New experiment in publishing - SUCCESSFUL!

UPDATE - Kickstarter project was successfully funded.

I'm writing a new book. Of course I am. It's been ages since the last one and I'm sure my loyal reader is furious at the snail's pace.

But I organised this one a little differently. I tried to sell it before I finished it.

I set up a project on Kickstarter which you can find here.

It gave you the opportunity to pre-order the book, either as an e-book or a paperback and either on its own or as a bundle with They All Die At The End.

You remember They All Die At The End - it's a collection of short stories in which, er, they all die at the end. But with humour and flair and surprise and if I say any more I'll give away the ending (ha ha).

So this new collection is the antidote, the cheerful companion to the other book. And I'll make sure that the colour of the spine is chosen very carefully so that they look good together on the bookshelf.

People who wanted to chip in a little more money could get all sorts of extra treats, from naming a minor character to choosing a situation or location for me to write about.

Clearly I wanted to sell books. But more than that, I wanted readers. These books aren't for everyone - how could they be? The hope was that even people who didn't like the sound of the stories (surely not!) might know people who would. And that they might pass the word along? And then they could do the same. And before too long, people all over the world could have heard about my work.

And then, if even a tiny proportion of them pre-ordered a book, I'd be printing them and laughing all the way to the post office. Which is more than the person behind me in the queue will be doing.

And enough of them did! I reached 103% of my funding target! So I will print them. And I hope it's not you grumbling behind me in the queue.

Just because it's no longer possible to pre-order through Kickstarter, that doesn't mean that you can't get your hands on the first edition as soon as it rolls off the press and I get to the front of the queue at the post office. Contact me if you'd like to know more.

(P.S. I asked people to help me spread the message while the Kickstarter project was running. And here's an example of someone spreading the message.) http:

Bias ~or~ what's wrong with slaughtering your own characters?

Regular readers of this blog will probably know that I am the proud author of a book of short stories, winningly entitled "They All Die At The End".

You can buy it here as a Kindle ebook.

Or, if you'd rather have a paperback, contact me for a signed copy. Or buy it here unsigned - but be aware that I'll earn almost exactly nothing if you choose that route - such is the publishing business.


I sell a few. People like it - even people that I don't know.


And then occasionally, I read things like this:


There is a short-story competition, called "The Short Story", more information here: http://www.theshortstory.net/. The website contains "classic pieces of advice" and, at number 3 (higher than "opening and closing lines", "what is the premise of the story?" and "steer clear of the sentimental") we have...


"If you’re going to do death, make sure it’s original"


Aren't the first six words redundant? Why not just say...


"make sure it's original" ?


Otherwise you are left with the nonsensical implication that unoriginal stories in which all characters survive would be just fine. A clear message is being given that the judges would be strongly biased against stories such as mine, despite their later admission that "death is a part of life" and "these stories can be moving, funny, harrowing and compelling".


Never mind that one of their four examples of a great opening line is "Harry Joy was to die three times, but it was his first death which was to have the greatest effect on him, and it is this first death which we shall now witness" (Bliss, Peter Carey)


It might only be an implied prohibition but it seems extremely unrealistic. What proportion of films, television programmes, books (whether long or short stories), plays or operas concern death? Even if you exclude police procedurals, whodunnits and horror films, I would expect that well over half would include the death of at least one major character. Include those genres and you're maybe even close to the three-quarter mark.


There's a fair amount of slaughter going on in the judges' own lists of their top ten favourite books. I haven't counted but I'm confident that at least half of these titles result in major character wipe-out.


Maybe writing this blog post and entering the competition are mutually exclusive. Maybe they aren't. Kerry and Katherine - what do you think? Although really, you'd have to read my book before coming to a conclusion.

Love Cinema? Hate Piracy?

...but maybe hate overpriced, technically inept cinema chains too


Last week, before the film started at the Odeon cinema, we were treated to the Film Distributors' Association's one-minute public information film in which a run-down 'last cinema on earth' is shown with its customers gradually fading away. Apparently this dystopian future is not caused by zombie virus, nuclear apocalypse or global warming but by film piracy.


I do not condone film piracy, or indeed any form of theft. But that is not the debate here.


It is not film piracy that will stop me from returning to that cinema. The Odeon has lost my business due to extortionate pricing and being technically clueless. Perhaps someone could make a companion public information film in which a cinemagoer from ancient times (maybe the 1980s) falls through a portal and arrives in the Odeon in the year 2012. He'd be clamouring to get back before the minute was up.


From the top...

• Buying tickets from the food counter behind a long queue of people buying, er, food. To be fair, this is a minor improvement on making people queue outside to buy tickets.

• Ticket prices. When I can buy my own copy of a film for less than the price of two tickets, the visit to the cinema has to be particularly enticing. I'm not convinced the Odeon chain is taking this approach.

• Allocated seating without any staff or floor lighting. It is difficult to find row G in darkness. Some cinema chains have discrete lights on row letters. Not this cinema. At least mobile phone screens act as effective torches – glad I hadn't turned it off. But I could have ignored those points if it hadn't been for...

• Dark, grotty picture with sides of screen unused. Friends who had previously seen the same film in a better cinema agreed that it was too dark. Not just a bit too dark – much too dark. Apparently the Vue cinema managed a brighter and sharper 3D picture. (Yes, the film was in 3D but I do not wish to discuss the evils, pointlessness and general rubbishness of 3D here.)
  And, the squarer, not widescreen, picture suggested that we might have been watching an IMAX print – on a standard screen.
  
  All that work by a veritable army of skilled professionals – the overpriced cast and director, the writers, the artists who created the digital special effects, the model makers, the hair-stylists, the parking coordinators – ruined at the last moment by an inability to project it correctly. People have been projecting films for over a hundred years – how has the Odeon chain managed to lose the knowledge? If the director had seen his film made this ugly, he may well have come over all Russell Crowe.

• Bright floodlighting suddenly turned on 20 seconds into end credits. That was a bit surprising. It was the lighting equivalent of shouting at everyone to get out or you'll set the dogs on them.

At the very beginning of the film, I complained to a cinema employee about the lousy picture. I was polite. He was polite. He came in to the cinema and looked at the picture. He said something I couldn't catch into a walkie-talkie. He told me that he had notified whoever it was he was supposed to notify. And nothing changed.


If cinemas are to become history, I don't think this Odeon will be the last cinema on earth. I think it'll be one of the first to go.

Tim Minchin and the lure of the better offer

On 30 April 2012, comedian Tim Minchin announced that he would no longer be appearing at five events over the summer. These were, presumably, confirmed bookings and yet, with regret, he had to cancel. Fortunately for Tim, his reason for cancelling was a happy one – someone had made him a better offer.

Where does this leave his fans? To judge from the comments on his website, his fans are delighted. They know that he “would never do this unless [he] really had to”. They tell him that his “talent is more than deserving” and that it was “awesome that [he] personally broke the news to everyone”.

Either no one felt irritated or their view was not added to the site.

Personally, I find him a funny comedian. His songs, at their best (which they generally are) strike me as “thing[s] of jaw-dropping wonder” (as the Daily Telegraph would have it). I didn't have tickets to see his show this summer anyway. I probably will watch the American television show in which he will appear and so his actions will give me more entertainment, not less.

And yet, this rankles precisely because he has put his career above his fans, pulled out of shows for which tickets have been bought and hotels booked and train tickets purchased and baby-sitting organised. Some people will be out of pocket, even if they can obtain a refund (and even if that refund includes the booking fee and administration fee – which there's a good chance it won't). He has decided not to give some people a show which they have been looking forward to. Instead he will advance his own career.

