Mulled wine, mince pies and lots of tasty book sales

In two days' time, I should have my mits on the first few copies of The Manx Giant: The Amazing Story of Arthur Caley, as it's been christened. I've been in that weird pre-publication limbo for the last few weeks, during which you experience two emotioins - first, you can't quite believe that something that has been a huge part of your life is finally over; second, you look back at what you've done and can't seem to remember writing huge sections of it.

For those of you chomping at the bit to read the book - wife, mum and dad, maybe the odd sibling and aunt and uncle - there are two signings arranged, the first at The Lexicon on Saturday, December 5 (2.00pm-4.00pm) and the second on December 12 at Waterstones (1.00pm-3.00pm), a few doors along Strand Street in Douglas.

With town full of Christmas shoppers unsure of what to spend their hard-earned on, Mrs Q is pulling out all the stops for the Lexicon and putting on mulled wine and mince pies. Now, I'm not for one minute suggesting that the only people who are going to get their hands on wine and pies are those who put their hands in their pockets and buy the book. I'd never stoop to that sort of tactic. Mrs Q might, but not me. I'll just keep my head down and scribble away. Best just to nod and do as she says, so let that be a warning to you.

We might have the mulled wine and mince pies for Waterstones as well, just need to run it past the store. Not sure what their policy is on such things...

I'm also hoping to set something up at the Manx Museum before Christmas, but not sure what format that will be yet. Just so long as I don't have to spend too long down in that National Folk Gallery, where Caley's boots and the casts of his hand are on show. Always was a damn spooky place down there. All those mannequins, and not one of them Kim Cattrall.

One final note - if you are really stuck for something to do on December 5 and 12, and fancy stopping by to keep me company, don't all come down on the same day; spread yourselves out a little. Otherwise I'll be sat there like a spare part talking to myself.

Oh, and another final note - if you can't make it, and need to buy a load of copies as Christmas presents, the book should be available online from the Manx Heritage Foundation website in a week or so.

Cheers

Drawing inspiration from evil buttons

Earlier this evening, I read the last page of a book, closed the cover and sat back, unsure of what to do next. There was plenty to get on with - emails to send, stories to edit, design and layout to finish for Vertigo, website text to sort for Nemesis Publishing - but all I wanted to do was write.

I've read two books this last week, while Mrs Q and I and the kids have been on a week's break at Center Parcs. The first was John Connolly's new one for kids - The Gates - and the second, the one I finished this evening, was Coraline, by Neil Gaiman, which has been around for several years.

Both books are superb - I'll post a review of The Gates soon on this blog - but it was Coraline which left me perched on the end of the couch, unable to do all those things that needed doing.

It's one of those books that can't help but inspire a writer to, well, write. It is simplistically brilliant, and that's not a backhanded compliment.

As someone who is working through several ideas for children's books, it is one of the most inspiring books I've read in a long time. Man, those buttons. Creepy is not the word. I really must get round to reading The Graveyard Book. It's even better, so I'm told.

In other news, the publisher of the Manx Giant biography emailed tonight to say the book should be in our hands by the end of next week, which is cool, and an email came in while I was running around, trying to protect Center Parcs from Junior Q and Baby Q, inviting me to give a talk at the Celtic Congress season of winter talks, for March. I don't know much about the Celtic Congress, but it's always nice to be asked to such events, and a chance to promote the book.

But that's one for the future. Right now I'm off to try and forget about those bloody buttons.

The tallest man in the world!

It's been quiet on the writing front recently, with all attention focused on Nemesis Publishing and the first two books, which need to be with printers within next couple of weeks. But behind the scenes things keep ticking over.

The Manx Giant is at the printers, and the publisher - the Manx Heritage Foundation - fired across the cover to give me a sneak preview. It's not what I was expecting; to be honest, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but something a little less colourful and more along the lines of the previous biography it published, of Henry Bloom Noble.

But I think this works - it's certainly eye-catching and captures the circus that was Arthur Caley's life. The book should be on shelves around the middle of November, and over the next few weeks we'll be firming up details of signings and talks, with one talk provisionally booked for Douglas Library.

