First, Last, Everything: Phil Williams

I've got quite a backlog of First, Last, Everything entries at the moment, so they are going to come thick and fast. And this time it's author Phil Williams.

Phil Williams is the author of the Ordshaw urban fantasy thrillers and a host of other assorted words. He has just finished the final chapter in the opening trilogy, The Violent Fae, leaving him poised to change directions in new and absurd ways. Phil lives on the south coast of the UK with his wife and a very fluffy dog, and splits his time between imagining nightmares and producing educational material for English learners. He can be found at www.phil-williams.co.uk or http://twitter.com/fantasticphil

(He doesn't mention it, but he has a new book out on Tuesday).

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First

I remember very clearly the first novel I read, circa age 8, and how proud it made me to think, I’ve read a proper book, a whole long book, all on my own. That book was The Saga of Erik the Viking by Terry Jones, and though I remember that pride, and that it was entertaining, I don’t remember much else about it. But I guess that historical fantasy setting and a balance of adventure and humour hit the mark, as I’ve festered in those areas since (a good primer for my subsequent love of Discworld, for starters).

There was another book I read around that time that I recall better, however, and may have even read first. That book was You’re Thinking About Doughnuts, and is probably even more indicative of where I’d end up, with its hefty dose of fantasy in a contemporary setting and a lot of dry humour. It’s probably little known now, but it was essentially Night in the Museum a few decades before that film existed. A boy left alone in a museum befriends a skeleton and a spacesuit and other objects that randomly come to life. Enough to make you believe in magic, yes?

Without these two books, would there be no Ordshaw? Who knows…

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Last

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I’ve just got through a horror binge for October, and the fact that the last one I finished is a sequel to one I read earlier the same month should say something. The Invasion by Peadar O’Guilin is the conclusion of the story started in The Call; they’re both wildly imaginative survival horrors giving a really unique twist to fairies stirring alongside the modern world. Quick-moving and laced with disturbing ideas, they start with the overall concept that in an utterly isolated Ireland, everyone disappears for 3 minutes at some point in their adolescence. The disappearance lasts 24 hours for the taken. Those 24 hours are deeply horrible.

The books follow Nessa, who has barely functioning legs, as she grows up in a survival college, juggling the dual difficulties of the terrifying promise of fairy abduction and the usual qualms of being in school with a bunch of bullies.

Expect shocks, violence, twisted imagery and more! I didn’t realise until partway through that these books are actually aimed at the YA market, as I’ve read plenty tamer adult horror. If you’re into this sort of thing, they’re superb.

Everything

I’ve been inspired and shaped by so many fantastic books it’s hard to pick just one as the greatest. But honestly, if I’m ever asked for a best of all time, my mind always instinctively goes one place: George Eliot’s Middlemarch. Which is a pretty surprising place when you consider the bulk of my reading is fantasy, crime and thriller, with only occasional forays into Victorian societal dramas.

But Middlemarch touched me in a special way when I read it, to the degree that I wrote a Goodreads review which still sends me occasional notifications about people “Like”ing it.

What I took from Middlemarch was a deep appreciation for how fascinating a wide and accurate representation of humanity’s foibles can be. It’s a book steeped in empathy, offering a reasoned understanding of even the least likeable characters, which inspired me not just in the realms of what’s possible with great fiction, but also in the realms of understanding people in general.

There were times during reading Middlemarch (circa age 20, reading it on a beach, for fun) when I was laughing at myself for being knee-deep in the minor dramas of provincial life stretched over thousands of pages (this awful cover perhaps reflects that sentiment), but I couldn’t stop. There was something too fundamentally meaningful, and perfectly realised, about every page.

Maybe that’s just me, and it was a case of right time right place, but it’s not a feeling I’ll ever forget. It’s a feeling I’ve had recreated a few times since with other great books – most recently I’ve found Shirley Jackson giving me similar swoons – but Middlemarch, I suppose, got there first.

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Interesting choices, Phil! I'm not sure Middlemarch quite fits in with the rules of the entry, but then again, I'm all for breaking rules anyway.

So remember, if you want to take part, whether you follow the rules or not, I’ll post your entry. Just drop me a line on Twitter or via email to dave@dpwoolliscroft.com and I’ll send you some simple instructions. 

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