More Tomorrow: And Other Stories
Page 60
I’ll come back to this scenario in a while. Idly.
This time can also be the best part, however. Some stories just bull straight through that first blank return. They’ve come with serious intent. They’re good to go. They know where they’re heading and are impatient to get there and are willing to do most of the work. These are my favourite sort. Some stories from right at the beginning of my time as a writer, like ‘The Man Who Drew Cats’—my very first—‘Always’, ‘Everybody Goes’ and ‘The Dark Land’ came like this: delivered whole, and written in a day. More recent ones too, like ‘Being Right’, which I wrote specially for this collection. I came back to the house one morning, having walked up the road to buy lunch, and sat down to note an idea I’d had on the way back. I wound up never getting round to eating, but having two thirds of a story by the end of the afternoon. Good deal.
There are others which take a little more time. Not because the idea comes with insufficient wind in its sails, but because the story it requires to keep it alive needs just a little more structural thought. ‘A Place To Stay’, for example, with its interlocking time zones and deliberately nebulous import; and ‘The Book Of Irrational Numbers’, which I wanted to progress as a series of only semi-related observations, and so was better left to come at its own pace.
And there are other stories which are started not just because of some random idea or opening paragraph, but because something about the world strikes you forcefully at a particular time—‘Enough Pizza’ was one of those; as was ‘What You Make It’. Here it is not an idea that stirs the blood so much as a frame of mind.
There are still others where the basic idea occurred to me long, long before I wrote the story. The basic notions for ‘The Handover’ and ‘Maybe Next Time’, for example, were in my head for years before some internal switch was flicked and they were ready to come out onto the page. These tend to come out fast when they arrive.
At around this time, if not before, I’ll go back to the beginning and edit right through; or go back a page, or a single paragraph. It warms me up for the next assault, and often you find you can cut the first sentence or two, and pare stuff down throughout. Cut, add, cut, cut, add, cut. Writing is not like picking apples for a farmer, where you get paid for the weight you bring home. It’s more like knowing you’re going to make a pie that evening, and walking out into your own orchard to pick ten really good apples to make it right. Eleven is too many. You don’t need eleven.
But nine will be too few, of course.
One of the intriguing things about short stories is that they seldom stand alone. When first published, they’re in either an anthology or a magazine, and thus contextualised. The anthologist will have gone to some trouble to create a balance and structure to his book; a magazine’s editor will likewise have placed a story in a particular position relative to other fiction, non-fiction and advertising. This is what makes the first publication of a story unique. Following a short, elegiac story from someone you’ve never heard of is different to preceding some mammoth piece of genius from Peter Straub; and you better have your very best foot forward if you’re going to be put anywhere near a Ramsey Campbell or Stephen King. You may also be contextualised with regard to subject. If the story’s in a book about vampires, then it’s a fair bet that bloodsuckers are going to crop up somewhere along the line. On the other hand, if the author knows that’s where the story’s going to be published (as I did, with ‘Dear Alison’), then—when blessed with an editor with eclectic tastes—this gives you the chance to write it from a very oblique angle. You don’t need a vampire on the very first page. Actually, you may not need one at all. This was also the case with ‘To Receive is Better’ and ‘Later’, both of which were written for anthologies which wore their subjects on their sleeves, and thus afforded opportunities for this sideways glance approach. ‘Charms’ also came into being through an oblique version of this kind of genesis. I originally wrote it for an anthology celebrating the 45, those seven-inch singles which I guess are now the stuff of yard sales and collectors’ fairs and not much else. I deliberately wrote against expectation here, and the editors justifiably sent it straight back. Luckily it’s slightly Bradburyesque tone made it appeal to another editor, a few years down the line. Stories will do that, sometimes; they will find their own home. Of all the tales in this collection, ‘To See The Sea’ is probably the one which most squarely met its invited brief, that of being part of a collection which spun further tales inspired by H. P. Lovecraft’s ‘The Shadow Over Innsmouth’.
And then there are the ones which you do for yourself, and are just pure fun to write, like ‘The Vaccinator’ and ‘When God Lived in Kentish Town.’ Stories where you think you’ve got the easiest and best job in the world. To be honest, though, all of the stories in this collection were fun to one degree or another. None of the ones I had to struggle with have made the cut, which probably tells its own story.