First up, we need to get a 7ft 11in foamboard cut-out of the Manx Giant produced. He's coming to the signings and the talks with me. It'll help take the focus off my ugly mug.

As for other writing, everything is on hold till mid-November. I'm knackered, and once the Nemesis books have been done and dusted, I'm collapsing in a corner with a shedload of DVDs, a crate of beer and a tonne of popcorn. Bliss.

Oh, and Caley wasn't really the tallest man in the world. But it made you look...

Giants, Vertigo, that man Pelecanos and Manx comedians

It's been a while. Almost a month, which is scary. And I'm not sure where to start. So, let's keep it simple. A list:

• The Manx Giant is.... (drum roll, please) finished. At long last. The final draft went off to the publisher on time, a turn of events that left Mrs Q's flabbers somewhat ghasted. I still have to write a short bio for the book, and been asked to tackle the back page blurb, and there's an overview of the book to submit for another website, but, by and large, I can sleep easy at night, knowing that Mr Arthur Caley is the worry of the publisher for the next few weeks, at least until the publicity for the book kicks in early November.
• Attention turns now to Nemesis Publishing, with design and layout moving along for both the Arbory School 175 years book and the first edition of the Vertigo anthology, plus two submissions to read and respond to. I'll be updating that blog over the weekend...
• Which is what I'll also be doing for the 113 Supposedly Greatest Books Ever Written - I've finished Treasure Island and The Handmaid's Tale since the last post (The Maltese Falcon). Need to pick the next book.
• Book reviews for this blog - miles behind. Reading John Le Carre's A Most Wanted Man at moment, having finished Chris Ewan's Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam, with a view to reviewing his latest, Good Thief's Guide to Paris soon. Chris is starting a crime reading club in the Island, first meeting at the end of September, and the book choice is Chandler's The Big Sleep, which I need to read again before the meeting.
• Topping all those books, however, and with all due respect to those authors, a review copy landed on my desk yesterday, from one of those writers for whom I'll happily drop everything (within common decency, of course). The author - George Pelecanos. The book - The Way Home. I'm going to try and make George wait for a few weeks. It won't be easy.
• Somewhere in amongst that lot I've got two magazine articles to write in the next five days or so, one an interview with Manx comedian Rob Heeney, who rumour has it is returning to his roots in October for a couple of gigs. If I can catch him in between gigging and playing tennis, I'll let you know all about it.

Right, think that's all. Sure I've forgotten something, but as you don't know what it is, it doesn't matter.

Till next time.

Kayaking with sharks and other exciting adventures

I've barely written a word in anger for ten days. It was The Little Madam's birthday last week, and then her christening on Sunday just gone, and Mrs Q's family invaded The Rock to mark both momentous occasions.

It was a great few days - a night out for a Chinese, trips on the steam and electric railways (not that I actually got to go on a train...) and a kayaking trip around Peel Castle and up the coast, where I got to see my first ever basking shark when it swam under our kayaks. At least a fifteen-footer. The christening itself went well - Mrs Q was also dunked - and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves at the celebratory nibbles and drinks afterwards, and we rounded the night off with a barbecue and several beers. A couple of days (and a Scrabble defeat to my mother-in-law; I'll never hear the last of it) later, and the shenanigans were over.

The only problem with all this revelry and general excitement was that a couple of days before it all kicked off I heard back from the publisher of The Manx Giant after I'd asked him to give me a final deadline. He told me he needs the final draft by September 5, which means I want it finished by August 31 to allow me a few days to review and tweak. So through all this fun, I've had one eye on the fact that date is drawing ever closer.

There are eighteen days left, including tonight. Where the hell did that time go to? I'm not too far away, but there are still some awkward edits and adds that need finishing, and it means the next few weeks will be serious head-down-time. I'm meeting the publisher on Monday night to sort through photographs, and that will help focus the mind.

