Karen Traviss, New York Times best-selling author

It lives

The UK edition of GEARS OF WAR: ASPHO FIELDS is now a real and solid thing. Some copies arrived from the publisher today, so, roughly a month late, it'll be on the shelves in Blighty on December 4.

The UK edition is a mass market paperback - in other words, a normal paperback size, not the larger trade edition published in the USA. Apart from the usual branding differences on the cover - a different font for the author name and strapline  - it's pretty well identical to its big brother. It actually looks very good, and if that doesn't make sense, bear in mind that some minor cropping has to take place to fit the original cover on an MMPB, and we're talking about Gears art here. It's graphic perfection. You can't just chop it around like any old cover art. Every line and shadow counts.

Overall - nice job, Orbit.

 

The day to be afraid

This is for readers of voting age in the UK.  A datum line to put what follows in context; I'm not a liberal lefty, and I'm no longer a Conservative member. I'm right of centre and hate all political parties equally. The only axe I have to grind is wanting my country back, because I don't recognise the landscape any longer.

Extraordinarily, this news has hardly been covered today, given the scale of its ramifications:

Shadow immigration minister Damian Green.......was held for nine hours by Special Branch on Thursday and had his two homes and offices searched as part of a Home Office leak inquiry.

If that hasn't scared the living shit out of you, then you either don't understand the implications, or you don't care - in which case, you will get the governance you deserve.

See November 27 for what it is. This is the day that an opposition MP was arrested by anti-terrorism officers for releasing information that embarrassed the government. This is the kind of thing that happens in banana republics, dodgy places in Eastern Europe, and lavishly be-medalled tin-pot African dictatorships. Britain has changed. It's been changing for a long time, changing for the worse, and you've been warned about the slide towards an authoritarian state for some years now. At the moment, Mr Green won't disappear into custody indefinitely or find himself wearing electrodes in interesting places, but after Gitmo I now have no confidence that it could never happen here. It happens a slice at a time.

If you think that's an extreme comment, bear this in mind; leaking of information that governments want to bury is part and parcel of the way that the UK party system runs. (And, of course, governments leak their own information for their own purposes.) It's been that way for as long as I can remember. Nobody is ever arrested over it. Until now. This is not the leaking of nuclear secrets to an enemy in a war. This is a a pretty ordinary MP making public some facts that show the Brown government to be both incompetent and morally bankrupt. (Again.) That's not even breaking news.

But he was arrested. I smell a certain tit-for-tat after Labour minions were arrested in the cash-for-honours scandal.  And to all those Labour apparatchiks who deny they knew it about it beforehand; what contempt you hold us in, and no doubt we've earned it for letting you keep power.  In the event that you're telling the truth, though - yes, I grapple with that oxymoron, but just in case - then the police are now overstepping their remit.

We've lost basic freedoms one at a time. It all happened on your watch, British voters; but you still voted for Labour a third time. If you vote for this government yet again, after they buy your favours with a few temporary tax cuts and some other tinsel-laden shit to distract your limited and superficial reality-TV attention, then you really need to understand where this will all end.  One day, they'll come for you too.

 

 

 

 

A reader writes...

WARNING: contains very minor spoilers for GEARS OF WAR: ASPHO FIELDS.

 

(Look away now.)

 

A reader has asked me about the background of some of the Gears described as South Islanders.

The islands are referred to in the book as not being one single entity - in other words, this is a collection of different states and cultures, some of which have a lot in common, and some not.  (For all I know, the islands may cover a wide geographical area, too. First rule of tie-ins; never fill in gaps that you don't need to.) For the purposes of ASPHO FIELDS, you see Tai Kaliso, Bernie Mataki, Padrick and Baz.

