On My Way to Samarkand: Memoirs of a Travelling Writer (27 page)

I had already had one of my science fiction novels optioned for a movie, by the playwright Dennis Potter, who wanted to turn my
The Night of Kadar
into a film entitled
Cradle Song
or
Orphan Star.
The movie was never made so the final title was never needed. Potter wrote the script but the project, with Twentieth Century Fox, never came to fruition. When I last checked the script was still in Fox’s archives. At the time I wrote to Dennis Potter and asked him how he came across my science fiction novel. ‘I found my son reading it at the breakfast table,’ he wrote back, ‘and took it away from him until he had finished his meal. I read the blurb on the dustcover and found myself getting interested in the theme of the plot.’ There you go, I influenced the great Mr Potter just a little, before his illness took him away. There are two pages of Dennis Potter’s biography (Humphrey Carpenter) covering
The Night of Kadar.

~

During the late ’70s Rob Holdstock encouraged me to go with him to a writers’ workshop group called Pieria
which had been formed mainly by Oxford graduates. There were several intellectuals in the group, David Langford possibly being the most powerful brain among them. There were also Diana Reed, Kevin Smith, Andrew Stephenson, Mike Scott Rohan, Allan Scott, Chris Morgan, Bobbie Lamming, Joseph Nicholas and John Jarrold (who later became an editor and then an agent), and one or two others before my time. Here is a typical list of people and the stories they brought for Pieria 23, held at my own house in Shoeburyness on 10 March 1979.

Garry Kilworth: ‘Dragons of the Mind’
Robert Holdstock: ‘Attachments’
Kevin Smith: ‘Multiple Reflections’
Bobbie Lamming: ‘Stairs and Jimmo’
Andrew Stephenson: ‘The Artisans’
Diana Reed: ‘The Woman Tempted Me’
Chris Morgan: ‘Left Hand, Right Hand’
Allan Scott: ‘Thorgrimm’s Saga’ (Excerpt)
David Langford: ‘Genocide for Fun and Profit’
Mike Scott Rohan: (No story recorded)

I remember a wonderful feeling of being among real writers at last and the immense valuable contribution they made to my sense of being a writer myself. Yes, sometimes my stories were hacked to pieces, probably deservedly so, but on other occasions praise was forthcoming, the criticism and advice always eagerly accepted. Over time I became aware that these offerings were only opinions and I had to make up my own mind whether or not to take them seriously or to heart.

The name Pieria was derived from the home of the ancient Greek Muses. I’m told that Rob wanted the workshop to be called The Flat Mars Society, which would have been much more fun and obviously much less pretentious. That said, Pieria came at a great time for me, having worked alone until that point. Here I could discuss methods and ways of writing, the technical details of writing and creativity.

At this point it might be interesting to the reader to learn what became of all these bright young meteors of literature.

Andrew Stephenson published several science fiction novels and then went on to become a name in graphic novels.

Mike Scott Rohan published many novels, mostly fantasy fiction.

David Langford published several novels but is most well-known for his science fiction fanzine (still going strong)
Ansible
.

Robert Holdstock wrote a multitude of science fiction and fantasy novels and is best known for the marvellous
Mythago Wood
.

Kevin Smith and Diana Reed married each other, had children, and so far as I am aware are still writing when they find time.

Chris Morgan began to write and perform poetry and in the new millennium became Birmingham’s Poet Laureate.

Allan Scott slipped below my radar and I have not heard of him since the ’80s.

Bobbie Lamming published several science fiction and fantasy stories, then went on to publish exceptionally fine literary novels, my favourite of which is
The Notebook of Gismondo Cavalletti.
R.M. Lamming is without a doubt a writer whose work should and hopefully will survive the centuries. Her books are few, due I believe to the fact that each one is wrung from her creativity with extreme care and effort.

She has become one of my closest friends in the writing world and I value her advice immensely.

My forays into workshops with Pieria led on to larger annual writer’s workshop at the Compton Guest House, Milford-on-Sea, attended not only by Brits, but also by foreign science fiction and fantasy writers. The French authors Marianne Leconte and Patrice Duvic, the Americans George R.R. Martin, Scott Baker, Lisa Tuttle (now more of a Brit than a Yank), J.W. Schutz and one unforgettable young itinerant Australian, Randall Flynn, a travelling disaster who managed to throw enough spanners into the Milford works to devastate many years of carefully nurtured relationships.

