Self-publicisement [self-PUB-lis-size-ment]: noun the act of using self promotion to attempt to influence sales/marketability of one's novel/person/way of life/income/self-respect.
Question one : why do you want to be a writer?
Answer one : because it's a hobby I can do on my own.
Question two : do you enjoy spending time alone?
Answer two : yes, that's why I want to be a writer.
Question three : what is your dream lifestyle?
Answer three : spending as much time as possible on my own, writing things I'd like to say to people if I knew any people.
Question four : Are you insane?
Answer four : flibble
Question five : would you like to spend the next few years creating an online presence, cultivating Twitter and Facebook friends and followers, working dilligently on a blog where you enlighten anyone who is wierd and lonely enough to look as to your every thought, pretend to be happy all the fucking time, and generally share your most intimate thoughts with shitloads of people you have never and will never meet?
Answer five : yes
Question six : really?
Answer six : yes, yes I would
Question seven: weirdo
Answer seven : fair enough
Musicians, actors, even lowly artists, they love getting themselves out there in front of people and doing their wee dance. They care about being seen. They want to be seen. And they have the platform to get themselves there. They have raised stages in pubs and clubs; they have theatre auditions and gallery openings. They have the fact that it's easy to get drunk and still appreciate their work. They have the fact that the drunker you are the more you're likely to appreciate their work. They have the fact that, mostly, it only takes a couple of minutes for their individual contribution to that given work to be appreciated.
They have, over and above all that, though, a desire to be seen.
Writers? Not so much.
Writers want to be read, not seen, that's a wee bit different. Evidently. Writers want to be anonymous and faceless. Apparently.
Writers would prefer to be judged on the words they lay down rather than on the ones they speak on local radio, or whatever.
Writers, apparently, get to decide who they are in advance. Funnily enough, most of them are wise, kind people who wouldn't step on a badger if it had step-cancer.
And that was more than enough, a while back. Don't step on a cancer-ridden badger, don't be an evil despot with an eye towards world domination, and don't mess up your tenses. Get that sorted, yay, you're a writer!
Sadly, times have moved forward (or on. Forward is almost the same as on).
These days writers not only have to be able to write, they also have to be able to prove they have an e-audience in the many thousands or they've got no chance of a book deal.
One without the other wouldn't be such a huge deal. A highly talented writer might still win out even if their online network hadn't hit the fabled 2000 mark. It's unlikely, but you never know.
A middle of the road writer, though; a writer who is nothing more than adequate; a writer who's lucky if every 17th paragraph relates to the poorly thought out plot? A writer like me, essentially. Us guys, we're in trouble.
Why the fuck else would I be writing on this bloody blog, after all.
It's all about publicity now. Publicity is all that matters. Is the writing any good? Probably not (yes, I am talking about WYLMT). Is the story any use? I have no way of knowing (see). Would it matter if WYLMT was so extraordinary it created a new definition of the word 'fiction' (it isn't, and doesn't)?
If it was that, though. If it was that good, would it matter? Would anyone know? Would anyone know to care?
Answer eight : No, no one would care. Apart from the hundreds of people who are your artificial friends on Twitter and Facebook. And no, they're not real friends. That would be stupid. And no, they don't really care. That also would be stupid. They do read, mind. Give 'em some yarn and they'll read the thread. Some of them, at least.
Do wannabe writers have to do the blog/online/making a remorsful tit of ourselves thing? I think we probably do.
Does it have to be depressing? Not really. Depends how well you can utilise wine and/or beer.
Here's a radical thought:
It's just writing. it isn't that precious. They're only words. We use up hundreds of them every single day, but they're all still there of an evening.
Give them a break. Light a fire. Have a think.
See what you dream
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Three Days in Syrupville
Not for me your package holidays, with the sunshine and the beer and the food and the dysentery. Not interested. Nor do I entertain the notion of a couple of weeks travelling this or any other country in search of new cultures and experiences. Pah.
I’m a writer you see, and that means, above all else, that I have no money.
Normally the closest I get to a summer holiday is avoiding incompetent suicide bombers as I drop various members of my family off at Glasgow Airport then pick them up again two weeks later, pretending not to be bothered about their tans, stories of adventure and stress free state of mind as I break the news that I’ve forgotten to re-stock their fridge, water their plants, record CSI Miami or feed their pets (or children, in some cases).
This year was different though. I actually left the city for more than an hour. I took it upon myself to suggest to a dear friend and fellow writer that we might venture forth on a trip to the fine hamlet (I should point out at this time that I have no idea what a ‘hamlet’ is) of Wigtown, which is somewhere in Scotland but quite far away from Glasgow and therefore counts as ‘travel’.
Wigtown is known as ‘Scotland’s Book Town’, because it has more book shops per head of population than anywhere else in the country. It has twelve, which gives you a rough idea of its size.
This would be reason enough to visit the place, but Wigtown also hosts a Book Festival every year and it just so happened that this year’s coincided with one of the weeks annual leave I randomly assigned myself in January (I’m a writer not an idiot, of course I have a proper job).
More important than any of this was the fact that I found online a really cheap hotel with a couple of rooms to spare in nearby Newton Stewart - cheap but extremely well run, I hasten to add.
