NEWS ***updated December 04***

December

Short story BLACKTHORN AND NETTLES will be in Realms of Fantasy soon.

Fantasy/detective/noir/SF novel THE SNAKE AGENT will be published in 2005 by NightShade Books.

The UK edition of the Thackeray T Lambshead Guide to Eccentric and Discredited Diseases is out now!

*I hope everyone has a wonderful festive season!*

October

BANNER OF SOULS is out now!

I also have short fiction forthcoming in Asimov's and Realms of Fantasy.

My short story collection THE BANQUET OF THE LORDS OF NIGHT is also available via Amazon and NightShade Books.

June

BANNER OF SOULS has now been delivered and will be forthcoming in September. It's available for pre-order on Amazon now.

Here's what people are saying about it:

*

"A marvelous book, a vivid adventure infused with a baroque and haunting atmosphere that lingers long after the last page is turned. This is futuristic fiction as the Brothers Grimm might have penned it." - K.J. Bishop

"Liz Williams is this generation's answer to Margaret Atwood and Sheri Tepper. Her work -- nuanced, evocative, and consummately literate -- charts a compelling course for feminist SF in the 21st century." - Chris Moriarty

"In BANNER OF SOULS Liz Williams has created a vast and baroquely textured vision of a far future solar system that bears comparison to Gene Wolfe's BOOK OF THE NEW SUN, a gothic feast for the imagination that places her in the first rank of visionary science fiction writers." -Charles Stross

*

I have completed a first draft of the next novel, provisionally entitled DARKLAND, and am planning to deliver this at the end of the summer. I have also begun work on a sequel, untitled as yet.

As for short fiction, I have sold the following:

ALL FISH AND DRACULA: Realms of Fantasy

THE PALE: Strange Horizons

THE WATER CURE: Andromeda Spaceways In-Flight Magazine

THE DAYKEEPER: (reprint) Fairies (anthology)

My short story collection, THE BANQUET OF THE LORDS OF NIGHT, will be coming out with NightShade books real soon now....

My non-fiction book, THE ICE PRINCESS, has been delivered to my agent and we shall see....

Interviews: a joint interview between Liz Counihan and myself was done recently with TANITH LEE, and this will be appearing in SCHEHERAZADE magazine in due course.

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January

I am now back after a very pleasant Christmas and New Year with family and friends in Gloucester and Glastonbury (much drink drunk, much cooking done), and am deep in revisions on the latest novel. I've just completed the first pass-through, and next week will have to see some major changes to the mss.

Stories have been sent out to Realms of Fantasy and Strange Horizons - I'm aiming at sending off about 3 per month this year. Last year, the hit rate was 29 sent out with 8 acceptances - Asimov's, Realms, Interzone and SH.

Other than that, I'm also writing a guest editorial for The Third Alternative and getting my head around the next book for Bantam (and CONGRATULATIONS to my editor, Anne Groell, who has just got engaged). My agent has expressed interest in the Siberia book, so we'll see where that goes.

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November

I have now more or less finished the mainstream novel, which is a shorter piece than usual. I still have severe reservations about it, but I think it's one that's going to be put in a drawer over Christmas to steep, and then I'll take another look at it.

Sales: a short story, LOOSESTRIFE, to InterZone, but a bounce from F&SF. There are another 4 or 5 pieces of short fiction out there, and I need to get down to some more now that the novel is out of the way. However, I'm going to make a start on the next novel for Bantam soon, though I may leave this until the New Year.

Life generally is fairly calm at the moment: a friend of mine is in hospital undergoing dialysis, and various other people are not well at present, so this rather brings back the events of this time last year, in unwelcome manner. I think one just has to live through it. I am due to head to the west country for Christmas itself, and possibly for New Year, and then will be going to Venice in January for a few days.

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October

October 24th The filthy cold, which everyone else has but probably whines about less than I do, is still confining me to the house. However, the novel revision has now been done and the mss went off to Bantam this afternoon - which is good, because this apparently puts me in for a fall publication slot next year. Done a little more on the short fiction front and have sent material off to various places, including another story to Visionary Tongue.

Also been revising a short story based on NINE LAYERS OF SKY for Scheherazade magazine.

And the mainstream (more or less) novel for which life has been gearing me up, and certain people pushing me into, has finally kicked in. I wasn't expecting it to, but suspect it might have something to do with getting BOS off my hands and also to do with the season (it's all about shamanism and death, which has more or less mirrors the events of the last year). I may decide it's too narcissistic to see release, and it will require a very different strategy to sell, but I am now 8000 words in. I seem to be able to write more of this kind of thing than I can of genre, probably because it's largely a question of remembering rather than imagining. A very different set of challenges. Re-living events is so far neither traumatic nor cathartic, but we shall see. These things tend to manifest in the longer rather than the shorter term. But when I look up from the page, I'm so relieved not to be back in a neurological unit that it eclipses most other things.

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Tuesday 21st October It's novel-revision week at the moment. I have been revising the fifth book for Bantam, provisionally titled BANNER OF SOULS, a title about which everyone, including me, is lukewarm. Reader feedback so far has been helpful and I am working from the comments provided by two writer friends - very different people, very similar feedback, which is somehow encouraging. Thus far, it's going well and with luck (and please God, the retreat of a streaming cold), I should be delivering by the end of this week.