Other attendees at these workshops over the years, for those interested in names lesser and greater, were Ken Bulmer, John Murry, David Wingrove (who wrote the eight-volumed
Chung Kuo
series), Gwyneth Jones, David Garnett, Christopher Priest, Roberta Lamming, Chris Evans, Pip Maddern, Robert Holdstock, Tony Richards, Andrew Stephenson (whose immaculate records gave me the names and dates of all the Pieria and Milford meets), Alan Farmer, Dave Langford, John Brunner of
Stand On Zanzibar
fame, James Goddard, David Redd, Maxim Jakubowski, Rachel Pollack, Bob Shaw the inventor of slow glass, Kevin Smith, Malcolm Edwards, Diana Reed, Geoff Ryman, Neil Gaiman (Neil still remains accessible to his old friends despite his massive commercial success), Richard Evans, Mary Gentle, Pamela Boal, Kathryn Buckley, Duncan Lunan, Bruce Sterling.

There were others too, before my time, who were great names in science fiction. I know James Blish attended one or two Milfords, and Anne McCaffrey who on first meeting John Murry stared intently into his eyes and exclaimed, ‘My God, you have the eyes of a prune.’

John was shocked by the attack and henceforth avoided this fierce American writer of the Dragons of Pern books.

It was of course a misunderstanding. Apparently what Anne had actually said was, ‘You have the eyes of Elune’, but John had misheard and did not learn of his mistake until much later. Not having read Anne McCaffrey’s books I’m uncertain as to what or who ‘Elune’ refers to, but I imagine he or she is one of her characters.

Samuel R. Delaney was another well-known author from over the pond who was at the earlier Milfords: he who wrote
Dhalgren
, the novel with the wonderful first sentence ‘. . . to wound the autumnal city.’ And the last half-sentence, ‘I have come to’ which seems to almost complete a wrap-around, if you remove one of words.

Apart from my very close male friends, there were some other authors who I felt were kindred spirits in the field. All writers have something in common, but these were people I felt were directly on my wavelength. Lisa Tuttle, the horror-writing Texan from Austin was someone with whom I could discuss all aspects of writing and not run out of conversation. Of her books my favourite is
Gabriel
, a remarkable novel, but my introduction to her was the collaboration she did with George R.R. Martin,
Windhaven
. Then there was the ash-blonde Gwyneth Jones, an intelligent and powerful wordsmith, whose novels such as
White Queen
are outstanding. I also much enjoy her young adult books which she writes under Ann Halam, and of these the one that haunts my memory is
King Death’s Garden
, which she told me she wrote after sitting occasionally in her local graveyard in Brighton with her then infant son.

Gwyneth’s husband Peter is a great guy and clever mathematician who writes books on the mystery of numbers and therefore earns my eternal admiration and respect. Peter was the sort of Irishman I hoped my great-grandfathers had been: an amiable and wondrous man who gives the appearance of understanding the meaning of life.

My first Milford was in 1978. The owners of the Compton used to pass over the place to us (there would be no other guests) and we would be given free rein at the bar, entering our drinks in a book left on the bar. During the day we would variously attack and destroy, or praise and lift, the stories that were brought for discussion. We sat in a circle and took them on one by one, day by day, with frequent breaks for coffee or booze, or the odd walk into town or to the sea front. I found Milford thoroughly inspiring and invigorating, sending me home with a right hand itching to put pen to paper. Some did not enjoy it, it has to be said. One young woman hated it and vented her dislike in a fanzine when she returned home. True, the criticism could be sometimes quite daunting. I remember one story, savaged by Dave Garnett with the remark, ‘I think the title is terrible and the story went down hill from there.’ But for the most part the whole experience was invigorating and energising to people who spent all their working hours alone in a room scribbling down words.

In the evenings we would play word games (oh, these fatuous authors!) among them a version of the radio show
Call My Bluff.
John Murry’s famous ‘tappen’ beat everyone. He gave the definition of this word as ‘
A wax rectal plug which forms in a polar bear’s anus during the winter months
’. Everyone duly laughed and marked it down as ‘false’. It was not. A tappen really is a plug formed out of indigestible mass which prevents a polar bear from crapping itself during hibernation.

