Quirkipedia

Dark and bloody inspirational

2011-06-07T12:54:00.000-07:00

Review - Lord Loss, Darren Shan

I first stumbled across Shan's work after asking some advice over at Litopia. My query was simple - as a spot of research, I needed the names of authors who wrote young adult books that pushed the boundaries in how dark a story can be when written for children. If the book I'm working on at the moment holds true to how I envisage it, it's going to be dark. And bloody.

One of the titles fired my way was Lord Loss, which is the first in a series of ten, the Demonata, and it doesn't take a Mr Spock-like intellect to work out what the books are about.

The book opens with Grubbs Grady - come on, you know you're on solid ground with a name like that - enduring the teenage hell that is family. An elder sister who makes his life misery, parents who just don't get him; poor Grubbs just wants a break.

The break he gets is perhaps a little more than he asked for - his family are killed by the demon, Lord Loss, and his two demonic sidekicks. Grubbs manages to escape, but soon finds himself locked in a padded cell, trying to convince everyone that it wasn't your average Joe serial killer who wiped out his folks, but monsters from another plane.

Grubbs is saved when his Uncle Dervish visits, and seems to accept what he says, and Grubbs finds himself holed up in Dervish's large country house in the remote village of Carcery Vale. There, he befriends one of the local boys, to whom Dervish seems to give the run of the house, and the two of them start to piece together what happened, including the big question - why was Grubbs' family targeted by demons?

That's about all I want to reveal by way of plot, other than to say it's good - well worth a read, and I'll be making a date with book two, Demon Thief. What was of more interest to me was how Shan developed the characters, and just how far into depravity he took his young readers. Whether intentional or not, twenty pages in and I didn't like any of the Grubbs family. I was struggling to connect, not convinced I could tag along with the characters for another 240 pages. Then the demons attack, and literally rip Grubbs' family to shreds. And as the young lad tries to recover in his padded cell, the sympathy - and understanding - came. By the time the enigmatic Dervish appears on the scene, I was hooked.

I'm not sure if Shan set out to make Grubbs (and his family) as initially unappealing as I found him. It seemed a strange tack to take - the family I could understand, but the hero? Of course, reading is subjective, and maybe it was just me. Yet it worked, ultimately, because Grubbs changes during the course of the story, and that's what all good writing is about - developing characters, watching them grow and adapt to the challenges that are put in front of them. What helps is having strong supporting characters, and Shan has them in Grubbs' new friend, Bill-E, and in particular Dervish, who is one of the coolest characters I've met in children's fiction.

So just how dark does the book get? We're talking headless corpses, blood-splattered walls and bodies split open by page thirty. It doesn't quite reach such graphic violence again, instead changing focus and ratcheting up the tension.

And what does it tell me about my own work? That what I've got planned will (assuming it's anywhere half-decent) work, and, given the success of Shan and others of similar ilk, that there is a market for it. Kids, it seems, want to have the bejesus scared out of them, just like I did when I was a kid. Consider me inspired.

Yet this last point opens another can of cliched worms; should we really be scaring youngsters with tales of demons, vampires, murder and blood-letting? Over at the Manx Litfest Facebook page, there's been a discussion on this very topic, sparked by an article in the Wall Street Journal, which claimed that YA fiction is too dark. I don't see a problem, generally speaking. Kids have always wanted to be entertained by such stories, whether it's Dad telling a creepy story around the campfire, watching the latest teen horror on a sleepover with mates or reading about rampaging zombies eating people's brains.

Of course, there is a limit to everything, although it's hard to say what that is. There's dark, and then there's sick. Or perverse. Or both. One person on FB suggested elements of society are viewing such books as the equivalent of video nasties, with the natural progression to assuming that any kid who reads about a demon killing his sister is going to follow suit. Should we sterilise our writing for children in order to ensure they read only nice, happy stories and are falling over themselves in a bid to help the elderly across the road? There is a place for such positive, happy tales. But I sincerely hope we're not heading down such a restrictive path, where darkness is, well, confined to the shadows.

Struggling to stay in the game

2011-05-29T15:57:00.000-07:00

We're now 29 days into this 80,000 words in 80 days malarkey. Which, assuming my sums are correct, means my word count should be around the 29k mark. But it's not.

I've taken a 10-minute break to make a brew and write this post. The word count on the manuscript has just crawled over the 15k mark. So I'm writing a smidgen over 500 words a day, on average. I know. I'm not going to hit 80k. The good news is that I'm guessing the final word count for this script will come around 60k - so, with 51 days to go, I've got another 45k to write. Which is possible, right?

The bad news is that even 500 words a day is a struggle at times, given so many other demands on time. Not that I'm complaining; they are all of my own doing. But there are times when I check the word counts of other writers attemping this challenge and it's hard not to envy those who rack up several thousand words a day.

So onward I go. If I can hold the average at 500, I'll still have 40k words by the end. And that's 40k more than I would have had on May 1. You see, as with most things in life, it's all about perspective. Least that's what I'm telling myself.

Here goes nothing...

2011-04-30T14:33:00.001-07:00

So there's just over an hour to go before the madness descends - 80,000 words in 80 days. I'm feeling scarily confident about the idea, but fear that the lack of time will make this an exercise in futility. But life's about challenges, giving it your best and learning from your mistakes when you cock it up. Worst case scenario, I'll have X thousand extra words by the end of it than I would have had if I'd not thrown my hat in the ring, though there's no guarantee those words will make any sense.

I'm considering a ritual, or superstition, for the duration of the challenge; lucky boxer shorts, refusing to trim nasal hair, only drinking tea from left-handed mugs, allowing myself two shots of absinthe (flaming, of course) every time I hit the 1,000-word-a-day target.

Seriously, though, best of luck to all those who are similarly delusional and attempting the challenge. It promises to be chaotic, stressful, frustrating and emotional. It should also prove to be inspirational and bloody great fun. Let's get this party started...

Under starter's orders

2011-04-27T15:26:00.000-07:00

One of the most important lessons any writer can learn (and it's something you keep refining, whatever level you're at) is the skill of starting a story at the correct point. It applies to chapter openings as much as the opening of the book, or short story. Indeed, it's probably even more appropriate to short stories, given the word count limitations. No point wasting a few hundred words with superfluous drivel at the start, when in all likelihood you'll be scratching around at the end looking to squeeze everything in.

I suffered at the start of chapter two of... oh, let's call it The Mountain. (That won't be the title, but it does feature a mountain, after a fashion. And it's a big one at that). The chapter opened with a mysterious drifter arriving at an inn (I know, that old cliche). There's a kid spying on him from above the bar, waiting for the drifter to leave in the morning so he can follow him. I liked the way it introduced both of these characters, particularly the drifter. He had some cool and intriguing dialogue with the barman, and it allowed me to drop hints of backstory and character into the opening of the chapter.

But the more I re-read it, the more I realised I was slowing everything down. The single most important aspect of the chapter is that the lad is about to do something stupidly dangerous - setting off into the wilds in pursuit of this drifter, who may as well have death and violence stamped across his forehead. So I hit the fast forward button and the chapter now opens with the drifter in the bar, preparing to leave in the dead of night. He's still talking to the barman, and I've still managed to throw in some tantalising snippets. The moment the drifter opens the door to leave, the young fella is out of his spy hole and in pursuit.

Maintaining the pace, and intrigue, is vital, especially when you're writing for a younger audience. Chapter one ends with such a bang, that the last thing I wanted to do was slam the brakes on and have the reader judder to a halt. Yes, the opening to chapter two does slow things down in terms of action, but the what-the-hell-is-going-on-now intrigue is there from the off. At least I hope it is.

I see a lot of writers falling prey to the wrong starting place syndrome while reading submissions for Nemesis. They focus on too much backstory too early on, instead of hitting the ground running. You need to start the story as late as you possibly can, engaging readers from the get-go. You can fill them in with background as and when they need it as the story unfolds.

Having said all this, I'm not convinced that chapter one opens at the correct point. I've opened it late, but I've a nagging feeling that, on this occasion, a little earlier would work better. I'll let that idea ferment for a little while longer. At least I know how chapter three opens, once I find my way there.

80,000 words. 80 days. Game on.

2011-04-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking. He's been gone for ages, and he said he'd be around here more often. Godammit, he said he'd write.

It's been a busy start to the year - I say start, but we're nearly a third of the way through already - and the vow I made of focusing on me, of making 2011 the year I cut all the bullshit and dedicated myself to fiction, is lying curled up in a corner, kicked and beaten into submission. There's been lots on, in particular meetings and planning for Manx Litfest, and much behind-the-scenes shenannigans over at Nemesis, where we're working on an anthology by members of the Litopia Writers' Colony, as well as working with a few writers to develop their manuscripts towards publication. We've also just launched the Debut Novel Competition 2011, so if you're a writer reading this, get yourself over there and check it out.

But a couple of weeks ago, something stirred. I've been eyeing up two potential projects for the last six months or so, and dabbled at starts for each. In my mind, they are both strong projects, so much so that I'd reached stalemate - every time I opted for one, the other would stick it's nose in.

After some friendly advice (read boot up the ass), I had one of those rare moments where the trees miraculously part and you can finally see the wood. Inspired, I took the plunge and started working up ideas for the chosen project and rewrote the opening. It's brewing nicely now.

Earlier today I got a steer via Facebook to a blog - http://80kwords80days.blogspot.com/ - which, if you click and read, you'll see does exactly what it says on the tin. The goal - from May 1, over 80 days, you bang out 80,000 words. Job done.

So, that's the target. I know what you're thinking (part two) - he's said this kind of thing before. You're right, I have. But this time I mean business. I know, I've also said that before. Oh, well. You'll just have to take my word for it. Again. Come on, God loves a trier, at least that's what the old dear tells me.

I will endeavour to blog about this little experiment. Honest. I might even post a teaser about the plot. Maybe.

How are you celebrating World Book Night?

2011-03-05T04:16:00.000-08:00

It's World Book Night, and what better way to celebrate it than by joining other bibliophiles at a bookstore to talk about the wonders of the written word.

I've been kindly invited to the Bridge Bookshop in Port Erin by proprietor Angela Pickard and one of the books that will be given away on the night is Yann Martel's Life of Pi, one of those novels that everyone has heard of, and which I've not read.

I'm told it will be an informal affair, so not sure exactly how the night will pan out, but I'm really looking forward to it. If you happen to be out and about this evening around Port Erin, feel free to drop in and talk books.

One topic we will be discussing is Manx Lit Fest - you'll be able to find out more about it and sign up for a newsletter and email updates.

If you can't make it, do try and get involved with World Book Night in some way shape or form. It's a fantastic initiative and will hopefully go from strength to strength in future years.

Ass-kicking justice, Reacher-style

2011-02-20T14:45:00.000-08:00

Review - Worth Dying For, Lee Child

Ah, Jack Reacher. The 6ft 5in Terminator-like bringer of justice, who's up righting wrongs while Spider-Man and Superman are still pulling on their knickers and fighting over the Weetabix. For his latest ass-kicking session, Child deposits Reacher in Nebraska, where he sticks his nose into the business of the Duncan family, three ageing ex-farmers who rule their home county with a mafia-style grip.

When Reacher busts the face of one of their sons, suspecting him of beating his wife, the Duncans call in their heavies and send them in Reacher's general direction. If you've read any Reacher before, you know what's coming - pain for anyone in Jack's way, and a complex web of intrigue, a dirty great scab the Duncans want to keep hidden, and, well, Jack just can't help but pick at it.

I finished Worth Dying For several weeks ago, but as I started to think about a review, I realised there wasn't a whole lot to say. Not because it's a bad book; far from it, I think it's one of the finest of his fifteen adventures. But if you've already fallen for Reacher's charms, then you know you can't delve into the plot without removing the joy for others of watching the big man piece it together.

No, the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to talk about Reacher himself, and what it is that has enthralled millions of readers around the world.

Six years ago, when I read the first Reacher (Killing Floor) and blitzed through the back catalogue at a pace which had me believing I had true stalker potential, I thought of each book as one of my small guilty pleasures. It wasn't just because they were selling by the shitload, and so could be viewed as overly commerical; it was because the writing seemed too straightforward, Reacher a blunt vengeance-wreaking tool, almost superhero-like in his quest for justice. He was Batman, without the cape. And that was fine with me, but the impression I got from reviewers (and punters) was that it wasn't cool to admit it.

As the years, and books, passed, I realised I'd pegged it all wrong. The more I studied writing, and publishing, I began to see the beauty, and subtlety, of what Child was doing.

Sure, it all seems fairly formulaic - Jack gets caught up in some intrigue, sometimes of his own doing, other times because he's in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing is quite as it seems, there's usually a woman involved somewhere along the line, and Jack is usually two steps ahead of the villains (and three ahead of the reader).

And it's easy to understand the attraction. Reacher is part Bond, part Batman, part Man With No Name, and all hero. In fact, if Eastwood was forty years younger, and forty pounds heavier, he'd be ideal for taking Reacher to the big screen. Reacher wanders the US, moving on once the problem has been solved and justice meted out, carrying nothing but the clothes he wears, a toothbrush and, reluctantly, a bank card.

It's a brilliantly simplistic idea that Child forged and developed. There is something in Reacher's lifestyle that appeals to everyone. MrsQ is no doubt going to read me the riot act, but would I like to live the kind of life that Reacher does? Hell, yes. At least, part of me does. And I defy anyone, man or woman, to say otherwise - even if it's just one per cent, even if you know there is absolutely no chance of you doing so, there's always that thought - wouldn't that just be so damn cool?

What fascinates me about Child's writing is the intricacies of the reveal. I picked up Worth Dying For as I lay in bed one night and when I stopped for breath, even thought about anything other than what I was reading, I was on page eighty. It must have been an hour, maybe an hour and a half, and it felt like ten minutes. It was half two in the morning, I was wide awake (I'd been dead on my feet getting into bed) and I had to keep reading. I eventually quit half an hour later, but only because I knew I was looking after the kids the next day, and they'd be pouncing on my head in about four hours' time.

It's page-turning expertise of the highest order. Child is a master at coaxing you on, not just with another bit of action, or the promise of seeing Reacher taking down a few of the bad guys. It's those morsels of info that he reveals, delicately placed throughout to ensure you're cursing his name when the kids demand a viewing of Spongebob at half six in the morning. That in itself is a prized skill for any writer to attain, and one that - to my mind - puts Child right up there with the best authors working today.

Returning to Worth Dying For, and indeed its predecessor, 61 Hours, I've noticed a change in Reacher. His time on the road might be numbered. Avoiding spoilers, he's focused on one thing now - both books follow his path back to Washington DC - yet, at the same time, his thirst for justice and willingness to put himself in harm's way seems to be more intense. At the start of Worth Dying For, there's a point where Reacher knows he can just keep on walking. He's not embroiled in anything yet, there's no 'event' which lands him where he is. He can avoid everything and not get involved in what he believes to be a domestic situation. But he can't help himself. It's as if the bomb that has been ticking inside him all these years is ready to detonate.

I've no idea what Child has in store for Reacher. When I interviewed him for the Litopia e-zine, Muse, fifteen months ago, he said that as long as people want to keep reading about Reacher, he was happy to write the books. Folk seem happier than ever to read them. But I can't help but feel that Reacher is being steered towards some kind of climax. Whichever way it pans out, I'll be right there with Jack, striding into danger, no matter what time of the morning it is.

A story worth waiting for...

2011-02-09T13:32:00.000-08:00

During the fifteen years I spent as a freelance journalist, trainee and then staff journalist on regional newspapers, I can probably count on one hand the occasions when I felt proud of the work I did. Not those times when I thought I'd written a good story - rather, the times when I thought I'd actually done something worthwhile with what little talent I'd been granted.

One such instance was the £30,000-odd we raised in a month for breast cancer research, with the high point a world record-breaking chain of bras - 3.2 miles long - along Douglas Promenade (yes, the bras were empty at the time). All done in howling wind and pissing rain, but there was one hell of a sense of achievement when all was done and we were in the pub celebrating. Other moments were few and far between.

Then last night I heard some news that made me smile. And I'm still smiling now, twenty-four hours later. As a trainee on the Chorley Guardian, I received a letter from a woman called Diana Curren, highlighting the plight of a ruined historic building called Bank Hall, which stands by the River Douglas in the nearby village of Bretherton. The shell of the building remained, but it was crumbling away as the years passed and the grounds were wildly overgrown. Diana asked if anything could be done to raise awareness of the hall and protect if from any further deteroriation.

I met Diana at Bank Hall and instantly fell in love with the place. You could live a few hundred yards away from it and spend your entire life unaware of its existence. The hall dates back to the early 17th century, and you can read about its history here. It was the kind of place - both the building itself and the extensive grounds - for which the words moody and atmospheric were conjured.

Tall chimneys and a spectacular clock tower remained, but gone were the lime trees which once lined the drive to the front door, likewise the stone lions that guarded it. The building had been devastated by dry rot and the sheer weight of years of neglect.

Spurred on the by the visit, I wrote a feature on the hall's history and current plight. We asked for views from the public, and I wasn't expecting the strength of emotion the piece generated - particularly from those who either knew very little of Bank Hall, or were completely unaware of its existence.

I arranged a meeting (in a local pub, naturally) of interested parties and from that meeting was born the Bank Hall Action Group. I stayed active within the group, covering developments as a plan was formed. It led to the Chorley Guardian running the 'Save Bank Hall' campaign, which won awards. The strength of feeling within the community was astonishing. Over the next twelve months, meetings were held with the owners. Access was established, to the grounds if not the building, and - after what seemed like an age - some initial stabilising work was undertaken.

But then the campaign seemed to stall. There was little indication from the owners and the council of any real desire to come up with a solution. Some schemes were suggested, but never came to fruition. In September 1996, I left Chorley and returned to the Island.

The following years saw further work carried out - ivy was stripped away, trees growing out of the foundations were removed, and the garden was cleared of the jungle that was strangling it. More of the grounds were opened to the public, a visitor museum was built and each year a calendar of events was organised. I managed to stay in touch from time to time, one day hoping that the building could be restored in some way.

As the years passed, I lost faith. I shouldn't have. The Bank Hall team continued to work tirelessly behind the scenes. The website was created , a Facebook page appeared, the campaign to save the building continued to gather pace. The hall was also in with a chance of winning the first series of BBC's Restoration, which saw derelict historic sites vying for the public's vote.

Last night I heard the news that planning approval has finally been granted for a project that will restore Bank Hall, if not to its exact former glory, then at least to what should be a decent version of it. There will be apartments, and a visitors' centre in the clock tower and main hall/porch, a walled heritage garden (back to how it was in its pomp) and conversion of the greenhouse and potting sheds into a visitor entrance and cafe.

In this day and age, it sounds like a fair compromise. The news brought with it another rare feeling of pride from my time in journalism, five years after I left it. The wait has been worth it. What started sixteen years ago, with me as a wet-behind-the-years rookie trying to find a feature with which to fill a page gap before deadline, has ended - all being well - with a victory for people power.

I write these words not as a self-congratulatory pat on the back, but as a tribute to the folk who took up the fight in those early days and those who continued to carry the baton as the years passed. It also serves as a reminder that, whatever it is you want in this life, most of the time you have to work damn hard to get it - and if you give up on your dreams, you won't live to see them come to glorious life. And that's particularly apt within the world of publishing.

My thanks go to everyone in the Bank Hall Action Group, past and present. A fantastic achievement.

(My thanks also to Bank Hall tour guide John Howard for allowing me to use his photographs - if you want to see more cool pics, visit - and like - the Hall's Facebook page here)

A nip here, a tuck there

2011-01-24T16:05:00.000-08:00

So here we are. I know what you’re thinking – he’s looking a little different. Maybe a haircut, or the loss of a few pounds around the midriff. Or has he been spreading cream on those wrinkles? If I’m honest, it’s all of the above, although don’t be telling Mrs Q about using her cream.

The real change, of course, comes with this blog. It’s nothing radical. Just a few tweaks here and there.

First up, the theme. When I started The Witching Hour a couple of years ago, it was to document my occasional up and several downs in writing, based around the fact that the main time I get to indulge my artistic bent is when other sane people are in bed, doing whatever people do in such contraptions. The blog grew from that, but as time went on it became clear that with other commitments (mainly to Nemesis Publishing), my posts were becoming somewhat sporadic. And what’s more, I doubted that anyone would be remotely interested in a daily account of my struggles to find some words and put them in the right order.

So I stepped back late last year and took stock. The result is this – Quirkipedia, a little corner attic of the internet where I can talk about everything to do with the written word, be it book reviews, interviews, publishing news, my own writing, works in progress, scripts…you name it. And you’re more than welcome to join in the fun. Just make sure you bring a bottle. As it happens, after putting writing on hold for the best part of 2010, I’ve promised myself that this year the focus will be back on writing. Yeah, I've heard that one before too.

For this blog makeover, I’ve revised the gizmos and gadgets on the right hand side of the page, added a few more blog links and authors and the like.I've a raft of books to review, sent to me by kindly publishers, and at this rate I'll need to take on a reviewer.

So enjoy the decor, put your feet up and stay a while. If you have any ideas for the blog, or for a particular post, drop me a line - johnquirkbooks(at)gmail.com

Cheers
JQ

That time of year again...

2010-12-24T16:57:00.000-08:00

The wrapping is done, Mrs Q has retired to bed and Rudolf has eaten his carrot. It's well past the witching hour again, and this particular night - the early hours of Christmas morning - has always been a favourite of mine, more so now than when I was a kid.

There is something magical about the quiet dead of night as we say goodbye to Christmas Eve. Is it the air of anticipation of seeing the childrens' eyes light up when they walk into the front room in the morning (assuming, naively, that I can get up before them)? Is it the fact there's no work for the next four days? Is it the opportunity to indulge myself in a little bubble of solitude after the usual chaotic run-up to Christmas? The answer is, they all play at part, along with the fact that it is an occasion to reflect on what's gone before and ponder what may come to pass in the next 12 months.

Whatever your circumstances, no matter how busy you are on Christmas Day or how many people you're entertaining, remember to take a few minutes for yourself. Hide yourself away, whether it's in the garage, the attic or the closet. Indulge yourself. Honestly, you'll be forgiven.

All that remains is to wish everyone a merry Christmas and all the very best for 2011. For all writers out there, I hope it's the year you've been dreaming about. And if you're one of the huge army of writers seeking a breakthrough, let me double that. I'll be back blogging early in the New Year, when this place will have had a facelift.

Till then, take care.

Cheers
JQ

Breaking point

2010-11-22T14:16:00.000-08:00

Each year, around about this point - a month or so before Christmas - I go into literary meltdown. It's not a painful process, least it won't appear that way to bystanders or those watching me knock back beers at festive shindigs. I tend to mosey on through life as if December was just another month.

But it's not. It's the end of another year, and it marks the end of another slice of life that passes with so many dreams unfulfilled. As the years pile on top of each other, the frustration - and subsequent meltdown - only increases. I look back on the past eleven months, and the end result is always the same - I've never achieved half of what I set out to do. In fact, might as well make that one third (I'm talking literary endeavours here, of course, not family and work).

Sure, there are usually successes along the way. This year, it's been all about Nemesis Publishing, and the progress we've made on that front. It's been a good year over there - our first book published, several other projects developing nicely. I should be happy. But I'm not. There's the Manx Lit Fest we announced recently (separate from Nemesis), and early buzz is encouraging. It's a big, exciting and somewhat daunting project. I should be happy. But I'm not.

Earlier this year I was asked to edit the first issue of the Muse e-zine, a cool creation from those within the Litopia Writers' Colony. It was, by and large, considered a success and drew some fine praise from within the publishing industry. I should be happy with such a result. But I'm not.

You get the message?

