I want to make a fuss of our regular guest cartoonist Laurie Pink, who every year for these blogs provides us with new Paul and Mike cartoons. (They began as depictions of me and artist Mike Collins, as Laurie's own contest entry.) She can be found here or, if you're on Facebook, here and you can get mugs and t-shirts and things. We've got a Skyrim-related blog tomorrow, and so, erm...

Today, I wanted to talk about how 2011's been for me. I read an online review (one of those thoughtful comic feature reviews which now seem to be springing up in several places) that was very positive about my work, but which said, and I'm paraphrasing, that I was one of those writers you couldn't know from it, who kept himself back from self-expression. I was rather startled, because I've always seen myself as anything but that. But I guess in the last couple of years, anyone who just encounters me on this blog would have found someone who pops in and, in as jolly a way as possible, just tells them what he's been up to, and doesn't comment on the rest of the world. I leave that for Twitter, where I'm insanely chatty (but I'll be talking about social media in another of these blogs, so enough of that for now). So I thought for today's blog post I'd talk about some of the big personal and creative happenings in my life this year, and sort of fill in some of the gaps.

The biggest thing, of course, was the death of my Dad. We'd all dreaded, and expected, a long, drawn out decline in hospital for him, but instead he experienced an instant, probably painless, exit from this life, after a normal morning in bed at home. I talked about it a lot at the time. I still find myself relating the details to people at parties, because it all seems so strange, the way one's mind remains seemingly above the grief (and kind of guilty for being so) for such a long time, but one's body feels bruised and stiff. It wasn't until the funeral (which Caroline took, and did a very good job with) that I cried, even, while delivering the oratory. I think since then it's mainly changed me through things I do and don't do, through perhaps a more demanding attitude towards the world, of an increased sensation (that I've always had) of time running out, of needing to get things done. I'm still waiting to see if some grand collapse happens, but I don't think that's the way it's going to be. (And here I am, because he's not here, talking only about me.) I found the sight of his dead body, his mouth open, to be the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen, despite it being what I'd anticipated in two hours of getting there, despite rushing so I wouldn't miss seeing it. Nobody could have stopped me kissing the forehead of this frightening thing. If the usual scene from a horror movie had happened, if that body had suddenly come to life again, it would have been even more terrifying, and yet, a second later, the most wonderful thing. The thing that everyone wants is also what everyone dreads (as Joss Whedon and Marti Noxon well know) because these things both bring one right up against the dread of pain in life and the mystery of the end of it. I'm talking about it like it's something extraordinary, but of course these experiences are actually commonplace. The vast majority of us go through this desperate strangeness. 'I'm not going to tell more than a couple of people,' I said to my agent (who was incredibly supportive throughout), and then told the internet about it two days later. After Dad died, Mum suddenly showed us so many new sides to her personality, and is still doing so. It was like an offhand strength appeared in her. She immediately sat in Dad's chair, passed his mug around to whoever took it when she made tea. 'Shall we get a take away pizza?' she asked, 'I've never had one of those.' Every now and then she'll talk about having had 'an awful day', and we know she's not talking about the weather. A couple of weeks ago, she lost Dad's signet ring, taken from his finger and too big for hers, for a whole day, and then found it in a Wellington boot. I imagine that was one of the most awful days. We seem to have folded his life away without too much fuss, and not decided our lives are horror as a result. This is exactly what he would have wanted. I asked DC for time off and ended up not taking it, because he'd have wanted me to work, or that's what I say to myself, because how would I know? I've used him so many times in that work, rather created it as a building around the idea of him. 'Is everyone all right?' was what he once asked me from a hospital bed, what he thought then was his death bed, asking permission to leave, sir, many years before he actually did. And those were the words I put into John Smith's mouth. Everyone is, Dad. I hope you are, too. But I have no way to know.

Enough of that.

Caroline and I are now living in a market town near London, where Caroline is the Curate. That is to say, she's second in command to the vicar, Tim. She's loving it, and is so busy as Christmas approaches that I only see her a couple of times a day. (There are torchlit processions of scouts to be watched, markets and carol services and nativity plays to attend or plan, and many sermons to write.) I've loved seeing all the social good the church does, and numbers in this parish at least are going up. The response to the clerical collar in pubs and on the street is heartening too. People always have a joke, and feel they instantly know something of her. I expected there to be a lot more awkwardness, and there's hardly any. It's only at parties where my own subculture is present that she gets atheists trying to convert her. All night. Meaning she doesn't feel she can walk away, but has to respond. And really, she just came in for a pint. We're also making friends here, and have a local, where the two of us (our team name being Curate's Egg) are doing well in the pub quiz. The combination of drinking ale with the positive aim of meeting new people is a bit too seductive, really. I'd like to at least feel guilty about my hangovers.

