kaaronwarren

Lots more excellent interviews of contributors to the Apex Book of World SF up at SF Signal I'm really enjoying this series of Q and A.

Today there's Han Song from China. Scroll down for Anil Menon from India, Tunku Halim from Malaysia, and Dean Francis Alfar from the Philipines.

We're having a rather busy time. Friday night we had a feast to celebrate a friend's birthday. They boiled a huge pot of water, threw in fresh prawns, a bouqet garni of herbs and spices, baby potatoes and corn. Cooked it a while. They layered paper on a huge outdoor table, layered banana leaves on top, strained the water off the pot and tipped the lot onto the table. We all greedily ate our way through this wondrous pile.

Saturday we had a farewell party jointly with our next door neighbours. It was lots of fun and involved dancing and drinking a variety of shots in an attempt to clear the two bars. We made a variation of the Japanese Slipper which the 13 year old dubbed "Suva River" and we filled a water cooler with it. Most impressive!

My novel, 'Slights' has scored a couple of recommendations for "Best First Novel" in the Stoker Awards, and there are a few other Aussies on the list, too. Sinister Reads will profile all those recommended over the next few weeks.

This is such a Fijian conversation.

I called my friend Thomas yesterday to make some arrangements. He answered sleepily.
"Hello, Thomas!" I said brightly.
"Hello."
"It's Kaaron."
"Hello."
Usually Thomas is very happy to hear from me but he sounded underwhelmed. He sounded quite different, in fact.
"Are you okay, Thomas?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Are you tired, Thomas?"
"No, I am not tired."
I then asked to speak to his wife.
"Who?"
The truth finally dawned.
"Is this Thomas?"
"No, not Thomas."
"So I have the wrong number?"
"Yes."

I apologised and hung up. The man was so polite he didn't want to tell me I'd dialled the wrong number!

My fascination with marginalia meant there was no way I could leave behind "Who Did What an illustrated biographical dictionary". Apart from the fact I think there should be a question mark in the title, a previous owner has written their additions in the front cover:

John Newton (sailor then clergyman) wrote the poem "Amazing Grace" then mayed into song.
Silent Night translanted 300 languages, written by Catholic priest, first perform in 1817 Oberndorf Austria. German soldiers sang 1914 on the Western Front.

and others.

We spent a while the other night looking up surnames of people we know. I can't claim any famous Warrens because that's an adopted name. There were no Hansons and no Farrers.

We also tried to find Australians and New Zealanders in the book but they were few and far between. Not one Pacific Islander, I don't think.

Anyone want me to look up their surname? Anyone got any suggestions of Aussies or Kiwis who might have made the cut?

It's been rather an eventful week. My story in the Guardian Weekly has drawn some jealous responses from people wanting a poster; sorry, but I gave all the big ones to BearCage Productions, the film company making the "A Positive". Yes, I've seen the movie, and yes, it's bloody brilliant. Links and announcements soon!

I took Donna and Matthew in to see the hardware store for themselves, and they stocked up on some smaller posters. The fella behind the counter told us they had a whole room of posters. "Full floor to ceiling," he said. But the only man with the key was in Auckland. He won't be back till I've left the country! Oh, the tragedy of it. I can imagine the treasures slowly mouldering in that room.

One thing I wanted to do before we left Suva was to use the magic words at a certain supermarket. This supermarket, called Uno, sometimes carries French Cheese. Word goes out and it's all gone in a couple of days, so you have to make sure you know the right people. I'd also heard that they had great vegetables, but every time I've gone in there, it was floppy celery and old fennel.
Then I heard about the magic word. It's not enough to say, "Do you have any cheese? How about great vegetables?". You have to say, "Can I see the freezer room please?"

J and I went in last week and used the magic words. The freezer room was opened up to us. Inside; asparagus, corn, mushrooms, bright green broccoli, bean sprouts. Wonderful stuff! Here's a really bodgy photo of the fellas who work there, taken with J's phone:



They are really lovely guys, and all wanted to jump into the picture!

Lots of writerly announcements over at my wordpress page! Make sure you check out my story in the Guardian Weekly!


austspecfic (Donna Hanson) and Matthew Farrer are visiting at the moment. It's been a very eventful couple of days, with rapid departures, a visit to a village with more bras, and an amazing book launch last night at the US Ambassador's residence, where he called me his favourite writer!

