Do you lie awake at night and panic about St Botolph-in-the-Wolds? Do you find yourself one of the many tens of thousands of people today who fear being abducted by feral girl guides high on metal polish and lemonade? Or do you just see a huge night-black, slightly psychotic pony lurking on every street corner, watching you? Worrying, huh?

To make it clear that these are real fears, here is our updated brief guide to St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, in darkest Yorkshire – the village which made Stephen King wet the bed, and caused Guillermo del Torro’s refusal to film in Northern England ever again.

For those new to the subject, St Botolph-in-the-Wolds might be described as a sleepy English Parish set in the rolling countryside of East Yorkshire, far from the hustle and bustle of city life; a village where everyone knows their neighbours, and life is much the same as it was centuries ago.

This would be a stupid description. It may be geographically correct, but life in St Botolph’s is complex, argumentative and filled with new terrors every day. More than one resident dreams of escaping rural existence to find peace in a violent urban crack ghetto, surrounded by burning tyres and daily police raids. People may indeed know their neighbours, but they may not always be sure what those neighbours are.

St Botolph’s is a diverse community, with – as we have suggested – serious doubts even as to the humanity of some inhabitants, though it is particularly hostile to Methodists and very welcoming to Belgians. Skin colour is rather irrelevant; the locals already practice such an inventive range of deeply-entrenched prejudices that they don’t have time for racism.

Members of the Women’s Institute are heavily armed, and the local Girl Guides are seriously dangerous, with a long-term Brasso addiction. St Botolph’s Mixed Infants has its own howitzer, and Mrs Gayamurthi’s All-Nite Wholefood Shop (closes 9pm) provides the most flammable naan in the Western hemisphere, along with her famous Mango’n’Pilchard ice-cream.

Scholars are divided as to what makes St Botolph’s so unusual. There is no doubt that the looming presence of Whateley Wood, north of the village proper, plays its part. Home to the oak, the Western Hemlock and an especially offensive type of briar, the woods contain many remains of early fertility and sacrificial cults. These include obscenely carved altars – where the Womens’ Institute leaves offerings of home-made raspberry jam at key times of the year – and a gleaming black stone from antiquity, whose surface is chill and moist even on the hottest day. This stands alone in a clearing which smells of charred bone, and is marked ‘Pickering 14 miles’. The sheer malevolence of the woods can be seen from the fact that Pickering is not actually 14 miles away. And it’s in the other direction.

Paths through the woods often appear and disappear at random. The unwary traveller may find themselves lost in a ravening gloom, surrounded by nightjacks and tendrilled things – or worse, may end up at Malton bus station. The main section is also inhabited by a large colony of bronchitic whip-poor-wills. Normally typical of the witch-haunted hills of New England, these small, coughing birds are always on the lookout for souls to conduct into the Afterlife.

Or perhaps its origins are to blame. It has been variously claimed that the village started life as:

• A Bronze Age ritual site for the disposal of unwanted otters
• A shrine to Botothqua, Mother of Persistent Slime, worshipped by at least three people in the early Iron Age but somewhat neglected since 557 BCE*
• An open toilet for the Auxiliary Roman Cavalry unit based at Malton
• A failed attempt at creating a refuge for agoraphobic Vikings

*See ‘Mucus and Myth: The Peculiar Deposits on some Northern La Tene Artifacts’, Ichabod James Marsh (BChD), Journal of Unreliable Archaeology, XVI, pp23-48)

There is no single agreed origin for the settlement. Stories of the past, many of them highly dubious, are common currency in St Botolph’s. There is no doubt, though, that in Victorian times the village was genuinely home to Ebediah Crake, the least successful Wolds murderer in history. J Linseed Grant says of him:

“In 1839 he failed to kill an entire family of seven living just outside York, being distracted by ‘a littul kitten what had a poorly paw.’ And in September 1842, Crake helped a frail old lady into a carriage and then secured her luggage to the rear, telling the driver to go gently. His actual instructions, from one Septimus Grange, an itinerant ferret-grinder, had been to garotte her and leave the body in a ditch so that they could share the contents of her purse. Grange was later hanged for interfering with two unrelated goats.”