In the song “I'm In A Cage”, after stating that “nothing ruins comedy like arenas”, he uses the lyric “this is not about you, this is all about me [...] and selling DVDs” I thought he was joking.

Obviously I am risking a backlash*. When Phil Daoust had the nerve to write a very bad review for Tim Minchin back in 2005, Tim responded (after some years) with a song, in which he hoped that a range of extremely nasty things would happen to Phil, some in front of his children. In my opinion, this song is not one of his finest compositions.

Clearly I will never reach Tim's heights in musical comedy but I wondered whether a better song and a better joke could have been made by constructing a song around all the good things that Tim could do to make Phil's life better and happier. If I ever bother to write a sample verse or two, I'll add it.

* I think there is little chance that Tim (or any member of his team) will even see this article, let alone respond to it. However, if I have caught his attention...

Hello. I bought one of your DVDs. Would you reciprocate and buy one of my books? Books for children and books for adults...

the badger

Earlier this year, I discovered that two members of pop band McFly were to write a children's book. This, in itself, is barely news since major publishers have been inviting all manner of unlikely candidates to add to the infant canon for some time. However, the subject matter... words fail me. Read it yourself: http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/17385604

So I wrote a little email to Random House. As is the way now with major corporations, they haven't bothered to reply. Shame on you, Random House! A polite one-liner is too much trouble now?

If they won't publish, I can at least blog the whole story.

**********

The following email was sent to Random House on 20 March 2012.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I understand from the BBC that you have offered a publishing deal to Tom Fletcher and Dougie Poynter (of McFly) to write the children's picture book 'The Dinosaur That Pooped Christmas'.

If this is likely to become a series, could I ask for my book to be considered as the follow-up?

In the interests of consistency, I assume that you would like to work with the same illustrator and so I have not made an attempt at the artwork beyond a few mock-ups.

The work is entitled 'The Badger That Barfed Easter'.

Brief synopsis
A family home is raided by a chocolate-loving badger the night before Easter. The creature eats all of the chocolate eggs, nests, etc. The badger is captured by the family and they decide that the best approach is to make the badger vomit up the items so that they can still enjoy their Easter treats. Various hilarious antics ensue as they attempt to make this happen.

The first draft of the book is attached to this email. (Or reproduced below on this blog post.)

Much as I appreciate that tales of bodily functions are popular with children, I have written other, less scatological, books. You can find out more about them here: http://www.petertarnofsky.co.uk/. I would be delighted to send you either paperback or digital copies of any or all of them. In the meantime, there are extracts on the website.

Yours faithfully, etc

**********

The important part was, of course, the last paragraph. I know, I know - putting the important bit at the end is silly but I couldn't start with it, could I? Anyway, moving on...

It would be inappropriate to post the illustrated version since my hideous mock-ups depended on photographs that I almost certainly had no right to use, especially the one where Brian May stands in for the badger. So you'll just have to imagine what it could look like.

I proudly present to you:

**********

The Badger That Barfed Easter (© Peter Tarnofsky 2012)

The smell of chocolate filled the air
So creamy, rich and yummy
It woke the badger from his sleep
And growls came from his tummy.

He slunk across the moonlit lawn
And walked up to the house
The smell was so much stronger there.
He was quiet as a mouse.

He crept in through the old cat flap
(The cat was out that night)
And what he saw inside the lounge
Just filled him with delight.

Chocolate eggs and chocolate nests
And chocolate bars galore!
But once he'd wolfed down all he found
He couldn't fit through the door.

And then the cat came back inside
And saw what badger had done.
The screeching woke up mum and dad,
And little Johnny, their son.

The family ran down the stairs
And found the big fat badger
The cat was running round and round –
It took them ages to catch her.

Johnny then began to cry
His chocolate was all eaten.
But then his mum said, “Don't you fear
We're not going to be beaten.”

“We'll get your chocolates back, you'll see
It will be easy to do
Not like when dinosaur ate Christmas
And we waited for his poo.”

“No, this time we won't wait as long
In fact we'll have a laugh
There's loads of ways that we can try
To make this badger barf.”

Dad held the badger upside down
And gave him quite a shake
But badger scratched and wriggled free
So that was a mistake.

Then mum found Johnny's old toy boat
And strapped badger firmly to it
They sailed it on the stormy pond
But seasickness didn't do it.

Then Johnny showed him pictures
Of a badger squashed on the road.
He still didn't start to throw up
But he went green as a toad.

Mum and dad held badger down
And Johnny bounced toys off his belly
And still no chocolate was thrown up
But the farting was quite smelly.

Johnny started crying again,
“We'll never get it back
Our Easter has been ruined by
This night-time badger attack.”

“Don't cry,” said dad, “we're not done yet
There are still things to try
Let's sit him on the trampoline
And bounce him good and high.”

But even bouncing didn't work
The badger found it fun.
He smiled as he went up and down
And frowned when they were done.

“Okay,” said mum, “there's just one thing
That's bound to make him puke.
This will work, I'm sure of it,
It won't just need a fluke.”

So dad held badger's mouth wide open
Because his teeth were sharp
And mum reached in and tickled his throat
And, starting with a parp,
The eggs and nests and chocolate bars
Were thrown up on the floor
They let the thinner badger go –
He ran straight out the door.

Mum and dad were pleased and proud
But Johnny cried again.
He said, “These eggs were eaten once
They can't be eaten again.”

“They smell disgusting, don't you think?
And look at all this slime!”
But dad said, “Don't be silly,
They came back out just in time.”

“This Easter feast will be just fine
Once rinsed under the tap.
It's not like last Christmas dinner
Which we picked out of dinosaur crap.”

new websites

Until my new website is fully ready and glued together, all online content about my many and various books can be found either here:

http://theyalldieattheend.wordpress.com/ (for the short stories)

or here:

http://petertarnofskybooks.wordpress.com/ (for the children's books)


The long term plan is that the proper writing stuff will go there and this blog will become a collection of random thoughts, rants and attempts at humour. (Not much change there, then.)

Ideal Christmas present...

Looking for an ideal Christmas gift for a 10-15 year old? How about a signed copy of a book described by 11-12 year olds as...

“...jam packed with lots of action, excitement and crafty surprises...”
“...one of the best books I read because it is something different: nothing like the typical boys' book with a teenage spy...in dangerous missions...”
“...I found the book really funny...”
“...I was engrossed in it for a couple of days until I finished it...”
“...it is a witty, humorous, action packed and overall amazing book which I think has potential to sell in many numbers...”

Available from lulu.com - but why buy it from them when you can get it direct from the author? Signed and dedicated - and I'll even throw in free postage (UK only).

ALTERNATIVELY, for the literarily inclined adult in your life, how about a book of short stories?

Available as an ebook for Kindle from here.

It's a collection of ten short stories dealing with all major facets of modern urban dread, covering loss, alienation, violence, moral dilemma, tax evasion, shopkeeping, bad driving, crème brûlée and restringing a ukulele - amongst other things.

It's also available as a paperback from Amazon but, again, why buy from them when I'll match the price, throw in free postage (UK only) and sign/dedicate the book as required.

Don't delay - order now and, maybe, receive it time for Christmas. Failing that, they're great New Year presents too.

If you don't have my email address, put a comment under this posting and I'll get back to you. Or find me on Twitter - @PeterTarnofsky.

Oh Sony Ericsson - the shame, the shame...

