E is for ebook

When is a book not a book? Tom Uglow spoke at Port Eliot about the ways in which ebooks and the digital experience could be more interactive than a mere saddle-stitched paperback could ever dream of. Being by nature a bit of a Luddite, I'd yet to fully embrace the virtual book, but I could see that my expectations of what an ebook is (or will be) were very wide of the mark.

I saw it as little more than a PDF of a 'real' book. Another helping of humble pie. please.

There is a wide range of ebook devices and platforms, so many that it's easier for me to provide you with a link than attempt to sound knowledgeable.

Cue Wiki:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comparison_of_e-book_formats

As you may recall, I put together my own ebook as an experiment and a way of commoditising some comedy sketches. (And yes, I did use the word 'commoditising' to goad you!)

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/75117

Mark Coker has created a fantastic tool, enabling any writer to upload a formatted Word doc and hey presto (actual process takes a few more steps) your ebook is born. He has also put together a list of artists who will produce an affordable book cover to your requirements.

So, why am I such a convert to ebooks all of a sudden?

The image above is a bit of a clue and more will be revealed around October 14th.

Port Eliot - one more thing

Okay, just this one and then I'll shut up about it. As you'll have gathered, we enjoyed Port Eliot a great deal - all the photos are Anne's, by the way. There's such a range of authors and performers that there'll always be something to inspire, entertain or crush you (because the person speaking is just so damned GOOD at what they do). A special mention has to go to The Idler Academy tent, which managed to combine an engaging programme of speakers with an atmosphere all of its own. Think Tom Brown's Schooldays meets a student revue and you're halfway there.

Altogether, we saw James Attlee, Simon Day (twice, in my case), Dr Mark Vernon, Simon Munnery, John Cooper Clarke, Tom Uglow, Jackie Juno, Ed Harcourt, RSVP (where we learned to dance Bhangra style) and Sea of Bees. We saw two films at the open air Cinena Paradiso- North by Northwest (where the mozzies did their own biplane tribute by attacking us) and The Red Shoes, while indoors at the Paradiso Piccolo we watched The Barley Mow. Peter Gordon's cooking demonstration was very good, as was the tour of the house and nipping out of the venue and around the corner to see the church at St German's with its Burne-Jones stained glass windows.

I never expected...

- Wheelbarrows as the preferred mode of transport for small children.

- To see so many pregnant women - it was like something out of Dr Who. Or Alien.

- To see Suggs from Madness, sitting in an audience.

- To find Bob the Builder nappies dumped on the floor of a chemical toilet cubicle.

- To hear people laughing at Homer - the Greek one, not from The Simpsons.

- To see a performance poet I met on a comedy writing course two years ago.

- To meet someone from a yoga class ten years ago.

- To see vandalism.

- To hear that some locals were determined to get in without paying - and had.

- To hear the music through my sternum. At two in the morning.

- So much litter on the last morning - bottles, plastic glasses and Ocado receipts.

Port Eliot - Observations

Notes jotted down from Port Eliot:

1. The literary scene is an exclusive club made up of people who went to Oxford or Cambridge and / or who have an MA in Creative Writing. There are other clubs, however.

2. It's de rigeur to have at least one friend named Harriet, Chloe, Marcel, Rudyard or Parsifal. I once adopted a cat and named him Einstein, but I don't think that counts.

3. By sheer coincidence, the children of authors, agents and editors have a tendency to become authors, agents and editors. This is either the result of osmosis or having parents who can bear the brunt of the unfunded internship.

4. Embittered, unpublished writers often can't see the wood for the trees - which is a pity as there are some beautiful trees at Port Eliot.

5. An unofficial creche system is in operation, whereby wayward parents leave their wayward children to roam about all day (and much of the night), relying on the kindness and patience of strangers. On the plus side, it was probably one of those children who dropped the fiver that I found in a field.

6. Perception is like the weather. Give it a few minutes and everything changes.

A Lovable* Rogue at the Halfway Point

It's that time of the year when many writers see one of their seasonal offerings thrust out into the world. I'm talking of course about today, June 30th, being the halfway point in the calendar year.

It's a good opportunity to pause and reflect and, as every ex project manager knows, it pays to review your progress at regular stages and see where the hell you are in relation to where you'd planned to be.