I had New Zealand in mind when I created Bernie, Padrick and Baz, because when I first saw Epic's Tai Kaliso concept, I thought "Maori."  (Tai is a game character, and so if you've played Gears 2, you know what he sounds like. )  Bernie, Padrick and Baz are basically the white migrant population  - or maybe mixed ancestry, I didn't decide - of some of the islands; their accents are a sort of NZ or Aussie accent, which is why they use British/ Commonwealth slang.  From the perspective of what goes on in my head, there'll be some accent similarities on certain words between Tai and the others, even if they come from different islands, rather like Aussies and Kiwis have accent similarities. (Note that I don't say "the same accent" because I don't want to mess with any angry Commonwealth cousins.)

Padrick's tribal tattoos arose out of something I once saw on board a Royal New Zealand Navy ship. The ship's company performed the haka for a visiting dignitary (Princess Anne, I think) and they were all in Maori costume, and some were Maoris, and some were European. I will never forget the sight of a very pale, very ginger-haired guy in full Maori rig. It was a powerful image.

So when you think of Bernie, Padrick and Baz - it's a very, very loose kind of New Zealander vibe.  (I reckon...)

It's not compulsory

I don't read novels.  Can't stand them. I'm very poorly read - ask my buddy Farah, who can gauge these things because SF novels are her professional area   - and I get my entertainment from movies, comics, and TV. If you don't know that by now - and I've been pretty public about it - then pause a moment to read this FAQ from my website before you catch up with this blog.

I mention this fact because I'm getting mail from Gearheads ( noble tribe!) about being turned on to reading by ASPHO FIELDS.  I get very similar mail from a section of my SW readers too, who are more into games or movies or whatever, but pick up the Republic Commando books and suddenly decide that reading can be enjoyable, not a set task of misery. If there was a template for this kind of response, it would read as follows: "I hate reading and I've never finished a book before, but I enjoyed reading your novel, and now I want to read all kinds of stuff."

This is the kind of mail that editors love. We all want more customers.  And it's great for my personal rep, because the writer who can get at the non-reading demographic (and younger male audience) is good for business. But it's also seen as some kind of much nobler grail - the ability to turn folks on the Holy Written Word.

If reading my books opens a door for someone and helps them find a wider medium they enjoy more than they thought they could, that's fantastic. I'm in the entertainment industry.  And I love happy customers.

But remember something; I'm a writer who doesn't read novels, and not just because of time, or fear of ideas contamination, but because I just don't like  doing it. And I resonate with readers who don't otherwise read, as well as the book-devourers who get through a library a week.  I pondered that, and I'm going to vent some heretical steam.

If you become a born-again reader because you've enjoyed one of my books, that's genuinely wonderful. But if you don't - it doesn't matter a damn.  Because books are not sacred.

Yep, you heard right. There's nothing special about novels, or reading them. Provided you've mastered literacy skills - you can read, in other words - then books don't matter half as much as we're told they do. They matter to me, of course, because I earn my living mainly from novel-length fiction. But they're not the benchmark of civilization.

Books have huge emotional impact. The image of a pile of burning books from the Nazi era sums up the end of human decency. Parents wish that their kids would sit down with a good novel instead of watching movies or TV. A book is culturally iconic, conjuring up all that fuzzy, vague, feelgood stuff about quality and intellectualism and wisdom.

But it's all underpinned by the quasi-Victorian ethic of improving yourself - because the middle classes read novels, and the oiks don't. They could lift themselves a little above their station (not too far, mind) by aping their social superiors.   We're talking about reading novels here, by the way. Not newspapers or text books; this is not about literacy skills. This is about the worship of the novel as the purest and holiest form of fiction. And I can't think of a single reason why novels deserve that crown, other than the fact that the middle classes made the cultural rules that we still live by and that are still reinforced by the western education system.

Look, pulping a few trees and smearing ink on them has no inherent value. Marks & Spencer rose-pattern toilet rolls fit that broad description too. Worshipping the novel and sneering at comics or games is as devoid of reason as arguing that a mouse is better than a keyboard for inputting.  Writing and the written word is an input device that creates something in your head - just like sounds or images do - and it's the experience in your brain that counts.   Writing is just another medium. People forget what "medium" actually means - and, to plunder the homily chest, the medium is not the message.

