Members of my family once owned a windmill in Spalding, Lincolnshire. My grandfather worked there as a boy. Time passed. My Grandfather, uninspired, unemployed in the the early 1930s, joined the army, went to war. But some of my family remained.

In the 1970s, in May, my father, mother, brother and I used to visit my Grandfather's brother and his wife (Auntie Edna and Uncle Bill) to observe the annual Tulip Parade in the town. I have fond memories of watching the classic 1979 FA Cup Final between Manchester United v Arsenal in Spalding, the women and children mostly outside observing the garish floats pass by the end of the garden, the men mostly crammed into a smoky living room, the older men in their darkly coloured suits, witnessing Alan Sunderland win the game for Arsenal in the dying moments, me dashing between the two locations. These are the memories that remain, the memories that haunt with their vivid tastes and textures, the memories that connect the past to the present, in perpetuity.

In January and February of 2021 I spent the long, dark and cold winter lockdown reading Edward Parnell’s deeply poignant, heart-rending and wonderful book, Ghostland.  It is wistful, melancholic, laced with nostalgia and loss, touched of the thing the Portuguese call 'saudade'. Or something like my understanding of what that word might mean.

It’s a book about recent family history, part memoir. There’s nature writing in its pages too, stories of bird-watching and shared knowledge about birds, of the British landscape and the creative minds inspired by it, of folklore and legend, of writing and writers, of ghost stories, of literature and children’s literature, of TV and film. So many leaping off points. So many pleasurable diversions. Works I remember. Works I’d forgotten. Works I’d meant to read. And new works I’d never heard of, now eagerly awaiting my attention.  

Ghostland spoke very softly, but very soulfully to me in the winter. It reminded me of similar locations for family holidays and helped me escape, however fleetingly, to those places. The shared images of the writer and his family match the childhood images of my own. Tasked, albeit voluntarily with sorting boxes of family photographs, I escaped into those too.

The past and the past and the past before that. Ever onward into the past.

Edward Parnell and I emerge from a similar geographical location. We’re from a similar time too, of a similar age. Ghostland is a book, in part, about memory, of the dichotomous joy and burden of remembering, in the same way that FAN, my 2014 novel, is a book about memory, a book, in essence, about ghosts.
Family holiday with neighbours. My mother and father are at the rear. (c1979)

And that remembering, alongside all that came with it in the cold January of 2021, inspired Toadstone, my short story that has, somewhat miraculously, been shortlisted for the BBC National Short Story Award 2021. Toadstone is a story about memory, nostalgia, revisiting the past (and the effect of the past upon the present). It’s about return, family history, loss, ageing (and ageing parents), illness, folklore, healing, remedies and cures. And it’s a story about death and loneliness and how those two things are oftentimes barely removed from one another.

Without Parnell's Ghostland, it may not have become a story at all.

You can hear the story Toadstone, read beautifully and hauntingly by Shaun Dooley, here.

You can read the story by purchasing the BBC National Short Story Award 2021 anthology, here.

I'd better put this in context. Alongside my contemporary fiction I also like to try my hand at Horror. I enjoy reading it and I enjoy writing it too. I'm yet to produce a decent novel in the genre (I did finish a 100K word novel but I'm not sure it's very good...) but I have had some success with my shorter fiction, achieving publication in Black Static Magazine and soon in Cemetery Dance Magazine for instance. Very proud of those moments.   

So I set off for Fantasycon 2016 in a state of both excitement and terror, excitement at finally being in the same room as some of the names in the genre I respect and admire, terror at the prospect of actually introducing myself to them. 

I left on Friday morning with the more established horror writer Thomas Emson (Maneater, Skarlet, Zombie Britannica etc) and after a hellish eight hour journey, arrived in Scarborough just before 6pm. We dropped our bags at our hotel and then, somewhat hesitantly stepped across into the Grand Hotel where the convention was being held. Now I'm no stranger to events like this. I was a guest at the Edinburgh Book Festival last year. I've done more than my share of other festivals. But this was different. I was invited to those events. They were expecting me. I was heading to this one as a Fantasycon virgin and hadn't met anybody (except online where it doesn't count) before so anything resembling a cool exterior was precisely that. 

