The Self Publishing Podcast

I’m writing this blog post as I listen to the Self Publishing Podcast (SPP), episode #158. In previous posts I’ve talked about online tools that are designed to improve sales. SPP covers that sort of thing on a regular basis. However, it is presented by three self-published authors, so while they discuss the business side of things they also tend to drift into conversations about the craft of writing as well. And in the spirit of this podcast -- which regularly and joyfully indulges in straying off the chosen topic -- here’s a quick diversion:

I consider myself a writer above all things. Thinking like a businessman can hamper my creative side, which is why I haven’t tried to start a publishing business. However, I do think it’s important to have an understanding of the business side of my chosen creative art. I might not want to devote my time to numbers and spreadsheets, but it’s dangerous to be clueless about something that can severely impact your writing. Ignore the numbers for the sake of your words and it won’t be long before you can’t afford to write anymore...

The rest of this blog post can be found over at my wee patch of the HASTAC website. Click here to get there.

Musashi Meme 1

You'd be hard pressed to think of a better definition...

Paul Bishop (co-creator of the Fight Card series) posted this on Facebook earlier. It really struck a chord.

Writers might be big ol' bags of crazy, but they're never bored.

Time

I hear myself say, "I don't really have the time, sorry," quite often. Since I'm sitting in the middle of a pretty decadent Saturday afternoon scene right now -- one barefoot mancub playing trains while his younger counterpart watches In The Night Garden during the day with his welly boots on -- and I am being ignored for the time being, I guess I have a few moments to analyse that.

I currently work full-time. My job requires I put in a 36-hour week if I'm not taking advantage of decent annual leave and flexi-time. For this exercise, we'll stick with a standard week. I take half an hour for lunch most days. So I give 38.5 hours to the place during a normal week.

I live an hour away, so that's a two-hour return commute over fives days. 10 more hours.

My kids require attention (not complaining -- stating a fact), so lets say that I can't concentrate on anything but them (based on their bed time, but it can vary due to sickness, insomnia or a bit of messing about) for at least three hours a day, on a week day. That's 15 hours.

On a typical week day, I sleep for five or six hours. Call it about 30 hours from Monday to Friday.

I get my exercise at a local boxing club three nights a week. With travel time, that's about six hours.

I'm married and enjoy spending time with my wife (don't raise your eyebrows, some of us do). Maybe two or three hours a night. call that 15 hours.

So:

38.5 + 10 + 15 + 30 + 6  + 15 = 114.5 hours.

Hours in those days:

24 X 5 = 120

It looks like I have 5.5 hours to play with during a working week. In that time I write, read, edit, spend time online, watch a bit of telly or a decent movie. Sure, I can do some of that with my wife and/or the kids, but not all of it. Not by a long stretch.

Moral of this post? I guess I do have time. Just don't expect me to be pleasant if you steal some of it. You're either eating in to my family time or sleep time. And thank God for the weekend! But that's for me, my family and my close friends. Don't ask me what I do with those 48 hours. I'm likely to tell you it's none of your feckin' business.

Love y'all lots like jelly tots.

Amazon Reviews

This is something I struggle with. I spend way too much time thinking about the idea of reviewing other writers on Amazon. Why? I'll fire some random thoughts into a list. Let's see how many we get.

1. The sockpuppet thing (OLD NEWS, I KNOW!) bugged me in many ways. That's all I'll say about that topic.

2. It's nice to be nice. When other writers review my work on Amazon, I remember their name and if I get time, I return the favour.

3. 'Favour' is a tricky word, isn't it? Most people don't expect quid pro quo, I'm sure. I don't. But 'favour' gives the impression that some reviews may be more generous than they should be.

4. I don't finish a book I don't like unless I'm being paid to review or talk about it.

5. Sometimes I read a book, say to myself, 'That was great! I should review that on Amazon!' (especially if it's an ebook or a small press title) and then I forget to do it.

