Since making her first professional short story sale in 1980, Pat Cadigan has had her work appear in Omni, SCI FICTION, Asimov’s, and Jim Baen’s Universe, as well as numerous anthologies. Her work has been translated into French, German, Polish, Japanese, and Czech. Born in Schenectady, New York, she grew up in Fitchburg, Massachusetts, and emigrated to England in 1996. I’m pleased that Pat was able to answer a few of my questions for The Fix.

Tell us about life in England. Why the move a few years back?

Ah, life in England. Life in England is good. I moved to London with my son and we brought his grandmother (my mother) with us as well in August of 1996, so I’ve been here about twelve and a half years now. I don’t think I’ll ever live anywhere else. I feel more at home here than I’ve ever felt anywhere in the U.S. Actually, the area of London I live in is a lot like where I grew up in Massachusetts—very urban, trees growing up out of the sidewalk like God and Nature intended. It’s only the ethnic groups that are different. My old neighbourhood was heavily Italian when I was younger and later on, more Puerto Rican. Where I live now is a mix of Greek and Turkish Cypriots, Kurds, Indians, Pakistanis, Somalians, Nigerians, and Poles. Oh, and British.

We moved here because I married a Brit—viz., the Original Chris Fowler. That’s Christopher J. Fowler, not Christopher R. Fowler. (And yes, we all know each other, travel in the same circles, and show up at the same parties, much to everyone’s amusement.) We worked it out and knew that we could make a better living in London than we could in the U.S., given that Chris was already a longtime employee at the University of Westminster. And as it turned out, we were right. We’ve been able to get superior medical care for my elderly mother, not to mention housing—she now lives in sheltered accommodation (she’s 88) and while it’s not luxurious, it’s quite nice and safe, with immediate help at hand in case of an emergency. The educational opportunities are wonderful, too. My son is currently in his last year at the London College of Communications, studying for a degree in sound design, after which he plans to get his Master’s.

As for me, London is a great place to be a writer—any kind of writer. And that’s aside from the fact that writer friends I admire are close at hand, people like Roz Kaveney, Paul McAuley, Kim Newman, Rob Holdstock, John Clute. The resources in London are wonderful. The British Library allows professional writers access to all their reference materials. It’s an embarrassment of riches, really.

What is your writing day like?

It varies. Every day involves a combination of strenuous physical exercise, cat adoration, hours supine on the comfy sofa with pencil and A5 notepad (that’s a 5 X 7″ notepad, for my U.S. friends), several phone calls from my mother, hexadecimal sudoku, Roz and I trying to figure out when we both have a free day for lunch (there’s a Brazilian restaurant near her that’s to die for), more cat adoration, and a couple of inadvertent naps either at home or on public transportation, but none of this ever happens in the same order.

Are you a slow methodical writer or a quick facile one?

That varies, too, but for the most part, I am the world’s slowest writer, with the occasional burst of inspiration. These bursts usually end up on the cutting room floor (so to speak), especially if I’m doing something for Ellen Datlow. (This is not a complaint, believe me.)

Who are a couple of authors whom you’ve studied for craft and technique?

Stephen King and Robert Heinlein, still the undisputed champions of Compulsively Readable Writing, and William Gibson—every time Bill puts another book out, I fall in love with his work all over again. I love John Collier, who seems to have fallen into obscurity and really shouldn’t have. Go look up a story called “Evening Primrose” and you’ll see what I mean. Cordwainer Smith is another longtime favourite—he’s a unique voice. I also read all my friends as well and try to crib from them. What do I try and crib from them, you ask? All the good stuff.

Actually, my way of studying craft and technique is to read for pleasure. I’ve never lost the ability to read for the sheer pleasure of it. I love a good story told well.

Is there a favorite story of yours that stands out in your mind?

I have a couple of stories I’m fond of for idiosyncratic reasons. My latest “favourite” is the story I did for Ellen Datlow’s Poe anthology, “Truth and Bone.” The title comes from a song by one of my favourite singers, a lovely woman named Heather Nova who, if there were any justice in the world, would be as well known as Tori Amos. Go look up her work, buy it, and make her a star.