I have to say that much of Friday evening felt peculiar. It wasn't the volunteers who passed me my badge and pack of goodies. They were great. It wasn't the organisation. As far as I could tell, things were happening where they were meant to happen at the time they were meant to start. It wasn't the hotel. If ever there was a hotel that suited a convention like this one, the Grand was it! But a lot of people had been there a few hours already.  Most people were catching up with old friends. There were clusters of people who knew one another. There was lots of hugging. And then there was Thomas and I. He's a great bloke but we'd been in close company for about 16 hours at this point. We were running out of things to say. Towards the end of the evening I managed brief conversations with a couple of people but much alcohol had been consumed. You know what I mean!  I returned to my room at 1am feeling a bit frustrated. Lying in bed I had to remind myself that actually, when I thought about it, the Edinburgh Book Festival had felt much the same on the first evening. It had turned out more than great in the end. 

I woke Saturday with renewed vigour. I set off for a panel 'Is Reality the New Horror?' The discussion was thought provoking. There were legendary figures on the panel and the things they were saying demonstrated a knowledge of the genre that was a little intimidating. But there were people in the audience whose names I recognised. Some of those people had work in the same publications where my work has appeared. I took notes. I settled down. I almost asked a question.

I followed that panel with Adam Nevill's interview by Mark Morris. Two more big names in the genre. This was one of the highlights of the weekend for me, particularly when Adam talked about the mentally exhausting experience of writing and taking things to the limit. I felt much like this after completing 'FAN'. And here's the thing about Fantasycon, because soon after I was stood at a table trying to choose some books from the late Joel Lane's collection when Adam appeared next to me. We shared a few brief words on the subject. He was approachable and friendly. As the day rolled on I found that everybody else was approachable and friendly too. It was just a case of introducing myself. I sat in the bar until 3am hammering the Jack Daniel's. I haven't done that since...well, since Edinburgh.  

A big thanks then to Stephen Bacon, Mark West, Gary McMahon, Gary Fry, Carrie and Neil Buchanan, Christopher Teague, Jim Mcleod, Georgia Duffy, Neil Williamson, Adrian Faulkner, Lynda E Rucker, Des Lewis, Simon Bestwick, Ray Cluley (and all of the other people I met who I did not manage to get the name of)  for making Fantasycon such an incredible experience and sharing a little bit of their convention time with me. A big thanks to Andy Cox at TTA Press too, for accepting my stories and making me feel at least a little legitimate in the company listed above. That's important. There were others I'd have liked to say 'hello' to but that will have to wait for another year.

I left for home on Sunday after attending the Joe Hill interview, another entertaining, inspiring and entirely honest insight into what being a writer is all about. I spotted Joe moving around the festival venue at various moments during the weekend, just an ordinary bloke with a beard and a book under his arm. 

At Fantasycon.

In Scarborough. 

Enough said.     

The authors' toilet (most photographed image from authors...which probably says something); images from the event and pre- event photoshoot (it's an ego thing); Mark Blacklock with Festival staff member (he's not an axe murderer but a thoroughly nice bloke); Edinburgh at dusk; writing workshop at Time and Space in Glasgow and morning queue for the festival site. Great days :)

There's an old piano and it's playing hot…

                There is something endearing about this debut. It starts out as a raucous black comedy full of oddly dysfunctional characters but develops into a poignant tale about family and growing up in a small town in Northern Britain. It's a novel that oozes both the desperation and foolhardiness of youth.  Bobby Cassidy and his mates start 'Heatwave' disco because there's bugger all else for them to do and just as they're getting somewhere with the idea they lose interest because it's too much trouble.
               
                The opposite happened with me and this book.

                Characterisation is the author's strongpoint so if the likes of Fat Franny Duncan and Wullie the Painter don't entice you, perhaps Hobnail and Tony Palomino (curiously there are various characters with this name on Google…) will.

                There are some genuine 'laugh out loud' moments, not least in the pathetic antics of Fat Franny and his gang. Scottish dialect is handled convincingly and does not hinder the telling of the story at all. It really disnae!

                Ross levers the various plot-twists and turns effectively. He also knows his music and the numerous references give the book authenticity. You will be thumbing through old records (or the modern day equivalent) as a result of reading this novel.

                Various interspersed statements from members of the Thatcher Government and other speeches combine with news items to further anchor the story in its time whilst also demonstrating how far removed that political world is/was from goings on in Kilmarnock, until it comes to selecting the men who have to put the actions of politicians into words…

                It's good stuff.

                Who would have believed this much could happen in a place like Kilmarnock?

                Shakin' Stevens anybody?

Where to begin?

Casual acquaintances may baulk at the unparagraphed, unpunctuated, stream of consciousness opening and put this book back where they found it.

That would be a mistake.