And so, I went on holiday. It was great.
The festival lasts for ten days, though for reasons too financially embarrassing to go into we were only there for three. It was only going to be two originally, until I discovered that one of my favourite writers, Iain Banks, was making an appearance on the Wednesday and hastily decided Jake the dog could survive on Cheerios for another few days (hey, I did too). Another of my favourite authors, Christopher Brookmyre, was also appearing but that was on the previous Saturday so he had no chance.
We booked tickets for Iain Banks in advance, but, to be honest, nothing else really grabbed out attention for the days we’d be there. I did spot, though, that there was going to be a special showing of The Wicker Man on the Thursday and booked a couple of tickets for that, too. You should never turn down the chance to see Christopher Lee in a dress, I always say.
By way of an apology to Mr Brookmyre I listened to the audio version of A Big Boy Did It And Ran Away on the drive down, coming to the uncomfortable realisation as I did so that I’ve stolen far more from him in my own writing than I’d previously realised, heh. Anyway, moving on …
Iain Banks did not disappoint. As soon as I saw how horrible he viewed the idea of doing a reading from his latest novel, Transition, I knew he was a good guy. He read the prologue. As he put it, the only point in favour of the existence of prologues in novels is that they allow the author to read something without having to explain any context to the audience beforehand.
Following the reading, which was executed with eloquence and grace but enough of a sweaty brow to prove he wasn’t having any fun, Banks was interviewed by a man from a newspaper (I know, I know, I should remember who it was but I can’t, and research isn’t, and never will be, a strong point. Literary editor of one of the posh papers, I think). Three things struck me about Banks over the course of the interview. One - he’s a very, very intelligent man. Two - he’s a very, very Scottish man. Three - he’s a very, very funny man. Oh, and four - he’s happy to say ‘fuck’ in front of a live audience (that probably just reinforces the second point, right enough). He was brilliant.
One of the big fears I’ve always had about attending such events is that writers, in the flesh, tend towards the introverted and, dare I say it, boring. I know I am. But I urge you to go and see Iain Banks if you ever get the chance, you won’t regret it. Oh yeah, his books are fucking (that was a tribute) superb, too.
Over the next couple of days we also ended up seeing Nick Nairn talking about food (funny, smart, slightly smarmy but refreshingly honest), and David Aaronovitch talking about how conspiracy theories are a load of rubbish (probably got a point, to be fair). More importantly though, we went to all the bookshops.
As previously mentioned I on occasion pretend I’m a writer, and words are therefore important to me. They should be carefully, surgically even, chosen to esure they elucidate precisely the point one wishes to make, leaving no room for doubt or confusion. With regard to the bookshops of Wigtown, then, I can phrase my reaction in only one way - Holy Shite!
I could, happily and forever, live in any or all of those little havens (especially the one with the free coffee). They were all, all, second hand stockists! Is there a finer thing on the planet that a room (or several rooms found via winding corridors and unexpected starways) full of old books? I don’t think so.
I held, opened and yes, bought, books I didn’t know existed, I’d forgotten existed and was delighted to discover still existed.
I went to the counter in one shop and was served by two dogs, for God’s sake! Okay, their owner (and the shop’s as it turned out) soon appeared to shoo them away, but that just isn’t going to happen in Waterstones, let’s not kid ourselves.
Here’s to the small things; be they towns, shops, writers, festivals or egos. And yes, I spent a bloody fortune on books. Jake is still on the your-owner’s-a-twat diet, but I don’t regret it for a second (other than when he gnaws hungrily at my elbows).
As I drove home, still listening to Christopher Brookmyre’s amazingly prophetic pre-echo of my writing style (the man must have a time machine, it’s the only explanation) I thought several things: One - I’m glad I have a good friend who’s willing to put up with my whims, wistfullness and the fact I’m a bit of a wanker. Two - I’m glad my car’s exhaust held out. Three - I’m glad one of my heroes didn’t disappoint. Four - I’m glad places like Wigtown exist.
My advice? Go.
* this article was first published in issue 1 of Words With Jam
Sunday, November 29, 2009
So, Is That Me A Journalist Now?
Sadly not, but I did write an article for the first time recently, and it was fun.
A new, free, e-zine aimed at the writing community called Words With JAM put out its first issue this weekend, and, who'd have thunk it, it only includes a couple of pieces from yours truly. Don't be put off though, it has good stuff in it, too.
I'd love to say I was head hunted by a major magazine publisher desperate to print my words of whimdom, but that's not quite the truth. What actually happened was that the editor in chief/owner/omnipotent ruler of fledgling outfit Quinn Publications, JD Smith, turns out to be a mate of mine, and therefore felt no compunction whatsoever in commanding that I help out with a couple of bits and pieces to fill some gaps between the proper writers.
One of my included rambles is a reproduction from this blog (the moan about publishing), and the other, on my recent trip to the Wigtown Book Festival, I wrote specifically for the magazine, but may steal and put up here sometime, for purposes of symmetry. I have JD's permission to do this, but not until she's sure everyone who might remotely care has already read it (or not) in the magazine.
Issue one has loads of excellent content, including an exclusive by best selling author of Caligula and Claudius, Douglas Jackson, on his inspirations and influences.
