What I won't do to sell more books

I'm at least moderately at ease with how things are for me as a writer, even though I earn far less than I believe I deserve, mainly because I am not selling many books. (In fact, I plan to reveal everything about my modest self-publishing sales quite soon...)

I know there are things I could do which would make me sell more books.

1. Stop writing so many different sorts; focus on one genre and write lots within it. (There'd be nothing wrong with that but I happen to want to write lots of different things.)
2. Or cut back on being a writer and bust a gut to do more marketing. (Because as far as I know there are only 24 hours in a day and I can't stay awake for all of them.)
3. Be strictly market-focused, deliberately tailoring the books I write to have a far greater mass appeal, even though those are not the books I really want to write. (Nothing wrong with them but they don't beat my heart.)
4. Ask all my friends, family, blog-readers and Twitter followers to write fantastic reviews on Amazon, even if they haven't read my books. (Ugh.)
5. Do many more events, and really push my books at them, instead of my usual pathetic, "I've *cough* got some cards here with info about my books, if *cough* *mumble mumble*". (Sigh.)
6. Spatter Twitter with BUY MY BOOK messages instead of spending 99% of my time there talking about other things and making friends. (Ugh.)
7. Care much less about what people think of me. (Impossible.)

But if I did any of those things, I wouldn't be the writer or the person I want to be. That's why I'm and have to be at least passably at ease with the way things are for me. Yes, I think I'm worth much more money than I earn; no, I wouldn't say no to selling more books; yes, I already do more than I'd like to in terms of marketing; yes, I think I work as hard and as well as most people on substantial salaries. But I chose to be a writer and anyone who goes into writing with a direct intention of becoming rich is not my sort of writer, or my sort of person. I never did think I'd be rich, though I couldn't have predicted the shocking fall in author income that has happened in the last few years.

There is something else that might have been on that list but I could not bring myself even to suggest it in case you thought I would actually consider it even in the same breath as those other things. And that is the idea - much spoken of recently and I won't put the links here because you either know about it or you are better not knowing - of setting up fake accounts, "sock-puppet" accounts on Amazon, for example, to give yourself deceitful 5* reviews or your rivals 1* star reviews. The idea sickens me. It's mendacious and greedy and wrong. 

But even apart from that, there are lines I personally don't want to cross, things I don't want to do in the quest for sales, fame and fortune. I don't want to lose sight of the fact that writing is about the books and the readers. It's not about how many copies I sell but about how much my readers get out of my books. It's not about marketing and money but about a passion for words. It's not all about me. (I read the fascinating interview with Will Self - he says almost the opposite and I slightly envied him and certainly don't disparage his view. It's probably why he might win the Booker and I won't!)

Anyway. Back to the point. I get a massive buzz out of writing, and out of someone reading and liking one of my books. Of course, I also get a massive buzz when someone likes it enough to bother to write an Amazon review (or anything at all) and when that review encourages others to buy. I hope the buzz I get while writing makes my writing better and the buzz I get from good feedback keeps me writing more.

But without an ethical stance and an adequate measure of integrity, that buzz would feel more like a whine. A nasty wasp instead of a gentle bumble bee. I need to be at ease with the writer and person I am. At this point I was horribly tempted to say, "The only way is ethics", but actually I don't exactly think it's about ethics, although faking reviews is. There's nothing unethical about doing many other things to generate more sales.

So, not ethics, but what gives you heartsong. I've written about heartsong before. The lack of it made me ill. Being published gave it back to me. So, perhaps you'll say, "So, it is all about you, then?" If I look deep inside, then yes, I think it was all about me. But it's not now. Now it's about books and readers and it's about quality, not quantity. I've come to that conclusion, that resting point. Yes, if a commercial publisher took me on and planned to push my books hard, I'd enter into that energetically, but my self-published books? No, I just can't bring myself to shout any louder. I wouldn't enjoy it.

And that's why I'm fairly at ease with how things are.

Having said that, I wouldn't say no to any of you buying my books and generating some more sales for me! I'm not entirely stupid...

PUBLICATION DAY: THE BIG CRABBIT INTERVIEW

Publication Day for Write to be Published is here! Where will I be? In a glitzy hotel being champagned? Being showered with flowers or gorged with goodies or snapped by paps? No. Well, not as far as I know. I'll be on a train to London in preparation for my FREE Foyles event tomorrow. I will have this bag with me, thanks to Lynn Price, who generously sent me one as a present to celebrate publication.

