Look, I really will get on with some trenchant and perceptive advice about improving your publishability. Soon. Honestly. Probably on Tuesday. But first, I had such fun today. After telling you yesterday (scroll down one post - save me linking) about Lynn Price's hilarious promo video for her forthcoming book, The Writer's Essential Tackle Box, I investigated the software she'd used. I felt I should.
A couple of hours (well, OK, four hours) later, I had come up with my own effort. And if there's got to be a "learning point" in every post on this blog, it is this: that getting published is only the beginning. Life from then on becomes one heady round of "interviews" and associated madness.
I had a long list of things to do today and this wasn't on it. But it was much more fun.
Oh, and still don't forget to try to win your free copy of the Writer's Handbook. Your deadline is Thursday.
Showing posts with label an author's life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label an author's life. Show all posts
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Friday, 24 April 2009
ALWAYS LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE, de dum, de dum de dum de dum
(NB You need to be a Life of Brian fan to get your teeth round all those de dums)
I may be too busy and fraught to bring you a carefully researched and ruthlessly perceptive blog post at the moment, but I'm never too busy and fraught to bring you someone else's carefully researched and ruthlessly perceptive blog post.
So, I do recommend, for your edification, education, and simultaneous hilarity, this post from literary agent Rachelle Gardner.
Now, those soul-shredding rejection letters which you open and weep over in the privacy of your own garret suddenly don't seem so painful, do they?
And lest you think I am above telling you about my own bad review, I thought you might like to put yourselves in my admittedly gorgeous turquoise boots when I read the shocking review of my novel Fleshmarket, on Amazon. Somewhat weirdly, the reviewer claims to be Bob Geldof, but I don't think this can be true because a) BG has better things to do and b) there's no swearing. All I can do is to remind myself that a) the reviewer is delusional b) the other reviews are good c) the poor sod had probably been forced to study Fleshmarket in class, which is a nasty thing to have to do when you'd rather be out kicking a football / pulling wings off flies, and I apologise to him for causing him distress d) he could well be right, but I can't change it now. I'll try to write betterly next time. Or e) it might be the surly shop assistant I was rude to the other day, getting his own back. And who can blame him?
Which brings me to the real moral of the story: remember that when you are published, you will no longer be able to be rude to anyone and get away with it. It's a crying shame.
I may be too busy and fraught to bring you a carefully researched and ruthlessly perceptive blog post at the moment, but I'm never too busy and fraught to bring you someone else's carefully researched and ruthlessly perceptive blog post.
So, I do recommend, for your edification, education, and simultaneous hilarity, this post from literary agent Rachelle Gardner.
Now, those soul-shredding rejection letters which you open and weep over in the privacy of your own garret suddenly don't seem so painful, do they?
And lest you think I am above telling you about my own bad review, I thought you might like to put yourselves in my admittedly gorgeous turquoise boots when I read the shocking review of my novel Fleshmarket, on Amazon. Somewhat weirdly, the reviewer claims to be Bob Geldof, but I don't think this can be true because a) BG has better things to do and b) there's no swearing. All I can do is to remind myself that a) the reviewer is delusional b) the other reviews are good c) the poor sod had probably been forced to study Fleshmarket in class, which is a nasty thing to have to do when you'd rather be out kicking a football / pulling wings off flies, and I apologise to him for causing him distress d) he could well be right, but I can't change it now. I'll try to write betterly next time. Or e) it might be the surly shop assistant I was rude to the other day, getting his own back. And who can blame him?
Which brings me to the real moral of the story: remember that when you are published, you will no longer be able to be rude to anyone and get away with it. It's a crying shame.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
NEGATIVE REVIEWS - SHHHHHH
You know how the Norwegians (I think it's Norwegians?) have hundreds of words for snow? Well, in Scotland we have numerous gorgeous words for the various things that we like a lot, such as insults. I notice we also have a lot of words for bad weather and being drunk, but I can't think why that should be - I can only think that an English person wrote the dictionary and was introducing outdated cultural stereotypes. But there's one beautiful and useful Scots word which doesn't fit into any of those categories: stushie. A stushie (sometimes also known as stromash) describes an argument held in public, which a whole load of people get themselves involved in. (This is something we never actually do but we often observe south of the border, of course, which is why we need at least two words for it.) It's the slightly more civilised equivalent of a street brawl. And there's one going on here right now
Essentially, a self-published author who was lucky enough to be reviewed in Scott Pack's blog but unlucky enough that the review wasn't 100% brilliant, (and why should it be? It's a review, not an advert) has not done the sensible thing (stay silent and understand that no one will notice, especially since it wasn't a particularly negative review ) but the unwise (but, I argue, very human and understandable) thing (react, thereby ensuring that everyone will notice it and only remember the negative bit.) Sorry, too many brackets there. (I think I have a serious bracket habit. There are worse faults.)
And while I agree with the general tenor of the messages, which are mainly telling him how silly he is, I actually want to do two things here:
It is rawly, utterly, searingly gutting when the work you slaved over and made as brilliant as you could is received negatively, in public. The fact that the negativity may be slight cannot initially register with the author: one drop of lemon juice on a cut feels no less painful than five drops of lemon juice. The author in this case is also self-published - this means he is having to deal with "No one wanted to publish me" along with "and now a reviewer doesn't think I'm the bees knees either". You can't not take it personally. Rationality goes out of the window. People such as me telling you that you're lucky to get a review, that it's "just one opinion, right?", that there'll be good reviews, that no one will notice or remember - none of that makes sense in the early moments of reading that bruising review.
In the old days (ie before the internet) a bad review disappeared with the rubbish the next day; no one who hadn't read it would ever see it again. Now, of course, it's THERE FOR LIKE EVER. It is googlable and forwardable and printable and cut-and-pastable. Schoolkids will find it when they do a school project on you. People will blog about it and link to it and really they might as well just put you in the stocks and throw rotten tomatoes at you.
But, somehow, for your own sake and no one else's, you have to avoid reacting, at least in public. Oh, in private, no problem: stick pins in the review (or wax model of the reviewer), burn it ceremoniously while chanting ancient spells, flush it down the toilet. But in public ... rise above it. The moral high ground is a damned fine place to be and the view is spectacular.
The lesson - learn, remember and store up for future use:
**PS For those of you who are sensitive to ideas of modern witchcraft, I am not nor have ever been a witch, nor have I never stuck pins in anything other than a pin-cushion, nor could I be bothered to. I was speaking merely metaphorically. I do a pretty effective line in cursing though.
Essentially, a self-published author who was lucky enough to be reviewed in Scott Pack's blog but unlucky enough that the review wasn't 100% brilliant, (and why should it be? It's a review, not an advert) has not done the sensible thing (stay silent and understand that no one will notice, especially since it wasn't a particularly negative review ) but the unwise (but, I argue, very human and understandable) thing (react, thereby ensuring that everyone will notice it and only remember the negative bit.) Sorry, too many brackets there. (I think I have a serious bracket habit. There are worse faults.)