There's a great piece by Dan Holloway on the art or rewriting, probably the trickiest part of the entire writing process, and questions and queries are answered by Lorraine Mace, all round expert on the technicalities involved in stringing words together and co author of The Writers' abc Checklist.
Other highlights include Perry Isles having a wee rant about names to avoid having to work on his current novel, Derek Duggan telling Irate from Chester to fuck off and a short story from the masterful JW Hicks among others. There's even a poem (don't panic, it's short and there's only one).
So, if you're one of the three people who sometimes read this blog and you haven't yet subscribed to Words With JAM, I suggest you do so now. Actually, I order you to do so now. If you don't I'll have you killed (I know people, me).
It's funny, informative, entertaining and, most importantly to writers (if you're anything like me) it's free!
Words With JAM - it's sticky, but not in a bad way.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Perilously Painful Path to Publication
This isn't a moan, honest. Well, maybe it is a bit. I am very proud and thankful that something I've written has made it into print, I genuinely am. But, the process of getting there isn't always pretty, or fun, or stress free, or in any way enjoyable at all. Thought I'd share my own experience:
WYLMT - a history
In 2005 I spotted an ad in the paper for a competition called Undiscovered Authors. I hadn’t finished WYLMT at that point (I was about halfway through), but the comp only asked for a single chapter to be sent in, so I thought I’d give it a try.
A couple of months later I was informed that, although not a winner, my chapter had been shortlisted for the West of Scotland region, which was nice.
In 2006 I learned that the competition was being run again, and this time they wanted full manuscripts. I had finished WYLMT by that point and failed to get any interest from agents etc, so figured I might as well have another go, sending the book in, I think, October 2006.
In around March/April of 2007, I learned that WYLMT had been placed first in the Scottish region, and come third in the UK overall. The prize was a traditional one book publishing deal plus £1000. Happiness!
My contact with the publishers was a lovely, helpful lady called Natalie. She informed me that over the course of the next few months I would be assigned an editor and cover designer to work with. Cool!
The initial plan was to roll out all the winning books, one per month, between autumn 2007 and early 2008. The order of publication to be decided by which manuscripts were ready first. Fair enough.
Then the contract arrived. I had an actual publishing contract in my hands. I did read it, and noted that the prize money wasn’t due until ‘within’ six months of the book’s publication. It would have been nice to get it there and then, but bugger it, I could wait a few months. I signed.
The draft I entered in the comp was 145k words long (hey, the first draft was 170k!) and Natalie gently suggested I might want to try to cut the word count a little by myself, before it went to the editor. Being a naïve idiot who knew nothing about the publishing world, or average first novel word counts, I was of course incredibly offended by this. Still, I figured she must know what she was on about, and duly started combing through the MSS for bits I wouldn’t miss too much. Every lost word, phrase, sentence and scene was like being stabbed in the heart with a knitting needle, but I struggled manfully with the task set to me, and, eventually, managed to get it down to around 138k. That was the absolute minimum I was prepared to accept.
Then it went to the editor, who promptly cut another 12 thousand words. Some of the bits she got rid of were, I thought, essential to the story, and couldn’t believe they wanted me to take them out. I was wrong, of course.
Ah well.
Then, in, I think, September 2007, I got an email from the cover designer assigned to work on the book, and, over the next few weeks, we worked together (by which I mean he did all the work, and I made a couple of colour suggestion so as not to look too stupid) and came up with a cover that I am still extremely proud of. It was the highlight of the whole publishing experience up to that point, seeing that finished cover layout.
Unfortunately, it turned out to be the only highlight I was going to get, for quite some time.
At around the same time as the cover was being put together, Natalie informed me that she was taking an extended sabbatical from the company. I was sorry to see her leave, even though she assured me she would be back in a couple of months, and that her boss, Jennie, would be looking after me in the interim.
Fair enough, I thought. After all, the edit and cover were locked, so there wasn’t much more to be done, and I was looking forward to seeing the book published within a month or two. I joked with Natalie that it would be out before she returned. I turned out to be right about that. I never heard from Natalie again. At the time I didn’t realise this was about to become a trend.
I received an email from Jennie in October 2007, letting me know everything was on schedule and she would let me know the publishing date soon. I was on my way! I was about to become a published author and, the painful edit aside, I had loved every minute of the process.
And then, well, nothing happened. A lot. For ages.
I emailed Jennie, oh, about 3 dozen times over the next month or two, but got no reply to any of my queries. Christmas came and went. The seasons changed, but the silence in my inbox didn’t.
Being a level headed, mature and sensible individual, I of course started panicking quite considerably. Where was Jennie? Why was she ignoring me? Why wasn’t I a bloody published author yet?
By February, I was a wreck. I had googled the publishers, and discovered they were being lambasted by writers, customers, former staff members, by pretty much everyone. They were called a fraud, a vanity publisher with delusions of grandeur they couldn’t follow through on. They owed people money, they owed former staff wages, they owed everyone.
They owed me a bloody published novel!
With a little more digging, I learned that they’d lost their partner/backer and their finances were in a mess.
Throughout all of this, I was still emailing Jennie, desperate for a response, for some reassurance.
