martyn44

We all have them, those experiences that change the way we look at the world. Sometimes we remember them - Damascus, people, this is the road to Damascus! (which, in my experience, is a pretty ordinary Middle Eastern road...) Sometimes they are just absorbed, unremarked.

One of my favourite film directors - no, my favourite film director - is Andrei Tarkovsky. His work is 'serious art', very often deadly 'serious art' and I believe there is room in the world for deadly serious art as well as MTV attention span, bigger bang superhero epics, vapid chick flicks and Will Ferrell movies (although my world would be much improved by the absence of Will Ferrell movies...) Anyway, back to Tarkovsky and my damascene moment. STALKER is long, slow and painful, not least because you know that back at home is the Guide's utterly disabled daughter. So, the film is about the characters' search for redemption, for transformative magic in The Zone. Do they find it? Hey, he's Russian. Ambiguity rules, ok?

The final scene is back at the Guide's decrepit apartment where we see his virtually discarded daughter move something along the kitchen table by telekinesis.

That one scene made me look at the world in a different way. That one scene informs everything I write. That one scene convinced me that art is powerfully transformative and that, while there's nothing wrong with bigger bang superhero epics in their many forms, I want what I do to aspire to the Tarkovsky standard. Of course I'll fail, but dammit, I'm going to try.

Arrived early, stayed late. Some good panels - the DC 52 one had my very wonderful daughter Melissa on the panel and making a fine contribution - and good scientific presentations (yes, Mars Rovers, that would be you) Attended some excellent readings - now I don't really like George RR Martin's 'Game of Thrones' but he is very good at what he does, and the same applies to Paul Cornell who was inspirational (and if Charlie Stross is an internet puppy what does that make Paul Cornell? Are you sure he wasn't plugged into the mains?) Danie Ware was wonderful. Ecko Rising somes out later this year and I'm going to be boringly enthusiastic about it.

Met and remet some splendid people, while missing others. There was con crud about and the splendid Mike Cobley seemed particularly hit. Next time, Mike, I will buy you a drink. Promise.

Best of all, we got to spend time with Matt and a recovered Lise. That made it all worthwhile, even my exhaustion traipsing around central London as we killed time until our (very) late train arrived.

Back to Bradford next Easter. I'm counting the days.

One of the good things about London is that whatever your geekdom there will be some fellow sufferers nearby to form a support group.

Now I make no secret about loathing London and leaving it being the second best thing I have ever done, but...

One of the best things about living up here in the frozen north is that I only get to gather with my fellow fiction geeks once a year. The rest of the time I can pretend I'm normal...

I've been away from LJ for a few days and came back to a first post on my friends' page that seemed to indicate that one of my friends had just suffered the most appalling loss (I read the posts from newest backwards) Sure enough, it was true. I won't identify him. If you're friends with him you already know. If you're not his name doesn't mean anything.

One of the features of his many posts was - is - his big, shaggy dog devotion to his wife. Not a day goes by that he doesn't tell us how much he loves her. That kind of romance I can identify with. That's how I feel.

Now she's gone. Just like that. He's not alone, of course, but he's in a place where we can't touch him. We can only wait for him to do what he has to do, tell him that we'll be here when he's ready, that we are grateful he allowed her light to shine in our lives, however vicariously.

Once again, the lesson is carpe diem. Tell that person you love them. Do not put off to tomorrow what you can do today. Smell the roses, the coffee, the sea breeze, whatever. Just live.

I haven't posted much lately because, for various reasons, I haven't had much to say, but still enjoying all your contributions as much as ever, despite the BBC saying that LJ is very much as minor venue dominated by Russians...

Wednesday night we went to see Rammstein again. If you don't know, Rammstein are a German band who play German songs - ie not three chord routine love songs - at a volume that is earthshaking, with an industrial grade syncopation that make make most heavy metal bands sound as though they are playing with pots'n'pans and a tea chest bass. Their songs are witty, profound, obscene and very German. These guys are German artists who take their art seriously (if not themselves...) They use the instruments of rock but they are only a rock band north by northwest. They also put on a show with fire and wings and the keyboard player in a very hot cooking pot.

And then there is Till... Till Lindeman is an Ossie who was a good enough swimmer to go to the 1980 Olympics but for injury. He's an actor, a poet, a pyromaniac. He's up there with Jim and Freddie as the very best of front men. He's a bass rather than your usual rock tenor (and above) He may be in touch with his feminine side but you get the strong impression he'd much rather be in touch with your feminine side... He is a leader of men, not boys.

You think rock is just cheap, disposable crap? When it is as good as this, like Pink Floyd, etc, it is anything but disposable. And the chances are you never heard of them despite them playing to hundreds of thousands of fans all over the world every year for two decades. Simon Cowell hates Rammstein.

At the end of the show they came down to the front of the stage, thanked us and bent down on one knee. Those who have rocked, we salute you. They are different. I think they are magnificent. I put them alongside Led Zepplin and Duke Ellington as the best live acts I've ever seen. I seriously recommend you give them a try next time they're in a city anywhere near you. If you must restrict yourself to records, then obey the command of Mott's Ian Hunter. Turn it f***ing up!