On the short story front, I've just sent something to STRANGE HORIZONS and am about to submit stories to INTERZONE and REALMS. Never subbed to SH before, and this story is a radical departure from what I usually do, being narrated from the viewpoint of a rich Italian bimbo. While I would love to _be_ a rich Italian bimbo, alas, the chances are remote...

Short story in progress is set at the Whitby Goth week and is titled ALL FISH AND DRACULA. I'm also halfway through a story about a Victorian undine who has an interest in electricity and a man who keeps getting struck by lightning. God knows where this one's going. Two stories in print at the moment, one in REALMS and the other in ASIMOV'S. And on the downside, got bounced today from Argosy.

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And on the writing front, I've just finished the first draft of my next novel for Bantam and Tor Macmillan, which is provisionally entitled BANNER OF SOULS. All about Martians and a far-future solar system. Yes, it is a little bit Gothic, too...It's out with readers at the moment and I'm in the process of redrafting.

I'm also gearing up for some short fiction after Milford, with several new stories completed and about to be sent out to what will hopefully become their new homes. Also in the process of preparing for interviews with Jeff VanderMeer and Tanith Lee.

Last night saw the monthly Pat Cadigan interview session, this time a lively evening with debut novelist Jay Caselberg and not-so-debut novelist Graham Joyce. Go read their books - WYRMHOLE, by Jay, is out now, and so is Graham's latest, THE FACTS OF LIFE.

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Just returned from a few days in Prague, which some friends of mine booked for another friend's birthday. I last visited the city about 10 years ago, with my late partner, so it brought back some memories and more reflections. We were staying in two hotels in the city centre: mine was an odd little place with the kind of Cold War lightbulbs that seem to make the room darker when you switch them on. Breakfast was in the cellar. Hmmm. But there was an unibquitous Irish bar, which was actually pretty good, though lined with quotations from Ulysses, which is disconcerting when you have had a few.

I did not recognise Wenceslas Square at all - from communist epicentre to shopping mall. The flamboyantly art nouveau Hotel Europa is still there, where we had lunch for 40p back in the early 1990s. I took myself off and went on a guided tour of the Jewish quarter, as a preliminary to looking at synagogues next day - some magnificent pieces of architecture. The Spanish synagogue is remarkable: a great arching Moorish interior. I think we were all most affected by the Pinkus synagogue, which is very plain apart from the names inscribed all around the walls, of Czech Jewish families murdered by the Nazis. Very, very sobering place. After this, we went around the old cemetery, which was lit by shafts of sunlight filtering down through the late leaves.

I also undertook a tour of esoteric Prague, looking at the history of the town clock (oldest in Europe if not the world, bedecked with astrological symbols and showing Babylonian as well as Western time. On the hour, mechanical apostles trot out and parade past little windows.) Prague is a strange, dark city - a lot of hidden, Masonic meanings, and said to be based on a geographical representation of the zodiac. All this will probably find its way into a story one day.

The only cloud during these few days was that the birthday friend got his wallet nicked (in a restaurant) and thus spent the morning of his 50th down the cop shop, experiencing labyrinthine Kafka-esque bureaucracy. Oh well. Prague has always had a bad rep for thieves. And I kept getting lost, once late at night, which was irritating. I've never seen such a city for making me lose what little sense of direction I possess. But it is a staggeringly pretty place, and the food is good these days, as well - a lot of game, at extremely reasonable prices.

Meanwhile on the writing front - some really quite shameless boasting here, but what the hell. I've been listed in SFX magazine's '10 authors to watch' article this month, thusly: "Williams was recently feted by Gwyneth Jones (in Locus) for rediscovering the planetary romance. Now, there's a claim to fame! Certainly her new novel, The Poison Master, is gothic in form and Jacobean in parts of its plot. It's also a bloody good read. Williams is another British author who was first published in the US, and with whom UK publishing has only recently caught up. Yes, market size has something to do with this, but all UK-based publishers really must get on the case more quickly with such talented authors. Williams improves book by book and may become something very special." What a nice bunch of people! I'm on the list with Charlie Stross, Justina Robson, Neal Asher and Jon Courtney Grimwood among others. Ah, and Jeffrey Ford is in there, too. Good on you, Jeff.

And yes, there's been a certain amount of comment regarding the UK industry as being a bit slow off the mark to pick up home grown talent - I can think of quite a few folk who haven't yet been published over here, as far as I know. Some are American, some are based here - Jay Caselberg, Wen Spencer, Lyda Morehouse, Naomi Kritzer... Let's hope everyone gets the deals they deserve on this side of the Pond. Meanwhile, however, the US industry continues to drop the ball on some of the Brits, sooo....

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Milford (27 Sept - 4th Oct)

The mighty critical engine that is Milford kicked off once more in the last week of September, with 16 participants (including Ian Nichols, editor of Andromeda Spaceways In-Flight Magazine, making it all the way from Australia.). A very good workshop week, incarcerated in the literary dungeons of York, with some really excellent material. The standard at Milford is always high, and I know I'm biased, but this year it seemed exceptional. Got a phone call from Harry Harrison shortly before I left and he was reminiscing about the first Milford, with James Blish and Damon Knight. We really are not worthy.

We critted about 5 stories a day, some of them up to 10,000 words. A good mix of fantasy and SF, with some cyberpunk thrown in for good measure. If you look at it in terms of word length, it's a bit like reading a novel in a week, but it wore us all out. Participants started to report a curious reverse effect: the more sleep we managed to get, the more tired we became. I was shattered by the end of it, and had to be put wilting onto the Brighton train by a friend in London. The hard-drinking days of Milford are over, for the time being at least.

