So it appears I’ve finished Kim’s Brook ~ The Act ~ Bus-cut Trees: whatever!
The title IS important but I can’t decide Which suits it the most but then it’s irrelevant as this one is going to remain on my flash-drive, hard drive, pad, wha-at-eee-verrrr.
Due to lack of interest from everyone I’m not bothering with self-publishing again until I have some hope of gaining an audience.
Still, it’s good to finish that project so I can return to my sci-fi weirdness that I think might actually turn out okay in the end. It looked like my weakest for a while but somehow I seem to be rescuing it just through discovering original thoughts somewhere amongst the mist and cotton wool that fills most of my brain. I don’t know why I thought I could compete with the likes of Iain Banks or Tolkien but there it is, the arrogance of men!
It turns out I probably can’t but I’m going to finish the draft and hope for the best anyway. I’m about 70,000 words Into it and now the usual ‘can I fit it all in or is it going to end up bigger than intended’ (ooh nurse!)
I’m not going to plan any more writing after this one. I’m bored and I have no idea what audiences want these days. I’m probably a bit old school for the kebab and lager generation and rightly so, I can spell and use grammar.
Dopy old cu.. dopy old fuc… Dozy old wan… Oh you know!
I’m used to failing, it’s what’s I expect after a lifetime of it but I had hoped for a little more with this one. One sale! ONE!…ha haaa, how pathetic?
It’s really difficult to get publicity when you’re starting out but this time the editor who convinced me to publish helped with her own publicity and her network of industry people and… I’m a bit worried that the only sale might have been to her!
I wasn’t going to bother again as all my other work has been ignored.
I thought I needed to come up with a better strategy for gaining publicity before I put any more work out there but I still have no idea what it could be, besides I’ve convinced myself my stuff isn’t good enough but apparently she assures me it is. I’m convinced everyone’s more interested in vampires, murder/mystery, bondage-porn etc than well-written non-specific genre stuff like mine. It’s sort of romance but human condition, philosophical too.
Anyway, I know the quality of the work I’ve produced. I don’t know how to convince the world of it’s worth but it’s making me unhappy trying to work it out and as I only started this as a way to entertain my granddaughter and myself it’s irrelevant really eh? A hobby that got a little out of hand.
I’m going to keep writing I think. The pleasure and the flow of ideas might come back if I stop worrying about how to make it pay.
It’s other people who judge success by the amount of money accumulated, not me.
It’s that time again, 21st June, midsummers day, what was mum’s birthday and I’m releasing my fifteenth novel. I wonder what she would have made of that? I have a feeling she wouldn’t be overly surprised.
It was actually composing something for the order of service for her funeral that made me realise how easily words come to me. Actually, how easily amalgamating an approximation of all the cheesy crap others have used for their epithets is more like it but you get the idea?
Anyway, mum got her part in The Lily Pond, my last non-seller.
I’m expecting big things, maybe five, possibly more, sales in the first year? Going by the amount of interest the rest of my catalogue has generated I’m being over optimistic but you have to dream eh? In a way I’m kind of hoping for confirmation that though I’m good I’m not good enough so I can take a step back from the constant smashing my face into a wall of apathy. I know I have some of the skills, grammar, quite good at dialogue etc but I reckon I need to concentrate on school and as I’m going to need a job I could probably do with stepping back. Maybe after a few years of university I can try again but to be honest I reckon a lot of it is the dreaded marketing and that’s never going to be me and to be honest, why should it be?
People with artistic bents shouldn’t have to deal with the business side, it’s ridiculous to expect to be able to do both. Again, maybe at uni they’ll teach me something about that side and no doubt have a few leg-ups to offer.
Whatever, fifteen Ebooks ain’t bad eh mum?
If you could see me now, still going nowhere but just in a different direction of nowhere that meanders everywhere but somewhere.
Still, I give good metaphor
An idea, Sophia…perhaps a spray of flowers but I’m thinking more like a few inches of leopard print in pink at the joint of my left shoulder and edging onto my shoulder/chest area.
I had no intention of ever having a tattoo. Probably wouldn’t have done if my attempts at self-branding hadn’t been so rubbish. Actually I’m really proud of the few brands that show but they’re just not visible enough and the really sick deep flesh ones don’t appeal. The only other thing I like the look of are the raised skin facial markings of some of the African tribes but I have no idea how to do that and I’m not brave enough to mark my face anyway. I would definitely have some down one arm if I ever get chance to go to Africa though.
