Ramsey Campbell, page 10 of 12

Ramsey Campbell has three books in my personal selection of all-time favourite novels. There’s the (relatively) recent Grin of the Dark, which I reviewed in a previous Mewsings, though I’ve only read that one once (it’s on my long list of want-to-re-reads). The House on Nazareth Hill is another favourite, read several times. But The Influence, which may well have been the second Ramsey Campbell book I ever read (The Hungry Moon was first), is, I think, my absolute favourite (though Nazareth Hill really is so very close). I remember reading The Influence over a period of about three days, that first time, totally gripped by the closely intertwining narratives and subtly cliffhanging chapter endings. From reading other people’s comments about it, it doesn’t seem to be generally considered among Campbell’s best, but to me it sums up all the reasons I keep reading him, and it draws me back to itself, being one of those rare books that gets better, and gives more, on each reading.

The basic premise is simple. Two generations of the Faraday family have been quietly terrorised by the ageing Queenie, a supremely strong-willed, Victorian-minded spinster, who has, in the past, succeeded in convincing at least two of the younger Faraday generation that she has slightly witchy powers. Queenie dies (much to everyone’s secret relief), but not before developing something of a bond with the first of the new generation of Faradays, eight-year-old Rowan. Then Rowan makes a new friend whose influence starts making her act in ways that remind the more sensitive members of the family of the newly-departed Queenie.

One of the best things about The Influence is how its supernatural horror elements combine with Campbell’s very honest, very intimate view of his characters to heighten the difficulties of their already complicated human situations. The Faraday family, though it doesn’t exactly have screaming relatives locked up in the attic, does have enough hints of mental disturbance (a pedophile cousin, a sister who’s had something of a breakdown) to tint their experience of the supernatural with enough self-doubt and emotional isolation to give it a very real edge.

This isn’t to say, though, that all the supernatural elements are of the subtle, ghostly variety. (Though they are all very skilfully handled.) One of the things that lingered from my first reading of the book was the long, nightmare journey young Rowan takes at one point in the narrative, which is pure, paranoid-hallucinogenic Campbell territory. (Though, again, it could also be read as a heightening of the realistic situation, as Rowan’s view of the world is, at the time, skewed enough by trauma and fear to make it seem that strange a place.)

But this isn’t a book that plays games with its reader; it has its feet firmly planted in the supernatural. It’s just that the supernatural is so intimately tied in with the psychological that it works seamlessly, and simultaneously, as both. The dual-image cover of the paperback copy I own (despite the fact it depicts a Rowan about twice the age she is in the story — see pic at top of this post) is a good metaphor for the book itself, in this sense. At any one point in The Influence, you know you’re reading a ghostly, supernatural horror novel, but a slight shift in perspective reveals it to be addressing just the sort of concerns that a non-supernatural family novel could be about — the fear of hereditary taints (madness, or simply meanness) emerging in a child, the fear a parent has of hurting their child, to the extent of feeling guilt about the hereditary, genetic, and historical baggage a parent lumbers their vulnerable child with simply by having brought them into the world through this particular family. So, at any one moment, you can see the ghostly, grinning skull, and the human face at the same time.

And this is what I think fantasy can do, when it’s used so skilfully alongside such very real characters: it can bring out the subtleties of the human situation in ways a realistic novel never can. Campbell’s best fiction is, for me, his most rooted in recognisable human beings, who already have enough to deal with in their own lives, even their own minds, without having to put up with the incursions of the supernatural that, ultimately, serve to confront them with those very same inner difficulties.

The result is a book that keeps its meaning well after you close the covers. It’s not just a selection of thrills, but a statement about what it means to be human. The Influence is all about the fine lines that exist between heredity and individuality, between emotional openness and emotional manipulation, between very human fears & self-doubts and the dangers of madness. It’s about the vulnerability of children, and the fears of parents (and vice versa). It really ought to be valued more in the Campbell canon, and was deservedly reprinted recently in a super-luxury edition by Centipede Press, complete with some wonderfully haunting J K Potter photos.

