Friday 24 October 2014

Is it that time of year already?

No. Of course it isn't.

But tomorrow it will be exactly two months before Christmas and so, clearly, that must mean that smug people will start telling everyone who will listen that they've already done their Christmas shopping.

I'm not saying buy my books because they'd make excellent Christmas gifts. But only because you already know that so there's no point in telling you.

Just as you know that you should order them from me and get them signed and blah blah price match blah blah free shipping (UK only).

But maybe buy something from an independent craftsman or a local author or a market. Something made by the person who is selling it to you. Something that will definitely be different to every other gift the lucky recipient will, er, receive.

Maybe here if you're in south London. Or, for a little more money but a whole load of beautiful craftsmanship and design, how about one of these items?

Or recently (and lovingly) reprinted classics by a once famous Scottish writer?

Any other suggestions? Send them in and I'll add them.


There's little point in pointless point-scoring

...but why not do it anyway?

For all those who wondered what it was like to wait several months and then receive something crushingly disappointing, I present to you...

A review from a proper literary professional!

It's about Timestand - my most successful children's book. Loved by literally many children and definitely plenty of adults too, even if you discount some of them as needy authors hoping for reciprocation. (I don't discount them like that. Too much cynicism is unhealthy).

It's probably not fair to name the publishing house or the editor so I won't. I've also removed one sentence which would identify them. However, I will comment on the review...

**** REVIEW BEGINS ****

I had a chance to look at this and wasn’t quite overwhelmed by what was here. I think the premise is really cute, but I have to admit, the synopsis really confused me, and I was disappointed that Tim’s dad played such a big roll (sic). I would have wanted Tim to really have another kid sidekick. I also didn’t understand quite understand (sic) Henry’s role.

I must say, though, my biggest concern came from the sample pages – I just didn’t feel like there was a strong voice there. Tim’s character wasn’t pulling me along and I didn’t feel like I knew him at all, which struck me as worrisome.

*** REVIEW ENDS ***

And this is what I think of that review

Firstly, I accept that the synopsis may well not be perfect but that is hardly a reason to reject a book - either it's worth reading or it isn't and the potential purchaser would never even see my attempt to reduce my whole book to a page.

Secondly, the main character does have a sidekick - in fact he has two - and they are both mentioned and named and described in the synopsis. Hmm - are you sure you actually read the synopsis which you're criticising?

Thirdly, why didn't you understand Henry's role? He's a fairly classic unhelpful shapeshifter type character whose motivation is left hanging in order to increase dramatic tension. It all comes out by the end and is reasonably spelt out in the synopsis.

Fourthly, the year 7 class which read the book LIKED the fact that the father had a role in the story. He's not a major character but he is there and, unlike Harry Potter, he's not dead. Do fathers have to be dead in YA fiction? Really? (And by the way, it's "role", not "roll".)

Fifthly, there is no come-back to a vague criticism about whether the voice was strong enough, nor is it possible to 'fix' this 'problem'. Does this mean that my whole writing style is no good and that I should find another career? If so, why not tell me that straight?

In conclusion - I know, it's petulant and childish to have a go at someone who bothered to provide more than a form letter and yet... Are these the people judging our work? No wonder all we seem to get are vampires and footballers' memoirs. I never said my book was a work of art or the best work of YA fiction ever written - but I have no difficulty saying it's no worse than a lot of drivel that's out there. With the backing of a publishing house (i.e. advertising), I reckon it would sell enough to at least pay for the advertising.

And it would make an excellent Christmas present too.

Yes, why not make up your own mind about it?

Order from the author - get it signed, free shipping (UK only) and price-matched with Amazon. Or get the e-book if you'd rather (but I won't be able to sign it).

Thursday 16 October 2014

Paul Daniels and me - a brief history

Last night, I saw Paul Daniels & Debbie McGee performing at the Millfield Arts Centre Theatre in Edmonton as part of his 'Back... Despite Popular Demand' tour.

I went with S and N. The show started around N's bedtime and ended, clearly, far too late for her. But try telling her that. Gazing at the stage in wide-eyed wonder and talking about the show all the way home. (So much for sleeping in the car.)

I started watching Paul Daniels on television at about her age. I'm going to call him Paul from now on. Saves on the typing.

At the time, I didn't fully appreciate that most magicians worked in theatres and clubs, travelling around the country, taking their well-honed show to place after place, only needing new material when they started their next lap. Whereas Paul needed a new show every week.

No, I didn't think about that. My thoughts were more along the lines of "Wow!" and "How did he do that?" (more on that later) and "Can I buy some (all?) of his tricks from the toy shop?"

Yes, I was am a fan.

I still have the tricks - still in pristine condition (not because they haven't been used - believe me, they have been used - but because they're well made). But now they belong to N - although maybe I borrow them back occasionally.

First encounter

I think it was 1981. I've got the programme somewhere. Prince Of Wales Theatre in London's West End. I can't tell you about the whole show but I clearly remember the moment when my father was invited up on stage. (Maybe 'compelled' would be a better word.)