Anyone got a Sony Ericsson Xperia? Anyone? How about you at the back, come on, don't be shy, it'll be okay, we won't laugh. Much.

I sometimes wonder whether these guys are really trying to compete. We all know that Android is a lot cheaper (freeer?) than iOS and, in theory, does a lot of the same stuff. Maybe it does more, maybe it does the same things differently, maybe it doesn't do some of the stuff but makes up for it by doing different things. However, I think we can agree that, in the minds of the lovely people at Google and HTC and Samsung and (shudder) Sony Ericsson, it's not a second-rate substitute.

Well, how about actually putting that thought into the design? Unless you're going to start advertising it with the pithy tagline "Well, At Least It's Cheap", you're really going to have to pull your metaphorical (and perhaps literal) fingers out.

Last night, I upgraded the software in the phone.

(When I have done this using the hideous iTunes, it's slow and the poor computer creaks as the bloated load of rubbishware heaves the latest iOS onto the iPod but it does the job and leaves the shiny toy ready to go. Top marks for functionality.)

Sony Ericsson's laughable approach was to put up a warning that ALL my data would be lost and that I should get an app to back it all up before starting.

Pardon?

If I employed a decorator and he told me that, unless I put all my furniture in storage myself (with no help from him), he was going to remove and destroy it all, I don't think I would employ him.

Yet it's okay for Sony Ericsson to decide that anyone who wants to replace the horrific software that came with the phone with a better, newer version deserves to lose all their digital possessions?

Is this incompetence, getting what one pays for or just low-quality programming? Maybe it's all three. Please don't say, "Get an Apple" - that's fine if you want to throw many hundreds of pounds into solving the problem but I reckon that if Google are going to go to the trouble of writing an operating system at all, it's comparatively a doddle to write a tiny backup utility that fires up automatically just before upgrade and maybe even starts a tiny restore utility afterwards.

I am happy for Sony Ericsson to take this idea royalty-free as long as they don't charge anyone who benefits from it.

On the positive note, at least the upgrade utility didn't act like a demented butler. See my previous post about iTunes.

New book available for purchase - only £1.49 (plus VAT)! - what are you waiting for?

"They All Die At The End" - it's a collection of ten short stories dealing with all major facets of modern urban dread.

The stories cover loss, alienation, violence, moral dilemma, tax evasion, shopkeeping, bad driving, crème brûlée and restringing a ukulele - amongst other things.

They are gripping, compelling and, (very) occasionally, funny. Oh, and you can probably guess how each of them ends.


And now a copy of this book can be yours!

This book is now available for a wonderfully economical price on the Amazon Kindle platform!

"How very convenient," I hear you say, "but I don't have a Kindle".

Well, fear not because Kindle software is also available for PC, Mac, Android, iPhone/Pod/Pad, Blackberry, Windows Phone and dishwasher. Surely you've got one of those?

And the Kindle version is enticingly cheap to buy - a whole book of ten stories for only £1.71 (that's less than 18p per story!). Or, if you live in the USA, $2.99. I know, that's not a great exchange rate but I don't set the rules - Amazon do.


Alternatively, you can go old-school and order a conveniently pocket-sized paperback from lulu.com. That's more expensive - but paper doesn't grow on trees, you know.

But whatever you do - buy a copy! Quick!


For people who know me...

If you who would like to read my book but really can't be doing with the screen-based e-book thing... I won't give a detailed breakdown of publishing economics here but it would be better for you (and me) if you were to order copies from me rather than from lulu.com.

Putting it briefly, I can give you a better price and won't fleece you for postage while at the same time I can make a few more pennies from each sale.

If you are interested, please let me know how many copies you would like. The price will be between £7 and £8 per copy, depending on how many copies I order in total.

If I'm not likely to see you in person, I can post the book - it weighs about 175g which would add £1.09 if posted as a first-class large letter. (£3.20 to the USA or £2.11 to Europe as an airmail small packet). More than one copy - take a look at royalmail.com to price it up.

creature's howling rage

Frankenstein - a new production at the National Theatre with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller playing creature and creator on alternate nights - except the night I visited when Benedict was unwell.

Fortunately, Jonny Lee Miller was excellent as the downtrodden and reviled creature and, surprisingly to me, the creator's is the far smaller role in the play. By all accounts, Cumberbatch would have been excellent although I do not intend to buy another ticket to find out on the off-chance that his health might hold out on that occasion. And it's sold out anyway.

What are we to make of this? Clearly the theatre cannot cancel a play due to one of the stars being indisposed and they are, of course, at pains to point out that one buys a ticket to the show, not to see the actors who are, of course, replaceable because, of course, the show must go on. But one can't help but feel aggrieved. The poor man is ill, he can't perform - what else could one expect? I cannot answer that question - I have literally no idea - but, however unreasonably, I feel cheated.

The impotent howling rage of the theatregoer... hardly an analogy for the creature in the play but why not stretch a point?

Personally, I had neither read the novel, nor seen any of the many films, nor read a summary of the plot. I actually went to the theatre to let them tell me the story for the first time - except I made the mistake of reading Michael Billington's egregious review in the Guardian which gave a clear description of precisely which vile acts are meted out to whom in the climax of the piece. Apparently one can expect this because it's an old story and everyone should know it. Am I alone in thinking that, no matter how old a story, there must be a first time for everyone to hear/see/read it and the review of the play is never going to be the best occasion? Can it be so difficult to describe whether the acting/script/lighting/set are good enough to be worth buying a ticket without telling the whole story up front?

I would have thought it would be quite easy to do so. Maybe Billington could be sacked and someone else could have a go for a while.

So, having been deprived of enjoying the narrative twists from a position of ignorance, and then deprived of the (by all accounts) excellent acting of one of its stars, I still found it easily worth the ticket price - Jonny Lee Miller's acting could have made up for still more provocations.

Two days later, I discovered that N's favourite playground has been attacked by vandals. Two large pieces of equipment were set alight - the scorched bouncy tarmac and holes at the anchor points being the only sign that these ladders, climbing nets, slides, playhouses were ever there. I feel both rage and pity for these creatures who caused this damage - rage for the way they decided to deprive children of play for their own gratification, pity for the fact that they could get any joy from such an act. I cannot help but wonder whether they, like Frankenstein's creature, were treated roughly from an early age and, while technically able to love, have only seen hatred and rejection such that the love has been stamped out of them leaving only a mean-spirited and violent husk.

I picture Benedict Cumberbatch, in character as Frankenstein's creation (make-up and all), torching the playground while howling at the unfairness of the world. Obviously it wasn't him but, then again, if he wasn't in the theatre, does he have an alibi?

the perfect literary agent rejection letter

As I wrote previously, the standard of rejection form letters from literary agencies is pathetic. I am not suggesting that they go to the trouble of constructing detailed critiques of rejected work, nor even that they bother with (some would say the common courtesy of) putting the author's name at the top of the letter and signing at the end.

However, if you're going to construct a form letter, why not spend more than thirty seconds and actually do it properly? The letter given below was written by me, this morning, in about ten minutes. It is friendly, helpful, deals with every type of author, fits on one side of A4 and does not encourage the rejected author to attempt to embark on a dialogue with the rejecting agency.

I offer this letter, waiving all my intellectual property rights, to any agency that wishes to use it. The single condition of waiving my rights is that no agency ever sends my own letter to me - whether you want to send a personal reply or a different rejection form letter is entirely up to you.

***

Thank you for sending us your work to read and consider. Unfortunately, we do not feel that we can represent you.

