Happy New Year
an imminent sequel and a profile in Locus Magazine
2025 eh?
A new year, bursting with possibilities and hope and blah blah blah.
I considered putting out an epistle like my colleagues to mark last year’s end, but I am a very lazy writer, as evidenced by this highly irregular newsletter (If I must write then I’d rather expend my creative energy on stories), so here’s a quick recap of 2024’s high notes:
I won the British Fantasy Award for my collection Jackal, Jackal.
I went to in-person cons for the first time (Readercon, and World Fantasy Con where pleasantly, surprisingly, both my books sold out) and got to hang out with better writers; dined with friends new and newish, met my wondrous publisher Michael Kelly and his wife Carolyn after over a year of virtual correspondence.
I got engaged in a fairytale ceremony (it rained!).
2025 is shaping up to be even more fantastic. The sequel to In the Shadow of the Fall drops this January. In May I will graduate from my MFA program, and then I will move yet again (God I hate moving) to commence a new job instructing poor sods in the art of creative writing. And then there’s that wedding to plan. Exciting!
My year’s already off on a high note. I’m profiled in January’s Locus Magazine issue. For those who don’t know, Locus is the oldest magazine of fantasy and science fiction, and this writer is mighty honoured to grace its pages. In the interview, I talk about my writing journey so far (which some of you might be familiar with in bits and pieces); I waffle on about the state of the industry, and generally make intelligent-sounding noises. Part of the interview will be available online later this month, but for the curious, you can read it in full here.
I like that it’s themed green to rhyme with the cover of At the Fount of Creation
Speaking of Fount, we are just a couple of days from release! It drops on Jan 28 in the UK and the US. For those of you who have been waiting breathlessly for the conclusion to the story (particularly after that cliffhanger of an ending for book 1), rest easy, for you’ll soon have the book in your hands. For those of you who have held off on purchasing book one until the release of book 2, I’ll be paying each one of you a visit with my trusty switch, Inquisitor. (I kid, I kid). But please please please preorder; I can’t stress hard enough how that helps us. In this capitalist ruinscape we have the immense misfortune of existing in, all our endeavours must suffer the tyranny of Overlords Numbers and Metrics—even creative endeavours, particularly creative endeavours. Sales determine longevity in this industry, and I plan to have exhausted every syllable of that word “longevity” when I finally exit stage left, so smash that button.
WIP
I am working on a novel, an alt-history fantasy epic pitched as Peter Pan meets imperialism, which I talked briefly about in the profile, and so far, I have 60,000 words (I’m aiming for 80k). This is possibly the longest I’ve spent working on something, having tinkered at it for over a year, but I hope to be done by the end of the month and send it off to my agent. It’s taken so long in part because I vacillate between hating it and loving it (currently loving it), and it feels at times like I have never written a book and am only just learning the ropes, but this is because I am stretching my writerly muscles, so to speak, doing something I haven’t done before. Time will tell if I’m successful.
Here’s an excerpt:
The party marched through the forest in a single file, and morning turned to noon, and the sun began to dip towards the west.
“Why?” said Tunde after some time, “why are you doing this?”
Tafaa leaned down to look at him. “I could offer you some pithy observation about the randomness of human condition, like why does the sun rise at dawn, or the wind blow where it will? But the truth is I was offered very good coin for you. Well not you, specifically, but children like you. Children who wouldn’t be missed.”
Tunde felt something bitter slide down his throat. It was exactly as he feared. He was to be sold. Taken someplace far he would never see the land of his birth again. Would he see his brother again? He couldn’t think of that right now. He must escape. He must save himself and only then could he think of saving Tomi, wherever he was. He thought of struggling again but his head still ached from the blow he had taken. No. Better to bide his time.
But as evening fell and he began to hear the great rush of the sea, his heart quailed. They were far from home. Terribly, terribly far from home. The smell of brine hung heavy in the air and the forest cloaked itself in a thickening gloom and the wind took on an edge that seeped fear into his very bones.
They burst out of the forest and onto a beach.
Just where the waves broke against the sand were three boats. Tunde spotted several men, and surely he was dreaming for their skin was the white of curdled milk, the white of limestone left long in the sun. They stood pale against the sea of black faces who were children like him, who, he noted with some incredulity, were not bound, but went meekly, as the men herded them onto the boats.
But Tunde did not have time to dwell on that oddity, for moored in the black waters several knots from shore was the biggest boat he had ever seen. Indeed it was a ship, whose vast sails were starting to unfurl like wings, whose formidable silhouette sent a current of cold fear trickling down his spine. And as Tunde looked on that great ship that seemed a dragon, that seemed a beast risen from the very depths of the ocean, he knew as surely as he knew his name, that he would never return home.
Until next time,
Tobi