He launched "A Woman in the South Pacific", by Sheree Lipton. What a fascinating woman. She's one of those amazing people who cut right to the chase, who know you the moment they look into your eyes. She's had an adventurous life and she's written about it in this book.


More details soon.

I forgot to say: I'm on Twitter as KaaronWarren.

Photo catch up time!



Photographic evidence of the 'chicken on the shelf'.

On Friday night, we went to a Halloween Quiz night. There were no horror questions and I was rather annoyed. I was all prepared to show off and I barely got the chance to. Here I am in my costume. I'm wearing a shirt my kids think is too scary; she's a crazy little girl with an axe. She says, "Calm Down!" So I dressed up as her.



On Saturday night, I read my children's story "Dig Dig Dig" at a Halloween party at the American Embassy. What a fun party! Somebody made green finger biscuits, using almonds for fingernails. And we had to stick our hands in bowls full of gross things like chicken feet and boiled eggs in custard.

Sunday was my son's 11th birthday. 11 on 1.11. Most auspicious! I bought him an Indiana Jones cake, and none of us can bear to eat it.



My dear friend Clubbie made me a Dolly Varden cake once, and  it was so beautiful I refused to eat it. I kept it for a month or so until there was more mould than cake, then I finally had to throw it out. I was forty at the time.

We decorated the spare room to be a magical birthday resort. The purple balloons were fully poisonous; all the dye came off on fingers, dyed my nails dark black, and our lips, too. We blew up about five then I took them back to the shop. Of course the manager just stared at me blankly when I told her they should take them off the shelves. I'm sure they will still be being sold today!



A very busy weekend!

My Halloween post is to say that Harry Markov at Temple Library Reviews has a great short interview bit with a bunch of writers talking about what scares them. Creepy stuff! As I wrote my answer, I remembered something I'd forgotten from when I was a teenager. Interesting these small nasty events which we can manage to forget.

We had my son's birthday party on the weekend, as those who follow me on Facebook would know. Last year we had the whole class running wild around the garden and bombing all the water out of the pool. This year, he wanted just a few friends for dinner and a sleepover.
We hired a mini van for the occasion, because of course we don't have even one car, let alone the two needed to ferry us all to the restaurant. That was fun! It has flashing disco lights, and the kids shouted at the tops of their lungs as we travelled.
The restaurant is Shabu Shabu, a Teppanyaki restaurant. You can imagine how proud we were that M chose this rather than Maccas. Just as proud as I was last night when both kids had olives on their pizzas! We had to have pizzas because both mozzarella and mushrooms were at the shop. The last time they were both available at the same time has faded into memory.

So we ate our good food and drank our miso soup. The kids all had a Chapmans, the local name for a bitters, lime and lemonade. I'm not sure who Mr Chapman was (I can be fairly certain he was a mister) but whoever he was, the drink's named for him.

Then home again for cake and playing with birthday presents (including a table top cricket game J is very keen to play) and then all kitted out with mattresses and pillows and blankies in front of the TV. J and I watched movies on the lap top. It was about 3am when I woke up and suggested to the boys it might be time to think about going to sleep.

Really a very civilized party. We made a huge fry up the next day with sausages, bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and we swam and played until lunch time, when everyone had to go. Far less exhausting that the extravaganzas of previous years, though I wouldn't have missed a single one of them.

On Sunday we went to dinner at a friend's. She has carpet. Soft, soft carpet. Such a rare thing! It's all tiles, or floorboards, or tough carpet these days. Her carpet was so soft we all had to sit on it. I made a bloody marvelous potato salad. Roast potatoes, boiled eggs, chopped finely, diced gherkin, chopped spring onion and homemade roast garlic mayo.

I could take photos of almost any book in the reference section of Suva Public Library and send it to Awful Library Books. The EU just set up an information booth, but unfortunately the only information provided is about the EU. I do wish they'd used the money to buy an Encylopedia. The newest one on the shelves is 1982, I think.