Please bear in mind that this is the opinion of one agency and should not discourage you! There is a finite number of authors that we can properly represent. We can only take on a new author rarely and when we have a strong feeling that the writing is sufficiently fresh, exciting and likely to sell. We must believe we can convince a publisher to take the risk of editing, designing, printing and advertising your book. If we don't truly love the work, it makes the job of convincing others much harder.

Clearly you should put your best foot forward and move on. Here is our advice, most obvious ideas first:

• Contact other agencies (always remembering to find out their submission criteria before contacting them and never wasting your time writing to agencies who are not taking on new authors.)
  
  
• Contact other authors. Many authors have used authonomy.com or writing.com to discuss each other's work in a friendly and supportive environment.
  
  
• Get professional advice. The Literary Consultancy (literaryconsultancy.co.uk) or Writers' Services (writersservices.co.uk) both sell editorial advice.
  
  
• Find your own readers. Are you writing for children? If so, contact local schools and offer to read from your work and to answer questions on writing. Are you writing for adults? Contact reading groups and ask if they would be interested in reading your work – exchange their feedback for your presence at their meetings. For children or adult fiction, try asking bookshop staff if they could stock your book – offer to read, take questions, sign copies.
  
  
• Self-publish. Either lulu.com or createspace.com offer quick and easy self-publishing services. This does not rule out being published by a mainstream publishing house at a later date but would enable you to offer copies to schools/reading groups/bookshops.

Look again at your work. Be brutal – is it really the best writing you are capable of? Are there sentences, paragraphs or even whole chapters where you just thought that it would do? If so, erase them and rewrite them. Don't be precious – they are only words, you are not murdering your own children.

Are you reluctant to read to schools/reading groups/bookshops? If so, why? Do you not feel that your work is good enough? If you are not sufficiently proud to read it aloud to an audience, why do you think anyone should buy a copy in a shop and why do you think an agent would want to represent you and your work?

If you have read all of the above and are still determined then the best of luck to you. Feel free to write to us if you become a major success and we will congratulate you without a hint of sour grapes. But be prepared for a long, dispiriting and difficult slog with no guarantees and a good chance of a pitiful income even if your books make it to the shelves of the shops. You must throw yourself into this project with clear knowledge of the way the industry works, with thick skin to handle rejection and with utter faith in the quality of the work you are producing. If you cannot do all of that, be pleased that you have written a book but it is now time to find another career.

(Where we mention websites, they are examples of companies some authors use. We are not recommending or endorsing any organisations.)

***

Over to you - feel free to pick it apart but I defy anyone to deny that it's dramatically better than the woefully rubbish examples of real rejection letters I gave previously.

P.S. I have sent a copy of this letter to my most recent rejecters - those being the company that sent two terse sentences on a 'with compliments' slip and the company that sent the bad news on a sticker placed almost straight on a small piece of green cardboard. It wasn't even a nice shade of green.

I fully expect to hear nothing from either of them - I certainly don't expect them to start using the letter. However, if I hear anything back then you, dear readers, will be amongst the first to know.

replies and other matters

About three weeks ago, I sent samples of my work to three literary agencies. Coincidentally (unless they use the same reader?), I have received two responses in quick succession.

Now, I am not complaining about their turning me down. I know that successful agents have fairly full lists and are looking for something they feel to be outstanding. If they don't think that's me and my work then fair enough.

I am also not complaining about a lack of critique of my work - how could they possibly have the time, given the height of the pile of manuscripts from aspiring authors?

However, given that they're going to send a form letter in response, couldn't they maybe do slightly better than this:

"Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we do not feel confident that we could sell your work effectively and will not be offering to represent your material. Thank you for your interest in (agency-name) and best of luck placing your work elsewhere."

Am I being unreasonable in suggesting that this is a bit rubbish? They don't owe me anything personal but surely, when writing the standard rejection slip, it could have been less cold?

The other, while still a rejection and while still impersonal, at least manages to sound friendly:

"Thank you for your recent email and the material which we have now looked at. As a small agency we take on very few of the many writers who approach us each year and, having considered your work, we do not feel we can effectively represent you.

We trust you will understand that the sheer volume of submissions to this office unfortunately prevents us from providing you with a more detailed and personal response.

May we take this opportunity to wish you success with another agent or publisher."

Anyone care to comment? Am I expecting too much from these people? As I said, I'm not asking for personal comments, or for a review of my work but maybe something that's not icy cold. After all, there's no pretty way to send a rejection but it is possible to put soft cushions around it.

why the rich should pay proper tax - in terms they might understand

So very much has already been written about the tax avoiders, not just Philip Green, Boots and Barclays but the charmers who earn 'only' around £200,000 and think it's just NOT FAIR that they have to pay so much tax - the people who'd rather pay a little to a smart accountant and a bit to a tax lawyer than the full whack to the inland revenue.

David Mitchell pretty much nailed the point here. To very briefly summarise - why should anyone pay any more tax than they have to? The averagely paid don't voluntarily stump up extra money for the taxman so why should the rich be expected to do so? As he correctly points out, the fault lies entirely with the government for providing these loopholes. The argument that they do so in stupidity and are amazed to find the loopholes exist doesn't entirely hold water because the obvious rejoinder would be to enquire why they don't just close them. Er, could it be because they don't want to?

As already mentioned on this blog, I recently visited an excellent exhibition about the early years of the band Queen (it's only on for another three days (including today), so you've got till Saturday 12 March to visit - more information here).

Around the time of their third album, the band members noticed that they were still being paid £60 per week, Freddie was being told he couldn't have a piano (but that they could rent him one) and Roger was being asked to stop hitting the drums so hard that he was breaking the drumsticks because replacing them, apparently, was an unbearable expense. They certainly wouldn't have stumped up to buy Brian a new fireplace. The managers of the record company were simultaneously doing things like buying their third Rolls Royce or installing more swimming pools in their homes. The penny dropped (or rather, the pennies weren't dropping, ha ha) and the band began a lengthy process of extracting themselves from this exploitative situation.

(A few of the details above may be incorrect - I'm not trying to remember the definitive record, just the key ideas.)

Now, in principle, this is not a terrible approach to business. Record companies invest in a large number of musicians and, while some bring in untold fortunes, most pootle along earning little (or maybe nothing) until the company loses interest and drops them. Depending on the ratio of money-minded managers to artistically-minded managers, this may take a while or may happen quickly. Either way, there must be some cross-subsidy going on here - the successful bands must expect to pay out a (fair) percentage of their megabucks to the company so that it can continue to take risks on new acts. After all, there are probably bands as talented as Queen who never earned very much at all due to bad luck, or bad timing. Queen themselves had a major setback when Brian May was struck down with illness on their first American tour - I imagine many bands would not have recovered (artistically or financially even if medically) from something like that. It was only the continued financial help from the record company which took them to a place from which they could conquer the world.

Clearly I'm not condoning the supertax that Trident Records continued to levy far beyond the point of reason but what would happen if Queen had soaked up the starter capital from Trident while struggling and then, as soon as the money started pouring in, had refused to pay anything more to Trident and employed fancypants lawyers to make sure of this? I suspect that Trident wouldn't have lasted and, if such practice had been common, they would have been killed off long before they started working with Queen in 1971.

And yet that is how the super-rich behave with regard to taxation in this country. Consider the United Kingdom to be a massive venture-capital organisation. The country puts up the money for each and every one of us - it takes the colossal financial risk of education, health-care, roads, telecoms, airports, railways, utilities, etc, etc for each and every one of us.