Books are just a different way of getting your fiction. They aren't any better. Just different. You can get the same pleasure and have your brain stimulated equally by playing a great game with fabulous, emotionally resonant cinematics and discussing it wth your buddies as you can by reading a book related to it. 

I'm actually disturbed by the idea that tie-ins are valuable gateways to reading, a view expressed as some sort of validation by some of my colleagues, because it implies that the Other Stuff is more worthy. The dummies will read like civilized folk if we can get them to look past the bookshop door, by tempting them in with shiny stuff they already recognize. Then, glory be, they shall be converted to Real Books.

Bullshit. Sorry, but I don't accept that.

Franchises become franchises because they strike a chord in people and create a following, not the other way around. Many have tried to manufacture blockbuster franchises, and failed completely because the core of it just didn't fly.   There are franchise customers who want to explore their universe in various media, because they get a range different experiences that enhance their enjoyment.  (Yes, the S word - synergy.) Some don't, though, for a huge range of reasons from cognitive variations - maybe they respond better to images or sound - to being turned off reading by bad teachers. It's not about "quality."

We're trying to connect things that aren't connected. Reading novels per se is not some pinnacle of brain activity that you have to climb towards from the pit of games through comics to movies to reach enlightenment. It's not a vertical ladder. It's a horizontal shopfront. Take your pick.

So next time you decide you're happy reading my Gears of War or Star Wars work but don't want to try my other books, let alone tackle Atlas Shrugged and the Booker prize list - it's okay. My motive for trying to get you to read more is to make money. It's not because I think you're now ready for bigger words and cleverer ideas.  (Actually, my Wess'har books are written exactly the same way as my tie-in stuff. ) And it's not because I think reading generally will improve your mind or any patronising crap like that.

If you play Gears of War and can't face reading the book, because you just don't like books - that's okay too, although it would make me happy if you just tried a few pages. I'm a big fan of a certain TV series, and I'll mourn when it's over, but I've never picked up its licensed novels,  and I never will. Not because I think they won't be of the same standard - and I know the guys who write them - but because I just don't respond to reading fiction or enjoy it. I'm a person who needs visual and aural input.  And I like venting what aural and visual inputs create in my head in the form of writing novels.

It could just as easily be in the form of a comic or a game or a poem.

Me writer. You reader. Or not, as the case may be.  Books are not compulsory.

 

 

 

Rarely-visited territory

I attended the annual memorial service for HMS Dunedin with my father today. The warship was sunk by a U-boat 67 years ago in the South Atlantic, and my uncle, Albert Traviss, was one of those who died; my father never knew exactly what happened to Albert until recent years, when I contacted the HMS Dunedin Society, and we began attending  the memorial events. As the living links to WWII become scarcer each year, this  day has become an increasingly important act of remembrance for us.

Albert was killed long before I was born; I never knew him, but I think I know what made him tick.   If you've got a copy of TRIPLE ZERO, then take a look at the dedication;  you'll see that Albert was 17, and served at sea as a NAAFI assistant. He desperately wanted to join the Royal Navy as a seaman, but when he was rejected as medically unfit, he chose to serve in this civilian support capacity instead. Like so many of his NAAFI comrades, he died with the ship's company that he served.

I'm not a religious person - I fall into the very small category of those who aren't curious about the existence or non-existence of god/s -  and I normally make a point of staying away from religion or referring to it in public. Like many Brits, I tend to think that religion should remain a private thing, and the only public manifestation of it should be in the way you treat others. (Hint: that means being a good neighbour and citizen, not chasing alleged heretics down the road with pitchforks.)  I also avoid the R word because it prompts folks to mail me to explain that (insert deity of your choice ) wants me for a sunbeam.  

So, having something of a downer on gratuitous and showy God-bothering (as opposed to quietly living a belief through practical compassion and consideration for others, which is okay by me) I'm surprised that I find significance in public acts of worship. I suspect it's the nature of communal affirmation, combined with wanting to work out what individual people derive from it. Sometimes I even come away from my peripheral involvement with these things having learned something; and that happened today.