Dave Langford was a master of false definitions which had everyone rocking with laughter. One was of a Gallic-sounding word, which Dave defined as, ‘The French word for
vol-au-vent
,’ and another which also escapes me now he defined as, ‘A game played at Eton, involving a fish, a small boy and a long pole.’

Of course, the week got very boozy and smoky, with many discussions at the bar and late-night gatherings. Factions formed and factions died. The intensity of purpose among us, given the proximity of so many egos, grew and grew, until in our heads it seemed the real world existed only within the Compton Guest House, and those outside the walls of the hotel were insubstantial creatures, shadows drifting through an unreal region that was of no consequence. When visitors were finally allowed among us, the last two days of the workshop, I always felt a twinge of resentment, hating to have my precious atmosphere of storytelling and long-distance dreams punctured.

I always remember Lisa Tuttle saying as we left one year, ‘It seems like we’ve been in there forever. It doesn’t feel real out here. I hate leaving what we had in there behind.’

Milford was a ship in which we took marvellous voyages.

Among the many Brits was an author whose literary novels have deep excellence, and who was also to become a dear and valued friend. John Middleton Murry, son of the famous writer and critic of the same name, was probably the most elegant author I have ever read. Along with Bobbie Lamming, John Murry had an enormous influence on my own work, in terms of encouragement and advice.

John Murry, who used also to write variously as Colin Murry and Richard Cowper, was a man who remembered great names from his childhood, such as George Orwell and D.H. Lawrence. Walter de la Mare used to pat him on the head and call him Johnny. Naturally, I found that awe-inspiring and when I first met him I used to hang on his every word. John was indeed an open friendly man full of smiles and good humour. I walked with him to the Milford seafront the first day I met him. The whole sea strand was covered in huge boulders, dumped there to stop the ocean from invading the hinterland.

John surveyed the ugly scene with narrowed eyes and finally said, ‘Garry, dear boy, we’ll have to come back in fifty million years – this will be a lovely sandy beach by then.’

All authors are asked at some time, by people they meet casually, what they do for a living. When a stranger learns I am writer and asks my name, I invariably get the answer, ‘Sorry, I’ve never heard of you.’ It gets boring. John found it especially boring, since he had his famous father’s name, which actually should have been recognised. John used to tell the story about being on holiday in Cyprus with his wife, Ruth. When he was asked for the umpteenth time, ‘Oh, an author, what’s your name?’

To Ruth’s consternation, John replied firmly, ‘Graham Greene.’

The man stared at him while thinking hard, then came out with, ‘No, sorry mate, never heard of you.’

John wrote at least two books which should have won the Booker Prize:
The Golden Valley,
a novel based on his childhood in Norfolk, and
The Pathway to the Sea
. His science fiction novel
Clone
, written under his Richard Cowper pseudonym, was one of the first New Wave science fiction novels that I read, before I met the author, and it was both heart-warming and humorous. You just knew from reading it that you would like the author if you ever did meet him and that he would be a gentleman and a scholar. Corny as it sounds, that was John Murry to the core. He was amiable, generous and absolutely genuine. Not only that, he had a wife of Russian origin, Ruth, who was warm and lovely, and always welcomed us with a wonderful smile. They would invite Annette and me, first to their thatched cottage in Dittisham on the banks of the River Dart in Cornwall, and later to their house in Brighton. We would come away at the end of a weekend feeling that as long as there were people like the Murrys in the world, life was good.

To one of our annual garden parties at
Wychwater
, John and Ruth brought a guest. The woman who accompanied them was Jenny Rowe, the niece of Lord Digby of Sherborne Castle. In fact, Jenny had nursed Lord Digby on his deathbed. Jenny, whose mother was an Anglo-Irish baroness, had heard the story of my chambermaid great-grandmother being seduced by one of the then Lord Digby’s sons. John Murry had met Jenny Rowe at the United World College in Wales, where he taught English. There are two of these great free-thinking schools, the other being in Singapore. In one of those ‘small world’ scenarios I learned later that Gwyneth Jones’ husband, Peter, had taught at the Singapore UWC.

‘We must be distant cousins,’ Jenny said, smiling, as she shook my hand. ‘You must come and visit. Bring a photograph of your grandfather and we’ll study the portraits on the castle walls and see if we can find out which of the buggers was responsible for his birth.’