Simon Williams's Blog

I’m excited to announce that the cover for the first Heralds of Misfortune book, A Symphony of Wings, has been created- or rather, there are two slightly different versions at this point. Have a look and let me know what you think- and which one you prefer...

https://www.simonwilliamsauthor.com/b...

Meanwhile, all sorts of preparations are going on behind the scenes and I am expecting to have a launch date imminently- very likely to be sometime in late January.

Or any other creature, of course- but I'd like to tell you the story of someone who learned this the hard way.

Some weeks ago I was walking around the woods quite near to where I live. As I walked across a grassy clearing, I discovered a young man who was throwing sticks and stones at a group of crows (there were three in all, so probably a mating pair and their offspring). I made it clear to him that he needed to stop his mindless act. "Everything comes back to you eventually- good or bad," I warned (this is something I tentatively believe, if only because things tend to even out over long periods of time- karma is a great idea but the evidence for it is patchy)

Anyway, he muttered something about crows being stupid, dirty creatures. "They are not stupid," I pointed out, "and they will remember you. All crows will remember you. Now *I* know your face as well. Don't let me see you here again." (The actual words I used may have been somewhat less polite, but they were just as ominous).

But he got the idea and made himself scarce.

Then, last week, I saw him again in a different area, near the edge of the woods. It was a cold day, with the promise of sleet in the air.

He was being attacked- well, swooped down on and frightened more than attacked- by a larger group of crows. I'll admit I was fascinated, but not entirely surprised. Crows *do* remember humans who ill-treat them… but more importantly, they pass that information to others of their kind nearby.

I stood and watched, and as he desperately wheeled around, trying to get away from them, he saw me. "Tell them to get off me!" he screeched, as if I have the power to compel corvids. Which, clearly, this guy thought I had. (I've seen him twice since then and both times he changed direction to get away from me)

I observed as he reached the main track and zig-zagged his panicked way up towards the road, whereupon- having expelled him from the woods- the crows wheeled away, the lesson perhaps learned.

As I walked on, hands deep in my coat, small black shapes swooped past me and called to one another through the low sky.

I guess people look back on the Spring of 2020 in all sorts of ways, and it was certainly a time when, for a while at least, it looked like the end of "life as we know it". And it was certainly the beginning of the end for how things used to be- even if it wasn't quite the apocalypse (that will be the effects of the climate catastrophe, a far, far bigger crisis)

I look back on March, April and May of 2020 now and it feels surreal. This was a period when, for the first time I can remember, I had to think carefully and answer questions like: Do I have enough food to survive? Enough medicine? Will I be okay if electricity supply fails for days, even weeks? What if the water supply is compromised? How will I deal with things if there's a general breakdown of law and order? Where can I hide or disappear to if that happens?

Having to ask and answer these questions, and others, sharpened the mind. No doubt about it. Luckily, the threat of Brexit in January 2020 (this won't mean anything to non-UK-based readers, I appreciate) meant I already had decent supplies- I'd stocked up for a different reason, in other words.

But did I have enough of everything? At that point, I honestly had no idea.

For several weeks I was unable to order food or other supplies from anywhere, so I sat down and worked out exactly how long everything would last me. Maybe it was the disruptive effect of the situation, but I actually felt, during that time, as if a new part of my brain had lit up. Day after day I would think, "You can survive this. Things will be different, but you'll adapt." Something energised me.

The outside world developed a particular beauty. There was hardly any traffic around. No aeroplanes in the sky. I could go walking in the woods and encounter no one. The weather was perfect. Somehow nature seemed a deeper, brighter green, the sky a more vivid blue.

It felt, for a while, as if might be on the verge of observing truly special, without knowing what it might be. I felt this way every time I went out amidst nature. Maybe the animals sensed something too. Deer and foxes were greatly emboldened. Crows fixed me with an intense stare and let me walk past much more closely without them flying away.

The ordinary world- or this weird new version of ordinary that's now emerged- came back eventually. That magic has gone away. But the memory remains- of something like scraps from a beautiful dream, or peering past the horizon, or finding a trail that no one else can see. It has influenced my most recent works in progress, so in a way, although it was sadly temporary, it also became permanent- like all the strongest memories and changes.