6. Forgetting to do things can stress me out.

7. I don't write well when I'm stressed.

8. I like it when people like me.

9. I don't care when people don't like me (this may be bravado).

10. Sometimes I think that I'm wasting writing time by trying to come up with smart and snappy reviews on Amazon.

11. There's some weird digital black hole that often deletes reviews written by writers for other writers who don't make money from said other writers book sales but have the potential to and then everybody gets angry. (I might not have paid much attention to that last phenomenonenomnomnom.)

12. I don't like to work for free any more than anybody else.

13. Should Amazon reviews be considered work?

14. There are more thoughts rattling about in my head but I'm starting to get worried about my time and mental health here.

The list ends now.

I've been very lucky with reviews to date on blogs and on Amazon. I may even have been reviewed a few times in newspapers and the like. Some people seem to like my writing. Some people definitely don't. What I'm interested in knowing is: Am I being a bit ridiculous here? Should I just stop reviewing on Amazon altogether? Have I just wasted another chunk of time right there? Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comment section. Or don't. I know we're all busy.

Anybody reading this blog for the first time should know, my books are generally better written than this here post. If I'm lying, buy one of my books and read it and then post an angry review on Amazon. ABC, Always Be Closing! Tee hee.

gb

Why I Write - Part 3 of 3

So, is writing an escape for me? I don’t think so. I have a nice life. Apart from a dull day job, the rest of my existence is packed with blessings. I have a supportive wife who I still love very much. Then there are my three children: Mya (age 7), Jack (age 5) and Oscar (age 1). Those kids fuel and exhaust me in equal measure and they are three very different examples of pure brilliance. We also have a puppy that is so cute and fluffy that I can only walk him when it’s dark enough to hide my blushes. I’m broke most of the time, but make just enough money to provide my family with the essentials and the occasional extravagance. So, what’s to escape?

Is it a psychological impulse? Possibly. Though I have other impulses that can be acted upon as and when I decide. For instance, no mater how stressed I am, I rarely drink before the kids go to bed. Certainly never enough to get drunk. When I’ve been cut off on the M1 by some tube in a BMW 3 Series, I don’t drive my Nissan Micra into the back of his wank-mobile to teach the impudent prick a lesson. And when I pop a tube of Pringles, I often stop just to feel that little bit superior to the lost souls who make up the company’s marketing department. So, if I decided it was inconvenient, I’m confident I could quash the urge to write.

So, what is it?

Here’s a theory.

I am descended from a clan of highwaymen and bank robbers. And I am unhealthily fascinated with criminals. In fact, I believe that I have a criminal mind. However, I lack a criminal’s stomach. I simply do not have what it takes to actually commit a legal transgression. So, is the skill for figuring out inventive ways to break into a house or rob a high street shop wasted on this yellow-bellied man? Well, I usually write crime fiction, so maybe not.

Crime fiction has become my legal means of experiencing the joy of law-breaking. I want to be an outlaw but don’t want to risk a criminal record. The idea of a prison sentence captures my imagination, but I have no intention of spending any time in a cell. There are times when my temper gets the better of me and I threaten violence (from a safe distance) yet in my adult years I have yet to throw a punch that wasn’t in self defence. But in my mind, I’ve gone that extra mile so many times. Robbed, shot, stabbed. Danced, kissed, shagged. Lived, fought, died. Vicariously, I have had the most colourful lifetime I could imagine thousands of times and have infinite potential to live many more.

Surely the question is not, ‘Why do I write?’ but, ‘Why the fuck wouldn’t I write?’

That’d be a nice line to finish up on, but I haven’t addressed my skill for listening (remember I mentioned that in Part 1?), so humour me for a further paragraph or two.

I am a listener with an armoury of questions that draw conversation from others. This is useful in social situations that I can’t avoid. It is also essential for my writing inspiration. Other people have stories and I collect them, melt them down and reform them to suit my vision of a character in a story or novel. By listening to others, I refill my inkwells.