The HMS Dunedin memorial service was conducted by a Royal Navy chaplain who I found oddly impressive - I say oddly because clerics of any faith don't tend to make an impression on me, but this gentleman was crisply navy, not just a vicar in a blue suit.  And he shed some light on something I'd absorbed unquestioningly many years ago.  It was the actual meaning of, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." (John 15:13) Like most people, I suspect, I took the meaning to be purely sacrificial, that dying for someone else was the ultimate act of devotion. The chaplain said that "lay down" in this case actually meant being willing to put your life on the line for others;  not necessarily dying -   although we've seen too many service personnel recently doing just that, sacrificing their lives to save their mates - but being willing to front up, and die if necessary.

It's a tiny semantic or linguistic difference for most people, I suppose, and I expect that it defeats the object for many Christians -  the parallel is Christ dying for man's sins, as I understand it, nothing less.  But for me it changed the whole context into something I could actually understand and relate to,  something assertive rather than martyrdom. I'm still processing the reasons, and how that plays out in my understanding of human beings and myself, but it did change something in my perception of the world.

And that seems so much more relevant  and uplifting to me than fisticuffs over who stands where in a church, spitting venom over the ordination of women and gays,  stoning rape victims to death because your god wants that kind of thing, or any of the other bizarre and perverse ritualistic garbage that has drowned out the basic premise of faith - that it's actually about how you treat the bloke standing next to you.

So, back to the point; rest in peace, Albert. I wish I'd known you. But I think I do.

 

It's funny, because it's true...

I'm indebted to my friend Wade for these uplifting clips.

Instead of revising the Star Wars OT movies so that Han shoots first, might I suggest this change as one that might be more satsifying for many fans? And for me, of course.  If this kind of thing is wrong, I don't want to be right. This is my kind of Fett...

And....well, you can fill in the blanks on why this one is soooooooo on the nail. I'm with you on this, Mr. Maul, sir.  Class action time. 

 

Wash-up, NSC

I'd never seen the National Space Centre before yesterday, but it reminded me that some Millennium Commission projects actually did happen and are now really rather excellent. The best part of a decade in the very-late-running and strife-ridden shadow of the Spinnaker Tower convinced me that any MC endeavour was a money pit marked with the Taint of Doom (a title no doubt coming to a screen near you soon) but the NSC is a lovely thing to behold.  Well worth a visit.

Anyway, about yesterday. A round of thanks; thanks to Malika Andress and the staff at the NSC for laying on such a great event (not just a Star Wars weekend, a movie weekend) and to the fabulous UK Garrison of the 501st Legion for looking divine and being such good sports.  Their Delta Squad was most impressive.  And, heretical as this sounds, I was very taken (unexpectedly) with the Stargate costuming; the guy in the Serpent Guard costume - sorry, didn't get your name, mate - was amazing.  If you think you can't see much in a stormie bucket, trooper comrades, try the cobra helmet. Insane. But spectacular. His chain mail was stunning and very, very clever.

Thank you, too, to the fans who donated to the Combat Stress collecting tin (okay, paper container...) at my signing - I've matched your contributions to double the take, and that means another veteran with PTSD will get the evaluation he or she needs. This is about people with names and lives, not anonymous statistics; individual servicemen and women who've had to endure things most civilians can't possibly imagine, and the families who have to cope with their loved one going through hell.  I know too many people suffering from PTSD to walk by on the other side, and it's good to know that many of you feel the same way.

Another good thing about signings (and this is only the second I've done in the UK, being more of a migratory writer) is that you get to meet great people and have great conversations. Plus the UK events are so much smaller that you have a decent time to talk, instead of trying to get through a huge line of fans while maintaining a balance between chatting and not pissing off the folks at the end of the queue. US events and bookstore signings are a totally different scale of operation - when people have waited in line for hours, you're very conscious that you can't spend the time you want to have a natter about this and that.