I was asked the other day if I regretted anything about being a writer. At first I was about to say that no, I didn’t- it’s what I want to do after all- but thinking back, I realised that there were one or two things I probably would have done differently had I known how it was all going to pan out at the time.

Many years ago, I spent almost a decade attempting to climb the greasy corporate pole, although I never got quite as high as the glass ceiling before something or someone would drag me back down. I certainly wasn’t cut out for the corporate environment, and I was generally pretty unpopular- in retrospect, especially during the final few years of it, I cared less and less, and I certainly didn’t care enough to at least hide my contempt for that particular world.

So I guess that would be one regret (that I wasted so much time in a pointless activity), although I don’t really think about it that much- like everyone else I had to get a job of some sort, after all, and like everyone else I tried to get promotions (or rather, I tried to get a higher salary. The promotion was the penalty I had to pay for that salary). But, not being much of a team player, and detesting having to put on a cheerful, helpful face every morning to all my co-workers, it eventually became clear that it wasn’t for me.

My main regret is that I would have wanted to kick on with my books and get them “out there” whilst I was still young. Everything becomes more of a struggle when you're old, and it seems to sap your energy more and more. The one thing that does seem to have increased with age is my willpower (in terms of sticking at my writing tasks). Sometimes it even wins the constant struggle against that inevitable monster, Decrepitude. But that’s just as well, when physically and mentally you know you’re way past the cusp of the hill and freewheeling down into the shadowy valley.

You could say the two regrets are linked. The path of corporate mediocrity diverted me from the one thing I’ve always wanted to do- and although I can forgive the daily commute with identikit office drones, the tedious tea rounds, people's endless capacity for spiteful gossip, the not-compulsory-but-really-they-are drinks after work (when all you want to do is get the hell home), I really can’t find it within myself to forgive that choking, demeaning world of absolute dullness for causing me to stray from my real path.

But of course, I don’t think about it much. No, really.

Oddly enough, it was the publication of Oblivion’s Forge that really spurred me on to other projects- not just the other books in the Aona series, but everything I've done since. I think partly it was because it generated a certain level of expectation amongst readers, and the feedback was so encouraging. Being on the path and being encouraged all the way is a way to feel that much lighter of foot.

Speaking of which: words to write before I rest...

I recently took the opportunity to read Jaron Lanier’s “Ten Arguments for Deleting your Social Media Accounts Right Now”, which, despite the unwieldy title, was a fascinating and compelling read. No, I won’t be deleting my Facebook or Twitter- not exactly anyway- but then again I use them in a professional capacity, i.e related to my books and the writing process, and the book was more geared towards people who are more personally embedded in the mire of social media. But as someone who used to have a personal Facebook account, it was nevertheless a very interesting read- and I can honestly say that if I did use Facebook or any other platforms in a personal capacity (as opposed to a platform for marketing my books) I probably would be inclined to take his advice. In fact, even though I use Facebook (and other social media platforms) non-personally, there was plenty of good advice about usage and awareness which was of benefit to me.

It did make me think about the various negative emotions that came with having a personal account- seeing everyone apparently having better luck and a better time, or others arguing furiously with one another... the vile shouting matches about politics and religion... although my own reasons for deleting it (and not bothering to create personal profiles anywhere else) were simply that my “friends” shrank by over two-thirds in the space of several years, and frankly there were so few people left who cared whether I was on Facebook or not, that it just wasn’t worth carrying on. In a “personal” capacity I had very little to say about anything anyway. I mean, if you’re careful not to post anything too personal or revealing, you avoid politics, religion and anything else even slightly controversial (because of the inevitable storm of abuse that it creates)… then there isn’t really much left to post. It made sense to just have a Facebook profile for managing my fan page and posting random nonsense or stuff about my books.

Anyway, it was a good read and definitely an eye-opener. The book’s on Amazon (obviously!) for those who are interested.