There are many other fascinating examples of myth and folklore in the area. The tale of mist-shrouded Cooper’s Field, northwest of the village, is always popular during Ramadan:

“Legend had it that a skilled cooper once set up his trade there, relying on the woods to supply timber for his intricately fashioned barrels. Not long after, he died.”

It isn’t much of a legend, to be honest, though there are more worrying ones, such as that of the St Botolph Grinder…

“Last Thursday’s talk at the Church Hall resulted in very few people being hospitalised. It included a rousing presentation on the nature of the St Botolph Grinder, a brutal spirit with adamantine teeth which extracts the bones from local children, but leaves a shilling on their pillow afterwards. Or a tangerine. Local historian Edith Cremble amused the mostly intoxicated audience with her comparison of the Grinder to the Appalachian slaughter-wife, a similar myth common in Western Canada (despite being surprisingly violent, the slaughter-wife has no sense of direction). The talk ended with an open discussion on the role of metal polish in English folklore, and whether or not anyone could remember where the nearest bus stop was.”

LEGENDS OF OLD ST BOTOLPH’S No.64: The Blessing Stones

“Certain curiously shaped stones can be found in the Wolds, and these are said to offer protection against the creatures of evil. When examined closely, a number of the larger stones also have arcane markings and script, such as ‘My other stone’s sedimentary’ and ‘Call 577432 to advertise on this stone’. And it is true that if you throw enough of these warped rocks at the monstrosities of the night, you might at least give them a broken tooth or two before they drag you down.”

St Botolph-in-the-Wolds is also on the edge of the Wold Newton Triangle, an area long know for its strange meteorites, disappearing rivers, early mounds and so forth. So that probably helps. With Grimdyke Moors, Buttersmite Fell, Whateley Wood and a range of stark, haunted crags surrounding the village, Yorkshire temperament must play a part in keeping humanity present in a location for which it is hardly suited. That, and a poor sense of direction.

Despite the fact that the Ordnance Survey have refused to mark St Botolph’s on the official maps, citing public safety concerns, certain authorities such as the military are aware of it. RAF pilots, for example, have strict instructions not to fly over the area, ever since one of the Tornadoes from Staxton Wold came back with more wings than it had when it set out.

Given the above, it is perhaps no surprise that religion plays a large part in local life:

But we must be away, and we should be remiss if we did not mention that famous protective spirit which guards the sanctity of the Parish, occasionally crippling parish members by accident (or when in a bad temper). Born in a barn on what is often referred to as ‘the farm’, the coal-black, slightly psychotic pony known as Mr Bubbles is known to fight the forces of evil far and wide across the Wolds. Unless he is bored, or hungry, at the time. Teamed with his cheerful (and only) friend Sandra, plus occasionally her cousin Mary and his lurcher Bottles, he is the colossus which bestrides the area – but with more legs.

MR BUBBLES AND THE BLACK HEART OF CHAOS

A thrilling weird fiction story by J Linseed Grant

The hunched acolyte flung back its cowl to reveal a face that spoke of the long dead, the sleepless dead who claw their way through worm-mark and rotting coffin-wood to drag air into lifeless lungs. The eyes were blank, glassy, no longer fit to measure the world above; the splayed nostrils ran with foul and discoloured ichor.

“He is the Void, and the Heart of the Void,” it cried, “The Primal Chaos to which we must return. He is the Insanity which even madmen cannot bear!”

Mr Bubbles munched on a mouthful of particularly juicy couch-grass. His backside itched.

“He is…” The acolyte squinted, and one eyeball slithered onto its cheek. “He is the God feared by Gods, the bubbling, insensate core of All!”

“You should get out more,” said the pony, and trod on the acolyte rather firmly.

Later, he found a parsnip, which was nice.