The latest good news is that a classic sci-fi story of mine called Rogue is included in Beyond the Horizon, published by Alasdair Firth's Bamboccioni Books at the end of July. This brings my 'ISBN by association' tally to three this year (the others being The Wanderer and Coffee Shop Chronicles Vol 1). So far so good. I've also put together my first ebook - a drama resource of comedy sketches for non-profit use. A good friend of mine is, as we speak, combing through the collection of 30 or so sketches and probably weeding out the ones that relate to religion, sex and drugs. I haven't quite figured out where it will be sold, but I have heard good things about Smashwords so that's a possibility.

Longer term business clients have been crossing my path with e-silver, which is always gratifying. Meanwhile, my novels Covenant, Standpoint and Line of Sight continue to circulate through the letterboxes of agents and publishers, which I consider a bit of a no-score draw. As all writers know, submission is very much a waiting game with occasional pauses. But, in the spirit of the midpoint, I have chased up three contacts today to find out about my other submissions (you didn't think that was ALL I was working on, surely!).

There have been one or two casualties along the way. I achieved my goal of a magazine column then promptly lost it upon the altar of economics. It was fun while it lasted although fun and well paid would have made for a more enjoyable experience. Still, one can't have everything. And I've already mentioned the client who thought my working for two hours gratis would be an excellent way to demonstrate my ghostwriting skills. Gone but not forgotten.

My all-seeing spreadsheet tells me I have:

6 books collectively awaiting 11 responses

7 short stories collectively awaiting 11 responses

33 magazine submissions, pitches and queries awaiting a response

Anyway, I can't sit here yapping all day - I have a deadline to meet. Here's to the next six months!

* Spelling approved by my trusty copy of Guardian Style.

A Grave Undertaking

So there we were, watching the telly last night. Jo Brand was on fine form, hosting the last of the current series of Have I Got News For You. And slap bang in the middle of the programme, Ian Hislop mentioned a new word to me (not to me personally, I'm aware there are many other viewers as well as a studio audience): taphophile.

So Anne, who does not enjoy the idea of appearing in this blog, looks in my direction and says, "That's what you are." Now, I've always thought I like a good graveyard as much as the next man (or woman - taphophility is an equal opportunity pastime), but it turns out that I like it more.*

A graveyard can be a haven for nature and one of the few places to see a decent yew tree. There's social history there too and, more importantly, personal stories. It sounds obvious to say it, but these were real people who lived, loved and went the way we're all heading. I find all of the above both sobering and cause for reflection. As a writer, I also draw inspiration - from the names, the poignancy of the dedications, the artistry of the headstones and the sheer atmosphere of the place. I'm also drawn to war memorials, but that's another story.

Writing about death and mortality in fiction can be a test of nerve, sensitivity and skill. Most adult readers will know what death and grief sound like, smell like and feel like. Whether it's a thriller, a fantasy novel or even a comedy (I can only speak for myself here), we aim for authenticity. And the way we do that is to draw upon our own experience or our imagination of that experience. I haven't gone so far as to borrow names from headstones yet, but I have tried to draw on the mood of the graveyard and what it represents - peace, closure, loss and anger. In the end, I suspect, we're each exalted in that final scene or brought down to earth by mortality.

Writing about death and grief in non-fiction is another ball of beeswax. I've commented on that before so rather than repeat myself, here's that link:

http://alongthewritelines.blogspot.com/2009/08/crossing-line.html

So here's to you David.

* The picture was taken in Scotland. We were visiting Rosslyn Chapel and I wanted to check out some supposed Templar or Masonic graves. I suppose that's a little exotic even for taphophiles!

The writing on the wall

There are some books that immediately speak to some inner part of us. Within a page or two we are entranced, with that same focus and attention that we had as children when we read under the covers because we couldn't bear to leave a chapter unfinished.

While writers such as Tolkien and J K Rowling have overtly dipped their bread into the mythical soup, many other writers - knowingly or unknowingly - conjure up archetypes that we embrace gladly like old friends.

In the field of writing itself there are also archetypes (or cliches, if you prefer). The struggling artist, the posthumous success (Steig Larson), the 'I happened to go to school with a literary agent' (also not-so-fondly referred to as 'the jammy bastard') and a clutch of others, which you can recognise at any writing conference or creative support group. Myths are powerful cloaks to wear however, and over time can become so comfortable that we don't notice the cloth beginning to tighten in. And, in their purest form, myths give us definition and insight; they exalt the best of human traits and they warn of the consequences of the worst. They are a rambler's map of our own psyche.

Joseph Campbell examined myths and cultural tales from different places and identified similarities and key stages. His Hero of a Thousand Faces is a good starter if you're new to him.

