| My week: Anthony Horowitz
Not every author has his own bit of motorway, you know The great crash My wife, Jill Green, has built a half-mile of motorway - just for me. It doesn’t actually go anywhere. It’s on a disused Ministry of Defence site near Virginia Water in Surrey. But it does have four lanes, a proper crash barrier and a fantastic variety of shrubs and trees on either side, brought in specially. It’s just what I’ve always wanted. Jill is producing a five-part series, Collision, which I’ve written for ITV. It’s all about a multiple pile-up and the way that seven very different lives are shattered by a single moment of fate. Car crashes have always interested me. Why does everyone slow down and watch them - is it just for a glimpse of the blood and gore, or is it because we all know deep down that “there but for the grace of God . . . ”? Collision is a sort of dance of death, a series of overlapping stories. And the whole thing has been a complete nightmare. When I wrote it I thought that we’d be able to find a piece of motorway to film on - no chance. In the end, we simply had to build our own. And that was just the first of 75 locations in and around London. Jill and I have worked together almost as long as we’ve been married. Some couples argue about curtains and washing machines. We argue about Spitfires, explosions and how many cars I’m allowed to smash. City of the Dead Off to York, where I’m launching my new book Necropolis - Welcome to the City of the Dead. This is volume four in a series that imagines The Lord of the Rings set in the real world or, in this case, Hong Kong. I have a feeling that my publishers would prefer another Alex Rider novel, but there are only so many times that a 14-year-old can save the world and this series - with its corrupt politicians, murderous corporations and general sense of apocalypse - is at least timely. York itself is far from dead. I was at university there 30 years ago and barely recognise it now. It’s a thriving, beautiful city in miniature, even if the minster now charges an outrageous £5.50 for entry and there are too many shops selling tourist tat. I’m given dinner by Professor Michael Cordner, who heads up the university’s department of writing, directing and performance. It’s very strange: none of the faculty staff ever took me out while I was a student there and, I might add, they awarded me a degree that in no way reflected the considerable work I put into at least some of my essays. Of course, I’m too polite to mention this at dinner. The next day I have a book signing at Borders. The strange thing is that despite the evidence of my sales, I still wake up quite certain that no one will come. In the end I sign for 2 ½ hours. It’s amazing how children will queue for so long to meet their favourite authors. When I started out it was nothing like this. Most people would have been unable to name a single living children’s author . . . apart, perhaps, from Roald Dahl. Children’s publishing was the Cinderella of the industry, in a permanent state of low expectation and gloom. All that has changed. There’s never been a better time to be a children’s author. Captive audience While I’m in York I visit Askham Grange, which looks like a rather smart private school but which is in fact an open prison for women coming to the end of their sentences. I also go to 68 Centre, where I talk to a group of 12-year-olds who are under supervision, possibly heading for trouble themselves. I’m thinking more and more about the way that literacy, or basic storytelling, can help people whose lives have gone off the rails. Put it this way: how many kids who love reading go on to commit crimes? I know that it’s a simplistic question, but there’s a link there. I just need to work it out. War of words While I’m in Borders I browse through Darren Shan’s new opus, Wolf Island. You may know Shan as a moderately successful writer of horror novels. I’m shocked to discover a character, a mad scientist, named Antoine Horwitzer in his new book. Antoine, although described as handsome and charming, is soon revealed to be a cad and meets a particularly horrible end. I have known Darren for years, but this is a Jonathan Ross moment where the envelope has been pushed too far. Fortunately for Darren I’m not the litigious type, but I must draw his attention to a book of mine being published in 2009 - Aaagh: Ten Unusual Ways to Die - and in particular to one story: The Man who Killed Darren Shan. Let’s see who has the last laugh. Ref: The Sunday Times - November 2nd 2008 |