But fear not, as I have a very special interview for you. I can't reveal the name of the mysterious interviewer because otherwise everyone will want to be interviewed by her/him, but suffice it to say that I am deeply honoured. So, grab a coffee and a chocolate brownie and settle down for the Big Publication Day Crabbit Interview.

Mysterious Interviewer: So, Nicola, if this book is based on the blog, presumably all you had to do was to copy and paste the best posts. Easy, yah?

NM:

MI: Well, relatively easy?

NM:

MI: Well, at least easier than if you'd been starting from scratch?

NM:

MI: OK, so it was a difficult book to write. I think we've established that. Perhaps you could tell us about the differences between blog and book?

NM: Well, you can find things in the book, for a start. This blog is now huge and unwieldy, with maybe a million words on it, buried in posts that are in a non-logical order, with some material repeated. But in the book everything is ordered nicely and logically, with clear headings in the amazingly detailed contents list so you can find exactly what you want. You could also read it in the bath. And throw it at the wall if you don't like the truth in it. If you were to read my blog in the bath or throw it at the wall you'd do serious damage to your computer.

MI: So, you're going to stop blogging now, then?

NM:

MI: Seriously? You mean it's all over?

NM: Don't be silly! Do you think I could bear to stop haranguing everyone here? Where would the fun in my life be?

MI: Once people have bought the book, though, why will they need to come back to the blog?

NM:

MI: You're going to give them chocolate? That seems like a good plan.

NM: No, sorry, I was just taking a break. In fact:

MI: They are chained to the blog?

NM: Oh yes, indeedily. By invisible and unbreakable chains, which they have willingly wound around themselves because they know that being harangued is absolutely the best way to become a stronger writer. They actually do enjoy being harangued. Trust me. And besides, even though the book aims to be all-encompassing, there may still be some small elements of haranguing that I've forgotten to put in. What if they were to miss those? Their whole literary future could be in jeopardy. So, I must continue haranguing them here, because the consequences of an insufficiency of haranguing are too awful to contemplate.

MI: Yes, I think I can see that.

NM (cannot now be stopped and has mad look in eyes): So, they must come back here for more haranguing and rest assured that I will be here for them always, ready with my pointy haranguing boots and my crabbititude and my well known Withering Frown of Extreme Exasperation. Also, if they don't come here, I shall harangue them on their doorsteps and in Sainsbury's and at their places of so-called work and even from the highest mountains and deepest valleys shall I harangue them until, verily, the hills and all the citadels shall ring out with the trumpets and clarions of haranguing.

MI: Are you OK?

NM: Yes, I am very fine, thank you.

MI: Supposing anyone wished (or dared) to come and witness some actual live haranguing, such as you might offer in an event open to the unsuspecting public, where can they avail themselves of such an opportunity?

NM: Ah, yes. Since you ask, here is a little time-table:

• 2 June: Foyles bookshop, London, 6.30-7.30pm, FREE but ticketed. TOMORROW - HURRY, tortoises....
• 9 June: Edinburgh - private haranguing session, fully booked.
• 16 June: Blackwell's bookshop, Edinburgh, 6.30-7.30pm, FREE but ticketed. With WINE.
• 30 June: London Writers' Café panel.
• 25 August: Waterstone's bookshop, Edinburgh George St, 6.30-7.30 - booking not open yet; timing may change.
• ?? August: secret location in Edinburgh - I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you, which would defeat the object of my telling you. Details later. (About the event, not killing methods.)
• 15 October, Waterstone's Cambridge - details later.
• Elsewhere - UK tour currently in planning for autumn, once we've found a bus with a big enough fridge.

MI: Jolly good. But if all these events are free, does that mean you aren't being paid? (Please don't do that head-desk screaming thing again.)

NM: No, I'm not being paid, but this is absolutely fine, for one or two reasons. 

MI: Tell us. Tell us both of them.

NM: First, because I feel I have failed aspiring writers: I have sweated blood for them for some years now and I regret to say that agents are telling me that my very clear advice to submit work while sober still isn't getting through. Second, I have this vague hope that if I do free events for them, they might buy the frigging book. Because if they don't, I'm stuffed, tbh.