Those eagle-eyed among you will have spotted a common theme here. For those who haven't, it's quite simple. What have I written? In terms of fiction? Bugger all. That's not strictly true, as there have been dabblings here and there. A few thousand words of this manuscript, a couple of thousand on that manuscript. But the bottom line is, I've filled my year with so many other projects, that writing has been the very poor relation. Yet again. A little bit like this blog, to be honest.

And so once again I look ahead to another year, a clean slate come January 1, on which I can revise my goals and aspirations and promise myself that, this year, I really will knuckle down and aim for that fiction breakthrough. Am I kidding myself? Are these hundred and one other hats, which I seem to accumulate like the Pied Piper gathering kids, a mask for me, a way of deflecting attention away from my writing? If they are, I think I need to ask myself some harsh questions.

So another few weeks of soul-searching await. I don't have any answers. Hell, I'm not sure I even know the questions. I only hope that I can find some kind of resolution, because this frustration is eating away at me.

Something huge and exciting this way comes...

2010-10-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I was around these here parts. There are a couple of reasons why this old blog has been quiet...

Much of my spare time has been swallowed up by Nemesis Publishing, for which the last month or so has been sufficiently busy to warrant investing in a one-way ticket to the asylum. Our website is now launched and, while still a work in progress in terms of content, it's pretty much there. (The site also has a built-in blog, which means I'll be winding up the Nemesis blogspot, which I must get on to soon)

Meanwhile, Friday just gone saw the arrival in our hands of Pocket Rocket, the first commerical project for Nemesis. The autobiography of 1980s Manx cycling star Steve Joughin is in Isle of Man bookstores now, and (hopefully) should be in selected UK stores before too long (the peculiar pastime that is book distribution is something that the new Nemesis blog will tackle very soon...)

While there's still much to do on Nemesis in the short-term, with the website gone live and Pocket Rocket published the hope is that things will settle down somewhat, allowing me to divert some of that spare time towards writing, and this blog, which leads me to the second reason why there's been tumbleweed blowing around these digs.

I've spent the last few weeks mulling over changes to a) this blog b) my personal website and c) what I get up to (from a writerly point of view) on twitter and facebook et al.

The fact is I've been stagnating, and - largely because of time contstraints - not being overly social in the world of social media. It's something I need to address, and so changes will be afoot over the coming weeks. There will be more reviews on here - including one or two guest reviewers - and more about what I'm writing, and plenty of good authorly info stuff too.

There is something else you don't know about (well, one or two of you might) and that is a rather large project, nothing to do with me writing, but everything to do with books, authors and all things literature. I'm hoping to launch that over the next few days, via a new blog, twitter and facebook. Watch this space. It should be fun.

Until then, I'm off to find a corner where I can quietly grumble and moan about book distribution.

Raise a glass to Vicky the Viking

2010-09-06T13:08:00.000-07:00

They reckon all good things come to those who wait. I’m not so sure about that one; there are plenty of things I’ve been waiting a long time for – a Manhattan apartment, an Aston Martin, my own private sun-drenched island – and the postman ain't delivered.

But when it comes to writing, working through issues in your head over a period of time, even if it’s subconsciously, does work wonders. Back in April, I posted about some feedback I’d received on young adult project Quackenbush, which effectively told me that I needed to crack the plot apart and give it a major overhaul. It was at once a wonderful Vicky the Viking lightbulb moment and a tremendous kick in the knackers.

The problems, with hindsight, were obvious. The effect on my sanity, however, led me to shelve the entire project and start something afresh. I don’t know what I was waiting for – I knew exactly what needed to be done with QB, but having jousted with the manuscript for so long, I just didn’t have the willpower to face up to a major rewrite.

The last five months have largely been taken up by events over at Nemesis Publishing, but I managed to knock out 8,000 words on a new crime project. They are decent words too. Plenty of mystery, intrigue, violence and the like for the protagonist to chew on. I was reading through it again last week and something which I’d known all along, but not admitted, became clear: decent though the words may be, they lacked colour. The main reason is that it’s set in New York, and I’ve only been there once, for five days, eight years ago. I know many writers can wax lyrical about places they’re not familiar with, but I don’t think I’m one of them.

A few hours later, Mrs Q mentioned something about Quackenbush that reminded me of its existence.

A few more hours later, I saw a facebook update from a friend and fellow scribe which said that, after two years of writing/revising/editing/polishing, his manuscript was completed and he was about to jump on the submissions bandwagon. I was chuffed for him and impressed that he’d shown such dedication for two years. It made me feel somewhat inadequate. Boot to backside duly received.

And then… a plan started to form. Later that night I began drawing the various strands together in my head, working out solutions to the problems with the QB storyline that would be caused by major surgery.

On the drive into work this morning, it all came together. The buzz was back. No longer did I see the rewrite as an insurmountable obstacle; instead it had me salivating and eager to get going. And, of course, there’s no issue with geography on QB, as it’s set on my doorstep.

I’d love to know how the mind works – my mind, at least – as there doesn’t appear to be any rhyme nor reason for this sudden clarity of thinking. Not that I’m complaining. Will it last? Who knows. I've seen enough false dawns with my writing to know there are no guarantees. But there’s only one way to find out.

A loss of innocence

2010-08-02T11:49:00.000-07:00

Review - The Last Child, John Hart

There are few more emotive crimes than the abduction of a young child. On a personal level, it resonates with us because we have children, or grandchildren, or nieces and nephews. And on a wider canvas, it brings home to us all just how fragile an innocent life can be. Indeed, it’s one of those crimes that many criminals find abhorrent.

It’s a subject to which novelists continue to return, which for more delicate readers might appear to be somewhat insensitive; and this in turn makes it imperative that a writer treats the issue with care and strikes a fine balance between engaging the reader’s emotions and not sensationalising the story for the sake of cheap thrills. With The Last Child, it’s a balance that John Hart has found with considerable skill.

The story opens one year on from the abduction of thirteen-year-old Johnny Merrimon’s twin sister, Alyssa. The intervening twelve months has seen his father walk out and not return, and his mother languishing in a drugs and alcohol-fuelled pit of despair and now sharing her bed with Ken Holloway, local bigwig entrepreneur and vicious bastard. Johnny, meanwhile, spends his nights trawling the streets, delving into the town’s seedy underbelly, convinced that he will find the person who has his sister.

Johnny’s only allies are his best friend, Jack, who follows him like a faithful hound, and a cop, Detective Clyde Hunt, who has two obsessions eating away at him from the inside – his failure to find Alyssa, and his love for Johnny’s mother.

Out by the river one day, Johnny witnesses a hit-and-run and becomes convinced that the victim was killed because he knew what happened to Alyssa. Everyone else is convinced he’s losing it. When another girl disappears, a lot of people suddenly become very interested in what young Johnny might have found out.

Hart sets up two or three threads early on, and you’re never quite sure whether they will come together, and if so, how. They ebb and flow in their significance, but his plotting is effortless, particularly the way in which the lumbering giant convict, Levi, comes stumbling into the story and impacts on everyone in some small way.

As Clyde and Johnny conduct separate investigations into the missing girl (Clyde because he is seeking redemption; Johnny because he believes the same person has his sister), their paths cross, both in their search for the girl and their bid to save Johnny’s mother from Holloway, who seems capable of just about anything.

It’s rare to find a book where the beautiful craft evident in the storyline is matched by the richness of its characters. On the face of it, the standout is Johnny – he carries the thrust of the narrative and he’s the natural one to root for. However, the real success here is Clyde, who early on comes over as the clichéd obsessed cop, and a single parent to boot, complete with teenage son with whom he can’t hold a conversation any longer than five seconds. But that opinion soon fades. Clyde might not be the sharpest cop in the precinct, but he’s dogged, and his dedication to Johnny’s mother – and Johnny – is real lump-in-the-throat material.

Despite the warmth Hart generates with his leads, and the beauty of his prose, make no mistake; this is a bleak story, one in which you will most likely demand vigilante justice several times over. Ultimately, it’s a tale about enduring love, the strength of family and the remarkable resilience of the human heart, and mind, to overcome devastating events. Regardless of how dark it might get, this is a story about hope, and how those closest to you will carry you when that hope fades. Highly recommended.

Crime and self-inflicted punishment

2010-07-25T14:23:00.000-07:00

An email popped into my inbox tonight, from Liz Evans, this year's chairman of the Crime Writers' Association's Debut Dagger award. Sadly, it was a circular to her mailing list, and not a sexy little note telling me I'd won and had a horde of panting publishers chasing after me.

I was thinking about the Debut Dagger last night, after reading on twitter that RJ Ellory had picked up the Theakstons Old Peculiar Crime Novel of the Year at the Harrogate Festival for A Simple Act of Violence (congratulations, Roger - he was a gent when being interviewed for the first issue of Muse).

I've entered the Debut Dagger three times (I think). It's awarded to the best opening of a crime novel by an unpublished novelist - 3,000 words, plus a synopsis - and, as it draws several hundred entries a year from around the globe, it's no disgrace not being one of the ten or so shortlisted entries, from which the winner is announced.

I wasn't expecting to win this year. I'd not entered it. That said, I've never expected to even be shortlisted, as my entries have all had three things in common - they were rushed, the synopses were ill-thought out and, because of those first two, I had no confidence in what I was submitting. Sure, there was some decent passages in each, but any writer will tell you - if you don't really believe in what you're writing, then you can't expect anyone else to.

They were rushed because I left it far too close to deadline, which was a hangover from my days as a journalist. Hell, that's a hangover that still hangs around, regardless of how good a boy I am at any particular point in time. I vowed that, for my next Debut Dagger entry, it would be as polished and planned as I could make it. I even chose against entering the 2010 award because the closing date was looming. Instead, I started planning for next year, when I assume the deadline will again be around mid-February.

I mulled over an idea for a long time, before taking the plunge a couple of months ago. I wrote the first 3,000 words, then put it to one side and went back to it ten days ago. I'm intent on completing the manuscript ahead of the Debut Dagger - in fact, I've set myself the ludicrous deadline of first draft completed by the end of October. Seeing as I'm only just shy of 8,000 words right now, that has to be right up there near the top of the list of dumb Quirk ideas.

In terms of the deadline, at least on this occasion I'm well ahead of the game. However, that email from Liz Evans was a sucker punch. It wasn't the email itself, of course, but what it contained - details of this year's winner, and the highly commended, along with a quick blurb of each. The problem? Yeah, you guessed it - after reading them, I went back and read through my effort so far. And then looked at the overall concept and plot. Outcome? Wasn't happy. Felt like I was wasting my time. Needed to start again.

Am I alone among writers in feeling such utter desolation? What am I saying - of course I'm not. It's a natural reaction, I'm told. So I've filed Liz's email away to be read again only when the first draft is completed and the synopsis is at least in decent shape. Only then will I be able to take a step back and, hopefully, judge whether what I've created has any real potential.

For now, it's on with finding an average of one thousand words a day for the next three months or so. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it.

Sold out...?

2010-06-30T11:47:00.000-07:00

I was in the local Waterstones the other day, doing a spot of research on Manx books for Nemesis. As I scanned the shelves of local books, I realised that they weren't stocking any copies of The Manx Giant or The Manx Connection. The latter wasn't a surprise - it was published three years ago and, while it's still selling in dribs and drabs, it's a bit long in the tooth. The Giant, though, is still relatively new, particularly in terms of the local market.

My first reaction to there being no copies of Giant was, 'great, at least it's still selling'. Once that fleeting moment of pride had passed, my mind changed tack; if the distributor isn't on the ball and ensuring that shelves are remaining stocked, I'm losing potential sales. That same night, as coincidence would have it, I heard from other sources (honest - I'm not in the habit of stalking bookshops counting copies of my books; at least not yet) that the Giant was out of stock in WH Smith and St Paul's Bookshop in Ramsey. I dropped the publisher of the Giant a line to let them know, and hopefully it will be sorted one way or another.

What the last few days has brought to light, with my Nemesis Publishing hat on, is the need to ensure that we don't fall into the same trap, either as a publisher or in dealing with distributors. As an author, you deliver the final draft of the manuscript to your publisher and then you're often out of the equation, other than the launch, signings and talks; in terms of the nuts and bolts of ensuring the books get into the right places, it's all down to the publisher and distributor. As the mere writer of a book, you can feel a little out in the cold. For that reason publishers have a duty to look after the interests of their writers. As we continue to look into distribution, it's an issue about which we're becoming increasingly aware.

Leaving all that to one side, I'll be packing up the life-size cut-out of the Giant and heading to the Tynwald Day celebrations on July 5 (that's the Manx national day, for those non-Manxies reading this), where the kind folk at the World Manx Association have put aside a table in their Homecomers' Marquee for me to sell my wares, including The Manx Connection. If you've been hunting high and low in vain for a copy of either book, I'll happily scribble in a copy for you. Assuming you hand over some cash, of course.

Shunned and overlooked

2010-05-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, I was in the audience at the Erin Arts Centre for Mannslaughter and Mayhem, which saw three leading Scottish crime novelists entertain a full house with plenty of insight (and no little wit) into the life of a writer.

Stuart MacBride, Donna Moore and Allan Guthrie were brought to the Isle of Man thanks to the efforts of Chris Ewan, Island resident and author of the Good Thief’s Guide novels, and the support of the Isle of Man Arts Council.

It was a fine night, despite the fact that I’d not read any of the authors’ books (something I’m in the process of remedying), but I don’t think it is essential for such an event anyway, particularly if you are as fascinated by writers talking about writing as I am. (This, of course, is not the same thing as a journalist turning up to interview an author and not having read any of his material, which should be a shooting offence)

First up, kudos to Chris (and his team of helpers) for pulling such an event together; it worked very well, particularly the nice touch of having the children’s crime writing award results on the same night, with the youngsters present. I’m not sure whether this is the kind of event Chris wants to repeat on a regular basis, but the full house at least showed the Manx public’s hunger for such events is there.

It’s a shame, then, that the Island’s literary scene is so poorly served. You can’t seem to swing a guitar around your head for fear of hitting a music festival, we have a thriving theatrical scene and artists have their exhibitions. Mainstream bands and singers are brought to the Island, along with a regular supply of comedians.

But when it comes to us lowly writers, there’s barely a ripple in the Manx literary scene, if indeed there is a scene in the first place. Maybe sitting listening to authors talk about writing and reading out extracts from their books isn’t considered sexy when compared with comedians forcing you to cough up a lung, or jumping up and down screaming and throwing your knickers at some heartthrob singer. But, hey, us fanatical readers – and writers – can get just as excited, in our own little way.

I can only hope the Manx literary scene is better served in the years to come. Hopefully, Mannslaughter and Mayhem will be just the beginning. I have one or two ideas of my own, but that's all they are for now, vague notions. But one day, by Manannan's mighty sword, we'll show 'em.

On European tour with the last of the summer wine...

2010-05-01T04:35:00.000-07:00

In the words of the late, great Richard Harris, immortally committed to moviedom in Eastwood's classic, Unforgiven, I can say only this. 'Eat shit and fried eggs...'

Today, after what seems like an eternity, but in fact was only ten days, I can finally sense an end to the pretty miserable, depressing and shattering rottenness to which I've been subjected. And if there's one thing a blog is good for, it's allowing the writer an opportunity to drag everyone else down to share in that misery.

It started as a cough, so I took some cough mixture. Then a sore throat, so I bought some Strepsils. There followed headaches, and pains in legs, so I took some painkillers. Then a draining tiredness, so I took a day off work and took to my bed. There then followed the weekend, during which I realised this wasn't a bug I could shake off in a couple of days. So last Monday I did what I hate doing, and went to see Doc. He told me I had a chest infection, and a touch of bronchitis for good measure. So he gave me some antibiotics. 'That should do the trick,' he reckoned.

By Tuesday night, with the bronchitis now picking up the baton and leading from the front, I just wanted to curl up with the wheelie bins and let the refuse collectors deposit me somewhere. Back to see Doc, and some extra-strong tablets. And an inhaler. Three days later, and I'm now managing a whole hour, on occasion, without coughing my guts up. Result.

So there you have it. And all this just two weeks after I turned forty. All those well wishes, cards and presents, and 'life begins at forty' rubbish - you can take them back. I've reverting to mid-thirties. So there.

While there's no such thing as a good time to get sick (apart from when I broke my collarbone playing footy just a few days before World Cup 2002 started, resulting in three weeks off work), the last couple of weeks have been particularly bloody frustrating.

First, I'm now way behind on editing the Steve Joughin autobiography over at Nemesis Publishing, with all manner of deadlines looming. Second, I had just caught the buzz for a new writing project, and was all set to dive in. Not even dipped my toe yet. Third, there are 101 other jobs that need doing, including finishing the Nemesis website ready to go live, a backlog of books to review on this blog, and a cooker to clean, although the latter has been on the to-do list for so long that I think MrsQ may just have forgotten about it.

That said, it's not all been doom and gloom. This weekend I get to print out and proofread the first issue of MUSE, the new literary e-zine over at Litopia, which I've edited. And it looks mighty fine, too. The launch should be in the next week or two.

Also, I took a call yesterday from the new president of the World Manx Association, which next year celebrates its centenary. He wanted to know if, given the research I undertook for The Manx Connection, which saw me globetrotting to the various Manx societies, I would be interested in being co-opted on to a special committee set up to organise the centenary celebrations. Naturally, I said hell yes.

Finally, at least the infection and bronchitis didn't start this weekend, just as I prepare to head off on Monday night to Crete. I'm leaving MrsQ, MasterQ and BabyQ behind and heading to the land of minotaurs with my old dear Ma. My late grandfather was part of the Manx Regiment, the British Army's crack Ack-Ack gunners who battled the Germans at Souda Bay on Crete in May 1941.

Eight thousand troops were killed in about ten days of fighting, roughly a 50/50 split between Allied and German forces. My grandfather was one of the 17,000 Allied forces captured when Crete finally fell to the Germans, and he spent four years in a prisoner of war camp. I went to Crete as a youngster, but never visited Souda Bay. Ma has never been there - indeed, she's not been abroad since 1975 and is now 76, so this is very much a pilgrimage for her, and my aunt and uncle, who are coming along for the ride.

So, I'm heading away with three relatives in their mid-seventies, none of whom are exactly light on their feet or overly mobile. I'm there to drive them around, lug their bags in and out of hotels and generally make sure they're okay. More than one person has commented that it has the potential to turn into an episode of Last of the Summer Wine. My main worry is this - if the bronchitis isn't sorted out in the next 48 hours, it will be them looking after me.

But regardless of how I'm feeling, it promises to be a pretty emotional time. I'll let you know how we get on, with a few photos for good measure.

A momentous day, in more ways than one

2010-04-12T12:24:00.000-07:00

It's been quite a day. Our little girl has, on the third night of asking, fallen asleep in her first proper bed without the need to get in and out of it sixteen times in the space of twenty minutes. I am a relieved man, and yes, I'm fully aware of the dangers of speaking too soon.

Moreover, I managed to finish cooking the tea tonight without burning the joint of roast pork to a cinder, an achievement on a par with me managing to put up a blind over the weekend without a) cursing; b) injuring myself; and c) flouncing off in a DIY-induced huff. Not only am I a relieved man, I'm a changed man too.

That's not all. Two fairly momentous things happened over the last 24 hours. First, I finished a short story - yes, as in complete - for the first time since, oh, dinosaurs last walked the earth. I actually finished writing it a week ago, and have spent several days fretting about how crap it is and trying to polish it. More impressively, this evening I took the plunge and submitted it to a competition. It's only a small affair, and I've only done it to get a taste of entering stuff into competition, but it's a start. There are some pretty big comps coming up in the next few months, and I want to enter at least a couple. From small acorns, and all that.

The second momentous happening involves Quackenbush, the young adult adventure novel that is enjoying a longer gestation period than the frilled shark (three and a half years, apparently). Regular visitors will know I've been having a bit of a tempestuous relationship with QB. The first draft has been almost complete for some time, but other projects saw it put on hold, and I've recently been trying to edit and rewrite large swathes of it, without, it has to be said, a huge amount of success.

One of main problems with it has been the setting - it's based in and around the Isle of Man, and draws on Celtic mythology. I wasn't convinced that was anywhere near sexy enough to catch the eye of an agent or publisher, regardless of how strong I felt the characters and plot were. So I asked a contact, someone with oodles of experience within publishing, what he thought.

Isle of Man? No major problem. Celtic mythology? Might be a little old hat, but could work. Can you give me the basic plot, says he? Here you go, says I.

He came back to me with two points - and each of them had me laughing. Not because they were ridiculous; no, they were so bloody insightful that I couldn't believe I'd missed them. The suggestions? One is based around the background to our young hero, Tom, who up to now has been a local Manx lad - in a nutshell, the adventure comes to him. That in itself might not sound like an issue, but think of all the exciting adventure yarns you've either read or watched on the big screen - the vast majority feature an outsider turning up in an unfamiliar place. As my advisor said, as the reader you're effectively seeing the story from the hero's point of view - so you are experiencing the story as it happens to them. That's point one.

Point two: what the hell do you need this Quackenbush character for? For background, QB is a bit of a legend, a cool dude who doesn't take shit from anyone. In the draft as it stands, Tom and he team up - but today's puzzler was, why? Why give Tom a partner who is so tough and cool, it's pretty bloody obvious from the get-go that they're going to succeed. Where is the sense of danger in that, the excitement?

Nowhere, is the answer. Why can't Tom take on the villainous adults on his lonesome? Have him endure all manner of hell and pain and come out the other side? Absolutely no reason whatsoever.

So, I have some thinking to do. If I'm going to follow these new directions, it will mean wholesale changes to the manuscript. The plot itself can remain reasonably unchanged - but huge chunks would need to be scrapped, other sections totally rewritten and several characters removed entirely from the story. In other words, a major, long-term project.

Right now, it's all a bit fresh. I don't know if I can face restructuring the story at this moment in time. I'm itching to write, not rewrite and edit. So it may be that I turn my focus to another project for the time being. I'm not sure. Either way, I don't want to rush it. As we say in Manxland, 'ta traa dy lioar ayn' - there's time enough.

Still, at least I've got the short story machine finally firing. I'll focus on churning out a few more of those while the old brain decides what it wants to do with QB. I can't wait to find out. The suspense is killing me.

John Quirk - an obituary

2010-04-05T11:43:00.000-07:00

Today marks the first full day of my fifth decade on this planet. That word, fifth, is mighty bloody scary. Reaching forty is bad enough, but realising that you're now marching towards fifty gives rise to a particular dread if you're someone who is petrified of dying.

When I fired up the the laptop yesterday, the big day itself, to check emails, a few were my daily deliveries from Google alerts - I've set a few up, including one for this blog, two for Manx Giant and Manx Connection, and my name. It's good to have a heads up if someone is ripping you to pieces, and nice to be able to thank those who link something nice to you.

I checked the first few yesterday and there was nothing of note. But then I clicked open the 'John Quirk' alert. On a day when I was already subjecting myself to the great 'what I have done with my life so far' scrutiny, and was only too aware of my advancing age following an accident involving our little princess, a trampoline and my back, the one link in the alert did nothing to cheer me up.

The title read: John Quirk Obituary

It's really not the kind of thing you want to be reading on the day when everyone says life begins. Morbid curiousity made me click on the link to see which poor sod had died. It turned out to be a John C Quirk, 72, from Minnesota, so he at least enjoyed a reasonable innings. What it did strike home is the fact that, assuming I too am lucky enough to enjoy a decent innings, the chances are I'm around halfway through that innings, and quite probably over the halfway mark.

It's a sobering train of thought. I'm not going to inflict more pressure on myself by vowing that 'this will be the year when I make that fiction breakthrough and strike a publishing deal'... blah blah blah.