The Journal of J Linseed Grant is explored every few days in jlg’s Facebook entries, usually with dire results, and the occasional Mr Bubbles tale turns up there as well. All posts are public, so you don’t even have to pretend to be a Friend, though if you Follow you might get warned! St Botolph-in-the-Wolds features in many stories on greydogtales (and the odd one elsewhere). If you want a sample, you could try this heartwarming story of a simple village play…

http://greydogtales.com/blog/the-wreck-of-the-natividad/

So farewell for now, and remember – your nightmares are Nature’s way of telling you that you;’re doomed…

To make a change, today a little unpublished fiction from greydog – three short, instructive vignettes concerning Mr Dry, the Deptford Assassin. If you do not know of him, then these three will explain quite a lot…

“Oh, and by the by, have you met Edwin Dry? No? Then you’ve not yet encountered one of the most ghastly characters in modern strange fiction.”

—Matthew M Bartlett, author of Creeping Waves and Gateway to Abomination

1. HAMMERSMITH, IN THE DRY SEASON

The office of James Henry Grange, Superintendent of Police for T Division, is cramped by nature, and the more so for the unwelcome presence of Scotland Yard. Sharp sunlight catches far too many polished buttons, and hurts Grange’s eyes. His visitor is brusque and self-assured.

“There were three murders in your division’s territory this August, superintendent, yet I have seen not a single file which might enlighten me as to your investigations.”

“No, sir. You have not.”

“And why, pray, is that?” The commissioner paces, waiting for incompetence to expose itself.

Grange tugs at his moustache, flexes fingers which ache from hours of writing mundane reports.

“Three murders indeed, sir,” he says. “No connection between the victims, no sighting of any possible perpetrator, no common touch in how they were killed. No logic of family, trade or geography, excepting that they were, as you say, within my division; no shred of evidence or betraying mark at the scenes. A precise death for each, within seconds. Wire, knife and bullet.”

The visitor scowls at this litany of absences. “But you have informants, man!”

“I have. Not a one of them will even pause for coin. They are mute, sir, more like to throw themselves from Marlborough Wharf than speak a certain name…”

The commissioner halts, his last step an awkward shuffle of boot on polished floor.

“You are implying–”

“I am informing you, sir, as to why there are no files to peruse – and why I will not send my men into the darkness only to fail or perish.”

The commissioner swears, a most ungodly oath which would appal his wife. “Then it is…” He will not say the name.

“It appears so,” agrees Grange.

A bead of sweat forms on the senior officer’s newly-shaven upper lip, and he makes for the door, strangely eager to be down his club and discussing his modest portfolio of shares, the weather, anything but Hammersmith.

The two men never speak of this again.

In the August of 1895, Mr Dry passed through Hammersmith. He found the experience lucrative, but unchallenging…

“In his stark and sinister Victorian England, a resourceful heroine must pit her psychic gifts against the dangerous skills of a chilling assassin. Grant has achieved something altogether rare: a genuinely unique take on the Jack the Ripper murders, in which the famous killer is actually upstaged by the author’s original creations.”

—Amanda DeWees, author of A Haunting Reprise and The Last Serenade

2. PASSING TRADE

Martin Gray was seventeen and a half years old, a tall youngster who was blessed with a kind heart and clear skin, the Good Lord’s compensatory gestures- somebelieved- for making Martin the only child of a shiftless father and a drunken mother. As a result of diligence at school, and after repudiation of his family, he had been taken on as a junior assistant by Geo. Smails, Gentleman’s Outfitter (Mr Smails being awash with daughters). The boy had modest ambitions, and a good eye for the breadth of a man’s shoulders, the way in which a particular stride might require adjustment to trouser hems.

The customer before him this morning did not seek adjustments. He required a hat, a bowler hat, which was exactly the same as the one he was currently wearing.

Martin did his best, but his hands shook as he sorted through the neatly labelled hat boxes; his voice quavered as he requested that the man repeat his size (how could he have forgotten that?). And in the end, a suitable bowler in his hands, he said it. He could not help himself.

