I met two Ghost Goblin fans during my visit to Chandlings School, Abingdon a few weeks back. I have since been sent these great pictures. I present to you William and Thomas Kent.

Or rather: Butt-Knuckle (top), and Cold Jack (bottom).

And the great thing is - they’re twins!

Remember the deal? Remember how we poor, captive TBM authors only get fed if we write posts for the blog?

Well: I know my posts last week were all from my new book Crawlers, but after putting up FIVE of them I was hoping at least to be given something decent to eat for a change.

Instead, I got THIS.

The above are genuine scans from the label of the can just kicked into my pit by my monster jailer when I politely reminded him I haven’t eaten yet this month.

Here’s a closer look.

You see that? ‘SOLD AS NOVELTY ITEM ONLY’. I… I can’t eat this!

I’ve had enough. I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more. It’s time for another escape attempt. Who’s with me?

Yet another book is on the way from the author of my favourite YA book ‘Mortal Engines’.  Philip Reeve does seem to play with lots of topics that fascinate me.  Having spent 21 years flying jets, I’m very much looking forwards to his next book, A Web of Air …

Like Barry and Tommy, I found myself shipped off to Glasgow for the Aye Write Festival.  Alas, we were not only separated by hotels but also by days – apparently having the three of us together on the same day is a security threat.  However, I heard very good things about Tommy and Barry’s sessions (and subsequent failed escape attempts)…

The Aye Write was terrific fun – thanks to everybody who came to my sessions, I believe we almost screamed the roof off the library!

The last two weeks have been crazy as I’ve bounced around the country from school to school – thanks for everybody who took part.  Below are Sophie, Jade and Jess from Burford School with my new books HERO.COM4: CHAOS EFFECT and VILLAIN.NET 4: COLLISION COURSE:

And a cool display created by Crookhorn College of Technology:

(Did they really choose the bald guy as the villain?)

That’s not forgetting everybody at Icknield Community College, Thomas Bennet School in Crawley, Parkwood Academy in Sheffield, and everybody at the Portsmouth Litquiz.

Now back in the cave, I guess I better start reading a few books, carry on writing my Top Secret project… and plot my escape…

The monsters have continued to work me hard recently, packing me up and shunting me all over the place to run workshops and events at schools and libraries across the country.

Last week I was posted to Aberdeen. This week I was sent to Strathblane, near Stirling, before being carted down to Glasgow by Brenda, one of the few monsters who can almost pass as human in public. If you ignore seven of her legs.

I was due to be appearing at the fifth AYE WRITE book festival in Glasgow, and I was gobsmacked to discover that I was being allowed to spend the night in a fancy hotel, with nary a slime-fargle or a snorkthunker in sight. It’s wall to wall slime-fargles and snorthunkers around the caves these days. We should probably get someone in to do something about it.

Anyway, I was even more gobsmacked to discover that Brenda wasn’t staying in the hotel. If she stays out of her effluent bath for too long her hide goes all flaky, so she had to return to the caves. Almost as soon as she was out of the way, I made a break for it, sneaking out of my hotel room and racing towards the door like Ali Sparkes towards a box of quality fudge.

I pulled open the door at the top of the stairs, only to be confronted by another ‘guest’ who was staying at the hotel. Of course, the disguise didn’t fool me. I know a monster when I see one.

Before she could brand me the Weakest Link, I legged it back to my room and locked myself in until morning. There was no way I was getting past that. Sure enough, I heard her out there in the corridor all night, pacing back and forth, occasionally snuffling at the gap beneath my door. Give me Brenda any day, flaky or otherwise.

Anyway, I survived the night, and went on to have a great day at AYE WRITE. While there I discovered that Tommy had also been packed up and shipped to the festival, although we were kept in different hotels, presumably so we couldn’t make any escape plans.

Next week I’m being boxed up and posted to Thurso on the very north coast of Scotland, and then I’m back in the caves for a few weeks, so expect some more regular posting from me then.

Probably.

CRAWLERS

by

Sam Enthoven

A preview extract, with exclusive art by Malcolm Harrison

words (c) Sam Enthoven / visuals (c) Malcolm Harrison 2010. All rights reserved.

Click here for previous parts: 1 , 2 , 3 , 4

Final Sneak Peek

‘You accept my offer then, Steadman?’ I asked him, through the young man’s mouth.

‘Not . . . quite.’ Even through the speakers on the pit walls I could hear the smile in Steadman’s voice.

‘To the left of your pit,’ he said, ‘there is a door. Through it you could go anywhere you want, but the door is shut and the only one who can open it is me. To the right of your pit is a second door: that door is open. It leads to the building above us, a building known as the Barbican. There I’ve set up . . . a little bet.’

I waited. I had waited a long time. I was patient.

‘You’ve never seen the Barbican, of course,’ said Steadman. ‘The Corporation completed it in nineteen sixty-nine – rather after your time. Then, it was the largest performing arts centre in Europe. Now . . .’ He paused. ‘Well, you’ll find out.