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August-September 03: TorCon

Wednesday

Arrived in Toronto at a reasonably civilised late-afternoon hour. Mild panic ensued when I discovered that none of the ATMs at the airport would take visa. Eventually found a taxi that was able to charge, and checked in at the Strathcona hotel, opposite the main convention hotel. I am indebted to my Scottish friend Debbie (aka writer Miller Lau) for finding a hotel on site that was cheaper by far than the con hotel. The con was just about underway, so I registered and then found a pub up the road. Very impressed to discover that the soup I had ordered was not put on the bill - according to the waitress, because it took an unacceptably long time to arrive. How unlike the home life of our own dear queen - over here, they'd bang the plate down in front of you after an hour without so much as an apology.

I then wandered across to the Royal York and found various folk in the lobby, including writers Elizabeth Moon (whom I knew slightly) and Esther Friesner, who is the friend of a friend and whom I knew not at all except virtually but somehow managed to recognise. The recognition neuron did strange things this weekend, causing me to recognise folk whom I'd never actually met, whilst causing me to walk straight past people I know quite well. Esther kindly allowed me to come along to dinner (for herself and friends, and a beer for me after the soup incident) at an interesting market place, with various different sorts of cuisine.

Thursday

Located Debs and strolled down to the convention centre with all my publicity stuff. I had a thing called a kafeeklatsch at 1 pm, which is a kind of meet and greet and which about 5 people attended. Oh well. Very nice to talk to everyone, but the hotel was just a touch stingy about providing actual coffee. I got some, but everyone else had to make do with water. Does that make it a waterklatch?

After this, the bar. Quelle surprise!

In the evening, went out for dinner to a very nice Thai place called the Bangkok Garden with Asimov's Gardner Dozois, Susan Casper, Chris Lotts, Walter John Williams and various other people. Asimov's paid, for which big thanks.

Friday

By now, participants were starting to twig that the TorCon schedule was a strange, elusive thing. People were scheduled onto panels that they had neither requested, nor were qualified to attend ("So, you want to be an artist?" in my own case). Folk found out about panels only after the panel had ended, and I gather that some unfortunates managed to miss their own kaffeeklatsches. I spent some of the morning sorting out a panel in the evening on which I had suddenly appeared, and which coincided with the Bantam Big Night Out.

A panel: on what to do once you've written a short story. The consensus was - send it somewhere and write another one. A gentleman at the back mentioned the paradox that it is almost as hard to get an agent as it is to get published, to which I had to reply - it isn't a paradox, it's just extremely difficult. Everyone else (a panel of agents and authors) said the same. There's no magic bullet: it takes diligence, talent, hard work and luck to get published, and that's the bottom line.

Afternoon: in the bar.

Evening: Bantam dinner, with George RR Martin and his very interesting and pleasant partner Paris, Connie Willis, Lisa Tuttle, Patricia Bray and sundry other people.

Saturday

Busy day today, with a reading at lunchtime. Arrived to find the room in darkness and no microphone - a problem, as I tend to have a quiet voice and also I mumble. My friend Mike managed to sort out the lights, revealing - gasp - about 20 people, only 2 of whom I knew. Did two readings, both from NINE LAYERS OF SKY, which seemed to go down well. There was a gent from Tashkent - where the novel is partly set - in the audience, and I waited for him to tell me that I'd got it all wrong, but he hasn't read it yet. Whew. Spared from public humiliation.

Then we went to the bar, along with Mike and Dennis, and spent the afternoon over wine and a cheese platter, until it was time for me to sign. A steady trickle of people this time, which was nice. A vast queue started forming for George RR Martin, but I remembered the story of Martin at the start of his career being placed next to Douglas Adams and getting no one who wanted an autograph. Some kind fan went round with a bullhorn, advertising Martin's presence, and still no one came. And now look. It gives one hope. Back to the bar.

In the evening: the pre-Hugo award bash. Lots and lots of the great and the good, all milling and swilling as one tends to do at these things. I went along with Peter Garrett as he was this years' Interzone representative, and kindly allowed me to accompany him, in the absence of any female members of the cast of Buffy. Cannot help feeling that Pete got shortchanged, but there you go.

Then the Hugos. My friend Karen Traviss and I found ourselves somewhat restless - it was a long ceremony, as usual. Toastmaster Spider Robinson thanked 'everyone for coming, or however you reacted.' Then to the Hugo Losers' party, where I spent a pleasant evening talking to Esther, China Mieville, Lawrence Schoen and Neil Gaiman, rather bemusedly clutching his award. Then, tiring of the melee, Esther and I repaired to the SFWA suite, where Debs and I ended up drinking Scotch with others including Roc editor Laura Anne Gilman, which was a lot of fun, and listening to camel jokes.

Sunday

Came round about 8 and staggered into breakfast. Spent the morning I remember not how, and went out to lunch with my editor, Anne Groell, at a little restaurant not far from the con centre. We were greeted by a waitress who brought a new meaning to the term 'perky' ("I've had no sleep! I've been up all night!" she said). Anne told me about production battles on NINE LAYERS and the unfortunate fact that the original cover illustration of my protagonist had him lurking in the bushes like a flasher. But the end result is well worth it.

Signing today. I signed a whole box, thanks to the sterling, beyond-duty efforts of the Broaduniverse team. Then back to the bar.

Later, Deb and I went to the Chophouse for a quiet dinner: I had the veal, which was excellent, and she had a steak. We took to the Chophouse in a big way.

