WHEN I'M WEARY...

Always go back to DH Lawrence. There was a mind who knew his own mind. And what a wonderful writer. There is so much trash around these days that you start to smell disgusting just by reading it. That's the moment when you ought to return to the Classics. I forgot that this was the way I read from childhood onwards. An Agatha Christie, whom I adored, followed by a Lawrence, then another Agatha, followed by a Dostoyevsky, another Agatha, followed by a Greene and so on and so on. I've been reorganising the books, to get some out of the way and others into a safer place, when I came across Rebecca. Now Daphne du Maurier was a friend of friends of mine. Indeed, Manderley was based on the Cornish home of one of my core group of close friends. His dad, Eton-educated, became a country and western singer and then, with horrible physical ailments, died by jumping in front of a London train. Do you need to know this? Probably not. We all went to a gathering in London to support my friend. I had known for a long time the connection with du Maurier. It was only today, in sorting my books, that I started to read Rebecca once again. WOW. Give me that first chapter any day. Not a single wasted word. No repetition. Any noun is described with a sentence/action/reason for being there. If you read certain modern literary gods you will know how they love to repeat a phrase...i mean, just love to repeat a phrase, a phrase to be repeated just like love in repeating the phrase. NOT SO WITH DAPHNE. What a beautiful writer. Thought I'd share this with you. As all writing experts will tell you: READ, READ AND READ AGAIN. But please read the classics. Daphne, I salute you.

NON-SMOKING ADDENDUM

It appears the non-smoking brigade have been out in force. A local licensee telephones me with the information that his pub has been full of them. There's only one problem: they drink one soft drink and are BORING. I forgot that the smells might not be the worst thing about this new anti-terror legislation.

ON HARRY

Pre-sales up 17%. I wonder how many small bookshops have ordered from Amazon in order to fill their shelves from now until autumn, while being careful to order a reasonable number from Bloomsbury so that suspicions are not aroused? I don't blame them -- sadly, if there are several out there doing this they'll have to keep quiet about it. My experience of watching Potter fans buying in supermarkets is that they came, they bought one book, they departed. Maybe a few more carrots and tinned tomatoes got sold but nothing that would not have passed through the stores in the first place. It's not a loss leader as such. What it does do, and believe me there are people out there who still don't know this, is demonstrate, through miles of column inches and years of broadcast hours, that the stores also sell books. I'm afraid the old-fashioned local bookshop is doomed in the same way that the old-fashioned record shop died. It should be pretty bloody obvious by now that the entire industry is geared to MASS sales. Twas ever thus. We live in a commercial world. However, the problem with this approach is the appalling standard of books on sale. They're all so similar that the next author/agent/publisher to come up with a well-written story departing from these simplistic genres is going to clean up. I also foresee a time when an e-book browsing store will open, allowing customers to view millions of books - not on the same day, of course - and either have it printed off there and then or ordered from an Amazon-style warehouse for delivery the following day. To sum up, the appetite for reading has not diminished just the point-of-sale is going through a period of painful change. And by way of being even more boring than normal, let me repeat that Potter sells because it's got LOTS of characters and LOTS of story. In fact, it's the opposite of yer usual supermarket top seller. Go read.

ANTI-SMOKING BRIGADE

The anti-smoking brigade have won. I must admit the three pubs I visited, for one pint in each over two days - unit counting again - were cleaner and much more pleasant. The smokers were content to sit with their fag packets in front of them and walk outside into the cold air under a non-protective gazebo. One landlady told me with surprise in her voice that it had taken her only half an hour to clean that morning, against the usual two hours. Also, she had lost £200 in trade for a normal Sunday. So, it's here to stay. Best get used to it. But where's the food crowd? Is it the weather? They stayed away in droves on the first two days they could eat in clean air. Why?

BOMBS IN BRITAIN

Seems like the War on Terror came back to haunt us with a vengeance. So far we have been incredibly lucky. However, is this a one-off by some disaffected people or is it the start of a far more serious concerted campaign? Let's hope it's the former. This is a wonderful country to live in. Sure, it has its faults. Sure, our politicians take us to places we ordinary citizens don't always want to go to. But this is a democracy and the next time round we might, just might, vote them out if someone comes along with a new and better bunch of ideas. The victims in this War are the innocent. This is true with all similar violence. We in Britain rather felt that the violence on the streets of Baghdad would not be exported here. If this is happening we are incredibly vulnerable. A lot of what I fear is that -- rather like in Iraq -- should this be the case there's precious little either the public or the authorities can do to protect us. As regular readers of this blog will know, I specialise in stories about the future. There's been a lot of talk recently about Oil running out and Global Warming destroying our planet. The worst case scenarios have us being plunged back into the Stone Age. There is a third possibility: that we'll be plunged back rather sooner than expected thanks to this darned War on Terror. Modern Society is -- and cannot avoid being -- incredibly vulnerable to attacks of this nature. The road hauliers strike nearly ten years ago reminded us that our oil and food supplies can be destroyed within three days. The way we live now makes us far more likely to starve, riot, fight, die of disease than was ever thus even during the darkest days of World War Two. It's ironic that you could switch off London more easily now than you could in the days when my dear old mum was a ward sister there at the height of The Blitz when the Germans bombed day and night for the best part of a year. Londoners shrugged it off. Thanks to the bravery and sacrifice of the RAF, along with many others, both soldiers and civilians, we survived. Now we don't even know who are enemy is. If it's Osama bin Laden then where is he? I find it unbelievable that the combined resources of the world's top security agencies cannot identify where he is. Not a happy morning, I'm afraid. Enjoy your day my readers and may your lives be happy and peaceful.