On a related subject- I much prefer the discussions I have with people (whether they’re fans or interviewers or other authors or anyone else) via email. It’s a “purer” format- you can have a coherent discussion with people on a one to one basis, and unlike WhatsApp or Facebook Messenger etc. you’re not necessarily being spied on and monitored the whole time (unless you use Gmail of course, but that’s another story).

Who knows, by 2022 I may have regressed all the way back to postal correspondence...

The world too often feels like an unsolvable jigsaw, many of its pieces stolen or vandalized. But there have been a few occasions in the last few months when I’ve felt almost as if I can peer over an unobservable horizon, at a world where the interlocking pieces have come together for a moment- where the disparate parts exist in unlikely harmony.

It’s an illusion, of course, but it can be a powerful one. It tends to happen when I’m in isolated, fairly wild places. It can only happen when there are no people nearby to disturb that equilibrium. It’s a quietly intense place. It’s the certainty- however brief- that there is a world that makes cosmic sense, and the only disruptions to that finished jigsaw are people- shallow creatures scuttling all over the world.

To me, it’s also a signpost to the idea that we can be a part of this, if we forsake pointless connectedness and live in equilibrium.

People (except those few who profit from the system, perched at the top of the pyramid and society’s food chain) are deeply unhappy and angry about the world we inhabit- the world our paymasters created. No matter our views on political, theological, and social matters, we are- for the most part- desperately sad. Why? Because humans were not meant to be this way.

That is our unqualified “achievement” – we have successfully enslaved ourselves.

Isolation, on the other hand, always seems to get a bad press. Personally, I have never felt so isolated as during the days when I had a “proper job” and had to put myself through 8 hours in an office 5 days a week- either working, or finding ways to pretend to work when there wasn’t actually enough (which was in fact more stressful), and forcing myself to engage in pointless small talk with colleagues. One of the most fascinating (in an awful way) of human traits is how people in offices feel they have to make small talk and give the appearance of actually being interested in their colleagues. (When I kept responding to every “What did you get up at the weekend?” with “I did some reading” the level of small talk I had to endure did go down somewhat…)

The curse of full-on connectedness (and especially social media, which surely has to be one of humankind’s most horrific inventions- a Pandora’s box with no lid) is that the natural tendency of people to “stick with their own” has become far more acute, to the point that people have moved into polarized, often extreme groups and associations that in many cases never intersect with others- or if they do, only with those that share almost all the same set of “values”.

Meanwhile, the more time I spend away from the connected world, the more I realise that most connections are wholly unnecessary. And little by little, I’m beginning to feel less like a slave and more like a part of something far bigger than myself- bigger, even, than humanity. Which, ironically, somehow makes me feel more connected. Only not to people.

As Lena peered down the steep flight of stairs, a nameless existential fear took hold of her, as if she stood on the threshold of a void into which she might easily spiral as the ground crumbled away. She almost lost her footing and would have done had her father’s hand not steadied her.

The cellar lamps lit the way down as far as the eleventh step, beyond which the darkness appeared so absolute that the steps might have extended into space, and anyone who stepped beyond the eleventh and possibly final stair would fall forever through the nameless void that so frightened her. Lena tried to comfort herself by considering all the special properties of the number eleven, but the juxtaposition of absolutes transfixed her and made any mathematical recall impossible.

“It calls to you,” he said, and she heard a wonder and inexplicable sadness in her father’s voice. “It calls to you, but I’m not sure you can answer.”

“What is it?” she whispered plaintively. “I don’t understand. What is it?”

He placed his arm around her shoulders but didn’t answer. Did his hand tremble a little?

“I often imagined what lay behind the door.” At last Lena dared to look away from the void and up to her father. “You would never open it for me. I think you wanted to, but something always stopped you.”

“Had I shown you when you were a child, you might have rushed thoughtlessly into the gloom to be lost forever. Do you remember those headstrong days, when you embraced the unknown without thinking?”

“I remember,” Lena admitted reluctantly.

“And now you think all the time but embrace nothing. This is the right time to show you, or it should be- but maybe it’s already too late.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps too much of the Citadel exists inside you now that you’re a part of its… system. I trust you, Lena- but what if I have nothing left to trust you with? What if you walk away?”