And while I agree with the general tenor of the messages, which are mainly telling him how silly he is, I actually want to do two things here:
- Sympathise with his feelings (although I would certainly have advised him not to respond) because it's horrible to get a negative review. It goes to the very core of oneself as an author and is the type of public humiliation which most other people don't have to deal with (though they don't get the public acclaim either.) My sympathy is limited in this case because actually it was a very anodyne and perfectly valid review - but I'm extending my sympathy to encompass all recipients of negative reviews, generous person that I am.
- Use it as a useful cautionary tale for you, to prepare you for that moment which is a rite of passage for published authors, and self-published ones if they are very lucky, when you read a review that is not quite as glowing as the one your mother would have written for you.
It is rawly, utterly, searingly gutting when the work you slaved over and made as brilliant as you could is received negatively, in public. The fact that the negativity may be slight cannot initially register with the author: one drop of lemon juice on a cut feels no less painful than five drops of lemon juice. The author in this case is also self-published - this means he is having to deal with "No one wanted to publish me" along with "and now a reviewer doesn't think I'm the bees knees either". You can't not take it personally. Rationality goes out of the window. People such as me telling you that you're lucky to get a review, that it's "just one opinion, right?", that there'll be good reviews, that no one will notice or remember - none of that makes sense in the early moments of reading that bruising review.
In the old days (ie before the internet) a bad review disappeared with the rubbish the next day; no one who hadn't read it would ever see it again. Now, of course, it's THERE FOR LIKE EVER. It is googlable and forwardable and printable and cut-and-pastable. Schoolkids will find it when they do a school project on you. People will blog about it and link to it and really they might as well just put you in the stocks and throw rotten tomatoes at you.
But, somehow, for your own sake and no one else's, you have to avoid reacting, at least in public. Oh, in private, no problem: stick pins in the review (or wax model of the reviewer), burn it ceremoniously while chanting ancient spells, flush it down the toilet. But in public ... rise above it. The moral high ground is a damned fine place to be and the view is spectacular.
The lesson - learn, remember and store up for future use:
- Be grateful for ANY review, especially on a well-respected blog or newspaper. MOST books get no reviews except when the author's mother writes a thinly disguised one on Amazon. (And it has been known for a publisher to do this too - don't trust Amazon reviews. Oh, and by the way - don't post any anonymously yourself: there was an incident a few years back when all the anonymosity disappeared from Amazon Canada's reviews, causing a few blushes amongst some well-known authors ....).
- Recognise that not everyone can like your book, or like the same aspects of it, and reviewers should be allowed to say so, as long as they do so with integrity. A good book will get a variety of responses. You can choose to ignore any review, especially if you don't respect the reveiwer or if you feel that his/her taste is simply different from yours, but you might actually learn something from the content. That's up to you. It's your right to ignore it or believe it, though there's a school of thought that says if you believe the good ones you should believe the bad ones ...
- Focus on the positive bits (supposing there are some) - I know an author who had a review which went something like, "this is an inferior book from the author of the utterly suberb *****" and she used the "from the author of the utterly superb ****" on her website and other places. A negative review is a bit like falling off a horse except that you don't break your arm. Pick yourself up and carry on. Perhaps someone else will leap to your defence on Amazon/wherever - fantastic. But if it's your mother, do give her some lessons in disguise.
- Don't react. I don't know: go and buy some shoes or something. Wine and chocolate are two other justified and proven strategies. Of course, you have the right to respond, but you'd be foolish to: it will get you nowhere. And for goodness' sake, if you write an email or blog post, don't click Send. Sleep on it and then bin it. I tend to stick pins in less than mother-like reviews and imagine the reviewer dressed in huge pink underwear with a tea-cosy on his head. This is very helpful, I find.
**PS For those of you who are sensitive to ideas of modern witchcraft, I am not nor have ever been a witch, nor have I never stuck pins in anything other than a pin-cushion, nor could I be bothered to. I was speaking merely metaphorically. I do a pretty effective line in cursing though.
Saturday, 21 February 2009
SLOW DEATH BY COFFEE GRINDER
OK, I promised and here it is: my heart-warming story of staggering ineptitude. You need to understand that it is absolutely true, every bit of it, though I have changed names and locations to protect the innocent.
Before you read on, you need to understand three things:
1. Sophie, PR person extraordinaire and the star of my story, was wonderful and I really liked her. She battled with extreme conditions that were not her fault (sort of) and made me feel strangely (very strangely) relaxed. She was the bright spot in a terrible day. I would promote her if I was in power. I also want to emphasise that having directional confusion is very common amongst intelligent people (I should know) and I do not intend to cast aspersions on her undoubted talents and intelligence in other fields. Honestly, if I could afford a PR person, I would employ Sophie like a shot. I just wouldn’t ask her to drive me. By the way, Sophie works for a PR company, not my publishers. And my publishers are lovely too and this was not their fault either. Just so that's clear.
2. It may have been a terrible day, but no one died.
3. I have never written a book called Brainteasers. Nor do I plan to.
Anyway, to set the scene:
I was asked to do a charity (ie free) school event in a coffee shop somewhere not close to Glasgow. (Sensible readers are at this point asking “why?” As in “Why free? Why in a coffee shop? And why the hell did you say yes?” There is no answer to these questions.)
About a week before the event, a lucky school was told that if they took thirty ten-year-olds to a coffee-shop at a certain time, an unnamed author would read stories from her book "Brainteasers". And sign free copies of the book for them. When the school resorted to Google for more info, they were perplexed not to be able to find such a book in existence anywhere in the universe. Not surprisingly. Luckily, I cottoned onto the fact that there was a problem, and phoned the school, thus introducing myself and sorting things out. Kind of. Temporarily. We established, at least, that the book in question was actually called The Highwayman’s Curse.
I had almost pulled out of the event the day before, but was mollified by Sophie, the charity’s PR person. I was very impressed by Sophie’s ability to mollify me - she will go far. She even sent me flowers to apologise for distress caused - and that was BEFORE The Day From Salvador Dali-land.
So, Dali-Day arrives. Sophie is supposed to collect me at 8.30. At 8.30 Sophie phones and says she's "had a bit of trouble with the car" and will be "a bit" late. At 9.15 Sophie arrives. She then tells me that she won't be able to turn the car round in my very small cul-de-sac because she's dyslexic and doesn't know which way to turn the wheel when reversing. (I am very sympathetic to dyslexic people, having taught them for many years, and I understand the issues). So she asks me to help. I assume she means that I should stand outside the car directing her. Or maybe drive the car myself. Either of which would be fine. But she means me to sit in the passenger seat and show her which way to turn the wheel, with actions and WITHOUT using the words "left" or "right", because Sophie doesn't do left and right. (Nor do I, actually, but I decided not to tell her that, as one confused driver in a car facing the wrong way in a cul-de-sac is enough.)
We arrive at the venue late, (after we have tried to park in three places that are not carparks and Sophie has had the same issue with reversing without the concept of left and right). The café is full of journalists, hyper children, bemused customers, and a TV crew from Newsnight. Yes, Newsnight. (Note to non-UK people: this is a big deal in the UK.) Unfortunately, although the kids have permission to be photographed, they do not have permission to be filmed on moving film - which is different - and the Newsnight thing was too last minute to get permission sorted. The cameraman explains to us that paedophiles prefer moving pictures. Which is a charming thought and doesn’t help my stress levels. So they can’t be filmed and the Newsnight team is mightily miffed.