Then I had a panel with Cecelia Tan and others on "SF vs Fantasy: who gets the best sex?" By now, only someone's chocolate-coated coffee beans were keeping the door open between myself and sleep, but the panel was fun. Ended up in the SFWA suite at a really quite scurrilous story-telling session.

Monday

By now conventioneers were developing the slack jaw and thousand-yard stare that signifies the end of the con is approachingÉ I did a long interview for Locus this morning, plus photoshoot. Then back to the bar, where we spent most of the afternoon, incorporating afternoon tea into the packed schedule that bar-sitting entails.

Evening: went out to dinner to the Chophouse with Deb, and Alain Nevant, of Vivendi in France. A highly amusing evening. Then back to the bar. I crawled to the hotel at a shocking 10 pm.

Tuesday

Deb and I bestirred ourselves this morning and departed in the direction of some big local waterfall or other. Niagara really is somewhat spectacular. We took the boat to the foot of the falls, getting very wet in the process, then went for lunch and margaritas. The area around the falls themselves is an odd mix of the delightful (parks, flowers) and the tacky (casino, HardRock CafŽ etc). Long wait for the bus back, causing some nail-biting on the part of Deb, who had a flight to catch. But she made it. I went and had a quiet meal of green tea and sushi, then took myself to the airport for my later flight. Slept some of the way, waking at an ungodly hour to discover FINDING NEMO on the video system. Got really over-involved with poor little fish. There was the obligatory screaming child in the row opposite. Back in Blighty, I spent an exciting 40 minutes at the baggage carousel due to a faulty baggage cart. Grrr. Got into Brighton about 12 and promptly passed out.

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August 03

Saturday 16th August

A very sociable week - onday saw the monthly Borders meeting with Pat Cadigan which this time was, alas, more or less a requiem for Earthlight. Darren Nash and John Jarrold were there, in disconsolate mood and who can blame them? The whole thing has been pretty grim, and it's bad news to see another imprint collapsing for little reason other than, apparently, internal territorial politics and a CEO who doesn't like SF. Good to see Miller Lau, Jon Courtney Grimwood, Richard Calder, Chris Priest. Roz Kaveney and more usual suspects like Simon Kavanagh and Jay Caselberg.

On Tuesday, I again met up with Mr Jarrold, in company with Harry Harrison and Dominic Harman, for Pan Mac's Peter Lavery's birthday lunch - fish and chips in Brighton. Harry and I then spent a worrying amount of time in an underground car park, trying to locate my car. He was extremely forbearing.

Thursday saw Mary Anne Mohanraj of STRANGE HORIZONS in town, and a bunch of us met up at the excellent Polish restaurant Daquise for a chat -Farah Mendlesohn and Cheryl Morgan were there, and various other folk associated with mailing lists and SH. Good to see Mary Ann and to catch up on industry chat from the other side of the Big Wet.

And on Friday, my agent Shawna McCarthy and family came down to Brighton on an all-too-rare visit to these shores. Great to see Shawna, Wayne and the girls, and also Tanith Lee and John Kaiine who joined us, plus Cheryl. Shawna and co had to travel back to London early in the evening, alas, but Tanith and the rest of us, plus new InterZone writer Matt Colborne, went out to a quiet dinner in the Fu Bar. I was struck by a particularly silly story idea (more in due course), which has now honed itself into something more sensible. So I'm sketching out some ideas for that at the moment, and working on the new novel which will - please God - be finished by the time I go to Torcon - an alarming 10 days or so away now. Went up to the printers this morning to sort out flyers and publicity material, and this afternoon has seen a further stint on the novel. I'm bribing myself with new Buffy eps every thousand words. But on Monday, the new kitchen will be installed and I shall be incarcerated in the study whether I like it or not...

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July-August 03: Siberia

Saturday July 29th

So, a little background. This was a guided tour, through the Siberian Altai, with a group of about 10 people, one of whom was my friend Deirdre Counihan, writer, illustrator and art editor of small press magazine Scheherazade. I should like to go on record and say that Deirdre was a great travelling companion, never complained despite considerable provocation - from events, sanitation and other people - and I would go anywhere else with her. We had an uneventful flight out with BA and Aeroflot. The latter has improved immeasurably over the last few years, promoting fond masochistic nostalgia from anyone who remembers the days when the Russian fleet provided its passengers with a gherkin and a cup (often without any actual beverage). The staff have ceased to be bracingly abusive, and are now charming. The plane itself was a big Deco Ilyushin, with a staircase and futuristic lights. If only the safety record matched the style - but this pretty much sums up the Soviet Union.

We flew into Moscow's new Domodedovo airport, which is still under construction - you're standing in the passport queue and suddenly a bloke walks past with a wheelbarrow. I distinguished myself by treading heavily on a Russian woman's foot in the baggage reclaim. She immediately went into sighing Slavic martyrdom and refused to accept an apology. Then we crossed town to Shermetevovo airport, which was equally chaotic but which has apparently improved to the point where it now has a bar. Result!

Experience reveals that my Russian is now good enough to hold basic conversations with people and occasionally understand what they say in return. My ability to read the language is quite good, so I shall persevere with it and next time, may actually be able to discuss things properly.

