In June, I gave a keynote at 'Writing in the Digital Age' at the Free Word Centre in London. I spoke about how new technologies are not just changing how writers market themselves, sell books or relate to the reader, but the possibilities of fiction itself.
If the Millennium meant anything at all, it was not about a digit change in a particular calendrical system, but the opportunity to contemplate the span of a thousand years. As the celebrations focused down on the fleeting instant of transition from 1999 to 2000, distracted by
June 1997. A sunny Saturday afternoon in West London. I've got my window open, and, like several other people on my street, I'm listening to the radio. There's a lot to choose from in this part of town. I could turn the dial to the bump-and-grind ragga rhythms of Station FM, or hear revival
The herd of VIPs on the steps leading up to the San Francisco Masonic Auditorium turns away from the cameras to watch the spectacle. A frail-looking man, incongruously-dressed in running shorts and singlet, is weaving among the Versace-clad throng, looking like he must have sprinted all the way
The monster opens the curtains of Victor Frankenstein's bed. Schwarzenegger tears back the skin of his forearm to display a gleaming skeleton of chrome and steel. Tetsuo's skin bubbles as wire and cable burst to the surface.