My cousin, Jimmy Gordon, died last weekend. I can't pretend we were close, even though he lived three doors along (I could live in just about any street in this town and be no more than three doors away from a relative of some description). Jimmy was a canny lad, intensely practical, always good humoured, always ready to chat. He'll be missed, especially by the multitudinous family of which he was the patriarch (he was a great-great grandfather)

What makes me write, however, is the fact that the family have emptied the house already. Nothing wrong with that, you understand, admirable efficiency (and much quicker than I managed to clear my mother's property) but... The house from which his dynasty sprang, left blind eyed and empty before his headstone is raised. That is just melancholy. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

And once again today's lesson is 'carpe diem', my friends. Carpe diem.

I started a new job on Tuesday - my previous employers just transferred my entire department to a competitor and I was not at all happy about it, seeing as the new people seemed to think it reasonable that I leave the house at 7 and get back 12 hours later just to get to their inconveniently placed office. It is fair to say that I went there angry, warning them that the travelling would affect my health (I'm not young and I'm a chronic diabetic) And I had a hypo as I spoke to them...

Come Thursday, however, I was feeling more relaxed. I'd been made very welcome, the work - routine - is okay and I could see I might be something of an asset there. Then I had another hypo. Shortly after the TUPE lady said she'd found someone who could car share to the office from Morpeth. I relaxed. I decided to stay.

On Friday I had another hypo and the car share fell through, after which a manager, a HS&E lady and a Personnel lady took me aside and asked if there was anything they could do. What could I say? No. Three hypos in four days is not par for my course, even allowing for me being wound up like an old fashioned watch spring on Tuesday. See your doctor, they said. I will, on Tuesday.

The terms of the transfer under TUPE mean that my new employers have to offer me redundancy under my old employer's terms if they cannot offer a suitable alternative post. Suitable means one that doesn't put my health at risk. Lots of my new colleagues have looked at my travelling and told me to pull a sickie. I can't say I didn't consider it, but the hypos were the real thing, and rather worrying in that they left me dazzled for a couple of hours afterwards, not a normal symptom for me. The concern of my new colleagues was touching, and I think I am going to regret leaving them if I have to leave. On the other hand, I can't put my (already fragile) health at risk.

So, I may get what I wanted - redundancy and the chance to write full time again - after I stopped wanting it. As I say, be careful... Watch this space.

With a little bit of positive spin from my union rep and getting my daily words done for the first time in almost a fortnight, I seem to be feeling better today. Don't come too close, though, I still might bite.

I'm awake at this ungodly hour because I can't sleep, and I haven't been able to sleep properly for six weeks now. Why? Because my present employers have decided to transfer my department to another company under what are known as the TUPE regulations, which should essentially mean that I take my current terms and conditions to my new employer. Except my new employer doesn't want me, and has decided - ahead of times - that it will offer me 'suitable alternative employment' at a call centre I can only get to by car, and Cathie needs our car to get to her place of employment. Getting there by public transport would entail a four hour commute, depending on unreliable buses. In the meantime my present employer has witheld information, breached the regulations and, despite the smiling protestations of my boss, treated me with disregard and contempt. On January 3rd my present colleagues will still have each other to call about their discontents. Me, I'll be on my own. So much for being a highly valued member of the team.

In other words, my position is redundant but they - old and new employers - are unwilling to pay me the redundancy payment to which I am entitled. Hey, I do not want to be unemployed, and my chances of finding another job in the current climate are not good, but I see no reason why I should just lie down and be trampled on.

In the meantime I can't sleep. I am distracted - it has just taken me over a week to read through a 63000 word novel to be sent off, a week! I am short tempered. My chest tightens and my stomach churns when I walk into the office. In other words, I hear the black dog howling around my kitchen door. Depression. Hello darkness my old friend. Because I can recognise the symptoms means they will not control me, but that doesn't make them any the more pleasant. Any employer has a duty of care towards its employees. That is a legal term with legal meaning. Right now I don't believe either employer is discharging its duty of care towards me.

Back in the Pleistoscene, when a little message used to pop up on your screen inviting you to confirm 'autosave' - this was in the days of Word for DoS - I lost an entire novel because I did not respond to this invitation and so, when the session was finished an empty file was saved rather than 90000 words. You'll just have to imagine my reaction when I opened that empty file. Various changes were made in my filing system and I did rewrite the novel, from memory.

Now, a few months ago I exchanged my creaking, weary desktop for one with much greater speed, memory and hard drive. I copied everything across and then made sure only my current files were on the desktop. That's what external hard drives are for, backup. I was so paranoid I had two back up external hard drives, but there aren't enough USB ports on the back of this machine, so the older, smaller one was put away.

Fast forward to a couple of days ago when Editor X asks to see Novel Y - one from 5/6 years ago. The folders on the external and back up drives are labelled 'Y' but do not contain file Y. Argghhh! I thought I had given small external drive to kids. No, daddy, you haven't. I even fire up the old desk top and reacquaint myself with why I have a new one. Folder 'Y' does not contain file 'Y'. Sniff. Collapse of stout party. I'll just have to tell Editor X and rewrite it from memory.

Then I ruttle around in my rubbish drawer, looking for the particular USB cable needed to reinstall my wi-fi printer (which has, mysteriously, uninstalled itself) and I find a small external hard drive. Plug it in and look in Folder 'Y'. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition! Not only do I find File 'Y' but I also find the files for Y2, Y3 and what I've written for Y4.

The moral of this story is that not only do ALL writers need an efficient filing system, that 'efficiency' needs to include knowing where the bloody filing cabinet is in the first place!