Perhaps as a result of Dad's death, I've been looking after my own health a bit more. Following the lead of John Scalzi, I got the Livestrong app for my iPad, and it's working well (even given all the beer and, you know, Christmas). All it does is set you a daily calorie limit for your target weight, and you enter what you've eaten, and what exercise you've done. There's a searchable list of how calorific various foods are (which is bit of a turkey shoot, considering how wildly differing the values for different cornish pasties, for example, are). But the 'making lists' aspect suits me, and it doesn't insist that eating sage after midnight has magical results, it's just about calories, so I can still throw back a chocolate (fifty calories) when I'm not 'overdrawn'. It does mean, however, that my wife can hear me doing mental arithmetic in the kitchen. (Because calorie counts on jars and packets hardly ever tell you what the sum is for any portion you might actually eat. Apart from pulled ham, a calorie per gram, it even rhymes, thank you!) 'Two pieces of toast... two hundred minus twenty eight...'

2011 was also the year, of course, of the New 52 from DC, of Demon Knights and Stormwatch. I think the writers who were there at that moment will be the stuff of convention quiz answers and Back Issue articles in future years, and I couldn't be more proud to have been part of it. And before that, it was also the year of my run on Action Comics and of Knight and Squire, which I think, mostly thanks to the genius of Jimmy Broxton, is my best work in comics, and which has lately been getting some pleasing critical attention (I normally wouldn't post positive reviews of my own work, but this blogger's work has continually amazed me, and I think he deserves some recognition for being one of the leading voices of the new comics criticism. Take a look here.)

There's also the matter of the short stories. I was very pleased with how well 'The Copenhagen Interpretation' went down in Asimov's, and I'm working on the next one in the Hamilton series now. There are also three short stories coming up in various places next year, none of which I can tell you about yet. I really enjoy that side of the SF prose business. One day I'd like to edit an anthology.

And another string to my bow was represented by Something in the Water, my horror play for Radio 4. I love the experience of working with actors, and how much the writer is involved in radio production. Producer/director Nadia Molinari is one of the most talented people I collaborate with, and I hope we'll get to do a bigger project together.

Bernice Summerfield, the Doctor Who companion I created for the New Adventures novels, will have her twentieth anniversary of near-continuous book and audio appearances next year, and Big Finish, the audio drama production company who licences her from me, are making a big fuss about it. Speaking of delightful studio experiences, I recently spent a grand Saturday hanging out with many of those who've been meaningful in her surprisingly-lengthy life, as we recorded... something special I've contributed to, Bernice-wise, which I can't tell you about yet. There will also be a full audio drama version of the Doctor Who book in which she first appeared, Love and War (with Sylvester and Sophie playing the Doctor and Ace), which I'll also have a hand in. So next year will be the year of Bernice too.

And finally, I've completed my first ever spec TV pilot script. Having rather thrown up my hands and walked away from television after Pulse didn't go to series ('like Alan Partridge' said a chap at my Dad's wake), I saw everyone else still having fun in that medium and decided I wasn't ready to stop. So we'll be shopping that around soon. And that's all I can say about that.

A normal day at my house at the moment consists of a lot of me tapping away in my study. And doing some writing too. Ahem. With a Curate popping in every now and then. Sometimes with tea. From my window I can see a back garden with a cherry tree in it and a church spire and the green hillside that leads up to the station. There's running in the afternoons (listening to a podcast), there's sometimes, well, often, well, usually, beer in the evening. There's Evensong on a Sunday night (if it's not Choral). And now my holiday is approaching, there's staying up late (no pat pat) playing Skyrim (more on that tomorrow, with all sorts of Elder Scrolls delights, including your own ridiculous experiences in the world of the game) and glasses of port. If no cheese. There's more peace, now, I think. Except I still need to get things done.

Next year is going to be a good one, I think.

Every day, we'll be featuring a creator talking about what they're doing for the holidays, and today it's a Ms. Lauren Beukes, who writes...

'The holidays are owned by my three year old daughter, who will be running us ragged keeping her entertained. I foresee more visits to the South African Museum where we will name and tame all the dinosaurs (Brady, Daisy, Spike and Pud, "who is very cross"). We will be hunting down the snails she has brought into the house for a tea party before she got distracted and wandered off, leaving them to make a very slooooow Great Escape. We'll try to teach the penguins at the aquarium the choreography of her patented waddle-and-hop dance. We'll go to kids' readings at the finest literary trader in all of Cape Town, The Book Lounge, swim at the beach, look for Ponyo in the rockpools and then head off to my brother-in-law's farm in the mountains for a few days, for lots of walks and wildlife, waterfalls, amazing rock art, stars and swimming and looking for porcupines and leopards on night rambles. Oh yes, and working on my novel (somehow) inbetween.'


That sounds absolutely brilliant. Thanks, Lauren. Until I see you all tomorrow for Skyrim stories aplenty, Cheerio!