We arrived in Novosibirsk ("City of Industrial Exhibitions!") early in the morning, and spent an hour or so waiting for the bags to emerge along a rusting conveyor belt, which eventually broke. The minibus designated to take us to various families also broke down. So for, so typichnye. Life in Soviet Central Asia some years before has granted me patience, at least, and rather low expectations. Novosibirsk and its neighbouring town of Akademgorod, where we were staying, were identikit Soviet burgs: rows of decaying apartment blocks between scruffy parkland, but beautiful woods of birch and fir and pine. Vibe reminded me oddly of Tacoma - conifers and academics. Four of us, including my travelling companion Deirdre and myself, stayed with a pleasant woman named Natasha in her apartment. This was a nice modern place, as is common these days in Russian apartment blocks - once one gets past the dark crumbling stairwells and the intimidating steel doors, the interiors are much the same as British flats, with obviously somewhat different dŽcor. I have stayed in numerous post-Perestroika flats and lived in 4: Natasha's was typical. Divorced, she shares it with a gigantic cat called Timosha.

We flaked out for the morning, rising in the afternoon to visit the Nicholas Roerich museum. I knew very little about Roerich, and still don't know much, but his paintings are stunning: glowing, visionary work of the Himalayas and Siberian Altai. He seems to be in the Blavatsky tradition of Russian visionaries, combined with Indian mysticism, for which I do not have a lot of time. However, I intend to read up on NR a bit more, on the strength of his art.

We then found a cafŽ opposite Novosibirsk's very grand, chandeliered railway station and had tea.

Monday 28th July.

Visited the Archaelogical Institute this morning, where the mummified body of the Ice Princess is kept - for those who don't know, she was buried in great state near the Mongolian border some 4000 years ago, and was probably a shaman or some kind of aristocrat. She was 28 or so when she died, with an armful of tattoos, and she was buried with all the accessories du jour that one could possibly want in the afterlife. Her skull was stuffed with moss, and the soft organs removed. Had the ice not swept down over her grave, she would not have been preserved at all: this was not the painstaking mummification practised by the Egyptians.

I found myself staring down at her with the sense of detachment you get looking at the ancient dead: it seems curious that they ever walked and breathed. But she was buried in her full ceremonial dress and they are exhibiting her naked, which made me uneasy. Personally, I don't care what happens to my body after I leave it - they can stuff it and put it in the hallway like Jeremy Bentham's, for all I care, or conduct a public autopsy, but people's wishes should be followed and this woman was buried with care in a particular way. I suppose that in a country where so many have died, in so ghastly a way, the response to it is different. The Princess' presence in Novosibirsk is controversial: the Altaic people want her back, and even if they get her, the wrangling won't stop. The shamanic end of the spectrum want her to be reburied, the bureaucrats want her in a museum in Gorno Altaisk. Personally, I'm for reburial. There is debate as to whether she was actually Altaic - they are an oriental people and reconstruction shows that she had Turkic features, but Deirdre (who is very knowledgeable about this area since she used to work in archaeology) said that this is open to interpretation and debate, and suspected a political agenda.

In the p.m. we went to the Sun Museum - this is a purely whimsical project dedicated to representations of the sun, ancient and modern. There was even a hot water bottle with a sun on it. A lovely room, filled with carvings. We had a gong recital which was, um, instrumentally challenging. On the way back we called in at a little school and had been there for an hour when we discovered that one of the party was missing. Horror and consternation. Search parties were dispatched and the missing person was eventually located, locked in the museum lavatory. Being half Swedish, she was very laid back about this ("Could have been worse"). And then back for another vast Siberian cream tea. The food was great throughout the trip, apart from a few dodgy hotel meals. A lot of home-made salads, jams, soups and scones. Spent the evening reading various varieties of the tarot and looking at Natasha's cat photos.

Tuesday 29th July.

Left Nov for the Altai this morning - mile upon mile of grassland interspersed with groves of birch and the occasional swamp. The only event of note was the grim aftermath of a car crash in a tiny, sleepy village - crumpled wrecks, people standing about in numb shock, a body beneath a blanket. Russian driving is dreadful. I'm not sure whether it's booze, the fact that a lot of people buy a driving license without the preliminary training, or just a different attitude toward risk.

Toward evening, the landscape became more hilly and then we reached the Katun river, which is the sacred river of the Altai Republic. Darkness fell. Finally reached the village of Chemal at about 10 p.m., with everyone hot, cramped and irritable. A member of the party got heatstroke in the banya and had to be forcibly revived.

Wednesday 30th July.

In day light, Chemal turned out to be enchanting - lots of little wooden houses in vaguely Alpine style, with huge gardens full of sunflowers and beans. Steep, pine-forested slopes rose up behind the village and the cemetery was full of cherry trees. There was a nice old cat and a highly excitable dog. In the a.m. we took some stuff up to a little mountain school dedicated to the memory of artist Chornos Gurkin, who produced some very impressive Siberian landscapes and who was murdered by the NKVD in the 1940s, presumably for painting what he loved and admired as opposed to endless vistas of, say, rolling wheat fields and the latest tractor production factory. Since it was the holidays, the school was inhabited only by the principal and two bikini-clad Siberian lovelies, who turned out to be supply teachers. The school was set in beautiful mountain meadows and there were vast plantations of cannabis by the roadside, common throughout the region. (We used to have a bed of it outside the flat in Almaty and it was useless: the best stuff was supposed to grow in the cemetery, which is worrying. Hope the same doesn't apply to the aforementioned cherries). We all got a bit stoned through breathing in.

