some real writing

I have been depriving you of fresh postings and I apologise but, as the title above suggests, I have been doing some real writing.

Staring deep into the eyes of N's favourite toy, Derek (see earlier posting and my profile photograph), I had a flash of inspiration. Using him as my muse, I have begun pouring out doggerel fiction. In rhyming couplets (and occasionally triplets and even one special quadruplet), I am telling the story of his creation and the heroic acts that preceded his passing into N's care.

It's heady stuff and should probably be read sitting down - not that it will be appearing on this blog any time soon. In the meantime, the work is crying out for illustration. Perhaps the artist could be you, dear reader. To apply for the job, please submit a (colour) picture showing Derek swinging by his tail from a chandelier.

jet-lag joy

Two in the morning, a room bathed in light pollution gurgling through the uncurtained window from the flood-lit car park of the block next door, I stride in, fully awake and ready. Face paper-white in the glow of the laptop screen, I begin to type.

I admit it - in the small hours of Tuesday I got out of bed and wrote some hideous sentences. I am now a jet-lag author.

It seems so good, the words of a genius rattling around in your head, desperate to get out and be recorded before they fade and are only an ungraspable wraith in the morning, gradually drowned out by the daylight and the moans of "why didn't I write it down?" which you finally realise are coming from your own mouth. But this is nothing compared to the other side of the coin - the horror of discovering that you did write them down and, boy oh boy, is it rubbish. Not to be read again until the middle of another flummoxed sleep-deprived night.

I'll probably do it again, though. It was a whole lot of fun at the time and better than lying in bed wondering which mammal to count next. Anyway, the stuff I wrote (and yes, stuff is the appropriate term) might be salvageable - I'll look it over next time I've just flown across a few timezones.

Why should all good things come to an end? Or, to put it another way, here is the latest update on Mr Grass-Head - or, perhaps, Mr Mould-Face would be a better name given that he has entered a whole new phase. Consideration for you, dear reader, restrains me from displaying a stomach-churningly striking photograph but, with his hair trimmed, lipstick reapplied and eyes redrawn, he could be a shoe-in for Santa in your local shopping mall with his fluffy white beard. Only his lack of knee to sit on could hinder his job development.

fixing the world, one step at a time

Hotel lighting - who wants to stand up and take responsibility? We arrived at the Crowne Plaza Redondo Beach nearly two weeks ago at about 9pm local time (i.e. middle of the flipping night according to my body clock). Having listened attentively to the receptionist's speech about how to gain free access to the gym next door (as if), we dragged and coaxed luggage and sleeping child along endless Shining-esque corridors, dipped the key card in the lock, flicked the light switch and, as the door closed behind us, realised that a 3-watt bulb had come on by the door, leaving the rest of the room in Stygian gloom. I appreciate the possibilities that a hotel room can offer but not everyone needs the lights set to maximum seduction - some of us need to be able to avoid crashing into furniture without resorting to night-vision goggles. It could be arranged subtly from the front desk - sultry-lighting-loving Lotharios could tip a wink at check-in while everyone else would get warm and welcoming. Anyone requesting flood-lighting could be thrown out.

As you may have realised from the above and from the absence of any updates for a while, I have been away from home and away from the inclination to write anything. But now I am back, refreshed and jet-lagged. As the title suggests, I shall be running an irregular series of advice on how minor inconveniences can be resolved to the greater good of all mankind. Coming soon - the positioning of the hand-brake on my car.

But wait, I hear you say, tell us more about your holiday in California. The beach, of course, was beautiful and here it is at sunset. There are two ways that you could know it was sunset - firstly, the chance of finding an east-facing beach in California is fairly slight (but I'm not prepared to rule it out without studying a map of the wiggly coastline and I'm not prepared to study a map of the wiggly coastline so the uncertainty will remain) and, secondly, what on earth would we be doing on a beach at sunrise?

The sun shone, the sea foamed and crashed, N built sandcastles (which inevitably collapsed almost immediately due to the extreme dryness of Californian sand), S sunbathed and I threw myself into the cool, foot-numbingly wonderful ocean.

J & A were married successfully, charmingly and heart-warmingly in a ceremony so beautiful that I might have stolen ideas from it hook, line and sinker were it not for the fact that S and I are already married - and anyway, if I say so myself, our ceremony was extremely well-constructed too.

Finally, I should add that Mr Grass-Head needs a haircut. His flowing locks are grizzled and tired - perhaps ten days roasting on an unknown south-facing windowsill has taken its toll. A trim and a reapplication of facial features are in order - until then, any picture would be too terrifying.

so many trivial things to do, so little time

This will, of necessity, be a short entry - probably riddled with typographic errors for which I make no excuses except lack of time which is why it is going to be a short entry. The same shoddy excuse applies to the lack of action on this blog for the last six days.

Nevertheless, I bring exciting news and, more surprisingly, it's even on the much neglected supposedly main topic of this blog. Last Thursday, I spend about three (or was it four?) hours concocting the perfect email to a literary agent. I put my heart, soul, collar size and kitchen sink into it. I wrote it to Nathan Bransford, whose own blog, hosted, possibly (well, slight chance), on the very same physical disk as this one, made me realise that plenty of agents are human.