What is “Lovecraftian horror”? Lovecraft scholar S T Joshi’s new anthology from PS Publishing, Black Wings, attempts to answer the question by offering 21 examples of the form, plus a quote from the master himself (from which the title of the anthology derives):

“The one test of the really weird is simply this — whether or not there be excited in the reader a profound sense of dread, and of contact with unknown spheres and powers; a subtle attitude of awed listening, as if for the beating of black wings or the scratching of outside shapes and entities on the known universe’s utmost rim.” — from “Supernatural Horror in Literature”

But you always have to be wary when dealing with a writer’s own definition of their chosen genre. It’s certainly not the same as a critic’s definition, because a writer will be trying to encapsulate what they are aiming for when they write, not to provide an objective summing up that can be applied to all authors working in that genre. Even when the writer in question is moonlighting as a critic — as Lovecraft was when he wrote “Supernatural Horror in Literature” — he’s still being led on a leash by his muse. What Lovecraft was really defining in the above quote wasn’t weird fiction but Lovecraftian horror — or to be properly pedantic (because any reader who responds to Lovecraft’s fiction has a right to form their own idea of what works in it and what doesn’t) it is Lovecraft’s idea of Lovecraftian horror. All this is just a preface to saying that answers to the question “What is Lovecraftian horror?” can only ever be subjective, and I’m sure no two readers of Black Wings will come up with the same list of which stories in the anthology they think ought to be called Lovecraftian and which don’t.

Nevertheless, it’s interesting to see what Joshi’s chosen writers made of the term. It was, I assume, deliberately selected as not “Cthulhu Mythos fiction”, and it’d be interesting to know what Joshi’s brief to his authors was. He certainly didn’t say “No mythos fiction!” because some of the stories collected in the book are mythos stories. Perhaps it was simply down to the selection of writers with taste that meant there were no lists of Eldritch Entities’ names, nor effusions of Necronomicons, scattered like yesterday’s bestsellers amongst the libraries of occultists the world over. (“Oh, you have a first edition arabic text, too?”) The Cthulhu Mythos had its origins in two factors: one was Lovecraft’s attempt to realise his fictional ideal, the other was as a name-swapping game for a group of jobbing writers. And, let’s face it, it’s really only the first factor that we, as readers, want more of. The second is just a bit of fun.

So, what is Lovecraftian horror? To judge by the content of Black Wings, here are a few possible answers:

Cthulhu Mythos stories. Of course. The best Cthulhu Mythos tales, after Lovecraft’s own are, for me anyway, the subtlest in declaring their allegiance. Here, there are plenty whose reticence means you could shoehorn them into the mythos if you wanted to — identifying this or that glutinous god with one of Lovecraft’s entities — but that would be beside the point. Michael Shea’s “Copping Squid”, though, has its feet firmly placed in the Mythos camp — it’s one of the few tales in the book to mention a Lovecraftian entity by name — but provides an essentially modern twist on Lovecraft’s approach. One of the things that, I think, Lovecraft would never have done, is admitted the desirability of actually embracing the nihilism represented by Cthulhu, Azathoth, and so on — for him, that direction lead to nothing but madness and death. The aestheticisation of horror — turning it into something the protagonist wants to become part of — was something that had to wait for the likes of Clive Barker and Thomas Ligotti. It still ends in madness and death, of course, but in the hands of those writers, that’s not necessarily presented as a bad thing. Shea’s story is closer to this approach, and it certainly worked for me.

