"This is science fiction at its most moving and exciting." The Guardian

One Week and Ten Years

Posted by Christopher at 12:41pm

Just one week to go until Escape Room is published on the 3rd February and you can now pre-order an exclusive signed bookplate edition from Waterstones here. (And if you're not keen on me scribbling inside your books, you can also pre-order unblemished copies of Escape Room from a host of other retailers here.) Escape Room is a story I'm really proud of and I've written a blog post for Nosy Crow, where I discuss how I wrote the book and some of the inspirations behind the story. 

I was thrilled today to discover that The Times have reviewed Escape Room as their Children's Book of the Week, with Alex O'Connell commenting, "Gamers will love this mad, intense thriller" and describing it as, "Perfect for puzzle-hungry beginner horror fans who require lashings of jeopardy" and you can read the full review here.

The publication of Escape Room marks a decade for me as a published author and this sent me back in a haze of nostalgia to a blog post I wrote on the eve of the publication of Twelve Minutes to Midnight, way back in 2012, about the childhood day when I first dreamed it was possible to become a writer and I thought I'd reshare this blog post here. (WARNING: Contains Neil Gaiman)

It Was Twenty-Two Years Ago Today

Actually, I doubt it was to the day, but I couldn’t resist the Sergeant Pepper’s reference, even though it doesn’t scan. Anyway, it was twenty-two years ago when I made the fateful decision to bunk off school and go along to a book signing by Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean instead.

I was fourteen years old, just starting my GCSEs at a rather bleak comprehensive school in Salford. This was the kind of school where the P.E. teacher forced you to do press-ups in an icy puddle at the start of every lesson, Woodwork and Metalwork were mainly concerned with the production of concealed armaments, and Chemistry lessons a constant battle for control of the gas taps between the kids who wanted to blow up the Science block and those of us who wanted to live. It wasn’t the kind of school where authors popped in to chat about their latest books and reveal the secrets of the writing life. To me the idea of meeting a writer was as strange and exotic as the idea of meeting an astronaut (another childhood ambition, as yet sadly unfulfilled).

It wasn’t that I didn’t know about authors; my brain was full to bursting with their names. I was the Incredible Book Eating Boy before Oliver Jeffers had even drawn him, devouring the shelves of my local library. J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Susan Cooper, John Wyndham, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Cormier, Ursula Le Guin. With every book I took out, a new favourite author could be discovered and I’d then eagerly seek out everything that they had written.

As well as books I loved comics, a passion born from my paper round. As I waited for the newsagent to load up my delivery bag, I flicked through old DC and Marvel comics on a spinner at the back of the shop, the worlds of these four-colour heroes a welcome escape from the slate-grey streets. Then when Saturday came around, I’d spend every penny of my wages on these comic books: Batman, Detective Comics, Daredevil, 2000AD. That newsagent must’ve loved me!

After a while though, I’d finally depleted his stock of comics and had to look further afield for a fresh source. I’d seen an advertisement in the pages of 2000AD for a comic shop called Odyssey 7 in Manchester. So one Saturday morning, leaving the paper shop with my wages in my pocket for a change, I jumped on the bus into town to search out this shop. Trudging down Oxford Road, I turned into the shopping precinct at Manchester University and entered an Aladdin’s Cave.

Odyssey 7 didn’t just have a single spinner filled with comics; it had boxes of them running down the central aisle of the shop. Flicking through them, I could see comics about every superhero I had ever heard of and dozens more that I hadn’t. Along the walls were posters, magazines, and on a section of shelves filled with large, glossy books, something called graphic novels. That’s where I discovered Violent Cases.

I can’t remember what initially drew me to this book. Maybe it was the illicit promise of the title that appealed to my teenage mind. But when I picked it up and started to flick through the pages, I was entranced. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was like nothing I had ever read before. In black-and-white and without a superhero in sight, it was a story about childhood told in the most remarkable way. This wasn’t a comic book, this was something else. Leaving behind the handful of Batman comics I’d already picked up, I took the book to the counter and bought my first graphic novel.

Over the next week I must have read Violent Cases more than a dozen times, each time finding some new detail to obsess over. For those who haven’t yet read it, I won’t give away too much, but something in this story sang to me. Its depiction of the narrator’s memories of his childhood: a fuzzy and confusing world, where adults lied and the threat of violence was never far from the surface, fascinated and troubled me at the same time.