I've done it before, and it doesn't work. You've just got to keep chipping away, and hope that one day your big break will arrive. There is, however, a sense of purpose forming in my mind, unlike anything I've experienced before. It's a determination to work even harder to achieve my goals. That's not to say I've not worked hard in the past, but I'm my own harshest critic, and there have been years I've wasted.

As the years slip past, you realise there will be fewer opportunities to do the things you want to do, so in turn you have to make sure you don't waste them. When the call does come from the Big Guy upstairs, the one thing I don't want to do is click on my obituary from whatever heavenly internet cafe I'm in at the time and feel that I've not achieved what I set out to do. Because that would really piss me off.

So, it's time for action stations. Time to get cracking. Or it will be, when this bloody back sorts itself out...

Rediscovering my missing urge

2010-03-24T15:57:00.000-07:00

A few days left in the month, and it's been a mixed one for writing. I signed up for the National Novel Editing Month in March, in attempt to rediscover my mojo for the near-completed young adult manuscript that is Quackenbush.

NaNoEdMo tells you that you need to rack up 50 hours in the editing hot seat in order to get your Noddy badge, a sense of satisfaction and a warm glow inside. I knew from day one that it was a no-hoper; an average of 90-120 minutes a day? Forget it.

But I went with it anyway, knowing that whatever hours I clocked up would at least be hours working on the project, which is what I'd been missing for far too long. As it is, I've registered twelve hours so far, and should hit twenty by the time March 31 knocks on the door.

An honourable failure? Hell, I wouldn't even go that far. In terms of hours, I won't even make the halfway mark. However, the experience has more than proved its weight in gold, because I've fallen in love again with the book.

It happened last Saturday, when a gang of us from Skeealleydern writers' group descended on a library for a day's workshop. Six hours solid, and I've got the bug back, the itch to sit down and edit/rewrite, because I can see where I'm going. And believe me, I was beginning to wonder whether that would happen again for this particular project.

The plan is to crack on with QB, but there's also the consideration that a lot of my time will be taken up during the next few months (on the other side of our front room table) with Nemesis Publishing, which is entering a major phase in its development.

It's vital that I press on with Nemesis, but I certainly don't want to have my urge for QB go missing in action again, not after we've just declared undying love for each other. Again.
We seem to have broken up and reconciled more times than Ken and Deidre. Of course, I'm sure that this time it's forever...

I heard it on my radio...

2010-03-23T16:10:00.000-07:00

I was all set to post tonight about how Muse, the new Litopia e-zine, is with the designer and maybe talk about the process involved in pulling the first issue together.

Then I logged into Litopia for a quick browse to see what was occurring, and discovered all hell had broken loose. The reason? Let's come to that in a moment...

I first stumbled across Litopia in January 2008 while researching literary agents and their submission guidelines. On Redhammer's site, run by London-based Peter Cox, it suggested I try this writer's colony, through which Peter would - after I'd shown a bit of dedication - accept submissions. I logged in, and discovered Litopia.

I've spoken of the merits of Litopia several times here in the past, but I don't think I've ever explained just what makes it so bloody good. There are two levels of membership - those who sign up begin as grade members, who have access to several forums, including Cafe Grande, where everything and anything about writing is discussed. After a period of time, you submit a piece of writing for full member status, and if it's up to scratch, you're upgraded to full member... and suddenly the whole colony opens up to you.

Another cafe for full members to shoot the breeze; Ask the Agent forum; Ask the Editor forum; monthly competitions; critique 'houses', separated into genre (the major benefit for writers); and, last but not least, the Pitch Room, where you submit your work direct to Peter (after having taken it through the relevant 'house'. And in return, Peter gives you a 25-minute or so video of feedback. Direct from an agent's mouth. Seriously, this is invaluable stuff for an unpublished writer. Gold dust, in fact.

I joined at a fortuitous moment; the Colony was going through an overhaul, I put my name forward to get involved behind the scenes and was asked to be one of the moderators looking after membership submissions. Next thing I knew, I was an occasional panelist on Litopia After Dark podcast, and writing the home page news stories for the Colony, based largely on members' achievements.

I've continued to stay involved behind the scenes, and it's fair to say that I wish I'd stumbled upon Litopia fifteen years ago, when I was a wet-behind-the-ears halfwit who thought he knew about books and publishing. As it turned out, I still knew next to nothing two years ago. That's no longer the case, and that is all down to Litopia.

It's not just the masses of advice and information that is available; it's the camaraderie between members, the understanding that, while you might be banging away at your keyboard hammering out your manuscript in the dead of night with not a soul around... you are not alone.
You're surrounded by writers, and publishers, and editors, and agents, and agents' readers, and successful, published authors. I really can't recommend it enough, but with one proviso - only join if you're serious about your writing. It's not a playground, even though there is plenty of fun to be had.

So, where am I going with this?

Today, Peter officially announced Radio Litopia. Using Peter's own words: 'Radio Litopia is a radio station devoted to writing, reading and everything inbetween, a logical extension of the highly successful podcasts we've been producing for the last two years. Our station, like thousands of others, is an online radio station. We broadcast over the internet rather than air waves. All our shows will be available as podcasts, too - making the audience even bigger.'

Potentially, this is huge. An entire radio station devoted to the written word? Any writer's number one fantasy, and yes, that's including what you think I'm thinking about.

As has been routinely discussed on the Daily and After Dark podcasts, publishing is undergoing something of a radical transformation, and Peter is positioning Litopia at the forefront of this changing climate, and Radio Litopia is just the next step.

There are two other factors which make Radio Litopia such a mouthwatering proposition. First, it's the fact that Peter has opened the entire programming up to members of Litopia to become involved with, be it as programme producers, panelists, reviewers, interviewers, technical support - or all of these. In the few hours since the announcement was made, the response in the 'Backstage' forum has been incredible.

The second factor, which goes for Litopia as a whole and not just what is happening with the radio station, is Peter's damn infectious enthusiasm. This man is seriously crazy about writing, authors, publishing - in fact, anything to do with books. Some might say he's just plain crazy. Yet it's an enthusiasm which is very difficult to escape, and certainly brushes off on my involvement, and I know I'm not alone in that.

So, Radio Litopia. It's here, it's groovy, and it will kick ass. Queen might even sing a song about it.
For now, you can download the existing podcast shows as normal. But over the course of the coming weeks, you'll start to see a heavier programming schedule appear. Make sure you check it out; if you're serious about writing, you'd be a fool not to.

Harry Carpenter - legend

2010-03-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

Harry Carpenter. Damn, sometimes you don't realise how much you think of a 'celebrity' until they've departed this world.

Old 'Arry was with me as far back as I can remember, watching FA Cup fourth round fifth replays on Sportsnight in the late 1970s; you know, when footballers were real men, and didn't get too tired at the thought of running around for 90 minutes two or three times in the same week.

He was also on Grandstand and presented Sports Personality, but it was boxing with which he will always be most fondly connected. I loved watching boxing as a kid - I remember seeing Jim Watt win the world lightweight belt in 1979, and even before that, John Conteh was a favourite. For most of those fights I watched back then, Harry would have been in the hot seat. He was a consummate pro, incredibly charismatic and funny as hell when he wanted to be.

And yet, it was only when I read that he had died did I think back and recall those moments - I hadn't realised the impact he'd had on my childhood, much in the same way as Paul Newman's death hit me a couple of years ago; celebrites die, be they authors, actors or TV personalities, and you may think it's a damn shame, but that's as far as it goes. Yet there are some whose demise really shakes you. Harry Carpenter was one.

Thanks for the memories, Harry.

Coz we got a great big convoy...

2010-03-02T12:21:00.000-08:00

I have a problem. No, not that one. Another one. Just one hour into editing Quackenbush last night, and I had to put the manuscript aside. Out came the notebook, and I tried to resolve the issue I realised had been there from very early on.

There's a gaping hole, not so much in the plot, but in the motivations of one set of characters. Throughout the story, they set themselves against both our heroes and the villains, trying to foil them. I feel, although I could be wrong, that they are crucial to the pace and tension, certainly in the second half of the book. And while there are vague reasons why they do what they do, I had a moment of dawning realisation - or, as Homer would put, the moment of 'Doh!' - and know, deep inside, that I could drive a convoy of huge monster trucks through their motivational holes.
How serious is it? Pretty. It's making it bloody difficult to focus on the job at hand, which is editing.

Yet I don't think it's terminal. There must be solutions that just haven't come to mind, but it's damn frustrating. Fortunately, there is much that can be done while I wait for this issue to resolve itself in my mind. And while the clock may be ticking, I also know it's not something I can rush. It has to feel right, it has to feel like a natural progression, otherwise I won't believe in the motivation, and I might as well give the manuscript to the kids to make paper airplanes (assuming they haven't nicked it already).

On the plus side, I was pleasantly surprised after that first hour of reading. Sure, there are some clunky sections which need a damn good polish, but, after more than a year away from the manuscript, it was a relief to find that there are some real nuggets in there.

Ultimately, the whole process just reinforces that sound piece of advice given to unpublished writers, but which applies equally well to all writers - once you've finished your first draft, put it to one side. For as long as possible. A few months minimum, six months if you can manage it. Then go back and read it with fresh eyes. It might be cliched, but you won't find a more worthwhile piece of advice in publishing.

Of course, that time apart doesn't magically fill holes that you'd forgotten were there. But at least you're coming at it from as neutral a perspective as you're going to get inside that mind of yours.

A giant research problem

2010-02-27T05:35:00.000-08:00

On the Litopia After Dark podcast last night, one of the subjects was research, and how important it is for a writer to get the facts right, even in fiction. With The Manx Connection and The Manx Giant: The Amazing Story of Arthur Caley under my belt, both non-fiction, host Peter Cox asked if there was point where I had to say, okay, enough already.

I agreed - with both books, but particularly The Manx Giant, I could have carried on with the research for another year. Or two. Maybe even three. And I still wouldn't have found out everything there is to know about Caley. The problem I faced was that after he was reported dead in Paris, aged 28, no one knew he was alive - so he spent the next 30-odd years in the US under another name, Colonel Routh Goshen. It was only when Goshen died that it came to light that he and Caley were one in the same.

Most of the information about Caley/Goshen was found in snippets here and there, most of them online. Just when I thought I was done, I'd google his name... and find another piece of research. And so it went on. Eventually, I held my hands up and agreed with the publisher to call it a day.

From the moment the book came out, I've been waiting for emails and phone calls to say, hang on Quirk, how come you missed this fact out?

When I mentioned this on the podcast, I completely forgot that, earlier the same day, I'd received a Google alert advising that a photograph of Caley/Goshen was for sale on Ebay - you can see it here - and, as it turns out, it's a picture we weren't aware of, either myself or the descendant of the Giant who approached me to write the book. It's an impressive photograph, too, with the other two men in the picture providing some scale to appreciate Caley's height and build.

So, it's started. I don't doubt for one minute that it will be the last picture or piece of information to come to light. Now, if lovely readers can ensure the first print run sells out, I might have the opportunity to revise the manuscript for the second edition...

Needed - one Big Red Pen & short-term insomnia

2010-02-25T12:45:00.000-08:00

Right. Enough faffing about. It's time.

Quackenbush, one of the young adult novels I've been working on for the last few years, has been sat gawping at me from the top of the bookshelf for the last four months, ever since I put the Manx Giant to bed and vowed to jump back into QB.

It's at the stage that many writers will understand - first draft almost finished, but in need of the mother of all edits to knock it into shape. An edit so daunting that the mere thought of it has me itching to crack open a four-pack and stick The Good, The Bad and The Ugly on the DVD.

It's not like I've been putting it off. Okay, it's a lot like that. But there has been other stuff on the go, so it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. Yet the fact remains; unless decisive action is taken, the bloody thing will most likely be staring down at me in six months' time.

So, I've made a decision. Well, that's not strictly true. I've been bullied into making a decision, by a writerly friend. Pippa, who blogs here, is a friend from the Skeealleyderyn writers' group. Earlier today she blogged about how she was shedding her procrastinating skin and getting her act together by signing up for the National Novel Editing Month in March, the sister event of the novel writing month held each year in November.

The goal - to log 50 hours editing during the 31 days of March, which, so they say, is a reasonable amount of time to edit a book of 60,000-70,000 words. I'll take their word for it.

I had a go at NaNoWriMo back in 2006 - in fact, QB was the project, and I somehow crawled over the 50,000-word mark with a few hours to spare. I've not attempted NaNoWriMo since, because other commitments haven't allowed. I've never even been to the NaNoEdMo website, but earlier today I found myself having a quick skeet. And then it hit me; this is what QB has been waiting for. And Pippa didn't waste any time twisting my arm.

So I'm going for it. Not out of any great desire to earn myself a little NaNoEdMo badge or logo to stick on this here blog. And not out of a need to band with like-minded souls, because there's more than enough over at Litopia.

No, I'm going to sign up because I just need a focus - a deadline to set my sights on, because deadlines work. I haven't the first clue where I'm going to find the time to do this during March, but what the hell. It's got to be done. So, here we go. Watch this space, and I'll keep the updates coming. Feel free to fire over words of encouragment. I'll surely need 'em...

A close encounter of the spectral kind

2010-02-17T10:30:00.000-08:00

What follows is a true story. It happened three or four months back, but I resisted the urge to write about it at the time, wanting to allow 20/20 hindsight to come up with some logical explanation. It hasn't. So here we are - I've not dressed it up in any way whatsoever; it happened exactly as follows:

A regular route of mine when out on a jaunt to clear the old cobwebs takes me down towards the back of the Kentraugh Estate, which overlooks the sea just along from Gansey beach. Kentraugh is one of the most intriguing estates on the Isle of Man. I'm not sure how far it dates back, but certainly two or three hundred years, and Kentraugh Mill is mentioned in records dating back to 1506.

As you approach from the rear, the entire estate appears to be shrouded in trees, the skyline broken only by the mansion house. The road leading to Kentraugh forks at the very back of the estate, with the two roads winding round to meet up with the main road that crosses in front of the estate, with tree-lined driveways at both east and west boundaries.

From the rear of the estate, the left fork in the road takes you past some huge decrepit old gates, beyond which you can glimpse what I imagine are old farm buildings. In years past it must have been a bustling hive of activity, but now looks like the kind of place you'd expect to see Peter Cushing sticking a stake through Christopher Lee's heart. I've never set foot in the estate, but have long wished to.

One chilly night last autumn I set off about nine o'clock to walk to Kentraugh and do a lap of the estate, before returning home. I'm not, it has to be said, the kind of person who spooks easily; by the age of ten or so I'd pretty much devoured the entire catalogue of Hammer horror films, including all the Cushing/Lee Dracula yarns, and by the time the early 80s arrived, with their slasher movies, I sat oblivious, as a young teen, to the gore and supposed chills served up by the likes of Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street.

The autumn night in question was dry, but overcast, with not a star in sight. I'd done about half a mile when I realised that I'd forgotten to bring a torch, which isn't normally a problem on my walks, as the roads I usually trek at night have streetlights. But this night I had my heart set on a lap of Kentraugh, and I knew the two roads that encircled the estate would be pitch black. No worries, I thought. I knew the place well, if I took it slowly I'd be fine.

As I approached the fork in the road, I left the streetlights behind and plunged into the darkness ahead. There are some cottages at the fork, so there was a bit of light, but this was soon lost as I turned left, heading down the slight incline towards the ruined gates and farm buildings. I had to slow to a gentle pace, almost feeling my way ahead with each step. After about fifty yards I glanced up and saw what looked like a figure to my left, walking by the wall, heading in the same direction as I was. I was in the middle of the road and as I drew nearer I got the impression it was a little old man, walking very slowly. This was merely guesswork, because all I could make out was a shape, a black outline against the dark grey/black of the wall and the night.

I don't know why I thought it was a man; something about his gait, perhaps, but I just knew it was a man and not a woman. And he had to be old to be moving at that speed; either that or he was a younger man on his way home after the mother of all sessions at the Colby Glen pub.

As I drew nearer, I kept glancing between the figure and what I could make out of the road in front of my feet. I was keeping an eye on the man because I didn't want to scare the bejesus out of him, so was waiting till I was up level, at which point I planned on saying a measured 'hello' as I passed. I'd almost reached him when the tall old gates appeared on my right. I looked at them, back down at my feet and then up at the old man. I was right up by his shoulder now. I took another look down, then glanced back up, preparing to greet him as I drew level.

When I looked up, he was gone. It remains the only time in my life where the phrase 'stopped dead in my tracks' can apply. I looked behind, and ahead, and then back at the wall where the figure should have been. Nothing. Then, what felt like every single hair on my body began to tingle. Back of the neck: check. Along my arms: check. It felt like there was electricity running down from my shoulders to my forearms. I looked around again, at the other side of the road, and moved over towards the wall where the old man was just a moment before. Nothing. I even checked along the ground, to make sure he hadn't fallen over.
'Hello?' I said, turning around in a full circle once more. 'Hello?' Silence.

At this point I wasn't sure what to do. So I did the only thing that made any sense; I started walking again, past the old gates and out towards the main road. The rest of the walk was spent trying to come up with an explanation as to what had happened. When I completed the lap of the estate, and stood again at the fork in the road, I was tempted to head off on a second lap, to see if I encountered the man again.

Something made me head home. Was I scared? I don't think so, but I was certainly unnerved. I'd never seen anything that could be classed as a 'ghost'. The nearest thing to a supernatural experience came in 1995, when I was staying the night at an inn in Blackburn, which a friend of mine from the town had told me was haunted. I was playing pool in the bar, one of those rooms with chairs lined up along each of the walls, and it was a busy night, with most of the seats taken as I played a game against one of the locals. It was about halfway through the game, and I was about to take a shot down at one end of the table. I could see the black out of the corner of my eye, and needed to screw the white past the black to get down to the other end of the table for my next shot. As I was about to hit the cue ball, I saw the black move. It rolled for about an inch, maybe two. It wasn't on a spot, so hadn't 'rolled off'. There was no one else anywhere near the table, there was no breeze blowing in from an open window, and my arm wasn't near enough for me to have hit it accidentally. I looked up at my friend, who, along with one or two of the locals, merely gave a wry smile and shrugged, as if to say, hey, told you so.

Other than that encounter, I'd never experienced anything like the events that occurred at Kentraugh. Nothing physical, nothing visible. My initial reaction was that it had been my shadow, but when the figure disappeared I checked; it was overcast, there was no streetlight, or moonlight, and besides, you know when you're looking at your shadow. This wasn't it.

Maybe it was merely a trick of the night, or perhaps my eyesight, which was strained with trying to see potholes and obstacles in the road, saw something that wasn't there. I've always been somewhat skeptical about folk who regale others with tales of ghosts and other supernatual encounters, which is why I've left this tale to stew for a while.

Yet it won't go away. And it could be because of this; the day after it happened, I shared the tale with a few work colleagues. They suggested I do some research on Kentraugh. I said I would. When I got in that night, a colleague's wife had beaten me to it. She sent me a note on Facebook, suggesting I check out a website link. I did. It told the story of a ghost that supposedly haunts Kentraugh and the surrounding lands. Again, I felt the hair rise on my neck and arms. What kind of ghost? A white lady? A headless horseman? A pale little girl in a flowery dress?

Of course not. It is an old man.

The List

2010-01-14T14:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay. I've put it off for two weeks, I can't fight it any longer.

This time last year I posted a list of goals for the year, a review of which a few weeks back showed I'd been somewhat optimistic/deluded.

Undeterred, here is the list for 2010. In no particular order:

Finish Quackenbush young adult novel. Rewrite huge chunks, edit all of it. Run it through the houses in Litopia. Edit and polish a few times, then submit to agents. I really should end this list right here, at least that's what Mrs Q will be thinking...
Nemesis Publishing - I should have a separate list for this over on this blog, but I'll summarise here: Get Vertigo anthology to print in time for Easter launch; Edit and design book three, a biography, for release in June; develop two further ideas for release in time for Christmas 2010; finish text for website and get it up and rocking; Launch a competition for first-time novelists
TV script - another hold over from last year, but this time we're already up and running. Writing buddy and I are penning a six-part drama, and I reckon we can have them completed by year end
Short stories - this was a miserable fail last year - but it really has to change. Aim is to write three or four cool stories and get them off to comps or submitted to mags
Get back to reading regularly - struggled to get into anything for the last couple of months, but need to get 113 Supposedly Greatest Books Ever Written back on its feet. Also have a list of books which I've read that need reviewing for this blog

And that's it. There are other things I'd like to have completed, or at least developed, by the end of the year, but I'm forever taking on too much, so enough is enough.

Unlike last year, if I get to the end of 2010 and one or more of the above hasn't been ticked off the list, I'll be gutted. I've promised myself a lot over the last five to ten years - it's about time I delivered.

So there you have it. One of the other jobs for the year is to blog more regularly, both here and over at Nemesis. So please tag along for the ride. It'll be frustrating and painful, but hopefully glorious. And funny, occasionally. Maybe.

Best night of the year*

2009-12-31T10:30:00.000-08:00

Here we are again, folks, another year flown by and a new one set to wipe the slate clean. MrsQ is working till about 1opm, so I'm off with the kids to our friends' house for a few snifters, and MrsQ will join in the fun later.

There's something fantastic about New Year's Eve, and it's long been my favourite night of the year*; it's a time for realising the true value of family and friendship, and for putting whatever crap life has thrown in your general direction behind you.

I'm quietly excited about 2010 - big plans, great opportunities - and plenty to look forward to. All the very best to those of you who kindly drop by to read my ramblings and I hope the coming year delivers everything you want it to.

Right, kids, let's party...

See you all next year!

(* a quick note - obviously, the best night of the year is my wedding anniversary, closely followed by MrsQ's birthday and the birthdays of the nippers. So NYE is now, in fact, about the fourth or fifth best night of the year. How times change...)

A look back on 2009

2009-12-28T12:46:00.000-08:00

The thing about to-do lists is that they contain jobs that, well, have to be done. Anyone who knows me knows I like a good list. That's not to say that I'm any good at getting through them, but they sure are pretty to look at.

When 2009 arrived, I posted a list for the year on this here blog. It was ambitious, certainly. But I felt good about it. Twelve months down the line, and it makes for difficult reading; going through point by point makes me wonder what the hell I've been doing for the last year.

Have a shufty:

1. Send The Manx Giant to publisher. First draft is completed, work on second draft to start tomorrow, anticipated to be ready by January 31. Publication due for late 2009.
Done and dusted. Good start, although the time taken to complete the book had a knock-on effect on other projects, as you'll see...

2. Finishing touches to young adult novel, working title Quackenbush, polish submission package and start hitting agents. Submissions to start April/May.
Ah. Yes. Hmm, let's leave that one for now. Suffice to say, big fail.

3. Finish text for Nemesis Publishing website, and set up associated blog, which will be a warts-and-all look at getting a small publishing business off the ground from scratch. Website and blog should be up and running by mid-January.
Yes and no - the Nemesis website has been designed, but text has not been finished. Blog is up and running, although updates over the last few months have been scarce. Must do better.

4. Publish first edition of Vertigo short story anthology through Nemesis. Currently working with authors on edits for selected stories, publication due November 2009.
Close, but no cigar. The stories have been edited, the design completed (other than a few minor tweaks), and publication is set now for March/April. There was a reason/excuse for not hitting deadline - we agreed to publish a book for our local school, which celebrated its 175th anniversary, and this book was indeed finished and is now on sale (proceeds to the school). It was, however, slightly more complicated than expected, hence the delay on Vertigo.

5. Once Quackenbush is out doing the rounds, launch into next novel, the working title for which is Mr Stone. Aim is to have first draft of this completed by end of the year.
Another big fat fail. I did write a thousand or so words back in June, but Mr Stone still lurks patiently inside my brain.

6. Complete a batch of short stories and submit to magazines/anthologies/competitions. I’ve never focused on the short story format, but looking forward to the challenge.
Yeah, right. No chance. Moving swiftly on...