Stories featuring other (non-Mythos) characters from Lovecraft’s fiction. Three in Black Wings make reference to Pickman, none of which necessarily end up as Cthulhu Mythos stories. Caitlín R Kiernan’s “Pickman’s Other Model (1929)” is the most directly a sequel to Lovecraft’s original, whereas W H Pugmire’s “Inhabitants of Wraithwood” makes the most subtle use of Pickman while still making him (or his art) central to the plot. My favourite of the three, though, is Brian Stableford’s “The Truth About Pickman”, which manages to be at once a scientific explanation of the horrors of Lovecraft’s original tale, and an effective horror on its own. Unlike the Ann Radcliffe school of Gothic (and Scooby Doo), where all the fantastical elements are explained away at the end, in this case the explanation doesn’t detract from the horror, but rather gives it a straitening twist.

Stories featuring Lovecraft as a character. There’s surprisingly little of this in Black Wings, considering how readily Lovecraft’s personality and biography lend themselves to fictionalisation, and how many people (ahem) have used him in this way. In two stories, we have Lovecraft as a ghost, dream, or hallucination, but my favourite to brush up against Lovecraft the person was Ramsey Campbell’s “The Correspondence of Thaddeus Nash”. I love Campbell’s writing anyway, but it’s always nice to be surprised by an author into liking them even more. Here, Campbell presents a tale for Lovecraftians, written in a form Lovecraftians will be familiar with: the collection of letters, in this case those of one Thaddeus Nash, addressed to the Old Gent from Providence himself. On the way towards telling a suitably vastating horror tale, Campbell’s Thaddeus Nash has a few snipes at Lovecraft’s writing, so this story manages to raise a smile as well as a shudder.

Stories about people who have a strong relationship with Lovecraft’s fiction. Sam Gafford’s “Passing Spirits” was the most affecting tale in the book, for me, and the one I’d least want to describe as horrific, even though its subject matter is certainly dark. A man dying of a brain tumour starts hallucinating Lovecraft, and various characters from his writings. The contrast between Lovecraft’s pulpy horrors and the real-life horror of dying from a terminal illness was powerful in a much more than horrific way. Gafford’s tale even ends with the traditional Lovecraftian climax, but transcends the mere imitation of a narrative device by turning Lovecraft’s crescendoes of horror into a kind of redemptive attainment of meaning in the face of death. Definitely one of the stories that will stay with me.

Stories doing what Lovecraft did, but without explicit reference to the Mythos. These, to me, were among my least favourites in Black Wings, but it would be unfair to blame them for not meeting my expectations. But I felt that, generally, those stories that were about vastly powerful but hidden monsters, lurking behind the paper-thin veil of human ignorance, then making a brief appearance only to submerge once again — always with the threat that they are at any moment going to come back and wipe us all out with the flick of a tentacle — weren’t doing anything Lovecraft hadn’t already done, and done much better, and moved on from. Having said that, one of my favourites in the book — “The Broadsword” by Laird Barron — might just as easily fall under the same description. The main difference between Barron’s tale and the ones that failed to grip me was down to how he presented the horrors. (I actually found Barron’s tale, perhaps thanks to its build-up of mundane detail, the scariest in the book — and not in a pleasantly scary way, it really did scare me!) “The Broadsword”s horror elements had that weird irrationality you find in, for instance, tales of alien abduction — surreal as much as frightening — and this, for me, gave them the necessarily unbalancing twist that separated them from the more traditional Mythos approach of merely trying to convince you it’s all real. Here, the weirdness of the horror was powerful enough, without any need for realism.

Stories about dreams. This tends to be an overlooked area of Lovecraft’s fiction — it gets swept into the dustpan of Dunsany’s influence, and it’s all too easy to think of these tales as not really being Lovecraftian at all. But dreams pervade Lovecraft’s non-Dunsanian fiction, too — “The Call of Cthulhu” starts off being about dreams, of course, but even something like “The Shadow Out of Time”, with its transportation of the mind into another time (and body), and its final nightmare journey through a subterranean ruined city, owes so much to the peculiarities of the experience of dreaming. Darrell Schweitzer’s “Howling in the Dark” was, I think, the story to get closest to Lovecraft’s blending of the laws of dreams to the laws of reality, and the way that dreams, for Lovecraft, could be at once greatly desired and greatly feared. The case could be made for “Howling” being a Mythos tale, but I think its Lovecraftian roots are just as close to those stories which exist on the borderlands of Dunsany’s influence, such as “The Other Gods”. I tend not to like tales about dreams — all too often it’s an easy way for the writer to be surreal without being meaningful — but Schweitzer’s was one of the more powerful stories in Black Wings, and all the more so because it surprised me into liking it.