I am told to start the event, with no introduction, something which always bugs me but which is the least of my problems today. The event involves me delivering my words of wisdom at the top of my voice for an hour and a quarter to the kids, while journalists take pics and teachers and PR people run here and there trying and failing to organise filming permission, and while innocent customers carry on drinking and chatting loudly to drown my voice, and while milk frothing machines regularly spurt incredibly noisily and coffee grinding machines grind horribly, to the extent that occasionally I have to stop shouting and give up. I learn afterwards that the Newsnight people were desperate to film because they thought the event was perfect (for a comedy show, I assume), but they can't get permission so they eventually scarper.
The kids (who are incredibly lovely and lively - probably helped by the free coffees they are slurping) ask questions on and on and on and on, and on quite a bit more, and no one thinks to stop them when an hour is up. I am too polite to ask if we can please stop. Eventually a teacher asks if they could possibly go and catch their bus, I look at her as though she is my saviour, and she takes them away.
First, however, they are all given a copy of The Highwayman's Curse. Some of them bring them back three minutes later, complaining that the covers are upside down, which they are. I try to persuade them that this might make them valuable later on, but they look at me as though I am a con artist or an idiot. I am certainly one of these.
I ask Sophie if I could have a sandwich and a coffee or I will pass out. She agrees. She doesn’t eat much. Her stress must be internal. She will probably collapse once this is all over but meanwhile she is determined to smile. We then go back to the carpark. Luckily, I have remembered about Sophie being dyslexic and have taken note of where the car is so when she says, "Which way do you think the car is?" I know the answer and we find it quickly.
But ...
...the weird unlocking mechanism doesn’t work and we can't get in. It's a car from a car-share scheme and there are fancy electronic devices to scan. Sophie's scanning card doesn't work. If we don't get in soon, we are going to be late for an award ceremony I’m supposed to be at, which is about 40 mins drive away, and which I really do need to get to because I am on the shortlist, although I would much rather stick red-hot needles in my eyes and twist them a few times while inhaling chilli powder.
Sophie phones the car-share scheme head office, says she can't get in her car and asks if they have any suggestions. They suggest she puts the key in the lock. She does. It opens. We get in. The car won't start. Sophie phones the head office again and they say that four buttons have to be pressed simultaneously on a special gadget inside the glove compartment. This is physically impossible for one person to do but, between us, Sophie and I get four fingers on the right buttons and the car starts.
Sophie then refuses to trust Simon, the Satnav voice, even though Simon really does need to be obeyed, and we get hopelessly lost on the outskirts of the place that is not Glasgow. Actually, I have sympathy with her, as I don’t really trust Simon either, and he is asking us to go onto the motorway back to Edinburgh, but I have a sneaking feeling that he must be right - he sounds so very confident and Sophie doesn’t. Sophie is now on the hard shoulder as she debates whether to go onto the Edinburgh-bound motorway or not. We don’t. Simon is concerned and patiently tries to force us to turn round "as soon as safely possible". Several times. Eventually, after much argument and concern, during which I am convinced I hear his voice begin to panic even though I remind myself that he is only a machine, Simon tunes in to Sophie's dogged refusal and allows us to go a very stupid way sort of towards Glasgow, until I say that actually we must trust Simon and we get to the award ceremony with five minutes to spare.
Simon and I are by now complete wrecks and I really need a bit of TLC, (or even maybe a cup of tea - well, anything really), but somehow survive without anything until two hours later when my friends Lindsey and Kathryn rescue me and drive me home. I can only hope that Sophie managed to reverse out of the narrow street I left her in. She may still be there. Perhaps I should check.
This is the sort of day I should be paid for. A lot. But I shouldn’t complain: I did get a very nice tuna sandwich and a more than decent (though cold by the time I got to it) Christmas Special coffee. Highly recommended. But preferably drunk in peace and quiet. Or maybe in the company of Simon. He does sound very charming. And he would stop me from doing stupid things like saying yes.
Before you read on, you need to understand three things:
1. Sophie, PR person extraordinaire and the star of my story, was wonderful and I really liked her. She battled with extreme conditions that were not her fault (sort of) and made me feel strangely (very strangely) relaxed. She was the bright spot in a terrible day. I would promote her if I was in power. I also want to emphasise that having directional confusion is very common amongst intelligent people (I should know) and I do not intend to cast aspersions on her undoubted talents and intelligence in other fields. Honestly, if I could afford a PR person, I would employ Sophie like a shot. I just wouldn’t ask her to drive me. By the way, Sophie works for a PR company, not my publishers. And my publishers are lovely too and this was not their fault either. Just so that's clear.
2. It may have been a terrible day, but no one died.
3. I have never written a book called Brainteasers. Nor do I plan to.
Anyway, to set the scene:
I was asked to do a charity (ie free) school event in a coffee shop somewhere not close to Glasgow. (Sensible readers are at this point asking “why?” As in “Why free? Why in a coffee shop? And why the hell did you say yes?” There is no answer to these questions.)
About a week before the event, a lucky school was told that if they took thirty ten-year-olds to a coffee-shop at a certain time, an unnamed author would read stories from her book "Brainteasers". And sign free copies of the book for them. When the school resorted to Google for more info, they were perplexed not to be able to find such a book in existence anywhere in the universe. Not surprisingly. Luckily, I cottoned onto the fact that there was a problem, and phoned the school, thus introducing myself and sorting things out. Kind of. Temporarily. We established, at least, that the book in question was actually called The Highwayman’s Curse.
I had almost pulled out of the event the day before, but was mollified by Sophie, the charity’s PR person. I was very impressed by Sophie’s ability to mollify me - she will go far. She even sent me flowers to apologise for distress caused - and that was BEFORE The Day From Salvador Dali-land.
So, Dali-Day arrives. Sophie is supposed to collect me at 8.30. At 8.30 Sophie phones and says she's "had a bit of trouble with the car" and will be "a bit" late. At 9.15 Sophie arrives. She then tells me that she won't be able to turn the car round in my very small cul-de-sac because she's dyslexic and doesn't know which way to turn the wheel when reversing. (I am very sympathetic to dyslexic people, having taught them for many years, and I understand the issues). So she asks me to help. I assume she means that I should stand outside the car directing her. Or maybe drive the car myself. Either of which would be fine. But she means me to sit in the passenger seat and show her which way to turn the wheel, with actions and WITHOUT using the words "left" or "right", because Sophie doesn't do left and right. (Nor do I, actually, but I decided not to tell her that, as one confused driver in a car facing the wrong way in a cul-de-sac is enough.)
