Blow-up Space Station

I missed this when it occurred, but Bigelow recently launched their blow-up space station into orbit:



Personally, I think this is cool. The fact that the Russian missile rocket launches from underground must cause some administrative headaches, but then it probably also protects it from inclement weather as well.

Brust: Plot, a Bourgeous Luxury

So what does Steven Burst think about plot?

"The Thing That May Become A Book now has seven pages to it. Email still isn't working, for those who care. Also, I still don't have a plot, but that's okay; I've always felt plot to be a bourgeous luxury."

David Gemmell Dies, Age 57

One of my favorite authors, David Gemmell died a few weeks ago, on the 28th July 2006. His death was due to coronary artery disease, probably brought on by his heavy smoking. Dying at age 57 is far too young, and cut short what could have been an even more prolific career as he came to complete his Troy series. His publisher said he was "writing at the peak of his powers".

Looking at the Wikipedia entry above, I realise that I've only ever read three of his series:

1. Drenai Series:
   This was the first of his series that I ever read, and the stirring heroes of individual brilliance still resonate with me.
2. Sipstrassi Series:
   This series mixes Wild West with a post-apocalyptic world with linkages to lost Atlantis (the Drenai series actually has similar 'memories' of a lost technological civilization, although less obvious). I appreciate the religious gunfighter anti-hero much more now than I did when I first read these as a teenager.
3. Greek Series:
   This 'alternate history' series is interesting, but has a disturbing twist on traditional Greek mythology. I have not re-read these since I first bought them, unlike the other series.

I never bought the Rigante series - it just seemed too much a copy of the Drenai - and the rest of his work also seemed less interesting. I think I'll have to at least hit the local library for them though as there will be no more Drenai novels coming.

It is interesting for me to compare the heroes of Gemmell's worlds with main characters from another of my favorite authors, Steven Brust. Brust's series of books about his reluctant hero Vlad Taltos (assassin, witch, criminal boss, sorceror, psychic, human) and the Khaavren Romances set in the same world of Dragaera, have a very different style to Gemmell's work, but are similar in that they inhabit a consistent world over a long period of time, with the history in some books making reference to events from others, and a similar hint that this 'fantasy' world is simply in the future of our own.

Gemmell however has an unshaking belief in the ability of one man to sway a crowd of enemies, consistently his work shows single heroes standing off much larger groups due to their lack of fear and willingnes to die - which paradoxically guarantees their life.

Brust shows his heroes as far less effectual, for them the crowd will charge and not be stood off - the heroes will triumph through other means, often after an initial setback - usually through the bold application of their wits, or magic.

The difference may be put down to the backgrounds of the authors. Gemmell had a much more rough and ready youth, expelled from school for organising a gambling syndicate and working as a bouncer and then later a journalist. Brust is a musician and plays up his Hungarian descent, almost dressing as one of the characters from his books - he also likes poker. Gemmell was 6'4" tall and looked very much like one of his craggy heroes.

Anyway, as an aspiring writer, I like hearing where characters really come from, here is what Gemmell wrote in 1995 about the genesis of his Jon Shannow character for the Sipstrassi Series (emphasis mine):

Of the many characters I have created over the years, few have
captured the imagination of readers as powerfully as Jon Shannow, the Jerusalem Man.

Alan Fisher, the award winning author of 'Terioki Crossing', and a fan of the film Casablanca, has a phrase that sums up characters like Shannow. "They walk out of Rick's bar, fully formed and real. The author doesn't have to work on them at all. There is no concsious act of creation. One moment they don't exist- the next they stand before you, complete and ready."

I remember the moment Shannow walked out of Rick's bar. It was at the end of a miserable, wet day in Bournemouth at the start of autumn in 1986. I was the group managing editor of a series of newspapers stretching from Brighton to Portsmouth on the south coast. The previous week I had a call from my father to tell me that my mother was in hospiatl and that the surgeons feared she had terminal cancer. They were right. A year before she had suffered the amputation of her right leg, and fought back to make a dramatic entrance at the Christmas dance. This time there would be no fightback.

I had visited her in London, and then driven to Bournemouth for a business meeting, concluding it at around ten that night. I was staying in a small hotel of remarkable unfriendliness. The kind of place- as Jack Dee once said- where the Gideons leave a rope! I hadn't eaten since the previous evening and I called the night porter. He said the kitchen staff had gone home, but there was a plate of olives someone had left at the bar. Nursing the olives and a very large glass of Armagnac I returned to my room and opened the Olympia portable typewriter.

I was at the time preparing a Drenai novel, featuring the Nadir warlord Ulric, which my publishers had commissioned. According to the contract the book was to be called 'Wolf in Shadow' and was, lossely, a prequel to Legend. I had completed around sixty pages. They weren't good, but I was powering on as best I could.

Sitting by the window, looking out over Bournemouth's glistening streets, I tried to push the events of the week from my mind. My mother was dying, I was waiting to be fired, and staff, who had joined my team in good faith, were facing redundancy. After the fifth large Armagnac I decided to continue work on the book. I knew I was drunk, and I also knew that the chances of writing anything worthwhile were pretty negligible. But forcing my mind into a fantasy world seemed infintely more appealing than concentrating on the reality at hand.

The scene I was set to continue had a Nadir scout riding across the steppes. The intention was to follow him to the top of a hill and have him gaze down on the awesome army camped on the plains below. I focused on the typewriter keys and typed the following sentences...

'The rider paused at the crest of a wooded hill, and gazed down at the wide, rolling ampty lands beneath him. There was no sign of Jerusalem...'

The walls of the mind came crashing in as I typed the word 'Jerusalem,' thoughts, fears amd regrets spilling ver one another, fighting for space. There followed a bad hour, which even Armagnac could not ease. But after midnight I returned to the page and stared down at it. It called to me. Who is he, I thought? What is he looking for, the Jerusalem Man?

And suddenly he was there. Tall and gaunt, seeking a city that had ceased to exist three hundred years before. A lonely, tortured man on a quest with no ending, riding through a world of savagery and barbarism.

The story flowed in an instant, and I wrote until after the dawn. Through all the despair that followed in those next painful months I found a sanctuary in the company of Jon Shannow. Through his eyes I could see the world clearly, and understand how important it is to be strong in the broken places.

As a result Shannow will always be one of my favourite characters. For a while back here he was the best friend I'd ever had.

Here's to you David Gemmell, may you find the spiritual city that calls to you, and if you do, then save me a place at your table for a drink or two.