Others. Some of the tales are less obviously Lovecraftian. In a way, as Lovecraft’s own experiments with horror, the weird and macabre, covered so much ground, and as Lovecraft is such a pervasive influence on all 20th Century horror — indeed, his contribution may be said to be the defining element that separated 20th century horror from what came before — any piece of weird, horrific, or macabre fiction could be called, to some degree, Lovecraftian, barring a pastiche Victorian ghost story. There were a few stories in Black Wings whose Lovecraftianism wasn’t obvious to me. They might well have worked had I read them elsewhere, but as I was expecting a Lovecraftian element, I tended to finish them feeling a little let down. But, as I say, that’s all down to my own personal definition of what “Lovecraftian horror” might be, and how it differs from that of the contributors to Black Wings. Overall, there were definitely more hits than misses.

Lovecraft is certainly a phenomenon in 20th and 21st century literature. There aren’t many writers you can imagine inspiring this sort of anthology. I could picture a Borgesian anthology (and Borges himself could have contributed his “There Are More Things” to Black Wings), or a Kafkan anthology, but what others? What other body of writings could be built on in this way, without resorting to mere imitation? And, more importantly, would anyone buy them? They certainly will buy this Lovecraftian volume, and I very much doubt anyone who does so will be disappointed.

Only one more thing needs to be said — that cover (by Jason Van Hollander, whose story “Susie” rounds off the book) is worth the cover price alone. Now that is Lovecraftian art!

GOD SAVE THE KING!

This is a bit of a long post, but as it’s my record of WHC2010, I didn’t want to leave anything out. So here goes:

Thursday

Once I’d booked into my room, I registered and, as well as a name badge (actually, a big hang-round-your-neck name pouch, with two useful little zipped sections), I got a goodie bag. And what a goodie bag! It was almost worth the price of admission alone, with some pretty heavy duty books in there, including a PS Publishing hardback (Harsh Oases by Paul di Filippo), a jumbo Mammoth Book of Zombie Comics, and, right at the bottom, a copy of Fantasy Tales magazine from 1986! (It certainly made up for the size of the room, which might best be described as a single bed + breathing space.)

The first panel I went to was the obligatory introduction to conventions. This, in the tradition of all convention panels, quickly skewed off purpose, and turned into a panel on how to set up and run a con, which I wasn’t really interested in. (Though I did learn that SF/Horror conventions are second only to Labour Party conventions in their need for a well-stocked bar.) The main thing I learnt is that the WHC is not as much a “fan” convention as SF cons are — you won’t find people walking round dressed up as Dracula; also, it’s more specifically a literary convention, so no t-shirts or toys for sale in the dealers’ room.

I finished off Thursday with a run of four panels (which is more than a bit bum-numbing). First off was “From Aickman to Zelazny”. The aim was for a panel of hardened book-collectors to put together an A-Z, one book per letter, “essential horror” collection. It started off with a general discussion on book collecting, which I could have quite happily listened to for the whole hour. There was a general agreement on the highs (bargains and surprise discoveries) and lows (artificial overpricing due to the internet) of collecting in this day and age. The subsequent romp through the alphabet only got as far as S, and was quirky to say the least. For instance, Agatha Christie was decided on as the ‘C’ entry, on the strength of (if I remember rightly) one horror book, which meant no Ramsey Campbell! But I guess four serious book collectors weren’t going to come out with anything too obvious. Anyway, the A-Z format showed its limitations when we got to S, and they had to decide whether to include Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, or Robert Louis Stephenson — three classics, all of which are required in any truly essential horror collection.