We arrive at the venue late, (after we have tried to park in three places that are not carparks and Sophie has had the same issue with reversing without the concept of left and right). The café is full of journalists, hyper children, bemused customers, and a TV crew from Newsnight. Yes, Newsnight. (Note to non-UK people: this is a big deal in the UK.) Unfortunately, although the kids have permission to be photographed, they do not have permission to be filmed on moving film - which is different - and the Newsnight thing was too last minute to get permission sorted. The cameraman explains to us that paedophiles prefer moving pictures. Which is a charming thought and doesn’t help my stress levels. So they can’t be filmed and the Newsnight team is mightily miffed.
I am told to start the event, with no introduction, something which always bugs me but which is the least of my problems today. The event involves me delivering my words of wisdom at the top of my voice for an hour and a quarter to the kids, while journalists take pics and teachers and PR people run here and there trying and failing to organise filming permission, and while innocent customers carry on drinking and chatting loudly to drown my voice, and while milk frothing machines regularly spurt incredibly noisily and coffee grinding machines grind horribly, to the extent that occasionally I have to stop shouting and give up. I learn afterwards that the Newsnight people were desperate to film because they thought the event was perfect (for a comedy show, I assume), but they can't get permission so they eventually scarper.
The kids (who are incredibly lovely and lively - probably helped by the free coffees they are slurping) ask questions on and on and on and on, and on quite a bit more, and no one thinks to stop them when an hour is up. I am too polite to ask if we can please stop. Eventually a teacher asks if they could possibly go and catch their bus, I look at her as though she is my saviour, and she takes them away.
First, however, they are all given a copy of The Highwayman's Curse. Some of them bring them back three minutes later, complaining that the covers are upside down, which they are. I try to persuade them that this might make them valuable later on, but they look at me as though I am a con artist or an idiot. I am certainly one of these.
I ask Sophie if I could have a sandwich and a coffee or I will pass out. She agrees. She doesn’t eat much. Her stress must be internal. She will probably collapse once this is all over but meanwhile she is determined to smile. We then go back to the carpark. Luckily, I have remembered about Sophie being dyslexic and have taken note of where the car is so when she says, "Which way do you think the car is?" I know the answer and we find it quickly.
But ...
...the weird unlocking mechanism doesn’t work and we can't get in. It's a car from a car-share scheme and there are fancy electronic devices to scan. Sophie's scanning card doesn't work. If we don't get in soon, we are going to be late for an award ceremony I’m supposed to be at, which is about 40 mins drive away, and which I really do need to get to because I am on the shortlist, although I would much rather stick red-hot needles in my eyes and twist them a few times while inhaling chilli powder.
Sophie phones the car-share scheme head office, says she can't get in her car and asks if they have any suggestions. They suggest she puts the key in the lock. She does. It opens. We get in. The car won't start. Sophie phones the head office again and they say that four buttons have to be pressed simultaneously on a special gadget inside the glove compartment. This is physically impossible for one person to do but, between us, Sophie and I get four fingers on the right buttons and the car starts.
Sophie then refuses to trust Simon, the Satnav voice, even though Simon really does need to be obeyed, and we get hopelessly lost on the outskirts of the place that is not Glasgow. Actually, I have sympathy with her, as I don’t really trust Simon either, and he is asking us to go onto the motorway back to Edinburgh, but I have a sneaking feeling that he must be right - he sounds so very confident and Sophie doesn’t. Sophie is now on the hard shoulder as she debates whether to go onto the Edinburgh-bound motorway or not. We don’t. Simon is concerned and patiently tries to force us to turn round "as soon as safely possible". Several times. Eventually, after much argument and concern, during which I am convinced I hear his voice begin to panic even though I remind myself that he is only a machine, Simon tunes in to Sophie's dogged refusal and allows us to go a very stupid way sort of towards Glasgow, until I say that actually we must trust Simon and we get to the award ceremony with five minutes to spare.
Simon and I are by now complete wrecks and I really need a bit of TLC, (or even maybe a cup of tea - well, anything really), but somehow survive without anything until two hours later when my friends Lindsey and Kathryn rescue me and drive me home. I can only hope that Sophie managed to reverse out of the narrow street I left her in. She may still be there. Perhaps I should check.
This is the sort of day I should be paid for. A lot. But I shouldn’t complain: I did get a very nice tuna sandwich and a more than decent (though cold by the time I got to it) Christmas Special coffee. Highly recommended. But preferably drunk in peace and quiet. Or maybe in the company of Simon. He does sound very charming. And he would stop me from doing stupid things like saying yes.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
IN DEFENCE OF AUTHORS, AND ABOUT TIME TOO
First an apology: this is not the Thursday light relief that I promised. That story of extraordinary and hilarious incompetence is coming, I promise (something for the weekend?) but I have a need to offload something that is seriously bugging me first.
Warning: crabbit old bat in major full swing. But with a difference. Today, I’ve had enough of criticising my fellow authors, unpublished and published - because we’re all in it together, dahlings - for things like “Inexcusable Ignorance” and general tawdry and unprofessional behaviour. I think I even perhaps once mentioned drunkenness and unpleasantness and possibly arrogance. How could I? Anyway, I’m going to turn the tables. Yes, I am. Now it’s the turn of you nasty mean editors and other forms of publisher, and even booksellers. Because you just don’t understand us, you really don’t.
I feel that in the very few weeks that this blog has been in existence, I have had many approving noises from (wonderful) publishers and (gorgeous) booksellers and I’ve accepted them all like the pathetic, insecure gallery-playing author that I am. And I would not be surprised if you fabulous, long-suffering, aspiring authors were not sitting there weeping quietly and bravely at the crap I’ve been dealing out to you, allowing yourselves to be flagellated by the likes of me. (Please don’t get too excited by that concept - it’s really not nice and, anyway, I mean it only metaphorically.)
So now I say, ENOUGH! Let’s hear it for authors, and let me send a message to those powerful, cruel publishers and booksellers who hold us in their thrall. (Just what is a thrall anyway? I don’t know, but it sounds like a very nasty thing in which to be held.)
I should start by saying that of course I know, and have said before, that very occasionally an author lets the side down by behaving as though he (or even, more occasionally, she) has a brain the size of mouse genitalia, an ego in inverse proportion to said genitalia and an alcohol habit to match the inverse proportion. Occasionally, it must also be said, authors are exceptionally rude and crass and many other unacceptable things. But APART from those few, we are simply misunderstood. And the sooner that editors and agents and booksellers understood this, the better for world peace and various other useful things.
So, let me, on behalf of my suffering writerly colleagues (to whom I apologise for all previous cruelty and mockery - though I don’t take it back, because it was entirely justified most of the time) enlighten those professionals who take such pleasure in berating us for our failure to understand the errors of our ways.
So anyway, calming down slightly (but not much) in the spirit of almost Valentine’s Day (omigod, better go out and buy something for him - maybe a BOOK, and if so then certainly and absolutely from Vanessa’s fabulous bookshop) let’s show a bit of a loving understanding for all those misunderstood authors out there. Yes, sometimes we're rubbish but we are trying not to be. We're doing our best to overcome our paltriness.
Yep, it’s a real bugger being an author sometimes. Which, to be honest, is why we eat chocolate. It gives us courage to brave all you scary, scary professionals. Chocolate is the only known antidote to insecurity. That and shoes.
