurd. I don't mind rolling with those guys, even if I missed that scene by half a century. But I never heard of no "Theatre of the Ludicrous". Mind you, "committedly silly"... that sounds like you're so silly that you've been committed to a mental institution. That's no small accomplishment, I feel.

Of course, I josh. My book is lucky to even get noticed by Messrs Collins and Chilver, and I hope it said thank you and bowed politely (right before they chucked it in the Worcester County Pauper and Lunatic Asylum).

(For a taster of other Stairway to Hell reviews, check it out here.)

Couple of Stairway nods

I haven't seen these reviews in their entirety but these snippets look good:

This deserves attention for its sheer originality and author Williams's complete disregard for a conventional plot
--Sunday Business Post

Full of entertaining nonsense... Williams weaves a tight plot, his pacing and ear for dialogue pitch perfect
--Big Issue

I love that first one. To be honest, I don't know what a conventional plot is, and wasn't aware I was disregarding it. But yes, if a plot came along and said "Hi, I'm conventional", I would steer well clear of it. There are plenty of conventional writers out there to look after it. Shit, they'll be fighting over the thing.

Signing 2: Gloucester

Did the second leg of the "Stairway to Hell Tour 2009" last Saturday at Gloucester Waterstones. Things got off to a good start - by pure chance I chose the dodgiest car park in town and was greeted with the smell of urine-soaked concrete, making me feel right at home. Ten minutes later I'd found the store and was sitting upstairs, enjoying a complimentary coffee, gearing myself up for whatever lay ahead. I admit it, I was nervous. Even after doing all this in Birmingham the week before, my little heart was all aflutter. 'Don't worry, you'll rock them. Just like I did in Berlin, 1989,' a voice said behind me. I turned - no one there, only a couple of middle-aged ladies two tables along. And that was a man's voice, wasn't it? Quietly, in case people thought I was nuts, I asked who had said that. 'Me, David Hasselhoff.'

Oh yeah. I should have known.

So I went downstairs, listening David Hasselhoff's words of encouragement. 'You gotta hit them hard,' he was saying, adjusting his leather glove (he had his pet eagle with him). 'Don't take no for an answer. Don't even take yes for an answer. Just when they're coming round to the idea of buying your book, that's when you need to push even harder. See that button there?' Where? 'There, on the front of the book.' We were at the table now, next to a pile of STAIRWAY TO HELLs. I picked one up and examined it. No button. 'There is. Right there, see?' No, that's a "3 for 2" sticker. 'No, trust me, it's a button. A Turbo Boost button.'

OK.

I made a start on the job in hand. At 11am on a Saturday morning, Waterstones in Gloucester is not a rocking place. A nice place, but not yet fully rocking. The only people milling around my area were past retirement age. Which is great, but... Well, I thought I'd give it a try. After all, I have a hot property here. The new series of TV's X Factor is on telly, and my book offers a direct resposte to it's glossy, sentimental lowest common denominator-iness. What we have here, my friends, is a piece of the zeitgeist.

So I approach one or two browsing customers, aged about 65 or so. You know the X Factor? 'Yeah, don't like it.' Well that's good, because I don't like it either. 'Oh, OK...' [continues browsing...] And, you see, my book doesn't like it either. 'Your book doesn't like the X Factor?'

OK, so I've lost him. Try someone else... Do you like crime books? 'Yeah.' Great, well I've written three of them. But this new one, it isn't really crime. 'Oh...' No, but it's better! It's about a luckless pub singer who finds out he has the soul of David Bowie. 'I like John Harvey. Is it like his books?' Exactly like them, yes. 'It isn't, is it?' No.

I'm back at my table, thinking things over. 'You don't believe me, do you?' said David Hasselhoff. He was standing behind me, pretending to read a copy of Dissolution: The Crisis of Communism and the End of East Germany, by Charles S. Maier. 'You think I'm wrong about the Turbo Boost.' I just... I don't even want to think about the Turbo Boost. 'It's there for you, Charlie. Use the Turbo Boost. We all need a bit of Turbo Boost sometimes. Even me, when I knocked down the Berlin Wall.' Shut up about the Turbo Boost!

A few customers turn to look at me, then quickly avert their eyes. OK, so at least they've noticed me now. Let's try a new tack...

Hi, I'm a local author. 'Oh yeah? You're from Gloucester?' No, Worcester. 'Well, that's not really the same, is it?' No but it's only about twenty miles away. 'Yeah but it's not local is it? To be a local author, you must be from Gloucester. Or at least the surrounding county.' Yeah but... 'What?' Nothing.

Back at my table again, Half an hour gone and no joy. I look around: not a friendly soul in sight. Not even David Hasselhoff. But no one is looking, so... I press the button.

The Turbo Boost button.