Do you enjoy writing short fiction or novels more? Since the forms are so different, can you tell us your difference in approach to each?

Boy, I’m not sure you’d want this interview to be that long.

But seriously. For years, I wrote only short fiction not because I had an aversion to trying to write a novel but because I had a full-time job and there just wasn’t time. But eventually I got an agent and I ended up knitting several pieces of short fiction together to construct my first novel, Mindplayers, at the request of Shawna McCarthy. My second novel, Synners, was a conventional single narrative. My third and fourth novels, Fools and Tea From An Empty Cup, were both fix-ups, and Dervish Is Digital, my fifth novel, was a conventional single narrative.

I enjoy both forms and I don’t really have a preference. With short fiction, the gratification comes sooner; novels pay more. They also have their own drawbacks: short fiction is short, you have to make a few words do a lot of work in terms of premise, back-story, and characterization; there’s no room for elaborate set-ups and/or explanations. Novels require consistency and substance, not to mention action, and if you change your mind about any part of it, you may have to rewrite the whole thing.

You were a major figure in the cyberpunk movement of the ’80s. Looking back, what are your thoughts on the subgenre?

Wheeeee! That was fun. What’s next?

You have been an instructor at Clarion West. Tell us what the workshop process means to you as both a writer and an instructor. What is your approach to helping beginning writers learn to master their craft?

I was in writing workshops back when I was in university, both at the University of Massachusetts and at the University of Kansas. Back then, I couldn’t have afforded to go to Clarion and frankly, judging from the caliber of the students I’ve met at Clarion West, I don’t think I’d have made the cut.

Writing workshops were helpful when I was plugging away, trying to get published but I am no longer a workshopping writer. This is a personal thing; it’s my temperament. I’m solitary. I don’t talk about my work in progress to anyone except my husband Chris, and I don’t say a lot to him—most often, I just give him pages to read and he gives me a frank assessment. I know I can depend on him because he was an editor for the University of Westminster, so when he says something, he knows what he’s talking about, and he’s absolutely honest with me. He’s also one of the few people who understands how much I need to be left alone even when we’re in the same room.

I love “teaching” Clarion. I put it that way because I believe as Lawrence Block says: Writing can’t be taught but it can be learned. The Clarion method is a terrific way to get aspiring writers to learn. I tell my students that if this is something they really want, they have to keep at it regardless of what anyone else tells them. Talent is good to have, of course, but like a muscle, talent can be developed. But the only way to develop it is to work and keep on working, to persevere in the face of complete and utter indifference. Indifference is what they’ll face much more than opposition. A writer needs a thick skin, but most people think that means not being discouraged by criticism or bad reviews or things like that. In fact, what will happen more often is, you’ll be ignored. It’s not that you’ll get a bad review—it’s that you won’t get a review, period. It’s not that you’ll lose an award to someone else—it’s that you won’t even get nominated. But if writing is what you want to do, you have to keep at it anyway.

Stephen King was over here a little while ago—he’s been here twice since I moved here and the first time, he did an event with Muriel Gray where she interviewed him in front of an audience. In the course of the conversation, he said, “Don’t tell anybody but I’d do this for free.” Well, most of us might as well be doing it for free, and if you looked at everyone’s bookkeeping, you’d probably see that a good many of us actually pay for the privilege.

So why do it? Anyone who asks that question isn’t a writer.

I want to add here that I love Stephen King as a writer and I admire him as a person. I admire his career—he made it on the strength of his talent. He came in over the transom, out of the slush-pile. He has since used his money to help his local community as well as take care of his family and he doesn’t piss and moan about how it’s so hard to be so brilliant and successful. And for every Stephen King you see, there are probably dozens more you’ll never see—the few who didn’t give up labour in obscurity. That’s life in the big city.

What are you working on now?

I’ve been doing a lot of short fiction lately. For a period of about 18 months, my mother was living with us and during that time, I got no work done. Writing short fiction really is my first love and it was the perfect way to get back into working constructively. I’m also working on a novel, of which I can say no more.

What are your plans for the future. Aspirations? Goals?

Oh, you know, the usual—cure cancer, end world hunger, redistribute the wealth. As long as it doesn’t interfere with my writing, of course.