Warning: crabbit old bat in major full swing. But with a difference. Today, I’ve had enough of criticising my fellow authors, unpublished and published - because we’re all in it together, dahlings - for things like “Inexcusable Ignorance” and general tawdry and unprofessional behaviour. I think I even perhaps once mentioned drunkenness and unpleasantness and possibly arrogance. How could I? Anyway, I’m going to turn the tables. Yes, I am. Now it’s the turn of you nasty mean editors and other forms of publisher, and even booksellers. Because you just don’t understand us, you really don’t.
I feel that in the very few weeks that this blog has been in existence, I have had many approving noises from (wonderful) publishers and (gorgeous) booksellers and I’ve accepted them all like the pathetic, insecure gallery-playing author that I am. And I would not be surprised if you fabulous, long-suffering, aspiring authors were not sitting there weeping quietly and bravely at the crap I’ve been dealing out to you, allowing yourselves to be flagellated by the likes of me. (Please don’t get too excited by that concept - it’s really not nice and, anyway, I mean it only metaphorically.)
So now I say, ENOUGH! Let’s hear it for authors, and let me send a message to those powerful, cruel publishers and booksellers who hold us in their thrall. (Just what is a thrall anyway? I don’t know, but it sounds like a very nasty thing in which to be held.)
I should start by saying that of course I know, and have said before, that very occasionally an author lets the side down by behaving as though he (or even, more occasionally, she) has a brain the size of mouse genitalia, an ego in inverse proportion to said genitalia and an alcohol habit to match the inverse proportion. Occasionally, it must also be said, authors are exceptionally rude and crass and many other unacceptable things. But APART from those few, we are simply misunderstood. And the sooner that editors and agents and booksellers understood this, the better for world peace and various other useful things.
So, let me, on behalf of my suffering writerly colleagues (to whom I apologise for all previous cruelty and mockery - though I don’t take it back, because it was entirely justified most of the time) enlighten those professionals who take such pleasure in berating us for our failure to understand the errors of our ways.
- It’s a real bugger being an author, sometimes. Honestly, it’s over-rated as a holiday destination.
- We suffer constant insecurity. (Most of us. And we hate the others, so that’s OK.) Well, how wouldn’t we be insecure, when people regularly tell us we’re rubbbish, even once we’re published? And if anyone says nice things, they’re most likely to be a) our publicity people b) our parents or c) deluded (which includes our parents).
- Would you like it if your work was reviewed negatively and those negative comments were put on the internet for like EVER? Would you like it if your audience went on message-boards and said a load of rubbish about your oeuvre? The fact that this ignorant rubbish is often written by people who should be asleep instead of messaging crapness at 3 in the morning, and that they can’t spell, doesn’t make it hurt less. Actually, it makes it hurt more to think that such a stupid person would care enough to have gone online to over-share - I mean if the book was just mediocrely awful, wouldn’t they just have ignored it and watched re-runs of the X-Factor?
- Some unpublished authors absolutely and utterly deserve to be published and have a glittering career in front of them - perhaps far in front of them but distance is like size: not everything. No one should assume that because an author has failed to be published (yet), they are rubbish. Lynn Price of the phenomenal BehlerBlog was kind enough to be fabulously, well, kind, about my writing - which is a) wonderful of her and for me but b) confusing because in that case how come I was unpublished for so almost-soul-destroyingly long? The point being? The point being that for very many painful years I had regularly and horribly assumed that I wasn’t good enough and for that long I was the person that published writers (including me, until now) and editors and booksellers often knock: the wannabe no-hoper, the deluded idiot who really should just keep on with the day job because everything else - the dream - is nothing more than a dream.
- We work for years and years and years (and in my case years) before we earn anything at all from our writing, because we love it are and drawn to it and driven to it and yet some (most) of us will never earn anything approaching a decent salary for it. No violins, please. And OK so some of us don’t deserve to earn anything from it, but we lay our heads and hearts (and actually sometimes lives, though I can’t claim such bravery myself) on the line in our belief that what we produce is art and matters. And what do we get for that? What we get is 96% of the world never having heard of us, 3.9% of the world messaging at 3 in the morning to say what rubbish we are and the remaining 0.1% being either related to us in some way, or pathetically undecided.
- We cringe in abject mortification (and some) when we go into a bookshop and our books aren’t there and 99% of the time we slink out (after buying something we didn’t want, just to make us feel there was a point in being in the shop in the first place) and the other 1% of the time we pluck up courage to ask the busy and godlike bookseller if by any chance they might consider - pretty, pretty please - stocking our book because it’s quite a good book and it’s had some lovely reviews which unfortunately you, o glorious bookseller, don’t seem to have seen but if you were to consider stocking my humble little book I promise I will come in and give up my time - free, because of course my time is free since no one’s sodding well going to pay me for it - and do an event for you to bring five people into your shop because I’m such a loser (cue more cringing embarrassment and mortification), four of whom are related to me and the other one of whom came in looking for a birthday present for his mother but got forced or confused into listening when you locked the door. Trust me, it’s AWFUL doing the “how to help bookshops sell your book” thing, unless you have a monstrous ego, which I just don’t, so I apologise in utter shrivening abjectness to every bookseller whom I have failed to help sell my books. And they are many. Oh, how often I have slunk away, worm-like, and how often you have never seen me. I have never put my books face out (yeah, I know, I’m really rubbish as an author - please don’t tell my publisher /agent /editor /daughters / dog and everyone else who relies on me to earn some money for them) or done anything remotely annoying or in-your-face - and more’s the pity, according to my publishers and my royalty statement. I am sorry, so sorry, and please forgive me and please stock my next book because it will be much much better than anything I’ve ever done and has a gorgeous cover, which you always say is the MAIN thing.
- It’s a real bugger being an author sometimes. Frankly, it sucks. But you know what? We love it. So forget your violins and take back your sympathy because I’m changing nothing. Sorry, but I just can’t do enough to help you sell my books because I’m too shy and pathetic and actually, you know, I am supposed to be WRITING. And you are the bookseller and that’s why you do it so brilliantly and kind of that’s why I would like to think I’m the writer in this deal and you’re the bookseller / editor / publicity person / EXPERT. And yes I KNOW I am supposed to help but please just let me go home and write. Where the hell is that garret I dreamt of for so long, and that delicious loneliness??
So anyway, calming down slightly (but not much) in the spirit of almost Valentine’s Day (omigod, better go out and buy something for him - maybe a BOOK, and if so then certainly and absolutely from Vanessa’s fabulous bookshop) let’s show a bit of a loving understanding for all those misunderstood authors out there. Yes, sometimes we're rubbish but we are trying not to be. We're doing our best to overcome our paltriness.
Yep, it’s a real bugger being an author sometimes. Which, to be honest, is why we eat chocolate. It gives us courage to brave all you scary, scary professionals. Chocolate is the only known antidote to insecurity. That and shoes.
Monday, 9 February 2009
ON (NOT) GETTING PUBLISHED AGAIN
It's often said that when you've been published once, you have "got your foot in the door". What's less often but equally truthfully said is that if the door is very heavy, this can be a singularly painful and stupid place to have your foot.