Having finished and sat back to wallow in smugness (risky to do on a kneel-up chair with no back to it), I thought I would click on his 'how to write a query' entry on his own blog. Having realised that I had broken every rule, and not even paid heed to his advice and suggestions, I then added the following:

Looking back at your advice on writing queries, I have probably broken all the rules, and not necessarily in a good way. However, I believe that one should always try to stand out from the crowd and to be true to oneself. I am not someone who feels comfortable sending short, dry and dull emails and hope that you find this lengthy outpouring entertaining. I certainly feel that, after spending several hours putting it all together, I might as well send it and see what happens!

So I shall now stop, but only after reassuring you that the writing style here, involving tortuous long sentences and wilful meandering, is significantly reined back in my books.

Unfortunately, I then read my own email again (more carefully this time) and realised that I hadn't actually written very much about my own books (yes, that should have been the main thrust of the email - don't ask what I had blathered on about instead) - and that it could qualify as the most insane thing I had ever written. At this point, I parked the email in Outlook's drafts folder and, smugness deflated, went out to do something else. In years to come, this email may be held up as an example of precisely how not to contact a literary agent in exactly the same way that the screen test that Jools Holland and Paula Yates did for 'The Tube' is used to show aspiring television-types how not to make a programme. 'The Tube' ran for several years with them hosting so maybe I should send my email anyway.

Before I go to extricate Derek from the washing machine after his annual bath, imagine that you are standing in your kitchen, staring out of the window at a gradually darkening sky as evening descends into twilight. Suddenly, a flash of lightning outside and a monstrous shape appears. Yes, Mr Grass-Head is on tour, part Gary Rhodes, part Mark Lamarr, coming to a kitchen near you...

the experiment is over

It began in a wave of optimism a mere three (or was it four?) months ago. Hang on, that's not right. I actually thought they would all die, or be eaten, or disappear without trace or simply not appear at all.

We did the best we could. We fed and watered them, we cared for them, we gave them canes to lean upon when they were weak and frail. We encouraged them. N danced for them.

But this week, the realisation that a pesky squirrel was climbing up them trying to eat their seeds led us to call it a day and put the viable sunflowers into a vase, prune the rest into the dustbin and wait to see whether anything will rise up, phoenix-like (okay, we didn't actually burn anything), from the enriched soil next year. (The soil of the pots - the earth in the flower beds proved toxic to seeds as the samples planted there all fell into the 'simply not appear at all' category.)

Overall, a fairly rubbish year for sunflowers - mainly, I feel, due to a conspicuous lack of sunshine in the summer and an over abundance of pot flooding from torrential rain. Nevertheless, we managed to grow about three or four feet of sunflower about seven times over. The packet of seeds suggested six to nine feet - maybe in sunnier climes, like Kent.

It was a good year, however, for Mr Grass-Head who is going from strength to strength. No photograph this evening, mainly because it's dark now - but partly because I felt that N should appear herself on this page, clutching one of her flowers.

here there and everywhere

The trouble with trying to squeeze more than one photograph (and that one photograph being of Mr Grass-Head, obviously) into a blog posting is the endless wrestling with the limitations of the blog format in order to have the photographs adding to the prose rather than getting in the way and popping up in the wrong places, merrily scattered here there and everywhere.

Clearly, I lost yesterday's wrestling match, hence the somewhat slapdash appearance of my witty, pithy, etc critique of London, the Open House event and all manner of other subjects about which I am opinionated while knowing very little. You will have to take my word for it that I entered the field of battle with valour but, in the final reckoning, was defeated by the fact that the window into which I type my pearls of wisdom and position my photographic works of artistic merit operates to a wholly different agenda than the one on which the posting is finally viewed. Yes, it's the old story that "it looked okay on MY screen" or WYSIWYG where that "I" in the middle actually stands for "isn't".

I also feel that it was unfair of me to give no attribution to the 'Hope' photograph. As any Handel expert would immediately have known, this beautiful trompe l'oeil feature (yes, it's a painting not a sculpture) is in the Church Of St Lawrence in Stanmore. Take the tube to Canons Park, turn left as you leave the station and it's a short walk along Whitchurch Lane. Medieval tower, eighteenth century church and Handel used to play the organ - what more could you want from a trip out to zone 5?

Mention of zone 5 reminds me that a few years ago I found a website, written by Quin Parker, describing his adventurous excursions to stations in zone 6. Clearly Canons Park would be worthy of inclusion if only it were slightly further flung. At the time, I found his writing hilarious and, searching for it a few days ago to see where he had been lately, all I could find were Google links to pages that no longer existed. Where has Mr Parker's travelogue gone? If anyone can find it, please let me know.

And finally, I'm sure that you have been missing him and have been anxiously awaiting news of his progress. Yes, without further ado, I hereby present you with another lovely picture of our favourite gent who has gone to seed (ha ha).

Notwithstanding the fact that his lipstick is running, his nose is turning blue and his hair is made of grass, S feels that he resembles Kevin McCloud more and more each day. You, the reader must decide - opinions in the usual place please (i.e. nowhere, but one can always dream of dialogue).

open up - it's the public

This weekend, nearly seven hundred grand, humble, wonderful, terrible, trendy and fusty buildings invited the general public to have a good old poke around. London Open House is an annual event which restores one's faith in mankind since it is wide-ranging, generous and free.