7. Develop script ideas – three in the melting pot, including two collaborations. Would like to have first drafts of two of the three finished by the time we’re singing Auld Lang Syne again.
Was I stoned when I devised this list? There was more chance of me getting round to clearing out the garage, which, as Mrs Q can tell you, is another constant on the house to-do list.

8. Lose two stone in weight. No, I won’t be cutting off a leg. A daunting peek at the scales on Dec 31 told me I was the heaviest I’ve ever been, period. With the big four oh just 15 months away, I want to be down to my fighting weight by April 4, 2010. Hitting 40 is going to be challenging enough for my state of mind without looking like this.
Hellfire. What was I thinking? The only good news about this is that, at last count, I'm a few pounds lighter, not to mention the fact that I have another three months before the day of reckoning.

So there you go. Not a particularly good strike rate. Yet as disappointing as the above might be, I can't be too harsh on myself. The last twelve months has seen The Manx Giant hit the shelves and the first book published over at Nemesis, while it's been a cool year for Family Q, not to mention a good and busy year over at Isle of Man Advertising & PR.

I've also been an occasional panellist on the Litopia After Dark podcast and I'm in the final throes of edting the first issue of the new Litopia ezine, Muse. So it's not as if I've been sat on my backside watching crap on TV.

Early in January I'll be posting my list for 2010, for which I will try to rein in my optimistic tendencies. Won't work, of course.

All the best for 2010 to those who stop by this blog, and here's hoping the coming year brings what we're all looking for.

Cheers!

In the beginning...

2009-12-11T13:58:00.000-08:00

There's something stirring over at Litopia. Something sleek and beautifully formed...

A while back, one of the members suggested pooling our writing energy into producing an ezine, a platform where we could share ideas, advice, interviews, reviews and short fiction with others of the writerly persuasion. There has been plenty of scurrying behind the scenes in recent months, as first an editorial team was chosen, then a name for the mag, followed by design and layout and, finally, the content for issue one was drawn up.

The end result will appear at the end of January 2010, when the first issue of Muse will be distributed via email and be available for download at Litopia.

For some reason I still can't quite comprehend, the editorial team asked me to take on the role of editor for the first issue, which was a privilege I was only too keen to accept. Each Muse will have a theme running throughout, and each will contain a corner dedicated to a particular genre. It being the first issue, and it being the start of a new year, we've gone with 'beginnings' as the theme, and I've chosen crime as the genre focus.

My spare time over the next few weeks will be taken up with Christmas partying, eating turkey and editing articles for Muse, in addition to penning a few too. It promises to be a fascinating first issue - we have main interviews with Lee Child and RJ Ellory, not to mention contributions from the likes of Bernard Cornwell and MG Harris.

I had the pleasure of interviewing both Lee and RJ, and very different experiences they were - I had to phone Lee in New York and rapid fire the questions across in the space of half an hour, and with RJ we fired Q&A back and forth via email over the space of a couple of weeks. Both have some fascinating insights and views into writing and publishing, and their respective backgrounds in writing couldn't be more different.

There will be columns, articles, publishing news, reviews, cartoons and a Q&A/agony aunt column with a Stig-like mystical guru, whose identity is so closely guarded that nothing short of a £50 bribe will reveal it.

The bottom line - if you're a writer, Muse is a must. But it's not just for writers; if we do our job right, it will provide a cool insight into the publishing world for those voracious readers among you.

I'll blog more about Muse as the deadline, and publication date, approach. If you want to get on the distribution list, drop me an email at johnquirkbooks(at)gmail.com and I'll do the rest.

Cheers

Indecision is getting me down. I think.

2009-12-09T14:47:00.000-08:00

I've been feeling a bit flat over the last few days. In fact, it got so bad on Sunday night that I powered down the laptop at 9.35pm and told Mrs Q that I was off to bed. I've not seen a look on her face like that since I told her I'd mopped the bathroom floor, and that was three years ago.

I was struggling to put my finger on it, the reason for this flatness. I was tired, but that's not usually enough to cause my energy levels to shut down. At first, the only thing I could attribute it to was the fact that The Manx Giant was out in shops, and after the buzz of Saturday's book signing at the Lexicon, I was coming down from a literary-induced high.

The hole in this theory is that I have another signing this Saturday (Dec 12 - Waterstones, 1,00pm to 3.00pm if you're passing) and there's good coverage in local press and on the radio (you can have a listen to one of the pieces here - Wednesday shows, Shiaght Laa, 11 mins 45 secs in, lasts for nine minutes). So the buzz is still there.

It hung around me like a dirty big rain cloud for a few days, until it finally became clear to me on the drive into work this morning.

With the Giant done and dusted, I'm now free of writing commitments for the foreseeable future, other than the occasional freelance piece for magazines. After four years focused on first The Manx Connection and then the Giant, I can now turn my attention to the itch that will not go away - fiction. So, with a host of projects at various stages of development, you'd think I'd be ecstatic and raring to go.

If only it were that simple. The truth is, I don't know what to do, at least for now. If anything, I've got too many options and I can't see the wood for the trees. Do I jump right back in at Quackenbush, the young adult adventure, which is about 8,000 words away from completion of first draft, but the mother of all edits away from actual completion? Or do I tackle Mr Stone, the literary-fiction-turned-conspiracy-theory-thriller that I've been unable to dislodge from the back of my mind for many months? Or, do I return to the original itch - crime fiction, and a couple of starts I've made in that genre?

There are others, but those are the ones leading the torment of my poor mind. Quackenbush is the obvious answer. However, it needs such a major rewrite and edit and the thought of tackling it is, at this moment, rather terrifying. That said, the first draft is so bloody close to being finished, surely it makes sense to carry on?

Mr Stone is an intriguing idea and, in terms of pitching it to agents/publishers, could be the one to raise an eyebrow or two. Yet since I started taking writing seriously, crime has always been the genre in which I wanted to make the breakthrough. And that's not all.

If a writer is good enough, and lucky enough, to snag a deal with a publisher, the chances are they will have to continue to write in that genre; for example, if your debut novel is a dark crime story about a character with great series potential, you can be pretty sure your second - and third - book will be a dark crime story. Unless you are supremely talented with a strong followng already hanging on your every word, you won't suddenly be able to write a comedy sci-fi and expect to have it published.

So I find myself wondering what kind of books do I want to tie myself to, at least for the foreseeable. That probably all sounds very melodramatic; let's face it, the chances of selling the first manuscript is very slim, at best. And to do so before you have your second and third books (in any other genre) finished is so slim as to be barely visible.

So earlier tonight I told myself to wise up and stop being so damn precious about it. I do need to take a commercial viewpoint on all this, because at the end of the day an agent wants to read something he or she knows can be sold. But I can't beat myself up about it. I need to make a decision, and start writing. Sooner or later, I'll reach the end. And that's when the hard work really starts.

Now, about that decision...

Mulled wine, mince pies and lots of tasty book sales

2009-11-18T12:34:00.000-08:00

In two days' time, I should have my mits on the first few copies of The Manx Giant: The Amazing Story of Arthur Caley, as it's been christened. I've been in that weird pre-publication limbo for the last few weeks, during which you experience two emotioins - first, you can't quite believe that something that has been a huge part of your life is finally over; second, you look back at what you've done and can't seem to remember writing huge sections of it.

For those of you chomping at the bit to read the book - wife, mum and dad, maybe the odd sibling and aunt and uncle - there are two signings arranged, the first at The Lexicon on Saturday, December 5 (2.00pm-4.00pm) and the second on December 12 at Waterstones (1.00pm-3.00pm), a few doors along Strand Street in Douglas.

With town full of Christmas shoppers unsure of what to spend their hard-earned on, Mrs Q is pulling out all the stops for the Lexicon and putting on mulled wine and mince pies. Now, I'm not for one minute suggesting that the only people who are going to get their hands on wine and pies are those who put their hands in their pockets and buy the book. I'd never stoop to that sort of tactic. Mrs Q might, but not me. I'll just keep my head down and scribble away. Best just to nod and do as she says, so let that be a warning to you.

We might have the mulled wine and mince pies for Waterstones as well, just need to run it past the store. Not sure what their policy is on such things...

I'm also hoping to set something up at the Manx Museum before Christmas, but not sure what format that will be yet. Just so long as I don't have to spend too long down in that National Folk Gallery, where Caley's boots and the casts of his hand are on show. Always was a damn spooky place down there. All those mannequins, and not one of them Kim Cattrall.

One final note - if you are really stuck for something to do on December 5 and 12, and fancy stopping by to keep me company, don't all come down on the same day; spread yourselves out a little. Otherwise I'll be sat there like a spare part talking to myself.

Oh, and another final note - if you can't make it, and need to buy a load of copies as Christmas presents, the book should be available online from the Manx Heritage Foundation website in a week or so.

Cheers

Drawing inspiration from evil buttons

2009-11-10T15:42:00.000-08:00

Earlier this evening, I read the last page of a book, closed the cover and sat back, unsure of what to do next. There was plenty to get on with - emails to send, stories to edit, design and layout to finish for Vertigo, website text to sort for Nemesis Publishing - but all I wanted to do was write.

I've read two books this last week, while Mrs Q and I and the kids have been on a week's break at Center Parcs. The first was John Connolly's new one for kids - The Gates - and the second, the one I finished this evening, was Coraline, by Neil Gaiman, which has been around for several years.

Both books are superb - I'll post a review of The Gates soon on this blog - but it was Coraline which left me perched on the end of the couch, unable to do all those things that needed doing.

It's one of those books that can't help but inspire a writer to, well, write. It is simplistically brilliant, and that's not a backhanded compliment.

As someone who is working through several ideas for children's books, it is one of the most inspiring books I've read in a long time. Man, those buttons. Creepy is not the word. I really must get round to reading The Graveyard Book. It's even better, so I'm told.

In other news, the publisher of the Manx Giant biography emailed tonight to say the book should be in our hands by the end of next week, which is cool, and an email came in while I was running around, trying to protect Center Parcs from Junior Q and Baby Q, inviting me to give a talk at the Celtic Congress season of winter talks, for March. I don't know much about the Celtic Congress, but it's always nice to be asked to such events, and a chance to promote the book.

But that's one for the future. Right now I'm off to try and forget about those bloody buttons.

The tallest man in the world!

2009-10-14T14:00:00.001-07:00

It's been quiet on the writing front recently, with all attention focused on Nemesis Publishing and the first two books, which need to be with printers within next couple of weeks. But behind the scenes things keep ticking over.

The Manx Giant is at the printers, and the publisher - the Manx Heritage Foundation - fired across the cover to give me a sneak preview. It's not what I was expecting; to be honest, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but something a little less colourful and more along the lines of the previous biography it published, of Henry Bloom Noble.

But I think this works - it's certainly eye-catching and captures the circus that was Arthur Caley's life. The book should be on shelves around the middle of November, and over the next few weeks we'll be firming up details of signings and talks, with one talk provisionally booked for Douglas Library.

First up, we need to get a 7ft 11in foamboard cut-out of the Manx Giant produced. He's coming to the signings and the talks with me. It'll help take the focus off my ugly mug.

As for other writing, everything is on hold till mid-November. I'm knackered, and once the Nemesis books have been done and dusted, I'm collapsing in a corner with a shedload of DVDs, a crate of beer and a tonne of popcorn. Bliss.

Oh, and Caley wasn't really the tallest man in the world. But it made you look...

Giants, Vertigo, that man Pelecanos and Manx comedians

2009-09-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a while. Almost a month, which is scary. And I'm not sure where to start. So, let's keep it simple. A list:

The Manx Giant is.... (drum roll, please) finished. At long last. The final draft went off to the publisher on time, a turn of events that left Mrs Q's flabbers somewhat ghasted. I still have to write a short bio for the book, and been asked to tackle the back page blurb, and there's an overview of the book to submit for another website, but, by and large, I can sleep easy at night, knowing that Mr Arthur Caley is the worry of the publisher for the next few weeks, at least until the publicity for the book kicks in early November.
Attention turns now to Nemesis Publishing, with design and layout moving along for both the Arbory School 175 years book and the first edition of the Vertigo anthology, plus two submissions to read and respond to. I'll be updating that blog over the weekend...
Which is what I'll also be doing for the 113 Supposedly Greatest Books Ever Written - I've finished Treasure Island and The Handmaid's Tale since the last post (The Maltese Falcon). Need to pick the next book.
Book reviews for this blog - miles behind. Reading John Le Carre's A Most Wanted Man at moment, having finished Chris Ewan's Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam, with a view to reviewing his latest, Good Thief's Guide to Paris soon. Chris is starting a crime reading club in the Island, first meeting at the end of September, and the book choice is Chandler's The Big Sleep, which I need to read again before the meeting.
Topping all those books, however, and with all due respect to those authors, a review copy landed on my desk yesterday, from one of those writers for whom I'll happily drop everything (within common decency, of course). The author - George Pelecanos. The book - The Way Home. I'm going to try and make George wait for a few weeks. It won't be easy.
Somewhere in amongst that lot I've got two magazine articles to write in the next five days or so, one an interview with Manx comedian Rob Heeney, who rumour has it is returning to his roots in October for a couple of gigs. If I can catch him in between gigging and playing tennis, I'll let you know all about it.

Right, think that's all. Sure I've forgotten something, but as you don't know what it is, it doesn't matter.

Till next time.

Kayaking with sharks and other exciting adventures

2009-08-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

I've barely written a word in anger for ten days. It was The Little Madam's birthday last week, and then her christening on Sunday just gone, and Mrs Q's family invaded The Rock to mark both momentous occasions.

It was a great few days - a night out for a Chinese, trips on the steam and electric railways (not that I actually got to go on a train...) and a kayaking trip around Peel Castle and up the coast, where I got to see my first ever basking shark when it swam under our kayaks. At least a fifteen-footer. The christening itself went well - Mrs Q was also dunked - and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves at the celebratory nibbles and drinks afterwards, and we rounded the night off with a barbecue and several beers. A couple of days (and a Scrabble defeat to my mother-in-law; I'll never hear the last of it) later, and the shenanigans were over.

The only problem with all this revelry and general excitement was that a couple of days before it all kicked off I heard back from the publisher of The Manx Giant after I'd asked him to give me a final deadline. He told me he needs the final draft by September 5, which means I want it finished by August 31 to allow me a few days to review and tweak. So through all this fun, I've had one eye on the fact that date is drawing ever closer.

There are eighteen days left, including tonight. Where the hell did that time go to? I'm not too far away, but there are still some awkward edits and adds that need finishing, and it means the next few weeks will be serious head-down-time. I'm meeting the publisher on Monday night to sort through photographs, and that will help focus the mind.

Things are complicated somewhat by the fact that it's reaching crunch time for our endeavours to launch Nemesis Publishing, which I'll be blogging about over at the Nemesis blog later tonight.
Suffice to say, both the anthology, Vertigo, and the book we're publishing to mark the local school's 175th anniversary need to be at the printers by mid-October, which means the next two months are going to be interesting. And busy.

In terms of writing, I'm looking forward to November. I'll be able to tackle existing projects with a clean slate, and I've an idea bubbling away for entry in next year's Debut Dagger, run by the Crime Writers' Association.

But that's for another time. Now, it's back to living among giants. And editing. Oh, the joys of editing.

Searching for Gorry, son of Orry

2009-07-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

Nope, it's not the follow up to Finding Nemo. I'm hoping someone out there has a copy of a book, which I need to research as part of the final draft of The Manx Giant.

A children's adventure story, Gorry, Son of Orry was written by Manxman Clucas Joughin and published in 1903 in London (by Jarrolds) and America. It's a story of smugglers, Redcoats and Manx nationalistic fervour, with a young hero descended from the legendary Viking King of Mann.

I'm told that Arthur Caley features in the story, as one of two giant heroes, and it would be cool to include a reference in the biography, along with the cover of the book. But I've had no luck finding a copy.

So, if you have one, or know of someone who might, please let me know - I will be forever in your gratitude. Leave a comment below, or drop me a line at johnquirkbooks(at)gmail.com

Now, on with the draft...

Cheers

Fear and loathing in the Arctic Circle

2009-07-06T10:20:00.000-07:00

Review - Revolver, Marcus Sedgwick

Fear. Whether you’re fifteen or fifty-five, fear is one of those constants in life that we all experience. The passing years may change that which causes you fear, but when in the grip of it, age is taken out of the equation.

Fear lies at the heart of Revolver. It may have ‘Orion Children’s Books’ on the front cover when it’s released later this month, but Sedgwick’s latest novel will resonate as much with adults as it does teenagers.

The story centres around fifteen-year-old Sig Andersson who we meet, in the year 1910, in a remote cabin north of the Arctic Circle. He’s alone, or at least he would be if it wasn’t for the dead body of his father, Einar, lying on a table. Inexplicably, Einar had tried to take his dogs across the frozen lake by their home at a time of year when he knew it would be melting. While Sig’s waiting for the return of his sister and step-mother, who have gone for help, and trying to figure out why his father would have risked his life, there’s a knock on the front door. It’s a stranger, a monster of a man called Wolff, who carries a gun and tells tales of hidden gold... and who is calling in the debt that Einar owed him.

Having set the scene beautifully, teasing the reader with half-morsels of information on which to chew, including the existence of his father’s revolver – ‘a gun is not a weapon’, Einar had told a young Sig. ‘It’s an answer to the questions life throws at you when there’s no one else to help’ – Sedgwick rewinds eleven years to tell the story of how the Andersson family reached this point.

The book weaves between the two timelines, with each revelation in the earlier story increasing the tension in the cabin as the threat from Wolff grows with each passing hour. Sedgwick takes great care in detailing the back story and the development of the relationship between Sig and Einar, particularly in the case of the revolver, which lies hidden in the store room just yards from where Wolff is holding the boy, so much so that the gun becomes a major character in itself, almost calling to Sig, pleading with him to be used.

At a 170-odd pages, Revolver is a lean, mean exercise in menace. Few words are wasted as Sig searches deep within himself for the courage to make a play for the revolver, while trying to buy time from Wolff. The stand-off between the two is like a game of chess, each probing for weaknesses.

Sig is a superb creation, a boy who wants to be a man who finds himself thrust into a situation which offers him that opportunity, and Wolff is a fine sparring partner, although there is a feeling that perhaps Sedgwick held back a little, despite the brutality his antagonist exudes.

Revolver is dark, no question, and as the tension mounts the turning of its pages soon becomes a necessity rather than a desire. But more than that it’s a coming-of-age tale, and an example of how a family’s love can endure against the greatest of odds, including overcoming a fear that leaves you stricken, unable to act in the face of death.

The forgotten author

2009-06-24T13:44:00.000-07:00

It's funny what happens to our reading habits, and those favourite authors who we read religiously, hunting down every new release the moment it hits the shelves.

I was reading Nick Stone's blog earlier - Nick wrote the ultra-cool Max Mingus thrillers Mr Clarinet and King of Swords - and he mentioned that he was reading the new James Ellroy, Blood's a Rover, the final installment in his American Underworld trilogy.

Ellroy has fallen off my radar. Having devoured everything up to and including his utterly brilliant LA Quartet - The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, LA Confidential and White Jazz - I bought American Tabloid, the first in the Underworld trilogy, but struggled to get into it.

In his early novels, and the trilogy featuring brutal cop Lloyd Hopkins, Ellroy had a sparse writing style, but it flowed beautifully. As the LA Quartet progressed, that style changed, until by White Jazz he was writing in what has been termed 'telegraphic prose', omitting all connecting words and using short sentences.

White Jazz, while a great book, had grated on me slightly, and I was coming off a run of particularly stylishly written books when I picked up American Tabloid. I read a few pages and put it down, aiming to return at some point in the future. That never happened, and I don't think I can find a reasonable answer as to why; Ellroy just slipped off my must-read list.

But Nick's post has rekindled a fire. I dismissed American Tabloid far too easily, and Ellroy's back catalogue deserves more. I've retrieved Tabloid from the bookshelf and dusted it off. It now sits with new friends, in a pile of to-be-read books. It's a fair chunk of a size, and the second in the series - The Cold Six Thousand - is even bigger. So this could take some time.

Maine's very own dark knight draws closer to the truth

2009-06-20T13:27:00.000-07:00

Review - The Lovers, by John Connolly

Lovers of literature and film are suckers for a tortured soul, and souls don't come any more beaten and crushed than Charlie Parker, the dark hero of this, the seventh offering in Connolly's series about the Maine-based private investigator.

Forget last year's The Reapers, which focused on Parker's deadly sidekicks, Angel and Louis, with Parker supplying a third person cameo. While entertaining and faster than a speeding bullet, The Reapers was Connolly-lite, like supping a shandy when you what you really need is the most potent ale on the menu.

The Lovers opens with Parker working in a bar in Portland, having lost his private investigator's licence at the end of the last fully-fledged Parker novel, The Unquiet. He's been told by the authorities to keep his nose clean - spotless, in fact - and he's doing his best. But this is Parker we're talking about. Spurred on by revelations made by the dangerous and enigmatic Collector in The Unquiet, Parker begins an investigation into his father's suicide three decades ago in an attempt to understand what made Will Parker kill two unarmed teenagers, a boy and a girl.

Perhaps the greatest of Connolly's skills in developing this series has been the way he has balanced the undercurrent of supernatural influences on Parker's life with the possibility that we, the readers, are being totally suckered by an unreliable narrator who is slowly losing the plot following the death of his first wife and daughter, and the estrangement of his second love and daughter. The books have grown in intensity and the bleak mood of The Unquiet suggested a resolution to this issue was coming. The Lovers delivers it, and then some.

As Parker interviews his father's former colleagues, it becomes clear that there was a cover-up into the circumstances that led to his father killing the two young lovers, and indeed his suicide. The Collector had hinted at Charlie having secret 'friends', that even he doesn't know about, and as he peels away the layers of the cover-up, he learns that everything he thought he knew about his family - indeed, his own origins - has been an elaborate, but necessary, deceit.

Running parallel to Parker's first person-related investigation is the emergence of the lovers of the title, as they close in on Parker. This element is told third person, a device that Connolly has used increasingly in the Parker books, and further evidence to undermine the unreliable narrator theory.

The Parker novels have always had strong themes running throughout - loss, revenge, redemption, hope - and they are again present, but it's betrayal that forms the focus of The Lovers, and the strength of character to forgive that betrayal.

Be in no doubt - this isn't a James Patterson easy-to-digest thriller you're reading here. Crime novels, although that is far too broad a term to define this series, don't come any bleaker. There is humour, of course, and as usual it's bang on the money. But Angel and Louis, whose banter with Parker lights up the darkest night, are mere footnotes in The Lovers. And that is how it should be; this is Parker's story, or rather his father's story.

This is also not a book for newcomers to the Parker series. It does stand alone, as much as it can, but there is so much rich backstory here, with characters from earlier books making reappearances, that I can only imagine that, as an introduction to Parker, it would be something of a hollow experience.

For Parker fans, that is not an issue. The Lovers might just be the best Parker novel yet. It may not have a Mr Pudd, Brightwell or Caleb Kyle for a villain, or have the pace and action of earlier novels, but Connolly's writing is sensational. Much of the story is told either in flashback or recounted by characters to Parker; little happens in the here and now, and it takes some writing chops to create such an intense story with Parker, by and large, being talked at by others.

Connolly has hinted that he has the end of the Parker series in his mind. He knows how it will be resolved, it's just a question of how long it takes to get there. Given the developments in The Lovers, there is a sense that we are building to a crescendo and I don't think there will be too many books left. Three, maybe four. And this, too, is as it should be, as Parker deserves some closure. Still, it will be one hell of a ride getting there.

New blog launched - the greatest books ever written

2009-06-16T10:28:00.000-07:00

I've long known that I don't read as widely as I should. In fact, for a writer, my list of books read is embarrassingly modern. I did experience a few of the so-called great works of fiction at school, but since then... well, it just hasn't happened.