Lena stared at him and wondered if her father had asked her to solve a complex riddle or equation. “Are you ready?” he asked, and his voice sounded as if it came from far away. Momentarily cast adrift from reality, Lena felt with her other hand for reassurance that her father still held onto her, even though she knew he did.

He continued, still in that oddly distant voice, “There are places where another version of the world touches this one. Threads of that touch persist in some hidden places, and this is one such place. Men and women of science would refer to it as an anomaly. Certainly it was a cosmic embrace that can’t be readily explained. I didn’t expect to find it when we came to live here, but perhaps I should have done.”

“I don’t believe in mysteries and miracles,” Lena said with sudden, reactionary ill will. Nevertheless, she looked down again and kept her eyes fixed on the bottom stair as if it might suddenly be stolen by the blackness and wink out of existence.

“I don’t ask for belief Lena. I’m not sure what to ask for.”

Lena shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why show this to me now?”

“Because you had to be shown. What you do with it is up to you, but we must do it together. We can’t let it react. Not without taking measures to hide ourselves from discovery.” Suddenly he seemed frightened.

“Do with it?” Lena was nonplussed. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” he admitted. “If we’re less than certain, we should go back and close the door on it.”

“Do you know what’s down there?”

“No. I’ve kept all knowledge of its existence to myself, which is the one thing that you must do. I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing, Lena. I only know that there’s reason to this. It isn’t coincidence.”

Lena said nothing but tried to imagine how it couldn’t be anything other than simple mathematical coincidence.

“It has changed slowly over time,” he added quietly, “and I think it’s responsible for other things that have changed.” A distant smile creased his lips for a moment. “Perhaps you ought to do nothing other than be its guardian. Then you can pass on the fact of its existence, as I did…”

“No,” she said forcefully. “I won’t have anyone to pass it down to. Anyway, it’s just a dark cellar. It’s part of the house. Bricks and mortar and measurable dimensions. There’s a wall somewhere down there.” As she spoke of comfortable certainties, Lena found her confidence return and the odd sense of an indefinable other place recede swiftly. “You shouldn’t have shown it to me. Shut it away forever, like you said.”

He knew better than to argue. His fourteen-year-old daughter had vociferously denied that she might ever find someone to spend her life with. I don’t need anyone else, she had defiantly declared, more times than either of them could count.

They left the cellar without speaking. Lena felt uncomfortable and frustrated by her father’s silence, as if she had disappointed him without quite knowing why- but she couldn’t think of any questions to ask. Nor could she find any words to lessen his disappointment.

Her father locked the door to the cellar, and they never spoke of the matter again.

From time to time as the years went on, she would observe in his expression a strange yearning, as if he had wanted to fall into that blackness or walk with her hand in hand to open a world beyond their understanding. But fear and protocol kept him tethered to the ordinary, and Lena knew that nothing stood in the shadow of the stairs but a brick wall.

Even then she understood the boundaries and constraints of form, shape and structure at an intimate level- to Lena this was the mathematics of the real- and it was from that world that she would draw temporary comfort over the ensuing years.

And so she could never explain why she averted her eyes on the rare occasions when she passed by the door to the cellar.

BUY EMBERS DRIFT NOW ON AMAZON:

US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B088WF28QN/
UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B088WF28QN/

We live in strange times and I'm sure they'll become ever stranger- all the more reason to immerse oneself in books and escape! Momentous happenings here... I'm very pleased, and relieved, to announce that my new standalone work, “Embers Drift” has now been released on Amazon Kindle and in paperback direct from my publisher.

Cover art is by Tiffany Groves, an astonishing talent. I cannot even use a crayon effectively, so I am in awe of those gifted people who can produce artwork like hers.

Embers Drift is a standalone work of industrial horror, dark fantasy, metaphysics, science fiction- or to put it more succinctly, a collective bad trip seen through the eyes of four main protagonists. I have absolutely no idea what categories and shelves Amazon and other retailers are going to find for it, so this book is destined to have an interesting journey.

Back Cover Blurb

THE ENGINEER - defined by logic and ruled by routine, she helps keep the lights on for the teeming millions. She craves nothing but anonymity. But her quietly ordered life is about to fall apart.