Campbell proposed three distinct stages for the hero's quest:

1. Separation (e.g. leaving the village, seeking love / adventure, etc)

2. Initiation (the trials and tribulations that are overcome)

3. Return (the hero transformed who arrives bearing gold, wisdom or some other reward from the quest).

I've often thought there ought to be a stage between stages 1 and 2, a 1a if you will. I call it 1a. Preparation. Every piece of writing, in a sense, is a quest to transform and translate ideas into a cohesive narrative. And, unless you plan to keep your work in a drawer forever, one of those writer initiations lies in bringing your word to print or at least to the reader in some form.

We can learn a lot from mythology. About how it stirs the emotions and shapes thinking, about how each culture and civilisation wrestles with the same human frailties and finds ways to illustrate the dynamics of the human condition. And we can learn how to condense the experience of everyone into the story of anyone.

When the Egyptians - or any other civilisation for that matter - defined their pantheons and legends, they were really creating stories that would echo through the ages. As grandiose as that sounds, perhaps that's what all good writing aspires to do as well.

Lost and found in Lyonnesse

What child doesn't like the idea of living on a tropical island, palms swaying in the breeze and pale sand to run your toes through? Cue music... Add to that a dash of mystery and hidden treasure, and you have all the makings of a classic children's book.*

Or failing that, a week away to recharge the batteries, where all of the above still hold. (Okay, the Isles of Scilly have a sub-tropical microclimate, but let's not quibble.)

The IoS lie just 28 miles west of the British mainland and some say they are the remains of the lost land of Lyonnesse. Five islands are inhabited (I know, that sounds adventurous just on its own) and the main island St Mary's can be reached by helicopter, ferry or plane. We once took the two and a half hour ferry crossing and it was rougher than a cat's tongue coated in industrial sandpaper. I flew back by helicopter alone, praising the god of aviation.

The plane is our preferred mode of transport and takes off from a grassy airfield on a cliff. We fly at around 1000 feet and the journey takes a mere 15 minutes. From St Mary's it's a short boat trip to St Agnes, having taken my trusty ginger capsules beforehand! Okay, that's enough of a plug for the tourist industry.

The main attraction of St Agnes is the lack of distraction. Unplugged from email, a reliable mobile phone signal and familiar routines, a transformation quickly takes place. I find myself actually writing with a pen again - usually up to 12,000 words in the week we stay there. And I read more - the cottage is stacked with books. Had it not been for St Agnes I would never have encountered Raymond Carver or Elmore Leonard, never dipped into Margaret Atwood or tried yet another Anne Tyler book and still found it didn't speak to me. And every book I ingest changes my writing in subtle ways, if only temporarily. I take on other voices and sometimes they stick around to join the throng.

* I mentioned mystery and treasure, and I try to keep my promises. The mystery I pondered most - apart from how to pay the bills when we get back - was how all these writers found their voice and their niche. There they rest upon the shelves, jostling for arm room - the genre specific and the literary; and all of them have made the novelist's journey from 'nagging away at your brain' midnight idea to the finished page-flicking product. Best of all perhaps is that they all approached it differently. other writers can only draw strength from that. As the writer Brian Keaney reminded me, there is no magic formula. You write your best work and then you try to place it somewhere. The End. Or at least, The End when you choose to give up and leave the arena.

The mystery then becomes less about how to achieve something and more about why one takes the path they have. So I spent time looking at where I've put my creative energy and the projects that have either yielded little fruit or none at all. Surrounded by the sea and the constantly shifting breeze, I find my thoughts mould to the unceasing rhythms.

Sometimes it's good to let things go and move on, to stand on the shore and wave goodbye to those paper rafts we launched with such fierce ambition. For me that has meant relinquishing a humour column in a Canadian magazine because economic reality is more important than the cachet of a line on my CV. Even though the tide will eventually submerge them, it's good to know where we draw our lines in the sand!

And for the writers that I know, the greatest mystery is always 'what next?'. As a friend of mine in California used to say, "Life is a mystery to be lived and not a problem to be solved." Which, the internet informs me, is probably a quote from Danish philosopher Soren Kierkgaard.

* I also promised treasure. There were two kinds of treasure on the trip, each tangible in its way. The first was a story - the kind that arrive as a pleasant surprise, fully formed and racing through your mind as you grasp at the rushing mist. A folk tale of sorts, about the plight of mermaids and the children they leave behind. The second treasure was the discovery of a box, while out walking. A tin box - the sort a child might keep their special things in (see the delightful film Amelie) - and containing a letter of some kind and some pearls. The tin in a plastic bag that also contained a plastic angel, hidden underneath a rock. I found it by a combination of serendipity and clumsiness. I didn't read the letter and put it all back where I found it.