Finally, it occurred to me that phone calls are slightly harder to ignore than emails, and I made the call. The person who answered the number I had for Jennie was a. not Jennie (the clue was in his name, Alan), and b. said a completely different company name to the publisher’s when he answered. I was not encouraged by this.
I explained my situation, and he assured me that yes, the publishers were still active and in business and that he actually worked for their sister company, a wholesalers, and was just manning the phones temporarily. He also explained that Jennie had ‘moved on’ several months previously and that the reason I hadn’t got an answer to any of my emails was that her account, although not cancelled, wasn’t being monitored. Bit of a screw up that, I thought but didn’t say. Alan assured me he would pass on my details to the appropriate person that day, and someone would call me back by the next morning at the very latest.
Three weeks later I still hadn’t heard anything. I phoned back. I’m convinced it was Alan who answered again, though he denied any knowledge of having spoken to me previously, and subtly failed to give me his name. Again, I explained my situation, and again I was assured that the appropriate person would call me back within the day. Have a guess if they did.
Another three weeks later, this was repeated, exactly.
Somewhere in between all of this (I can’t quite remember when, possibly December 07) I did get one email, from a lady who’s name I can’t recall, telling me that she was now in charge of my book, Love You Tomorrow [sic]. I answered her enthusiastically, relieved at this lifeline. She never answered, and I never heard from her again. I presume she also ‘moved on’.
By April/May of 2008, I had given up. It was over, I decided. It was a nice dream but it wasn’t to be. My thoughts turned to figuring out if I still owned the copyright of WYLMT, or if that was lost, too. This was not a happy time.
And then, in late May/early June, I got an email from Michaela. She was, apparently, now in charge of my book, though she didn’t have any of my previous correspondence, a copy of the MSS or the edited version on file. She had the cover though, thank God!
I pulled a bit of a sneaky at this point, I have to admit. As she didn’t have the edited version on file and needed me to send it to her, I took the opportunity to put back in a few of the bits the editor had removed. I know it was wrong, but it was only a few hundred words, a particular scene I was very fond of. Okay, maybe a couple of scenes. Okay, it was 2000 words worth. Bugger it, it was still nearly 50k shorter than the first draft!
Suddenly, we were back on track. I would have a proof copy for me to check within a matter of weeks. Result! I was elated, obviously. Then the proof copy arrived. The cover looked great, it has to be said.
Instead of sending me digital galleys (is that the term?) to proof and correct, they sent me a physical copy of the book, and asked that I list any corrections required and send them to the typesetters. Okay, how hard can that be, I thought? Well, discovering that every single instance of italics had been lost somewhere in translation made it pretty bloody hard, to be honest.
It took more than two weeks to list all the corrections. As well as the italics there were missing quote marks, missing para indents, line breaks where there shouldn’t be, no line breaks where there should, etc etc.
The final list of corrections ran to 32 pages and 12,000 words. Not my happiest writing experience, that.
Still, I got it done, and we were on our way again. Michaela estimated we could publish by September. She even asked if there was a particular date around then I would like to go for. Well, my birthday’s October 1st, so I figured I’d give myself a present.
And that was it, it was a done deal. I would become a published author on 1st October, 2008. Nothing could stop me now!
My thoughts turned to organising a launch. Well, more a celebration party, to be honest. In the book I mention a few Glasgow pubs, and a couple of real life local bands. One of those bands happen to play every Thursday in one of those pubs. Seemed an obvious choice. I booked The Scotia Bar’s lounge for Thursday October 9th. Mary, the lovely manager, not only gave me the venue for free, but let me bring my own wine and did some sandwiches on the house. Plus, as the band were playing anyway, the entertainment would be free, too. Result!
Then Michaela went on holiday for the entire month of September. And, you guessed it, no one monitored her emails while she was away. I needed forty copies of the book to sell at the launch. I sent email after pointless email, to no avail. When, by the last week in September, I’d still had no response, I had to cancel the launch. Mary very kindly offered me the option to rebook at a later date.
When Michaela returned she was hugely apologetic. Although the ‘official’ publishing date would still be 1st October, it would take a couple of weeks to actually get some copies together. She assured my that if I rebooked the launch for Thursday 23rd October, all would be well. She was nearly right.
She did indeed arrange for my forty copies to be posted up to Glasgow in good time. Unfortunately, she put the wrong address on the boxes.
I spent the 22nd, while I should have been at work, touring the greater Glasgow area desperately trying to find the delivery company’s depot. Finally, at 6pm the evening before the launch, I got my copies.
The launch, incidentally, was a great night. The band were great, the sandwiches were great, the pub was great, and they were all free! I had shrewdly avoided the necessity of doing a reading by hiring an actress friend of mine to do it for me, and she did a great job (she wasn’t free, cost me a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bag of chips, that one). All forty copies were sold, and I was a happy man.
And that was it, finally I was a published author. The book was there for all to see on Amazon and everything! The price was wrong, right enough. And it was worryingly showing as ‘out of stock’.
I had cannily asked a few friends and family members to order the book through shops, rather than buying it from Amazon. The publishers being not too large, established or, frankly, competent, I figured this was a good way to bring it to shop managers’ attention. As writers will know, to get a book from a shop it has to go via a wholesaler, in this case, Gardners.