Highlights of the day: two very dodgy rope suspension bridges, one of which led to a pretty modern convent on a tiny island. Teeth gritting vertigo ensued and halfway across I got something under one of my contact lenses, which always happens in perilous moments, and had to stop on the middle of a swaying plank several hundred feet over a torrent, and remove it. On the island were several rather sour young nuns and an allegedly weeping icon. Hmmm.

In the evening we went to what was supposed to be a folk concert - bad enough, except that we had to participate. I hate enforced jollity. Deirdre and I, squeezed into borrowed shapeless dirndl, went for a walk instead. I told someone that dancing was against my religion and since it was Lughnasadh, I was therefore unable to take part. This would perhaps have been more convincing had I not actually forgotten the date, and been reminded of it by the group leader. Returned to discover that group leader Jenny, another loather of jollity, had appropriated a bottle of Georgian chardonnay, which we drank, rather quickly.

Thursday 31st July

Left Chemal today and drove up to a little mountain village named Yst Khan. Scenery was spectacular - endless multi-coloured steppe, eidelweiss and gentian in the heights, eagles and buzzards swooping overhead. We stopped at a high pass, filled with birch trees wreathed with ceremonial rags, and snow-capped slopes in the distance. Reached YK in the late afternoon and checked in at the hotel Dragon (1 toilet, 1 cold tap, 20 people. Time for rapid bonding with the other members of the party and much comparison of different brands of Wet Wipe).

Then went to visit the local shaman, Maria, who lives in a little house overlooking the White Mountain, a rather startling cliff face of white quartz wherein yetis are supposed to live. Maria has an iyill in the back garden: this is (in her case) a ceremonial roundhouse in which she practices her particular tradition and sees clients. Most Altaic houses have one, and it's usually used as a kind of kitchen/spare room. Here, we had a talk on shamanism itself (details will follow) and Deirdre and I found a cat and 2 kittens in a box. More cat pictures! A more 'sensitive' member of the group told Maria that she had left an offering at the birch tree pass ("My Guides told me to"). I'm not sure what she actually offered - I think it was a crystal. The shaman was horrified and informed her that this kind of thing can cause you to become actually unsouled. Who would have thought that tourism could be so spiritually hazardous?

After an afternoon in the smoky iyill, some of us went for a walk across the meadowland toward the White Mountain. Gorgeous flowers and herbs, but not-so-gorgeous amounts of discarded engine parts, plastic sheeting, bottles, and rusting machinery. It looked like the town dump and rather jibed with M's emphasis on the Altaic reverence for nature. Further investigation placed the blame at the door of the town's Russian population. I wondered whether they just threw stuff into the snow and hid it that way - YK is under snow for most of the year, after all. But it's still an unpleasant trait. Mosquitoes came out like a fleet of helicopters as the sun went down and bit me through a pair of tracksuit pants.

Friday 1st August

More shamanic visits this morning, this time to another local guy who runs a museum of shamanism. Interesting.

This afternoon, we all had readings with Maria. She does this by asking you to hold a small bottle of spring water, into which she then peers. I gather from several people that her reading was fairly accurate, but in my case, it was pretty far off the mark - she told me that I had a daughter (no) and a husband (I'm a widow), which should really be basic info if one is clairvoyant. However, she was clearly a very sincere person (my dad's a stage magician and it's fairly difficult to put one over on me with this kind of thing). I gather that these matters are a bit like trying to tune a radio - sometimes you get the exact station you want, and sometimes you don't. In my case, not.

Anyway, I am supposed to get married in a year's time and have a baby. It must be said that neither event features large in the current Williams Five Year Plan and I was rather hoping for some indication that a spell in San Fransciso and/or Manhattan might be on the cards. Oh well. Let us see what the Stars have in Store. She did say that a man who works in a bank will be very helpful. Well, that makes a change!

Apparently my intended has one eye bigger than the other. Jesus. Apparently I'm about to be betrothed to a cyclops. Then she told me that I'd been placed under a curse. Eek! This has never happened to me before. To be honest, I don't think it's happened now. Further investigation revealed that the curse had been placed by a member of Charles' family, after his death (good, because if I really thought that someone had precipitated his demise through Ye Dark Arts, all hell would be let loose).

The description of the cursing person made little sense. I am assuming that in Altaic culture, this kind of thing happens, but it doesn't in Britain - the Brits just grumble a lot and if really pushed, take you to industrial tribunals. Such is the Way of my People. (OTOH, a friend of mine worked in an educational centre in Kuala Lumpur and his Malaysian colleagues were constantly whacking one another with incantations. It was quite acceptable to take sick leave because one happened to be suffering from some psychic attack on that particular day. So it's probably a cultural thing.)

Some days later, M removed the curse, which she did by placing me under hypnosis. That is to say, I stood with my eyes closed while she undertook various mystical passes (according to Deirdre). I did not feel hypnotised, but the room grew stiflingly hot and there was a very weird fluttering noise like a trapped bird, which Deirdre was unable to explain (nor did an outside investigation of the building shed any light on the matter). If pressed, I'd say that Maria does have some kind of power (there was other odd stuff as well), but in my case, I don't think it connected. Anyway, I am now ostensibly de-cursed, which can only be a good thing.