“I… I did see you. In the alley, that night by the presbytery in Hoxton – and then they said… they wrote in The Courier that Father Groves was dead, slaughtered…”

Mr Edwin Dry, who was neither tall nor young, regarded the assistant. Eyes which might have been faded blue or deepest black seemed to be considering the future of Martin Gray.

“His throat was half sliced through like soft cheese, said the papers,” the boy continued, “And after, all that gossip, and him accused of such things as a man of God could surely not have…”

Martin’s own throat tightened, as if it felt the garotting wire start to bite; his lungs were unable to force out the rest of what he wanted to say, wanted to ask.

“And will these no doubt interesting facts,” asked the most feared assassin in London, perhaps in Europe, “Make it difficult for you to supply me also with five imperial collars, lightly starched?”

“N-no, sir.”

Mr Dry examined the new bowler, and gave a satisfied nod.

“Then all is relatively well in this sorry world,” he said, and brought out his pocket-book, that he might pay for his acquisitions…

Martin Gray married the generously built Georgina Smails, and lived to be seventy eight, with four healthy grandchildren. There is no official record of the birth, life or death of Edwin Dry.

“Mr Edwin Dry, the Deptford Assassin, is one of the most evocative presences in modern dark fiction – precise, relentless, inexorable.”

—Paul St John Mackintosh, author of Blowback

3. MR DRY MAKES A JOKE

He has killed with a seamstress’s needle, and with a Catholic bible; with a rigid finger and with a studded boot. To be owned by, to be fixated on a particular weapon or method, is a sentimentality to which soldiers, murderers and children cling. But he does favour the blade, for its silence and its ready interest in the work…

The moon above Lincoln’s Inn is white and lifeless, a disc cut from an artist’s canvas; it is indifferent to two shadows in a doorway.

“You signed papers, Mr Kempton,” says Mr Dry, stepping lightly forward. “You forged; you bore false witness. Debtor’s gaol and the workhouse awaited those families you served so badly.”

The lawyer presses himself against the locked door, his fingers slick on a handle which will not turn.

“And you… you believe yourself to be justice?” Kempton manages to whine. His jowls are fat lamb and aged port, all atremble above a stiff collar.

Mr Dry reflects on this. “No, I would not say justice. Dear me, no. I am merely what you might term a learned colleague – a prosecutor who prefers to engage out of court.” He smooths a crease in the left sleeve of his jacket, and slips a gleam of steel from the sheath at the small of his back. “Shall you hear my argument now?”

Afterwards, a nightingale can be heard, the distant trill of a creature lost in its own concerns. The dead man does not raise an objection as Mr Dry cleans his blade, his exquisite blade, on robes of office which are no longer required. The Deptford Assassin lets the expensive material slide between his fingers, and finds it adequate.

“It seems that tonight I have taken silk,” he murmurs as he strides away.

Mr Dry was not entirely without humour.

“John Linwood Grant has managed to create one of the most interesting and exciting characters to come along in some time: the enigmatic assassin, Mr. Dry. Possessed of great criminal and murderous ability, Mr. Dry is a power unto himself, moving like an unstoppable force of nature against evil and, sometimes, justice.”

—Sam Gafford, author of Whitechapel and The Dreamer in Fire

Mr Dry, the Deptford Assassin, can be found in The Assassin’s Coin, by John Linwood Grant; the composite novel 13 Miller’s Court by the talented Alan M Clark and the tolerable John Linwood Grant, and in the short story collection A Persistence of Geraniums by John Linwood Grant.

greydog’s Amazon author pages

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Who is anyone these days? If people are shocked that the iconic cartoon character Betty Boop was originally named Nan McGrew or Nancy Lee, then how will they feel when we reveal the truth behind weird fiction author Betty Rocksteady? Do they realise that Rocksteady is in fact a sheet-welder from Wisconsin, known in the local bars as Acetylene Lil? Or that her love of cats is due to a chance encounter with a handsome but troubled anaesthetist on the set of ‘General Hospital’ in the September of 1998? We think not, but read the interview further down and judge for yourself…

Slightly unlike Betty Rocksteady, Betty Boop (created by animator Max Fleischer) began her career in 1930, and her ‘real’ identity was once another conundrum. In 1932, singer Helen Kane filed a lawsuit, claiming that the cartoon Betty was based on Kane’s style and signature vocals.