THE VOICE - highest servant of the Mothers, he incarcerates and executes at will. He revels in the void eating him from the inside out. But his privileged and carefully controlled existence will change forever after an apparently chance meeting.

THE DARK RIVER - a troubled wanderer, inside whom impossible forces rage, she has seen the hidden inner life of the Citadel. She knows that another world touches this one, and the barrier grows thin.

THE FINDER - with deep insight and startling visions, he is familiar with unusual investigations. A new case will send him on a journey that unlocks a forgotten past, a revelation that will change his world forever.

In the black and winding alleyways of the Citadel, industrial metropolis and home to ten million citizens, anomalies stir. Things that should be impossible, show themselves to those few who are vessels of the Great Power.

The Mothers, immortal rulers of this vast city-state, are desperate to die. Through stirring the world into chaos, they hope beyond hope that despite the miraculous healing that condemned them to an eternity of misery, they might be granted oblivion at last.

"Things are only deities if you let them be..."

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B088WF28QN/

I’m pleased- no, almost *excited*- to announce that my new standalone work, “Embers Drift” will be released on February 20th (2020, in case you were wondering). I would utter “Woot” or “Squeee” at this point but they’re both so very 2018 don’t you think.

I will hold my hand up and admit it’s been a while since I’ve released anything that wasn’t gaseous in state and pungent in nature- and I’m a mixture of relieved, nervous and euphoric about this. Maybe that contributed to the gas, who knows.

I’m also very pleased to introduce you to the wonderfully talented Tiffany Groves who produced the cover art. Visit her page for more- https://www.facebook.com/skrrll/

Click here to see the cover art

Also moderately excited as my “team” of collaborators / superfans / news-spreaders is expanding almost as fast as my girth right now. It’s all very humbling. Thank you.

Embers Drift is a standalone work of industrial horror, dark fantasy, metaphysics, sci-fi- or to put it more succinctly, a collective bad trip seen through the eyes of four main protagonists. I have absolutely no idea what categories and shelves Amazon and other retailers are going to find for it.

The back-cover blurb *might* be something like: (this is a VERY rough idea)

THE ENGINEER

Defined by order and logic, she is gifted in the cold sciences, a mathematician and engineer- a standard bearer of reason and sense. But her carefully controlled life is about to fall into chaos.

THE VOICE

Highest servant of the all-powerful Mothers, he is both judge and executioner, delighting in the desecration and torture of his victims. Yet the Mothers have plans for him- plans that involve changing him from the inside out.

THE RIVER

A homeless wanderer, a bundle of curiosity and resentment, a witness to inexplicable events. But her strengthening powers may yet be her undoing.

THE FINDER

Dedicated to tracking down the worst of the Citadel’s felons, he shuns other people even as he sifts through their darkness. A new assignment is about to send him hurtling into a nightmare which will force him to question not only his sanity but even his existence.

- - - - - - - - -

Meanwhile, this page gives you handy links to all my other books. The Aona series paperbacks apparently look very nice in a display cabinet- a shame that my cabinet is already occupied by bottles of cooking sherry...

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Simon-Willia...

There's always someone worse off than yourself, apparently...

"Seneth begged silently for death. But the torture continued. At times it would ebb back before it surged forth again like a dark, malevolent tidal force. In only a short while his ability to frame any cohesive thoughts was obliterated. Colour and light flooded his mind, accompanied by horrific images that he couldn't hope to describe. They surged through his tattered consciousness in a swarm of chaos- scenes of worlds he had never known and never would, of ages long ago and times yet to come. He witnessed far more than a human brain ought to have the capacity to withstand. On one level he understood none of this horror, and on another he comprehended everything. It made a terrible, logical sense.

Worlds were born and died in the time he saw all of this. Years, centuries and entire ages came and went. People and cultures that had long since passed into oblivion and would never be known again flared up in his mind like transient sparks, miracles that flowered in brief defiance of a universal darkness that existed beyond his reach and yet cloaked him in its eternal shroud."

Rough draft from work in progress - standalone novel - hopefully launched in time for Christmas.