And when I can do so without it becoming too obvious to those concerned, I eavesdrop. It’s a little creepy and I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I have heard some fantastic conversations on buses and in restaurant. It’s fuel to the creative fire, and a wonderful way to pass the time. But with all that information filling my brain it’d be a real shame to do nothing with it. So what do I do?

I choose to write.

Actually, that’s not a bad line to end this on either, is it?

Why I write - Part 2 of 3

At an early age I’d set my sights on becoming a writer and spent the rest of my time at primary school, and a few years of grammar school, thinking that it was a viable possibility. Unfortunately, by the time it came to choosing my GCSEs I had been disillusioned. We were given flowcharts and instruction manuals by our careers teacher. The poorly photocopied literature provided suggested ‘pathways’ to professional careers. Accountant, barrister, doctor… Writer as a profession was glaringly absent. Bollocks.

As far as St Colman’s College, Newry, was concerned, you studied to go to university. In university you studied to acquire a vocation. If you didn’t have the aptitude to contribute to an exemplary level of achievement and advance the school’s league records, you could expect to receive advice of NVQs, GNVQs and apprenticeships. These were options my parents persuaded me to avoid. So I found myself aimlessly slogging through GCSEs and then A Levels with limited enthusiasm. I showed some flair for English, especially the restricted amount of creative writing permitted, but this was salt in the wounds really. I gleaned some praise for my imaginings but no real advice that would help me turn it into a career. Journalism was the closest possibility but on an island obsessed with politics I barely understood, I had little love for the idea.

I was accepted into Queen’s University, Belfast, after underachieving in my A Levels. I had discovered alcohol and girls by then and enjoyed them with the lack of sophistication expected from a teenager. Studying was not high up on my list of priorities. I also played in a band at the time. Bass guitar, because it was easier than lead guitar, more prestigious than rhythm guitar and there were less bassists than guitarists in my neck of the woods which increased your chances of getting into a decent four or five-piece. At one point I played for three groups. Anyway, with my focus split this way, it was not very surprising to me that I bombed out of Queen’s. I was too hungover to sit my exams and too distracted to really consider the consequences of such idiocy. But, Jesus, I had a great time that year.

So, there I was, a failure and not particularly heartbroken about it. Sure a degree in English Literature would do fuck all for me anyway. Would it get me published? No. It’d just get in my way. I needed to learn how to live life, then I could write, damn it.

So I got a job at a timber yard. Got some experience there. Learned some new and inventive ways to swear, developed a rash on my chin that wouldn’t let up and saw somebody lose a finger in a vicious machine. The lost finger was enough to send me looking for a new job. I decided to work somewhere that wouldn’t endanger my digits. After a brief stint of stacking pancakes at the Mother’s Pride bakery I landed a cushy number in a public sector office. The Belfast Education and Library Board, to be precise. Found it mind-numbing but less dangerous than manual labour. And it’d pay the bills until I figured out how to get into the writing racket.

Twelve years have passed since then and I still work in the same building.

I am grateful for my day job, though, even if I’m less than enthusiastic about it. Over the last twelve years it has provided me with a home, a series of cars, paid for my wedding, supported my children and funded my unhealthy relationship with alcohol. And each job I’ve done within the organisation (I have been promoted a number of times, and quite recently, demoted) has been just uninspiring enough to urge me to find an alternative source of satisfaction.

So I write.

Why I Write - Part 1 of 3

It seems like a straightforward question, that. Why do I write? Well… it’s not straightforward. Not at all.

The urge to write is not an easy thing to pin down. There are psychological, social and emotional elements to it. It’s a philosophical question. There are raw nerves to be struck in such thoughts. Memories better left repressed. Cans that contain less worms. Heartstrings one should never tug.

But the question has been asked and it is my duty to provide some attempt at an answer. Here goes.