JULY

New month - new energy - new drive - mega sales. That's the motto for this month. I spent yesterday trawling through some of the unfinished work and cursing myself for failing to try hard enough to sell it. One story in particular drew my attention. It's nearly halfway there and it's a shame to leave it as it is. Maybe finish and self-publish. At least there'll be a book to send to a publisher. I sympathise with them having to cast their eye over mountains of slush pile scripts. Maybe a pretty looking book with decent pages and an eye-catching cover will do the trick.

WHERE DID I GO LAST NIGHT?

BLOG EXPLANATION. Many of my most inspiring thoughts come in the form of dreams. Further details on the link. Needless to say, the blog has departed from its manifesto. No apologies.

Tunnels

This book still storming up the Amazon uk chart. £3 off a £6.99 book. Good deal. Great sales. Say no more. It's that bloody tipping point isn't it. The one where you think there must be something in it so you go off and buy the book.

OLD PUBS NEW SMELLS

The foul odours hidden in The Smoke. Not only will the new non-smokers have a more keen sense of smell they will be able to breathe in the sweat-encrused pong coming from the bodies of the badly-perfumed drinkers. Mix that in with foul, day-old scents from bottles that ought never to have reached the market place and the lingering fumes from half-eaten meals. YUCK. You're gonna grieve for the all-embracing smell-disguise of cigarette smoke.

Earlyish Night

No late night, no dreams, no short stories, not even a line of poetry, although I do admit that around nine pm I was singing. That was in the local where we were celebrating the end of smoking. Strange thing to be celebrating. All smokers are schizophrenics, half of us want to stop half of us want to carry on. Now the government's decided we're all to be non-smokers, at least in public. It's a bit like that end of term feeling. I guess we're all going to lose a lot of the easy bonhomie that gathered around a group of smokers of a night. Did it do us any harm? Some, yes, but not as much as being obese. Look around, you see elderly smokers but you don't see elderly obese people. A consultant relative of mine said that when she was training, she's now in her thirties, she was told that most diseases in this country would be smoking related. Instead, they're weight related. I'm rather looking forward to giving up. I feel sorry for the publicans around Britain. I imagine they're going to lose massive amounts of earnings. The heavily committed smokers I talk to are simply going to fill their lungs before arriving, stay a shorter time than normal, then return home. Nobody's planning to fill the gardens - this is British weather after all. Those patio heater type things are not going to take off. They're not fun. Also, as any chest specialist will tell you, breathing in hot ciggy smoke outside in the cold air is a darn sight more damaging than sitting in a warm room smoking. My non-smoking friends never seem to mind too much but those amongst us who have given up are horribly unsympathetic. We'll see more of them this six months coming and I guess I will be among them. What's going to happen to the black economy in fags? That will be an interesting one to watch. Bye bye fags, it was great knowing you.

Confidence coming up...

After tackling the issues in the last post my confidence level shot up a few mega wotsits. Why was that? Could it have something to do with the fact that I have confidence in my ability? I think the rejection so far, allied with the minor success, has led to a wibbly-wobbly feeling. Nobody knows you when you're down and out but you have an awful lot of friends when you get back up again. I like the version sung by Clapton. What I am doing today is reassessing why I am writing. I had begun to have my doubts. Dreams are worth pursuing and this is a toughie.

On reading about other writer's mega deals...

That's it. Done. Finished. Promise. First, reading about other people's mega deals, was an encouragement to write. Then it kept me going during the lean times when the people who had made promises turned out to be charlatans, fools or simply too bleedin' optimistic. Then it helped me target agents. Not much new there. Now I'm reading this stuff and it's too bleedin' depressing. Great comment on my (top) explanation post about why bother when there are few comments? From a struggling writer! Why bother writing? Friend, you do it because it was always there. This is a long way from the life I would have chosen for myself but it is what I is, if you pardon the english. Enough. Back to work. Oh, a final word to other struggling writers. Do try and spread a little optimism - it's a tough enough world for us non-rowlings without being told to sod off and stop clogging up the ether. Ouch.

TUNNELS

Clearly Tunnels and its Potteresque publicity is working. A first print run of 20,000 when some publishers are dealing in the hundreds. Now a reprint of 30,000. High in the Amazon pre-sales. Good stuff. What surprised me reading about this was that an interview on the R4 Today programme boosted sales at Waterstone's. Really. Must make a note for THE DARK KINGDOM.