Shouldn’t be a problem - the shop places the order with Gardners, they order it from the publisher, the publisher sends it to Gardners, Gardners send it to the shop, and the job is done.
Seven weeks later, not one of the shop ordered copies had arrived.
Turned out Gardners had been making the same fatal mistake I’d made myself in the past - sending the order to an email address that no one in the publishers thought it wise to monitor. Oh, how I didn’t laugh.
For the first time (amazingly, not sure how I held my temper up till then) in my history with the publisher, I sent a very rude email, detailing just how disappointed and shocked I was at their apparent lack of even basic business acumen.
That did the trick (I sent it to the MD).
Now, the book is readily available on Amazon (at the correct price), Gardners have a holding stock and it’s on the shelves of a number of Waterstones stores. It’s even in libraries. It got reviewed in the biggest selling Scottish daily newspaper (The Daily Record), where it was described as one of the best debut novels of 2008.
So, all’s well that ends well.
Heh.
The prize money (you didn’t think I’d forgotten about that, did you?). The book was ‘published’ on October 1st, 2008. Which meant that, according to the publishing contract, my prize money was due to be paid on, at the very latest, April 1st, 2009.
Want to bet if I’ve got it yet?
WYLMT - a history
In 2005 I spotted an ad in the paper for a competition called Undiscovered Authors. I hadn’t finished WYLMT at that point (I was about halfway through), but the comp only asked for a single chapter to be sent in, so I thought I’d give it a try.
A couple of months later I was informed that, although not a winner, my chapter had been shortlisted for the West of Scotland region, which was nice.
In 2006 I learned that the competition was being run again, and this time they wanted full manuscripts. I had finished WYLMT by that point and failed to get any interest from agents etc, so figured I might as well have another go, sending the book in, I think, October 2006.
In around March/April of 2007, I learned that WYLMT had been placed first in the Scottish region, and come third in the UK overall. The prize was a traditional one book publishing deal plus £1000. Happiness!
My contact with the publishers was a lovely, helpful lady called Natalie. She informed me that over the course of the next few months I would be assigned an editor and cover designer to work with. Cool!
The initial plan was to roll out all the winning books, one per month, between autumn 2007 and early 2008. The order of publication to be decided by which manuscripts were ready first. Fair enough.
Then the contract arrived. I had an actual publishing contract in my hands. I did read it, and noted that the prize money wasn’t due until ‘within’ six months of the book’s publication. It would have been nice to get it there and then, but bugger it, I could wait a few months. I signed.
The draft I entered in the comp was 145k words long (hey, the first draft was 170k!) and Natalie gently suggested I might want to try to cut the word count a little by myself, before it went to the editor. Being a naïve idiot who knew nothing about the publishing world, or average first novel word counts, I was of course incredibly offended by this. Still, I figured she must know what she was on about, and duly started combing through the MSS for bits I wouldn’t miss too much. Every lost word, phrase, sentence and scene was like being stabbed in the heart with a knitting needle, but I struggled manfully with the task set to me, and, eventually, managed to get it down to around 138k. That was the absolute minimum I was prepared to accept.
Then it went to the editor, who promptly cut another 12 thousand words. Some of the bits she got rid of were, I thought, essential to the story, and couldn’t believe they wanted me to take them out. I was wrong, of course.
Ah well.
Then, in, I think, September 2007, I got an email from the cover designer assigned to work on the book, and, over the next few weeks, we worked together (by which I mean he did all the work, and I made a couple of colour suggestion so as not to look too stupid) and came up with a cover that I am still extremely proud of. It was the highlight of the whole publishing experience up to that point, seeing that finished cover layout.
Unfortunately, it turned out to be the only highlight I was going to get, for quite some time.
At around the same time as the cover was being put together, Natalie informed me that she was taking an extended sabbatical from the company. I was sorry to see her leave, even though she assured me she would be back in a couple of months, and that her boss, Jennie, would be looking after me in the interim.
Fair enough, I thought. After all, the edit and cover were locked, so there wasn’t much more to be done, and I was looking forward to seeing the book published within a month or two. I joked with Natalie that it would be out before she returned. I turned out to be right about that. I never heard from Natalie again. At the time I didn’t realise this was about to become a trend.
I received an email from Jennie in October 2007, letting me know everything was on schedule and she would let me know the publishing date soon. I was on my way! I was about to become a published author and, the painful edit aside, I had loved every minute of the process.
And then, well, nothing happened. A lot. For ages.
I emailed Jennie, oh, about 3 dozen times over the next month or two, but got no reply to any of my queries. Christmas came and went. The seasons changed, but the silence in my inbox didn’t.
Being a level headed, mature and sensible individual, I of course started panicking quite considerably. Where was Jennie? Why was she ignoring me? Why wasn’t I a bloody published author yet?
By February, I was a wreck. I had googled the publishers, and discovered they were being lambasted by writers, customers, former staff members, by pretty much everyone. They were called a fraud, a vanity publisher with delusions of grandeur they couldn’t follow through on. They owed people money, they owed former staff wages, they owed everyone.
They owed me a bloody published novel!
With a little more digging, I learned that they’d lost their partner/backer and their finances were in a mess.
Throughout all of this, I was still emailing Jennie, desperate for a response, for some reassurance.