After this came a panel called “Who Cares What You Think?”, about the rise of online reviewing and blogging. “There’s a word for people who do things for free,” said Kim Newman in his opening statement: “scab.” Which I thought was a bit harsh, particularly as reviewing things for free isn’t just an internet phenomena, but has been around as long as fanzines. But the point I most agreed with, also made by Newman, was that more and more he was interested not in reviews as such, but criticism — i.e., the stuff you read after you’ve seen the movie, or read the book.

After that (with me starting to feel a bit sleepy) was “We Are Not Worthy: Recognising the Masters”, about literary influence. This was interesting, because it revealed some different ways writers can be influenced by other writers. Ray Russell, for instance, spoke about how he was, for a long time, dissatisfied with his writing because it didn’t reflect the authors he most admired; but when he wrote some stories under a pseudonym, and so was freed from trying to be the sort of writer he felt he ought to be, he not only found it easier to write, but found the results reflected a quite different set of influences. Talk then turned to pastiche, the most literal form of influence. Barbara Roden, moderating the panel, made the point that excessive pastiche can actually tarnish the pastiched writer’s reputation. Apparently, Arthur Conan Doyle’s niece (I think it was his niece) banned the writing of Sherlock Holmes pastiches after a while because she was so fed up of them all being so bad; she ended up believing that only established writers should be allowed to use other writers’ characters. Mark Samuels, though, made the point that it doesn’t have to be taken so seriously — it can be fun to try writing in another writer’s voice.

Finally, with me way past my bedtime by now, and holding on through sheer will, Ramsey Campbell came in and read not one but two new stories. The first (can’t remember the title) was about a man going to a hotel he’d stayed in as a child. This time, however, he’s there for a funeral. Things quickly enter that Campbellian netherworld on the border between reality, dream, nightmare and psychosis; lots of puns and veiled references to death and dying, plus those inestimable embarrassing social scrapes Campbell handles so neatly. The second story was “The Rounds”, set on the Liverpool underground and involving a curiously persistent item of abandoned luggage. Thematically, the two were, as Campbell said, “companion pieces”, and made an excellent way to round off my first day at the con.

Friday

Friday started with a “warm up” panel about memories of horror movies past. Though it never got down to answering the question of whether horror movies were better back in Them Days, it did make a convincing case on some points. Les Edwards, for instance, said that for him the most terrifying moment from a movie is the unmasking scene from Lon Chaney’s Phantom of the Opera, in which the camera deliberately goes out of focus — but this is something, Kim Newman pointed out, that wouldn’t be allowed today, as you’d have the special effects guy (and, no doubt, the people who paid for the special effects) complaining that people weren’t getting to appreciate the fullness of his artistry (or the extent of his budget).

Next up was the Tanith Lee interview, hosted by Chelsea Quinn Yarboro. I haven’t read much Tanith Lee (apart from the odd short story), so the main interest for me was writing tips. Lee said she lets her characters guide the story; problems with a story almost always turn out to be points where she (as writer) thinks the story should go one way, but the character insists it should go another. In every case, she said, the character’s right.

Third panel of the morning was “Size Matters”, about small publishing. No surprise to learn that the main difficulty with being a small publisher is distribution; the main advantage is producing the sort of books you want to read. Either way, expect it to eat up all your spare time and bring in little by way of financial rewards!

Then a quick bum-denumbing walk along the seafront, with some tasteless chips and actually quite tasty veggie sausages for lunch. Very windy. (That’s the seafront, not me after the sausages.)