Portcullis House, cutting across St Stephen's Tower (am I a pedant for using the name of the building, rather than the bell (Big Ben) which it houses?), was showing off its surprisingly light and airy atrium, nestling within the troll-like fortifications. It also surprised us with its Gerald Scarfe exhibition, clearly illustrating the old maxim that politicians really would rather be insulted, even within their own workplace, than ignored. Glorious as the atrium may be, the meeting rooms looked as boring as meeting rooms anywhere else and we were left to guess the state of the offices above. It does make one wonder whether palatial quarters for MPs is the best use of taxpayer's money, even if they do let us into the lobby once a year. Would it be terribly ungrateful of me to ask how many hospitals we could have had instead if the MPs had continued to work inside tiny broom cupboards in the Palace Of Westminster? How about if they had just had a normal glass and steel box of the sort infesting every city in the world and the difference spent on hospitals - how many then?

Never mind. Let us move on. It was a day of crosses, starting with the numerous red crosses warning rascal drivers not to attempt to park and obscuring the view of, shame on us, London's most popular tourist attraction. Not only does this cursed thing have the effrontery to refer to its tawdry fairground ride as a 'flight', it even has the nerve to charge £15.50 for the experience. What is it with our infatuation with going up things to come down again and at such great expense? In the time it takes to queue up numerous times and trundle around in a glass dustbin, any self-respecting tourist could take a healthy walk around any number of beautiful scenic views, or the lazy ones could take a bus ride around them. Either option would be cheaper and more rewarding but, even though they are fairly obvious, I don't see the London Eye running out of suckers any time soon.

In case you can't make it out, the label in this rake's hat says 'My favourite bit of London'. I don't think the hat was original. A prize to the person who can identify the sculpture and its precise location - write me a comment telling me. No prizes for identifying the fellow in the other photograph although perhaps you would care to suggest the sort of hat which would best suit Mr Reuter. Even hatted, though, I do not feel that he will become anyone's favourite bit.

Another cross greeted us during the half-hour queue to enter the Lloyd's building and, once inside, the view down through the numerous floors to the bell and the clock and the tiny ant-like figures reminded me of Orson Welles in 'The Third Man', berating Joseph Cotton for his sentimentality and asking him, from atop an observation wheel not altogether unlike the London Eye, whether he would "...really worry if one of those dots stopped moving", given that he was making a large profit from stopping quite a few such dots. Bearing in mind the recent and continuing financial turmoil, I can honestly say that I would worry about the fate of the dots but, at the same time, am concerned how many of the normal occupants of that building could say the same.

Three more crosses against a beautiful pollution-coloured sunset. N was in the bath at the time.

Finally, I leave you with hope, or maybe I should say Hope.

a stunning lack of perspective

"It's like a terrible death or like a massive earthquake," said Kirsty McCluskley. But what was she describing? What was this calamity of earth-shattering importance? What appalling body count could be ascribed to it?

She was, of course, describing the realisation that some of the best paid people in the country were going to lose their jobs and would have to go and work for the people across the street instead or maybe, shock horror, go out there are get a real job. Yes, it's the Lehman Bros story. (I like abbreviating them thus - it makes them look like a tawdry department store, paint peeling, unnatural smell in the toilets, moths the best customers, etc.) Kirsty used to work on their trading floor, hence the belief that the drying up of the goodies in her trough is a calamity on a global, nay, galactic, level.

No, this isn't going to be another naive rant about the financial sector, not even for the amusement of Betty (see earlier post). But - come on guys! If you build your glittering palace not only on sand but out of sand, and then expect the rest of us to stand around and hold it all up while you lie back on your sun-loungers basking in the sunshine, please don't also expect us to rebuild it for you when it collapses. Or, to put it another way, you ain't done nothing for me lately - explain, please, why my tax pounds should be thrown into your pockets to help you put your farcical charade back together again. Well would you look it that - turns out it was another rant after all.

Anyway, there is some good news. Just think about all the senior managers, most of whose bonuses for the last year or two were paid in shares in the firm. It's not money, it's schadenfreude that makes the world go round.

And, to move on to another of my favourite subjects - the doyenne of literature, (the no-doubt soon to be Dame) J K Rowling. I know it's old news, but from way back in April, courtesy of the BBC:

"...publication of an unofficial Harry Potter encyclopaedia could 'open the floodgates' for countless rip-offs. All writers would be threatened by the move..."

Come on, everyone, show your appreciation to Ms Rowling for her kind, selfless and, oh, self-enriching action. It gets better, though. In September, we have the following, also from the BBC:

"...She had been planning to write her own definitive encyclopaedia, the proceeds of which she had intended to donate to charity. However, she told the court in April she is not sure if she has 'the will or the heart' to do it after all."

So it's all the fault of this lexicon-writing fan that she's now going to sulk and not publish a book in aid of charity. Suffer the little children. Come on J K - all you need to do is staff it out - how difficult can it be to cobble together any old guide to the books - it doesn't even need to be any good - the public will buy it... Come to think of it, since you've recently been in court showing that you already own the intellectual rights to it, just publish your ex-fan's lexicon yourself under your own name. Job done, charity richer. I'll waive my fee for the idea.

The growth continues apace atop Mr Grass-Head. We'll have a veritable forest before too long. Since I short-changed you yesterday with a, frankly, rubbish photograph, here's a better one. He's a bit thin on top but getting quite luxuriant around the edge. I fear he may become a monk.

mysteries of modern living

The car has been grumbling again. Not satisfied with displaying its revenue-generating warning that a service is due every time I start the engine (and which, funnily enough, can only be turned off by a car mechanic), it is now, for the third time in my relationship with it, telling me that there is a problem with the airbag.