Of course, being published the first time is a wonderful feeling. For a while, the future doesn't matter: the present is everything. You don't care whether your book sells in pallet-loads - after all, you won't have to give back your advance, your parents / children are proud of you at last, and what else matters? You're still heady on the cheap Cava from your (self-funded) launch. Your friends are proud to know you. Your mum is talking about, "My son, The Author". You are still walking into Waterstone's and loudly asking for your own book.
But what next? Or what after the second book of the precious two-book deal is written? Friends are already asking "What are you working on at the moment?" and you begin to realise that everyone expects you always to be "working" on something. Being an author is not just about the glory. (The what?)
No problem - you are writing another book. Surely your publisher will want it, if it's good enough? After all, the list of authors who didn't achieve fame and fortune on their first, second, third, even eighth book is as long as .... ooh, well, long anyway.
Thing is, two things are making that door very heavy nowadays and unless you've got steel-capped boots, you're going to feel the pain.
Why am I telling you this?
And when you hear this sorry story of hilarious ineptitude, (mostly not by me, of course), you may decide to keep your foot firmly out of the door.
Of course, being published the first time is a wonderful feeling. For a while, the future doesn't matter: the present is everything. You don't care whether your book sells in pallet-loads - after all, you won't have to give back your advance, your parents / children are proud of you at last, and what else matters? You're still heady on the cheap Cava from your (self-funded) launch. Your friends are proud to know you. Your mum is talking about, "My son, The Author". You are still walking into Waterstone's and loudly asking for your own book.
But what next? Or what after the second book of the precious two-book deal is written? Friends are already asking "What are you working on at the moment?" and you begin to realise that everyone expects you always to be "working" on something. Being an author is not just about the glory. (The what?)
No problem - you are writing another book. Surely your publisher will want it, if it's good enough? After all, the list of authors who didn't achieve fame and fortune on their first, second, third, even eighth book is as long as .... ooh, well, long anyway.
Thing is, two things are making that door very heavy nowadays and unless you've got steel-capped boots, you're going to feel the pain.
- Impatience, fuelled by the "bottom line" - nowadays, publishers have to get a faster and more predictable return on their money; they have big overheads, mean share-holders who weirdly expect a profit, and hundreds of writers coming along who might be the next cash cow if you're not. (No offence meant.) Unfortunately, the current climate means that publishers are more often looking for big sellers - and the gap between biggest sellers and the rest is widening. The mid-list is becoming a scary place to be, instead of just the normal authory place to be.
- Damned computers - and Electronic Point of Sale - meaning that because of clever databases like Nielsen Bookscan, your agent cannot massage fictitious life into the pallid sales figures of your first book. Authors used to call themselves "best-selling" if they'd been No 7 on the South Devon Mind Body Spirit List. Now any potential publisher can see exactly how minuscule your figures are. And not be impressed.
Why am I telling you this?
- Because people often ask and I'm one of those people who thinks a question should be answered. (I'd never make a politician.)
- Because unpublished authors often think that those who are published are set up for life - it's not a helpful delusion.
- Because published authors (and you, the moment you are published) need to act to protect those future contracts.
- By understanding the market so as to produce ideas that publishers will want. (While never selling out to commerciality. Oh no.)
- By understanding the market so as to produce hooks, synopses and covering letters that publishers must want.
- By using the market and doing loads of clever things to maximise book sales - there's so much that authors can do. Yes, yes, yes, I will do a post on it, but meanwhile you should take a look at Alison Baverstock's Marketing Your Book - an Author's Guide
- By being the nicest most publishable author ever. Yes, yes, yes - jolly good idea: I will do a post on How To Be a Nice and Very Publishable Author. Using my own extensive experience.
And when you hear this sorry story of hilarious ineptitude, (mostly not by me, of course), you may decide to keep your foot firmly out of the door.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
BOOTS AND BATS: METHOD-WRITING, LEVEL 1
Today, we're going to look at my patent technique of method-writing. This means not actually writing at all but instead preparing by getting into the role and mind-set of a writer. After all, an athlete has to do all that training and buy the lycra and snazzy running shoes (which is the only reason they can run so ridiculously fast, trust me), so an author in training must behave in all ways like a professional author. In fact, being an author is very much like being an athlete, although you would not know that to look at most of us. But in our minds, oh! How sculpturously we are honed and toned! We are veritable Greek heroes of mentally muscular perfection. And we have terrific imaginations, too.
The first, and almost certainly most important, aspect of method-writing, is developing a full range of Work Avoidance Strategies (henceforward: WAS). I am delighted to tell you that you have already passed Level 1 of this technique, because you are reading this blog, and reading blogs (as well as writing blogs and posting eulogistic comments on them) is the important first stage.
Now, although I am not normally one to boast, I am officially ranked World Number One at WAS. I have won medals in all categories, not only in the standard classes of coffee-drinking, blogging, attention to emails (I won the Butch Cassidy Award for being fastest answerer in the west), shopping, and suddenly remembering phonecalls I have to make, but I have also, I am proud to say, won the Nobel Prize for Innovation in Work Avoidance Strategies after my propensity to vacuum behind the fridge on a daily basis. (I was given a supplementary citation after I took the dead mouse I found there to the vet, thus avoiding work for another hour while I waited for the vet to call my psychotherapist.)
I believe it was in recognition of this talent that yesterday I was given the wherewithal to take my excellence to a new level. It's all the fault of Vanessa Robertson, whom those of you who read the Fidra Blog will know. She and her husband, Malcolm, own the Children's Bookshop in Edinburgh, which is within spitting distance of my house, should I wish to spit on it, which I absolutely don't. (Vanessa is even scarier than I am, I'll have her know.) Anyway, recently, Vanessa and I were chatting about blogs (chatting about blogs is a very good Level 1 WAS which you can all try at home at any time, by the way) and she asked me how my stats were. I thought this was a bit of a personal question, but she quickly explained. My eyes lit up. This sounded very cool. So I tried to install a stat counter myself and was doing fine (it had taken at least half an hour when I should have been working, so this was good - bit like a warm-up for an athlete) but then I came to the word html and freaked, as I always do. Anyone who doesn't freak at the word html has Klingon blood. (By the way, did you know that there are more people in the world who speak Klingon than there are who speak Gallic? Also, that in the Klingon language Klingon language is tlhIngan Hol? It's amazing how educational a quick WAS-related trip to Wikipedia can be.))
"Don't worry," said Vanessa last Friday, when I told her about my dismal failure to install a stat counter. "Malcolm can do it. Come to the shop at 11.30 on Monday." Malcolm? I'd met Malcolm before and he seemed very normal. Surely the Klingons had not got him too?
Anyway, I had to wait the whole weekend in nail-biting anticipation of what I just knew was going to be the dreamiest new WAS toy ever. How could I work with that kind of excitement going on? I wouldn't be able to call myself a real author if I could block out such anticipation. It would be like waiting to hear whether I'd won the Carnegie Medal (not something I have ever experienced, but I have an imagination and day-dreaming is merely a Level 3 WAS).