After lunch, “From Bad to Verse”, the inevitable punning title to what I thought was one of the most enjoyable panels of the weekend, about genre poetry. I knew I was amongst the right crowd when Jo Fletcher held up a copy of The Faerie Queene and asked how many of the audience had read some of it, and almost everyone put up their hand. I think it was also Jo Fletcher who made the point that genre themes are present in so much of poetry anyway, it’s one of the few areas in the literary world where the fantastic and horrific are not seen as immediately relegating a work to the dungeons of pulpdom. Many people have read “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, for instance, without thinking of it as a fantasy or horror poem. Joel Lane made the point that the way a good poem works, and the way a good weird story works, are pretty much the same — you’re carried along by your interest in the language, or your focus on the character and the immediate situation, then when it reaches the end you suddenly realise the implications, and it all comes together as a shiver down the spine.

The next panel I went to was “Digital Cthulhu”, about horror in video games. This turned out to be more from an academic perspective than the sort of pop-culture ramble I was expecting, but it was interesting to hear about the survival horror genre (of which I’ve only played a few examples) from the point of view of people who study it. Apparently the complicated, hard-to-use controls in some of these games can be considered an aspect of the overall horror effect, in the way they make the player feel helpless. Most game-players just find such things annoying, and don’t perhaps fully appreciate the aesthetic effect!

Then, after all that talk about the digital world, I went for a dose of good old analogue, down in the art show. It’s great to see original artwork, complete with thick splotches of paint, or the varying shades of black ink on an illustration. It makes you that much more aware of the skill that goes into creating good artwork. Lovely to see the original to the cover of that first paperback edition of Salem’s Lot that got me reading Stephen King. The artist that most impressed me at the show was Edward Miller, though I couldn’t understand at first why he was mixed up with the Les Edwards paintings, when all the other artists had got their own separate sections. It was only when reading the Souvenir Book, later, that I learned Edward Miller is Les Edwards — it’s just a pseudonym he invented so as to produce paintings in a different style. The Miller style is wonderfully moody and evocative, more painterly than Edwards’ more realistic style, and I’d have loved to have bought a print or two, but sadly none were available. (And the originals, of course, were way out of my price range.)

Saturday

First panel of the day was “Look at Me”, about self-promotion for new authors. The advice basically came down to being personable and not too pushy while at the same time getting out there and using every means to get your name and writing known. So, use the internet, but not just to say, “Buy my books!” Treat each interaction as an interaction with another person, not just a potential sale. (It’s nice to know that, in the world of books, genuineness isn’t just respected, it’s expected; it makes me feel there’s some part of us that will always be proof against mere commercialism and advertising.) Other than that, no real surprises: do signings, go to conventions, and even give things away if no one’s buying.

Following this was something of a mega-panel, as a gathering of eleven (I think it was eleven) authors and artists who had been involved in the Pan Book of Horror spoke about their experiences of being part of that legendary series.

Next up was a bit of a surprise. A hoarse Stephen Jones announced that they had deliberately not put in the programme who was going to interview the convention’s Guest of Honour, James Herbert, because they’d been planning something special. Then in through the door comes Neil Gaiman! (I’d noticed Gaiman was listed in the Pocket Programme as appearing at the Stanza Press launch, but had assumed it was a mistake.) It turned out Gaiman had interviewed Herbert many years ago in his journalistic days, and the two were obviously old friends. Herbert proved to be an excellent interviewee, full of anecdotes and opinions. He provided a few teasers for the novel he’s working on at the moment, Ash, which is a couple of years overdue and still only half-finished, mainly because of the amount of research he’s had to do. Apparently, Ash somehow brings together a lot of mysteries about historical figures who have disappeared, from Jack the Ripper to Lord Lucan, and various shenanigans and mysteries surrounding the Royal Family. (I guess he’s not expecting a knighthood anytime soon.) At one point, Gaiman compared Herbert’s novels favourably to the imitators who appeared immediately afterwards, in whose number he included Guy N Smith “who you only read for laughs” (he said, or something similar); someone then pointed out that Guy N Smith was in the audience, whereupon Gaiman said that he’d nevertheless enjoyed reading Smith, and proved it by quoting a line from Crabs. Herbert seems to have come under a certain amount of flack in the past because many people assume he merely jumped on the Stephen King bandwagon, but he pointed out that he was published (and popular) in this country before King; and he’s not shy of praising his fellow writers, calling King a genius (“though perhaps he writes too much”), and also saying how much he enjoyed reading Ramsey Campbell and Clive Barker (“when he finally gets round to writing something new”).