Finally, it occurred to me that phone calls are slightly harder to ignore than emails, and I made the call. The person who answered the number I had for Jennie was a. not Jennie (the clue was in his name, Alan), and b. said a completely different company name to the publisher’s when he answered. I was not encouraged by this.
I explained my situation, and he assured me that yes, the publishers were still active and in business and that he actually worked for their sister company, a wholesalers, and was just manning the phones temporarily. He also explained that Jennie had ‘moved on’ several months previously and that the reason I hadn’t got an answer to any of my emails was that her account, although not cancelled, wasn’t being monitored. Bit of a screw up that, I thought but didn’t say. Alan assured me he would pass on my details to the appropriate person that day, and someone would call me back by the next morning at the very latest.
Three weeks later I still hadn’t heard anything. I phoned back. I’m convinced it was Alan who answered again, though he denied any knowledge of having spoken to me previously, and subtly failed to give me his name. Again, I explained my situation, and again I was assured that the appropriate person would call me back within the day. Have a guess if they did.
Another three weeks later, this was repeated, exactly.
Somewhere in between all of this (I can’t quite remember when, possibly December 07) I did get one email, from a lady who’s name I can’t recall, telling me that she was now in charge of my book, Love You Tomorrow [sic]. I answered her enthusiastically, relieved at this lifeline. She never answered, and I never heard from her again. I presume she also ‘moved on’.
By April/May of 2008, I had given up. It was over, I decided. It was a nice dream but it wasn’t to be. My thoughts turned to figuring out if I still owned the copyright of WYLMT, or if that was lost, too. This was not a happy time.
And then, in late May/early June, I got an email from Michaela. She was, apparently, now in charge of my book, though she didn’t have any of my previous correspondence, a copy of the MSS or the edited version on file. She had the cover though, thank God!
I pulled a bit of a sneaky at this point, I have to admit. As she didn’t have the edited version on file and needed me to send it to her, I took the opportunity to put back in a few of the bits the editor had removed. I know it was wrong, but it was only a few hundred words, a particular scene I was very fond of. Okay, maybe a couple of scenes. Okay, it was 2000 words worth. Bugger it, it was still nearly 50k shorter than the first draft!
Suddenly, we were back on track. I would have a proof copy for me to check within a matter of weeks. Result! I was elated, obviously. Then the proof copy arrived. The cover looked great, it has to be said.
Instead of sending me digital galleys (is that the term?) to proof and correct, they sent me a physical copy of the book, and asked that I list any corrections required and send them to the typesetters. Okay, how hard can that be, I thought? Well, discovering that every single instance of italics had been lost somewhere in translation made it pretty bloody hard, to be honest.
It took more than two weeks to list all the corrections. As well as the italics there were missing quote marks, missing para indents, line breaks where there shouldn’t be, no line breaks where there should, etc etc.
The final list of corrections ran to 32 pages and 12,000 words. Not my happiest writing experience, that.
Still, I got it done, and we were on our way again. Michaela estimated we could publish by September. She even asked if there was a particular date around then I would like to go for. Well, my birthday’s October 1st, so I figured I’d give myself a present.
And that was it, it was a done deal. I would become a published author on 1st October, 2008. Nothing could stop me now!
My thoughts turned to organising a launch. Well, more a celebration party, to be honest. In the book I mention a few Glasgow pubs, and a couple of real life local bands. One of those bands happen to play every Thursday in one of those pubs. Seemed an obvious choice. I booked The Scotia Bar’s lounge for Thursday October 9th. Mary, the lovely manager, not only gave me the venue for free, but let me bring my own wine and did some sandwiches on the house. Plus, as the band were playing anyway, the entertainment would be free, too. Result!
Then Michaela went on holiday for the entire month of September. And, you guessed it, no one monitored her emails while she was away. I needed forty copies of the book to sell at the launch. I sent email after pointless email, to no avail. When, by the last week in September, I’d still had no response, I had to cancel the launch. Mary very kindly offered me the option to rebook at a later date.
When Michaela returned she was hugely apologetic. Although the ‘official’ publishing date would still be 1st October, it would take a couple of weeks to actually get some copies together. She assured my that if I rebooked the launch for Thursday 23rd October, all would be well. She was nearly right.
She did indeed arrange for my forty copies to be posted up to Glasgow in good time. Unfortunately, she put the wrong address on the boxes.
I spent the 22nd, while I should have been at work, touring the greater Glasgow area desperately trying to find the delivery company’s depot. Finally, at 6pm the evening before the launch, I got my copies.
The launch, incidentally, was a great night. The band were great, the sandwiches were great, the pub was great, and they were all free! I had shrewdly avoided the necessity of doing a reading by hiring an actress friend of mine to do it for me, and she did a great job (she wasn’t free, cost me a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bag of chips, that one). All forty copies were sold, and I was a happy man.
And that was it, finally I was a published author. The book was there for all to see on Amazon and everything! The price was wrong, right enough. And it was worryingly showing as ‘out of stock’.
I had cannily asked a few friends and family members to order the book through shops, rather than buying it from Amazon. The publishers being not too large, established or, frankly, competent, I figured this was a good way to bring it to shop managers’ attention. As writers will know, to get a book from a shop it has to go via a wholesaler, in this case, Gardners.
