Locus, October 2014

by Locus Publications

  Sue, Ella, Graham, and Joe Joyce (2005)

  I say ‘‘naturally’’ because Graham was that sort of bloke. He was immediately likeable; he had the ability to put people at their ease, to engage with them utterly. Spend an evening with Graham and you’d feel by the end of it that you’d known him for years. The first time he came to FantasyCon he told a story – which in truth was more like a full-on stand-up routine – about when he was a redcoat (or yellowcoat, or whatever coloured coat it was) in a holiday camp, and an escapee from a nearby psychiatric hospital entered the talent competition singing a rendition of ‘‘South o’ t’Border, Down Mexico Way’’. The story, or rather his telling of it, was quite genuinely one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. As it progressed, more and more people gathered around him to listen. Graham was a newbie, a young writer attending his first convention, and yet he had an entire roomful of people in the palm of his hand. I still vividly remember crying with laughter at that story, laughing so much that it hurt.

  At another FantasyCon Graham told a midnight ghost story, entirely off the cuff, to an enraptured audience that was gathered around him in a circle. The story, supposedly something that happened to him in his hitchhiking student days, was a tall tale, but he told it in such a way that it seemed utterly real, utterly believable – until the shock ending, which elicited a group scream louder than any I’ve heard from a horror movie cinema audience.

  For the first few years of our friendship, my wife Nel and I, and Graham and his lovely wife Sue, along with Nick Royle, Mike Marshall Smith, Conrad Williams, and their various partners, used to get together for weekends in one another’s houses. We’d go for long country walks and pub lunches; we’d drink endless bottles of wine over dinner, and talk and laugh deep into the early hours.

  When our children started to come along in the mid-’90s, and spare rooms turned into children’s bedrooms, those weekends started to drop off. But I’d still see Graham at conventions and literary events, and whenever I did we’d pick up where we’d left off – insulting and teasing each other as only friends can; moaning about the publishing industry, or the state of the nation; putting the world to rights.

  The last time I saw him, at Joel Lane’s funeral a couple of days before Christmas last year, he was in pretty good form. It was a sombre occasion, but he looked a lot better than he had a couple of months earlier at FantasyCon, and he was his usual self – warm, humorous, his face quick to crinkle into a rogueish grin. He was practical and stoic about the treatment he was receiving for his cancer; he was even cautiously optimistic about the future. He talked about the new book he was planning on writing. He talked about getting through the next two or three years and then seeing where he was after that.

  When I heard he’d died I was stunned; I still can’t get my head round it. Yes, he was ill, but Graham Joyce didn’t die. He was like a rock – immovable, indomitable. The night he died, still stunned, I went to see a friend. I stayed late, and was driving back home along a dark and deserted country road at around 2:45 a.m. when my headlights picked out a ghostly white shape on the right hand side of the road, which made me jump. As I focused on it properly, it spread its wings and took to the air – it was a huge white owl! It swooped above the front of my car, then soared along beside me for about 20 metres, before wheeling off to the left and disappearing into the trees. An amazing experience!

  I’m sceptical when it comes to the supernatural, but such was my state of mind that the incident felt immediately momentous, surreal, and awe-inspiring. A running theme in Graham’s books is the numinous, the mysterious power and symbolism to be found in nature, and although I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to claim that the owl was a gift from Graham, when I mentioned this notion on Facebook, writer Gary Fry responded by saying that the owl was a gift from Graham, because this was precisely what great writers made us do – they made us see the world that way.

  A perfect summation of Graham the man and Graham the writer. He was my friend, and I loved him very much. And I’ll miss him terribly.

  –Mark Morris

  Lisa Tuttle, Chaz Brenchley, Stephen Jones, Peter Crowther, Kim Newman, Graham Joyce (2005)

  GRAHAM JOYCE by Jo Fletcher

  Graham Joyce can be summed up succinctly in one sentence: not only was he one of the finest writers in the United Kingdom, but he was also funny, fun, charismatic, and one of the nicest chaps you could ever hope to meet… which makes his death of aggressive lymphoma at the untimely age of 59 even more of a tragedy. Just before he died a number of us got messages saying variations of, ‘‘Back in hospital but nothing serious’’ – because that’s the sort of guy Graham was: he was all about making you feel better.