But that's all about to change. I've started a new blog - The 113 Supposedly Greatest Books Ever Written - and over the course of the next two years (hellfire, that's optimistic...) I'll be reading each and every one of them. And ranting/raving about them.

The first post is up - it explains what the experiment is all about, and first on the menu is a book I've been meaning to read for, oh, the best part of 25 years. Better late than never, I guess. Have a gander and you'll see what it's all about.

More importantly, feel free to join in the discussion about each book as I make my way up the list, or join in and read a book or two with me.

Gentlefolk, start your engines...

The Amazing Morphing Literary Concept

2009-06-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

There's been an itch I've been, er, itching to scratch for several months. The seed of an intriguing idea for a novel formed last autumn and really caught hold - I was desperate to play with it, see how it developed. But I knew it had to be stuck on the back burner while other, more pressing projects, were completed.

It was still in limbo until the middle of last week, when the moment arrived when I could ignore said itch no longer. You know what I mean. So I opened up a fresh word document and typed in the title - I'll call it Mr Stone here, for the title kind of gives the game away at this stage - stuck 'by John Quirk' below it and scrolled down to the top of page two. And away I went.

I wrote just over a thousand words, and it did me the world of good. First and foremost, it helped brush off some cobwebs. I'd hit a bit of a trough, as what should be the final draft of The Manx Giant has been slow in coming together and I've been feeling a bit rusty. It also reinforced my early belief that the core idea for Mr Stone was a solid one.

However, as the word count climbed, I found myself repeatedly returning to read what I'd written. I wasn't sure why this was, until it slapped me across the face with a dodgy kipper. The concept for Mr Stone was unusual - it would involve taking the bare bones of the central idea, but with no plotting, treatment or notes, and researching that idea as the protagonist does in the book. The bottom line would be that I learned what happened next at the same time as the protagonist did.

This was the first time I'd come up with what I guess is termed in the dark recesses of the publishing world as 'literary fiction'. No, it's not a term I'm comfortable with either, but in broad terms it would relate to character and theme rather than plot, and it wasn't to be a book that could be easily defined by genre.

I was happy with that; I'd be turning my hand to something new, hopefully improving my writing as I did. Yet, after those thousand words, I'm left with something of a dilemma.

As the opening unfolded, I couldn't help but think of possible plot developments - where before, I had no idea where the story was going, ideas for major turning points popped into my head and before I knew it the ending had all but formed, uninvited and unwanted. What was literary fiction is threatening to morph into an adventure story, with some fantasy elements thrown in and a conspiracy theory to boot.

So I've stopped. I've left the word document floundering in the new Mr Stone folder I'd set up on my desktop and I'm ignoring it. Because I don't know what to do. Should I strip it all back and start again, keeping it based in the bleak setting I'd created for Mr Stone? Or do I go with the flow, follow my instinct to where it's taken the story so far?

Buggered if I know. So I'm back on the Giant, which is starting to come together nicely. As for Mr Stone, answers on a postcard to one seriously confused mind. Or, alternatively, stick them in the comment box at the end.

A love letter to Afghanistan

2009-06-08T14:35:00.000-07:00

Review - Born Under a Million Shadows, by Andrea Busfield

The bottom paragraph on the back cover for this, Busfield's debut novel, describes it as a 'humorous and harrowing love letter to a troubled land' and you'd do well to remember that phrase - love letter - as you read it.

Sage advice to would-be novelists looking to snare an agent or publisher is full of 'show, don't tell', particularly early on in a manuscript, and the need to hook the reader immediately, to produce the goods and induce that 'move to the sofa' moment for said agent/publisher. And go easy on the back story, whatever you do.

But they say rules are there to be broken, and Busfield seems intent on doing just that. Million Shadows is narrated first person by eleven-year-old Fawad, a boy born in Kabul during the time of the Taliban. It opens very quietly, as Fawad describes life with his friends on the streets of Kabul, working the foreigners, his fractured home that he shares with his mother, his aunt and her brood.

It's scene-setting - beautifully done scene-setting at that - but after ten or fifteen pages I had one thought in my head... when's this thing going to start? What I hadn't realised was, it had. And it had the hooks in, too, but all with such subtleness that by the time the 'story' kicked in I was unaware that the author had slung a bag over my head and carried me off into her world.

The event which sparks the plot into action comes when Mariya lands a job as housekeeper for Georgie, an intelligent and sexy western woman who shares a home with two friends, James, a journalist, and May, an engineer. Fawad, understandably, develops a huge crush on Georgie, who has relationship issues of her own - she's in love with an Afghan warlord, Haji Khan, who Fawad soon learns isn't the kind of bloke you want the girl you love so achingly to be hanging around with.

The story unfolds slowly - Fawad tries to act as matchmaker between his mother and a guard; he gets a job working in a small store with a blind shopkeeper; the three westerners take Fawad under their wing and introduce him, unintentionally, to alcohol and sex education; and he watches, helpless, as Georgie's love for Haji intensifies before, inevitably, their world threatens to break apart around them.

Busfield first experienced Afghanistan while working as a journalist for the News of the World covering the fall of the Taliban. In interviews she does not hide the fact that she fell in love with the country, so much so that she made it her home, and this knowledge permeates everything that transpires to Fawad and his friends. It also explains the 'love letter' reference, because that's exactly what this is. Plot is secondary here; it's a look at a year in Fawad's life, a momentous year during which he grows from a child into a young man. A love letter from Busfield to a trouble-torn but beautiful country.

Her style might not suit everyone, but for those who are happy to wait for their riches there is much to admire here. She manages to give a history lesson without preaching, and outlines the politics without being political. Fawad isn't just a fully-rounded character, he all but steps from the pages and grabs you by the hand. The relationship between Georgie and Khan is deftly handled, when it could have come across heavy-handed and cliched, and most of the supporting cast - particularly Pir Hederi, the blind shopkeeper - are a delight. There's also some real humour on show here, and not just the obvious situational comedy, such as the incident involving Fawad, a knife and a Frenchman's ass.

There are issues which detract. Some of the word choices for Fawad's internal monologue feel awkward and out of place and at times the dialogue, especially between the westerners, doesn't work; it feels clumsy, almost forced in order to propel the story onwards, and this is in stark contrast to the exchanges between Fawad and friends, not to mention some of the long descriptive passages which bring the country and its natives to colourful life.

As debut novels go, Million Shadows is a fine effort, a beautiful, slow-burning story of unconditional love, tragedy and, ultimately, life-affirming hope. Well worth a read.

A tale of cocktails, marathons and intense suffering

2009-06-02T14:21:00.000-07:00

If truth be told, I've been struggling for the last eighteen months since the publication of The Manx Connection. Sure, I've been writing. And some of it might even be halfway decent. I'm one draft away from crossing The Manx Giant off the to-do list, and Quackenbush is a few solid weeks of head-down-no-distractions away from being a completed first draft, albeit one that needs major rewrites. I've knocked out some freelance stuff, and started this blog. So it's not as if I've been sitting under a palm tree drinking Douglas Town cocktails (two ounces of kahlua, one ounce of tequila, half an ounce of lime juice and stacks of ice, first sampled in Galva, Illinois).

But the bottom line is, I've not been anywhere near as productive as I should have been. There are reasons for this - wedding, honeymoon, baby, sleepless nights - the kind of thing over which you have little control. There's one other factor, however, which I could have done something about.

I'm a great believer in the whole healthy body, healthy mind way of thinking. Seven years ago, I could barely run for five minutes without risking coughing up several internal organs. I was a regular at the gym, but I've always been short and stocky and not built for running. After a particularly heavy night on the juice, I informed everyone that I was going to run the New York marathon. Cue much hysterical laughter.

Six months later, after one broken collarbone and some intensive late training, I completed the marathon in an okayish time of 4hrs 4omins. It was painful, but not an experience I'd swap. I don't think it's coincidence that in the two or three years that followed, when I was running fairly regularly, that my life kind of fell into place. My career developed, my writing improved, the idea for the Manx Connection was born and the research carried out. Everything came together.

Yet since December 2007, I've been somewhat slack. Or downright lazy, take your pick. Exercise has had to be shelved, with so many other commitments on my time. I've put on a stone since the wedding, and I was still a tad overweight then. It's not all my fault, mind you. Mrs Quirk is such a damn fine cook, that some of the weight gain has been out of my hands. When she works her magic, the angels drop their harps and gather round, wishing they were mortal. How's a bloke supposed to stay in shape?

However, I know that my disillusionment with my output during the last eighteen months, and in particular the last five months - when I had so much planned - stems largely from the fact I'm unfit, out of shape and developing bulges in places which I've been informed become increasingly difficult to shift once you hit forty, which is now just ten months away.

So, it's time to kick my arse into gear. I went for a run tonight, the first one in a long, long time. Three miles, over the steam railway line and down to the eerie, tree-veiled and walled estate near the beach at Gansey (I've got to get that place into a book one day) and back up in a loop. If I hold on to something, and avoid sudden movements, I can still stand up. But I feel exactly how I did seven years ago when starting out on the marathon training - damn sore, but determined to get back in shape.

All this is not just about providing the inspiration to write, although that's a major aspect to it. It's also about the quality of the writing I produce, which I know is reflected in how I'm feeling health-wise. Now, if I can just cut out the chocolate. And the cake. And the beer. And not forgetting the pasties...

PS - next blog post should be a review of Born Under a Million Shadows, the debut novel from Andrea Busfield. Well worth a punt.

The final big push

2009-05-28T12:36:00.000-07:00

This weekend marks the beginning of the end for The Manx Giant. It's been a month or so since I met the publisher to get his feedback on the previous draft, and after several false starts, I'll be getting my head down come Saturday on what should be the final draft (it would have been Friday evening, but I'm being dragged kicking and screaming for a night on the tiles, which is another story).

It's been a bloody frustrating last couple of months for writing. There's still a fair bit to do on The Giant: more editing, a few rewrites, new information to try and add seamlessly into the book, some new leads to investigate. And it's not something I can dabble in when I get a spare half hour or so. I can't work that way - it has to be all or nothing.

For a variety of reasons, it's just not been happening. I've been unable to focus, until now. It's as much a mental issue as anything. I've got to get myself in the right frame of mind, which does come across as a load of psychological bullshit. But it can't be helped.

I'm looking forward to the final stretch. Other than some tweaks to the preface and chapter one, the publisher is happy with how it's shaping up. I'm hoping to have it polished off by the end of June, the gods of luck and time permitting, and it will allow me to focus on other projects that I've been neglecting for far too long.

Yet it's not just the writing of the final draft that needs my time. With just six months to go before The Giant is in shops, I need to start the marketing push. I've got a talk lined up at the local library, a few primary schools are interested in me going in to speak to the kids, and signings need setting up, along with press and radio interviews. We've even got a life-size cut out - all 7ft 11ins of the brute - which needs mounting in such a way that it can be easily transported to talks and signings. But all that is barely scratching the surface.

The Giant is being published by the Manx Heritage Foundation and while it's clearly aimed very much at the Manx market, with a fairly small print run, Arthur Caley's adventures in America, where there is a significant Manx community, provide a good opening there. An added bonus is that I've already got stacks of contacts across the States thanks to The Manx Connection.

Caley was something of a dude - a huge man mountain who revelled in his 19th century New York celebrity status as one of Barnum's regular stars - so it should be a reasonably easy sell to those who know of Caley. I only hope the writing is good enough to snag the interest of other readers.

So roll on the weekend. Or at least roll on Saturday morning after a Friday night that could get a little messy...

PS - twitter update - number of followers now up in the nineties, but I'm picking up one or two rather, er, interesting fans. If I hadn't led such a sheltered life, I might think that these people are using their porn names. I have, of course, blocked such folk from being able to follow me. Honest.

Big twitter, small world

2009-05-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

So I've been doing this here twitter lark for three weeks now. I didn't have a good goddam clue what it was all about, to be honest. Seemed like a waste of time - a glorified facebook status update. But, you know, it is very intriguing.

I wouldn't say I'm addicted. Lack of time takes care of that. But it is a fascinating concept. In the first few days, I followed some friends and contacts, they followed me. All very simple. Then something weird happened. I started picking up followers from all over the place, folk I'd never met, even online. Slowly but surely I found my twittering feet.

I'm up to 38 followers (I did have 39, but one mysteriously vanished last night. I've no idea who it was, just that the number had dropped. I'm not suspecting foul play) and they're scattered around, in the UK, the US and Australia. Best of all, in the last week I've caught up with two friends who I'd not spoken to for best part of ten years, thirteen years in one case. For that reason alone, as with facebook, it's worth giving it a go.

This morning a fellow Isle of Man twitterer (hey Pippa) started her twittering with 'Hello world!'. I didn't think anything of it at first, but then what she said hit home. When I first blogged about twitter, I likened it to being on a conference call with your mates. But it's more than that. It's like having an open line to the world, or at least all those who you are linked to. And that line is constantly open, assuming you're logged in.

From a writer's perspective, it's superb - both as as a research tool, in terms of picking up the latest skeet about the world of publishing, and as a marketing tool. The former I can use 24/7, the latter as and when the opportunity arises.

So for anyone out there who's not twittering, give it a go. You might think you've got nothing to say, but once twitter has its claws into you, the words will come. Trust me.

Right, back to the 'to do' list. Christ, I've barely scratched the surface. Ah, well. Onwards and upwards.

Murder. Adultery. Facism. Rotting hearts sent by post. Just your average day in the mind of author Andrew Taylor

2009-05-07T14:35:00.000-07:00

Review - Bleeding Heart Square, by Andrew Taylor

There is something so beautifully sinister about Taylor's work that makes me hope I never have the pleasure of meeting him in person. Sure, he comes across as a perfectly sound bloke on his website (other than the dodgy one-eyed photograph), and he's married with children and a couple of cats and all that. But having read first The American Boy (the one featuring a young Edgar Allan Poe) and now this, I wouldn't recommend being stranded alone with the man.

Bleeding Heart Square is set in mid-1930s London and, as with The American Boy, Taylor has spun another complex web of intrigue and deception: A woman flees her abusive husband, seeking refuge with her father in a gloomy lodging house in the eerie-sounding square. The owner, a middle-aged spinster called Miss Penhow, hasn't been seen for four years, and a plain-clothes policeman lurks in the shadows, watching everything that happens in the square. And someone is sending parcels of rotting hearts to the house, addressed to Miss Penhow's estranged husband, the wonderfully menacing Serridge.

At the core of the story are two threads. Lydia lives in upper class splendour on a vast country estate. On the surface, she has everything. Beneath the surface, she's a prisoner to her manipulative bully of a husband, Marcus, a rising young politician within the British Union of Fascists. The book opens with her taking one beating too many, prompting her to flee to London and her father.

The second thread revolves around Rory Wentwood, a struggling journalist just returned from India, who is engaged to Fenella, the niece of the missing Miss Penhow. Snooping around Bleeding Heart Square under orders from his fiancee, Rory is coerced into taking a room at the lodging house by Detective Sergeant Narton, an enigmatic cop who is investigating Serridge and the disappearance of Miss Penhow.

When Lydia and Rory meet, they become embroiled in each other's stories as Rory tries desperately to hang on to Fenella, Lydia learns the disturbing truth about Marcus and both of them fall deeper into the murky world that Serridge inhabits and the evil that pervades Bleeding Heart Square.

Taylor isn't just one of the best crime writers around. He's one of the best writers, period. Bleeding Heart Square is a slow-burn. It has a measured pace to it - not for Taylor the short, sharp edge-of-your-pants cliffhanger chapters that James Patterson churns out. Taylor lands the hook in your mouth without you realising it and before you know it you're turning those pages, drawn into the gothic atmosphere that all but rises from the page to devour your senses.

Part of the story's intrigue is down to Taylor opening each chapter with a present tense, first person passage (the rest of the book is third person), in which the reader takes on the increasingly sinister persona of one of the characters who is following Miss Penhow's missing journal. It's a clever ploy, but one which could have backfired in the hands of a lesser writer.

The time and place that Taylor evokes is frighteningly vivid, a period of social and political uncertainty, with the fascist subplot adding to the suspense that gradually builds throughout the book. All this work would, of course, be wasted if Taylor had dropped the ball with his characters, but he can't be faulted here either.

Lydia's slow transformation from aristocratic wallflower who is waited on hand and foot to independent, streetwise woman is a masterclass in character development, and each of the supporting cast are given ample room to breathe and come to life. It's Serridge, however, whose memory lingers longest, a wonderful creation of charm, mystery and utter villainy, although the wretched Marcus isn't too far behind.

The beauty of coming late to an established author like Taylor is that you have a backlist of books to catch up on. It's been four years between reading The American Boy and Bleeding Heart Square. Rest assured I won't wait as long next time.

Stephen Fry: The Da Vinci Code of Twitter

2009-04-28T12:49:00.000-07:00

So I took the plunge this morning and started twittering, because I've obviously got far too much time on my hands. (Anyone desperate enough to twitter up can find me @johnquirkbooks)

It's a bizarre concept. Like calling a bunch of friends, colleagues and contacts on a conference call and telling them your innermost thoughts, or that you're off down the pub on the piss. My problem is that most of my family and friends aren't interested in Twitter. The majority of them don't even know about Facebook, so there's no chance of them twittering.

Of course, one of the most intriguing aspects is the insight Twitter offers into the lives of those celebrities you choose to follow. I've picked a few authors, and that will do for now. Some authors I'd like to follow haven't taken the Twitter bait yet, and I've managed to avoid the temptation of following the exciting life of Britney Spears.

There's one celebrity who has pretty much raised the profile of Twitter single-handedly. Check anyone's page for who they are following and chances are you'll see a small pic of Stephen Fry. He's bloody everywhere. People new to Twitter are hearing about how Twitterific Mr Fry is... so they follow him to see what all the fuss is about.

He has quickly established himself as the Da Vinci Code and Titanic of Twitter - phenomenons that feed off the media frenzy created around them, creating an ever-perpetuating popularity. When the Da Vinci Code hype started to buzz, I had to read it to see what all the fuss was about, as did just about everyone. Same with Titanic.

But not this time. I'm not going to follow Mr Fry, although I do realise that by talking about his popularity I'm helping stir that big pot of Twitter buzz for him. I'm going to give him the cold shoulder. Should he deem me worthy of following in the coming weeks and months, then I may well return the compliment. But by Christ I'm going to play hard to get.

From out of nowhere

2009-04-21T15:19:00.000-07:00

One of the most common questions asked of writers is: 'Where do you get your ideas from?'

This generally applies to fiction, as non-fiction ideas, or subjects, seem far more clear cut - if you're writing a biography, for example, the genesis of the idea is (in most cases) obvious.
At least that's what I thought.

I was in bed last night, with my Muse snoring gently by my side, trying to fall asleep while last minute thoughts about a media training course I was running today flitted around inside my head. Then, from out of nowhere - and I mean completely nowhere - an idea arrives. It doesn't just sidle in with its coat collar pulled up around its neck and lurk in the corner. No, this one explodes. Eyes open, a real sitting-up-in-bed moment.

The birth of any new idea is met with a mixture of excitement and despair, as my growing list of 'to do' projects will soon dangle as far as the upper reaches of Hell. What's frustrating about this latest idea is that it's a non-fiction book - and I've told myself (and my ever supportive Muse) that once The Manx Giant is done and dusted, I'll be focusing all efforts on fiction.

But, damn if this new non-fiction project isn't enticing. It arrived fully formed, with bells and whistles. It's very much a concept piece, and - in my opinion - would be hugely commercial. It's got TV tie-in potential, a ready-made publicity campaign and I've spent the last 24 hours looking for the flaws in the idea. Not found any yet, other than some minor hiccups that could be easily addressed.

Ultimately, it's not time sensitive - other than if someone thinks of the same idea and steals my thunder. So for now I'm going to let it stew, look at it again in a few weeks and see if my initial excitement has been dampened.
As much as I'd love to get a proposal package together to fire off to agents, I know I need to concentrate on fiction, for the sake of my own sanity.

At this stage, it's imperative that the Muse doesn't find out about this new idea. If she hears it's non-fiction, and might delay completing Quackenbush (again), my life won't be worth living. Again.

Leave my damn Weetabix alone

2009-04-05T07:05:00.000-07:00

Over at Litopia, there's only really been one issue up for discussion around the water cooler these last couple of weeks - Scribd, the online social publishing site, where 'tens of millions of people share orginal writings and documents...'

That's one way of describing it. Scribd hit the headlines when it was raised on the Litopia After Dark podcast - the panellists wanted to know how the hell so many published works seemed to be available for free download from the site. JK Rowling and Wilbur Smith are just a couple of big names whose work is, or at least was, available up until recently.

The story was soon picked up by The Times, with The Bookseller, Sky News and a host of others hot on the trail.

Litopia After Dark host Peter Cox invited Scribd CEO Trip Adler on to the show last Friday to put Scribd's side of the argument. At first, it appeared Trip had agreed. Good move, I thought. This man knows the importance of PR and the need to meet a challenge head on. In the next breath, someone claiming to be from Scribd joined Litopia and insisted Trip had agreed to no such thing.

Litopia After Dark went ahead, with Peter ringing Trip's number and the panellists - and an army of Litopians hanging about in the chatroom - looking forward to getting the Scribd side of things straight from the horse's mouth.

Sadly, Trip didn't show.

Given the publicity this issue is continuing to generate, any organisation worth its salt should have had a PR action plan quickly drawn up and been ready to rock and roll.

When facing such a situation, the best response from an organisation - or an individual - is to hold your hands up and take it on the chin. Stand up and be counted. Say, yes, we realise we have an issue - whether we were aware of it or not - and we're doing X, Y and Z to deal with it.
Indeed, if the organisation feels there is no issue, and that it has done nothing wrong, then it should come out and say as much. If there's one thing that will piss off the media and the public alike, it's a 'no comment'.

As someone who's in the process of establishing a small publishing house, the Scribd situation - hell, any kind of download site where authors, and publishers, aren't seeing any reward for their work - makes me bloody angry.

There is, in my opinion, absolutely no excuse whatsoever. Scribd can argue that this wasn't what it set out to do. It can say that its purpose was to give unpublished, or self-published, writers a platform to have their work read, and hey, maybe picked up by someone. And that's all well and good and worthy.

But in just two years Scribd has become a victim of its own success. It cannot monitor the sheer number of documents being uploaded to the site. It responds to requests from publishers to remove certain documents when those publishers bring it to Scribd's attention. But what use is that? Unless a publisher is employing someone around the clock to constantly monitor these 'social publishing sites' - and I've heard of one that does - they will lose money even if they are on the ball and spot indiscretions quickly. A book doesn't have to be available for long for it to be downloaded any number of times.

What Scribd - and other similar sites - should be doing is reassuring the publishing industry. They should be bending over backwards to get this issue resolved. They should be facing up to their responsibilities and not ducking the issue.

If they do that, they might just retain a modicum of credibility and, hell, maybe even benefit from it. The ebook is not something that's going to disappear, regardless of what traditionalists like myself, who need to feel a book in their hands, might hope. They continue to chip away, increasing in popularity year on year, and as such I don't have a problem. If they are here to stay, then we must embrace them and learn to accept them as part of the normal publishing business.

But as a writer, and a publisher, I want to see my damn money coming in. End of story. I've put in the long hours, I want my reward. Regrettably, that train of rational thinking doesn't seem to cut any ice with the likes of Scribd. The onus is on writers, publishers and agents to make sure they don't have any choice but to listen.

And the onus is on us all as readers. For Christ's sake, don't download published books for free. You might as well come into my kitchen of a morning and steal the goddamn Weetabix from under my nose.