The first time I told somebody that I wanted to be a writer, I was about seven or eight years old (memory is a sketchy thing). I’d been collecting the works of Roald Dahl and savouring every word the man wrote. He was the king of gross-out comedy then and I’ve yet to discover a writer who can compete. The declaration happened over lunch with my mother and grandmother – a Dahl-esque cast, as it happens. My grandmother was always fond of the question, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” She used it often: icebreaker, tension breaker, ball breaker. On this occasion I suspect it was to get me talking. I was a quiet child, more than happy to let my loquacious younger sister do the talking and entertaining. Me, I was happy to sit and listen. Listening… I have to come back to that. It’s very relevant to this topic.

Anyway, my answer at the time was set to disappoint her. Again. You see, my grandmother wanted a specific response from me when she asked this question. She wanted me to tell her that my vocational ambition was to join the priesthood. Become a man of the cloth. There had not been a priest in her family for a number of generations and I was a bespectacled little fellow which usually inferred a certain level of intelligence not usually bestowed on those with perfect eyesight. Surely I’d be clever enough to study the bible or whatever texts are required to earn that white collar. But time and again I managed to disappoint. Previous answers included lorry driver, boxer and cowboy; and a couple of times, when the whimsy was in me, taller.

Here’s the interesting thing, though. When I said, “I want to be a writer and I’ll probably illustrate my own books,” both my grandmother and mother looked a little surprised. Pleasantly so, I thought.

“Do you hear that?” Mum said (she was always concerned about Granny’s hearing ability). “He’s going to ‘illustrate’. How does he even know a word like that?”

Granny mouth-shrugged and pushed her false teeth past her lower lip with her tongue.

Mum waited until she slurped the dentures back into place and said, “It’s all that reading he does.”

There and then, I felt the tinniest surge of something. Excitement? Power? Whatever it was, I liked it. The ability to spit out a word like ‘illustrate’ at such a young age taught me something. Words could impress people. I later went on to learn that words could flatter, hurt and strike fear. If used well sometimes you could achieve all three of these effects at once with a single sentence. But then you also had to learn how to take a punch. I’ve earned myself a fat lip or bloody nose, thanks to my smart mouth, more times than I care to count. That’s okay, though. We learn from such things. I now know that I’m not made of glass.

To be continued...

Writing in 3D

I was listening to the Joe Rogan Experience podcast (#171) on the journey to and from work today. He had this boyo, Everlast, on as a guest. Here's a tune from the album he was promoting:



I like it. Can't believe it's the same guy that brought us Jump Around when he was rapping with House of Pain, though.

Anyway, what I thought was even more interesting was his take on writing songs. He doesn't write them down. For Everlast, writing them onto a page makes them flat, literally and figuratively. He believes that when the song exists only in his head he can think of it as music in 3D and when he plays it, that's how it comes out. He also mentions that he likes to smoke a little weed but I'm not suggesting there's a direct connection.

But it makes me think of all the writers out there who churn out their manuscripts by the seat of their pants rather than going through the arduous outlining process other writers swear by. Is this also a form of writing in 3D? A direct link from the subconscious to the keyboard without flattening the spirit of the work?

Who knows? Now that I see it on the screen it seems a bit of a half-baked notion. I can assure you though, I am not a half-baked writer. I can't afford to buy weed.

In other news, I have a guest post up at Spinetingler and Katy O'Dowd has posted a cracking review of Wee Rockets on her website.

My cup overfloweth.

On The Verge

It's been a remarkable couple of weeks so I guess I should, you know, remark on them.

Thanks to Declan Burke's willingness to drop his standards a little I was included in his excellent offering, DOWN THESE GREEN STREETS. The book is basically a collection of essays, interviews and stories on the subject of Irish crime fiction. The list of contributors is a who's who of the Irish crime fiction scene with me taking up the rear by quite a distance. Check out these names:

Adrian McKinty
Alan Glynn
Alex Barclay
Andrew Nugent
Arlene Hunt
Brian McGilloway
Colin Bateman
Cora Harrison
Cormac Millar
Declan Hughes
Eoin McNamee
Gene Kerrigan
Gerard Brennan
Gerry O’Carroll
Ingrid Black
Jane Casey
John Banville
John Connolly
Ken Bruen
Kevin McCarthy
Neville Thompson
Niamh O’Connor
Paul Charles
Ruth Dudley Edwards
Sara Keating
Stuart Neville
Tana French
Tara Brady
Foreword by Michael Connelly
Introduction by Professor Ian Ross of Trinity College
Afterword by Fintan O’Toole

What a line-up, right?