Shouldn’t be a problem - the shop places the order with Gardners, they order it from the publisher, the publisher sends it to Gardners, Gardners send it to the shop, and the job is done.
Seven weeks later, not one of the shop ordered copies had arrived.
Turned out Gardners had been making the same fatal mistake I’d made myself in the past - sending the order to an email address that no one in the publishers thought it wise to monitor. Oh, how I didn’t laugh.
For the first time (amazingly, not sure how I held my temper up till then) in my history with the publisher, I sent a very rude email, detailing just how disappointed and shocked I was at their apparent lack of even basic business acumen.
That did the trick (I sent it to the MD).
Now, the book is readily available on Amazon (at the correct price), Gardners have a holding stock and it’s on the shelves of a number of Waterstones stores. It’s even in libraries. It got reviewed in the biggest selling Scottish daily newspaper (The Daily Record), where it was described as one of the best debut novels of 2008.
So, all’s well that ends well.
Heh.
The prize money (you didn’t think I’d forgotten about that, did you?). The book was ‘published’ on October 1st, 2008. Which meant that, according to the publishing contract, my prize money was due to be paid on, at the very latest, April 1st, 2009.
Want to bet if I’ve got it yet?
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
People Are Lovely
Don't worry, I've not become a weird hippy, everyone's still a bunch of bastards, of course.
I may be a slightly more normal sort of hippy, though.
Children and impressionable people look away now, I'm about to get x-rated again and say something unconscionable:
Talking to strangers can be good.
Not the puppy worrying sort, obviously, but I met a man with a whippet at the weekend, and he turned out to be a very fine fella indeed.
He had been battling food poisoning and small town apathy for days, yet still managed to be the finest host a drunk could ask for. I have never before witnessed such an expanse of bottled beer and, eh, ... something else beginning with 'B' ... oh yeah, books.
The launch of Moffat Book Month in the Chambers Gallery in Moffat's High Street was an invitation only do, and I was one of the lucky ones. Put it this way, if you weren't invited you wish you were. If you were invited and didn't turn up, you're a fool and I hope you're already making plans for next year.
A very successful art gallery has decided to devote one month a year to the art of writing, as opposed to that stuff people do with paint and pictures.
If you're a writer and you're reading this, get yourself involved.
Not only did I get the opportunity to discover some very interesting books, I also got to have a few beers with some very fine writers, some of whom I'd met 'online' previously, and some I hadn't.
Biggest surprise of the evening for me: There's not a single one of them I wouldn't happily go for a pint with, or trust with my dog.
People are lovely, it seems.
It's hard to be cynical at times like this. I hate nature for that.
I may be a slightly more normal sort of hippy, though.
Children and impressionable people look away now, I'm about to get x-rated again and say something unconscionable:
Talking to strangers can be good.
Not the puppy worrying sort, obviously, but I met a man with a whippet at the weekend, and he turned out to be a very fine fella indeed.
He had been battling food poisoning and small town apathy for days, yet still managed to be the finest host a drunk could ask for. I have never before witnessed such an expanse of bottled beer and, eh, ... something else beginning with 'B' ... oh yeah, books.
The launch of Moffat Book Month in the Chambers Gallery in Moffat's High Street was an invitation only do, and I was one of the lucky ones. Put it this way, if you weren't invited you wish you were. If you were invited and didn't turn up, you're a fool and I hope you're already making plans for next year.
A very successful art gallery has decided to devote one month a year to the art of writing, as opposed to that stuff people do with paint and pictures.
If you're a writer and you're reading this, get yourself involved.
Not only did I get the opportunity to discover some very interesting books, I also got to have a few beers with some very fine writers, some of whom I'd met 'online' previously, and some I hadn't.
Biggest surprise of the evening for me: There's not a single one of them I wouldn't happily go for a pint with, or trust with my dog.
People are lovely, it seems.
It's hard to be cynical at times like this. I hate nature for that.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Moving Across the (On)Line
I'm going to this thing tomorrow, in this place, where I'm going to meet these people.
I'm a bit worried.
It's a thing I know about but have never seen; it's a place I've heard of, but never been; they're people I know of, but haven't yet screened.
The thing and the place aren't the issue, to be fair. The people, though...
I spoke to them all, but only looked one in the eyes. We've all shared our secrets, and sometimes our cries.
I'd better stop rhyming, as I've just realised ... that this isn't a bloody poem. Sorry.
In actual fact, I'm looking forward to tomorrow a great deal.
Perry Isles, a good guy (I surmise) and a great writer (I know for a fact) is hosting a writing event in his shop/gallery in Moffat, during August.
The month will be dedicated to celebrating (and hopefully selling a few) books by authors who have found their way into publication by the less traditional routes, i.e. via indy publishers, competitions and self-publishing, etc. Perry has very kindly invited several writers, myself included, to the launch party tomorrow.
I envisage a piss-up of great magnitude, as does Perry, given the amount of alcohol he's apparently bought in (yay!).
But, I am going to meet in person for the first time, a few people I've only known online up till now, including the aforementioned Perry.
I'm not overly worried about this, as, so far, my experience in this area has been positive.