So, western middle-class tosser that I am, I designed my own tattoo and had that done. (That’s what the picture is, my tattoo which then got used for the cover of the novel about that tattoo. Never do things in halves) then I decided to have my girls names inked round my ankle but it looked a bit shit so I had their favourite flowers and a dragonfly for Kylie, a dragon for Natalie then my foot covered in dragonflies, er…for me.
Now it’s my left arm with all the grandchildren’s names and lots of colours, stars, flowers, swirls etc. Most of them are my designs, all the lettering is mine. The design of my armband is my own. It’s got to be yours or what’s the point? I don’t join clubs, I start them.
So, continuing my theme of font and bright colours I reckon my gorgeous new granddaughters name and some pink leopard-print, maybe a bit of yellow too. I don’t give a shit about the macho crap most guys go for, my tattoos are in recognition of who they’re named after and the propensity for bright colours that my colourblindness and too much LSD when I was younger push me towards.
Anyway, real men don’t give a F what lesser men think.
I’m so rubbish at this ‘buy me buy me, love me love me’ stuff.
I didn’t ever think I would get so damn good at this as to seriously believe I could entertain people but it turns out I really can write, like proper books, novels, prose, whatever.
So, now I have to try and sell my work to an uninterested public who are already battered from all sides by charlatans (not THE Charlatans, I’m not sure what they’re doing. Last I saw Tim Burgess was off doing some solo project. Don’t know what the rest of the band are doing but promoting my novels is not something they would get involved with, although if they read this one about the music biz…maybe?)
The bookshelves already creak under the weight of chicklit, vampire-lovers and middle-aged ladies fantasy-porno dross and now the Ebook market means anyone can publish their poor quality toilet too so how are you supposed to tell the good from the bad?
I’m as guilty as everyone else. Irritated by the total lack of interest from the publishers and the arrogance of the agents I put my stuff out there only to realise how rubbish the early stuff was. (I’m slowly correcting the silly mistakes and editing everything up to the standards they should have been at the start, sorry but at least I’ve realised and done something about it. There are too many who don’t even realise or care)
Maybe if I’d fully understood the level I needed to be working at I would have shit myself and given in but somehow I’ve pushed myself into that corner and come out fighting.
Basically some fuck sat behind a desk who can’t write isn’t telling me my work’s not good enough. It wasn’t, fair enough but… I was going to say read this but that’s not how it works is it? Actually the free bit is available on kindle so yea, why not? Go read a bit of His Own downfall, it’s awesome.
This one I managed to get proofed for free by a professional lady who knows the industry and helps aspiring authors. She gave me the confidence to release it as I wasn’t going to bother, couldn’t see the point, still not sure if there is a point but whatever, it’s coming out so we’ll see eh?
If it gets the usual lack of interest I will stop. (No, really)
I don’t know how to promote stuff, don’t know where to send them, don’t know what to say that doesn’t sound arrogant or a marketing ploy.
All I want to do is entertain people and offer something to lift them out of this shitty world into my fantasies of better, more interesting places. Isn’t that what books are supposed to be; an escape? My brain doesn’t work around the concept of money or marketing, it works (when it does) sideways, through treacle, cotton wool and bubbles and out of those bubbles I blow images and lost dreams.
Why do women go for those guys with the shaved heads even though they’ve got a full head of hair? You know the ones with the England tattoos, the muscles but the intellect of their pet dogs. (ALWAYS those dodgy breeds the police are trying to outlaw)
My filth neighbour (scaffolder, shaved head, muscles, England tattoos, two syllables a bit of a reach) came home about an hour and a half ago and kicked his door in then attacked his tiny wife/partner before disappearing. Their nine/ten year old son could probably beat her up so why a ‘big man’ like him felt the need is beyond me but I did overhear him threatening her a few weeks ago and dismissed it as a one-off but….
Sadly she’ll probably allow the thug back inside the home but personally I never understand the female propensity for forgiveness. Few males would allow anyone who had assaulted them any form of forgiveness, well; unless it was one of their fuckwit scaffolder mates who’d had a few too many, such is the level of retardation inherent in the breed.
