Category: - A Portfolio Life

A Portfolio Life

Insufficiently Worshipful

5/1/2017

Continuing the theme of how needy writers are, this from Alan Bennett's latest book - Keeping on, Keeping on.

2 April 2010. Notes on Ian Hamilton's Against Oblivion:

Of Randall Jarrell; 'he had in 1952 - and with stunningly abrupt efficiency - exchanged an insufficiently worshipful first wife for one who was prepared to dedicate herself to Randall's adoration.'
'Insufficiently worshipful' such a good phrase and so apt.
The insufficiently worshipful wives (and families) of writers.

And friends!

Tread Softly...

3/1/2017

Karin was always the first person to whom I turned when I’d written something new. She was the greatest ‘first reader’. She knew that her main job was not honesty (nor falsity) but to be a tailwind. She understood that to a writer a new piece of work is like a treasured pet. And she understood that writers are full of self-doubt about their work, particularly if, like us, they lacked the validation of publication, sales and an adoring audience.

She always found some words of encouragement, was never in the cheap seats throwing rotten veg. I’d know if she genuinely loved it or not but, even if not, she’d leave me feeling good about myself in general and the piece of writing in particular. She gave me enough of a tailwind so that I could launch myself back into the project anew.

When we were writing Farewell Trip, we were, of course, each other’s first readers, but also felt we needed some first readers from amongst our friends. One of these hit the brief perfectly. Another three gave woolly encouragement, which was fine. And one woman wrote back “I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to read something like this.” I like to think we took it like grown-ups, although it’s also true to say that Karin never spoke to her again.

For us, the role of the first reader was to reassure us that the work was not a pile of poo. That indeed it was brilliant and, with the odd tweak, was a racing certainty for the Booker. Once our loins had been girded by such friendly validation we would be strong enough to give the work to a ‘second reader’ – an editor probably – who would point out that, no, we were right all along, it really is a pile of poo.

Us non-league writers probably need a phalanx of kindly first readers, long before we can bear the savaging of a second reader. What mustn’t happen is for the readers to become mixed-up – in this instance that a first reader should act like a second reader. What we mustn’t have is a first reader coming on all Craig Revel Horwood when we what we need is some of Bruno Tonioli’s hot-loving.

Which brings me to my latest novel, or pile of poo, as we might as well have it. For I sent it out to a few old friends for first reader comments and the first, first reader has responded. The book is loosely - sort of - about bankers, and other voices, and set in London 2015. The first reader, let’s call him John, wrote to say that basically I

a) hadn’t got the bankers right
b) hadn’t got the other voices right
c) hadn’t got London right.

So, that’s alright then.

There’s a scene in Quadrophenia where Phil Daniels is at his lowest ebb, and has a road traffic accident where a postal van runs over his Lambretta. He sits in the road, effing and blinding in anger, cradles his bike in his arms, and whines “You’ve killed me scooter.”

If any of you ever get the chance to be a first reader, here’s what I’d say – watch out for the scooter.

My Second Novel

20/12/2016

Strangely, I appear to have written another novel. Well, a first draft but, to be fair, that’s more than I ever have before. Yes, of course, there’s Farewell Trip but, let’s be honest, when it comes to word count my contribution to Farewell Trip wasn’t even a novella, barely a short story.

This is the first time I’ve banged out 80,000 words on my own. I don’t think I’m really a novel-writing kinda guy. To Karin, 80,000 words was just warming-up. To me, it’s longer than the history of the world. Even my short stories get impatient with me after 3000 words, and my poems stubbornly refuse to turn over a page. Hard narrative yardage has always proven beyond me hitherto.

What makes this even more remarkable to me, is that I appear to have written this novel almost entirely by accident. My intention was to tidy up a load of loose ends before the end of the year. 2017 needs to see me head in a new direction, one that pays me some money and, whatever joys writing may bring me, money ain’t one of them.

I was clearing the decks. I was merely putting some unpublished, some long-forgotten, some vanity-type stuff into book form, and shoving it into the vast digital hinterland of the world’s consciousness, before wiping the dirt from my hands and walking away from the grave of my literary ambition. Sometimes you need to know when to quit.

At the same time, I’d read some advice about writer’s block, or about writing generally. The advice was simple. Just write for 15 minutes every day. At least 15 minutes, every day. Write, not stare at a piece of paper, for at least 15 minutes every day. Longhand, preferably.

Which is what I did. And in 75 days I had turned a long-festering 10,000 words of poo into the first draft of a novel, one with 84 different voices. Of course, it’s now probably 80,000 words of poo, though I hope not. Who knows? And who will ever know?