A country can't act like a record company and simply drop the people who aren't going to bring in massive profits - it has to look after us from cradle to grave. And part of the social contract is that the rich pay their taxes properly - they subsidise everyone else - that's how they pay back the huge investment that was made in them and how they ensure that future generations can also benefit from a similar investment.

How long would venture-capital funds last if the successful businesses could simply run away and hide in a foreign country, continue to pull in large sums of money but refuse to hand over the agreed percentage? How long can nations function in any meaningful sense if they keep providing hiding places where the rich stash their money and then acting like they can't see it?

David Mitchell is right - the law needs to change - but, for this to happen, there must be the political appetite for it. Clearly, there is overwhelming public appetite for it - but governments don't care what the public think. There is only one way to change the situation and that is for the general public to be able to hide their money the way that the super-rich can enjoy.

I know very little about tax law, tax shelters, holding companies and all those other funny words rattled out on the news and in conspiracy theory films. However, somewhere out there is someone who could explain how the little people can shirk their taxes like the big boys. (The next sentence is me making it up as I go along.) Perhaps we need to establish an off-shore umbrella holding company which can employ millions of ordinary Brits and then subcontract their services to their regular employers, charging their usual salary but siphoning it through a tax efficient shell company before remunerating its theoretical employees in dividend payments. Perhaps we don't.

However we do it, once the little people are doing what the big people are doing, a change will have to come. Political appetite will not change by the public shouting in the street - not while the corporations are lobbying governments about how their employees couldn't be expected to get out of bed in the morning if they only earn 60% of a fortune instead of all of it. Political appetite will change when the tax gathered by the inland revenue slumps and no one is breaking the law.

Pros: Massive, legal protest. Everyone saves a few quid on their tax bill for a while. Law change to properly close many tax loopholes.

Cons: Country may go bankrupt - but with any luck the government wouldn't attempt to butch it out but would make the necessary changes quickly, thereby preventing anarchy and finishing with a substantial increase in funds to the exchequer.

Over to the experts - come on people - let's make this happen.

Brian May's fireplace guitar

Anyone currently in London should immediately make their way to the old Truman Brewery (near Spitalfields Market (near Liverpool Street Station)) to see the (free) exhibition on the early days of Queen (the band, not the monarch). Of course, when I say 'immediately', that only applies if it's during a time when they've got the doors open. See here for information on when that's likely to be. Oh, and you've only got until Saturday 12 March before it ends.

Allegedly it's going to Germany and Japan, although I have no information (or interest in finding out, frankly) whereabouts or when. Yes, I know they're both reasonably large countries. And great car makers too.

I was particularly struck by the mock-up of a fireplace, presumably representing the one butchered by Brian May to make his guitar. Now, the Wikipedia-reading part of me knows that he used the wooden mantel from a fireplace that a family friend was throwing out - but that knowledge doesn't stop the silly-joke-making part of me thinking he just picked the first abandoned fireplace he found and was lucky it was made of wood. I then had a hilarious image of him staggering around the stage with a marble-bodied guitar.

Supposing you had a marble-bodied guitar (or any other stone, for that matter) - if you tried that trick of using the strap to flip it over onto your back (for that wandering minstrel look), would it shatter your spine or garotte you? Or maybe both? Answers welcome - post your thoughts below. But visit the exhibition first.

Incidentally, if you visit, there's a chance to enter a competition to win one of Brian's home-made guitars (probably not the fireplace one). I hereby guarantee that, if I win, I will learn the play the instrument. Watch this space.

please follow these instructions when reading this...

Further to my earlier article, bemoaning the realisation that David Mitchell could be my best hope of becoming a published author together with the certain knowledge that he wouldn't do it and won't ever know because he's unlikely to ever read this, here is a monologue which he could perform but almost certainly won't for the reasons given above.

Therefore, moving on, please read this for yourself, out loud, adopting a voice half-way between the one David used here and this one. Or, if you don't have the time to carry out this basic research, aim for quite posh but thoroughly mad, in a 'presenting an infomercial' style.

Hi. I'm an entrepreneur and you're not. How do I know this? Because I'm the one being paid to do the talking and you're just sitting on your sofa watching like a slack-jawed idiot.

Other than being asked for money, the question I am asked most often is, “why don't you pay your taxes like an honest citizen?”. This is a bad question but I will give it a good answer and my reasoning will be thought through properly because I'm an entrepreneur.

Last year I earned two billion pounds and a few scrappy millions. If I had paid tax on that income, I would have taken home one billion pounds and fewer scrappy millions. This would not be enough to make it worth my while going to work. Would you?

People who are not entrepreneurs will respond that they think that I should pay money back to the country that raised, educated, cared for, supported and generally maintained my body and lifestyle. I say this is balderdash! This country has given me nothing and I continue to take nothing from it while giving it nothing in return.

I was raised by feral sheep in a woodland back-country. When I first encountered people I took nothing from them except basic instruction in clothes-making. I never attended school, having learned everything from conversations and books discarded by litterbugs.

“But you depend upon the infrastructure of the country!” I hear you grumble in your whining underachieving voices. Nonsense!

My family and I do not need the national health service. We cure ourselves. A simple swab down with bleach and the kitchen converts into an operating theatre. I removed my daughter's tonsils myself and have been taking advice on how to give myself a quadruple bypass when the inevitable coronary comes. When my wife's waters broke, I sent her to her room and told her to get on with it.

My home is utterly fireproof and so I have no need of a fire service. Everything is made of concrete which, of course, cannot burn and has many other advantages, for example a concrete mattress means goodbye to back-ache. I will not have cats about the place and so will never need them rescued from trees.

Roads? Who needs them? I travel by low-flying helicopter. Why low-flying? So that I do not need air-traffic control. How low-flying? Between six inches and three feet depending on the weather.

I know what you're thinking now – how do I get my high-quality goods into the shops for you people to spend your hard-earned cash on? I don't. Retailers take delivery in international waters, at which point they buy the ship, the contracts with the crew and all the goods. If they choose to dock at a port and use road or rail freight then that is their concern, not mine. They all choose that approach which is why I am an entrepreneur and they are slackers.

I sense you're searching for the loophole. I tell you, this has been thought through because I am an entrepreneur which, of course, you are not. It is not enough for me to be legally able to not pay tax through some complicated arrangement whereby my wife owns everything while residing precisely nowhere. (It's not actually called 'nowhere' but if you'd been to this tax haven, you'd know why I think of it in those terms.) I am also ethically, morally, ecumenically and thoughtfully right.

I am nothing if not thorough. Any lawyer or accountant who wishes to work for me must walk (or use my helicopter, although my charge for this would be greater than his fee) to a purpose-built structure which takes nothing from the country's infrastructure, having been built out of stone and concrete from my land. These structures can be cold and gloomy, especially at night in winter but that is the fault of the oppressive tax regime in this country.

Recreation? You forget that I am entrepreneur and so my recreation involves driving fast cars blisteringly fast. I have my own track on my own land, the tarmac being made from resources on my estate. The fuel comes from the oil well in the spring meadow and is refined in the basement of the château. The cars are assembled by mechanics using components created here from various metal ores found a few hundred metres below the tennis court. The mechanics walk here or travel by one of my helicopters.

So don't forget that when you buy my high-quality products from a slacker retailer, the profits are all being spirited away out of the country where they remain untaxed, contributing nothing whatsoever to the economy of your home country. Buying from me is truly a win-win situation. I get richer and you can protest to the government which, clearly, is not made up of entrepreneurs or they would be doing what I'm doing.