Saturday 2nd August

Picnic day today. Bus driver took the bus down an extremely long and bumpy track to a place in the forest where, apparently, a number of girls committed suicide by hurling themselves from the rocks into the white water of the gorge below. Shamans have different views to the rest of us as to what constitutes a nice spot for lunch. However, it was certainly extremely pretty and we spent the late part of the morning watching people undertake white water rafting. Having eaten the picnic, some of us went for a walk and ended up swimming in the non-white water bit of the river (arctic, but according to Maria, good for you). We returned to find that most of the rest of the party had whiled away the afternoon by having a row (over psychic exhibitionism, poor social skills and general angst - much like a SF convention, really).

Group Meeting upon our return in which Deirdre stared out of the window and I uttered the sort of platitudes that have been honed over many years of workshops and pagan gatherings. Anyway, apologies were given, expressions of sincere regret offered, and the atmosphere improved from then on, particularly once it was discovered that the bar of the Dragon stayed open late and switched on the disco ball on Saturdays. Some of us went to Maria's instead and had a bath.

Sunday 3rd August

Moving on today, to a place named Tiongyr, via friends of Jenny's at a small place named Chendek. The friend in question went on holiday there, from Moscow, and never went back. Instead, she walked every day into the local town (a good ten miles away) to offer free legal aid to people who had been banged up in the local gulag for no reason, as usual. Now, she lives there with her son and they are gradually building little houses in the garden, for tourists. Absolutely lovely garden for which I would have killed. And internet access.

Had lunch at a cafŽ that served chips, and did a ceremony with Maria. A butterfly sat on Deirdre's shoulder throughout the ceremony. The place at Tiongyr was billed as a hotel, but once we got there we found that the hotel (a sort of mega-yurt with showers) was double booked and we were placed in a variety of accommodation. Deirdre, myself and 2 others copped a hunting lodge, which was a large hut with a little triangular outhouse at the back and no water. By this time, it was chilly and pouring with rain. The group mood soured yet further. Then a bloke appeared and offered to light the stove, which we gratefully accepted. We found the banya, which was about half a mile away (according to me) and the restaurant, which was excellent.

Came back to a warm, dry little house. The group mood improved. Woke up at about half midnight, sweltering. The entire room now resembled a sauna. Deirdre got up, saying that she felt extremely unwell, which was unsurprising since her bed was next to the stove. We moved the bed, aided by the other people in the house (who were extremely nice about the whole thing) and opened the door. Gradually, it cooled down but a fleet of mosquitoes floated in like bloodthirsty ghosts. This is where my mosquito net finally came into its own. Doused in wet towels and insect repellent, we eventually slept.

Monday 4th August

The weather improved. We went to a place some ten miles or so away, where there are a number of ancient stone heads. These are very similar to the stone heads you find in Celtic countries: sinister, half- eroded visages protruding from the grass. Also several kurgans, or barrows. Wreathed in mist, with a pine-shrouded view to the river below, you could have been in Scotland - the place of which the Altai is most reminiscent, for me. Maria made me lie on a large wet rock but did not say why. Paranoid as ever, I suspected it might be something to do with fertility and removed myself, fast. It turned out to be for fertility and general gynaecological health. Well, okay for the latter. Here, a common phenomenon took place: flash four wheel drives screeching to a halt at the glimpse of Maria's official hat. Clearly, she has found a niche in her profession - the demand was considerable. Not only is it a hard row to plough, in that she's always on call and won't turn anyone away (and she does not insist on payment, BTW), but it's also potentially dangerous. The previous generation of shamans were executed by the KGB, who would send in a team to inscribe, with meticulous care, the nature of shamanic practices and then either send the shamans to the gulag, or have them shot. So there's lots of notes about the tradition, but little continuity. Maria is also a Christian, and that wasn't exactly popular, either. In the evening Ivan appeared to light the stove and could have done so with his breath. Told him that this would not be required, but he stood for some time, in the swaying, repetitive phase of being pissed. Eventually I got rid of him, as nicely as possible. We spent a cooler night.

Tuesday 5th August

Picnic again, by the side of a very turbulent stream, via the local post office. There are those of you to whom postcards are en route, but God only knows when they'll reach Britain. Maria told us about the Ice Princess who, she says, summoned her to Novosibirsk. The deal goes like this: Maria spends a small fortune getting 400 miles from Yst Khan to Nov. She spends some time in the Archaeological Inst becoming, basically, possessed by one of the nine parts of the dead woman's soul (the Inst has said this is fine by them, BTW). She then carries it back, and once it hits the Altai, it dissipates. She has now done this twice. But the Princess wants to go back in body, and has threatened dire consequences (for the entire planet) if she doesn't go back into her grave. Well, who knows? Got back to find the hotel complex invaded by the President of the Altai Republic and assorted minders. Dinner was late and dreadful.

Wednesday 5th August

Returned to Yst Khan to drop Maria off, then drove to Chemal (a 12 hour day). This time, we stayed in a place called Cheposh, which is a short distance down the road. Again, very good food: fish, potatoes, salads. Everyone by this time was shattered.

Thursday 6th August

This morning we were offered the choice of shopping or caves. Those of a sensitive disposition chose caves and shopping, the rest of us, just shopping. This turned out to be a craft market, and a long row of stalls. Lots of tat, but also some rather nice wooden stuff - and books. In English and Russian! The inhabitants of the bus descended on the stalls like a pack of wolves, elbowing dilatory Muscovites out of the way, and combat shopped until lunch. I am now the proud owner of a small stuffed shaman and a very nice book on the Altai.

