Something Wicked SF and Horror Magazine #4, page 3
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Is there a market for fantasy in SA?
I'm in the process of finding that out. I've taken a gamble and printed 5000 books in the first run. You have to tell yourself you have a bestseller before you go to print, because it's simply uneconomical to print less than 4000 copies. And then it either works or it doesn't. I'm prepared to invest that in my own writing. The trick now is to do the marketing. It got a good response at Cape Town Book Fair launch earlier this year, and a broad segment of test readers enjoyed it. Now we wait for the trade reviews. I'm aiming for the US market as well, but overseas publishing only works if you're printing 10 000 copies or more.
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You published the book yourself?
Yes. The writing itself is only half the job, it's crucial to do the follow up and market the book. It's tough when you're so invested in the product, but it's a necessary evil that you just have to do. It's also a complete shift from the right brain to left. As a creative, I find it impossible to do the two at the same time. There's a lot of cold-calling till it gains momentum. The hidden cost is that I don't write while I'm being the publisher. It's worth it to try everything to find a publisher, but if you do publish yourself, it's important to remember to pay yourself as an author first and make sure you secure your royalty, then try to make money as a publisher. As a writer you do your work writing the book and then walk away. The publisher's job is relentless and ongoing, you're always pushing against the mountain.
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So, you're a writer—what do you do for money?
[Laughing and glancing nervously at his peanut-butter sandwich] I worked before the time, saved up and then went on a long financial glide downhill. I tried doing odd jobs and had a sideline in photography to support my writing lifestyle, but I realised writing had to be a full-time.
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What's next?
The sequel to The Riddler's Gift is sitting at p550 of about 750, so it's almost there. It's ready and waiting and I'm looking to start writing again soon, perhaps in August or September. I estimate it'll take about a year from that point before it's ready for publication. A lot depends on how the first book performs.
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The Riddler's Gift—is it any good?
[Laughs] Of course it is! Seriously though, it's impossible for an author to be objective about their own work. You have a relationship with the work. You're inside the book, as opposed to the reader who approaches it from the outside. If I've passed on that creative world I can undoubtedly say it's fantastic, but it's up to the reader to discover if that comes through.
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For more information or to order the book, visit www.eternitypress.co.za. The Riddler's Gift is also available from bookshops nationwide.
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TC Southwell—Demon Lord
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Tamsin Southwell has penned numerous fantasy novels. The first to be published is Demon Lord, which was released in February of this year with the cover designed by the author herself.
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How did you become a writer?
I've always loved writing. It started at school. I was a terrible daydreamer. I started writing my stories down and found that I enjoyed reading them afterwards. I was always attracted to magic and fantasy. When I was ten I read CS Lewis's The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. That got me started and I took it from there. I love discovering amazing worlds and magic.
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What do you do for money?
I'm in search engine optimisation—IT essentially. It keeps the wolf from the door. Demon Lord was written in ‘96 though. At the time I was unemployed and living with my mom. I didn't write to publish. I just went through this six-year phase of writing stories. When I moved to Cape Town in 2003 I found an agent here and she took it to Stephan Phillips, who published a run of 1000 copies.
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Is there a market for fantasy in SA?
There is a small market for fantasy here, but it's not as big as overseas. I don't think readers care whether it's local or not, at least I hope it won't make a difference. I think if they like the story they'll buy it. It is a niche market though.
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Who are your readers?
Demon Lord will appeal mostly to young adults aged 16 and over. I wouldn't recommend the novel for anyone younger as it contains a fair bit of violence, though what they see on TV is probably worse, but it's definitely not a children's book.
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How do you write?
I don't plan the story and don't fundamentally change it once it's written. I start with an idea, an image in my head, and I just keep writing. I follow the story and it almost writes itself. Once it's done I go back and read through from beginning to end, make my changes, add descriptions here and there and make corrections. Then I go through it again to proof read. I generally do three or four drafts.
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What's next?
Demon Lord is the first of a series. The second instalment, Dark God, concludes that story, and is due later this year. I'm hoping to give them quite a hard edit and then look for an international publisher. Grey God should be published next year, and then I'll look at releasing the others.
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Demon Lord—Is it any good?
I think it is yes. I've read it quite a few times myself in the editing process and I've found that once I pick it up I can't stop reading. It's very difficult to put down, which can be terrible—it keeps me awake nights.
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Demon Lord will have its official launch at The Booke Shoppe in Tokai, Cape Town on 22 August 2007, but is already available at Exclusive Books and Wordsworths.
For sample chapters and more, visit www.angelfire.com/realm2/booksonline1/index.htm.
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Shaun Michael Jooste—Shadowolf
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Shaun Jooste's first book in The Celenic Earth Chronicles, Shadowolf Volume One—The Windfarer, traces Shadowolf's quest to protect those he loves and stop the windfarer, Mercius, as the Masaran Phenomenon approaches, and a shadow falls across the Celenic Earth.