The high spot of the day, though - apart from meeting an absolutely lovely little lad called Travis, and his wonderful family - was seeing some old friends from way, way back. Liz and Ann used to work for the same deeply unrewarding public sector organisation that I did, and we had major laughs despite the daily grind of idiots and idiocy. Then we went our separate ways and lost touch. (I've lost touch with just about everyone I knew in my previous life, in fact.)

But Liz and Ann showed up yesterday out of the blue, and it was like the last few years never happened; we were back to where we left off, except Liz now finds murder victims in her recycling depot, and Ann detains drug dealers with the power of her no-nonsense voice alone. Long story short, I haven't laughed so much in ages, and it was just fantastic to see them again.  It even made up for the shock of realising that Liz's "little boy" - as I remembered him - is now a grown man, and that we really hadn't been in touch for a very long time.  I'll be making an effort to stay in touch now, even if that means scheduling contact in my diary in a mechanistic way.

Moral of the story; use it or lose it. If you ever think, "I wonder what happened to so-and-so....?" then pick up the phone or mail them, say hi, share some of the good times again. Tomorrow may be too late.

Oh, and one last thing - a big thankyou to the Gearheads and the other reader demographic ( Traviss readers who have seen the light and come to recognise the glory that is Gears of War) for buying GEARS OF WAR: ASPHO FIELDS and putting it on the New York Times bestsellers' list. That's my fourth NYT bestseller this year, which ain't bad going for anyone, let alone a Pompey girl like me. And I admit it was extra-special to see the very first Gears book make it, because...well, I just love that game, and it's very satisfying to deliver that result for the Epic team. 

 

It's just a harmless app, honest...

I was reading The Register today (book mark it if you value good technical news coverage) and I happened to notice this advert at the bottom of the page.

It's funny on so many levels that I don't think I need walk you through it.

But if the guy who answers the phone is called Jaing, and he offers to give you a handy free app to improve the security of your finance systems, just remember what happened to the Republic banks and Palpatine's IT security officer.  When Nulls talk about hardening targets...

I better stop there.

 

 

With that, I shall take my leave of you.  Remember, National Space Centre tomorrow,  folks, and the Gears of War radio interview on Sunday. Toodle pip!

 

 

 

Cheerleading

It's not that Gears 2 actually needs my vocal support,  but...I've spent an awful lot of time going through the cinematics over the last few days, frame by frame, as is my wont when I get a serious dose of pursuit of perfection.

It never ceases to amaze me just how many nuances there are in the game that strike me anew, even though I've been working in the Gearsiverse for the best part of a year now, and dissected every line with the folks who actually made it. It's just so exquisitely done. It's completely polished, but it hasn't lost an ounce of its emotional punch. No spoilers yet, because I know lots of you are still playing it through, but there's a scene with Marcus walking  away from Dom (if you've got that far, you'll know which scene I mean) where the subtle change of expression on his face is as perfect an example of unspoken communication as any flesh-and-blood actor will ever achieve. There's a whole history in those few seconds.

I'm not playing the game yet. Don't ask me to pitch in to the debates on overpowering and underpowering and multiplayer and all that, because I'm too crappy a player to notice. But don't tell me you still can't see the depth of story in Gears. Just don't. I might have to come round and test your eyesight and hearing the Portsmouth way.

You can hear an interview with me about working in the Gears of War world on WNJC-1360 AM Philadelphia's science fiction show Fictional Frontiers on Sunday. The show airs at 1100 EST November 16, so bookmark the links now:

Listen live at http://wnjc.duxpond.com/

Podcast: http://fictionalfrontiers.podcastpeople.com/#

 

The night before Gearsmas

Okay, let me just get it out of my system; Gears 2 is out tomorrow, and the UK edition of Aspho Fields came out today from Orbit, so you know what you have to do. Get to it, people. 

I received very good news late last night that I'll talk about in a few days, and I lost most of today in non-writing activity.  A lovely big box of Gears swag arrived from Epic (those guys treat me good) and I had a long-overdue chat with my excellent buddy Farah Mendlesohn. (Yes, the SF critic and academic. I can talk to critics without ripping limbss off, honest.) She's a historian by background, and so her analyses of literature within social context have educated me more than any number of  lit profs ever could. I love it when my brain is upended by new ideas and things I hadn't considered before. Farah can do that.  Our conversations are high value stuff.