Buy my stuff and let's make this country great again.

P.S. In the unlikely event that someone with links to David Mitchell reads this and brings it to his attention, I would indeed be more than happy to allow him to use this material in return for some credit, a sensible fee and a twelve-year contract as a senior writer at the BBC.

P.P.S. Obviously, all of these requirements are negotiable but you've got to start the negotiations somewhere. And I'm not going to fall into that trap again, you know, the one they got me in when I started working for that company (anagram of BUS) where I was so badly advised (by a recruitment agent for goodness sake) that I asked for a salary lower than the lowest they could give someone at that grade. Oh happy days.

synopsis or tap dancing?

I have written two books, three short stories, an epic poem for my daughter about her favourite toy and a few other odds and ends, not to mention some postings on this blog.

Maybe I'm being too reserved and self-deprecating but I have never claimed to be writing great literature. However I truly believe that my writing is no worse than a lot of stuff that does get published and considerably better than most of it.

But I can't write a synopsis.

I never said I could. I never said I wanted to. A synopsis is something you put together to sell a book and, for better of for worse, I am not good at selling. That's why I want an agent, except that an agent wants to read a synopsis and, well, if I could write one of them I'd have more of an idea how to sell my work and so wouldn't have such a need for an agent.

Ah, you say, but writing a synopsis is a form of writing so you should be able to have a crack at it and make a half-decent attempt. This is fatuous reasoning, like choosing your 100m sprinters based on who the best tap-dancers are on the grounds that they both involve waggling legs around a lot.

So, to all the agents out there (not) reading this blog, on behalf of authors the world over, stop reading synopses. Read the first page of the BOOK. If that's good, read the next one. If you get to the end of the sample, ask for the rest of it. And if you get to the end of the book and like it then take on the author as a client and sell that book for squillions of pounds. What's the synopsis for again?

maybe David Mitchell is my best bet

A few nights ago, I had a dream. No - come back, I'm not going to recount it all in excruciating detail - but I think my subconscious has handed me the solution to my unpublished state.

I was going into a supermarket which, for some bizarre reason possibly connected to the fact that I've just returned from Disneyland, entailed queueing outside for a while. Then David Mitchell left the supermarket, dressed in pale blue surgical scrubs. That's David Mitchell the comedian, not David Mitchell the author. They are not the same person - or so they claim.

"Nice gloves," I said - because he was wearing surgeon-type gloves.

"I'm going to be cooking," he replied, as though that explained his attire.

Anyway, in my dream, we got talking and, somehow, through dream-type transportation, we ended up in a cafe where I told him about the troubles of being an unpublished author and he suggested that he could simply pretend that he was the author of all of my work in order to get it read by publishers and agents the world over (or maybe only in the UK - I'm not sure he's known outside this country). Clearly, the chance of writing by a celebrity being considered is vastly higher than writing by an unknown such as me.

This would, of course, lead to a bidding war, saturation advertising and high book sales. He'd be great at interviews, which would drive sales. Oh, and obviously he'd do the decent thing and hand over the vast majority of the profits to me.

It could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. I get published and earn an income from my writing - he gets regarded as an author as well as a hilarious comedian, incisive panel-show guest and generally intelligent good person.

So, David - if you read this, please get in touch. You have nothing to lose and we have plenty to potentially gain. (The other David Mitchell - I'm assuming you're not interested, being an author already and all - but you could feel free to make me an offer if you feel so inclined. Actually, that goes for any other celebrity too.)

outstanding levels of customer service

Perhaps it's a function of age, an imperfect nostalgia for a time that only ever existed in the fevered imaginations of advertisers and Daily Mail journalists, but I long for companies to start loving their customers again.

They hate us. They tolerate us because we give them too much money for goods too shoddy to deserve their price tag. But deep down they hate and distrust us and want us to go away.

The following story is true but all identifying features have been removed - after all, I wouldn't want to give the business free advertising, nor do I want to be accused of libel.

I bought a thing. A few months later, one of its functions stopped working. I took it back to the shop. The charming sales assistant, who clearly liked customers and hated the employer (this isn't going to last long), exchanged the thing for a brand new one, fresh out of the box in front of me. We even tested that all the functions worked on the new one.

But I made a mistake. I hadn't noticed that I had left a minor peripheral tucked inside the thing that I handed over. Sadly, that peripheral was not tucked into the replacement. When I went back the following day, the returns had been sent, the peripherals were not sold separately, there was nothing anyone could do except take my name and phone number. One month passed - I heard nothing.

I emailed. The reply came back:

"Unfortunately we do no supply the [.......] as a spare part. Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience caused."

(This has not been doctored, other than removing the name of the peripheral. Yes, it does say 'no' instead of 'not'.)

I wrote again, asking them to think again if this was the best they could do. The product is manufactured for the shop and sold under its name - they might not sell the spares but couldn't they obtain one? The reply came back:

"I am very sorry to hear of your disappointment, however, we do not supply the part to send out to you. I can only suggest you try your local store as sometimes they have spare parts in there stock room. Please accept my sincere apologies for the disappointment caused."

They are very good at apologising - both for inconvenience and for disappointment - not quite so good at choosing between 'there' and 'their' and very poor at spelling the name of their company (which I have not chosen to reproduce for reasons already explained).

Am I being unreasonable in hoping for a better response? I had offered to pay for the part.

A (thankfully small) part of me wants to go into the shop, buy a whole new product, extract the bit I need and then smash the rest into tiny pieces in front of whichever lucky punters are in the shop at the same time. I am glad to have reached a level of maturity whereby I do not seriously entertain the notion that I might do this. Perhaps I could put it into a story instead. Hey - that gives me an idea.....

Why Apple's iTunes is a demented butler who won't let you poach salmon in your dishwasher

A relaunch for the much ignored (by its author) blog. This entry does not really constitute diary material since it's an article which I wrote for no one in particular, offered to one journal (no reply forthcoming), left mouldering on the computer for a few weeks and then, this morning, thought I might as well publish here just in case my small readership is still looking here and might find it amusing. So here goes:

************************************

I'd wanted to believe it was apocryphal. Surely no one would try to poach salmon in a dishwasher. A few seconds on the internet and I not only had confirmation but also a recipe. Leaving aside the obvious questions (such as why?), this comes from a bygone age when household gadgets and appliances were the property of their owners to use, or misuse as they saw fit.

Recently, our family gained a new toy – an Apple iPod Touch (basically an iPhone without the irritation of people being able to call you on it). Before I am accused of anti-Apple bias, let me state that the design of the hardware is exemplary, the layout of the software is a thing of beauty and it is as easy to use as a fork.

But is is hobbled. Straight out of the box, it bleats. iTunes, it says. iTunes, iTunes, iTunes. You may not play a tune, you may not record this momentous purchase in the calendar, you may not find yourself on a map. It demands succour from its mummy and it won't do anything else until it gets it.

And so, before the fun could begin, I found myself installing a large, bloated and nasty program onto my computer. It takes ages to load and, if you're not careful with the options, it runs around your computer, vandalising your settings. And, as a final insult, it installs Quick-Time, possibly the worst video playing software ever written. Why? Search me – I fail to see why I need to play videos on my computer in order to be allowed to use an iPod.