It was, however, decided that Kane had drawn her own act from that of Esther Jones (‘Baby Esther’), a black singer and entertainer of the late 1920s, known for her “baby” singing style, who performed regularly at the Cotton Club in Harlem. Kane appeared to start booping only after seeing Esther perform in 1928. As the defence could also add in the Betty Boop look of actress Clara Bow to confuse matters, Kane lost her case.

So Betty and her “boop boop a doop” originated with the African American Baby Esther. Which is neat. And bearing self-interest in mind, we can add that the disreputable John Linwood Grant writes about one of the Cotton Club’s smaller rivals, a black and tan on the edge of Harlem in the late 1920s. The joint was known to Mamma Lucy, the conjure-woman, and Baby Esther would have sung there:

The smooth tones of the saxophone; the taste of cigarette smoke under her tongue. Late Monday night at the Ivory Club, and she was almost ready to fall towards her bed. A last dancer sat on the edge of the stage, listening to the sax and trying to pick gum off the sole of one of her shoes. There were only ten or eleven patrons left.
“Anything here you can’t handle, Marcel? she asked the thin man at her side.
He shook his head. “Lieutenant Chase is crying into his martini again, that’s about the worst of it.”
“Have one of the girl find him a cab.”
“Sure, Miss Garvey.”
She glanced around, checking those shadowy corners of the club where deals were made and hearts broken. Under the peeling stucco of a fake arch, a large man sat protectively over a brandy bottle and a half-empty glass. She peered through the lingering smoke.
“Who’s that guy?”
Her manager hesitated. “Some limey. Been here a few nights, on and off.”
“Trouble?”
“Maybe if someone pokes him. Hettie tried it on with him, says he growled and gave her the hard eye.”
“Hmm.”
Hettie was a pure-gold package, a dancer with the face, body and voice for Broadway. No-one turned her away. Intrigued, she wandered over to the arch and perched on a chair at the man’s table.
“Florence Garvey,” she said softly. “The owner of the Ivory Club.”

‘Hoodoo Man’, Speakeasies & Spiritualists (18thWall Productions)

All this gives us an excuse to quickly insert one of our favourite Betty Boop clips, because the voice of Koko the clown is none other than Cab Calloway, another more famous African American performer closely associated with the Cotton Club:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDATXtewPrg

Incidentally, Helen Kane was also an actress – she starred in the comedy film Dangerous Nan McGrew, from which Boop’s earlier name was borrowed.

The film title was, of course, borrowed in turn from Robert Service’s poem, almost as iconic as Betty Boop, ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew’ (Songs of a Sourdough, 1907).

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

Some rather interesting stuff on Dangerous Dan McGrew can be found here – well worth a look:

http://hougengroup.com/yukon-history/yukon-nuggets/who-was-dan-mcgrew/

Right, then. We’d better get back to the plot. Lacking our own Dan McGrew, today we have Duane Pesice with us, as he interviews Betty Rocksteady…

BETTY ROCKSTEADY BOOPS

by Duane Pesice

Duane: Where should a reader that is new to your work start?

Betty: My collection In Dreams We Rot coming in October 2019 is gonna be a great Rocksteady starting place, featuring a mishmash of my brand of surreal and sometimes extreme nightmarish horror. Until then, I would point you towards The Writhing Skies, my cosmic sex horror novella that won This Is Horror’s Novella of the Year and has been nominated for the Splatterpunk Awards.

Duane: Is there a piece that you are particularly proud of?

Betty: One of the first things I wrote that I was really proud of was Dusk Urchin, originally published in Looming Low. It hits on the black-eyed children trope but with my unique flavor. I really started thinking about how backstory can be hinted at, giving you a full impression of a character’s history without actually stating a lot outright. I also worked on tightening dread even before the supernatural elements come into play, with the goal of making the reader tense as hell without even knowing why.