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How did you become a writer?
I grew up reading fantasy. I loved the worlds, the characters, and the adventures. I've had the urge to create all that myself my whole life, and the urge eventually becomes a passion. It's both a gift and a curse though, because sometimes you can't sleep till you finish that chapter.
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What do you do for money?
I'm a project administrator for the City of Cape Town Local Government.
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How do you find the time to write?
Believe me, when you've got the story stuck in your head, haunting you, you find the time.
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Is there a market for fantasy in SA?
Yes, I do believe there's a market. That said, when the book was finished I did a lot of research to find publishers. The local publishers liked it but felt there wasn't a market for fantasy here. I eventually found Raider Publishing [New York] in my online research late last year and in November they looked at a sample of three chapters and liked it. It was released in the UK and US in February, and we've spent the past two months marketing it in SA. I'm keen to get the book home and get some feedback from local readers.
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How do you write?
I've been working on Shadowolf since 2002. I found it difficult to begin with, so I took a book out of the library on how to get published. I then sat and outlined the plots of the three books in the series before focussing on the first book. I used spider-diagrams and maps of the world of the story to help with the journeys. I edited the book myself, but when the publishers came back to me I realised there were still holes. I work during the day so I grab the chance to write and work on key points whenever I can, but I do have to force myself to go back and edit sometimes. I do most of the editing once I'm finished though. Shadowolf had three drafts including a reformatting and proof-reading.
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Shadowolf—is it any good?
That's what I'm hoping readers and critics will tell me. People have told me that they can see the movie in their heads when they're reading it, which is great, although my girlfriend says it sounds gruesome in places. [Laughs]
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Shadowolf launched at the Fantasy Feast in August. The novel is also available through www.Kalahari.net and is soon to be distributed to bookstores across the country. Visit www.raiderbookshop.com for a detailed synopsis.
[Back to Table of Contents]
LIBERATION by Kevin Anderson
illustrated by Vincent Sammy
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To most people it was just an ordinary Thursday, but to Caroline, today was the day she had decided to rid herself of the spiders living in her brain. She figured that there had to be more than one, even though they only pulled a single spider from that woman in Brazil—living just under the skullcap like a lizard burrowed beneath the floorboards.
It had to be more than one. She'd had so much passion and determination when she was young, it would take several brain-dwelling parasites to eat it all. The spiders lived off of the brain impulses of her desire, feeding on her resolve to do the things she really wanted to do. “That's what the spiders live on,” she had said to her roommate exactly one week ago.
Wendy, her roommate, stared back wide-eyed. “Please tell me you're joking, Caroline."
Caroline stepped toward Wendy, excitement and revelation growing in her eyes. “It's all right here.” She held out the medical journal, dated July 1986. She pointed to the picture of a woman lying unconscious in an archaic-looking operating room. Then, sliding her finger across to the opposite page, she pointed to a murky photo of something whitish and puffy. The picture was just slightly out of focus like all the images ever captured of Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, but a multi-legged form was clearly discernable.
It had the characteristics of a spider but looked more like some underwater creature—a mutated octopus or alien squid. The arachnid's legs were thick like tentacles, splayed out on a chalky porcelain table. Pools of blood spotted the off-white surface and a pair of forceps lay next to the spider, providing a sense of scale. The creature's creamy white frame seemed about four inches in length. Its color reminded Caroline of the salamanders discovered in subterranean caves. Living their whole lives in darkness, the lizards looked pasty—sickly.
Leaning in, Wendy traced a finger along the picture's caption. “It says, it didn't have any eyes."
"It doesn't need them,” Caroline said, grinning. “It lives in darkness, just feeling its way around.” Just like the salamanders.
Wendy stood up. “This doesn't prove anything, Caroline. You don't have spiders living in your brain for god-sakes.” She put a hand on her hip, sighing deeply. “Okay, let's just be logical about this for a second. That woman, whoever the hell she is, lives in Brazil. And hey, I'll admit there is all kinds of freaky shit living in the rainforest that we don't know about yet, but spiders that eat your determination, turning women into breeder cows? Come on! And even if there were, how did they get to Seattle? I don't remember you vacationing in Brazil recently."
Caroline had anticipated this question, the problem having occurred to her as well. She had never been out of the state of Washington in her life, let alone south of the equator. She had always wanted to travel. Paris, Rome, Vienna. But when it came down to it, her resolve to make the arrangements seemed to evaporate. Damn spiders!
Caroline stepped toward Wendy, slapping the book closed. “I didn't need to go to Brazil. The spiders were brought to me."
Wendy raised a brow, taking a half step back. “What?"
"Since the fifties the rainforest has been heavily harvested and exported to us for our consumption."
"What are you talking about?"
"Where do you think most of our medicines come from? Our birth control, Prozac, Valium? Hell even our makeup—moisturizers, eyeliner, lipstick. You name it. It all comes from the rainforest. Women have been inundated with this stuff for more than fifty years."