I went in to do some random absorption research. Because all my weird books are in storage (I'll be seeing you soon, books!) I have to look outside for this. I'm getting to the stage where the next novel will begin, and my brain is a thirsty sponge, looking for input.

I sat down and looked at The Prison Experience, photographed by Morrie Camhi. Some amazing photos and each prisoner had something to say about life inside. Sad and disturbing. Page 101 was missing; torn out. Why? Why that page? Searching for the book online to see if I could look inside, I came across another: Ken Light's Texas Death Row. Chilling photo here.

I'm in the process of running down our food stocks for departure. Can take tins home with us, and bottles, but nothing opened and I'm not taking anything floury cos of the little creatures who might be living there.

So I wouldn't let J buy new Worcestershire sauce the other day. I thought, if we need it, we'll borrow some. I didn't want to buy some 'just in case'. It has become something of a bone of contention.

Particularly because on Friday, I had a yearning for my own version of chateaubriand. My god it's good. With a visitor here and neighbours available to make it all worth it, I bought a lovely fillet from our lovely butcher shop. The wife forced a huge slab of meat on me and I didn't have the heart to tell her to cut it in half.

All I needed then was a small jar of mustard. Just a  tiny jar. That's all. But no supermarket in town has mustard. "Nobody has mustard," I was told.

In desperation, I hauled my arse, and my big slab of fillet, down to Cost Useless. I wanted to avoid that shop, because I knew there was no such thing as a small jar of mustard there. Still, it was worth a try.

What did I come home with? The only size of mustard available in all of Suva. A double pack of 850g. Yes, we now have almost 2kg of mustard to eat in seven weeks.

As you can imagine, anyone who enters our door hears about the fact we couldn't buy one small bottle of sauce for $3, but we could buy two huge jugs of mustard for $16.

I stand by my purchase, though. The chateaubriand was bloody marvellous. Recipe on request! And the huge slab of meat lasted us through two picnics on the weekend and will feed the cats tonight!

Yesterday was bra delivery day.

Out in the remote villages, where sometimes families might earn $200 in a year, even $3 for a second-hand bra is too much. So some friends here collected bras from their family and friends back home. Meantime, we sorted out our house for our imminent return to Australia, and had a car-load of clothes, toys and books to give away.



Here's our cat guarding all the stuff we're giving away.

Here she is in the cat hotel my daughter made for her. She is such a good cat, sitting in there!



We set off for the village just after 8. It's a two hour drive from Suva, half of that on muddy, deep-holed road.

Beautiful, lush, hypnotic scenery along the way. The smell of it, the literal taste of it, fills you with a deep sense of calm as you travel.

We stopped at the local school first, to drop off the toys and books. Didn't those kids love us, with our huge bag of lollies, and our listening ears!

These are the chiefs assembled to hear our sevu sevu, which is the apology for any insult we may accidentally bring, and a thank you for the invitation. The fella in the middle reminded me and OJ (visiting dear friend) of Sammy Davis Jnr! Had the same zippy footwork, the same snappy lines.




We talked about the needs of the school. They have five teachers for the 175 children. The children were so bright and intelligent, it was a pleasure to talk to them. They love to have their picture taken and will all run to push their way into frame. I talked to the Year5/6 class, and they said they loved to study health and the environment. Here they are on their verandah. Me and OJ in front!



The mothers take it in turns to cook the hot lunch, usually cassava and taro leaves. It smelt really delicious. Here they are in the lunch bure with the day's chef.



And here they are, jumping for lollies! Luckily we also took a big bag of toothbrushes.



Leaving OJ behind to fix the school computer (run by the petrol-reeking generator), all the ladies went up the hill to deliver the bras and other second-hand clothes. We entered a largish bure to find it completely full of the village women! Bras went flying around the room, people paraded around demonstrating the fit and much hilarity was had by all.



Then it was back to the school to pick up OJ, then on the road home. Here's the bridge builders who stepped aside so we could cross:



What a fascinating day. I do rather feel like "Lady Bountiful", swanning in with my donations, but you know? The villagers don't feel like that at all. To them, we were just welcome visitor bringing gifts. They are so proud and confident.

And did you see all the stuff we cleared out of the house? Excellent!

I took my daughter to the Private Hospital on Sunday with an infected eye. No big deal, but with the public holiday on Monday, there were no doctors around. It's the first time we've been there in all our time, so not a bad record.