The first airbag warning appeared the day after I took ownership of the car. Back it went for a few parts to be taken out, shaken about and plugged back in again, fortunately under warranty. The second warning appeared six months later and back it went. That time, a cable under the passenger seat which does something or other airbaggy, had become detached - whether by a groping passenger trying to adjust the seat, or bad luck, or slippery connection or perhaps a weevil tunnelling around in the upholstery, we shall never know. Anyway, they plugged it back in under warranty.

Having heard this account, I duly lay on the ground next to the car and had a look under the passenger seat and there, flapping around without a care in the world, was too much wire with too little restraint. Immediately I thought I would get a cable tie and attach the wire to something under the seat, thereby possibly preventing a recurrence. About eighteen months later, I have still not got around to it and it occurs to me that perhaps the Nissan genius who designed this wiring also thought that cable ties would be the answer but never got around to introducing them to the manufacturing process of the car. They don't make the Primera anymore - possibly due to their inability to get around to fastening the airbaggy wire that flaps around under the passenger seat.

Who knows what evil fault will be found and exorcised this time around? It's going in on Monday for its operation.

Be that as it may - I hate this car. I bought it as a replacement for my lovely 1991 Nissan Primera which I fear I prematurely consigned to the scrap heap simply because it did things like not start when you asked it to and, oddly symmetrically, not always immediately stopping when you took the key out. The sharks at the dealership told me it sounded expensive and, like a fool, albeit a fool with the MOT and road tax due in a matter of days, I asked them what they had by way of upgrade.

So I mainly hate this car for the manner in which it came into my ownership but also because of its persistent complaining about its airbag and the annoying rattle in the dashboard which Nissan UK tell me they will fix under warranty if the fault is something that is covered by warranty but they can't possibly tell (or even guess) whether it would be and so I might have to pay three hundred quid for them to take the whole dashboard apart to find out. I'm living with the rattle and hating the car.

I do like the remote locking. This might seem tremendously old hat but remember, my previous car came from the medieval period and so, to me, it's practically an act of magic - even more than the air conditioning and the instant fuel economy calculation (see earlier posting). Although, when did you ever see someone with a similar lock on the front door of their house? If it's secure enough for cars, why isn't it good enough for homes? And if it isn't good enough for homes, why is it secure enough for cars? And no, I don't count remote garage doors because they are just for people too lazy to get out of the car. I'm talking about the ability to stagger up the front path, laden with shopping bags, press a tiny button on the key in your pocket and gently shoulder the door open on your way in without having to put anything down. Surely this could be available to the mass market? Answers on a postcard, or even in the comments after this post. (I ask and ask but does anyone write anything? Well, take a look for yourselves. Hello? Is there anybody alive out there?)

And finally, some wonderful news. Old baldy Grass-Head is bald no more, although I appreciate it's hard to make out more than a couple of grass spikes in the photo - trust me, there are sixteen (I've counted). And Victoria Sandwich cakes are buy-one-get-one-half-price at Marks & Spencer. Obviously if I hadn't tried to get the cake boxes in the picture, I could have focussed on the grass but where would be the fun in that?

on reflection

Unusually, I wrote yesterday's post during the daytime. Some time later, a little after midnight, standing in the bathroom, brushing my teeth (using a lovely Braun electric toothbrush - an absolute revelation, although S complained that it made her want to gag when she first used it), I realised that one of my lengthy paragraphs had meandered around the point which I was trying to make but had not actually made it during its few laps.

I had written: "Were Shakespeare's synopses any good? Did Douglas Adams research some personalised titbit about the literary agent he contacted? Does Zadie Smith have a great-uncle who runs a publishing house? Probably not - I presume that people read their work and formed an opinion accordingly. Otherwise, published authors will be those skilled at self-publicity which, to put it kindly, will be a subset of the great writers in the world."

The missing sentences, which could probably be inserted in place of 'Probably not' should have said something along the lines of... "The answer is neither yes nor no but 'who cares?' - these books have been published and people can now enjoy their wily and playful poetry and prose. How many more such books have been lost for all eternity due to their author's inability to boast and brag and thrust himself (or herself, clearly) forward with much 'hey look at me' and little or no modesty?"

There. I feel better now for having clarified my own thoughts and put my wiser words out to the world-wise web. (Yeah yeah, I know, it's not a typo - it's humour, but what with 's' being next to 'd' on the keyboard, I'm sure someone somewhere would have thought he was being smarter than me - not this time, pal!)

Update on Mr Grass-Head: no grass yet.

downtrodden and put upon

Literary agents - what a cheeky bunch they are. You may feel that making such comments cannot improve my chances of finding one of them who wants to live, breathe and sleep my writing - but someone has to take a stand when everyone else is either too obsequious, apathetic or busy doing something else.

I refer to the blog of Nathan Bransford, literary agent, (http://nathanbransford.blogspot.com), which came to my attention by dint of being Blogger's Blog Of Note on Thursday. Don't jump to conclusions, please. He comes across as friendly, helpful, approachable - and he even suggests that he reads queries himself and replies personally. He suggests (practically demands) that aspiring authors contact him before anybody else. Clearly I do not take issue with any of that.

However (yes, obviously there was a big 'however' coming), he also enters the dangerous world of how to write your query, your synopsis and your sycophancy. Maybe I'm just being naive here (and maybe there's no maybe about it) but I always thought that authors wrote books, that advertisers wrote advertising and that editors wrote synopses. In other words, people should play to their strengths. Were Shakespeare's synopses any good? Did Douglas Adams research some personalised titbit about the literary agent he contacted? Does Zadie Smith have a great-uncle who runs a publishing house? Probably not - I presume that people read their work and formed an opinion accordingly. Otherwise, published authors will be those skilled at self-publicity which, to put it kindly, will be a subset of the great writers in the world.