Then I spent a pleasant hour browsing through the Gears of War concept art book. Hog heaven. I know exactly how games are created, and this isn't the first game project I've worked with, but it still leaves me a bit open-mouthed to be reminded how much work goes into making something look and play that deliciously good.

Someone's asked me what kind of working environment I operate in, the kind of space a writer needs to churn out books at the rate I do. I think my blog about the netbook and my need to change the wall I stare at while I work prompted the question  - that, and maybe the doccos that are doing the rounds at the moment about crime writers in their natural habitat. Well, these are snaps I took today; this is where the books get written. (You can see the Advent to the left of the main laptop.  The six-cell battery is settling at seven hours on full screen brightness with wifi on. Brilliant piece of kit.)

 

Yes, that's how my desk always looks. None of the creative chaos, shelves full of books, and stacks of paper that you might associate with the job.  I work in something of a minimalist desert.  Is the desk a reflection of its owner's mind? I must be pretty boring, or a complete control freak, or in a state of zen. I don't know; possibly all three. It didn't strike me until I studied the picture just how obsessively tidy it is for a workspace. I always feel my desk is a mess, but it actually looks pretty sterile and orderly when I see it from the outside.

And yes, those are two of the Neca Gears figures. Nice. You have to give me a couple of flaky-writer-points for having a slightly unkempt stationery rack. Figure detail:

 

Ah well, back to work; two more books to start and finish before the end of the year. The next few weeks will be a blissful immersion in something I've been looking forward to. It's nice when that happens.

 

 

L'Oreal time

I bought myself another netbook, because I'm worth it.  (And if that ad isn't running in the US, then my intro has fallen flat.) My dalliance with the Asus Eee 701 was brief; I finally got pissed off by the screen resolution and the slightly-too-small keys, and relegated it to the status of off-site disaster recovery standby machine.

My new netbook is an Advent 4211, the badged version of the MSI Wind. And it's superb - fast, light, loads of features, and a sturdy build. I really could work on it all day if I had to. The keyboard is almost full laptop size, but it still fits into my bag easily. Even with my broadband dongle, mouse and other impedimenta, it's something I can haul around all day.

I loved it so much that I splashed out on two high capacity batteries for it, too - a six cell and a nine cell - which should extend my working time to perhaps seven hours and ten hours respectively. These post-fit batteries are chunky, and I know some Wind fans hate the angle at which they tilt the machine, but for me it's perfect - I always set my laptop at an angle anyway, and this saves me sticking on risers. If I take all the batteries with me, I can stay working on a translatlantic flight (I never seem to get a carrier with power sockets) and then some. It'll take a few charging cycles to work out the capacity of the batteries, but on this first charge the six cell is currently showing between 6 and 8.26 hours' life with the machine running XP on the Max Battery power setting with wifi on.

Okay, I don't need eight or nine computers in various sizes. Four plus all my backups and servers would meet the needs of my disaster recovery plan, but mine all have their uses, and they're pretty well my only indulgence now that I've bought all the bling I want, and I have no more space for pens. (Well, maybe a few more pens...)

Besides, computers are the core of my business, so they have to be right for the job.  It's not just about hauling a machine around with me on tours and stuff; it's also about being able to write somewhere other than my own office, because there's definitely something about changing the visual environment that triggers new activity in my brain. I can spend a day trying to outline a new book or series at my own desk, but if I nip out for a coffee in town, I can get a whole series down on paper in minutes. Seriously. The effect is that extreme. All animals, including the arctic Traviss, need a change of scenery and new toys on a regular basis to stimulate the brain.