No: seriously, no male with a full compliment of brain-cells would contemplate sharing their home with anyone who had attempted, let alone inflicted violence upon them, so why do women allow it?
Men who attack women, men who bully children, men who shame themselves and all men by bullying anyone are not true men.
A REAL man has no need of intimidation but a real man will stand up for those that are being bullied, will put himself in harms way to defend those that cannot defend themself. I have done so, only to be abused by the very woman I was trying to defend but I will no doubt do it again in the hope that I can put one of these vile bullies in their place. Underground!
Shame the fuckers I say.
My neighbour works for Ace scaffolding, Isle of Wight, England.
He is a wimp, a bully, a pathetic specimen of non-manhood and an embarrassment to all decent people but most of all he has shamed and shown the worst example he possibly could have done to his own son.
Spotted the anomaly? Yep, sunshine, in England!
I see a lot of wankers are on about the full moon 13th of the month bollocks as ever. Fwa fwa fwa, that’s like June thirteen man to all you Americans.
I was born on Friday the thirteenth and it hasn’t affected me except everything I do fails, women don’t like me. All my relationships have failed until I gave up eight/nine years ago. But apart from the lack of a life, sex, money, success, wealth, fun, friends, family etc, everything’s fine.
So anyway, I’ve got a maths calculator paper in the morning. 9:30 sharp.
Did a revision class today, a bit more when I got in and a bit of writing. Did a little editing so I’m all set for tomorrow.
Do the exam, go sit In the local cafe after and whine a bit on social media then maybe sit somewhere by the river where I can hear a bit of the music festival just along the road from me on the Isle of Wight.
I’ve never really been interested in the Isle of Wight festival. To me it’s the more commercial end of the festival scene but they do have some great bands there this year. My thing is more Bestival but the site is on a huge slope and last time I went I thought I might die from the pain in my hips. I’m reasonably fit now but I was much fitter a few years ago yet walking down those poxy hills nearly did for me. I swore never again. Even Glastonbury with it’s more graduated scenery is off putting when you’re an old fart. Who thought the day would come when I’d be too unfit to enjoy a festival but there it is, I’m there. Actually I was there two years ago. I still did all the usual, danced lots, enjoyed all the bands I saw but being in constant pain because I had to face a mountain to get on site ruined the weekend for me.
I suppose at 51 I should really be doing something more age-appropriate, knitting, sewing, making jam?
Whatever, tomorrow I’ll be sat in the sun with a cup of coffee (low calorie sweetener, not sugar) wishing my belly was half the size and my hips ten years younger while I listen to that thudding young peoples music until it all gets a bit much and I have to come home for a snooze on the sofa.
I even struggled to make 1,000 words yesterday but I did fall asleep on the couch for nearly two hours so I’m guessing the brain’s had enough.
Today it’s revising calculator maths in the hope I can find a rabbit at the bottom of the empty bag I left my earlier exam with on Monday. Memory, that’s the trick, must get a memory. I wonder if S-babes sell them, they sell everyfuckingthing else except the cheese I needed for my salad yesterday because all the wealthy fuckers who constantly whine that they’re so poor had stripped the store. Always the same, the supermarkets put a deal on, the really poor people buy the one or two items they can afford while mr and mrs poverty (always whining about their gas bill while spending a few grand on holiday every year) come along and stock up big-style. No-one ever thinks to put a limit on the amount each customer can buy. I wouldn’t be surprised if the supermarket bosses butlers call the cabinet members butlers just so they can all save a few pennies on their baked beans while we plebs struggle to eat own-brand cack.
Anyway, I digress but then I’m free to as no-one reads a thing I write
Today we went motorcycling, cake-eating and latte supping then for a short walk along Compton bay beach. I was amazed to find a couple were in the sea and one woman was sunbathing! Bizarre.
Not for them but for me to not be down with summer. I don’t know what’s up with me. I think it’s because I live in a cave that barely sees the sun in the lounge but the garret heats up to stoooopid temperatures making sleeping a pain and staying awake all day difficult. I had one piece of cake with my coffee, rode a few miles and had one of those ‘need to close my eyes before I fall over’ moments that us olds get whilst walking along the beach. I literally flopped down like a toddler after too much sugar and had ten minutes of eye closure to restore myself enough to make the trip home.
I wonder if I’m going to make it through another ten years.