Back in the groove

2009-03-27T15:19:00.000-07:00

Okay. I can't wait any longer.

It's been two days since my embarrassing lightbulb moment and I've got to scratch that itch.
I was going to leave it a week or so before launching into the lightbulb-inspired overhaul of young adult WIP Quackenbush, to allow time for the ideas to ferment.

But they won't let me. My fingers are twitchy. They need to burn up the keyboard. So here goes. No point resisting when the urge is on you. It's time for the home stretch. By the time I come up for air, the first draft will be completed.

I'm not sure how long this is going to take, because it's difficult to gauge how much work is required. I need to write a completely new intro, probably three thousand words or so, then take the original prologue and blend that seamlessly into the story. The new intro requires the introduction of two new characters, who will fix a gaping plot hole that perplexed me for what felt like eternity. Well, six months. Finally, there are two big scenes to tackle towards the end of the book which will tie the threads together and bring the climax, already drafted, into play.

I've opened a new word document, saved it as 'New Quackenbush' and that magical moment awaits - a blank screen, waiting for the words to start flowing. Or not.

To be honest, it's kinda scary. I've had so many delays in getting this finished, partly because of deadlines for other projects, that I've questioned whether or not I'd be better off scrapping it and starting afresh on a new project. Thankfully, the buzz is back and I'm in the groove.

But first, a cuppa. And a cookie. That should get me going. You can't rush these things.

The Lightbulb Moment; Or, How to draw attention to oneself on the bus

2009-03-25T13:56:00.000-07:00

It's been a good day, as the old geezer in the fire safety ads used to say after bringing the horses home from the show and before dozing off in his armchair and burning the house down.

These kind of days are few and far between, so you need to treasure them when they strike. It started with a pre-work doze on the coach in this morning. In that fantastically hazy realm between consciousness and sleep, I had what is commonly known in the trade as a lightbulb moment. This one didn't just light up, it exploded and had me wide awake, staring at the headrest in front of me, while the woman in the next seat glanced up from her paperback and gave me a look that made me check to see if I'd left the house naked.

I'm about 8,000 words or so away from finishing the first draft of Quackenbush, the young adult novel I've been dabbling with for the last couple of years. A few months ago, I hit a wall. A bloody big one. I'd opened the book with a prologue and when I posted it in Litopia for feedback last year, I kinda new what would be coming. The opening was set 35 years ago, with an action scene that introduced a young Quackenbush, before fastforwarding to present day and the start of the story proper.

The problem was, as integral as Quackenbush is to the book, and as cool a character as I think he is, he isn't the main protagonist. That is young Tom, and the way the book is structured at the moment, the reader doesn't meet Tom till page 10, which is not the greatest idea when trying to persuade an agent to, in the words of Mr Cox, move to the couch with his or her mug of coffee in one hand and your manuscript in the other.

Dump the prologue was the general consensus. But writers are a precious lot, fond of their babies. And, goddamit, I liked it. The events in the prologue are fundamental to how Quackenbush becomes the man he is, and crucial to the bond that develops between between him and Tom. I was loathe to lose it, even though I knew, deep down, that it had to go. I tried to focus on the rest of the manuscript, completing parts that I'd left hanging because extra research was needed, but it was no good. I had to sort this prologue issue out in my head.

So I've waited. Other projects have come to the fore, some have been completed, and others are still hanging around like an irate zombie who's been locked out of the mall while his mates are enjoying a feeding frenzy. And still I've waited. Until this morning.

The answer to the prologue dilemma is so bloody obvious I feel somewhat embarrassed for not having realised it earlier. A dynamic opening? Check. Straight in with Tom, strutting his stuff? Check. Managing to hold on to the events of the old prologue, in a roundabout way, and so give the reader the information they need about Quackenbush? Check.

It's a huge relief. And I'm chomping at the bit to get started on revising what I have of the draft, and then completing it. But I'm going to wait, at least a few days, to let it all stew. It's been rattling around in what passes as a brain for long enough, a little while longer won't harm it.

So, score one for Wednesday. The feelgood factor was improved when an email dropped in the inbox from my publisher for The Manx Giant. I fired the manuscript off to him about five weeks ago, which marked the first time he'd read a word of it. The days ticked by and I heard nothing. Holidays, I thought. Or maybe he's ill. Or so tied up on another project that he's had to forsake everything else. You can't help but start to fear the worst.

Today, I got his reply. He likes it. In fact, he's very pleased with it. He wants to meet up to discuss a few minor points, but he's happy. I'll be starting on the next draft this weekend, and the finishing line feels very close. Another big relief.

So that's it - two major scores in one day. I'm not naive enough to expect more fireworks soon. I'm only too aware that the literary gods have cocked up and they'll be arguing amongst themselves as to how some halfwit writer managed to get lucky twice within a matter of hours. They won't let that happen again soon.

Finally. a heartfelt thanks to all who attended the Olive Lamming Address to the Isle of Man Literary Society last week and had to endure my ramblings for the best part of an hour. I didn't mean to go on that long, honest. But, well, you did ask me to talk. And anyone who knows my father will be aware that us Quirks do like a good natter...

No room for shrinking violets

2009-03-13T13:26:00.000-07:00

It's funny how the years change us.

I was never an outgoing kid - outside my close-knit group of friends, I was fairly shy, or at least never one who wanted to be the centre of attention. I skulked at the back when it was time to cast plays and tried to wriggle out of any attempt to include me in a presentation. The bottom line was, I didn't like performing in front of people. More precisely, I didn't like performing in front of people I didn't know.

After studying journalism at university, I went to Moldova for six months to teach English. I was 23 by this time and had several classes, ranging from six years old to sixteen, and if anyone needs short, sharp shock treatment for getting over nerves relating to standing up in front of people and fearing for your reputation, I'd recommend some teaching every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Several years in journalism helped things along; you can't be a journalist - scratch that, you can't be an effective journalist - if you're shy and reserved. All that said, it's only in the last four or five years that I've started to feel comfortable talking in front of groups.

While travelling for The Manx Connection, I was asked by most societies to give a talk on the book, about why I was writing it and what I'd learned on my globetrotting. The experience has stood me in good stead. The audiences ranged from seven or eight to thirty or forty. It got to the stage where, when my friend asked me to be best man a couple of years ago, I was actually looking forward to the speech, although I can't deny it wasn't nervewracking or that I hit the odd bum note.

If you harbour any aspirations of being a successful writer, giving talks and readings are part and parcel of the game in today's publishing industry. There's just no getting around it - if you can't buy into the whole marketing and promotion game, you'll find the odds stacked against you from the start.

Anyway, this Tuesday (March 17), I'm at it again. I've been invited by the Isle of Man Literary Society to give the annual Olive Lamming Address and will be attempting to keep the audience in the land of the living with a talk on The Manx Giant.

The book is being published later this year, and obviously the hope is that the talk will generate a bit of interest and help sales along. But it's also a chance to educate people about Arthur Caley, who I've grown very fond of in the last couple of years, and put some of the inaccuracies and myths about him to bed.

So, if you're in the Isle of Man and free on Tuesday evening, doors open at the Henry Bloom Noble Library in Douglas at 7.00pm, for a 7.30pm kick-off. No booking necessary, just turn up on the night.

I promise you, there'll be no tall tales.

Review Central

2009-03-03T12:07:00.000-08:00

When I started blogging last summer, the intention was to include regular reviews of books (and the occasional movie). It's not happened, mainly because my reading has been irregular, to say the least, and I've not been to the cinema for, well, I don't remember the last time I got the popcorn in.

But that's all gonna change now.

The first book review should be up in a week or two. It will be Bleeding Heart Square, by Andrew Taylor, which I'm immersed in right now. My first taste of Taylor's work was The American Boy, published in 2004. It was a very fine read, a sumptuous blending of crime, mystery and history revolving around a young boy called Edgar Allan Poe, and I'm not sure why I've waited five years before delving into his work again.

The next two on my list will be Daisychain, by GJ Moffat, a debut crime novel set in Glasgow, and Born Under a Million Shadows, by Andrea Busfield, another debut novel this time set in Afghanistan.

The idea is to review new books, be they new in paperback or hardback. But I might just throw in an oldie from time to time.

****

The Manx Giant is with the publisher, finally. When I sat down at the start of the year to edit and complete the second draft, the plan was to have it completed by the end of January, but every time I thought I was there, another element to Arthur Caley's story reared its head.

But it's done now, and while I move on to other projects, which I'll blog about soon, I'm left in that eerie limbo land waiting to hear what the publisher thinks. There will be another draft required, as there are still some research irons in the fire, but the draft I've sent through is pretty much the finished article. And so the writer's insecurities have surfaced, worrying that it will return through the post with CRAP scrawled across it in big red letters.

All you can do is change focus to keep your mind off it. So here we go. What to do next...?

Editing with Giants

2009-02-10T15:33:00.000-08:00

I have a love/hate relationship with edits and rewrites. When I get into it, I enjoy the whole juicy mish-mash that is the editing process, which is just as well as I'm in the thick of the juice at the moment for The Manx Giant.

I also believe that editing is just about the most important tool in helping you develop as a writer, particularly if you're editing, or critiquing, other people's writing; assessing the work of other writers has taught me more about my own work than other people's edits of my writing, if that makes sense. Hey, it's late.

Having been shunted out of my office to make way for my darling daughter's gigantic cot and army of cuddly toys, which have confined my not-quite-as-gigantic-but-still-huge writing desk to the garage, I'm stuck in a corner of the master bedroom with a small (but cool, despite the lack of leg room) replacement desk, although I'm relying on memory that it's a desk, because at the moment it is nothing more than a vaguely organised mess of random piles of notes and research. Non-fiction books will do this to you.

The edits are going well and the additional info that needs slotting in has, so far, found itself a natural home. The word count has risen slightly, which is not a problem as it's a fairly short book. Meanwhile, bearing down on me is this Sunday's deadline, when the revised draft will be fired over to the publisher, marking the first time he will have set eyes on it. Always a scary time. After that, it's wait and see until he gets back to me.

Thankfully, the deadline is not only focusing the mind on the job in hand, it's easing the frustration that editing brings with it - namely, the curious sensation of going back over old ground when there are a hundred and one other projects screaming for attention, demanding to be worked on, a fact made even more frustrating because I know full well that I won't be able to focus properly on the shiny new stuff until the editing is finished.

Alongside the editing and rewriting, I'm finalising the pictures I'm suggesting to illustrate the book, which includes wading through a few I've taken (assuming they are halfway decent) and mixing them with old drawings and photographs of the Giant. That, too, is a slow and laborious process.

But I'm on countdown now. A few more days, and it will be time to move on, at least until the revised draft comes back from the publisher and I have to tackle his red pen. Then the circle starts again.

Another deadline, workshop bliss and a blatant facebook plug

2009-01-30T13:20:00.000-08:00

Earlier this month I mentioned a gargantuan to-do list for 2009, which I peer at from time to time in the hope that a tick will magically appear beside one or two items.

Number one priority was to get the second draft of The Manx Giant completed, at which point it will go to the publisher for feedback. The aim was January 31, into which we have just slipped, so that's gone. But this week I informed the publisher that it will be with him by February 15, so deadline city here we come. I've booked a week's leave, giving me nine straight days off work prior to the deadline, so I won't have any excuses not to get it polished off.

Before all that, tomorrow offers up the chance to experience that all too rare a beast - a day's solid, uniterrupted writing. The writing group has booked a room in the Erin Arts Centre for a 9am-5pm workshop. Us writers, our laptops, a steady supply of hot brews and only the sound of busy fingers tapping away. Bliss.

Elsewhere on that list, I was hoping to have the website for Nemesis Publishing up and running by now, but that too has been a slow mover. A start has been made, including setting up the blog, but it's a week or two away from being ready.

Another item on the list has changed - the two collaborative script ideas have been shelved for now, and we're working on an idea for a TV serial. Early doors, but we believe the potential is strong in this one...

And so to the final goal on the list - to lose two stone by the time I creak to the age of 40 in April next year. Four weeks gone, and half a stone has been shed. Which feels mighty fine. As an advertising slogan spotted by a work colleague recently suggests, nothing tastes as good as slim feels. And when I'm slim, I'll find out.

Finally, a google alert informed me that, in terms of number of fans/readers, this blog - which falls under the headers of publishing, writing and books - stands at number 22 in the top 50 'publishing' networked blogs through facebook, which came as a pleasant surprise.

Sadly, my total of 26 facebook readers is some way behind the leader, who has 160-0dd, and I don't make the top 5o in either 'books' or 'writing'.

A couple of fellow Litopians are just ahead of me in the publishing list - Emma is 18th and David an impressive 10th. I hate to admit it, but the competitive streak in me is rearing its ugly head. If you've had one of those annoying facebook requests to access networked blogs and join the gang, and haven't bothered, take pity on me. Add the blog. Push me up that list. You'll be rewarded in the next life, I'm sure of it. And I might even buy you a beer if I see you in the pub.

If you've not had a request to join, blame facebook. I can never figure out who has had invites to join and who hasn't.

This week John is reading:

Mort, by Terry Pratchett (again)

Adventures in Podcasting

2009-01-20T16:39:00.000-08:00

So, I've been roped in again as a guest panellist on the Litopia After Dark podcast this Friday. And the lovely Eve, the Litopia podcast officer, has talked me into appearing on a (roughly) monthly basis. I say talked, but I didn't have to think twice about the offer.

Litopia supremo and literary agent Peter Cox produces two podcasts - Litopia Daily, a Monday to Friday 15-minute fix of writing and publishing news, and the 45-minute-long, chatshow-style After Dark, which goes out live at 8.00pm (Isle of Man mean time). Peter then removes the hmms and ers, applies a bit of spit and polish, and posts them on Litopia for download.

I felt incredibly out of my depth on my first LAD appearance - the regular panellists, Donna and Dave, made it seem effortless and I just muttered away in the hope that something worthwhile escaped my lips. I can only assume it did, because Eve has asked me back on a few occasions in times of need.

It's a bizarre experience - the podcasting is done via Skype and to be sat at home with a headset on, staring at a screen, watching Peter in London and talking to the other panellists around the world (Donna's a Florida gal, who provides the essential The Write Report) is almost too much for my limted techie skills to comprehend.

If you have any kind of interest in the world of writing. books and publishing and haven't listened in yet, I urge you to give both the daily and LAD a whirl. (Not when I'm on, of course, wait until they've got someone decent...)

LAD is usually funny, often irreverent and occasionally insightful, and more often than not all three. It's humbling to be asked to appear and I'm looking forward to learning more from the masters, D&D, Litopia's answer to Eric and Ernie.

Elsewhere, work continues on edits for The Manx Giant, which is slowly but surely coming together. I've been sorting through some photographs I've taken, which I'm hoping will appear in the book, and might post a few in the coming weeks, along with a more in-depth look at the larger-than-life Arthur Caley.

Right, I'm off to bed to try and not think about the fact that Friday night's podcast will be listened to by 21,000+ people around the world...

Tip, you're it.

2009-01-08T15:40:00.001-08:00

Hmm. I've been tagged, it seems. Not once, but four times. At least. At last count, Donna, Emma, Richard and Kate have all tagged me. Should I take that as some kind of compliment? Ah, why not. Cheers folks...

So this is how it works: Display the award. Link back to the person who gave you this award. Nominate at least 7 other blogs. Put those blogs on your blog. Leave a message on the blogs of the people you've nominated. You can only answer in one word.

So here goes:

1. Where is your cell phone? Desk
2. Where is your significant other? Bed
3. Your hair colour? Brown
4. Your mother? Remarkable
5. Your father? Cool
6. Your favourite thing? Children
7. Your dream last night? Nothing
8. Your dream/goal? Published
9. The room you’re in? Study
10. Your hobby? Writing
11. Your fear? Dying
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Alive
13. Where were you last night? Home
14. What you’re not? Tall
15. One of your wish-list items? Castle
16. Where you grew up? Isle of Man
17. The last thing you did? Brew
18. What are you wearing? T-shirt
19. Your TV? Pants
20. Your pet? Cats
21. Your computer? Dell
22. Your mood? Content
23. Missing someone? Yes
24. Your car? Honda
25. Something you’re not wearing? Make-up
26. Favourite store? Book
27. Your summer? Short
28. Love someone? Passionately
29. Your favourite colour? Black
30. When is the last time you laughed? Tonight
31. Last time you cried? August

And I will tag...

The problem is that everyone is tagging the same people. So I'll try and be a bit different, as this is all about generating a bit of traffic...

Ady, Kelly and the entire NAMA, Pippa, Eve and the Vulpes Libris gang, Brian... and that's about all the blogs that I can think of who've not been tagged so far.

Have fun.

2009 and the Big List From Hell

2009-01-04T16:45:00.000-08:00

The beauty about taking a break from writing is that you come back feeling you’re invincible, positively buzzing in the knowledge that the items on the to-do list will be rattled off in machine gun fashion.

The reality, of course, is somewhat different. That list, which was already depressingly long, has only got longer in your absence and you haven’t got the first damn clue where to start.

So, back in the saddle after some fine festive fun in London and Norwich visiting Emma’s folks, it’s time for that list.

The 2009 to-do list*.

The following is most definitely not in the order in which they will be completed, but rather the order of importance, which, by the Quirky rules of procrastination, means anything is likely:

1. Send The Manx Giant to publisher. First draft is completed, work on second draft to start tomorrow, anticipated to be ready by January 31. Publication due for late 2009.

2. Finishing touches to young adult novel, working title Quackenbush, polish submission package and start hitting agents. Submissions to start April/May.

3. Finish text for Nemesis Publishing website, and set up associated blog, which will be a warts-and-all look at getting a small publishing business off the ground from scratch. Website and blog should be up and running by mid-January.

4. Publish first edition of Vertigo short story anthology through Nemesis. Currently working with authors on edits for selected stories, publication due November 2009.

5. Once Quackenbush is out doing the rounds, launch into next novel, the working title for which is Mr Stone. Aim is to have first draft of this completed by end of the year.

6. Complete a batch of short stories and submit to magazines/anthologies/competitions. I’ve never focused on the short story format, but looking forward to the challenge.

7. Develop script ideas – three in the melting pot, including two collaborations. Would like to have first drafts of two of the three finished by the time we’re singing Auld Lang Syne again.

8. Lose two stone in weight. No, I won’t be cutting off a leg. A daunting peek at the scales on Dec 31 told me I was the heaviest I’ve ever been, period. With the big four oh just 15 months away, I want to be down to my fighting weight by April 4, 2010. Hitting 40 is going to be challenging enough for my state of mind without looking like this. Two days in, and two pounds have been shed. So two stone should be a piece of cake, then. Hmm, cake...

There you have it – the magnificent eight. In addition, I've got a raft of freelance articles to write (first one finished yesterday) and front page stories to write over at Litopia. If I can achieve all these goals during the coming 12 months, I’ll be stunned. But it’s going to be fun trying.

I’m off to lie in bed and wonder what I’ve missed off the list.

Happy New Year folks, and I hope it’s a good one for everyone – particularly those writers among you.

Cheers

(*I reserve the right to throw my toys out of the pram and alter or delete any of the items on said list.)

Quirky in a quandary

2008-12-15T17:27:00.000-08:00

More job losses in publishing, this time at Macmillan, and everywhere you turn writers, agents and publishers are urging/pleading/begging everyone to buy books for Christmas. Lots of books. Shower your loved ones with them. In fact, sod just loved ones, buy books as presents for those that you hate. A work colleague you want to see suffer eternal damnation in the fiery pits of Hell? Forgive and forget, make it up with a nice page-turner to keep them company during the holidays. Throw in a mince pie for good measure.

I’d be happy if every Christmas present I received was a book (assuming I’m getting any, of course) because I don’t buy many these days, my literature investment fund having been diverted to boosting the profits of Huggies and Pampers. I’m kind of hoping my better half has been advising this fact to the usual ‘what does John want for Christmas?’ enquiries. Anyone would think I was difficult to buy for.

For my part, I’ve bought a couple of books as presents. It makes sense, even without the present state of the publishing world. Think about it – as with alcohol and chocolates, which you just know will be used, even if the recipient isn’t overly keen on them, a well thought out book is unlikely to go the way of all those useless ornaments and multi-coloured vomit-inducing socks and ties, not to mention the tin of biscuits that you’re recycling because you couldn’t bring yourself to torture your stomach last Christmas.

All this doom and gloom does make one wonder, why put yourself through the torment that is the long, painful road to publication? It’s already a bloody hard slog, even when the industry is in the groove and publishers are throwing good money after bad. Today, budgets are tight and the outlook bleak.

But still we write. Still we submit in the hope of catching someone’s eye; just a flicker, anything to make an agent do a double-take and realise that the manuscript they’re holding is the one gold nugget in amongst the piles of scrap metal submissions under which they’ve been drowning.

The fact is, a writer doesn’t stop having ideas just because the book industry is suffering. They appear, unheralded, and begin gnawing away at your subconscious. And eventually you do something about it.

With the first draft of The Manx Giant completed, I’ve started work on edits and rewrites. I’m looking at mid-to-end January to have the book polished, by which time I’d hope to have young adult novel Quackenbush at the editing stage.

All this means that I’ll need to make a decision in the coming weeks about which project to commit to next. I’ll wait until the festivities are over, but it’s a dilemma.

It boils down to one of three choices, all novels. The first is a hard-hitting crime/drama – I’ve used plain drama to qualify it, as there are no supra-genius serial killers mincing people up with skewers – and the second is based around a famous real-life 18th century character. Both of these stories are well-formed in my mind, having been on the back-burner for some time.

The third, however, is new to the party. It reared its head a month or so ago and has been festering inside my far too cluttered brain ever since. I suspect it is an itch that must be scratched; the bully that will kick its rivals into submission.

The problem is that it’s a risky idea. The general consensus is that, when starting a novel, you at least need to have a rough idea of where you want the story to go, and to end up. Even the greatest of non-planners, such as the sublime James Lee Burke, at least have an inkling of how things pan out.

Project 3 – working title Mr Stone – would have no such rough outline. It is a concept piece – a character in a particularly difficult situation, who looks for answers. The idea of the book would be for me to write it as I personally followed his search for those answers. It would be, I guess, a fictionalised journal, and one for which I would never be sure of what was going to happen next.

Is such a concept possible to pull off? I don’t know. What I do know is that either of the other two projects is infinitely more straightforward, if there is such a thing when trying to write a book.

Yet that itch is telling me that the question at the core of Mr Stone is something that might just flutter its eyelids at an agent and turn his or her head. It might just be the one. There again, I could be talking utter rubbish.

Decisions, decisions. I think I’ll consult the cats.

A giant deadline, and raising a glass to JA Konrath

2008-11-28T14:29:00.000-08:00

So here we are.

Two full days left of November, and the final stretch of the first draft of the Manx Giant to complete if I’m to hit at least one of the two deadlines I set myself back in mid-October.

When you look six weeks or so into the future and set yourself a goal, it feels like forever away. Forty-five days is a long time, but, hell, if it doesn’t go quick. The bottom line is that the first draft will be finished by bedtime on Sunday night.

The final section of the book deals with Caley’s time in America and his fame with Barnum and, as of putting the kettle on five minutes ago, I’m running through his later years, piecing sections together up until his final days in Clyde, New Jersey.

With the first draft out of the way, it will be time for edits and rewrites, plus the chance to do a bit more digging, particularly for nuggets of information from the Baraboo Circus Museum Research Centre in Wisconsin. I’ve a man on the ground in Madison who’s doing the rummaging and I’m hopeful more background on this remarkable giant can be found.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give right now for one of those time machine contraptions.

*****

I’m glad I wasn’t trying to get published before the internet appeared. The amount of advice and information for writers that is hanging out there in the ether is mind-boggling.