MI: You love your blog-readers, don't you?

NM: Absolutely adore them. No idea where I'd be without them.

MI: One more question. The cover of WTBP. That red stuff. We've all been wondering: blood or ink?

NM: Blood. Mine.

MI: Thank you, Nicola, for answering these piercing questions. May I suggest that you have a glass of wine or something?

NM: Thank you. I don't mind if I do. Seriously though, I'm very proud of this book and well I might be, since it was a complete and utter bugger to write. Luckily though, as you can see, I preserved my sanity and came nowhere near any kind of breakdown. I have witnesses for this.

*    *    *

Write to be Published is published today and if you'd like to buy it, thank you! See this post here for a discussion about the various methods, or click the Buy page at the top of the blog. Or just head down to your nearest  bookshop and smile at them, saying how you think every aspiring writer would love to buy Write to be Published. I don't recommend haranguing them, though - that works well for writers but less well for booksellers.

Some big thank yous: fabulous publicity person and ace-brain, Corinne Gotch; equally fabulous assistant and wonder-brain, Becky Hearne; everyone who buys a book; and ALL of you, my lovely blog readers, without whom this blog would not have succeeded, and this book would not have been born.

One more thing. Lest I paint a falsely negative picture of my mood, I am in fact very, very proud of my new baby. It's had a wonderful reception from loads of you, including lovely Amazon reviews already, plus some trade response that's been fab, and I am very happy. Srsly.

HAPPY 2nd BIRTHDAY, BLOG!

Yes, the Crabbit Old Bat is two years old today, or at least her blogging incarnation is. I suppose this means I'm entitled to some toddler tantrums. Actually, I do fancy going into a shoe-shop and lying on the floor, screaming and waving my arms and legs in the air.

A year ago today, I wrote a post which attracted 194 comments. (Do go read, as I would change nothing I said there.) We had a blog party, which enabled you all to plug your own blogs. We will do that again but I'd like to add something a little different. Also, this evening I'm doing a talk to the Edinburgh Writers' Club, which consists of aspiring and published writers. So, how about we combine the two?

So, in the comments section, I invite you to do two things:

1. Plug your blog or website or book in NO MORE THAN TWENTY WORDS. If you use more than that you will go to the Crabbit Old Bat's doghouse. Your URL counts as one word.
2. Give ONE favourite piece of writing advice. It can be your own advice or it can be something you've heard someone else say. It can even, if you really want to butter me up, be something you've heard me say. It can be aimed at anyone from the beginner to the multi-published.

I'll start you off with my piece of advice, which is my own:

If you’re not good enough, work hard; if you’re good enough, work harder. By which I mean: we're never as good as we could be; writing is not supposed to be easy; and if you really want to succeed you must learn how much has to be done and want to do it better and better and better. And the more you learn, the more you realise that this writing thing is worth doing as well as possible.

And a <20 word plug for my blog? If you don't want the truth about writing and publishing, the Crabbit Old Bat says bugger off.

Happy birthday, blog, and happy reading to all of you!

HOLIDAY GIFTS TO YOU

Since the first daughter to come home for Christmas is arriving today, I hereby declare end of term at Crabbit Towers. Hooray! And you need a break anyway. Or, frankly, if you don't, I do. So, for your holidays I would like to offer you some gifts. In the spirit of holidayness, reward yourself each day by coming back here to see what new inspiration or amusement I have for you. There will be no work, I promise, but all the fun will be relevant. Your brain will be zing-fresh by the end of it, as long as you don't overdo it on the mince pies. Most days, I'll have amusing (or painful) videos for you, but today I have something more simple, something refeshing and non-technical.

My first gift to you is:

Permission not to write. A break is important. If you want to write, do, but you now have no deadlines, OK? Chill. Permission not to write is really important. Whether it's one day off or two weeks off, just take it. You'll write better after it.

I've given myself permission not to write, though that's partly because - smugness alert -  yesterday, on schedule precisely, I reached my target word count AND plot point for stopping for a break. I confess that I've a load of other work still to do, redesigning a website etc, but I'm done with writing proper until January.

EDITED on Jan 2nd - now that the holiday period is over, I've gone and collected all my Christmas gifts and pasted them all below:

No 2 was How Not to Behave in a Bookshop

No 3 was Lost in Translation - very funny! 