Even so, it’s an accomplishment of sorts.

A Brief History of Ludlow Castle

29/7/2016

I read this story in a book called Shropshire Hill Country by Vincent Waite – I certainly can’t vouch for it - but there’s a novel, or screenplay, or early Saturday evening TV series here for anyone who wants it.

It’s the 12th Century – maybe – Joce de Dinan is in possession of Ludlow Castle and has imprisoned two young knights, Walter de Lacy and Arnold de Lisle. Imprisoned them but seems to have treated them rather well, allowing them visits from the ladies of the garrison and so it is that a certain Marion de la Bruere falls in love with the handsome Arnold de Lisle. (Come on, who isn’t already casting the characters in their mind’s eye?)

Marion, beguiled, helps the two knights to escape from a tower in the castle, by means of – wait for it - a makeshift rope made out of sheets and towels. But tune in next week for her far greater act of treachery, presumably accidental. The castle’s garrison is, for some unlikely and dodgy plot manoeuvre, reduced to a mere handful of knights for le weekend. Marion sees this as an opportunity for some hot lurve and sends Arnie a letter suggesting he pays a late night visit to her boudoir, by means of a ladder up the same tower he’s just escaped from. (There’s a lot of sub-Freudian stuff going on obviously)*.

Arnie "comes, but not alone". In fact, one thousand men come with him – and whilst he climbs into the tower and into Marion’s bed, a hundred of his men clamber after him. And whilst Marion climbs his tower, Arnie’s men slaughter everyone else in the garrison as they sleep. Indeed, so successful is this raid, none of the invaders die.

A sated Marion, sucking on a post-coital clay pipe, suddenly realises what has happened, finally understands the perfidy of Sir Arnold, and stabs him to death with his own sword (*see) before throwing herself to her fate out of her bedroom window.

(Note – you might need to amend the finale if the early numbers are good and you get green-lighted for a second series)

In praise of people buying - sorry I mean reading - our books...

2/7/2014

It's been a slow start for One Dog and His Man and I've been a bit low about it. It's very close to my heart. But there's a very fine line between self-publishing and vanity publishing and it's measured in profit.

At the same time, we received our second royalty cheque for Farewell Trip today, covering Jan to March this year. Which is ridiculously exciting for 52 year old previously unpublished authors. It's also the first real chance we've had to see how many actual copies we've sold. And the news is good. Well we think so. It's three times as many as JK Rowling sold for her pseudonymous book before she was “unmasked”, and her publishers deemed that a very good effort for a “debut author.” Carina did a good job getting us promoted, particularly in America.

Of course, as with everything, it came at an expense. In this case, a huge discount, that left us earning pennies per copy. Not least when we have to share royalties. What was I thinking giving away half of my book? So Karin added 80% of the words, most the laughs and all the sex scenes, but for half the money - for fuck's sake. I'm an okay writer but a terrible businessman. I probably could have outsourced it to an overseas call centre for thruppence an orgasm. No imagination, that's my problem...

One Dog and His Man

6/6/2014

So, after much ado, by which I mean two long years failing to get the damned thing published, and in which time I've managed to co-write and publish a novel, here's the cover and new title for my little Shropshire book.

Out soon...

Failing and Flying

5/5/2014

Two interesting, albeit drunken, conversations this May Bank Holiday. (I had more than two, honestly...!)

1. With a colleague from the training/development world. My friend was ticking about something some corporate HR drongo had said about the feedback my friend had received on post-training happy sheets. The feedback was as stupid as was the passing of it on. I felt strongly about this. My friend has done her time, her 10,000 hours or whatever, she's a bona fide star. I had a red wine rant.

“Fuck 'em. There's nothing you or I will ever read on some shitty little feedback sheet that will tell us anything new or useful. You know exactly how well that session went, you know in minute detail the things that went wrong, you are your sternest critic. The people in the cheap seats ain't gonna tell you anything you don't already know and will be wrong about the rest.”

2. With an old college friend who has doctorate in James Joyce and a nice line in honesty. He said “You're done with this validation shit, right?” Which I think was his way of saying just get on with being a writer (which coming from him is, ironically, in itself a very welcome form of validation). And I was wondering where the confidence I have with training comes from, compared to the lesser confidence I have with writing.

And, as it happens, as a result of our conversation, the trainer from number one, sent me the link below, because something in my rant had chimed with it. And whilst it doesn't answer the “confidence” question, it should definitely be required watching for anyone who has ever doubted their creativity.

Brene Brown: Why Your Critics Aren't the Ones Who Count.