Want to know how to write a good query letter? Or how to structure a synopsis to have agents fawning over you? How about the ten gripes most likely to wind up an agent or publisher and so consign your proposal package to the bin? It’s all out there.

As seasoned as I am in digging out this advice and information, I still occasionally stumble across a site that leaves me wishing I’d found it several moons ago.

I’ve visited the site of Chicago author JA Konrath a few times before, mainly for a read of his blog – A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing – as he’s a refreshingly straight-shooting kind of chap with a keen insight into the world of books.

I’ve not got round to reading any of his work yet – he’s the man behind the Lieutenant ‘Jack’ Daniels thriller series – but he’s on my list. I was over there the other day, having a snoop, when I clicked on his ‘for writers’ page and discovered an e-book called The Newbie’s Guide to Publishing Book.

In a nutshell, this is all the advice he’s collated, including four years’ worth of blogging, parcelled up into a 250,000-word, 750-page PDF. And, what’s more, it’s free. Gratis. I’ve had a quick look through, read a few sections, and it’s a wonderful resource. I can’t vouch that everything contained within is bang on the money, but heck, it’s worth a look for anyone who is a newbie looking to get a novel published.

Cheers, Jack. I’ve just bumped Whiskey Sour up towards the top of my reading pile.

This week John is breaking open:

American Gods, by Neil Gaiman

Good writers - damn you all to hell. Particularly that Neil Gaiman bloke.

2008-11-20T16:30:00.000-08:00

Something strange happened to me in the bookshop today. It was just shy of twelve hours ago and I’m still trying to figure out what it was all about.

I was out at lunch, looking to buy a breast pump (no, not for me) and I wandered into Waterstones for a good old browse. I do this once a week without fail, more if time permits.

I rarely buy books at the moment, because a) I’m so skint, Third World countries are offering to bail me out; and, b) I’ve entire bookcases of material at home screaming to be read.

I do the whole browsing thing for a particular reason, and it’s not because I want to check out what’s new on the market or seek out dodgy writing to make me feel better about my own efforts. (These are, of course, legitimate reasons for writers to visit book stores...)

The reason I browse is simple – I need to immerse myself in books, be surrounded by them every now and then. It’s a gentle nudge to remind myself why I’m doing what I’m doing – the long haul, the marathon that is the road to getting fiction published.

So, there I am, checking out the recent crime releases when I develop this strange sensation. As I look around the table, laden with thirty or so titles, the futility of what I’m trying to do hits home. I have several crime projects simmering away, and suddenly they all seem... well, pants.

Hmm. I shuffle away, trying to dismiss the peculiar feeling as some kind of wandering bad juju.

I find myself in front of the teenage shelves, checking out the many a cool title there is, reading blurbs and back covers and thinking, wow, there are some fantastically imaginative writers out there, and wishing these kind of books had been around when I was a kid.

I suddenly feel completely lost. Useless. Almost embarrassed to think I could even attempt to snag an agent or publisher. I begin to compare the plot of the young adult manuscript that I’m tantalisingly close to finishing with those on the shelves before me and it’s terrifying. I can’t believe how mundane my plot sounds, how uninspired my writing is.

Then, I make my biggest mistake. I pick up The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman and read the first few pages. I want to carry on reading, but I force myself to return it to the shelf. Then I make a quick break for the exit, trying not to look like a shoplifter.

You see, I had to get out of there. Why? Because Gaiman’s writing was so beautiful that it scared the hell out of me.

I walked back to the office trying to make sense of how I’d felt. The best explanation I’ve come up with is ‘confidence’. I’ve never suffered an over abundance of confidence, but I know that I’m not a complete hack as a writer. There are times when I just know that I will eventually make the breakthrough. And then there are other occasions – and today’s was the worst I can recall – when I doubt absolutely everything.

Confidence is such a bizarre little fellow. No one knows where it appears from, or where it disappears to when it decides to kick you into touch. If only we could bottle it, for it is such a precious commodity.

Now, after writing for a couple of hours this evening and reading back through some recent pages, I feel somewhat calmer. The Graveyard Book must be purchased at some point soon, but not until my young adult effort is finished – it will lessen the damage it can do.

Gaiman, you sod. Next time, put a bloody warning on your books.

****

It’s been a while since the last update on the BUTA challenge – 45,000 words in 45 days, up till the end of November.

The word count is struggling – with 10 days left, I’m just over 22,000. But, in terms of completing both The Manx Giant and Quackenbush by the end of this month, things are looking better. I’m into the home stretch for the Giant, and the first draft should be done and dusted by Tuesday or Wednesday of next week.

That would leave four or five days to focus on Quackenbush, for which I have one major section left to complete – probably the best part of 8,000 words. There’s no chance of finishing that by November 30, but if Giant is finished and Quackenbush all but done, it would still mark a productive few weeks’ work.

And, right now, I'll settle for that.

Regrets, I've had a few

2008-11-10T16:13:00.000-08:00

It’s a question most often posed in a late night bar with everyone present three sheets to the wind, or, introspectively, when one is depressed as hell:

If you could go back and change something in your life, would you? Or, from a slightly different perspective, if you could go back and do certain things differently, would you...?

I don’t know where the years have gone. I had great plans when I was in my teens and early twenties. Now I’m approaching thirty nine with all the grace of a bulldog chewing a wasp and forty will be on me before I know it.

When I think back over the last fifteen to twenty years, the amount of time I can actually recall as being ‘wasted time’ is frightening. Add in the wasted time that I can’t remember (otherwise known as the times I was wasted...) and the fear factor takes on biblical proportions.

In terms of writing, I’ve always been able to talk one hell of a good book, or rather the writing of a book. I started several projects in my twenties, but couldn’t see anything through, and it’s only in the last five years that I’ve quit talking and got my backside into gear.

And so, from time to time, this question keeps wheedling its way into my brain – would I have done anything different if I’d had the chance? The easy answer is, yes. Hell yes. I’d rather be in my early thirties knowing what I know now than at the wrong end of that decade.

But – I am where I am right now, and you know what? I kind of like where that is. On a personal level, other than having to regularly don a wig and false breasts to avoid the bank manager, things couldn’t be much better. As for writing, for the first time I feel that my fiction is at a point where I stand half a chance in what is a bloody hard industry to make the barest of scratches, never mind a mark.

So, do I have regrets? Lots. Would I go back and do anything about them? No, I don’t think I would. That’s not to say I don’t think about those wasted years from time to time.

But now they make me realise how important it is not to add to them.

This week John is searching for:

The Righteous Man by Sam Bourne (November choice in Litopia book club)

Friendly masochist, GSOH, high pain threshold, searching for a slither of sanity

2008-10-27T17:48:00.000-07:00

A quarter of the way through this crazy challenge and I have various branches of the Masochists' Guild lining up at the door asking me to sign on the dotted line.

Day 11 of 45 is consigned to history and, looking purely at word count, I'm just about hanging in there - 10,000 words in 11 days, so a grand down overall. In terms of general progress, The Manx Giant and young adult project Quackenbush are moving along pretty well.

Having had the Quackenbush bug, I've eased my way back into the Giant and the joints of that particular project are starting to creak back into action. He's on the rampage again, albeit in a somewhat stumbling Frankenstein's Monster kind of way.

Right now, I'm confident both manuscripts will be completed by November 30. The coming week will be vital - I'm off-Island on Wednesday and Thursday, for work (that which pays the bills), and it's going to throw a spanner the size of Wales into what has been, so far, pretty smooth running.

Throw in Hop-tu-naa (think Halloween, only cooler) on Friday night, and a good friend's birthday on Saturday, and life is threatening to get in the way of a good time writing.

So I need to try and focus - somehow, I must maintain the 1,000 words a day for the next week, ignoring the fact that there really won't be any spare time. If I can do that, things look like they might quieten down a tad by then, and there shouldn't be too much to try and catch up on.

Famous last words.

The pressure mounts...

2008-10-23T16:56:00.000-07:00

Day 7 of 45 in the Buta challenge has scooted past and current progress is something of a mixed bag. I've slipped behind on word count - 6,100-odd words in that week, when the target was 1,000 a day. Not good.

However, there is a flip side. On Monday I was envisaging setting Quackenbush, the young adult book, to one side and revisiting The Manx Giant. But there was a change of plan. As I couldn't stop thinking about Quackenbush, I kept going. I've upped the overall word count to 56,000 words, and the good news is that I'm further on with the plot than I'd thought.

I'm just finishing an important scene, which sparks the action into gear and sends both the good guys and bad guys racing towards the climax, and after this is finished, there are just two more major cliffhangers left to write, with the final three thousand words or so already done and dusted.

So, I'm thinking that maybe another 10-15k will polish it off, which is a bonus considering that I was estimating around 25-30k. That said, I could be wrong. Tangents are forever appearing, and I ain't ruling anything out.

Talking of tangents, I had a real buzz tonight - I've killed off a strong supporting character, when I wasn't expecting too, and another minor supporting character has survived, when I had him lined up for an early bath.

It is fascinating the way both a plot and characters develop with each key pressed - I've had folk (non-writers) say to me: "What do you mean you killed a character that you wanted to survive? How can that happen? Surely you know how characters will react in a particular situation. It doesn't make sense."

Little in writing makes perfect sense, and the beauty of writing is that you never know what your characters are thinking, or what they will do when pushed, until it's out of your head and down on screen/paper - even then you sometimes have to do a double take at what you've created.

Looking ahead, tomorrow will create more problems - we're out for pizza after work with some friends and respective broods, and then visiting family, so it's unlikely I'll find the time to claw back the word count I've lost.

However, the weekend is almost here - all being well, I'll be back on track by the time Monday arrives, which will be important - I have to go away next week for a couple of days, and there will be little or no time for writing.

And I must get back to the Manx Giant. He's getting lonely, and not a little envious of the time I'm spending with Quackenbush. Like your kids, you've got to love your characters evenly. Otherwise they sulk and refuse to come out to play, and then your word count is well and truly stuffed.

Still on target

2008-10-20T16:42:00.000-07:00

A quick update, folks. Monday has been and gone, and taken with it day 4 of 45 of the Big Buta challenge.

So far, so good. I've just finished for the night, having knocked out 4,106 words on Quackenbush in the first four days. The plan was to average around 1,000 words a day until the end of November, so I'm keeping pace. For now. I'd hoped to get more done over the weekend, to get ahead of myself, but time didn't permit.

I'm really buzzing at the moment, enjoying being back in the fiction saddle after so much non-fiction. However, for the next couple of days I'm returning to the Manx Giant. Should I manage to get just one manuscript completed by November 30th, it's imperative that it is the Giant.

The hope is that within the next few days I'll be able to firm up exactly how far from the finishing line I am with both projects. Until then, I'll just keeping knocking out a grand a day.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

2008-10-17T16:40:00.000-07:00

Now that wasn't so bad, was it? A bit like your annual appraisal, in fact - never quite as bad as you fear it will be.

I'm up and running, with 1,180 words knocked out on Quackenbush on day one of the big BUTA challenge. It's now one o'clock in the morning and my head is telling me to carry on, but I need to be fresh for tomorrow so it's time to wrap it up.

From a writing perspective, I was expecting to launch straight into Manx Giant, leaving some time aside to read through Quackenbush and get back in the swing of things after so long out of the saddle.

But as it turned out I just picked up where I left off two years ago on Quackenbush and the words, which had to be coaxed out at first, were soon flowing. Putting a project to one side (for any decent period of time, never mind two years...) is an essential part of the writing and editing process. Reading it back, it feels like someone else's book; the characters seem new and fresh and you feel somewhat distanced from the project, which helps you look at it from a different perspective.

One reason why it came so easily to me is that I'd already polished off the ending - the last few thousand words are done and dusted, which helps focus the mind on the way forward.

Overall, I'm pretty happy with the start, although I'm barely out of the front door in terms of the whole journey. There will be much tougher days than this ahead, believe me.

With the weekend here, I need to take advantage over the next two days and earn some breathing space (and Brownie points) in case I run into engine trouble during the coming week.

Quirky's morale-ometer - fine and dandy

Move over Nano. Big Buta is here...

2008-10-16T16:48:00.000-07:00

Okay. Here we go. I’ll lay it out for you.

I’ve been feeling pretty lousy recently, in terms of writing. Moping around feeling sorry for myself. Never enough time. Too tired. Too many other commitments. You know, any excuse will do kinda thing.

The reason, as outlined in Monday’s post, was that I missed the deadline for The Manx Giant. It really knocked me sideways, so much so that I’ve barely looked at the manuscript in the past three weeks. On top of that, other ideas for plots have been burrowing into my mind, even though I know only too well that my simple brain can’t take the thought of having any more unfinished projects hanging over me.

And with Nano next month, I kept thinking back to 2006, when I had such a superb time taking part. I really wanted to try it again this year, but knew that to do so would mean starting yet another project, which would be just plain stupid.

I felt stranded, watching the days slip by into weeks and wondering what the hell was going on. My frustration culminated in Monday’s post, which I somehow knew would break the spell and sort me out. By admitting to our faults and facing up to our issues – this is the way we move on with life.

It took three days, but it’s worked. It’s time to cut all the bullshit and get back in the groove.

So, here it is – forget Nano. This is war on procrastination. This is Quirky’s BUTA (boot up the arse) challenge. I’m refreshed and raring to go.

In the 15 days that remain of October, and the 30 Nano-ing days of November, I’m setting myself a challenge so huge you could stick a tail on it and call it a brontosaurus.

By November 30, I will have completed The Manx Giant – and also have finished the first draft of my young adult novel, which has been stuck at the 50,000-word mark since, well, November 30, 2006.

It’s a big ask. I’m estimating that to complete both will take in the region of 45,000 words. That’s 1,000 words a day, which doesn’t seem so bad when to hit the Nano you have to knock out 50,000 in 30 days. However, writing non-fiction is deceiving – when you’re having to read historical research documents, cross checking facts as you go, you can work for five hours and come away with a solid 500 words completed, and feel like you’ve done 5,000.

Getting back into The Manx Giant will be easy – it’s all still fresh in my mind and I know what needs doing. Delving back into the world of the YA project, getting to know Tom, Megan and Quackenbush all over again... that will take longer. First job on that one is to dust off the hard copy and read it again. The juices will flow soon after.

While this won’t be an official Nano, as far as personal challenges go, this is the biggest I’ve ever taken on. It’s going to hurt, if November 2006 is anything to go by. The long hours, the constant clock/calendar watching as the days tick by and you question your sanity. Thankfully, I know a few other writers who are attempting the Nano, so I will be staying close to them, feeding off them as all Nanoists do off each other.

So there you have it. Quirky’s BUTA challenge. Feel free to tag along for the ride – I’ll be blogging regularly during the next 45 days, providing quick updates as to how I’m getting on and maintaining a running total of how many times Emma (and the kids) has threatened to bottle me.

Finishing two books in 45 days? Can it be done? Right now, I haven’t a clue. But it’s going to be fun finding out.

Whooshingly depressive deadlines

2008-10-13T13:50:00.000-07:00

On my desk at work is a present I picked up in last year’s secret Santa at the Christmas bash - “30 Hilarious Desktop Signs” and it includes that old chestnut, amended and borrowed from the late Douglas Adams: “I love deadlines. I especially like the sound they make as they go whooshing by.”

It’s a good one, even though I’m actually quite fond of the little beasts. They focus the mind, stop procrastination in its tracks and offer a sense of achievement, not to mention allowing you to put one project to bed and move on to the next.

So, when the deadline for The Manx Giant went whooshing by recently, it was a real kick in the teeth. I’d been confident that it would be met without too many hitches, but sometimes life isn’t so facilitating. Recently, the months seem to have had fewer days in them, and the days fewer hours. And this erosion of my time isn’t showing any sign of easing up. I’m told babies do that to you.

The upshot is that the book will not be in shops before Christmas, with publication now likely by summer 2009 at the earliest. On the face of it, not a huge blow, just a delay. If only it were that simple. First, I won’t see any financial return from the book in the next twelve months, which isn’t ideal, even if we’re talking peanuts compared with what JK Rowling earns in a minute. (In fact, the anticipated income from the Manx Giant is probably somewhere around the amount JK spends each year on peanuts).

The biggest issue with missing the deadline is the knock-on effect this is having (and will continue to have) on my other projects and, indirectly, my sanity. When I heard the deadline’s whooshing sound, it took the wind right out of my sails and left me becalmed. I couldn’t focus on the Giant, or indeed anything else I tried to dabble with. Complete stand still.

A couple of weeks have passed, and I’m over the initial hit. But the ‘to do’ list continues to grow, and at a faster rate than I’m striking my pencil through items. The young adult novel I’d planned to have completed by the end of November is floating somewhere in the ether, stuck at the 50,000-word mark, as are the ideas for the short stories I was determined to knock out, not to mention a cracking new plot that floated into my subconscious a few weeks back and started the action bells a-ringing. The latter has been dumped unceremoniously on the burner that sits just behind the back burner, as have any plans to do next month’s NaNoWriMo.

It’s at times like these, in terms of writing, that a mild depression sets in. Having missed a deadline, I know I must double all efforts on completing that project. And yet my train of thought is already snaking off in different directions, eager to move on, to explore different plots, to create new characters. It’s bloody difficult to rein it in, and that is where the frustration arises – because I don’t want to rein it in, to have to wait while time ticks by and everything feels like it’s being dragged down into the quagmire.

Ho hum. There’s nowt for it but to get me head down and keep pressing on, in the knowledge that there is always light at the end of the tunnel. Even if you don’t know in which particular tunnel you’re wandering.

Accompanying John in the madhouse this week:

The Black Book of Secrets, F.E. Higgins

Writing orgies, sweet apples and sadistic nuns

2008-10-06T15:11:00.000-07:00

There are times when you know you shouldn’t do something.

When the only outcome is going to be trouble, such as the time when I climbed the tree in the play area at the back of our convent (I was six) to grab an apple, egged on by a bunch of peers and a girl called Sally, who I had a huge crush on (as did every boy in the class, to be fair).

I’d have done anything for Sally, but I ask you, what kind of sadistic bloody nun puts an apple tree in a kids’ playground and then gives them a slap for trying to nick one?

I’m kind of in a similar dilemma now, although it doesn’t involve Sally or nuns. Or apples, for that matter.

Next month is crazy month, when 100,000 writers, give or take, around the globe will lose all reason and embark on a 30-day orgy of writing.

National Novel Writing Month it’s called, or NaNoWriMo, or just plain Nano to us veterans. I say veteran, but I’ve only attempted it once, two years ago. I’d have had a go last year too, but a wedding and two-week honeymoon meant I’d have received a nun-sized slap around the chops if I’d even considered it.

The target each year is to bang out 50,000 words in those 30 days. To someone who writes full-time, that’s a stretch, but manageable. For a writer who grabs the odd hour here and there before and after everyday work and life get in the way, it’s a hell of a tall order.

I managed it, just, and I was on leave for a week. Fortunately, I regularly write past midnight, into the early hours, so the time was there – I just needed to utilise it, instead of procrastinating (I’m pretty sure procrastination wasn’t in the dictionary until the day I was born).

Not everyone is a fan of Nano – some critics suggest it is all quantity of quality, and they are right, to a degree. Anyone who cannot turn their inner editor off for the month shouldn’t waste their time attempting it. If they do, I’d suggest being locked in a padded cell with just your laptop and no sharp objects.

Because Nano does that to you. It drives you nuts. You know that each paragraph that you conjure will need to be fine-tuned at best, completely rewritten, or binned at worst.
Writing 1,600-odd pages a day, every day, for a week is tough. For two weeks, it’s bloody hard. Multiply that by two, and the dedication and focus you need to show shouldn’t be laughed off lightly.

While 50,000 words won’t give you a full novel (unless you’re writing for kids, perhaps), it does provide you with a) the knowledge that you can cut out all the bullshit and write when you put your mind to it; and b) 50,000 more words that you had a month earlier, which is never a bad thing. Sure, it will need a severe dose of editing and some rewriting, but you will have broken the back of your novel.

The main plus I took away from Nano was the realisation that I didn’t need several clear hours to get some writing done. Previously, if I didn’t have at least an hour I’d just give up. It took me that long to get in the mood, get back in the swing of the piece I was writing. That’s what I thought. Nano cured me of that garbage. Give me five or ten minutes now, and I can do a few words. They all count, the words and the minutes, and they all add up.

So, here I am, two years on from my first Nano and desperate to try it again. I know I shouldn’t bother. I’m juggling several projects that need finishing, including polishing off the first Nano that was unceremoniously dumped to allow me to finish The Manx Connection.

It would be foolish to embark on another project. I’ve told myself to think about 2009 and have another go then. What’s another year, as Johnny Logan once asked. Nowt.

And yet... it’s like an itch I need to scratch. I’m trying not to think about it, and certainly haven’t been over to the Nano site to see how preparations are going.

And yet... the plot for the project I’d like to Nano is fully formed in my head. It’s a young adult adventure/horror – think The Goonies meets Amityville – and it’s scratching away desperate to get out.

I must be strong. I must resist the Nano.

And yet...

My favourite deadly sin

2008-09-26T05:05:00.000-07:00

In addition to hanging around Litopia, soaking up the collective wisdom and shooting the breeze with writerly types in the cafes, I also have the rather cool job of being the site’s news officer.

It’s pretty straightforward – when one of the members has some big news, they tell me and I knock together a story for the home page. It might be someone who’s been signed up by an agent or a colonist with a new book about to hit the shelves.

The aim of the stories is twofold. First up, they show new visitors to the site that it is the place to be – a resource for writers where the members are making breakthroughs, and on a reasonably regular basis. Second, the stories act as an inspiration to those colonists who are still working towards a breakthrough.

As the harbinger of such news, I have mixed feelings when drafting these stories – I’m caught between sincere, genuine pleasure for the person involved… and sincere, genuine envy (I know, I’m going to face an eternity of damnation, but it’s all purely professional, of course).

It’s probably not the done thing to admit to envy, but if I didn’t feel at least a smidgen of the sixth deadly sin, I’d think there was something wrong with me. Envy is good – it drives me on, makes me even more determined. Each Litopia news story I write inspires me to do the same. That sound like clichéd bullshit? Yes, I guess it does.

But I tell you, there’s nothing quite as motivating (other than my credit card bill landing on the mat) than telling everyone about the success being enjoyed by another writer.
It’s good, it’s healthy. It’s also an opportunity to look at how they have achieved what they have and to draw from their experiences.

So, to all Litopians, both current and future members, keep at it. And to those who make the breakthrough, keep the stories coming. I need to keep my envy levels up.

A short tale of mutant madness

2008-09-14T07:15:00.000-07:00

I have a small problem.

To be more precise, I have a short problem.

Thanks to a lovely little virus – entovirus, according to the doc, and no, I shouldn’t have googled it – work on The Manx Giant ground to a halt until a couple of days ago, when I managed to move out of first gear for the first time in more than a week.

If there is one thing that time spent not writing is good for, it’s thinking of ideas for future projects, even when you know you shouldn’t because your current list is so long that you can’t remember them all without a wall chart and a secretary.

So I got to thinking, about short stories in the main, as they are not something I’ve ever really focused on. And I’ve been having weird little fantasies recently, about entering a short story competition and, you know, winning.

Then, as if guided by the hand of the good lady fate, the postman only goes and delivers through my door the October edition of Writers’ News and Writing Magazine, complete with a free supplement – an extensive guide to writing competitions for the coming twelve months. It’s a sign, I’m telling you.

So the ideas monkey goes into overdrive. And this is where my short problem comes in. It is no coincidence that my ideas list is dominated by plans for novels. I could scratch together a couple of short story proposals if I delved deep enough, but it would be a push.

I don’t know if this is a dilemma experienced by other writers. Maybe their ideas arrive pre-packed and perfectly formed, easily separated into files marked ‘novel’ and ‘short story’.