Next up was the Stanza Press poetry imprint launch. I’d come to the con already intending to buy the three Weird Tales volumes (which reprint the poems Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and Robert E Howard published in that venerable magazine), but had been convinced by the previous day’s poetry panel to get the other two volumes as well, so I went to the launch and bought all five, then of course got them signed:

Following a quick lunch, I went back to the main lounge to see Ramsey Campbell interviewing David Case, who I have to admit I hadn’t heard of before the convention. In the end, though, enough was said to convince me to buy his new collection, also launched at the con from PS Publishing.

Following this, “Those Were The Days” was a panel of anthology editors, with tales of tracking down obscure Victorian stories and ploughing through slush piles. Mike Ashley revealed that he’d come to think himself cursed after a spate of elderly authors or their relatives dying soon after he wrote to them to get permission for a reprint. Hugh Lamb then told how one prospective author had rung him up and started reading his story submission down the phone!

The next slot was down as the Ingrid Pitt interview, but she wasn’t up to a full hour’s interview, so the second half was a brief Kim Newman/Neil Gaiman slot instead. Ingrid Pitt proved to be full of life though, particularly when talking about the male movie stars she’d known. John Wayne she was less than complimentary about (because he beat her at poker), while Clint Eastward was “the most — the most — the most man of any man!” A statement she backed up by cupping her hands in front of her in a way usually reserved for men describing women. Quite what she was indicating by those cupped hands we never learned!

Then came Neil Gaiman and Kim Newman, who started by recalling that the last time they’d been at a con in Brighton together, they’d had to sleep on the floor of a kitchen in a local clinic. Gaiman said he’d just come in from Russia, where previously poor translations of his work had just been updated. Apparently the previous translator had skipped passages whenever she got bored! He then spoke a bit about his upcoming Doctor Who episode, which it turns out has been put back to the new Doctor’s second season. It needed the character of the Doctor to be well-established, but also required quite a bit of CG effects, which meant it had to be moved onto the next season’s budget.

After this, I went down to the dealers’ room, bought the David Case collection, and S T Joshi’s new Lovecraft-inspired anthology. Oh, I could have spent so much more!

Sunday

Overnight the clocks went forward, so it seemed I suddenly had less time to get out of my room than I’d thought. I wasn’t sure whether to just go for my train or stay for one more panel, but in the end I checked out early and parked myself in the lounge for one final hour of World Horror Con 2010. I’m so glad I did. That final panel was Kim Newman interviewing Dennis Etchison, and it was hilarious. Of course, I can’t remember any of it. There was something about a talking pig… Oh, and an anecdote about Ramsey Campbell, who had been given a brief, end-of-show slot on some US TV programme. After a bog-standard book promotion interview, the presenter realised there was a little bit more time to fill, so she said, “Tell me Ramsey, what’s your scariest story?” He answered. Then the presenter said something like, “Can you do a bit for us?” And apparently, Ramsey did, off the cuff!

WHC2010 went on till Sunday afternoon, but I had a train to catch. I’d like to have stayed to see the Les Edwards presentation (and perhaps to have won a Les Edwards original with my “magic raffle ticket”). Overall, there were only a couple of other panels I wish I’d been able to see — the Dave Carson interview, and a panel about horror film books which I walked in at the end of and realised I’d missed something interesting. More money to spend in the dealers’ room would have been nice, as would be the time to read everything I wanted to buy!

Anyway, that’s what I remember of WHC2010. I took my camera and used it far too little, and far too badly, as always. I have this knack of taking a photo the very moment people duck their heads or hide behind a microphone. I’ve put the few usable ones up as an album on Facebook, which you can find here.