In the p.m. I went for a long walk along the river with our resident doctor, Sasha, who is very much in the vague, space cadet tradition of Russian mystics and who has invented some kind of biowave therapy which he explained to me, but which I still don't understand. He gave everyone a haematite bracelet, which does something or other. We speculated that at some point in the future, this may enable Sasha to activate us, in which case we will all rise like zombies and head back to Siberia. His co-practitioner, Tania, did some form of hands-on healing to a kink in my back and blimey, she's cured it, despite a further 24 hours in planes, buses and cars. Tania herself is interesting: she apparently inherited whatever form of healing power it is from her grandma, and put it to good use after she came close to decapitation in a car crash. She has some truly awful scars, but she's still here and whatever it is, she can pass it on.

Friday 7th August

Back to Novosibirsk. A long and tedious trip. Got into Akademgorod about 6 and went straight to Natasha's, where we all admired the cat (previously, he had been in internal exile at her mum's due to a cat allergy on the part of a group member). Got up again at 3 (urgh) and went to the airport, where we found that the flight was delayed by 2 hours. I went to sleep on a bench and was awoken by Deirdre - and believe me, it is not good to wake up and find that you are not in your bed, but in a crowded Siberian aerodrome. Slept for the flight, as well.

Due to the time difference, we got into Moscow about 8 a.m and went, groggily, to the Kremlin. Here there was much bickering between the group and a tour guide - you can't do the Kremlin without a guide, they have a fixed schedule and we were short of time. The authorities are moreover jittery, since I gather that in our absence, the Chechens blew something up. Eventually Sarah, one of the more assertive group members, brutalised the guide into handing over the tickets and off we marched, with Sarah doing the guide bit whenever a man in uniform with a Kalashnikov appeared (actually, she was a sort of anti-guide - "And on our left, you'll see a large building. I have no idea what it is or when it was built, but it's got a gold thing on top so it's probably a church").

The Kremlin complex has several cathedrals, the parliament building, a theatre and lots more. Moscow's ancient fortress, girded by blood-red walls, it is enormous. The cathedrals were cavernous and echoing, filled with icons and centuries of incense smoke. On the way out, it suddenly poured with rain. Damp and disconsolate, we retreated to a pizza parlour opposite and negotiated the Combination Dinner, which came only with coke which I never touch, and then returned to the bus. Red Square is, alas, closed until September and the lower half of fairy tale St Basil's is wreathed in scaffolding. Moscow, however, looks very much on the up - as did Siberia. Lots of nice new houses being built (and the Siberians, in particular, seem to be going in for a form of Medieval whimsy: we saw several small castles. Probably a reaction to functionalist architecture). Got back to find Britain sweltering in a heatwave. Grim. Deirdre and I had such a boring saga at Heathrow that I won't repeat it here - suffice to say that we spent nearly 2 hours getting out of Terminal 4, to find delayed or non existent buses. Eventually we caught a bus to Brighton that went all the way back to - you've guessed it - Terminal 4. My threat to kill myself if this happened went unheeded. Got into Brighton at 10.30 pm, four and a half hours after the flight arrives, to find the town in party mode in honour of Gay Pride. Very un-Soviet. Despite the heat, it's good to be back.

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June 03:

Both THE POISON MASTER and EMPIRE OF BONES came out with Tor Macmillan this month and I had a good joint launch party, alongisde Tanith Lee and Cherith Baldry, at the Arts Clun in Brighton, which Tor Mac very kindly put on for us. Guests included Chris Priest, Gwyneth Jones, and Harry Harrison, as well as the InterZone crowd.

I have also put in an appearance at Borders in London, being interviewed by Pat Cadigan.

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May 03:

Most of this month has been spent at work on the fifth novel for Bantam: provisionally entitled "BANNER OF SOULS". It's set in a far future solar system and seems to be growing more morbid by the day. There's a surprise. After a spell in Greece, on the little island of Paros, I have returned with notes for two further stories - also set in Greece - and am working on two more.

A spate of publishing events this month: the lead-up to the Clarke Awards at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, the Clarke Awards bash itself, and a further party hosted by Pat Cadigan for the visit by Charles Brown and Jennifer Hall of Locus. Charles and Jenny made it down to Brighton yesterday, principally to interview Gwyneth Jones. Good to see both.

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Back from Eastercon and will be checking into detox shortly. It was decided that if clinics are detox, conventions are retox. Retoxing was a big success, though not from the point of view of my liver. The con passed very pleasantly, though I cannot say that the Hangover International is exactly my favourite hotel - kitsch in the extreme with many plaster gods and strange saucer shaped appendages. Luminaries included Chris Priest, with whom I drove up from the south coast, John Jarrold, Neal Asher, Lisanne Norman, Miller Lau, Paul McAuley, Rob Holdstock, Jay Caselberg, and Storyvillains Neil Williamson, Rosanne Rabinowicz, Gary Couzens among others.

A reading from the Thackery T Lambshead Guide to Eccentric and Discredited Diseases was given by some of its contributors, including myself, and this went well. People laughed, anyway. Can't think why.

By the end of the con everyone was, predictably, wan and limp. Chris P, John Jarrold and I drove back and got lost in St Albans, which I don't recommend.

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April 03:

Brighton in April: wonderfully mild weather, the sea sparkling in the spring sunlight, the pier still gently smouldering, the more unmedicated inhabitants bellowing obscenities to themselves and trying to chat up the bus stop....

I've sold a short story set in Kazakhstan, The Flower of Tekheli, to Realms of Fantasy.

Some rather lovely cover art for the Tor editions of Empire of Bones and The Poison Master has now arrived and will be up shortly.