There's probably a story in all that somewhere, but it's not one for me at the moment. I'm too busy working out the next chapter of my own adventure as a writer.

The Ones That Got Away (and one that didn't)

Hello and ahoy to everyone. I'm just back from a relaxing and contemplative week on the Isles of Scilly. But more about that in a separate post, teaser that I am.

It appears I've been more circumspect than I intended recently, regarding my progress in securing representation for one of my novels. I had an email from someone upon my return, asking if in fact I now had an agent for my Brit thriller Standpoint. So it seemed only fair to clear the air, like a literary twitter.

In a word: no. The agent was concerned about my novel's distinctiveness and felt an agent specific to that genre would be more likely to secure a publishing deal for me. Since then I've approached his three recommended publishers directly and I'm waiting to hear from two of them (one will only talk to agents).

Elsewhere, I finally got a response back from a sci-fi / fantasy publisher in the US about another novel Covenant (God loves a trier, as our mum used to say). Writers typically expect to wait around 3 months for a response to a submission, whether it be by email or the trusty envelope. But I think I have reached something of a record here - something that even rivals the year it took to get a proof edit of the same novel by a previous publisher (who then went out of business).

Cue drum roll...

Dear Author,

Thank you for your patience as we considered your novel. Unfortunately, it does not seem right for us. Due to the volume of manuscripts we receive and the press of other business it is impossible for us to go into particulars. Please do not take this rejection as necessarily a reflection on your work; we can accept fewer than one percent of the manuscripts submitted to us. Best of luck in another market.

And how long did it take to get that feedback? Take a breath...

1 year, 3 months and 16 days.

Patience, is is said, is a virtue. This timescale, however, is just a week shy of the gestation of the Grey Rhino (source: Vaughn Aubuchon). Still, it could have been worse; it could have been an Indian Elephant.

And because I know everyone likes to end on a high note - there's a joke in there somewhere about the sex life of an opera singer - I do now have another little book out there in print. I was going to wait for the link to be set up then badger you all mercilessly about it (I still might), but there's no time like the present. And no present as suitable as this book.

The Wanderer is a contemplative read, described by an editor from another publishing house as 'wonderfully reflective'. It's a short tale of a man who wakes up on a beach and who then sets out on a journey of self-discovery. www.awordwithyoupress.com/store

Memory Maker

Do you have a friend who consistently gets a fact wrong, even if it’s a detail about an event that you’ve previously corrected them on? It’s as if that piece of information is permanently misfiled or corrupted – the memory equivalent of two synapses stuck in a death grip handshake.

It reminds me (no pardon intended) of False Memory Syndrome, which has been offered up as an explanation for some allegations child abuse or alien abduction. My own particular false memory is less contentious, but no less puzzling.

Our dad died when I was twenty-two and our mum followed him, about five years later. However, I also have these pseudo memories, of dad outliving mum and there being just dad, my brother and I living in the house.

It’s only a quirk of imagination of course, unless the idea of parallel universes periodically intersecting ours appeals to you. But that empirical understanding has never changed the quality of the experience for me. It’s as if I have two competing sets of memories – the one, sharp as a scalpel; the other, hazier, as if trying to recall a film you saw long ago. And both have endured over the years.

Part of the process of writing, I think, involves the writer undergoing a journey of self-revelation. The more we write, the deeper we dig, and as our characters and plot and dialogue unfold, so we see more facets of our self. Rather than hiding in our work – irrespective of the genre or how far-removed from our own experience the ideas might be – I’ve come to the conclusion that we actually want to be found: the writer revealed.

Good writing is authentic – it shows us what it is to be a living, breathing and feeling human being. It doesn’t matter if the stories are comic or tragic or dramatic or undemanding, whether they inhabit the past, present, future or never-could be. Human, alien, animal, faery, robot or fridge – it’s all the same as long as it touches us.

And why this, now? I’m glad you asked!

As I’ve been working through the first draft of Scars & Stripes, reviewing my memory of real events and seeing where imagination can trip off the page, I’m aware that the line between truth and fiction is becoming blurred. The emotions (and in some places, the dialogue) from one world are being siphoned off into another of my own making.

The interesting thing though is that, having decanted real events into fiction narrative, I have a much clearer perspective on both the vintage and the nouveau.