I'm Jack is a brilliant, innovative novel, if indeed 'novel' is the way to describe it. Made up of letters, police transcripts, scientific and psychoanalytic reports, graphology, redacted statements and various other forms, (real or imagined, it's impossible to tell) Mark Blacklock has weaved a complex portrayal of the individual responsible for the 'Wearside Jack' forged letters and tapes who became synonymous with the search for the Yorskhire Ripper and indeed the Ripper's legacy.

It is a fascinating character study, darkly beautiful in its evocation of both Sunderland and working class life during the 70s and early 80s. The subject is, in turns, an elaborate game player, a liar, a goader, an obsessive, an innocent victim of society's ills, delusional, full of self-denial and occasional self-loathing…and yet for all that, also curiously sympathetic and it is this, I think, that makes Blacklock's creation so incredible.

I'm Jack is the sort of book you don't have the pleasure of reading very often, the sort of book that stays with you long after reading is done, the sort of book you wish you'd written yourself!

Bastard ;)

I've been meaning to write a review of this excellent novel for a few weeks now. Some of you may have seen the saddening images of Paul Gascoigne in the news recently and everybody knows the story of what drink did to George Best. Whilst writing FAN I was shocked to discover that a Nottingham Forest cult hero from the 80s, Brian Rice, was facing jail in Qatar for unpaid gambling debts. I have no idea how that story ended. The news has moved on. In Gareth Roberts' novel the main character, Billy Parks (written so seamlessly into real history that the reader starts to feel the pull of Google in a bid to establish if he really is a fictional invention) suffers at the hands of his own demons, namely drink, women and a tragic clinging to the past and what might have been. Life's not easy for Billy. In reality it never has been. Whilst he tries to come to terms with a career that didn't quite reach its potential long after that career ended, those who remember him as the player he was, those who never got the opportunities Billy squandered, the drinkers in the East end, the barman, the white van drivers, the blokes on the street, are all too eager to buy the next round and share a few extra moments listening to Billy's stories of his days at West Ham Utd and Spurs in the glorious 70s. And that's the thing Roberts captures so well in his troubled anti-hero, a flawed genius, a natural talent brought to his knees by drinking, womanising, selfishness and weak will. The reader senses the hope in each second, third and fourth chance Parks gets and suffers the same frustrations and helplessness as those chances go begging at the bottom of one more glass. The infamous night at Wembley versus Poland in 1973 and the offer Billy receives is clear from the outset so I won't bore you with that here. Needless to say Parks learns that not all second chances hinge on the outcome of a football match. And perhaps that's the point really. Perhaps Billy's second chance is just a figment of an alcohol riddled body and mind...

This is a book about more than football of course, but for this reader the most evocative and emotional moment comes when Roberts describes a game of park football in which Billy Parks first recognises his god given talent for leaving defenders floundering in his wake. I read that scene with a lump in my throat recalling timeless moments as a young lad on the local football pitches of my home town, the kickabouts with other lads, the jumpers for goalposts, the evenings we never wanted to end. Enough to make a grown man cry with melancholy and nostalgia. Perhaps we were lucky our dreams of playing professionally ended there. Perhaps stories of players like Gascoigne and Best, Brian Rice and Billy Parks are there to remind us that not every fairy story ends with a fairytale ending.

Scott Pack knows a good book when he sees it, as do the people at the Jerwood Prize who recently handed Gareth Roberts their 'Fiction Uncovered' Prize.

Well deserved.        

A few words from me, then please do check out the two writers at the bottom who are picking up the baton next...

What am I currently working on?

I completed my novel 'FAN' earlier this year and that was a deeply personal and draining experience. I've been mulling over what to write next for a while now but haven't come up with anything more than a list of ideas. I have a few short story ideas too. It's just a case of sitting down and getting on with things, which I will. I need to set myself some new targets. I wanted to get some work into Black Static Magazine and I achieved that in January 2014. I wanted to get into Cemetery Dance Magazine and I have a story appearing in that publication soon. These achievements are the culmination of several years of hard work (with much rejection along the way).  I'd like to establish myself in the speculative/horror genre, to find myself a place amongst some of the writers in that field who I admire (too many to mention) but I'm a little way off at present. We'll see what happens.    

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I don't write in any one genre. I love writing all sorts of fiction and I prefer not to label it. Of course, that's not always possible. Sometimes you have to label a piece as horror for instance, though I like the word 'speculative' better. I love writing short fiction as much as I love writing novel length work. I don't think I could argue a case for my work being different. It is what it is and people find connections and similarities between one writer's work and another writer's work all of the time, connections the writers themselves are often not aware of. 

Why do I write what I do?