Things are complicated somewhat by the fact that it's reaching crunch time for our endeavours to launch Nemesis Publishing, which I'll be blogging about over at the Nemesis blog later tonight.
Suffice to say, both the anthology, Vertigo, and the book we're publishing to mark the local school's 175th anniversary need to be at the printers by mid-October, which means the next two months are going to be interesting. And busy.

In terms of writing, I'm looking forward to November. I'll be able to tackle existing projects with a clean slate, and I've an idea bubbling away for entry in next year's Debut Dagger, run by the Crime Writers' Association.

But that's for another time. Now, it's back to living among giants. And editing. Oh, the joys of editing.

Searching for Gorry, son of Orry

Nope, it's not the follow up to Finding Nemo. I'm hoping someone out there has a copy of a book, which I need to research as part of the final draft of The Manx Giant.

A children's adventure story, Gorry, Son of Orry was written by Manxman Clucas Joughin and published in 1903 in London (by Jarrolds) and America. It's a story of smugglers, Redcoats and Manx nationalistic fervour, with a young hero descended from the legendary Viking King of Mann.

I'm told that Arthur Caley features in the story, as one of two giant heroes, and it would be cool to include a reference in the biography, along with the cover of the book. But I've had no luck finding a copy.

So, if you have one, or know of someone who might, please let me know - I will be forever in your gratitude. Leave a comment below, or drop me a line at johnquirkbooks(at)gmail.com

Now, on with the draft...

Cheers

Fear and loathing in the Arctic Circle

Review - Revolver, Marcus Sedgwick

Fear. Whether you’re fifteen or fifty-five, fear is one of those constants in life that we all experience. The passing years may change that which causes you fear, but when in the grip of it, age is taken out of the equation.

Fear lies at the heart of Revolver. It may have ‘Orion Children’s Books’ on the front cover when it’s released later this month, but Sedgwick’s latest novel will resonate as much with adults as it does teenagers.

The story centres around fifteen-year-old Sig Andersson who we meet, in the year 1910, in a remote cabin north of the Arctic Circle. He’s alone, or at least he would be if it wasn’t for the dead body of his father, Einar, lying on a table. Inexplicably, Einar had tried to take his dogs across the frozen lake by their home at a time of year when he knew it would be melting. While Sig’s waiting for the return of his sister and step-mother, who have gone for help, and trying to figure out why his father would have risked his life, there’s a knock on the front door. It’s a stranger, a monster of a man called Wolff, who carries a gun and tells tales of hidden gold... and who is calling in the debt that Einar owed him.

Having set the scene beautifully, teasing the reader with half-morsels of information on which to chew, including the existence of his father’s revolver – ‘a gun is not a weapon’, Einar had told a young Sig. ‘It’s an answer to the questions life throws at you when there’s no one else to help’ – Sedgwick rewinds eleven years to tell the story of how the Andersson family reached this point.

The book weaves between the two timelines, with each revelation in the earlier story increasing the tension in the cabin as the threat from Wolff grows with each passing hour. Sedgwick takes great care in detailing the back story and the development of the relationship between Sig and Einar, particularly in the case of the revolver, which lies hidden in the store room just yards from where Wolff is holding the boy, so much so that the gun becomes a major character in itself, almost calling to Sig, pleading with him to be used.

At a 170-odd pages, Revolver is a lean, mean exercise in menace. Few words are wasted as Sig searches deep within himself for the courage to make a play for the revolver, while trying to buy time from Wolff. The stand-off between the two is like a game of chess, each probing for weaknesses.

Sig is a superb creation, a boy who wants to be a man who finds himself thrust into a situation which offers him that opportunity, and Wolff is a fine sparring partner, although there is a feeling that perhaps Sedgwick held back a little, despite the brutality his antagonist exudes.

Revolver is dark, no question, and as the tension mounts the turning of its pages soon becomes a necessity rather than a desire. But more than that it’s a coming-of-age tale, and an example of how a family’s love can endure against the greatest of odds, including overcoming a fear that leaves you stricken, unable to act in the face of death.