I’m also super proud of The Writhing Skies and the illustrations I did for it. It deals with some traumatic topics blended with surrealism.

Duane: Whose work do you read, yourself?

Betty: I just finished rereading V C Andrews Flowers In The Attic, which is one of my all time favorites. I love the gothic melodrama and insane twists and turns. Next up is The Trap by Tabitha King, another limited-setting book that I first read in high school.

Paul Tremblay and John Langan are favorites. I also dig Mo Hayder and Gemma Files.

Danger Slater just released Impossible James and I’m stoked to read it. I’m super into Dark Moon Digest and read every issue cover to cover.

Duane: What kind of beer goes with your pizza? And what’s on the pizza?

Betty: Not a huge drinker, just drink the ol’ soda pop with my pizza. Fave pizza has mushrooms and honestly whatever else on it. I’m not too picky.

Duane: Do you consider your work weird, or horror? Or do you leave that to the marketing department?

Betty: Weird and horror are pretty close sisters, and I think my work hovers around the borders of each. The speculative element is important to my writing, and something horrific usually happens but stylistically I bounce around between literary, extreme/splatterpunk, bizarro. Sometimes I’ll have a style in mind when I start writing (especially if it’s for a call or particular market) and sometimes I just write and whatever happens, happens.

Duane: You’ve been convicted of crimes against the empire. What would be your last meal? Include something big to hide the explosives in.

Betty: This is such a weird question! I feel like I should have some funny cool answer but uh, I dunno. I can eat a lot! Some sort of giant all you can eat buffet and I’ll just stuff myself stupid. Pasta, sushi, sweets, everybody.

Duane: Are you involved in any arts besides writing? Any odd hobbies we should know about?

Betty: Yep, I draw too. Used to do a lot of pen and ink stuff, meticulous little crosshatching occult sort of designs, lately more into a 1920s cartoon style on my iPad. I illustrated The Writhing Skies with 20 black and white illustrations, done in a mix of Edward Gorey/20s cartoon style and I think it added a really interesting contrast to the disgusting things going on in the book.

As far as odd hobbies, nothing too crazy. I spend my free time looking for cool dumb junk at thrift stores, playing Just Dance and laying around watching old cartoons on VHS.

Duane: Cats or dogs?

Betty: Anyone who follows me on social media can probably guess that I’m a total cat lady. I have three (Ripley, Ozma and Henrietta) and oh, just remembered another odd hobby – I love to go for walks or hang out in my neighborhood and take pictures of any cats I see.

Duane: Tell us about a work-in-progress.

Betty: So right now I’m working on a novel that’s a modern take on The Collector by John Fowles, where Plain Jane is sick of her social medial persona and is totally thrilled to be kidnapped and set up in a cool room where she can do whatever she wants and not have to worry about bills and rent and work and people-pleasing. But then she realizes she may have underestimated her kidnapper, and faceless queens haunt her dreams, and the walls start closing in.

Duane: Thanks for joinng us. Is there anything else you would like readers to know?

Betty: Yeah, I’ve just started a new podcast with my buddy Popeye Otaku called Popcast, so keep an eye out for that! We’re reading the original Popeye comic strips and they’re really weird and fun, and Troy has some great Popeye impressions.

Otherwise, follow me on twitter @bettyrocksteady or look me up on facebook or check out www.bettyrocksteady.com to find out more.

We reviewed Betty Rocksteady’s The Writhing Skies on here last month:

http://greydogtales.com/blog/quiet-and-writhing-horrors-for-all-tastes/

There are many excellent writers of weird fiction who will not be remembered. I expect to be one of them (well, the ‘not remembered’ rather than the ‘excellent’ bit). But let’s not indulge in the cheerful supportive stuff for a moment, and let’s be real.