Paul asked my dad who he had come with. And then Paul mentioned my name. And, when you're eight or nine, that's utterly fantastic.

(Many years later, I discovered that was no accident. We know someone who slightly knew Paul (I forget how) and he wrote him a letter. I've seen a copy - it's with the programme that I've got somewhere. Part of it read something like "I'd be grateful if you could give him a mention because he spends so much time mentioning you".)

And after mentioning me, he then made my father leap out of a chair as though he'd been stung. And then he stuck him to it.

Second encounter

About ten years after the Prince of Wales theatre experience, Paul's television magic show finished. I can't imagine I was best pleased but I understand it must have been something of a relief for him.

(It would be interesting to know how many illusions and tricks he'd performed on television, compared to the number that most magicians perform over their entire career.)

And, about ten years after that, in 2003, I was in Edinburgh for the festival. And Paul was performing again - a smaller show, taking questions in the first half and performing magic in the second.

When he invited me to join him on stage I was so convinced he was talking to the person in the row in front, it took me a several moments to reply.

And he proceeded to make me leap out of a chair as thought I'd been stung. And then he stuck me to it.

How did he do it? More on that later.

Third encounter

At Penn & Teller's show, at the Hammersmith Apollo earlier this year, Paul was sitting a few seats away from me, in the same row. He actually came over to check with me about the seat numbers because they were small and faint and it was dark in there. I think he said something like "I didn't go to night school so I can't read the numbers."

I stupidly thought he'd come for the show and didn't want the attention so I just told him the numbers (I hope in a friendly way) and left him alone. He was then besieged before the show and in the interval by people wanting pictures, autographs or a chat - which he provided. If he wasn't enjoying that attention, you couldn't tell.

Incidentally, I wrote about that show earlier this year (see this page, scroll down a little).

Fourth encounter

Last night, Matt leapt out of a chair as though he'd been stung and was then stuck to it. And why not? He's performing his greatest hits, together with some new material and plenty of hilarity too.

He sat on the edge of the stage and performed a close-up trick that felt like it was just for three of us. (Yes, we were in the front row.)

And I hope he's enjoying performing the shows as much as he says he is. The audience was certainly enjoying watching him last night.

He missed the chance to get someone from a third generation of my family on stage.

But he asked N her name, got her to pick Matt and signed her programme afterwards. (Because he and Debbie came and sat in the foyer after the show for photographs, autographs and chats. A bit like Penn & Teller, as described here.)

Yes, yes but how does he do his tricks?

In his programme, Paul calls himself an actor who appears to defy the laws of physics and science. He calls the show a theatrical experience.

In Penn Jillette's book, he describes magicians who guard the secrets of their tricks being like people guarding an open and empty safe. He says we all know how the tricks are done.

So telling people that you know how the tricks are done is about as relevant as saying that it wasn't really Macbeth on stage - it was just an actor - and he didn't really kill anyone.

Penn also says that tricks are done in the only way they can be done. (For example, David Copperfield can't fly. So he must be on a wire. But how does he hide it?)

But the artistry isn't even really in the concealment - since, deep down, we normally know what's being concealed (e.g. he's dangling on a wire).

The 'trick' is to make an entertaining show that can make an audience gasp and applaud.

So, to answer the question, how does he do his tricks? Paul Daniels does his tricks using decades of practice and experience and a fast, sharp (but not cruel) wit.

Long may it continue. Thank you, Paul, for a great night out.

Friday 10 October 2014

Two ill-advised signs

On a shop overrun with school-children I can understand this approach. I might not entirely approve - but then I've never tried to run a sweet shop near a school so what do I know?

But on a shop selling ladies' clothing? Forgive the sweeping generalisations but don't women often go clothes-shopping in groups? (Often, not always, of course.)

How long do you give them?










The creator of this one thought:
1) Under 16's have trouble with small print
2) The elderly like to receive instructions from a pirate.

Thursday 2 October 2014

Oh, there's money in self-publishing all right...

Self-publishing? It's an industry awash with cash - right there for the taking. No, not there... there! No, not quite, left a bit.

And I'm not talking about 50 Shades Of Grey. Or 50 Sheds Of Grey. Or the one that clearly illustrates fifty shades of the colour grey by printing fifty pages using progressively more ink.

No. Don't get the money from the readers because they're discerning and always looking for a bargain (i.e. trying not to pay).

Get the money from the writers. Yes, the writers. The ones with the gleam in their eyes and the fervour in their souls and the fever on their brows.

In the good old days

In the good old days, an author would send the latest manuscript to a publisher who would rapidly thank him for his consideration, order a print run and send him a large cheque.

Obviously that never happened. But the truth was closer to that wondrous fantasy than to today's reality.

In the bad new days

Publishers don't want to hear from writers. (Except vanity publishers. I'll come on to them. Probably best to pretend it's all one word, vanitypublisher, since they're really NOT the same as publishers.)