In a world where there are far too many aspiring authors, separating the manuscripts that are read from those which are moved straight into their return envelopes by evaluating the author's skill at toadying is about as sensible as the (worryingly plausible) story of the popular law firm which threw all job applications down a flight of stairs and only read the ones that fell on every seventh step. They reasoned that anyone not sufficiently lucky to have a form which knew which step to land on was not lucky enough to work for them. Clearly, one hopes this firm has long since gone into bankruptcy - yet there is not any great difference between this approach and assuming that an ability to write a ground-breaking, record-breaking, sleep-stealing novel will naturally lead to an ability to sum up the hundred-thousand words or so into a pithy single page and write a letter both fawning and informative enough to get the attention of the agent.

"What do I suggest?" I hear you ask. (Or I would, if anyone ever bothered to put a comment on this blog.) "Well, thanks for asking", I say. (Or I would, if etc.) Nathan - as a friendly, helpful and, by all appearances, useful agent, you could lead the way. Invite unpublished authors to email you a chapter or two. Make it environmentally friendly by refusing paper copies. And (here comes the clever bit) absolutely forbid anything in the covering email apart from author's name, address and email address. Yes, it will open the flood gates but, as you well know, you can stop after the first sentence if it's rubbish, or after the first paragraph if it's dull, or after the first page if you don't care what happens next, or after the first chapter if it doesn't drive you across the divide to chapter two like a rocket unexpectedly fired out of your trousers. And if you get all the way through and can't wait to read the rest, then and only then ask for a synopsis so you know whether the overall story will satisfy you or leave you feeling empty and hollow (like when you go out for a meal at a fast food joint and start feeling a bit peckish in the time it takes to get up from the plastic chair, deposit your rubbish in the bin and push the door).

In short, evaluate the BOOK writing, not the letter writing, not the synopsis writing and not the advertising writing. These people want to be authors.

What have you got to lose? Worst case, you might need to get Curtis Brown to increase the mailbox size but, hey, storage is cheap these days. You can get a terrabyte hard drive for about ninety pounds so it's probably ninety bucks where you are which makes it cheaper than a full tank of petrol for a Hummer.

Give it a go - we can all win. How about you give me 1% of revenue for any new authors you find this way? No harm in asking...

Since my last post, I have started to read Nathan's blog and like it. The above is intended as helpful advice. That is the full extent of my work towards publication and, shockingly, I have not looked at Authonomy for a while. This is not a change of opinion, merely an expression of laziness, inertia and a few good programmes on the telly.

I have also watched the totally wonderful in every way "Mr Maker" on BBC2. Technically, N has watched it and I have watched her watching it but, in reality, I probably like it more than she does. As his name suggests, he makes stuff out of old bits of, er, stuff - and the old bits of stuff are all stuff that you might have lying around. Yesterday we made Mr Grass-Head from an old pair of tights, some grass seed, a paper cup, three elastic bands, cotton wool and a biro. Oh, and some water on the top. Hopefully, in a week's time, he'll be sporting a good head of grass-hair. And if it doesn't work, we can have another go because the smallest pack of grass seeds I could find would enable me to plant a medium-sized lawn.

For the first time on this blog, I now present a photograph, showing Mr Grass-Head in his bald but aspiring to hirsute phase. Ideally, I would have used flesh-coloured elastic bands but all I could find were discarded Royal Mail red ones. If the sunshine doesn't help the grass to germinate and grow, perhaps the radiation from the mobile phone masts on the building behind will help.

the kindness of strangers

I can only apologise to my loyal readers for the dearth of fresh exciting content on this blog. As mitigation, I can only say that I have become lost in authonomy (see previous post) and that reading the work of others, together with writing the occasional comment, has been taking up the spare time which I would previously have devoted to this blog.

As an online writers' circle, it is a truly wonderful thing, a thing of beauty, etc - since it is replete with examples of the kindness of strangers. Every time that anyone has commented on another's work, the notes have been constructive. This is not a land of yah-boo-sucks, it is a veritable mutual appreciation society. Whether anything will come of it remains to be seen but, even if it does not lead to publication, it is a good 'place' to spend time.

Incidentally, I hope that you already know all of the above, having signed up with http://www.authonomy.com/ and begun backing books, sprinking around kind words and generally getting your views out there and valued - so that when I finally add my work, you can all wax lyrical and people (i.e. the Harper Collins editorial board) will take note and... You may complete that sentence in your own way.

I am, inexorably, moving closer to having maybe as much as six hours each week in order to peddle my writing, drone on at great length on this blog, bother other writers with my ill-thought-out guidance and inflict my own books on the world. Yes, N today spent two full nursery hours without my being in the room (although, admittedly, I was all of about twenty yards away in the park café). Next week, at 9.15am on Tuesday, I shall leave her to fun and games and learning and excitement and wonder and a bit of singing with Chris playing the guitar (whoever he may be) and I shall run to my car, drive like a maniac back home, make myself a cup of tea and probably sit down and not achieve anything much while feeling that the flat is very quiet. But on Wednesday, I shall achieve.

no more slush

Harper Collins, despite being part of the Murdoch evil empire, may well have done a truly wonderful thing. Other than the truly terrible name, I have yet to find anything not to like about www.authonomy.com.