The next Saturday I was standing at the counter of Odyssey 7 again, and, using the same logic that had served me so well in the library, asked if they had any more books by Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean. The man at the counter pointed me in the direction of a couple of new comic books, Black Orchid and the first issue of something called The Sandman, and then he told me something that changed my life.

“They’re coming in to do a signing next week.”

I looked up at the poster in the shop window. Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean would be signing copies of Violent Cases, the book that had blown my mind, next Friday afternoon. It was incredible – here was a chance to meet a real live author and a fantastic artist too. There was only one problem. The only way I’d be able to get to the signing in time would be to bunk off school at lunchtime. I think the time of the signing was 2pm, enough time I reasoned to get the bus into town, get my new favourite author to sign my books (I’d now bought the first issues of both Black Orchid and The Sandman as well) and still get home before my mum got back from work. That way I could pretend that I’d been in school all day, just like normal.

That was the plan. When Friday arrived, I sneaked out of school as the lunchtime bell rang and caught the bus into town. But arriving at Odyssey 7 just before two in the afternoon, I discovered my plan’s first flaw. Outside the store a queue snaked across the shopping precinct and out onto Oxford Road. (Remember, this was a signing for his very first book – Lord knows what kind of monstrous wyrm a Neil Gaiman signing queue looks like nowadays!) Joining the back of the queue I slowly started to worry. With the speed the queue was moving at, there was no way I’d get back home in time to pretend I’d been in school all day. If I stayed put, I was going to be in trouble. Big trouble.

Standing around me in the queue were trench-coated university students, their comic books and graphic novels tucked under their arms. I was still wearing my school uniform, my copy of Violent Cases, Black Orchid and The Sandman shoved in the depths of my school bag. This was the only chance I’d ever have to meet the extraordinary people who had created these stories. I stayed in the line.

Eventually, sometime after four I think, I made it inside the shop, the remnants of the queue now snaking around the central aisle and back up to the counter where two guys were seated, patiently signing each book that was thrust in front of them. They didn’t look much older than students themselves, but the face of one of them was strangely familiar. From my bag, I dug out my copy of Violent Cases and turned to the first page. There, staring out at me in black and white was the same face. This was Neil Gaiman.

It’s funny, I’m trying to remember now what happened next, but my memories are turning out to be as fragmentary as those of the narrator of Violent Cases. I don’t really remember getting to the front of the queue, can’t recall what I said when I handed over my books to Neil and Dave to be signed. But when I finally stepped out of the comic shop and started walking back to the bus station and the inevitable mountain of trouble I was in, I remember thinking one thing: I wanted to be a writer.

Fast forward twenty-two years. Neil Gaiman is now one of the most famous authors on the planet. He’s written a mountain of books that I love: Coraline, Stardust, The Wolves in the Walls, American Gods, The Graveyard Book; not to mention all his comics and graphic novels, film screenplays and TV scripts (including possibly my favourite-ever episode of Doctor Who). Dave McKean is an award-winning artist, author and filmmaker.

As for me, well, as a childhood dream is realised and Twelve Minutes to Midnight is published, I’ve got my first signing session at Octavia's Bookshop in Cirencester.

Unfortunately, it’s on a Saturday, so I’m not going to present any school-age children with the same moral dilemma I faced, but when I finally got confirmation of the event, I tweeted about how twenty-two years after I’d skipped school to go along to a book signing by Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean, I finally had my own to announce. And then to my utter astonishment, Neil Gaiman replied!

“That makes me so proud! And so old!”

With a grin as wide as the Joker’s on my face, I tweeted back to try and thank him in 140 characters or less for all the inspiration he’d given me and, more importantly, finally let him know how much trouble he’d indirectly got me in. (I was grounded for a month for bunking off school!) Then a few minutes later, his reply popped up.

“You did the right thing.”

And I know he’s right. That day twenty-two years ago, was the first time I believed it was possible to become a writer. An outlandish dream sparked into life as I stood in front of the counter in that Manchester comic shop and met Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean. The day that changed my life.


One year after the publication of Twelve Minutes to Midnight, I had the pleasure of meeting Neil Gaiman again at an event at the Oxford Playhouse (which I blogged about here) and, as Escape Room makes it way out into the world, I hope our paths might cross again one day and I'll get the chance to say thank you once more for helping me to start to dream this life I've led for the past ten years into existence.

Until next time...