For me, fast is good, and I believe there’s a statute of limitations for getting an idea down on paper. Once you’ve let it sit on the stove too long, it curdles. It becomes a chore. The guest who turned up has stayed far too long, and become an unwelcome squatter in your head. I recently went through a folder on my hard disk which contained about twenty abortive starts; some only a few lines, others a couple of thousand laboriously-hewn words. I threw all but three of them away. Straight off the disk. Erased and gone forever. In my experience, you have to do that with ideas. Show them who’s boss. They have to earn their keep; they have to do their thing. Otherwise they just sit there, making you feel guilty and getting in the way of the door. I don’t need that kind of crap from a notion. I can not-write effectively enough all by myself.
This collection’s one exception to this rule is ‘They Also Serve’, which I started a long, long time ago. I knew where it was going, but never quite got it there. I just tinkered with it from time to time. Then a home appeared for it, and I revisited it with renewed intent. I’m glad I did. I’m not going to provide a note on each story in the collection, you’ll be relieved to hear, as I’ve recently done that for a dizzyingly comprehensive bibliography by Lavie Tidhar, currently in production with PS Publishing. If you want the blow-by-blow, that’s the place to look. Not everyone wants to know the tale of how a story came about, of course. For some it’s a little like having a favourite song—the tune they first danced to at their wedding, the melody they hear in their head when they’re wistful, the song that makes them turn to their partner with a misty eye and dawning smile, suddenly sure all’s well with the world—and being told the guy wrote it about his favourite pebble when stoned out of his head in a hotel suite in Idaho.
So I won’t say how the story called ‘My Favourite Pebble’ came about. It’s too personal. And I lost it in the end, anyway. In every story you gain something, and you lose something, as in life; you gain experience, and in the process lose a period of time you can never get back.
And then you’re at the end. You’ve got where you were going, and the story is contained by a concluding sentence. At that point I immediately go back through the whole thing again. Several times, and before I stand up.
The balance of everything that has gone before is shifted slightly by the story’s sudden finiteness, by the fact that this tale will now always be about five thousand words long, or fifteen hundred, or eight thousand. Now you know its extent, you understand better what the emphasis should be, whether the story will support that long rant about something that just happened to piss you off yesterday, and whether the ending you always planned for it is actually a step too far, and more powerful if never quite reached. I flit back and forth throughout the story, nipping and tucking, making those last little alterations before the concrete sets: because once I’ve stood up from the computer, walked away from a story with an end line, it’s never quite the same again. The art is over, and the craft begins. Craft is fun too, and it’s what pays the bills. But art is what builds the house in the first place.
After that, chances are you will very rarely be present when someone reads this story, this nugget of your life which started out so intensely, or so trivially. The idea from Porlock finishes his tea, winks, and thanks you for your hospitality, for doing what you could with him. Then he puts his coat back on and leaves your house forever, going into the world, out of your hands now.
Great, you think. Now I can get down to some serious not-writing. And then just when you’re getting into it, you hear another knock on the door.
So there you go. This all came out in a day, which is the way I like it. Turned out I didn’t know anything much about writing after all, but I hope you enjoyed turning the pages. That’s what fiction’s for, in the end, and all it’s ever about. Ultimately the writer’s job is very simple.
Getting you to this sentence here.
Michael Marshall Smith
London, July 2003
Copyright & Additional Information
A Long Walk, For The Last Time © 2002 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARK VOICES 6—United Kingdom: Gollancz 2002, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.
A Place To Stay © 1994 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARK TERRORS 4: THE GOLLANCZ BOOK OF HORROR—United Kingdom: Gollancz 1998, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.
Always © 1991 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARKLANDS 2—United Kingdom: Egerton Press 1992, edited by Nicholas Royle.
Being Right © 2003 by Michael Marshall Smith. Original to this collection.
Charms © 2000 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in AbeSea—United Kingdom: 1997 (a small press magazine, no other details available).
Dear Alison © 1997 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF DRACULA: VAMPIRE TALES FOR THE NEW MILLENNIUM—United Kingdom: Robinson 1997, edited by Stephen Jones.