Anyway. Yesterday came, as expected, and I went along to the shop and there was Malcolm, who showed remarkably few signs of Klingon blood. And ten minutes later there was my stat counter, on my blog. Malcolm showed me amazing things I could discover about you. Like which part of the world you are from. And how many seconds you looked at each page - yes, I know two of you only stayed three seconds and it hurt me, it really did. Have a heart, for goodness' sake - I'm a human being with human feelings. And remember, I know where you live. Or not exactly, I hasten to add, and I suppose "USA" is quite a big place - but I will search for you. (Actually, one person stayed zero seconds - how does that work?)
I can see which pages you looked at first and which were the most popular pages. And I can even see which words you put into the search engine to find my blog. Three people actually searched on "turquoise boots" - no, mine are not for sale, not for ready money or any other kind of money, not on ebay or anywhere.
Vanessa spoiled it all. Just when we were getting along so nicely AND I'd given her and Malcolm the second ever batch of my delicious new invention, Brain Bars(TM) (shameless plug alert: see my main website for Brain Cake(TM), as described in Know Your Brain). "I wonder if anyone searched on crabbit old bat?" she said.
"Don't be silly," I said. "You wouldn't find my blog if you searched for crabbit old bat."
Well, I regret to say that I just tried it (under the lame excuse of a WAS). And you do. It's the first (and second) result in Google. Mind you, the Fidra blog is third ...
Do I really have to go down in history as the first crabbit old bat on Google? Or could I achieve fame as the owner of these gorgeous turquoise boots, which are mine, all mine?
Is there a serious point to this post? Er, no. Except that you might want to consider the words of that other great time-waster, William Henry Davies, who wrote, "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?" You have to take your hat off to those guys back in the old days: think how much better their writing would have been if they'd had stat counters instead of just having to rely on having something boring to stare at, like scenery or something. Amazing.
Hmmm, looking at those boots a bit more closely, I think they're a bit dirty. Better go and clean them.
The first, and almost certainly most important, aspect of method-writing, is developing a full range of Work Avoidance Strategies (henceforward: WAS). I am delighted to tell you that you have already passed Level 1 of this technique, because you are reading this blog, and reading blogs (as well as writing blogs and posting eulogistic comments on them) is the important first stage.
Now, although I am not normally one to boast, I am officially ranked World Number One at WAS. I have won medals in all categories, not only in the standard classes of coffee-drinking, blogging, attention to emails (I won the Butch Cassidy Award for being fastest answerer in the west), shopping, and suddenly remembering phonecalls I have to make, but I have also, I am proud to say, won the Nobel Prize for Innovation in Work Avoidance Strategies after my propensity to vacuum behind the fridge on a daily basis. (I was given a supplementary citation after I took the dead mouse I found there to the vet, thus avoiding work for another hour while I waited for the vet to call my psychotherapist.)
I believe it was in recognition of this talent that yesterday I was given the wherewithal to take my excellence to a new level. It's all the fault of Vanessa Robertson, whom those of you who read the Fidra Blog will know. She and her husband, Malcolm, own the Children's Bookshop in Edinburgh, which is within spitting distance of my house, should I wish to spit on it, which I absolutely don't. (Vanessa is even scarier than I am, I'll have her know.) Anyway, recently, Vanessa and I were chatting about blogs (chatting about blogs is a very good Level 1 WAS which you can all try at home at any time, by the way) and she asked me how my stats were. I thought this was a bit of a personal question, but she quickly explained. My eyes lit up. This sounded very cool. So I tried to install a stat counter myself and was doing fine (it had taken at least half an hour when I should have been working, so this was good - bit like a warm-up for an athlete) but then I came to the word html and freaked, as I always do. Anyone who doesn't freak at the word html has Klingon blood. (By the way, did you know that there are more people in the world who speak Klingon than there are who speak Gallic? Also, that in the Klingon language Klingon language is tlhIngan Hol? It's amazing how educational a quick WAS-related trip to Wikipedia can be.))
"Don't worry," said Vanessa last Friday, when I told her about my dismal failure to install a stat counter. "Malcolm can do it. Come to the shop at 11.30 on Monday." Malcolm? I'd met Malcolm before and he seemed very normal. Surely the Klingons had not got him too?
Anyway, I had to wait the whole weekend in nail-biting anticipation of what I just knew was going to be the dreamiest new WAS toy ever. How could I work with that kind of excitement going on? I wouldn't be able to call myself a real author if I could block out such anticipation. It would be like waiting to hear whether I'd won the Carnegie Medal (not something I have ever experienced, but I have an imagination and day-dreaming is merely a Level 3 WAS).
Anyway. Yesterday came, as expected, and I went along to the shop and there was Malcolm, who showed remarkably few signs of Klingon blood. And ten minutes later there was my stat counter, on my blog. Malcolm showed me amazing things I could discover about you. Like which part of the world you are from. And how many seconds you looked at each page - yes, I know two of you only stayed three seconds and it hurt me, it really did. Have a heart, for goodness' sake - I'm a human being with human feelings. And remember, I know where you live. Or not exactly, I hasten to add, and I suppose "USA" is quite a big place - but I will search for you. (Actually, one person stayed zero seconds - how does that work?)
I can see which pages you looked at first and which were the most popular pages. And I can even see which words you put into the search engine to find my blog. Three people actually searched on "turquoise boots" - no, mine are not for sale, not for ready money or any other kind of money, not on ebay or anywhere.
Vanessa spoiled it all. Just when we were getting along so nicely AND I'd given her and Malcolm the second ever batch of my delicious new invention, Brain Bars(TM) (shameless plug alert: see my main website for Brain Cake(TM), as described in Know Your Brain). "I wonder if anyone searched on crabbit old bat?" she said.
"Don't be silly," I said. "You wouldn't find my blog if you searched for crabbit old bat."
Well, I regret to say that I just tried it (under the lame excuse of a WAS). And you do. It's the first (and second) result in Google. Mind you, the Fidra blog is third ...
Do I really have to go down in history as the first crabbit old bat on Google? Or could I achieve fame as the owner of these gorgeous turquoise boots, which are mine, all mine?
Is there a serious point to this post? Er, no. Except that you might want to consider the words of that other great time-waster, William Henry Davies, who wrote, "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?" You have to take your hat off to those guys back in the old days: think how much better their writing would have been if they'd had stat counters instead of just having to rely on having something boring to stare at, like scenery or something. Amazing.
Hmmm, looking at those boots a bit more closely, I think they're a bit dirty. Better go and clean them.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
DEALING WITH TAXI-DRIVERS
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that any author will at some point have an incredibly annoying conversation with a taxi-driver. There are many varieties of this conversation, and you will meet them all, and you will deal with them in different ways. I have no advice for these situations, since it would not be appropriate for me to recommend extreme physical violence, preferably involving dismemberment, on the pages of this sedate blog. I offer only the warning and the exhortation, gentle reader, that you prepare yourself.
(By the way, "gentle reader" is a cliché and modern editors hate it, so please don't use it.)