RESEARCH, PART 11

Oddly enough, and without meaning to, this writer hits the nail on the head re. my previous post about research. I never meant to imply that you deliberately had to know nothing about a subject in order to write about it, all I was saying is what this person got right: it's the emotional feel of a place and its people that sparks the imagination. Facts are facts, Mr Gradgrind. Get the emotion right and the story has a chance of being born alive. Enough on research. I'm bored now.

LIKE A FOOL

The historical novel I mentioned in the previous blog interested a top editor so much she wanted to publish it. Like a fool I held off until it had been written. Gullible, naive flaming idiot. What more can I say? Except to add that had I gone ahead I would have been richer and poorer. The book money might well have been spent. The book would have been crap. Right now, it's gonna be a belter. But the new one -- oh boy, why am I so excited? Don't answer.

SERIOUS STUFF

On a more serious note, let's talk RESEARCH. Every time I hear a novelist talking about research my hackles rise above my head. WHAT DO THEY MEAN? Are they writing non-fiction? Are they a journalist trying to write fiction? Are they trying to be a journalist? Fiction is Fiction. It's made up. Dickens used to go for 12-mile walks around London. He would pass dozens, if not hundreds, of pubs. Instead of going in and talking to the customers he preferred to walk past, imagining the conversations and the characters. That's called fiction. Had he tried to re-create the customers his books would have been nowhere near as good, and probably long since forgotten. He used his incredible imagination to create a new world from the real world that he saw from a distance. I'm mentioning this because I become severely ill on reading historical novelists describing their in-depth research. Okay, as far as it goes for physical period detail. Beyond that, are you trying to tell me you have a recording of what so-and-so said 500 years ago? I think not. Where did I go to this afternoon? springs to mind. I came across a wonderful love and adventure story from the 17 century. My "research" consisted of reading enough to see the characters come alive in my mind. That's all. I'll check a few details, as a journalist I don't call that research. I could contact half a dozen experts. But none would be able to tell me how those people spoke, looked, walked, flirted, made love, drank, smoked, fought. At least, not beyond the flimsiest of probably inaccurate details. What matters here is THE STORY. Call it a theme, call it a reason for writing a book, call it a Rabbit in a Hutch, I don't care. The story came alive and that is what I am going to write. It's also solved another problem for me, about writing another historical love story. I wrote, directed and produced a play on that marriage but, in trying to remain faithful to the historical facts, completely lost the plot in trying to write the book. It's now had a hundred failed starts. I had lost sight of the main purpose of writing - to tell a story by bringing the characters, and the events of their lives, ALIVE.

HECTIC, OH YEAH!

All the bloggers going mad over the Premiership. You would have thought that Gordon Brown was a surprise choice. I'm afraid there's no change. My guess is that Brown was more influential than Blair throughout the past ten years. Nothing happened without Brown's approval. Remember, you heard it here a long time ago, the economy is going into BUST. This will happen sooner rather than later, but it won't be overnight. There are also some serious issues regarding prisons and flooding that need immediate attention. I just wish we had an opposition party to put forward radical alternative ideas. Note to future party political leaders: leadership is about leading, not addressing the concept from the all-embracing nature of the vitality of the multi-faceted focus groups as seen through the statistical analysis of the daily nature of the...........well, you know what I mean. I would love to see a Churchill, or even a Wilson, cutting through the crap we're being delivered on a 24-hour news daily basis.

WHAT, ANOTHER SHORT STORY

Really bad night, sick as a dog, sweating like a pig, coughing fit to burst. But another short story. A cartoon character. Great. Next thing I know I'll be writing poetry again. Gimme a break.

ON GOING BACK TO BED

Okay, I cheated. At about seven I went back to bed. Hardly slept but remembered one of the two dreams from several hours earlier. Lazy boy. I was going to clamber out of bed and make a note. Time to put the Dream Diary beside the bed. At least the one I recall was the best, I think. And it's a short story. I think my chances of publishing a book of short stories is well below zero. The only fairly recent book of short stories that has been promoted in the big bookstores was by Jeffrey Archer. No chance then. What about a name change, Mr Author? JK Archer, perhaps? Jeffrey Rowling? You never know in the wacky world of publishing. That's the joy of writing. Just keep those creative juices flowing, the hope coursing through the veins and the arteries clear for the time when success beckons. Disraeli said something like Fail, Fail Again, Fail Totally and Triumph, Utterly. Anyone find the correct quote. Here's a good one from the same Premier Author: "When I want to read a good book, I write one." That should be all the encouragement an author needs. Inject that confidence.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Woke this morning at a quarter to four and saw the sun rise. Beautiful. This is the niece's 18th birthday. Eighteen years ago I was coming to the end of my stint in Florida. This time in the morning was the only reasonable period. By nine it was boiling the brain if you were foolish enough to sit or stand outside for more than a few minutes. I had decided to take a short holiday and that meant driving to Jacksonville Beach - the local beach, just twenty five miles away along an eight-lane highway. There I would listen to the excellent summertime rock band, drink coke, eat burgers, smoke the odd cig and watch the pelicans gliding by above me. Eighteen years - a lifetime.