The Public Hospital is the one I always show people. It has no money, so the exterior is all peeling paint and broken bricks. Inside, there is adequate care, but the nurses are paid badly and work long shifts, so will sometimes sleep while working. Patients have to bring their own toilet paper. There are a number of charities which help the hospital. One gathers items into toiletry bags for new mothers. Things like nappies etc. My American dear friend raised funds to brighten up the outpatient cancer ward there, and gave it all a good clean while she was there. Nice curtains, a light paint job, new furniture; it looked better after, that's for sure.

I don't feel like you can talk about one hospital without mentioning the other.

The Private Hospital is clean and well-maintained. Mind you, the Public is the one which has the one and only baby monitor, so a mother staying at the Private has to travel to see her baby being cared for at the Public.

Anyway, so N and I walked into the Private Hospital to get her eye seen to. She was nervous, of course, because it's a hospital. I filled in her form, which was very Fijian. It said, "Father's Name", but wasn't interested in the mother's name. This is because the line is drawn from father to child. So a person's village is not the one they grew up in, but the one their father grew up in. Knowing the father's name means you know which families you are connected to.

We waited a while, and saw a very efficient and spot on doctor. N came out smiling.

As we paid ($28 Fijian. Yes, that's right. For a Private hospital visit) a poor young woman came in obvious great pain. Pain is interesting in that the outsider can't actually see it. You can see how it affects a person. But you can't SEE a headache. This woman I felt like I could see her pain like a black cloud engulfing her entire body. She'd obviously been lying in bed trying to suffer through it; she had bed hair, a crumpled t shirt and a sulu loosely wrapped around under her arms. A young man was with her, and two older women. The triage nurse sent her straight into the examining room.

I hope she was okay. I hope painkillers gave her relief in the short term.

We walked out to get a taxi (why I need a taxi is a long and irritating story involving flights to Japan and the longest trail of incorrect car parts you've ever heard) and found one in the deserted streets within a minute or two.

This dear Indian man; when he dropped us off he said, "Baby sick?" in a very tender voice. My daughter, who's 8, found this rather delightful! She didn't mind being called baby!

Waterstones UK has ebook versions of four Angry Robot titles! You can order 'Slights', 'Moxyland', 'Kell's Legend' and 'The Angel of Death'.

'Moxyland' by Lauren Beukes is so good I read it twice. 'The Angel of Death' I'm planning to buy because it sounds like my kinda book!

I'm not sure if you like to read while you eat. I know it's not a good idea, because you don't concentrate on the food and forget you're eating and eat too much. But I love to read while eating. Today I read some of William Vollman's 'Poor People'. Vollman is a top five writer for me. 'You Bright and Risen Angels' a top five book.
'Poor People' is an essay on poverty. He's such an amazing writer. The first person we meet is a Thai woman whose neighbours think she's rich because her mother owns a TV.

I ate leftover chicken and sweetcorn soup while reading this at lunch time. Soup is a good reading food, because you only need one hand to eat.

What's your fave book-reading food? And I don't mean crisps. Don't talk about crisps or potato chips or I'll have to go buy a bag and eat them.

One of my minor fictional inspirations/obsessions is caravan parks on and off season. Here's one reason why: Go take a look at this post by my friend julianstevenson .

The World SF News Blog is running a round table discussion about how the environment informs our writing. They've asked writers from France (aliettedb Aliette de Bodard), Mexico (Silvia Moreno-Garcia), India (Vandana Singh) and of course Fiji/Australia!

Next year I'll be back to plain old "Australian writer".

ellen_datlow has just posted her Table of Contents for 'Tails of Wonder and Imagination'. Cat stories! You can imagine how excited I am to be on the list. They are all reprints, but I've only read one or two before so am thrilled Ellen has gathered them together.

My story, "Tiger Kill", first appeared in a surreal magazine called The Earwig Flesh Factory. I think they only did two issues, but it was a great mag. I have it in storage otherwise I'd pull it out and see who else was in my issue!

The story was inspired by reading about the use of tiger's penis as an aphrodisiac. One friend got half way reading through this story and refused to read the rest of my short story collection! I think he was over-reacting, but  it is a pretty vicious tale.