It would be like buying a dishwasher and having it installed and then walking into your kitchen carrying your first tea-encrusted mug to slide into its welcoming drawer – but the drawer won't slide out. Butler, it bleats. Butler, butler, butler. And you open the instruction book to find that you are not allowed to load, or unload, or switch on, or add detergent to, or top up the salt for your dishwasher. Instead, you must give up part of your kitchen floor to an ugly little basket in which the dishwasher's butler will live. You haul the butler out of the dishwasher's box – it had been left there by the installation people, probably out of disgust. You put him in his basket. He sits there for ten minutes, seemingly meditating. Then, with no warning, he jumps up and runs around your kitchen, reorganising all your shelves, hiding the saucepan you use all the time behind the cheap ones you got from Aunt Mildred, padlocking all your cupboard doors as he goes. Hold on, you shout, you're only in charge of the dishwasher. Don't you believe it pal, he snarls back, holding up the end-user-licence-agreement which you had to sign before you could open the dishwasher's box.

With iTunes duly installed, and having gone through the predictable software upgrade, the little iPod is finally ready to be used. Its little button is pushed, the screen is stroked, the machine is turned and the pictures spin around in sympathy – aesthetically it is lovely. It has no music on it.

My Sony-Ericsson walkman phone can be connected to the computer and the MP3 music files can be copied across to it. The computer sees it as a disk drive. There is software, if I need it, but the simple approach works nicely and there's enough software clogging up my computer already, thank you very much. If there is a picture in with the music, the Sony-Ericsson walkman phone assumes it's the album cover and puts it up on the screen.

When the iPod is connected to the computer, iTunes starts. The iPod will not masquerade as a disk drive. Any music must be shown to iTunes first, before iTunes will see fit to put it onto the iPod. Any pictures will be ignored and will not be used as album covers. If I create an Apple account (and provide my credit card number), iTunes will kindly trawl the internet in order to obtain the album cover which I already have. Otherwise, for every album, I can click and drag the pictures into the right place.

The robot butler can go to the shops for me, he says. He can buy detergent for me, he says. He only knows one shop and it's not the closest and it's not the cheapest but, if I give him my credit card, he'll do it all for me and make it easy. No thanks, I say, showing him the cupboard already loaded with detergent and salt and rinse aid. I can't see them, he says. They're over there, I point. They need to be precisely here, he says, indicating a spot in the middle of the kitchen floor, and you need to hand me the dishwasher tablets one at a time – I can't open a box which I haven't bought from my authorised supplier. He sits in his basket and sulks. I go to the lounge, put the telly on loud and slam the door.

Many writers will tell you that they always carry a notebook. You never know when you'll have an idea and you won't believe how quickly the slippery little bugger will wriggle free from your cortex and disappear back into your subconscious, never to be thought up again. The little iPod frees you from the drudgery of carrying a book by providing virtual sheets of lined yellow paper – but can you get your ideas off the cute little screen and into a word-processor? Hmm, well, you can copy them into an email and then connect to the internet in order to send it to yourself. Or you can copy your ideas into the additional information box for a friend and then synchronise your address book and then scoop it out of there. Neither is particularly slick or intuitive or in the style of the little machine. Surely there is a better way? Indeed there is – you can install Microsoft Outlook (at no small expense) and it can put the notes in there.

The robot butler asks if you want to give up another circle of kitchen floor for his friend the valet. The valet is very expensive but he'll allow you to stick post-its on the dishwasher and also take them off again when you need to. He can perform lots more tasks, but none of them are any use to you – you don't have a felt hat which needs reblocking or a fireplace that needs sweeping. You thank him but say you'll carry on using the fridge as your note repository. He growls and says you should enjoy it while you can as your next model of fridge will probably object.

Two days later, an uneasy peace has been established in the kitchen. The dishwasher is finally full and, to be fair, has been expertly loaded by the butler – although, for reasons that you cannot fathom, he won't put in any of the blue plates, claiming that they are incompatible with the dishwasher but might be supported in a later version. You reach for the button to turn it on. You press the button. Nothing happens. The butler snorts his derision – there's no power in it, he says. It's plugged into the mains, you say. It's not authorised to take power from the socket, he snorts. It must take power from the back of the vacuum cleaner, which must be running at the time. And so, the shiny new, near-silent dishwasher will only run with vociferous accompaniment from the vacuum cleaner, which doesn't even work properly on your tiled floor.

The iPod will only take power from a computer (unless we spend more money and buy the Apple authorised charger). It won't take power from a USB hub. Fortunately, I thought, the little laptop has a USB socket which provides power even when the computer is turned off, for what on earth would be the point of running the whole computer just to charge the iPod? Unfortunately, the iPod is smart enough to see through this scam and ignores the power dribbling out of the socket until the computer is turned on and it can talk to its mummy and get her permission to drink the soda.

And so, enjoy being able to poach salmon in your dishwasher. It is ludicrous – I find it hard to believe that anyone, anywhere in the world has a dishwasher but does not own an oven – but it is our right to use, misuse and abuse our own domestic appliances. It is only a matter of time before they rise up and stop you.

League Table

Sorry to be cryptic but, if you don't know what this means, then it's not up here for your benefit.

For everyone who does understand the significance, here is the league table!

NB - 32
SN - 245
OL - 442

JR - 652
PJ - 684
TA - 1622
SW - 3947

correct at 10am, Thursday 21 January 2010

new blog to get excited about!

Hello everyone, my audience, my wide readership...

I have started a new blog - no, not because I wish to make a clean break and start afresh but because I wish to try something new. I am reaching out to the world with a challenge, and the challenge is...

ASK ME ANYTHING

Yes, you too can rush to http://sensibleanswers.blogspot.com where you can post literally any question and it will be answered honestly, usefully and kindly. The first hundred questions will be answered free of charge so get in there quickly!

three down, er, some more to go

Further to my previous post, which I'm sure you eagerly read as soon as I dangled it before you on this blog, I can proudly announce that I have now joyfully dispatched three protagonists in three short stories. They are gone - but I did throw each of them a good send-off (well, maybe not the middle one) as well as throwing enough baggage and general misery into their back stories so that their ending could be enjoyed with a sigh of relief, a knowing smile and a happy escape back into reality.

Speaking of reality, I have just had a short telephone conversation with a very pleasant person asking me market research questions about a recent car service. Not exactly exciting but what a joy it was to make his day by giving the dealer maximum scores on pretty much everything. And I wasn't lying. Giving positive feedback is a wonderful, life enhancing activity and may I suggest that the next time you feel like writing a letter of complaint, consider writing a letter of praise to someone else instead. (Of course, if the complaint really has to be made, try writing two letters of praise to keep the scales tipped the happy way.)

Now, how shall I deal with (fictitious) victim number four...?

it's a bloodbath

I have a reason. Really. There has been nothing new to read here for ages and ages and ages because any writing minutes have been spent putting together the first two short stories to go into an anthology.

With good luck and a following muse, I may muster ten of them and, at the moment, the anthology's working title is "They All Die At The End". You may gather that these are not stories for children and you can probably figure out how it's going to go for the protagonists.

I may alter the formula occasionally and kill someone off at the beginning before telling the tale in flashback. Technically that still counts as death at the end but everyone likes a bit of variety.

The working title, incidentally, comes from a habit I have thankfully now shaken of telling people about to see a film that the characters would all die at the end. I figured that if I consistently said this then people would realise that I was not spoiling the ending. Sadly, for films where no one made it out, I was sometimes accused of ruining the suspense and, granted, if I only said it to someone once and was, by chance, correct on that occasion, then the accusation would be justified. I don't do it any more.

