Look up! Obverse Books are running a competition this week, and it’s all to do with that picture, Paul Hanley’s wraparound (rather sumptuous) artwork for the forthcoming short story collection, Lady Stardust. As you will see, the world of transtemporal adventuress Iris Wildthyme has been mixed in with that of astral troubadour and arch genrebender David Bowie, this being the theme of Lady Stardust, which involves Iris in a series of adventures prompted by songs such as 'Cracked Actor' and 'The Chant of the Ever Circling Skeletal Family'.
The question is, how many Bowie references can you identify in Paul’s artwork? Stuart Douglas says: ‘Some of them are very obscure and some a bit tenuous (so list everything you think might be a reference!)’. The prize is a copy of Lady Stardust itself, which promises to be quite something I think, especially with George Mann and Iris’ creator, Paul Magrs, among the writers.
The email to send your list to is: bowie@obversebooks.co.uk
I’ve been reading about Bowie myself in preparation, though I don’t think I’m anywhere near able to spot everything. I’m still at that nice point in getting to know someone when all the images and ideas are in freefall around you, and rather overwhelming, and you don’t really know whether this part of the story follows that one or vice versa. It’s quite different from the experience of growing with an artist – keeping faith with them (or not, in some cases, though hope springs eternal for the next album, or their comeback in ten or so years’ time…)
I haven’t written on here for a bit because do you really want to know about all those Christmas reads now (The Christmas Bower, The Winter of the Birds, etc)? Err.. no! Time has moved on.
And since then, I’ve been trying to get back in the swing of things – reading archaeological misadventures such as The House on the Brink (with the rather terrifying ambulatory log), The Secret World of Polly Flint (Moondial, only with a dog in a boat), Whispers in the Graveyard (both moving and hokey), and just this week, Sand by William Mayne, another triumph of tremendous atmosphere, uncannily convincing depictions of child identities, and barely any plot at all.
And I’ve been trying to write something for a friend – more about that later – and it’s had me in coils, trying to say what I want to say, trying to be exact. When you don’t sound like yourself, and you can’t say what you want to say, and you don’t know where you’re speaking from, it can be quite dispiriting. You have to know what place you are speaking from, and it MUST NOT be your arse. (As I wrote this I had an email from him: ‘ feels a bit vague/weak to me’)
It’s a rainy day in South London, and I’m glad. I love a grey day, rain on the window, or marching through it with my rather unwieldy umbrella. I sometimes think that’s how the air ought to feel – textured, full of points. When the wind blows and weather is in the streets we are reminded of all the invisible things right in front of us, coming up…
(I quite like the idea of a competition on the blog, don't you? Shall I run my own next week?)
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