I have, up till now, met two people in 'the flesh' who I'd previously only encountered in the ter net. I'm delighted to report that, on both occasions, it went well and I have, hopefully, made a couple of good friends there.
Tomorrow I'm going to meet a few more. All at once. And they're all writers. And (shh, don't tell anyone) better writers than me!
Some are published, some are self-published and some are unpublished, but they're all bloody good, I know that.
Is this, I find myself thinking, when I get caught? Is this when it becomes obvious, to people who know, that I don't have a bloody clue what this writing malarky is all about; that I've been winging it?
I don't know the first thing about literature, never have. When I was writing WYLMT I had to keep a published novel at my side at all times so I could check if I was formatting the paragraphs properly (and I still got it wrong). I was on chapter 28 before I finally figured out the its/it's thing, and still don't have a clue about passed/past.
I'm the guy who read somewhere that all writing should be double spaced when submitting to agents etc, so put two spaces between each word, for an entire novel. It never occurred to me that it meant an extra space between lines. That was not a fun edit, believe me. Took me months to get out of the habit of hitting the space bar twice.
The writers I'm meeting tomorrow, on the other hand, are, well, clever fuckers.
The one thing I do have going for me, thankfully, is that, a. one of the two people I mentioned earlier I've already met is going to be there, so I can hide behind her if it gets dicey, and b. I get the distinct impression that everyone else who's going is intending to get really drunk too, so hopefully they won't remember a thing I say.
Thank Christ for alcohol (which is hopefully what those folks at that wedding did).
Anyway, once again I've completely failed to make a point. Becoming a habit with me, that.
I'd hate to be an advocate for meeting up with people you've met online, because there are so many ways that could go badly, but, for me, so far, it's actually been a very positive experience, and I have no doubt Perry's event tomorrow will only reinforce that.
Which just goes to show, I'm a rubbish moral guardian. Shit, I've never even robbed or stabbed anyone when I've been drunk or on drugs.
KIDS - Don't listen to a word I say, ever!
Moffat Book Month, Chambers Gallery, High Street, Moffat (it's in Scotland)
I'm a bit worried.
It's a thing I know about but have never seen; it's a place I've heard of, but never been; they're people I know of, but haven't yet screened.
The thing and the place aren't the issue, to be fair. The people, though...
I spoke to them all, but only looked one in the eyes. We've all shared our secrets, and sometimes our cries.
I'd better stop rhyming, as I've just realised ... that this isn't a bloody poem. Sorry.
In actual fact, I'm looking forward to tomorrow a great deal.
Perry Isles, a good guy (I surmise) and a great writer (I know for a fact) is hosting a writing event in his shop/gallery in Moffat, during August.
The month will be dedicated to celebrating (and hopefully selling a few) books by authors who have found their way into publication by the less traditional routes, i.e. via indy publishers, competitions and self-publishing, etc. Perry has very kindly invited several writers, myself included, to the launch party tomorrow.
I envisage a piss-up of great magnitude, as does Perry, given the amount of alcohol he's apparently bought in (yay!).
But, I am going to meet in person for the first time, a few people I've only known online up till now, including the aforementioned Perry.
I'm not overly worried about this, as, so far, my experience in this area has been positive.
I have, up till now, met two people in 'the flesh' who I'd previously only encountered in the ter net. I'm delighted to report that, on both occasions, it went well and I have, hopefully, made a couple of good friends there.
Tomorrow I'm going to meet a few more. All at once. And they're all writers. And (shh, don't tell anyone) better writers than me!
Some are published, some are self-published and some are unpublished, but they're all bloody good, I know that.
Is this, I find myself thinking, when I get caught? Is this when it becomes obvious, to people who know, that I don't have a bloody clue what this writing malarky is all about; that I've been winging it?
I don't know the first thing about literature, never have. When I was writing WYLMT I had to keep a published novel at my side at all times so I could check if I was formatting the paragraphs properly (and I still got it wrong). I was on chapter 28 before I finally figured out the its/it's thing, and still don't have a clue about passed/past.
I'm the guy who read somewhere that all writing should be double spaced when submitting to agents etc, so put two spaces between each word, for an entire novel. It never occurred to me that it meant an extra space between lines. That was not a fun edit, believe me. Took me months to get out of the habit of hitting the space bar twice.
The writers I'm meeting tomorrow, on the other hand, are, well, clever fuckers.
The one thing I do have going for me, thankfully, is that, a. one of the two people I mentioned earlier I've already met is going to be there, so I can hide behind her if it gets dicey, and b. I get the distinct impression that everyone else who's going is intending to get really drunk too, so hopefully they won't remember a thing I say.
Thank Christ for alcohol (which is hopefully what those folks at that wedding did).
Anyway, once again I've completely failed to make a point. Becoming a habit with me, that.
I'd hate to be an advocate for meeting up with people you've met online, because there are so many ways that could go badly, but, for me, so far, it's actually been a very positive experience, and I have no doubt Perry's event tomorrow will only reinforce that.
Which just goes to show, I'm a rubbish moral guardian. Shit, I've never even robbed or stabbed anyone when I've been drunk or on drugs.
KIDS - Don't listen to a word I say, ever!
Moffat Book Month, Chambers Gallery, High Street, Moffat (it's in Scotland)
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