But the staff in my arrivals hall are somewhat confused. An idea for a novel will form, develop and arrive as it should. Yet the moment an idea for a short story rears its head, it’s set upon, dissected, operated on, all manner of weird appendages added to it, until by the time it staggers through the gates and is ready to be filed, it’s no longer a short story idea – it has been mutated beyond recognition and into a synopsis for a full-length novel.

This happens all the time. In one way it’s fantastic – should I ever make a breakthrough in fiction, I doubt I’ll ever run out of novel ideas. But it’s a pain the backside when you’re hoping to conjure up a few gems in a bid to tackle the short story market.

Unearthing the rough idea is no problem. But shaping it into something manageable that can be resolved within a few thousand words, well, it’s a skill I’ve yet to develop. Before I know it, I’m adding characters, developing ‘what if’ scenarios to the plot and then it's a case of abandon hope all ye who enter.

All suggestions for curing this ailment would be most welcome and will, of course, be rewarded with several virtual beers.

For stimulation this week, John is reading:

The Dirty Secrets Club, Meg Gardiner

God, the weather and inspirational writers

2008-08-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

Remind me never to challenge God to a one-on-one again.

As mentioned in Friday's post, I took the young lad camping on Saturday, up at Sulby Claddaghs in the north of our wild and rugged island. The forecast had said showers from mid-afternoon. Showers. Nothing about raging storms.

We held firm till just before midnight, safe and secure against the driving wind and lashing rain, when a huge gust of wind snapped the two cross poles of our pretty new and snazzy family tent. Not one, both of them. Cue much frantic rescuing of gear and a hasty retreat home in the car, leaving the tent to be salvaged the following day.

Me and my big mouth. I’d wanted the young fella to have some cool memories of his first camp with his old man. Well, he’ll certainly not forget it.

An interesting post today from San Francisco agent Nathan Bransford, asking readers who influenced them most on their path to being writers. This was a commonly asked question while travelling to research The Manx Connection, and it was an easy one to answer.

It comes in two parts. The first books to make me think I want to do this were Stephen Donaldson’s Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, which anyone with the vaguest interest in fantasy will know well. I read them about the age of twelve, and again when I was sixteen and the second time was when it registered – I too wanted to create the magic I felt while reading these epic adventures. As happens, my first effort at a novel also featured a tragically flawed hero, who finds himself in a world he doesn’t understand with a power he has no idea how to use. The plot was completely different, but it took me a while to realise just how influenced I’d been by Donaldson.

That first effort, by the way, stalled at 70,000 words. I reckon that was about the half-way mark, but I’d written myself into more corners than Little Jack Horner. Yet the red folder containing that half a book is never far away from my laptop. You just never know.

The second, and most telling, dose of inspiration came in 2003, when I was lucky enough to interview Irish author John Connolly and the travel writer Pete McCarthy, who is sadly no longer with us. The interviews were just a few weeks apart, and neither of these wonderful interviewees would have had the first inkling of the inspirational wake up call each delivered.

Connolly simply told me to stop talking a good book – that whatever story I had inside me wasn’t going to tap me on the shoulder, insist I sit down with a few beers to watch the footy, and then set about writing itself. He also provided reassurance when he said that every writer, published or unpublished, hits a point – usually somewhere between the 20,000 and 50,000-word mark – when they have a crisis of confidence and believe that their work-in-progress stinks, with most unpublished writers abandoning their work at this time. Write through it, he said. Even if it’s fifty words a day, just keep on going.

McCarthy was in the Isle of Man publicising The Road to McCarthy, his follow-up to McCarthy’s Bar, and it was his pep talk that planted the seed for The Manx Connection, when he told me of his travels around the world in search of the origins of the McCarthy name. Six months later, he was diagnosed with cancer, and nine months after that, around the same time I was embarking on the first leg of travel for The Manx Connection, Pete was dead. He was a funny man, and a fine writer. Life really is too short.

There is another influence on my writing, in terms of a handy dose of inspiration when the muse has lost her voice. It’s called On Writing, by Stephen King, and it has a permanent place on the side of my desk. It’s the most superb book about writing that I’ve ever read. It’s funny, it pulls no punches and it features the most wonderful line – "Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative life," King writes. "The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up."

I’ll drink to that, Mr King.

Still being read this week, thanks to God and his excitable weather:

The Sweet Forever, George Pelecanos

Pain. Dejection. Misery.

2008-08-22T16:59:00.000-07:00

It’s happened again.

Must be the fourth or fifth time in the last ten years, and it doesn’t get any easier to deal with, the kick in your gut any less painful.

I was watching The Number 23, the psychological chiller starring Jim Carrey, when the twist was revealed towards the end – I hadn’t seen it coming – and I experienced that awful sensation when you realise the pivotal deceit is one that you’ve been working on, that same twist upon which one of your works in progress hinges.

It’s a feeling of utter deflation, a sense that no matter how much you know that there are only a certain number of plots (depends on who you listen to), and only so many truly original storylines out there, you thought that, this time, you were on to a winner. Again.

The first time it happened, I was three pages into a film script for a ‘big concept’. I opened my TV Times one night, and there it was, a two-part drama starting on ITV, and it even had the exact same title. The setting and storyline were poles apart, but the core idea and the main character (the actual person...) were exactly the same.

Still, I was a mere whippersnapper back then, and in hindsight I should have realised that particular storyline was whizzing around the minds of numerous writers. No great loss.

I had two similar kicks to the gut within a few weeks of each other a couple of years back. The first was a crime story I’d been playing with, and had knocked off about 10,000 words. On this occasion, it wasn’t the plot – but the main character, or rather the character’s background. I picked a book up in Waterstones, the debut novel of a British author, and read the blurb, felt sick to the stomach and nearly dropped the hardback on my foot. I held on to it, though, and lined up to hand over my cash. A damn fine read it was too.

It hasn’t reduced my idea to a train wreck, as the setting and plots are different enough, but there are several similarities in the main characters and what they set out to do. Again, looking at it with hindsight, the character’s background isn’t as original as I’d first thought – it’s incredible how precious you can be about something that doesn’t warrant it.

The second of these quick fire incidents was a jaw-dropping moment; a really hideous event during which I somehow managed not to make a complete halfwit out of myself.
I had to step in at the last minute to interview an up-and-coming children’s writer, and I had no idea what kind of books she wrote. It’s an awful situation to be in – imagine interviewing a musician and never having heard one of their songs.

It’s always best to be up front about such things, so as soon as we’d shaken hands and were enjoying a brew in Waterstones – one floor up from the previous kick to the gut – I came clean and explained that I’d not read any of her stuff. I had done a bit of swotting on the internet, but obviously not that much. She was fine about it, and we chatted about what got her started in books and she quickly proved to be a fantastic subject, easy to talk to, funny and very self –effacing.

“So,” I said. “Can you tell me about your latest book?” And she did. And I hated her. With an absolute passion.

At that time, I’d been working on a young adult novel for about two months. I was about 15,000 words in, and had the whole thing plotted out. Hell, I even had the outlines for books two and three in a trilogy lined up. The basic premise, I believed, was stunning. I used to smile when I considered how clever it was. I won’t do that again in a hurry.

As she told me about her book, which was to be one of a series of four, I’m not sure what my face looked like. I like to believe that I was professional enough to keep up the pretence and not let my horror (and hatred) show through. I like to think so, but chances are she went back to her friends and family and told them about the strange journo with the manically weird expression who had interviewed her that day. “Nice bloke and all, even bought me a coffee, but man, what a freakishly contorted face he had...” It was another ‘big concept’, and this seemed to be exactly the same as the idea I was working on.

I went home that night, utterly dejected. My better half, as always, soon knocked me into shape. We looked on the internet, read a bit about the book, and she insisted that, while the basic idea may have been similar, the stories and characters, even the target age group, were substantially different to matter not a jot.

The next day, I returned to the store and bought a copy of the book. To this day, I’ve not read it through, but I have skimmed parts to get a general idea. I don’t want to read it, because I know I will return to this project, within the next year or so, and complete it. And I don’t want to compromise my writing by reading her book. I will do so afterwards, to check there are no glaring similarities, but I believe there’s room for both stories.

I’ve not gone into the details of which authors and books have been involved in causing me such grief, pain and misery, as there is nothing to gain by mentioning them. This is more to do with the process of realising that if you think you have THE NEXT GREAT IDEA, think again. Because the chances are, someone out there is busy scribbling away on the same concept.

As for We Walk In Shadows, the project which has been Jim Carrey-fied, I’m not sure what to do. The characters, the setting, the storyline all still work and have nothing in common with The Number 23. It’s just the fundamental twist that the whole thing hinges on, or at least does so in its present format.

There’s no reason why I can’t alter the ending, or not even the ending, just the deceit which affects the reader. For now, though, it’s firmly on hold. There’s the Manx Giant to finish, and camping to be done this bank holiday weekend. It will, of course, rain. This being the Isle of Man, we’ll most likely get a blizzard thrown in for good measure.

But we’ll be barbecuing whatever the weather. Come on, God, do your worst.

Being read by torchlight this week:

The Sweet Forever, George Pelecanos

Shouting it from the rooftops

2008-08-10T17:56:00.000-07:00

Writers, by and large, tend to be fairly reclusive characters, not given to bragging and self-assurance.

For years, if someone discovered I was writing a book and asked me about it, there would follow feet-shuffling to shame Michael Flatley and a series of grunts that only Darwin could have translated.

I wanted to be a writer, and I wanted people to know I was writing – but at the same time I was so embarrassed about it (or rather, petrified that what I was writing was no bloody good) that the thought of actively promoting my work, or, God forbid, letting people read and critique it, was unthinkable.

That attitude changed over the years. With age comes experience, and with experience comes the knowledge that you’re getting better at what you do.

When I set out to write The Manx Connection four years ago, I knew I had to try and build word-of-mouth before the book came out. It was only ever going to be a short print run of a book that was very much in a niche market, so early publicity was a must. I set up a website dedicated to the book, which didn’t betray my reluctance to self-promote too much, as it was about the book more so than about me.

A few months ago, with the Manx Connection in the shops, work underway on book two – The Manx Giant – and the web hosts looking for more cash, I ran an idea past Ady, a writing friend who knows a bit about this here internet malarkey: ‘How about scrapping the Manx Connection site,” I suggested,’ and creating a new one about me, my books and future projects?’ A little internet shop window to help get my name known. After choosing a template, Ady got to work, and a few weeks later the site was launched kicking and screaming onto an oblivious world.

There was much inner conflict as to whether I should have bothered. I doubted that anyone – close friends and family excepted, and they probably just to keep me off their backs – would give a rat’s arse about my low-key publishing credits and aspirations to break through in fiction.
I guess I didn’t want to come across as pretentious. I also didn’t fancy checking the number of visitors to my site and blog and finding tumbleweeds clogging up the system.

But then I had an epiphany. And I thought: ‘Bugger it. Why not.’

I researched other writers’ websites and blogs, both published and unpublished, and I realised that writers without a web presence, particularly those aiming for a breakthrough, are putting themselves at an immediate disadvantage. The internet is so fundamental to writing and publishing that my only regret is not having started the site and blog sooner.

A recent thread on litopia.com posed the question - authors as bloggers? – and asked how essential is it for writers to blog or have a website, indeed, would the time spent blogging be put to better use on a work-in-progress.

I devour the musings of other writers, published and unpublished, and publishers and agents in equal measure. It’s partly for inspiration (not, I hasten to add, for ideas), but also to continue learning about the industry, about the genres in which I write. A large part of it is to learn how not to do something. Publishers and agents are swamped with submissions, and some of the tales you read leave you wondering whether you, by association as a writer, are also a complete half-wit.

The amount of advice, information and experience to be garnered from such sites is quite staggering, which is why I was a touch bamboozled by one contributor to the thread, who said they don’t read writers’ blogs or look at sites because they have no interest in what a writer has to say about writing, or anything for that matter, nor do they have the time to read them, even if they wanted to. Each to their own, of course, but I can’t help but feel that those with such an outlook are missing out on so much.

Finally, and a little off track, our Bump finally landed on Wednesday afternoon, hence the delay in updating the blog. Little Gypsy-Mae weighed in at 9lbs and 1oz and I’m still at the stage where I can’t stop staring at her, although I’m not sure whether that is out of pride, or bewilderment that I could be responsible, albeit partly, for something so beautiful.

What’s that? A deadline looming in mid-September? That ain’t looking so clever...

Keeping John company during sleepless nights this week:

The Joshua Files: Invisible City, M.G. Harris

The Reject

2008-07-30T14:34:00.000-07:00

My earliest memory of rejection – and I mean real, sound-of-your-heart-cracking rejection – came when I was ten. I’d been away on a family holiday in September and I couldn’t wait to get back because the first school footy team of the season was being picked while I was away, with the game a few days after I returned.

We were starting our final year of primary – year six it’s called now – and it was our turn to fill the boots of the boys who’d gone on to secondary school. (There was one lad our age who’d made the team the previous year, although we were pretty sure he bought his way in with a Curly Wurly and a packet of Smiths’ square crisps.)

The first match was to be an eleven-a-side, although for the majority of the season’s games we’d be playing six-a-side, with a first team and second team. The lads in the school pretty much knew who the best eight or nine players were, and I was considered a shoo-in for the first eleven.

When I turned up at school on the first day back from hols, I was told I hadn’t been picked.
I’d not properly discovered girls at this point, and certainly not the weird things they can do to your heart, although I had spent a day or two pining for a young lady whose family had upped sticks a few months earlier and moved back to New Zealand.

So I had little with which to compare the feeling that I felt after being told I wasn’t good enough at football. For a lad who lived for the game – I’d just completed the Panini Euro 1980 sticker book, for Christ’s sake – it was an earth-shattering moment, and one from which I just knew I would never recover.

But recover I did. The eleven-a-side match saw us thrash our rivals 4-1 and by the time the six-a-side teams were picked, I was captain of the second team. The games teacher that year, a Mr Howlett (who claimed to have once trialled with Spurs, but we were never convinced) said he’d been pleased with the way I’d knuckled down in training (and lunchtime kickarounds).

Rejection is an ugly word. Rejection of any kind is a painful experience, but clearly the more personal something is to you, the more it is going to smart like hell.

Other than family and friends, the most personal thing in my life is my writing. Been that way for a long time. But here’s the thing – if someone doesn’t like a non-fiction piece of mine, I couldn’t care less. My time in journalism has taught me that no matter how good an article might be, there’ll always be a few lining up to have a pop at it. Goes with the territory.

But make that fiction.... and that’s a whole different ball game. I submitted some scripts in my late twenties, one TV series and a film treatment. They went off to a few production companies and, despite the odd nibble of interest, ultimately were passed over. The utter dejection I felt on reading the replies, standing in the hallway of the depressing little hole I was renting at that time, felt like every relationship break-up I’d been through rolled into one, with a dash of dropped-from-the-footy-team misery mixed in for good measure.

It was several years before I submitted anything else for consideration, this time the first chapters of a book, and when I did, it was another rejection. Age, thankfully, brings wisdom and understanding, because without it I’d be an emotional cripple. I’ve now more confidence in my work, although only time will tell if that is misplaced confidence. Yet I feel, finally, that I’m ready to take rejection on the chin and just plough through the pain, continuing to polish and submit work until I finally earn a breakthrough, or receive a collaborative letter from every agent and publisher I’ve ever submitted to, pleading with me to just quit, for pity’s sake.

The one thing I’ve not done in all this time is bitch and moan about rejection. Sure, it hurts. But there is little to be gained by putting your work out there and then jumping up and down when someone has the audacity not to swoon over it.
The only thing you can do is take it on the chin and try and improve. It might take a few months to get over it, or, as in my case, a few years. But it does get easier to deal with. Okay, I made that last bit up.

Accompanying John in the bath this week:

Fatherhood: The Truth, Marcus Bermann (absolutely essential reading for all soon-to-be-dads. And funny as hell to boot)

Shadows and dust

2008-07-24T16:15:00.000-07:00

On the face of it, a pretty straightforward question:
Why do you want to be published?

It was posed by a member of litopia.com, a writers’ forum where I spend a bit of time each day picking up incredibly useful advice and information, and definitely not procrastinating.

There are several surface reasons for wanting to have books published (and, to a lesser extent, movie scripts produced). They include, in no particular order, to satisfy one’s ego, fame, money, the desire to entertain people and personal achievement. That’ll do for starters.

A quick glance at each:

Ego – there is nothing quite like the buzz you get when you see something you’ve written in print, and someone telling you they enjoyed it. Sorry, there are two things similar; one is the moment your shot hits the back of the net in footy, the other, well, that way leads to the patter of tiny feet (now just eight days away and counting, assuming Bump’s flight hasn’t been delayed and landing gear is in order).

Fame – linked to ego. I want people to read my books, I want my name to be known. Comes with the territory if you want to be a writer, although there are different levels – compare the metallic-catsuited Katie Price (granted, that’s stretching the description of a writer somewhat) and Thomas Harris, who rarely gives interviews, either in print or on screen.

Money – the idea of being paid for doing something you love? Absolute no brainer, assuming you can earn enough not to have to worry with the day job. And therein lies the problem. As only five per cent or so of authors earn enough money to live on, if money was my driving goal I’d be better off sending my CV to Sir Alex or plying my trade as a male gigolo. Either way, I wouldn’t be worrying the editor of the Sunday Times’ Rich List.

Entertainer – also linked to ego, this is over and above the simple elation of having your ego massaged. This is the knowledge that you’re making people happy, excited, petrified, sad, angry; in other words, keeping them entertained.

Personal achievement – as a writer, I doubt my ability. All the time. I’d started many projects over the years, not just in writing, but never had the wherewithal or the forward planning skills to complete a book. When The Manx Connection was published at the end of last year, the sense of personal achievement, and satisfaction, probably outranked all other emotions. It wouldn’t have mattered if every single reader had emailed me personally to say my writing sucked eggs big time and requested a refund. Ego would have taken a bruising, but I’d have still had the knowledge that I’d completed something that I thought was beyond me.

So, why do I want to be published? Take your pick.

But, as I said, those explanations are merely surface dressing. The real reason I want to be published lies deeper than that, in more ways than one.

I’m petrified of dying. Woody Allen can joke all he likes about not being scared of dying, just not wanting to be around when it happens. I am scared, and sure as hell don’t want to be around when it happens.

More specifically, it’s the idea that I might cash in my chips without leaving my mark on this world. Yes, you can be a nice chap and have great family and friends who remember you fondly when you’re gone. We all want that.

But this runs to the very core of how I view life. As the late great Oliver Reed said in Gladiator, "We mortals are but shadows and dust. Shadows and dust." We can leave children behind to carry on our bloodline, but in fifty years time (assuming I’m still in the game), will those who don’t know me through friends and family be aware of my existence?

If folk can walk into a library or bookstore several decades from now and pick up a copy of one of my books, and hold something which I’ve crafted, I’ll look down on this world (or up, as the case may be) and know that I made my mark, even if it was barely a scratch on the literary world.

Then I'll be able to say, that’ll do, Quirk. That’ll do.

Entertaining John this week will be:
Airman, Eoin Colfer

The Wanderer returns

2008-07-15T16:09:00.000-07:00

She’s back.

It’s been a while since she showed her face.

She was certainly around last autumn, helping me defy all odds known to bookmakers to get The Manx Connection to the publishers bang on deadline, deadline being the day before I walked up the aisle. And she’s been back since, fleetingly, teasingly. At least I think it was her; a flash of inspiration here, a spurt of writing there.

Yet this time, when I really need her, she’s answered again. And she’s pulled up a chair and seems happy to hang around. If I could shackle her and inscribe my study door with magic wards, I’d be sorted. But you try putting cuffs on a muse. Damn tricky business.

It’s good to have her back. A relief, in fact. The deadline for The Manx Giant is mid-September and the last few months have been rife with fits and starts, research reading and note-making. As the weeks slipped by, I wondered how the hell I’d managed to complete one book, never mind be about to attempt a second.

And then there she was. Pitched up at the weekend, she did, without so much as an apology for doing a runner before Christmas. Still, I can’t complain. I’ve been trying to work out what makes her tick. What entices her to appear at a particular moment. A writer friend of mine suggested that it was this blog that did it – I put my first post out there on Thursday, and two days later I’m jumping tall buildings in a single bound. He could be right.

But, if I’m honest, while the idea of a muse sitting at my shoulder, silently guiding my fingers over the keyboard, forging a lightning strike connection between mind and ten stumpy digits, is all very quaint and appealing, it’s also utter codswallop.

There is a muse, and her name is deadline. Any journalist will tell you that. Hell, same goes for a 101 other professions. It’s all the inspiration you need when you can feel the flames of a deadline licking at your heels. I’m not sure why a particular time or date kicks in and makes you quit making excuses and get your head down. There seems to be an unspoken cut-off point which I instinctively know that I need to get working by, otherwise it will be too late.

As a journalist, if the news editor gave me two weeks to write an article, she’d get it in two weeks’ time. If she gave me a day, she’d get it within a day. It’s one of the unwritten rules of journalism.

So, with mid-September now exactly two months away, the heat is on. The Manx Giant is taking shape, slowly but surely, and is gathering pace. It will be a relatively short book, as biographies go. Not a huge amount is known about Arthur Caley, and much of what is recorded was hearsay or fabrication.

With muse firmly entrenched in my corner, I’m confident said deadline can be met. The trick, of course, is finding a way to keep her around after the book has gone to the publisher. Because there’s plenty more writing to be done on several projects, but there will be no official deadline to meet.

Self-imposed deadlines, yes. But muses don’t pay attention to them. As if.

On John’s bedside table this week:

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

Satanic Writes

2008-07-10T15:21:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Midnight. The Witching Hour.

The most magical time of the day.

The moment when my muse is most likely to appear at the study door, whispering those special words that inspire me so: “Get a bloody move on, Quirk. Deadline is looming, and you’ve got mouths to feed…”

Of course, don’t mention this particularly effective muse to my other source of inspiration, the real muse, who is usually fast asleep (and slowly creeping her way, Triffed-like, across to my side of the bed) by the time the clock strikes twelve.

If only we could capture this beautiful moment called Midnight, and play it endlessly on loop. Infinite writing time, no interruptions. No more alarm calls for work. Bliss.

I’ve been in love with Midnight for as long as I can remember. As a young kid, around seven or eight, I would lie on my bed at weekends, watching The Satanic Rites of Dracula and Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed and the rest of the Hammer House of Horror Double Bills into the early hours of the morning.

As I teenager, I found my best studying was done late at night (and, on occasion, all night), and so, as I’ve grown older, it’s been natural that the one time of the day when I feel totally wired, in the groove and capable of just about anything, is Midnight. I’ve tried mornings, but, well, no.

It’s ten before Midnight as I type these words, and the posts that will follow this maiden voyage into bloggerdom will all be penned in the darkness of The Witching Hour.

There’ll be no gimmicks or zany revelations. The journey I’m inviting you on won’t be about a writer’s battle with the impending arrival of tiny feet, sleepless nights and shitty nappies, and everything else that goes with it. My muse may be expecting in three weeks, but I’ll try to avoid the baby talk here (although don’t hold me to it). And it won’t be about religion or politics, because there are plenty of other better-informed folk doing just that.

What The Witching Hour will be about is writing. Pure and simple. Okay, let’s make that writing and reading. Oh, and publishing. Books in general, then. How’s that sound?

I’m in the throes of writing my second non-fiction book, The Manx Giant, the deadline for which is looming. Mid-September, or there’ll be no Weetos on the breakfast table.

If you’ve got a few minutes spare each week, it would be a pleasure to have you along for the ride. Because there is one downside to this Midnight malarkey. It can get damn lonely.

For homework this week, John read:

A Quiet Belief in Angels, by R.J. Ellory (a fine, haunting book)