And so, it was with a great big goofy grin plastered to my face that I attended both the Belfast and Dublin launches of this fine tome. And what a treat these wee outings were for a small fish like me.

In Dublin I got to meet Ken Bruen for the first time. And he was with Eoin Colfer. So I got them both to sign my copy of Eoin Colfer's PLUGGED which is dedicated to Ken. AND Tony Black bought me a pint. Who says the Scottish are stingy? I also got to chat briefly to Arlene Hunt (though let's face it, any chat with Arlene is too brief. Charm? This lady has it in spades) and got to shake hands with and nod dumbly to the likes of John Connolly and Declan Hughes. And of course, I got to say hiya to Declan Burke again. I wish I'd introduced myself to Alan Glynn but it's too late to do anything about that now.

And then Belfast. Not only did I get to attend the event with my missus, Michelle, and watch some real pros in action in the form of a panel made up of Colin Bateman, Brian McGilloway and Stuart Neville (with Declan Burke introducing the event and David Torrans asking questions of the panel between book sales), but I got to say hello to Eoin McNamee again and be in the same room (unknowingly, dammit) with David Peace. But even better than this, me and my lovely missus got to have dinner with a bunch of the contributors at a pretty decent Chinese Restaurant on Botanic Avenue. And so my lovely wife and I got to chat to Niamh O'Connor and Kevin McCarthy for the first time and listen to a less formal panel on Irish crime fiction, life the universe and parenting.

And what did I learn from these two events?

Well, I still have quite a distance to go before I can consider myself anywhere near the bottom of their league. These writers represent the cream of the crop of the genre I'm trying to crack into. But with the release of my novella, THE POINT, in October (God bless Pulp Press) and a few other exciting things on the horizon that I can't talk about until some details have been hammered out (not a book deal), at least I can say I'm heading in the right direction. Let's hope I don't get lost or run out of juice along the way.

Just Wondering

This piece isn’t too dissimilar to the series of posts on genre from Declan Burke’s Crime Always Pays; the main difference being that this post is more self-serving. You see, in the five years from my first short story sale, to my recent near-successes in getting a novel published, I’ve labelled myself as a horror writer, a dark fiction writer, a black humour writer and a crime fiction writer. A blind baboon can see the one common denominator in these labels. Writer. And how much further does this go? Screenwriter, stage-play writer, review and article writer... I either seriously need intravenous Ritalin, or a more focussed approach to my writing.

Or do I?

Write what you know. Write what excites you. Write from the heart. Just keep on trying. Be patient. Don’t write with money in mind. Don’t write to a trend. Do. Don’t. Can’t. Won’t. Stick to your guns. Don’t be precious. Respect other people’s opinions. Watch out for bad advice. Find a niche. Don’t emulate. Read widely, though maybe not when you’re writing. Redraft. Edit while you go. Ignore the internal editor. Don’t let plot drive the characters. WRITE! Where the feck is this story going? Does this work? How can you not get this? Read this, please. But not in front of me. What did you think? No, don’t tell me. What do you mean you don’t get it? It’s obvious! Hey, don’t publishers like books with serial potential? Ooooh, don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Everybody’s got a book in them. My arse! Get an agent. No, wait until you’ve published one novel. Who needs an agent? What do they do? How long should this chapter be? Where did I put that piece of string? Do I have enough money for a six-pack of Stella?

How’s that for focus?

It’s a start, right?

Have I started?