‘I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself, my Queen,’ he went on. ‘If you show me that you can do what you claim, I’ll accept your offer. The first door will open. We’ll go through. Together, you and I will take charge of this world and run it the way it should be run.’

‘And if I . . . displease you?’

‘This room, along with the whole of the Barbican, is rigged with explosives. At midnight precisely they will detonate. The entire building will be destroyed, erasing all evidence of tonight’s events – including, if I have not opened the first door, you. Do we understand each other?’

‘Yes.’ I understood him better than he knew.

‘Then go, my Queen,’ said Steadman. ‘You have less than six hours. If you’re as powerful as you say, you’ll know what to do. And I can hardly wait,’ he added, ‘to see you do it.’

Already my hands were moving. All of them. The pit resounded with soft, crawling sounds.

My wait was over. Now, at last, I could begin.

———————————–

CRAWLERS is available to pre-order from bookshops now. ;D

Find out more at my brand new website: www.theycrawl.com

I like to think of myself as a patient person. But I expect patience is one of those things like driving, where we all think we’re above average, but we can’t possibly all be above average, can we?

In the last 12 months I’ve had to learn that patience is a huge part of being a writer. But I don’t like it. The publishing business seems to move at the pace of a snail covered in treacle driving an electric car up a hill in reverse. Decisions take weeks. Action takes months. Negotiation takes forever.

Compared to all of that, writing is a speedy whippet of a thing, breezing through a racehorse stable with a jetpack. Trouble is, that makes it all the more frustrating that projects progress so slowly. To be honest, even when things are going well I find it incredibly demoralising. Maybe this is a symptom of my short attention span. Sometimes I get news (good, bad, indifferent) on projects I’ve forgotten I’m even involved with.

It makes me think that if I had the technical expertise I would just bypass the whole industry and publish everything I write on a website to sell (or give away) my stories directly. I’m not talking about rushing out something that’s substandard. I still take great care over what I write and I never even show it to anybody until I’m happy that it’s as good as it can possibly be. Then I enjoy the process of continuing to rewrite to satisfy excellent notes from my agent and editors. It’s everything else that seems to take so long.

Surely the future is quicker…

CRAWLERS

by

Sam Enthoven

A preview extract, with exclusive art by Malcolm Harrison

words (c) Sam Enthoven / visuals (c) Malcolm Harrison 2010. All rights reserved.

Click here for previous parts: 1 , 2 , 3

Part 4

Free. More than three centuries had passed while I had been held captive in this pit. In the early days Steadman’s predecessors had kept me here with spiked chains and armed guards. Behind those guards had stood more guards, their weapons trained on the first in case I did what I do.

Now, in Mr Steadman’s time, I heard an echoing hiss and a whine of machinery. As the lid of my pit drew back I allowed myself a moment of triumph. From that first, blazing night when they caught me I had known this day would come. The reason was simple: they had not killed me. Even in 1666 the Corporation of London had recognized my . . . gifts.

-Click here for Part Five-

It turns out that the mass break out of authors from the cave last week had been carefully stage-managed by the monsters. They were waiting for us everywhere we went. Despite scattering across the country, racing from school to school in an effort to escape, it was all to no avail. They were way ahead of us.

The sixth form students at Abbeyfield School in Chippenham had been wrestling with this dragon for ages before I arrived. The reason everyone is smiling and happy in this photo is because the dragon had just eaten the librarian and we were all feeling very relieved to no longer be on the menu for lunch!

My round of schools included: The Licensed Victualler’s School in Ascot (now there’s a school I wish I’d gone to as a boy!), Abbeyfield School in Chippenham, Wheatley Park School in Oxford, St Bartholomew’s School in Newbury (whose students hijacked me and locked me in a room for an extra two hours after school so I could help them finish off some of their stories!  Really!  It was like the monster abduction all over again!) and Magdalen College in Brackley.   I had a great week, but am somewhat frustrated to find that despite my best efforts to escape, I’m back here in the cave again at the end of it.

CRAWLERS

by

Sam Enthoven

A preview extract, with exclusive art by Malcolm Harrison

words (c) Sam Enthoven / visuals (c) Malcolm Harrison 2010. All rights reserved.

Click here for previous parts: 1 , 2

Part 3

Mr Miller shrieked – a short, high note, his voice driven to that pitch by absolute terror.

The shriek stopped.

Then I spoke through his mouth.

‘I . . . like this one, Steadman.’ The words were husky and thick at first as I worked the unfamiliar vocal cords. ‘He’s young. Healthy. Much better than the sickly things you usually bring me.’

‘A treat for you, my Queen,’ said Steadman. ‘And he’s just the first of many. As of now, you no longer have to make do with those dregs I can steal from the streets without anyone noticing. As of this moment, you can take anyone you want.’ He paused, then said: ‘You are free.’

-Click here for Part 4-