In olden days (when a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking, etc), an author had only to knock on the door of a publishing house to be invited inside, given a hearty meal with ample ale, together with a few shillings for his trouble, and relieved of his latest scribblings with thanks. How things have changed since the 1980s.

First the publishers rang down their iron curtain. If they don't know you then they don't want to know you. Next the literary agents drew down their 'position closed' blinds.

When publishers have more authors than they can use and literary agents have more clients than they can represent, who will look at the work of the poor benighted unpublished author?

That's an easy one - editors will read anything for a fee and, depending on the size of the fee, return any amount of feedback. Alternatively, for no charge (to anyone), send in unsolicited work to agents and publishers anyway and wait as unpaid interns grind their way through the slush pile until they move your work into its return envelope with a impersonal 'good luck and clear off' form letter.

But then 2008 could be the year that everything changes. If Authonomy (for shame, couldn't marketing have vetoed that and come up with something better?) is as good as it looks, it will provide an opportunity for unpublished authors to unite, select their own champions and send them to the nirvana of the Harper Collins editorial board. We upload our work; we criticise, praise, encourage, console each other. And at the end of each month, the best five will get a trip round the block in the Harper Collins limo. That's not to say that the limo will drop them off at the Oxo Station to get on the gravy train - it might simply open its door suddenly while going around a tight corner - but, oh, the joy of possibly getting any sort of ride at all is one not to be sneezed at.

So, to my wide readership, I say this. Please avail yourself of Authonomy - join up, take a look around, read some of the books, praise the good ones, help them on their way to stardom and, if you pick winners, then your votes will be given greater weight by the system and so will become worth more to me when I finally upload my work and you tell the world of Authonomy how marvellous it is. Signed first editions to everyone who helps. (Depending on the advance, you may need to buy them yourselves. And if it's really small, you might need to supply me with a pen.)

Come on - get going. I might be ready to upload next week.

Today, I have given much thought to this exciting new route, this thrilling hairpin road up the mountain to bestsellerdom. Previously, we unpublished authors have been Laurel and Hardy heaving our piano up the neverending staircase. Harper Collins may have built us a road that the UPS van can get up.

post script to yesterday's piece

It is truly shameful and I am truly ashamed. I appear to have mixed up Michael Chabon's beautifully wonderful novel "The Amazing Adventures Of Kavalier & Clay" with Lynley Dodd's charming picture book "Slinky Malinki". I can only offer the excuse that I am looking at both on a daily basis.

For it was, of course, Slinky Malinki who was the rapscallion cat, deserving the title due to her nocturnal nicking of anything she could get her paws on. Many characters, Kavalier and Clay included, could be described as rapscallion from time to time but, as far as I am aware, are not described in that way in their book.

To return to my irregular series describing what efforts I have made towards publication, I can honestly say, with my hand on my heart (if that makes any difference), that I have been giving the subject much thought over the past few days. The transition from thought to action is surely only a matter of time now.

N starts nursery on Tuesday and then I will leap into action like a coiled spring, if you'll excuse the mixed metaphor.

I know all the answers

Disturbingly, this blog is turning into an edition of "Children Say The Funniest Things".  Nevertheless, I am unrepentant and offer another episode.

N was leading me through the steps of a bizarre running-around-the-car-park game, involving two trips around the (imaginary) tree, jumping off a (low) kerb and taking "sip-steps" (whatever they are, but it looked a lot like stamping).  All of a sudden, apropos of nothing, she stopped, wagged her finger sternly and said, "Don't give me any answers.  Because, you know, I know all the answers."

At two years and nine months, she already values my knowledge and experience as worthless to her.  Maybe so, but until she either gets trousers without buttons, or learns how to do them up herself, she still needs me.

Later on, sitting in the car, me in the driver's seat, N on the driver's lap, the engine off (of course) but the CD player going full throttle, she gave me her critical appraisal of my taste in music.  "This is very nice, daddy.  But I have had enough of Nick Cave now."  Yes, he's good, but, as far as N is concerned, he's never going to write anything as good as the song with the la-la-la.

(For those who can't recognise it by that description - "She Called Up", by Crowded House.)

Some time ago, I said to J that I would use the word 'rapscallion' in this blog, at least in part because it is so unfairly underused that, simply by typing 'rapscallion' again, I have probably tripled its usage over the summer of 2008.  I was reminded of this intention when I saw it in the wonderful book "The Amazing Adventures Of Kavalier & Clay" (which, if there was any justice in the world, would have outsold all the Harry Potter books combined and which every sensible person should immediately buy and devour).

I cannot offer any more context or excuse for inserting the word 'rapscallion' here (again) but, as I am tangentially praising Michael Chabon's book, let me also say what a joy it was to see him referring to flanken, thereby making him only the second person that I am aware of even using the word.  The first person (AP) not only used the word, he also used the food to great effect.  And many thanks to "Bruce's" of Great Neck was cooking it even though, to a British tourist eye, the portion sizes didn't just border on the insane - they had crossed that border some years ago and never looked back.  We ordered a meal for three and at least seven hungry people probably couldn't have made it all the way through the food which arrived.  I'm not complaining - it was delicious and the boxed-up left-overs took us through the next three meals.