Seriously, it feels as if my metabolism is closing down and my body just seizes on me if I eat. Often within half an hour I have to, HAVE, to nod out. Pathetic! Saying that those afternoon naps are amazing but I haven’t felt awake in years now. The odd day once or twice a month but that’s it.
Anyway, motorbikes rock.
I’ve been watching the TT and we have a few roads similar here on t Isle of Wight where you can have a blast with no ill effects so I got behind the screen and went for it. Wish I still had the R1 but my Honda goes okay. Getting round the corners at speed is amazing. How they go the speeds they do without crashing all the time I don’t know. I would go faster but it’s not safe on public roads and slightly irresponsible but if there’s anything as good as riding a bike I haven’t found it. Maybe flying but it’s the close contact, the strip of Tarmac, obstacles etc that makes it so good. I’m not convinced just fannying about in the air could give the same rush.
So the TT was won by Michael Dunlop who managed to redeem himself slightly in my books through showing concern over his brother’s crash so good luck to the twonk. A shame for Guy Martin but maybe he’s always going to be the runner up. He’s not quite got whatever it takes but if I had ten years I don’t think I could get up to those speeds but then I’m not completely mental.
One day I’ve got to have a blast round that course though…next year?
This one’s slow…can’t seem to get enthused at all even though every time I read back through it’s all progressing fine but the apathy is strong with this one skywalker. Don’t know what’s going on, I’ve had moments with other books but this one is really hard going. I’m thinking I might put it aside and work on something else for a while. I did actually start it last July but got sidetracked by writing the last couple of books and then got obsessed with finishing the editing and rewriting of my first novel. (THE LILY POND)
It’s done now and published last month (9th May) but getting back into something that’s been left so long is turning out to be more difficult than I expected. I’m not sure it shows in the writing but the enthusiasm has withered to nothing.
I’ve got a few ideas floating around amongst the cotton wool and flumps.
I’ve been thinking of doing a short story about a local girl who has a charity named after her. I’ll give them the book as a contribution.
Actually I’m thinking of going to the beach tomorrow and doing some beach art as I’ve been doing dumb revision for dumb exams for like ever, or at least it feels like it.
I could do with getting out on my motorbike more often too.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually connected to the world.
The m, M, m, mEnNntTALL pills leave me drifting slightly above the earth, barely tethered as my head floats while the rest of me tags along behind, toes dragging against the floor as my body floats behind my bob bob bobbing head. It’s quite nice but sometimes it feels as if I’m breaking free from my moorings and need to touch down. Seriously, it’s not the pills, it’s the remnants of all that stuff, you know? When you lose it enough your mind severs those connections to the bullshit and the real stuff becomes your focus. That’s where I’m at, and?
I fancy a latte and a large piece of carrot cake at Dimbola lodge then maybe an hour or two building something cool, maybe a rock flower or some stars or something simple but groovy before attempting forcing some more maths into my unreceptive brain.
I’ve actually got the next chapter planned a little bit in the hope it might inspire me to get down to it. I don’t usually do planning, I write from the hip like the cool-ass gunslinger I am; er, dude.
I reckon you have to allow the muse to flow and you can’t do that if every little comma is worked out beforehand.
Anyway, isn’t that what editing is for?
The first draft is the chance to fly before the down to earth work starts although the last novel I’ve been working on has been great. Normally I hate checking every full stop but ‘The Act’ which may well end up getting yet another name change before publishing (Kim’s Brook maybe?) has been great. It’s in such a loose style that there’s plenty of room for adding bits of random metaphorical zang, zow and nong. Most of my stuff is a little more serious but maybe that’s exactly where I’ve been going wrong. Dumbfuck agents and traditional publishers have lost sight of the industry so I reckon anything goes now as I decide what’s worth publishing.
They can all go fuck themselves anyway because this one will be remaining with me until I decide it’s ready.
If HIS OWN DOWNFALL doesn’t get the recognition it deserves I won’t publish again until I’ve finished my degree. Too much work to be getting on with and I reckon 16 books is pretty good going for an ex reform-school kid. There’s time, at least I hope so. I’m just a bit worried the senility might get me before my best work is written.
It appears Astaar 2062 might go the same way and remain in the vault if I don’t manage to get on with the stoopid thing. If I could even manage to write a 1000 words a day I could finish the dumb thing by the end of July but… There’s always a but