'Excuse me, but if you're looking for a interesting third option on the 3 for 2 promo, you might want to look at this.' That's what I'm saying to the customers now, then leaving the book in their hands, smiling, and moving on, unless they look like they want more of a pitch. Ninety minutes later, 10 books signed and sold. Not great, but DOUBLE FIGURES!

Driving home along the M5 motorway, I reflected on how I'd sold out there, resorting to an economic angle in trying to sell a book that should speak for itself. 'Yeah, but only a fool ignores the buck. Money first, artistic integrity second. That's what I always said to Billy Warlock, when we were working on season one of Baywatch. Oh, and could you turn the car around? I think I left my pet eagle in that place back there.' I take a sideways glance at him, then ask a question. 'Seatbelt?' he says. 'Did you ever see Michael Knight wearing a seatbelt? No, and you won't see the Hoff wearing one either.'

I reach over, open the passenger door and push him out.

Many thanks to the staff of Gloucester Waterstones for letting me do this, erm... event. Next Saturday, the final leg of "Stairway to Hell Tour 2009" will be at Mangel. I mean, Worcester. Will I see you there? I promise there will be no deranged celebrities.

Probably.

Worcester News

Bit late this, but if you're in Worcester, check out today's Worcester News - on page nine is a feature/interview with me by Mike Pryce, who actually interviewed Jimi Hendrix in 1969 when he played at the Gaumont. Accompanying the interview is a gurning photo of me, holding up a copy of Stairway to Hell, standing outside the bingo hall that used to be the Gaumont. I'll post it up here some time.

Other Stairways 2

Found on Twitter, courtesy of one DanH_Distinct, another Stairway to Hell:

Other Stairways

That Aussie band yesterday got me thinking... What other Stairways to Hell are out there?

Check out this one, a photograph of that title by one Guido Musch...

Signing 1: Birmingham

Had my first crack at hand-selling my books on Saturday when I did a signing at Borders in the middle of Birmingham. Let me make this clear: this was not a signing like Ian Rankin does a signing. When Rankin does a signing, he sits at a desk and signs and chats for a queue of fans. Someone at my level, there's no queue a fans. There is a table and a chair and a pile of books and a whole lot of people ignoring you.

I say it's my first crack, but I had an opportunity to do this a couple of times before. At French (and Belgian) book festivals, they expect you to put in the hours in the dealer area, signing your way down a stack of books. I detected a lot of competition between the authors in trying to push their books, but I wasn't having any of it. It's hard enough talking up your books to a stranger in English, let alone French.

So the obvious question is: Why the hell would I voluntarily put myself through this when no one had asked me to? Three reasons:

1. I wanted to do something for my new book, which is going to have to compete with the summer's big releases in a market which is already saturated. On top of that, people are hardly splashing their cash around at the minute.
2. Why the hell not? I believe in the book, why not get out there and say it?
3. I am a masochist.

So I set up three in-store signings, this being the first.

OK, so the people at Borders very kindly agreed to let me do the event, and set up a table for me in the fiction area with posters front and back of the store. I get there, the books are stacked up tastefully by a nice bookselling person. I can sense a certain lack of faith in one or two of the staff. Do I look that gormless? Possibly, but I am told the problem is that this is not the best kind of Borders store to do this kind of thing. You need a Borders on a retail park, where people go specifically to get books. A city centre Borders is full of people just passing through or killing a few minutes while the wife is trying on skirts in Monsoon. Be aggressive, I am advised. Walk around and talk to them. Seems there is a well-known crime writer who has had a couple of signing events there and that's what he does, to great effect.

Hmm... I'm thinking. Aggressive. Like a boxer. Like... Rocky.

I'm all set to start wandering around being aggressive when a passing customer stops and looks at the books. I blurt something out about David Bowie and it catches - her husband is a fan. A read of the blurb and a bit of a chat later and she's getting me to sign two for her. Man, that was easy. If I can replicate that every five minutes, that's 48 copies in two hours. Piece of piss!

For the next ten minutes, no one else stops at the table. This is despite me blurting random things about Bowie. And urine.

I look at the cover. Maybe Bowie isn't so popular after all? Maybe it's Jimmy Page they want?

Another quiet ten minutes later and I'm looking at the cover again, wondering what's going wrong. Maybe I should drop the Jimmy Page line. And ditch the urine gambit as well, lest people think I'm telling them to piss off. Maybe it's time to take that piece of advice: Get out there and be aggressive.