  I first met Graham when I took over the Pan Books SF/F/H list in 1990; he’d sold his first novel, Dreamside, to Kathy Gale, but I was the one who had the enormous pleasure of publishing it. I’m pretty sure we actually met at a weird little convention called Mexicon (which had nothing to do with Mexico and everything to do with fun!), as I have fond memories of spending the entire weekend laughing at the antics of Graham and my other new writer, Peter Hamilton, who threw themselves into their new world with gusto.

  Every editor always says of writers who go on to become something, ‘‘Of course I could see it in that first book!’’, and in Graham’s case, we probably do have some claim to have seen the blossoming talent that went on to give us such discrete and wonderful novels as The Tooth Fairy, Memoirs of a Master Forger, and The Facts of Life, every one of them both unique and not, for every one is a Graham Joyce novel. Like every one of Graham’s subsequent publishers, I remain astonished and disappointed that his critical acclaim was never matched by his sales. I still find that astonishing: that such an enormous talent, winning awards left, right and centre and lauded by greats from Isabel Allende to Peter Straub, from Jonathan Lethem to Iain Banks, should not be required reading in every school and university….

  But Graham was not just a remarkable writer and a great guy; more than that, he was a nurturer of people, a mentor and an educator, a man who believed it was as much his job to open the eyes of others to the world around them as to document it. He had the ability not just to share his great loves – of literature, of nature, of education, of football – but to inspire others in so many different ways, to step further, reach higher, take chances. We’ll miss Graham every single day, but at least we still have his books to read and reread, though it’s small consolation. I’d rather have Graham any day.

  –Jo Fletcher

  JOYCEY by Sarah Pinborough

  I think the reason that Graham’s death has hit me, and others, so hard is that despite his illness, we always presumed he was indestructible. This was Joycey, after all. Graham was going to outlast everyone, just from the sheer energy he exuded. I’m sure his family have seen more varied moods, but the Graham of the convention circuit never had a quiet or a down day. Even when he rang me from his hospital bed while having chemo, we laughed and joked and shared writery gossip, and in the brief few minutes we talked about his cancer, he said, ‘‘Well, I figure I may only have a few years left and I’m fucked if I’m going to spend them being miserable about everything.’’

  Graham was an enormous storytelling talent. That needs no more words on it, none that I can do him justice in, anyway. Read him if you haven’t. What I love most about Graham’s writing is that it reflects his observations of people and relationships. People mattered to Graham. He made everyone feel welcome. He was curious about people. He was enthusiastic about them. He saw the best in them. He cared. Love mattered, and not romantic love, per se, but the love we should all have for each other, family and friends. The delicate relationships we form are important. They’re what keep our hearts beating. Graham understood that.

  I can only talk about the Graham I know. We are all, after all, simply reflections of ourselves as seen through others’ eyes, a shimmering mosaic of personas and effects. The Graham I knew was a good f
riend. He was kind. He stood his ground and stood up for others. His position in the England writers’ team, the goalie, was apt. Graham was a great defender. His laugh, gravelly Coventry grit, was warm and infectious. He was mischievous. He was serious. I felt good when Graham was there.

  The day after he died, I went for a drink (several) with James Barclay, sharing our loss. As we left the pub reflecting on how strong and healthy he had always been, I mused that, of course, if Graham got sick it would have to be something that had as much energy as his personality did. That was Graham. A force of energy. Even his terrible illness had that.

  The Friday before he died, Graham didn’t make it to Fantasycon, where he was due to be emcee. I sent a flurry of texts (in which I now wish I’d said so much more) along the lines of ‘Dude! You’re not here! Hurry up and get out of hospital so we can drink wine, or you can watch me drink wine.’ He answered that it was only a small setback and finished with, ‘Have a great time, I’ll miss you all xxx’.

  I keep looking at that text, as I try to come to terms with never seeing my friend again. What I want to text back, but, instead, shall say wistfully to the magical night sky, is, ‘Yeah, but not half as much as we will miss you, Joyce. Not half as much as we will miss you.’

  And then I will do my best to have a great time.

  –Sarah Pinborough

  Justin Ackroyd, Jonathan Strahan, Graham Joyce (2003)

  GRAHAM JOYCE by Simon Spanton

  Graham Joyce.