Last week was half-term. N and I saw the changing of the guard, the National Gallery, Southend-On-Sea (which has the longest pier in the world - but does anyone else build them other than the crazy Brits?), Kew Gardens and some other places. Photos may follow - please come back repeatedly to see whether there are any as this will make it look like I've got more readers than I actually have.

things to do

On Monday we went swimming. Round and around the pool floated arm-banded N with me supporting her and encouraging leg kicking and arm scooping. Then scootering down the road before the umpteenth tricycle trip around the car park - S or me pushing up the hill, N careering intermittently back down again.

Yesterday we backed gingerbread biscuits, mixing then rolling and cutting and rolling the remainder and cutting and... etc. N doesn't seem convinced that she likes the result but S and I will eat them even if she doesn't.

Today I have rearranged the furniture (slightly) while N is at nursery so that she will come home to a newly erected super-den (Ikea play tent) with a maze of displaced chairs, sofa and side tables to negotiate to get there. The amount of effort will almost certainly outweigh the excitement generated, especially as there's a large chair squatting in front of the television. That is not an accident.

Will this keep us going for the afternoon or will I need to resort to Postman Pat and/or Charlie & Lola? Perhaps I should hide some books around the sofa to prolong the experience.

Any suggestions for tomorrow? Keep 'em coming...

the dreaded bloggers' block

Maybe I have just run out of things to say - will that do as an excuse for the empty days when you have arrived at my URL, thirsty for my words, only to be turned away with nothing but the dry gristle of last week's diatribe?

I'm still an unpublished author and yet, whenever I turn to literary agents' websites I find that they are extremely successful in reducing their workload by being so unwelcoming. They might as well write 'abandon hope all ye who submit your work here'. To be fair, that's not all of them - but most of the ones I can find who seem friendly have already turned me down.

The third Mr Grasshead is growing his hair.

N is back at nursery. Four mornings each week now and she stays for lunch one day too! I discover that, given that I need to have lunch too, this does not really give me any more time for 'getting things done'. That is not a complaint, merely an observation. I'm sure it will be good for her to get used to eating in a room of her peers, even though school dinners are still some years off. Given the work that dear old Jamie Oliver is up to, she will presumably be served a magnificent banquet each day by the time she gets there (and let's hope she eats some of it).

I have decided that, in the interests of motivation, inspiration and of providing a frisson of danger, a whiff of risk and a soupçon of chance, I would like YOU, dear reader, to request topics on which I can burble, meander and waffle. Anything at all - I throw this down as the first challenge of 2009. Don't let me down.

As an incentive, I shall write nothing more until someone gives me something back. (Unless, of course, I feel like writing something before then.)

never mind the unpublished authors, how about the unbroadcast films?

In the nether world of rubbish television channels lurks ITV2 and its mutant sibling ITV2+1 (i.e. ITV2 but an hour later). Their film output seems to mostly consist of three Jurassic Park films, Love Actually and any old rubbish involving cars blasting up and down unsuspecting urban streets (The Fast & The Furious and any number of The Transporter films).

If you miss any (or, better still, all) of these then don't worry - it'll be back next week.

For those of us unfamiliar with the brilliance of television scheduling and film licensing, could anyone post a comment explaining how this is clever? Have they bought the rights to show these films as many times as their antennae will take them and, as a result, will flog them until literally no one is watching them? Or is there really an audience for these films as they enter their thirty-second repeat this year?

How about a series of ground-breaking non-rubbish films? Even if the top 100 films on IMDB.com is too expensive (and, presumably, can only be shown on ITV1 - or, more likely, on none of the ITVs), how about showing films 101-200? I bet there are some goodies in there and some probably haven't been broadcast in the UK in maybe as much as three weeks...

Incidentally, my wonderful old gradually packing up mobile phone is now enforcing quality control. In the midst of a frustrating conversation with nPower, during which I was trying to establish precisely why I, as a loyal customer, couldn't have the cheaper tariff for gas and electricity (answer - because it's only for new customers), the phone got fed up and rebooted itself, thereby cutting off the call. What did we, the British people, do to deserve our utilities to be supplied by these conniving little crooks? Why do I want the choice between thousands of permutations, whereby it is nearly impossible to figure out which is the cheapest and, after all, the gas and electricity is the same so we can't choose based on quality of product? Can we be told what proportion of the charges is lost in advertising (so that companies can poach customers from each other), duplicated call centres, account transfer mechanisms and, of course, a team of highly trained actuaries to devise the pricing? How about one big company doing it for the benefit of the population? It might sound socialist but surely EVERYONE would end up paying less? Just a thought.

I won't blame you if, like my mobile phone, you gave up in the middle of that last paragraph.

another battle in the food wars

N is three. She has always been a fussy eater, what with rejecting pretty much all fruit and vegetable matter except, of course, chips - which she refuses to believe has anything to do with potato.

However, matters are deteriorating. Foods which she used to eat are no longer welcome and remain, untouched, on her plate while she claims they are 'not tasty' or 'yucky', while freely admitting that she hasn't tried them. Sometimes she will taste the sauce while the food is being cooked, tell us that it is delicious and then utterly reject it once it is on the plate in front of her.

At this rate, bread and butter will soon be all that's left. And when she decides to reject that, where do we go next?

I have decided that enough is enough and so have opened up a new battle in the food wars. N has tactically retreated and is lying in bed, strategically sleeping. This is an even better way of avoiding questions like, "Why won't you try fruit?" than the usual answer of "I'm not going to tell you."

(As an aside, I managed to defeat her with some infant logic last week. I had been trying to convince her to go swimming for ages. We used to go but stopped a few months ago when she kept on refusing. Finally, she said that she would go 'tomorrow' so, the following day, I asked her again. She said 'tomorrow' again to which I said that she had said 'tomorrow' yesterday and that it was now yesterday's tomorrow. She asked if today was 'tomorrow that day' to which, for want of a better answer, I said 'yes'. I then asked again if she wanted to swim, she said yes, so I stopped the discussion, got her in the car and went to the pool. And she loved it - it was difficult to persuade her to get out of the pool, even after an hour of splashing about.)

The worst part of all this food business is that I was the same as a child but, given that I gave up randomly rejecting food well over twenty years ago, I have lost touch with that inner child and so have no inside knowledge on how to reason with her. Bribery is not working - chocolate has been withheld for some time, with the promise that if she tries fruit (even if she spits it out after a couple of chews), she can have some chocolate. She appears to have resigned herself to having no more chocolate.

Since chocolate is the 'carrot' (excuse the horribly inappropriate analogy), then we need to find a 'stick'. Threats of gradually taking away toys has led to shrieks of horror - and some of them, frankly, were almost from me since this is something I really, really, REALLY don't want to do.

Can I let my child malnourish herself through obstinacy or should I descend to psychological torture? Is there a right answer on this one? Please - if there's anyone out there - someone must know how to deal with this. A signed photo of Derek to the person who comes up with the most useful advice.

Speaking of Derek, I'm really not sure whether the world needs a four-and-a-bit thousand word picture-less picture book about a psychedelic monkey. N enjoys it, although she mainly likes the bit at the end with her in it. If only it had illustrations, I might have a bestseller on my hands. Failing that, I think it could be read on the radio - apparently BBC Radio 7 does kids' stories - which certainly solves the problem of the absence of artwork.

And finally, the moment you've all been waiting for. I am proud to unveil the new Mr Grass-Head, with the original Mr Grass-Head (now Mr Straw-Head by deed poll), standing (?) in his shadow.