Publishers want to hear from literary agents.

But some literary agents don't want to hear from writers. They want to hear from creative writing course tutors.

Yes, for only £££ or $$$ or €€€, an academic institution near you will give you the keys to... er... a room (actually you don't get the keys) where a (probably non bestselling) author-tutor will encourage you to write a bit better by... er... thinking more about your writing and discussing it with other authors-in-training.

And doing a lot of reading so you find out what proper writing looks like. (You know, the sort that gets printed by proper publishers, which must be good because it sells. Well, it sells better than books that don't get printed, or that don't get printed by publishers who have access to shops.)

Then, once the years of training have passed, and the fees have been paid, the agents may well read your work.

Money-go-round

Sometimes publishers themselves - or literary agents themselves - run the creative writing courses! Happy days for all concerned.

Except the writer. Will someone think of the writer? Or the reader - because I don't see their views particularly represented here either.

Yes, I know that writers are readers. But most readers aren't writers.

But how else can people learn how to write?

An excellent question.

It's lucky that these courses exist now because, until they all started a decade or two ago, there wasn't anything half-decent to read.

It was all populist claptrap like Jeffrey Archer and Charles Dickens and William Shakespeare and Jonathan Swift and Douglas Adams and David Lodge and John Irving and stuff like that.

You see, if Kazuo Ishiguro and Ian McEwan hadn't attended the University of East Anglia, they would never have amounted to anything?

Or would they? Actually, I think they would.

I suspect that what they learned on the course was how to do the sort of polishing that a good editor at a publishing house would have previously provided as part of the service. But how much more juicy to get the author to pay to learn to do the work himself rather than expect the publisher to include it in the service offered in return for a hefty share of the profits in perpetuity.

And anyone who needs to learn how to do much more than that isn't going to get anywhere anyway. So, all of a sudden, you're selling the service to far more people. I think the word to use here is kerching.

Vanitypublishing

Not a typo. As I explained above - it's all one word now.

The old fashioned way to extract money from authors. Get them to buy a job-lot of copies of their book which probably won't sell but, hey, the money (and profit) is banked up-front by the vanitypublisher. If it sells a few as well then that's more money in the bank, a small dribble of which will be paid on to the creator of the book. You remember him - the person who laboured for years to arrange all the right words in the right order.

Radio 4's 'You and Yours' yesterday carried a piece about an American vanitypublisher who appeared to have perfected this process.

According to the programme, the authors paid for a service that wasn't entirely delivered and the royalties weren't passed on either. Fortunately for the company in question, they decided they didn't have to be bound by British law (against, presumably, something like theft, fraud, deception, incompetence, etc) and so just ignored a judgement against them. Come sue us in America was, I assume, their retort to these undeserving writers. Yeah, cos that's going to happen.

You can hear it for yourself here: http://t.co/XIwF36iWQu

Join me

In keeping with the modern style, I hereby announce my own creative writing course. At a cost of merely (to be determined), I will allow all members of the course to meet up at a time of their own choosing in order to read each other's work and comment on it.

Occasionally I'll swan in and say things like "show don't tell" and "that not which" and "active not passive" and, if you're really lucky, I'll give a short symposium on the correct placing of apostrophes. All coursework will be based on my own writing to be read from the special edition luxury hardback editions available only through me at a cost of merely (to be determined).

You h'eard it here first.

Don't get mad, get bitter.


UPDATE - 10 October 2014

I've just been reading the long and detailed programme of events and courses and seminars offered by one publisher.

Forgive me - I'm not going to name them. It might impact on me later in my professional life. Clearly nothing I'm writing here is actionable so it's not fear of the legal process.

On the other hand, who cares? They're Chicken House.

It's £50 to get started. Then, if your work is of sufficient merit, it's £150 for the next bit, then £375 or £100 or £250 for the third. Then there's a menu of courses for various prices.

I assume that everything they tell you is honest and helpful and constructive. Why wouldn't it be?

But...

Let's back up a little here.

A publishing house should be publishing books. Clue's in the name. This means finding new writers and encouraging writers they already know. There is no point in taking on a writer unless they are confident that there's an audience for their work. I don't think there's anything contentious in this paragraph.

If they think the author's work has legs then they should put their company's money where its mouth is (if you'll excuse the metaphor mixing). If the work will be successful then the publishing house will do very nicely from the sales. Why soak the author upfront? Will these fees be subtracted from the publishing house's margin on the eventual sales? No? Thought not.

And if they don't think the author's work has merit then they're simply running a creative writing course with no promise of anything else. There's nothing wrong with running a creative writing course with no promise of anything else. I'm not suggesting false pretences.

(Although wasn't the original £50 supposed to weed out those authors whose work wasn't good enough?)

But by implying that there's some selection, some control over who is allowed to attend the course, especially when the company is a publisher, the author may have expectations that this is going to go somewhere.

Overall, the author is being shown the cake. But he can't have it or eat it. The publisher is going to eat it for him. In front of him.

Or her.