"Jeez, you've given this a lot of thought."
"Is it so hard to believe that these parasites have been able to hitch a ride in our birth control pills or some hair product packaged by men for women?"
Wendy sighed, looking at the ground. She took a deep breath and held out a hand. “Look, I know you've gone through some rough shit. That asshole husband of yours getting custody of your kids—god, I don't know how I could live with that. But it doesn't mean there is anything wrong with you.” Wendy stepped forward, her green eyes empathetic. “You've got your life on track now. In a few months we'll both pass our exams and be certified RNs. It's gonna be—"
"I don't even want to be a nurse,” Caroline barked. “That's what I'm talking about. It was my husband's decision. He made all the arrangements. Where we would live. When we would have kids. What kind of career I needed to have. Why I needed to get a second job to pay for his education. Who he would fuck behind my back."
Caroline looked down, picturing the unwanted events in her life. “Through everything, I never even raised an objection. Didn't complain, not even once. My existence is like a movie I'm just watching. I didn't want to have kids. I don't think I even wanted to get married. All my life I've wanted to do things. But I've never done them. Not one."
When Caroline looked up again, she noticed that Wendy had taken several steps back. Her hands were outstretched covering her retreat.
"Don't you see?” Caroline gestured to herself. “It's not just me. Why do you think women are second-class citizens? Why do we accept less pay for the same goddamn job done by a man?” Caroline pointed a finger at Wendy. “Why do you sleep with all those guys when you've said you really didn't want to?"
Wendy dropped her hands, eyes flashing with anger. “There are no spiders living in our brains, goddamn it. I can't believe I'm even having this conversion."
"That's what they want you to believe."
Wendy cocked her head. “The spiders?"
Caroline nodded. “And men."
Wendy quieted for a moment, seeming deep in thought. She blinked her eyes slowly then aimed them at Caroline. “I've put up with all your craziness, but this ... I can't be here right now.” She hurried toward the front door of their small high-rise apartment. “Being your friend is just too hard. I'm gonna ... I'm gonna just go."
Caroline rushed to the door catching it in her hand as Wendy opened it. “You don't really want to go. It's the spid—"
"Let go of the fucking door,” Wendy screamed.
The harsh words soaked in fear assaulted Caroline like a bucket of cold water. She let go of the door, stepping back.
Wendy moved through the opening, and without looking back said, “Get some help, Caroline. For god-sakes."
The door slammed shut.
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That was a week ago and Caroline hadn't seen her since. A day or two later Wendy had come back when Caroline was on duty at the hospital, clearing out all her stuff. She must have been in a hurry because she left a couple of things. Knick-knacks mostly, some dishes. Even the note she had left seemed rushed—echoing her final words to Caroline. Get some help. Please.
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Placing the stainless steel bit of the cranial drill on the bathroom counter, Caroline surveyed the instruments of her liberation. Scalpel, forceps, sutures and gauze laid out according to size on a seashell-colored countertop. She hadn't noticed before, but she smiled when she saw the resemblance in color of the countertop to the chalky porcelain table the Brazilian brain spider had been photographed on.
She felt a laugh coming but she swallowed it—the sutures above her hipbone were very tender. She had performed that procedure this morning, removing the few ounces of fat she would need later to plug the hole.
Picking up the forceps, she turned them over in her hand. If she used too much pressure the spider's legs might tear off, allowing the arachnid to scurry to the safety and darkness of her gray matter. Need a soft touch, she reminded herself. Her surgical instructor had said the same thing just moments before she assisted in her first brain surgery. The patient, some man, died on the table, but not before Caroline got an excellent crash course in poking around the human brain.
She set the forceps down next to the Tupperware container holding her body fat. She pinned back her auburn hair, exposing the creamy white patch of scalp she had shaved clean, just an inch above her ear. It glistened with a single bead of sweat in the soft glow of the bathroom light. She tapped the shaved area with her finger.
Numb.
The anesthetic had taken effect. She had only injected herself with a third of the recommended dose of anesthetic for such a procedure—one requiring the patient to remain conscious. A full dose may have made it difficult to stand or keep a clear head. In any case, her partial dose meant there would be some pain. How much?
Putting her hands on the counter she stared at her small frame in the mirror. She wore only underwear and an Alanis Morissette concert T-shirt. She hadn't actually gone to the concert. She'd wanted to. But hadn't.
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In the mirror she could see the reflection of the bathroom window. The curtain was open and the Seattle skyline bled through. The Space Needle was as erect as ever, jutting up from a pubic-layer of fog, reminding Caroline who really ran the world.
Feeling the need for privacy, she turned, drawing the curtain. Liberation was often a lone pursuit.
Days before she'd begun picturing how she would do this. Do it quickly. Do it fast. Don't think about it. Thinking might let the spiders know you're coming.