Simple. A story asks to be told. Sometimes those stories demand to be told in short form, whilst others insist on becoming novels. Sometimes they come fully formed and sometimes they appear with just a hint of what they are going to become. Sometimes the voice is fully formed too, other times you have to search for it.

How does my writing process work?

Generally speaking it begins with notebooks and jottings. I then type on a computer. At various stages I print off the work and edit it by hand, then input the changes. This process can be repeated dozens of times before the work is complete and even then it never really is complete. There is usually a deadline that commands when enough is enough…though not always.

Next up:

Penny Gotch

Penny Gotch was raised in Essex, but now lives in Kent, where she's studying Creative & Professional Writing. She dabbles in everything from opinion pieces to flash fiction to young adult novels, from radio plays to short stories to reviews.

Her personal interest are just as eclectic, running the gamut from professional wrestling to baking. If you need somebody who can rant for half an hour about pin-falls while making a delicious coffee-walnut cake, Penny is your woman.

You can learn more about her from any of her numerous social media pages (Facebook [pennygotchwriter], Twitter [@pennygotch], Instagram [pennygotch], Pinterest [pennygotch] and Tumblr [pennygotch), or from her website:

http://www.pennygotch.co.uk/

John Finch is in his mid-30s, a teacher at a secondary school in the south of England with a fiance who wants to settle down properly and start a family. He is far from keen. He is troubled. Disturbed. Something's not quite right with John.

It is late 2004 and John hears the news that Cloughie has died. Brian Clough. Legend. "I wouldn't say I was the best manager in the business. But I was in the top one." This is closely followed by a phone call. An old friend from his Nottingham days has died. Killed himself. John prepares to head back for the funeral. Back to the place he grew up. The place he escaped from over a decade earlier. But is he just escaping again? He doesn't tell his fiance where he is off to or how long he will be gone. We aren't sure that he will come back at all.

In the 1980s John was a teenager, working as a postman so that he could knock off early on Saturdays and jump on the train to see Nottingham Forest play up and down the country. His was the life of a football fan. A life of ups and downs. A life of ten-hour round trips to witness dull 0-0 draws. A life of being pissed on by opposition supporters in the upper tiers. A life of punch ups and lucky escapes. A life of being herded like cattle into and out of the stadiums.

He loved it. He was with his mates. His girlfriend back then just about put up with it. She knew she came second to Forest. Everything was great.

And then, on April 15th 1989, John Finch travelled to Hillsborough to watch his beloved team play Liverpool in the FA Cup semi-final. The FA Cup. The only competition Cloughie had yet to win. The omens were good. This was going to be their year.

94 Liverpool fans died that day. 2 more died later. 766 were physically injured. John Finch was not one of them. He was at the other end, watching it unfold.

Fan by Danny Rhodes is a novel about emotional damage. About the psychological scars witnessing such a thing are bound to leave. Finch is a fucking mess. He cannot handle relationships and he cannot come to terms with what he went through. He thinks that by going back for his mate's funeral he might just be able to move on. Finally. Possibly. I'll be honest. I had forgotten which team was playing Liverpool in that match. Also, to my shame, I hadn't given any thought to how those witnessing events from the other end of the pitch would have been affected by them. So much of the coverage of Hillsborough has been, quite rightly, about the Liverpool fans that it took this fresh perspective to make me step back and consider the wider picture. I am grateful to it for doing that. I am concerned that the subject matter of this book will put people off. Some won't like the idea of reading a football book, but this isn't really a football book. It is much more than that. Others may not be keen on reliving the horrors of Hillsborough, and this I would understand. But these people would be missing out. This is an important book. It is dark and grim and severe but it is a remarkable thing to read. It has immense power and it utterly compelling. I finished it in just a couple of sittings. It is a hard book to read but is also, perversely, a very easy read. Such is the skill of the author. Danny Rhodes, a Nottingham Forest fan, was at Hillsborough on 15th April 1989. A percentage of profits from the book will go to Anfield Sports & Community Centre on behalf and in memory of the Hillsborough 96.

- See more at: http://meandmybigmouth.typepad.com/scottpack/#sthash.iWW9gPN5.dpuf

An entertaining morning at the Marsh Academy in New Romney where I spent four hours developing prose poems with large groups of Year 9 students and offering what I hope was useful advice on craft to a year 13 Creative Writing class. Some genuine talent on evident and as one year 9 student left he gestured in my direction 'that was cool, thanks' which made the drive/aquaplane home in treacherous conditions more than worthwhile.

The staff were as professional and accommodating as ever.

Many thanks.