Clearly, I am not making this taxi-driver point entirely randomly. Percipient readers will detect a kind of gritted-teeth tone to this morning's missive. I am, indeed, holding myself back womanfully. I am calming myself, having taken a large number of deep breaths; I have restricted myself to three cups of hi-caffeine beverage this morning; I have spent the whole night forcibly self-administering Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. I am doing my best - I really am.
BUT IT WAS INCREDIBLY DAMNED ANNOYING.
It started in the usual way:
TD: So, what's your line of business?
NM: I write books.
TD: Really?
NM: Yes.
(As you can see, it's currently not rating high on the annoyance scale, but I know it's going to get there. I am expecting that we may be going for the regular, "They say everyone's got a book in them." To which my answer will be either, "If so, that's usually where it should stay," or "Yes, but would anyone want to read it?" Unfortunately, the situation we are in goes way beyond the paradigmatic version of Annoying Taxi-driver because this is how the conversation actually continues:)
TD: So, how do you get a book published then?
NM: (wondering where to begin with this one, but not actually needing to because the guy hasn't finished)
TD: Because anyone can write a book, can't they? (Stunned silence.) Not meaning to be insulting or anything, but anyone can. I've got a friend who's writing one. He says it's easy. Unless you're dyslexic or something.
NM: Actually, you could be a great writer and still be dyslexic.
TD: Well, that proves it - anyone can write a book. If they've got time. Like, I've often thought of writing a book but I've never had time.
NM (tempted to ask, "What about when you're waiting at a traffic light? Or your passenger has just decided she'd rather walk?"): Actually, it's extremely difficult. Real writers know that - we may make it look easy, but you've no idea of the incredibly difficult technical skills and spectacularly creative gifts that are involved.
TD: Well, I suppose you'd start by writing a children's book. Like, one of those ones with just a few words and mostly pictures. That must be really easy - most of the work is done by the artist, isn't it?
NM (starting to have palpitations, and wondering how much it would hurt if she flung open the door and threw herself out): Trust me, it's very difficult indeed. Otherwise, why do so many people try to get published for years and years?
TD (who is on transmit and not receive): Mind you, you'd be rich, wouldn't you? They earn a fortune, some of these children's authors. You read about it all the time.
NM (wondering why she didn't put a handy weapon in her bag before coming out): You don't want to believe everything you read in the papers.
TD: I don't have much time for books. Like my son - but that's boys, isn't it? Got more important things to do. My daughter now, she's a really great reader. She read the whole of the last Harry Potter book in about ten days.
NM (having lost will to live): Really? how old is she?
TD: Twenty-five. My wife and I, we always told her she could be a writer. Thing is, she doesn't have time. But they say everyone's got a book in them, don't they?
The journey ends fortuitously at this point, with the taxi-driver getting no tip and with me stomping down the street to my front door prior to off-loading onto my long-suffering husband who has many times in the past few years wondered when the pyschotherapy is going to work.
I tell you this story as a cautionary tale about the downside of the fulfilment of your life's dream. Not that I'd want to put you off - not that I could put you off if you want it as much as you need to. After all, we earn a fortune, most of us. You read about it all the time in the papers.
(By the way, "gentle reader" is a cliché and modern editors hate it, so please don't use it.)
Clearly, I am not making this taxi-driver point entirely randomly. Percipient readers will detect a kind of gritted-teeth tone to this morning's missive. I am, indeed, holding myself back womanfully. I am calming myself, having taken a large number of deep breaths; I have restricted myself to three cups of hi-caffeine beverage this morning; I have spent the whole night forcibly self-administering Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. I am doing my best - I really am.
BUT IT WAS INCREDIBLY DAMNED ANNOYING.
It started in the usual way:
TD: So, what's your line of business?
NM: I write books.
TD: Really?
NM: Yes.
(As you can see, it's currently not rating high on the annoyance scale, but I know it's going to get there. I am expecting that we may be going for the regular, "They say everyone's got a book in them." To which my answer will be either, "If so, that's usually where it should stay," or "Yes, but would anyone want to read it?" Unfortunately, the situation we are in goes way beyond the paradigmatic version of Annoying Taxi-driver because this is how the conversation actually continues:)
TD: So, how do you get a book published then?
NM: (wondering where to begin with this one, but not actually needing to because the guy hasn't finished)
TD: Because anyone can write a book, can't they? (Stunned silence.) Not meaning to be insulting or anything, but anyone can. I've got a friend who's writing one. He says it's easy. Unless you're dyslexic or something.
NM: Actually, you could be a great writer and still be dyslexic.
TD: Well, that proves it - anyone can write a book. If they've got time. Like, I've often thought of writing a book but I've never had time.
NM (tempted to ask, "What about when you're waiting at a traffic light? Or your passenger has just decided she'd rather walk?"): Actually, it's extremely difficult. Real writers know that - we may make it look easy, but you've no idea of the incredibly difficult technical skills and spectacularly creative gifts that are involved.
TD: Well, I suppose you'd start by writing a children's book. Like, one of those ones with just a few words and mostly pictures. That must be really easy - most of the work is done by the artist, isn't it?
NM (starting to have palpitations, and wondering how much it would hurt if she flung open the door and threw herself out): Trust me, it's very difficult indeed. Otherwise, why do so many people try to get published for years and years?
TD (who is on transmit and not receive): Mind you, you'd be rich, wouldn't you? They earn a fortune, some of these children's authors. You read about it all the time.
NM (wondering why she didn't put a handy weapon in her bag before coming out): You don't want to believe everything you read in the papers.
TD: I don't have much time for books. Like my son - but that's boys, isn't it? Got more important things to do. My daughter now, she's a really great reader. She read the whole of the last Harry Potter book in about ten days.
NM (having lost will to live): Really? how old is she?
TD: Twenty-five. My wife and I, we always told her she could be a writer. Thing is, she doesn't have time. But they say everyone's got a book in them, don't they?
The journey ends fortuitously at this point, with the taxi-driver getting no tip and with me stomping down the street to my front door prior to off-loading onto my long-suffering husband who has many times in the past few years wondered when the pyschotherapy is going to work.
I tell you this story as a cautionary tale about the downside of the fulfilment of your life's dream. Not that I'd want to put you off - not that I could put you off if you want it as much as you need to. After all, we earn a fortune, most of us. You read about it all the time in the papers.
Monday, 19 January 2009
TWO (3 actually) BRILLIANT LESSONS BY VIDEO
For your amusement and edification, I do suggest you watch this video. And, at the risk of being patronising but for the sake of essential clarity, I should point out that IT IS IRONIC ... From the Typewriter to the Bookstore: A Publishing Story
But now that you have well and truly got the message, I can allow you to watch this absolutely BRILLIANT video: Imaginary Writing Process
Happy writing - but not that happy ...
Um, sorry, but I just found another one. Well, we need something to brighten up a really dreary Monday. And this one is much closer to the truth ... How the Writing Process Works
But now that you have well and truly got the message, I can allow you to watch this absolutely BRILLIANT video: Imaginary Writing Process
Happy writing - but not that happy ...
Um, sorry, but I just found another one. Well, we need something to brighten up a really dreary Monday. And this one is much closer to the truth ... How the Writing Process Works
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