I walk up and down a couple of aisles, snarling, picturing myself as a prime Rocky Balboa on his way to the ring in Soviet Russia, about to face the unstoppable machine that is Ivan Drago. Eye of the tiger, the ghost of Apollo Creed is whispering in my ear. Eye of the tiger! My fists are balled and I'm ready to beat someone into buying the book. Should be easy: a couple of jabs and then drop 'em with an overhand right, following up with a left hook on the way down, then just drag them to the counter and get their wallet out for them. But I can't seem to do it. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to beat someone into buying my book and getting it signed by me. I've never been good at throwing the first punch, and it's no different now. Besides, these are my kind of people: book people. How could I physically attack them?

So I wander back to my table, thinking. What would Mickey say, if he hadn't died of that heart attack brought on by the evil Clubber Lang? "Just take a look at youse!" he'd snarl. "Call yourself a writer? You're a bum!" Then he'd calm down and say something like: "What is this? A circus? Are we clowns? No! We're trapeze artists, flying through the air for the amusement of all these people. Except we're doing it between the covers of that damn book, which they don't even know about! Now get out there and whip up an audience! Bark like a dog, you no good Irish bum!" Then he hobbles off to the art section and leafs through a book on nude photography.

Mickey's right, of course. One of my great-great-grandparents was indeed from Clones. But how did he know that?

I work out a tactic: approach people (politely - no snarling or balled fists) and show them the cover of STAIRWAY TO HELL. Ask them if they recognise who those two guys are. They know Bowie alright, but most of them seem to think the other one is Marc Bolan. I don't know what to do about that, but it doesn't matter: I'm already talking to him or her by this stage. We're away from the cover and talking about what the book is about, why I wrote it etc. Some of these conversations lead to a signing, some don't. Most are fun and interesting, hopefully, for both parties.

At the end of two hours, I'd signed nine. "You're a bum!" Mickey's shouting. And he's right. Nine? Jeez... Then the staff guy wanders back and I ask him just how many that well-known crime writer signs when he comes. "Nineteen." So Maybe nine isn't so bad for this store, and I can go away and not feel like such a loser. "Crap!" Mickey's screaming. "You're a no-good, Irish, scum-sucking b--" I shove a sweaty towel in his mouth. Mickey, why all the negativity? Why not just chill out?

I go home, leaving him on the floor behind me, having another heart attack.

Do you know what? Mickey's wrong. That book is not a trapeze act and I'm no circus barker. It's a high wire act, like all good books are. And I'm a relatively unknown writer, putting myself out there and trying to make myself a bit more known. Even if a conversation leads to a signing and a sale, I'm still making someone aware of my book and myself. Maybe they'll think about my book and buy it later. Maybe they'll see my next book and remember me. Either way, it's a bit of exposure.

Thanks to all at Borders in Birmingham for letting me do it. And to all the people who showed an interest. Even that guy who came in the hope that he was going to get this guy's autograph (I had to break the news of his death).

Next Saturday I've got another one lined up at Waterstones in Gloucester. If you're around, do drop in and see how I'm doing in my pursuit for that elusive 10 books. Mickey's not invited to this one, and neither are Rocky, Ivan Drago or Apollo Creed. But I think David Hasselhoff might be there, so you could try and get his autograph.

Stairway to Hell, or how I uncovered one of rock 'n roll's greatest conspiracies

It is August 20th, which means Stairway to Hell is published today. It also means that the X Factor (US readers, it is the Brit version of American Idol) is back on UK TV screens this Saturday. But we'll gloss over that - there will be enough media fanfare for the latest round of TV's favourite talent show, and precious little for my book (although some people have been very kind). So let me make up for it here, with a humble blog post.

I don't even remember where I first read or heard that in 1975 David Bowie used to store his urine in the fridge to stop warlocks (in particular Jimmy Page) from using it to harm him. It might have been in Nicholas Pegg's The Complete David Bowie, which I read years ago. Looking at it now, two sentences regarding the background to the album Station to Station stand out:

Tales abound of black candles, bottled urine, bodies falling past windows, witches stealing David's semen, demons attacking him in photographs, the exorcism of the swimming pool, the CIA infiltrating his movie-making plans, and the Rolling Stones sending him messages in their record sleeves.

and:

What David later referred to as his "wayward spiritual search" had begun in New York in early 1975 when he met Kenneth Anger, the author of Hollywood Babylon whose film Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome was an exploration of the neo-pagan warlock Aleister Crowley, a figure who famously attracted the attention of Led Zeppelin's Jimmy Page at around the same time (a groundless suspicion that Page meant him harm was reportedly another of David's myriad neuroses during the period).

Obviously the phrases in bold were the ones that lodged in my head. The urine was being stashed away to stop baddies from getting their hands on it. Which baddies? Jimmy Page. And that got me thinking... What if Bowie wasn't careful enough? What if Page managed to get hold of some of that urine?

What was he going to do?