Dying ©1994 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in Omni—United States: Omni Publications International 1994, edited by Ellen Datlow.
Enough Pizza © 1998 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in THE EX FILES: NEW STORIES ABOUT OLD FLAMES—United Kingdom: Quartet 1998, edited by Nicholas Royle.
Everybody Goes © 1992 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in WHEN GOD LIVED IN KENTISH TOWN—United Kingdom: HarperCollins 1998 (promotional paperback).
Happy Holidays! © 2003 by Michael Marshall Smith. Original to this collection (appears in the lettered edition only).
Hell Hath Enlarged Herself © 1996 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARK TERRORS 2: THE GOLLANCZ BOOK OF HORROR—United Kingdom: Gollancz 1996, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.
Last Glance Back © 2001 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT/BOYS’ NIGHT IN—United Kingdom: HarperCollins 2001, edited by Chris Manby, Fiona Walker, and Jessica Adams.
Later © 1992 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF ZOMBIE STORIES—United Kingdom: Robinson 1993, edited by Stephen Jones.
Maybe Next Time © 2003 by Michael Marshall Smith. Original to this collection.
More Bitter than Death © 1991 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARK VOICES 5—United Kingdom: Pan 1993, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.
More Tomorrow © 1995 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARK TERRORS: THE GOLLANCZ BOOK OF HORROR—United Kingdom: Gollancz 1995, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.
Not Waving © 1996 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in TWISTS OF THE TALE—United States: Dell 1996, edited by Ellen Datlow.
On Not Writing © 2003 by Michael Marshall Smith. Original to this collection.
Open Doors © 2003 by Michael Marshall Smith. Original to this collection.
Save As… © 1997 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in Interzone #115 (January 1997)—United Kingdom, edited by David Pringle.
The Book of Irrational Numbers © 1999 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in 999—United States: Hill House and Cemetery Dance 1999, edited by Al Sarrantonio.
The Dark Land © 1988 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARKLANDS—United Kingdom: Egerton Press 1992, edited by Nicholas Royle.
The Handover © 2000 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARK TERRORS 5: THE GOLLANCZ BOOK OF HORROR—United Kingdom: Gollancz 2000, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.
The Man Who Drew Cats © 1988 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in DARK VOICES 2: THE PAN BOOK OF HORROR—United Kingdom: Pan 1990, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.
The Munchies © 2003 by Michael Marshall Smith. Original to this collection.
The Vaccinator © 1999 by Michael Marshall Smith. First published in the United Kingdom by PS Publishing in 1999 as a limited edition book.
They Also Serve © 2001 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in CAT STORIES—United States: Earthling Publications 2001.
To Receive Is Better © 1994 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF FRANKENSTEIN—United Kingdom: Robinson 1994, edited by Stephen Jones.
To See The Sea © 1994 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in SHADOWS OVER INNSMOUTH—United States: Fadogan & Bremer 1994, edited by Stephen Jones.
Two Shot © 2001 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in REDSHIFT: EXTREME VISIONS OF SPECULATIVE FICTION—United States: ROC 2001, edited by Al Sarrantonio.
What You Make It © 1998 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in WHAT YOU MAKE IT—United Kingdom: HarperCollins 1999.
When God Lived In Kentish Town © 1998 by Michael Marshall Smith. First appeared in WHEN GOD LIVED IN KENTISH TOWN—United Kingdom: HarperCollins 1998 (promotional paperback).
M I C H A E L M A R S H A L L S M I T H
is a novelist and screenwriter. His first novel ONLY FORWARD won the Philip K. Dick and August Derleth Awards; SPARES was translated in 17 countries and optioned by DreamWorks SKG; and ONE OF US was optioned by Warner Brothers. His short stories—three of which have won the prestigious British Fantasy Award—have appeared in anthologies and magazines around the world, and a collection of his short fiction, WHAT YOU MAKE IT, was published several years ago by HarperCollins in the UK. Six of these stories are currently being adapted for a UK television series. His fourth novel, THE STRAW MEN (published under the name Michael Marshall), came out in 2002 and quickly became a Sunday Times bestseller. He lives in London with his wife Paula and two cats.