And, while on the subject of cultural differences, S phoned a hotel in the USA last night and mentioned that she was calling from "abroad".  We wondered afterwards whether the word is in as common usage as "a broad" and so whether, in turn, the lady at the reservations desk wondered why S would tell her that she was phoning from a woman.  Having just looked up the word on the internet, I discover that such a meaning is usually deemed offensive and can imply a lady of ill-repute.  The implications boggle the mind.

a little space for the ice cream

Ruminants often have a stomach divided into four compartments - at least, it says that on the internet so it must be true. N has discovered that her stomach has at least two. Despite declaring that her belly was full and that she could not eat another mouthful, she looked down, looked back up at us with a conspiratorial smile and said that her stomach had a little space for maybe some ice cream.

I'm sure that there is a patronisingly twee lesson which I could draw here. You probably know the style - put in a slightly wrong verb and a bizarrely creative adjective and hope that it is interpreted as great wisdom rather than a poor command of written English. But no - she has merely learnt early that good things are much easier to fit in than yet another helping of green vegetables. And we're focussing on the fact that ice cream is dairy produce and so full of calcium and, er, all that other great stuff in milk - conveniently ignoring the ingredients on the side of the packet showing that the milk has been skimmed and the sugar has been ladled in with wild abandon.

I wanted to use the phrase 'gay abandon' and resent the fact that, were I to do so, some people would get excited about it for all the wrong reasons.

goodbye august

Okay, take two.

I had originally thought of writing a summary of the month of August and so started making a list of words, descriptions of what I have done, seen and been this month. The intention was to expand it out into sentences and pithy witticisms. Then I decided I would leave a list of nouns, the occasional verbs and probably no adjectives - the list would be the blog posting for readers to do with as they must. Then I discovered I had mainly written weather terms so scrapped the whole lot, wrote 'Okay, take two' and tried to explain myself.

Goodbye August, month of my birthday, bringer of rain, of thunder, of rejection from another gatekeeper of the publishing industry. Farewell month of new world sporting records (not to be listed here since I do not cover sport) and month of vast (but not record breaking) torrential downpours.

Tomorrow, the local leisure centre will reopen its children's pool, in time for most of them to go back to school. A slightly shorter month with much to contain, a higher concentration of activities. N will begin at nursery (assuming we get around to paying the fees in time). I will continue to send my beloved writings to be poked at (or ignored) by weary and disillusioned readers and editors, desperately searching for the gem in the slush pile while knowing that they will probably not find it - most likely it is not there but it is oh, so easily missed.

Submissions departments are forever playing 'Deal Or No Deal' without Noel to cajole them or the banker to taunt them. The quarter-million box is unlikely to be on their table, the other guests on the show know nothing either and the chances are that the big prize will slip through their fingers. Only Noel and the banker consistently win and, in the real world, neither one would allow themselves to be seen, eschewing publicity for a snout deeply buried in the trough.

September will bring positivity, a renewed effort and a reduction in postings which grotesquely mock an industry which has not yet let me in. Well, for the first day or two anyway.

There has been no writing on this blog for several days due to a toxic mixture of laziness, inertia and other distractions which I shall not list here. September will bring a more regular programme of writing. Well, for the first day or two anyway.

I suppose that must make me Al

Clearly I can never be the best judge of my own work since hoping for true objectivity when viewing one's own creations is about as sensible as assuming that one would know which of one's children should be thrown from the proverbial hot-air balloon.

Nevertheless, I am still surprised that, with sixteen of the blighters to choose from, the only piece about which I have had any comments is that wretched diatribe I wrote about the financial services industry. (Find it yourself, I'm not linking to it.)

I spoke to a dear friend this afternoon - let us call her Betty for no good reason. She read the offending (to me) article and, from her perspective of working within the financial sector, told me she found it hilarious. Should I be annoyed that my carefully honed literary assault on the sand-bound foundations of our society should be deemed risible? Or should I be grateful that I didn't offend her with my ill-thought-through crie de coeur against the injustices of the world and those perpetrating said injustices on a daily basis?

Either way, Betty didn't see fit to place a comment against the blog posting but I offer her this one as a second chance. Use it wisely and it will not suffer censorship from the blog owner.

In other news, N and I finally saw behind the curtain at our local leisure centre's "Toddlers' World". We were waiting for our session to start and went upstairs to see what was there. From the balcony, we could clearly see the earlier-bird collection of children mangling the play equipment but, beyond them, at the far side of the hall, behind the grey curtain, we could see the talented tumblers, the amazing acrobats, the possible Olympian gold collectors of 2012. It was an invigorating sight and may have been inspirational to N, who appeared to bounce on the trampoline with more fervour and pep than on previous visits.

She was still wary and avoidant of the sponge pool but was fooled and unbalanced by a mat overhang, leading to a smoothly executed forward roll straight in. Moves like that may lead to high scores from the international judges if she can keep the post-landing shock and tears under control.

Today, I applaud Salman Rushdie's non-profit-making legal action against the lying ex-bodyguard turned (false) memoir writer. Since his lawyer will pocket £15,000 for (what sounds like) not doing very much work, one could argue that SR should have claimed something even if only for the waste of his time. But he did not and so kept his hands as clean of this shoddy business as possible under the circumstances.

I look forward to behaving as magnanimously once I am a bestselling author, although I hope that any such opportunities will not encompass having had to recruit bodyguards. Sadly, today I have made no steps towards becoming a bestselling author although, on the bright side, I also did not act in any way that may lead to my needing bodyguards. Not much magnanimity has been shown today either - perhaps that comes later in the career.

anything less than 99p and you're wasting your time

Previously on this blog... In episode two, we discovered that a cheap kite, a lazy and uncooperative wind and a stupid dog could only lead to a lot of running up and down hills with little soaring, much spiralling and frequent crashing.