I (and perhaps you) have an inventiveness, a voice, and possibly a degree of craft, which exceed those of many authors who sell hundreds of thousands of copies of their books. I will never achieve those levels of sales. And you’re not supposed to say it, but I’m fairly sure I’m a more accomplished writer than a number of people who have contracts with the Big Five publishers. Yet I am largely unknown, whereas people who mass-produce often tedious, by-the-numbers novels have delightful fan clubs and an enthusiastic reception for every new work.

This is what is. It could be that you make choices. You might choose intense, solitary production of work which matters to you, and which has the slim chance of being noticed by serious literary critics, or which may only suit enthusiasts of a specific sub-genre. You might employ moderate use of social media, and hope that your presence and your work gradually seep into the public consciousness. Or you might spend many hours informing yourself about the creation of an audience – marketing, promotion, writer and reviewer networks; newsletters, constant timely book deals and utilisation of every trick in the book. Freebies, swag, book tours, mutual promotion schemes and all that jazz.

Or maybe, sometimes, you don’t feel you have a choice. You are not the sort of person who can do those latter things. You abhor them for the commercialised nonsense which is attached to the game, or you cannot, temperamentally, engage with it. You are a writer, not a witty, social engine. You deliver carefully, even painstakingly, constructed fictions which spring from deep experiences and emotions. You have doubts about the quality of your work, and fear that others will see flaws which are not even in there.

Or – let’s dig relentlessly – you feel that you yourself and/or your approach to writing are marginalised. You feel you are a Voice that They don’t want to hear. There are cliques and cadres of other writers, and it may not be true that you aren’t welcome, but you feel that way. It may be true, but not as often as you think it is. Many are a different gender, colour or sexual orientation to you. They seem to have the control and confidence which you have never raised, or which has been ground out of you.

These are the things we face; the days we inhabit. I’m a positive soul, but I don’t believe in pretending that the issues I mention above don’t exist. Nor do I ignore the fact that some people are not inherently very good writers, and that they should steer themselves more to the pleasure of having created, and have family and friends who thought it neat, and leave it there. Is the grind of years of craft development and thankless, badly-paid work worth taking it any further?

For those of us who must, for those who persevere and those who appear to have a natural literary grace, it is not necessarily any better than it is for those who write a few pieces for their friends, sit back and feel pleased. Maybe seventy three people will get it. Or forty three. It is said that many, many books sell less than one hundred copies. Others might have considered a purchase, but they have never heard of you or your book. They never will.

Large numbers of writers, a century and more ago, wrote ten, fifty, a hundred novels – huge novels – and hundreds of magazine stories. They are remembered for three or four anthologised supernatural tales, and most of their work is gone. Some of it was written from the heart, and had important social and literary relevance; some of it – the bulk – was mediocre and written to pay the bills.

I chose to write short stories at the age of fifty seven. And I could, if I wanted, cripple myself by dwelling on what has been lost, what would have happened if I’d done this ten, twenty, thirty years earlier. I wrote drafts of grimdark novels when the term didn’t exist; I have seen inventive twists I came up with thirty years ago employed and then over-employed in genre fiction. I drafted Imperial Gothic and ‘Penny Dreadful’ storylines before they were popular. So what? I wasn’t there at the right time, and it’s just tough luck.

I do not inhabit, fully, the zeitgeist of weird fiction, and will not achieve that status of being revered or mentioned frequently by the serious afficionados. I could complain about the lack of attention to certain of my dark and serious pieces, and the delightful though bizarre interest in others of less obvious worth. I could wonder if I made poor choices about genre and tone. But it’s just tough luck.

There are no cheering words, not in the sense that you might hope. A rising tide does not float all boats, however much we hope it does. It lifts some of them, but maybe not your boat or mine. There is only one reconciliation, one charitable act for your own good, and that is to acknowledge every fault, flaw and limitation of yourself and the entire writing and publishing world. And then get on with it.

To say yes, it is like this. And some of it is awful, unfair and even vicious in its impact. But you and I write. It matters to us, and it is what is.

I am a writer, and really, I’m quite glad I am. One voice which say “I liked that”, or “That affected me” is more than no voices. Infinitely more…