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Month: September 2018

Notes from the roadside

Autumn in Scotland is possibly even more difficult for me than it always has been. I love the light of spring and summer in the north so much, when even at midnight there is still a residual brightness in the sky. I like to encourage myself by thinking of all the work I need to get done between now and next March! I’ve been rereading Arkady and Boris Strugatsky’s Roadside Picnic this week, for a non-fiction project I’m working on, and I could feel my heart rate increasing as I turned the first page.

There are certain novels – and I’m sure it’s like this for every science fiction reader –  from which you only need revisit a couple of pages to be reminded of why it is that you’re crazy about science fiction. Novels that churn up memories so powerful they bring  tears to your eyes. You know there are no novels quite like this in mimetic literature, that in some incalculable yet inarguable way they articulate what being a reader and being a writer is about. Resistance to consensus. Provocation. The opposite of what Don DeLillo has called the corporatisation of the writing classes.

It could be something about the story itself, or the form the novel takes, or a combination of both. A rawness of purpose and of expression, a determination to say something unexpected and necessary, together with the urgency of saying it. Touchstone novels, the ones you would give a friend to read if they came to you with the question: why SF?

“The sidewalk was coming closer and the boot’s shadow was falling on the bramble. That’s it. We were in the Zone! I felt a chill. Each time I feel that chill. And I never know if that’s the Zone greeting me or my stalker’s nerves acting up. Each time I think that when I get back I’ll ask if others have the same feeling or not, and each time I forget.”

The same feeling I experienced the first time I set off with Will on his journey to the White Mountains in John Christopher’s Tripods trilogy, or sat down with the doctor and teacher to watch that first extraordinary demonstration of a new technology in H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine.  That sense of apprehension and excitement that says the world is not, or not entirely, what we think we perceive.

An American Story

This week marks the publication of Chris’s fifteenth novel, An American Story. As always, the business of living and writing alongside Chris as he worked on the book – seeing the novel take shape – has been a unique privilege. I’ve been party to some amazing discussions, watched some fascinating footage, discovered a renewed interest in a subject that, truth be told, should be preoccupying each and every one of us more than it does.

In common with many novels, An American Story had a peculiar and protracted genesis. Chris had long been interested in 9/11 as subject matter, with the factual anomalies that began to proliferate in the reporting of the attacks seeming almost as worthy of attention as the attacks themselves. However, it was not until personal circumstances intervened that he began to see a way to write about it. The dedicatee of An American Story, Don Greenberg, is an American magician Chris met when they were both serving as guest judges of the Stage Magician of the Year competition organised by the Magic Circle. Don also happens to be an airline pilot of some thirty years experience, a fact that proved even more interesting to the both of us than his life in magic. Over lunch one day while we were still living in Hastings, we took the opportunity to quiz Don about his work as a pilot, and so it happened that he began, almost as an afterthought, to tell us about his experiences on 9/11.

Names and places have been changed, of course, but the tense and powerful sequence that grounds the events of An American Story in lived reality – Ben’s flight on September 11th from Charlotte to Detroit – is drawn directly from the story Don told us. Even the late-running Aussie passenger is real – many readers will remember how flight delays due to late boarding were not only a thing back then, but an annoyingly common one. Indeed what Chris found so compelling about Don’s story was the background normality of it, the irruption of the extraordinary into the routine. Here at last was a way to write about 9/11.

His original idea was for a non-fiction book, a diary of the day told from the point of view of people – like Don, like the passengers on his plane – who were not directly affected by the attacks but who found themselves nonetheless caught up in the seismic ripples the attacks generated. An exhibition on the theme of false memory at the Freud Museum in London altered the direction of travel – what if someone believed they had been involved in 9/11, but really hadn’t been – and with the proliferation of ‘fake news’ on both sides of the Atlantic it became increasingly clear to Chris that the subjects he wanted to talk about would be most effectively tackled through his more accustomed medium, fiction.

The result is a book of uncommon power that speaks uniquely to our times. I cannot think of any other novel in the still-developing literature of 9/11 that seeks to address not just the horror and tragedy of what happened – the facts on the ground – but the consequences even as they continue to affect and shape the political realities of the present day.

Readers should note that in the novel’s title, the words ‘American’ and ‘story’ are of equal importance.

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