However, this afternoon, by using a kite priced at 99p (rather than 49p in the earlier experiment), soaring was indeed achieved and maintained. At least three dogs looked on in wonder, several children looked mildly interested for a few seconds, no one was garrotted by the kite string and N spent most of the time bumping her pushchair over the grass in order to get the pretend babies to go to sleep.

All the while, the bandstand wafted the sound of a French café over the park, all accordian riffs and brushed percussion. It reminded me of an interview which Billy Joel gave many years ago. He described the tough neighbourhood where he grew up and how, if the local kids discovered that someone was learning a musical instrument (even pianists could be spotted by the books they carried), they would beat them up. However, if they discovered that anyone was learning the accordian, they'd kill them. This could go some way towards explaining American antipathy to the French.

Today, I have written an extremely short blog posting and have also made no effort whatsoever towards the publication of my books. In my defence, it was a public holiday in this country.

the shame of it, the shame!

...and so, after the thirteenth posting had sounded, he did look back at his work and consider that knocking out two pieces on the same day, while in a slightly picky and mean-spirited mood, might not have been the best way to create great art, or even slightly readable writing.

So I took yesterday off to recover and refocus and got talked into giving the URL of this blog to a friend and thereby got my first comment after what were probably the twelfth and thirteenth best entries. Thank you, Joan, for showing that I'm not just howling at the cold, spinning Californian servers - but please read one (or more, but all would probably be beyond the call of duty) of the other entries. They show the writing which I wanted to force myself to produce when I created this blog in the first place. No pressure, but if they aren't better than Tuesday's maelstrom of whinging, then I might as well give up now.

And it was tempting to stop writing after that last sentence.

(Incidentally, as an aside, I looked up 'whinging' on dictionary.com - no, not because I don't know what it means - I just wanted to see their attempt at a definition. And part way down the entry, it says, "To learn more about whinging, visit Britannica.com". It reminds me of the old joke that used to be in the Yellow Pages - if you looked up 'Boring', it said "See Civil Engineering". I couldn't resist checking and, I'm sorry to have to report, that joke has been exorcised. This means that the only remaining Yellow Pages joke is that, if you put the book upside down on your bookshelf, the logo on the spine looks like it's sticking two fingers up at you. The cartoon style means it is impossible to tell whether the gesture is Churchillian or Sex Pistollian and so must be left to the preference of the beholder.)

(And, to comment on my previous aside (I apologise if this appears to be becoming a regular occurrence), I did mean to say 'exorcised' rather than 'excised' since I am sure that the original joke must have been caused by a mischievous spirit.)

N is sleeping tonight under her own twinkling, twinkling little stars. We visited Smyths, a large toy shop which has, thankfully, not reached the level of 'Toys R Us', either in size of establishment or in speed of making its visitors long for death as a blessed release from twenty-first century consumerism. Having wandered around the shop, collecting a few small trinkets and trifles, I had paid before I remembered that we had only gone there to buy some fluorescent star stickers. The lady at the till not only knew what I meant when I asked if they had any but even went so far as to get up and lead me across the store to show me where they were. I would recommend the shop on that basis alone - the staff will bother to help a customer even if he only wants a product that costs £1.99. My only complaint is the name because, if you pronounce Smyths as Smiths, everyone will assume you mean WHSmiths and, if you pronounce it as Smythes, everyone will assume you mean WHSmith but are trying to sound posh. I see no way for them to get out of this quandary except to introduce some random letters in front of their name, as long as it doesn't end up so similar to WHSmith that it looks like a typo.

The stars are lovely and you get 350 for your £1.99. I've used about twelve of them so far. If only they had sold them by the dozen - that would have been about 7p. As it is, I've got 338 spare stickers which I can hide in bizarre locations to surprise people when the lights go out. Perhaps my wide readership could make suggestions?

Earlier today, we visited a toy exhibition at a local museum. The museum is warm and welcoming, closed on Fridays and for lunch, and has a shop selling items most of which cost less than 65p. The toys are a temporary fixture but are mostly to be played with and arranged across the floor of an upstairs room which leans at a slightly disquieting angle and has disturbingly precise warning signs stating that no more than fifteen people should occupy the room at any given time.

(It does not give guidelines for the maximum number of adults who may safely "do the timewarp" although, if anyone were to try it, I would suggest that they do not all stand in a line facing the same way for the opening jump to the left for fear that they may not get as far as the step to the right.)

The contrast between the beautifully crafted wooden toys of yesteryear and the gaudy plastic baubles of today was stark and saddening - although that might merely be a sign of my age. Can we, as a society, not afford wooden toys in bulk anymore or do the large chains merely not want to sell them to us?

Finally, in today's exciting installment, I feel that I should add a regular feature. I feel that I owe it to my public to state exactly what efforts I have made, since the last posting, to further my journey from the nadir of unpublishment to the Nadal of bestsellerhood. (I refer, obviously, to Rafael and not merely the Catalan word for Christmas.) Today it may have appeared to the untrained eye that I made neither progress nor effort and indeed that I did not spend even a few seconds contemplating this Fiennesian uphill struggle. (That would be Ranulph, not Ralph or Joseph and certainly not Geoffrey Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes).

It is unclear which will happen first - the untrained eye being wide of the mark (a metaphor best not literalised), the beginnings of a big push towards literary superstardom or the regular feature being axed.