I don't know about you, but I have a love/hate relationship with Bowie's music. Most stuff up to and including 1980's Scary Monsters, I love it. After that, well, we all know what he went and did. He came up with Let's Dance, which made him a global superstar and rang the death knell for whatever strange creative genius he had. He achieved massive commercial success with that album, but it was watered down pop compared to most of his earlier stuff. It was as if someone had taken the soul out of his body and switched it with that of a lesser mortal. But who could have done such a thing? What kind of occult-dabbling, long-haired rock guitarist whose name rhymes with Timmy Sage could have meant him harm?

But that's crazy, right? Everyone knows that in order for someone like, say, Jimmy Page to switch Bowie's soul with that of a lesser mortal, he would have to find a lesser mortal. And where would a rock superstar find a lesser mortal?

Regular readers of this blog will know that I was born and raised in Worcester, a place which has an interesting history. The city can be traced back to 400BC, when a walled village existed on the banks of the River Severn. In the first century, the Romans turned it into a fort and thriving industrial town. In 1651, the English Civil War was decided here when Charles II was defeated at the Battle of Worcester. In the late 20th Century, members of Led Zeppelin are known to have frequented the Lamb and Flag, a pub on the A38, North of the city centre. Around the same time, in the maternity ward of the nearby Royal Infirmary, a plentiful supply of lesser mortals were being born. Also around the same time (June, 1973) David Bowie played one of his last ever Ziggy Stardust gigs at The Gaumont - mere yards from both the Lamb and Flag AND the Royal Infirmary.

See what you can turn up with a bit of digging?

Now, let's fast-forward 30-odd years from the time, post-Scary Monsters and pre-Let's Dance, when the deed might have been done. Meet Rik Suntan, local pub singer, winner of the Pub Idol for two years running and unwitting host of David Bowie's soul. Except it's not unwitting anymore - his manager, Ted Regis, has spilled the beans. He's worked it all out, plus a few other bits and bobs.

Some of you reading this might think I'm nuts. Fair point, but consider this: Bowie believed someone might use his urine to harm him. Jimmy Page believed he could get things done with black magic. Ted Regis believed that David Bowie's stolen soul was inside Rik Suntan, and that Rik Suntan's was in David Bowie. Rik Suntan, even before all this, believed he was destined for pop superstardom. Thousands of lesser mortals, in the opening rounds of the X Factor, American Idol and any other glossy TV talent show, believe they have what it takes to be the next Christina, Justin or Beyoncé.

They're delusional, aren't they? Yeah, 'course they are. And we're all a bit delusional, if you look close enough. Maybe in small ways, and to no great extent, but we've all had unrealistic ideas about ourselves from time to time. We keep a check on those ideas, staying in touch with reality and disappointment. But what happens if you don't? What if you commit everything to that delusion - your life, your future, your soul? My guess is that it leads you down the Stairway to Hell.

The Morning Stair

Indie Purcel reviews STAIRWAY TO HELL in Tuesday's Morning Star:

"Stairway To Hell will leave you feeling confused, bemused and amused - a rare
read, which is both disturbing and hilarious. Definitely worth having on
your bookshelf. "

I can only agree... especially when you consider that Stairway To Hell really does have a beautiful spine, with bits of fire on it and at least FOUR different fonts. I can't argue with the other things in the review, either. Although personally I was neither confused nor bemused when I read it. I read it at the same time as I wrote it, actually, and found it pretty compelling stuff. I had to write super-fast just to get to the next bit.

Quick off the mark

Check out today's Guardian for a review of STAIRWAY TO HELL. It's a bit early. THREE WEEKS early, and anyone digging the review will find that there are no copies of the book in shops yet. But hey, I'm not complaining. Shit, I'm celebrating! So if you've found this after reading the review, please check bookshops after August 20th, which is the book's publication date. And you can always pre-order.

Also, just noticed: the book is reviewed under "Science Fiction, fantasy amd horror". I guess that makes me a genre hopper. FWIW, I reckon this book could also be general fiction, black comedy or even crime. I didn't really write it with a genre in mind but everything seems to have seeped in.

Hittin' the road

I am going to be doing a bit of back-to-basics promotion for Stairway to Hell: in-store signings. I never did one of these before. I've done the after-hours reading events but they seem a bit arrogant for a non-famous author, presuming the mountain will come to Mohammed (which it mostly doesn't - lazy mountain!). So Mo is going to be strapping on his hiking boots and hitting that mountain trail, setting himself up at a desk right there in the shop on a Saturday. (Er, Mo is me, right? Not Mo Hayder. Sorry.) To that end...

Please drop me a line if you know of any author-signing-friendly bookshops where the punters might be interested in a book about a pub singer, two superstars of rock, armed robbery and everyday market town black magic. Got the local angle covered already: Waterstones in Worcester (details forthcoming).

(And yes, somewhere out there is a font called FrankMiller.ttf. And a procrastinating author.)