My clearest ambition in all the self-inflicted crud that tumbles about in my head before I fall asleep is to see my novel, Piranhas. published. It’s a good book. I know this. And that’s why I haven’t read it since I did my final edit quite some time ago. I believe in it right now. But what if I’m wrong? What if it really is too Belfasty. What can I do about the parts that refer to the ever-evolving political system, that impacts on my main players, if I’m still submitting this novel for another five years? What if it’s not very good? Simple. I have to write on.

But what? My current work-in-progress, I’m enjoying, but constantly second-guessing. My protagonist is strong. She has serious potential as a recurring character, and actually already appears in my screenplay and unpublished novella, The Point. But today I don’t think there’s enough of a hook in the early chapters I’ve written. That’s okay. It’s not something someone else has told me. I’m going on instinct. Or am I? Is there a calculating, part-qualified accountant in me, number-crunching and ticking boxes? Have I started writing to a trend or with a market in mind? I need time for perspective, or I need to blast through. Something for me to decide later.

So, what now? Blank screen. Chapter One. Let’s see what happens to this guy... Novel, novella, short story? Horror, comedy, crime?

Ah, genre. It’s been too long.

Here’s something, though. Short fiction. Go to ralan.com and feast your eyes on all the markets for short fiction in horror, science fiction and fantasy. Where’s the crime section? Because the last few stories I’ve submitted have been a little genre-straddling, with most weight on the crime foot. But I’m sending these stories to horror markets and the odd time I get feedback with my rejection. In one case, an editor wondered why the victim in the story didn’t come back as a zombie.

I can send one short story a month to Thuglit; a webzine that publishes crime fiction. Ask Stuart Neville about them. I haven’t found any other venues. Point me in the right direction if you can.

Or maybe I deal with genre thusly: I write short horror stories, crime novels, literary stage plays...

How come screenplay writers don’t seem to be as confined to genre?

Treat this as an article/half-hearted rant, smile and click onto the next blog, or scratch your head along with me. Even better, tell me the secret of success, or if I’ve almost met my requisite quota of ‘life experience’. Hell, if you’re a doctor, a Ritalin prescription wouldn’t go amiss. In the meantime, I’ll be thinking.

Carlo Gébler Creative Writing Course

From the CWN Weekly Newsletter

5 day Intensive Creative Writing Course

Duration: 1 week (5 days)
Date: 28 July – 1 August 2008
Time: 10:00 am - 4:00 pm
Course tutor: Carlo Gébler

Course Details

This is a week-long course for experienced practitioners. The purpose of the course will be to help those who want to advance or finish a novel. In order to facilitate this, participants must bring the manuscript they would like to advance or finish, plus a short three written description of this novel and a summary of its plot. It must be stressed it does not matter what type or genre of novel participants are writing: all types of fiction will be welcome. Participants must also expect to read from their work-in-progress during the week.

Each morning will start with an informal presentation by the tutor on a novel or short story he admires and that he believes has something to teach those who want to write.

After the informal presentation participants will read from their work. Everyone will be expected to read to the group in the week. Each reading will be followed by a discussion, led by the tutor, on what has just been read aloud. These group discussions will form the heart of the workshop. Individual tutorials will also be part of the programme if there is enough time.

By the end of the week, participants will have a much clearer idea of how to advance or finish a complex piece of work.

Please note that it will not be possible during the course for the tutor to the read the work of participants either in or out of course hours.

The course runs from Monday 28 July to Friday 1 August 2008. The course hours are 10.00 to 4.00 daily with an hour for lunch. The course tutor prefers if participants attend for the full duration of the course. The number of participants is limited to 10

The course sounds brilliant, and I'd love to have that kind of time to spare. I've an old manuscript that could do with this sort of attention. Alas, I must work to earn a crust, and have little Brennans that I don't want to abandon for that long.

The newsletter doesn't mention how much the course will cost, but I imagine the details will be on the Irish Writers' Centre website soon enough.