The fundamental aesthetic of the fiction I advocate and write is cross-pollination: of forms, of genres, of techniques. I can think of no other way to produce "beautiful mutants" (the title of a great short novel by Deborah Levy, by the way). In terms of the word "fantasy," it's a combination of things, especially the lessons of "practical surrealism" exemplified by one of my biggest influences, Angela Carter. Carter wedded surrealism to a coherent plot line and she wrote like a raging inferno in human form. There are sentences in her novels and short stories that literally catch fire on the page when you read them. As for the other elements, they are difficult to articulate: uniqueness of vision and the ability to articulate that vision in stylistically interesting ways. To be profane, to be transgressive. I admire Steve Aylett, for example, for stripping away much of the dross that a writer accumulates in acquiring a style. There's a need sometimes, a passionate desire, for words not to be necessarily written; if only, like music, you could "write" in a way that conveyed itself directly to the reader's emotions and intellect, without need of words. And, although I'm answering this question in a somewhat round-about way, I guess I want literature that takes the top of my head off, that exposes me to a mindset, a sensibility, that on some subconscious level invests images with resonance, with meaning. This is perhaps a more sensible way of saying what I said before about Carter: the words actually seeming to burn on the page. Thematically or plotwise, I'm not looking for any particular type of fiction.

When I write a story, the story comes first and the experimentation comes second. The form must fit the subject matter, the character, the themes of the story. Case in point, "King Squid," one of the new novellas in City of Saints. It is written as if a monograph about squid, complete with an annotated bibliography. Did I sit down and say to myself, "Wow -- it would be neat to write a story as a scientific monograph with an annotated bibliography"? No. I created a character, Frederick Madnok, who had a number of secrets and a need to conceal them that conflicted with a need to confess. Madnok chose the form of the story, and it just happened to be a fake scientific monograph with a bibliography. (It's also humorous -- I rarely subject the reader to a non-traditional narrative device without making sure there's a funny aspect, because I'm not sure I'd want to read something experimental that wasn't also at least partially funny.) And by contrast, you'll note that the other major new novella in the hardcover, "The Cage," is told in a very traditional way -- again, because that particular story and that particular character required it.

The encrypted story also has to do with concealment, with a dual need to reveal and hide, and thus mirrors "King Squid" in some ways. The encrypted story can be deciphered by referring to the first four novellas in the book -- the number series in the encrypted story maps to words in those novellas. What is the point of such an exercise? First, it's important to the frame/plot of the new material, which is all contained within an "Appendix" section that opens with a letter from one Ambergrisian to another listing and providing context for each story found in the Appendix. Second, the reader gains the experience of actually writing the story, word by word. The effect of decryption is also to slow the reading of the story, making each word have more weight, an effect usually specific to poetry. The sting in the tail of the decrypted story frees the reader to take over the author's role on a permanent basis, as well. The intent is to liberate the reader from the author's manipulation, in a sense.

The encryption also creates another, very important effect. If I encrypt the word "of", where I take that "of" from in the first four novellas is critical. I could take that "of" from the middle of a horrific Festival passage in "Dradin" or a contemplative artist passage in "Transformation of Martin Lake". If I wanted to create a comment on that particular sentence in the encrypted story, I could take the "of" from a particularly ironic part of the meta-fiction "The Strange Case of X". In all cases, the word, when decrypted, inherits the emotional resonance of its original context in one of the first four novellas. This, in essence, creates another layer to the encrypted story. To a lesser extent, the context of the word in the encrypted story also changes the context of the word where it appears in one of the first four novellas. What it comes down to is this: creating a new experience for the reader. (Of course, should the encrypted story be as long as it is if I want readers to decrypt it? Probably not, but the frame, the plot of the Appendix, also demands that it be of a good length, even if the encryption nearly killed me. And any reader can get a copy of the decrypted story from me, so even if it might seem needlessly difficult, no reader is forced to engage the text at that level if they don't want to. Some days, I'm not sure I want to.)

As for the story on the cover of the City of Saints hardcover edition -- it serves a number of purposes. Any good cover is supposed to introduce you to the book you are going to read. In this case, that introduction just happens to have a written component. But it also harks back to illuminated manuscripts and the idea of the book as artifact. I wanted to write a vignette into the cover for all of these reasons. The reader can accept the story as existing at the level of design and not read it, or they can accept it as an introduction to the book and read it. Either way, it adds to the pleasure of the book.

We suspend disbelief when we read, but, at base, we still know we're reading a book. The purpose of including self-conscious elements in a story is not always to disrupt that suspension of disbelief, but to say to the reader: Okay, as the author, I'm not going to pretend that you don't know you're reading a book. Given that, I'm still going to make you suspend your disbelief. Vladimir Nabokov -- along with Carter, my favorite writer -- does this wonderfully well in a story called "The Leonardo", where he tells the reader at the beginning of the story: "This is a story. This is made up." And then proceeds to tell a story so engrossing that the reader forgets that it's not supposed to have any weight because the author has already revealed the wires and gimcrack machinery behind the curtain. This technique allows the reader to enjoy the story, but also provides an extra jolt, an extra electricity. It attacks the idea of there only being one level of reality in a story.

The gray caps, on the other hand, I can't comment on. I'm not sure they'd appreciate it.

Eric Schaller, my artist collaborator, and I are currently discussing a few projects. One possibility would be to create an issue of Burning Leaves, the pseudo-Decadent journal mentioned in the hardcover (and bring in a few other writers for the sake of tonal variety). Another would be to produce actual Ambergris honey mead, with the appropriate label and back story of the brewery. We will probably do both -- I've already opened up discussions with a micro-brewery to produce the stuff. The point of these projects would be to further expand on the multi-media aspect and to experiment with the idea of "found objects" from a fantasy world. (And, heck, also just to have fun. The fun element has to be there in any project like this to make it worthwhile.) However, it's unlikely that Hoegbotton & Sons will produce many more projects of this nature. Just as I'm pretty much through with meta-fiction after the hardcover, I'd hate to begin repeating myself and wind up making products that don't teach me something in the process of creating them.

It's told in three parts -- the first section first person, the second section second person, the third section third person. From the points of view of the three main characters. It's part Blade Runner noir and part Grand Guignol. I can't write anything more intense than the sections set under the city in the Third Act, which were inspired by visiting York Cathedral in England in 1994. I hope people like it. It's very different from the Ambergris material. Oh yes -- it also includes intelligent, sarcastic, kick-ass meerkats.