GEARS stuff of the day; I had interesting mail from a Gearhead this morning. His question reminded me that I need to say something to all my new readers who's come via ASPHO FIELDS.  This was the fascinating question; in what I'll call the "chicken scene with Bernie" (I won't expand, because it's way too soon for spoilers) he wondered if it was about animal rights. No, it wasn't and it never crossed my mind: it's actually real, a genuine part of  UK commando training. But - and here's the important bit if you've never read a Traviss book before - the full extra layer of meaning in that scene won't be fully clear until you finish playing Gears 2. Then...if you go back and read ASPHO FIELDS again, it'll all look very different. There'll be new meaning in it. If you're not a gamer, and you're just reading the book, then you won't lose anything - you'll know as much as the characters do at that point - but, as the story unfolds later, it'll make even more sense.  I try to knit various media together so that the experience is multiplied - yes, synergy, ghastly word, but true - even if some readers will never play the game.  But if you don't play, you'll want to know how the storyline develops in it, because it's...major. This is a very story-based, character-driven game.

Okay, even if you never play the game - meet me halfway and check out the cinematics, or watch someone play it. Watch GEARS 1 and 2 cutscenes like movies. You won't be disappointed. And I'm not capable of faking enthusiasm this loudly and for this long, so if you think I'm going a bit When-Harry-Met-Sally over Gears, then it's genuine. This game, this universe, is extraordinary. 

 

 

 

All Gearsed up

It's more than 30 years too late for me to get excited about seeing my name on a front page or (in these latter years) on a bookstore display, but I have to say I got a massive kick from seeing the game promos for Gears 2 all around town today.

I doubt you need reminding, but Gears 2 is out this week. Well, sod it, I'm going to remind you anyway.  The sequel game is out on November 7. It's glorious. You will buy it. You will also buy the book and the comic. You will do this because it will bring you joy. Okay?

Anyway, I rarely feel that kind of "OMG!" buzz, and I really did have the urge to grab the nearest passer-by and say, "Gears is AWESOME! Fall in love with it!"  But I didn't, because this is a small town, and folks around here tend to look at you funny.

Anyway, for those of you who are reading ASPHO FIELDS, some kind manufacturer has had the foresight to market...Bernie boot liners!

Har har har....sorry, Fil, and Smokey. My mother says cat tastes like rabbit, not chicken. She has never explained that statement, and I hope she never does, but I can guess from what I know of civilian habits in WWII.

In sadder news, I regret to announce the end of Ghez, my beloved Toshiba satellite laptop. He retired a few months ago, and had been languishing in a cupboard because I couldn't bear to junk him. I wrote HARD CONTACT and at least half a dozen other novels on him, and he gave me sterling service. But today he went to the recycling centre for disposal, and I really did feel sad to part with him. May his components (not the RAM or HDD, obviously, I'm not that sentimental...) be recycled into something worthy of him.

 

Infamy, infamy...

I finally plucked up courage to see my mother for the first time since Harry Redknapp left Pompey to manage Spurs.

This was, as readers of this tragedy will recall, an act of abandonment conducted with indecent haste; Redknapp announced he was quitting Fratton Park late last Saturday night and then took over at Spurs the next morning.  The last time Redknapp left Pompey - no, I can't bring myself to call him 'Arry now - he defected to Southampton, Pompey's bitterest rivals. My mother disgraced the family name by transferring her allegiance to the Scummers, such was her devotion to Redknapp. My father stood firm and declared him a traitor.

Then Redknapp came back to Pompey, and all was forgiven. So...I expected Mum to be wearing Spurs colours now. She believes in managers.

Well, when I walked in, I found my father reading the sports pages, muttering curses, and my mother announced that she had ripped up all her Redknapp memorabilia from the FA Cup final. His name will now never be mentioned in my parents' home without a prefix beginning with F.

I feel a bit better now. And when I see Redknapp and family doing the Wii advert on UK TV, I now hiss bad words at the TV. The planet is back in its normal orbit again.

Talking of TV ads, if the Gears 2 TV spot (The Last Day) doesn't move you, then I despair for your soul.  The game is out next week.  It will be a thing of awesome beauty, believe me.

And, Gearheads, thank you for your very kind mail about GEARS OF WAR: ASPHO FIELDS. You're a nice bunch. A chainsaw society is evidently a polite society.