  I can’t remember the first time I met Graham Joyce. It will have been at some point in the first half of the 1990s, either at a convention or a book launch. I would have been a young(ish) editor standing on the edges, learning about this new world. Graham would probably have been nearer the centre, but his mischievous and gregarious character, his raucous laugh would have been welcoming others in. Graham was the sort of person you wanted at your party – he made them work. There was something very approachable about him. Or perhaps it was that he actively reached out to people.

  Nor do I remember which was the first of Graham’s books I read. It would have been in the first half of the 1990s again. It was probably Dreamside. But whichever was the first, I remember a warmth and a largeness of heart in Graham’s books, which, I was later to learn, was very much a reflection of that man at the parties. His books love people, they celebrate the strength of the stories of their lives, they find the bountiful magic in our shared pasts, superstitions, and beliefs, but they also find magic in the unregarded and the ordinary; whether a conversation between a mother and a daughter, or a quiet street, or the angular, jerking run of a hare.

  I very much remember the first of Graham’s novels I edited (the first work of his I published was the novella, Leningrad Nights, edited and first published by the estimable Peter Crowther, which Gollancz published as part of the Foursight collection). Smoking Poppy was a heartfelt and very personal journey into a Heart of Darkness of sorts, as a man went looking down Thailand’s Poppy Trail in search of his daughter. The book was about love and the places it will take us. And whether Graham’s books take you to the shadows of a child’s room, to the ruins of Coventry cathedral, to where we go after death, to a pub in London, or to a bluebell glade, love of some sort – dark, light, passing, enduring, dangerous – will be there.

  That’s the defining characteristic of Graham’s books; they deal with the magic of love and how it changes us and the world. I don’t quite know how else to describe them – I dislike labels for books at the best of times, but when you are talking about books that delicately skip the borders of fantasy, horror, fairy tale, and social drama they seem even more reductive and constraining. I used to joke with Graham that if he had been born in South America rather than in the industrial midlands of England he would be known as a Magical Realist (a kinship that Isabel Allende recognized).

  So I will miss these books: the challenges of publishing them were every bit as great as the rewards, and those are the books that make your job sing. But I will also miss their author. He was such a good friend. Like his books he was warm, fierce in the pursuit of fairness, full of an infectious joy in people and open to the possibility of magic, making the willingness to embrace magic seem, somehow, the most sensible thing in the world.

  –Simon Spanton

  GRAHAM JOYCE by Joe Hill

  I met Graham Joyce in 2005, at the FantasyCon in Walsall. I had been writing as Joe Hill for seven or eight years by then, to avoid the complications of being known as Stephen King’s son, and I had never taken the pen name for such a public outing. I was nervous, afraid to make eye contact, afraid to open my mouth. Graham Joyce wandered over to me at the initial meet-and-greet, a gangly, exuberant, laughing presence who made it his special mission to put me at ease… something he was able to do in a matter of minutes.

  I don’t know if he knew about my dad. I don’t believe he did, not then. He saw a dork in need and threw him a life ring, nothing more than that. He made me feel welcome, made me feel like I belonged. He made me laugh until my chest hurt. He looked after me and he looked after others.

  What struck me then, and what strikes me now, was his unforced, almost brawny sense of joyfulness. There was joy in his conversation and joy in his writing. You had to be a very stunted sort of person inside, not to respond to his air of mischief and confidence, or the way he relished an argument, or his curiosity about other people’s thoughts.

  I only saw him one other time, at a different convention, three years later. I wish there had been more.

  Between his muscular physical presence and muscular wit, a person could be forgiven if they thought Graham Joyce was invincible. A part of me believes his joy, at least, was, and will always be there when we need it: in his books and in our memories.

  –Joe Hill

  Return to In This Issue listing.