Through the Looking Glass (excerpt) Lewis Carroll

No Heaven Will Not Ever Heaven Be… A. R. Morlan

The Price Neil Gaiman

Dark Eyes, Faith, and Devotion Charles de Lint

Not Waving Michael Marshall Smith

Catch Ray Vukcevich

The Manticore Spell Jeffrey Ford

Catskin Kelly Link

Mieze Corrects an Incomplete Representation of Reality Michaela Roessner

Guardians George R. R. Martin

Life Regarded as a Jigsaw Puzzle of Highly Lustrous Cats Michael Bishop

Gordon, the Self-Made Cat Peter S. Beagle

The Jaguar Hunter Lucius Shepard

Arthur’s Lion Tanith Lee

Pride Mary A. Turzillo

The Burglar Takes a Cat Lawrence Block

The White Cat Joyce Carol Oates

Returns Jack Ketchum

Puss-Cat Reggie Oliver

Cat in Glass Nancy Etchemendy

Coyote Peyote Carole Nelson Douglas

The Poet and the Inkmaker’s Daughter Elizabeth Hand

The Night of the Tiger Stephen King

Every Angel is Terrifying John Kessel

Candia Graham Joyce

Mbo Nicholas Royle

Bean Bag Cats® Edward Bryant

Antiquities John Crowley

The Manticore’s Tale Catherynne M. Valente

In Carnation Nancy Springer

Old Foss is the Name of His Cat David Sandner

A Safe Place to Be Carol Emshwiller

Nine Lives to Live Sharyn McCrumb

Tiger Kill Kaaron Warren

Something Better than Death Lucy Sussex

Dominion Christine Lucas

Tiger in the Snow Daniel Wynn Barber

The Dweller in High Places Susanna Clarke

Healing Benjamin Dennis Danvers

The Puma Theodora Goss

We have regular pest control here in Suva. At the moment they are spraying for mosquitoes, a poison which almost smells good. It tricks you into breathing deeply, and then you feel sick. We keep our doors and windows shut, and we 'off the air-conditioners', as they say here.

The other pest control is done inside the house.

The first time this happened, I assumed it would be men with a big truck, coming around, sealing off the exits and pumping poison through the place. That's the internal pest control I've seen.

No. It was one guy, with a plastic spray bottle.

He was an Indian man of maybe 60? Maybe 70? The first time he came, nobody had told me about a time change, so when he arrived I said, "Oh, you weren't supposed to come till tomorrow." Not being rude, but I did want to have the kids out of the house when he sprayed the stuff.

The thing is though, his reaction broke my heart. It still makes me feel like crying, even now, almost three years later.

He hunched his shoulders, bowed his head. His eyes looked frightened, and his mouth dropped. "Oh, so sorry madam. So sorry. Oh, so sorry. I will come back tomorrow."

I thought, "This is a man who has been so beaten down by life that at his age, when he should stand proud in whatever job he does, be full of the confidence of a life lived, he acts like a beaten dog."

"No, no, please come in now," I told him. I knew that he couldn't come back the next day. And if I told him to come back later, he would just stand somewhere until the time came.

He came in, sprayed our cupboards. I offered him a glass of water, which he refused. He refused it with a big smile, and his eyes were bright as he looked at me.

Every time he came after that, I always made sure to greet him at the door, thank him for his efforts, offer him that glass of water. My housekeeper was always very kind to him as well, talking with him, asking him questions.

She just told me sad news. He died last week. I am happy to know that his relatives put a notice in the Fiji Times; he was loved. He will be missed. I imagine the poisons he worked with had something to do with his death. He never wore a mask, of course, and his job all day, every day, was spraying this stuff and breathing it in.

Isa Lei, old man. Thank you for killing the cockroaches.

Big earthquake in Samoa means tsunami warning for the region, but most reports say the danger has passed. The outer islands are reporting large waves washing over them.
I just had the removal guy in to count our things, and he said his auntie describes large waves but nobody hurt.
As usual, we are fine in our big strong house on top of the hill, but we worry for the others.

Will keep you posted if anything changes, but for now, all good except that we won't go out to see 'Fame' today!