Poems , Poetry, and the Poet

26/4/2014

Of all the things I've wanted to be in my life (cowboy, fireman, sniper, John McEnroe, Jack Duckworth, Jose Mourinho), the things I've most wanted to be, in order, are:

Poet, gambler, footballer.

I remain absurdly proud of my ten years as a gambler of sorts, in a way I'm unable to find the words to express to a doubting audience, which is probably why I can't seem to nail the poet thing.

Poetry is something I gave up on twenty-five years ago when marriage, bills, real life, too many rejection slips, a complete lack of voice and nothing to write about, made me see sense and give it up in exchange for a pretty easy living.

But lately it's been creeping back up on me. Insidiously. Ever since we moved to Shropshire. Mostly it's been off-cuts and silly rhymes, tin-ear poetry of no consequence. Occasionally it's been experimental, a rush I haven't had since I was a teenager - that of doing something thrillingly different. Rubbish admittedly, but not in the moment of its creation. Then in my fiftieth year I did a facebook appreciation called 50 poems at 50, which had me re-visiting some of my favourite poets. And this unlocked me. Words flowed. And strangely, they came with a voice which was recognisably mine and not altogether useless.

And then our novel was picked for publication and its reception and general validation made me bold enough to start sending out the serious stuff again. And made me strong enough to bear the disappointments. So when I received an e-mail today headed “Re poems” I assumed it a rejection and went back to (unsuccessfully) finding the winner of the Bet365 Gold Cup at Sandown. When I actually clicked on the e-mail it was someone saying “they loved” my three poems and wanted to put them in their Autumn issue. An issue that, in the context of the big wide world, no-one will read and that accords no prestige whatsoever.

But a 52 year old man was absurdly grateful...

Lampeter, Farewell Trip and e-publishing...

20/4/2014

Lampeter has its own facebook nostalgia page for people who studied there in the 1980s. It's a great page, full of pictures and memories and nonsense. Lampeter alumni have that small community thing going on, where people know and remember each other and reminisce far more than is healthy, or maybe not enough – who knows. It's certainly a special connection we all seem to appreciate and was one of the reasons why I thought it was right that Ruth and Trip should have met there. Lots of life-time marriages have been forged in that small town. Karin, as is her wont, is very attuned to it. She says to my friends “I like you Lampeter folk, that you all know each other, and look out for each other and especially that you all seem to have slept with each other”.

Anyway, given that Lampeter plays a large part in the formation of Ruth and Trip in our book I shared it with the group and with the alumni newsletter. A post arrived from someone asking if Farewell Trip was available in hardback. The poster turned out to be the owner of an independent bookshop in Suffolk with an understandable axe to grind about e-books and Amazon.

This vexes me. And here's why. I love books. My house is overflowing with them. I collect first editions. I stroke them. I have a Kindle which Anne bought me to try to drag me into the 21st century but I’ve never managed to read a book on it. I am in essence in denial, a refusenik. I love bookshops. I love independent bookshops. I hate Amazon's negative impact, and I hate the end of the net book arrangement more. Yet my book is published in e-format only.

How do I fell about this? Frustrated, definitely. I can't deny it. But more than that, I feel absolutely fucking delighted. I gave up on being a writer aged about 27 when a mix of indolence and lack of talent made me go and work for the Man. And here I am 25 years later somehow with a novel in print (well, e-print), and published by one of the biggest publishing houses in the world.

Do I wish my book was in Waterstone's nestled between Twain and Updike, or given that Karin's name comes first, between Dickens and Dostoevsky? You betcha. Do I wish my friends all had gorgeous signed first editions on their shelves? Yep, yep, yep and yep.

On the other hand, do I mind that my book has been sold in Ho Chi Minh City, Johannesburg, New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Melbourne, Sydney, Paris, Munich, Barcelona and a load of places I've never heard of? Nope, I don't think I do. Do I mind that an unknown book by two old farts can reach number 1 in Amazon's women's contemporary romance chart in America, despite one of us being a man? Nope siree, I can't say I do.

I'd like to think there's room for both books and e-books. That may be naïve and silly. But I am glad e-publishing gave a couple of old-timers a chance to share a decent little story with a wider audience, when traditional publishing shunned it.

And hey, I hear vinyl's making a comeback...

Writing poetry

17/4/2014

Anne wants to watch Masterchef as per. I said, "that's fine, there's a poem what I just wrote and I need to think about a couple of the words, for it is very short." (Verily, this is how we talk over the breakfast bar).

Anne said "remember to add some joining words, oh and some poetry..."