  Loncon 3, the 72nd World Science Fiction Convention, took place August 14-18, 2014, at the International Convention Center (ICC) of the ExCeL London Exhibition Center in London. Guests of honour were Iain M. Banks (in memoriam), John Clute, Malcolm Edwards, Chris Foss, Jeanne Gomoll, Robin Hobb, and Bryan Talbot. Preliminary counts stand at 5,431 attending members plus 1,501 day-pass holders, 100 hall admissions, and 308 dealers passes, for an approximate total of 7,340 warm bodies at the con. With another 2,882 supporting memberships and 824 paid no-shows, the total membership number rises to 11,153 – compared to LoneStarCon 3 on-site attendance of 4,311 warm bodies, 1,431 supporting memberships, and a total of 6,060 memberships (final numbers are still being reviewed by Loncon 3). Programming included academic, fan, comics, film, and gaming tracks, a kids’ track called ‘‘Workshops of Fantastic Fun, Allegedly’’ (WOOFA), as well as kaffeeklatsches, workshops, readings, awards ceremonies, speeches, autographing sessions, movie screenings, and more.

  Guests of Honour: Iain M. Banks; John Clute; Malcolm Edwards; Chris Foss; Jeanne Gomoll; Robin Hobb; Bryan Talbot

  Located in the old Docklands just off the Thames, the ExCeL center, the largest exhibition center in London, is a giant, modernist building loosely surrounded by several hotels and restaurants. The hotel spread and size of the ExCeL, along with some unusual business hours by the closest bar, led to the lack of a centralized watering hole for pros to meet in, but by the end most had settled on the Aloft WXYZ bar. Following on from the heat wave the week previous in London, the weather during the con ranged from rainy and windy to sunny and warm, and from the expected British fog to clear blue skies. The Docklands themselves are in an industrial shipping area with cranes demarcating the edge of the water, with the surrounding neighborhoods a mix of high-tech industrial chic and old brick factory buildings. Ample fast-food options were on offer in the ExCeL concourse, from Indian to burritos to pizza and more, though more satisfying fare required a trip to the outlying areas.

  Panorama of the Fan Village in the ExCeL Center

  PROGRAMMING

  For an expedited programming experience, Loncon 3 offered a free sche
duling app developed by Henry Balen and Grenadine Technologies Inc., with full programming details, maps, and a list of participants. There was also a web-based program guide using KonOpas created by Eemeli Aro, available via the con website. The ExCeL center offered two free wifi networks so access to the apps and guide was available throughout.

  Emma & Peter Newman, Courtney & Connie Willis, Cordelia Willis; Allison Soskice & Brian Aldiss, Francesca Myman

  Programming included tracks for literary (writing, publishing, criticism), academic, science, comics and graphic novels, anime and cartoons, music, gaming, media (film, TV, and more), science, and fan categories. There were 1,050 total program participants, representing a diverse cross-section of professionals, fans, and invited speakers. Half the speakers were male, and half were either female or identified as non-binary. Participants hailed from over 20 countries. There were 1,050 program items, with 450 panels; 125 kaffeeklatsches, literary beers, and artist-in-residence items; 110 readings; 100 lectures; 75 workshops and demonstrations; and 30 concerts. Programming standouts included the Orchestra Concert, the Retro Hugo ceremony, and the world premiere stage adaptation of Tim Powers’ The Anubis Gates. Other highlights included the inaugural PEN/H.G. Wells lecture by Audrey Niffenegger; the SF Foundation’s George Hay memorial lecture by the Astronomer Royal, Baron Rees of Ludlow; and a talk by former cosmonaut Anatoliin Pavlovich Artsebarskii.

  Betsy Wollheim, Sheila Gilbert; Gregory Benford & Elizabeth Malartre; Gili Bar-Hillel, Rina Weisman; Peter Hartwell with Kevin Roche as the Tiki Dalek

  Autographing sessions were a hit, with over 150 authors signing, and names like Robin Hobb, George R.R. Martin, Patrick Rothfuss, and Joe Abercrombie generating massive lines. Programming was well thought out and carefully curated, and in turn often packed to capacity, with no standing room allowed. A series of film screenings, spear-headed by Louis Savy, the founder and director of Sci-Fi-London, began with War of the Worlds: Goliath. A wide range of TV screenings were on offer, from documentaries to current popular shows, such as The Strain. Additional performances included seven live theatrical productions and five dances: a Regency dance, a swing dance, an ‘80s-night dance, a British rock disco, and a traditional Ceilidh. There was also a gaming tent, with 60 games and gamesklatsch items, and a Fan Activity Tent hosting Transformative and Traditional Fan programs.