No 4 was Harlan Ellison on why authors should always be paid. He goes a bit far but the sentiment is quite right, in my view.

In No 5 I urges your to reward yourself and count your achievements, and I gave you this video.

No 6 was Ray Bradbury being inspiring.

No 7 is me being interviewed and winning.

I've lost No 8!

No 9, from Christmas Eve, was the terribly serious message from me and one from Jane Smith.

On Christmas Day, I gave you a little Christmassy thing, so we'll omit that as being irrelevant now.

No 11 was Captain Kirk over-reacting to a rejection letter.

No 12 was Lewis Black on Writing a Book.

Then we had the bizarre, over-long but thought-provoking video of a self-published author creating a funeral for her dream of becoming published.

No 14 was a truly excellent and very meaningful (and hilarious) video about how not to approach writing.

No 15 wasn't a video but a link to a hilarious and spot-on blog post by John Dickinson about living with an authors.

No 16 was some pictures of snowy scenes in my garden and the link to an article I wrote ages ago about the power of open spaces for creativity.

And then we had the New Year's Day post about resolutions, but I'll leave that up.

Finally, with my apologies, I brought you this silly kick-start to the new Crabbit Towers Term...

IN WHICH I DEFINE WHAT I MEAN BY A DELUSIONAL WANNABE

For clarity and for your own peace of mind after my blog post earlier today, In Which I Meet A Delusional Wannabe, let me define what I mean by a DW.

The woman in the story was a DW not because she thought her idea had come as a gift from above. Brahms also described the advent of an idea in those terms. But Brahms then said that "by sheer hard work I make it my own." (Except that he said it in German.)

The main reason she was a DW is because she was under the delusion that having an idea from above and then writing a novel was enough. She believed that publication was owed to her because she thought her book was good. She would not accept that it was not good enough in some way; would not accept that a hundred publishers had made a valid decision and that this should tell her something. I'm not saying she couldn't write - I haven't a clue, not having had the pleasure of reading her book. I'm saying she was not doing the right things, asking the right questions, opening her mind to the possibility that her book lacked something that might make it worth publishing. She was not prepared to work hard.

So, my definition of a DW goes like this: a delusional wannabe is someone who desperately wants to be published, falls sadly short in either ability or a publishable idea or both, AND is not prepared to work as hard as possible to find out exactly how and why she falls short in one or both of those things. A DW will never be successfully published. A DW will usually not write another book, because writing another book when your first hasn't been published is hard, very hard. But it makes all the difference between delusion and determination.

You, by virtue of the fact that you are here, that you keep coming back, that you agree with me (very important) and that you will do anything in your power to make your writing work better, are not DWs. Hooray!

That's the good news. The bad news, I'm afraid, is that NOT being a DW is not a guarantee that you will be published. But it's a very good start and underpins the whole philosophy of this blog. I try to unpick delusions and show you sensible ways to achieve your dreams. So, carry on letting your ideas comes as gifts from above, but remember that it's the sheer hard work afterwards that makes you a writer.

IN WHICH I MEET A DELUSIONAL WANNABE

It is a truth fairly universally acknowledged that amongst the many trying to become published there lurk some delusional wannabes. Here's one I met earlier.

DW: "But my book is as it is. And besides, it isn't really my book"
NM: "Oh?"
DW: "No, the idea came to me from above, as a gift. It's the story I had to tell. I have to tell it."

Fine. So tell it. Just don't expect anyone to read it if it's not good enough. And you are not the first or last person to tell me that your book came as a gift from above. To be honest, that's what it often feels like when an idea hits a writer. It's called inspiration. It should be followed almost immediately by a lot of perspiration.

That was a shortened version of a very LONG conversation, during which I was trying to help a woman who claimed to have been rejected by many dozens of publishers. (I believe her. There is evidence.) She wanted to know why she'd been rejected. No, actually, she didn't want to know why. She wanted to blast the stupid publishers who were being so obtuse and ignorant that they didn't recognise a gift-horse when they saw it. This woman was not a writer; she had no idea of the craft and graft involved.

Writing is not channelling. Actually, perhaps the first draft often is - and, yes, I do know that wonderful feeling when you go into some kind of altered state and the story just flows. But the second and eleventy-millionth drafts are not channelling. They are proper hard work, needing skills which must be applied ruthlessly.

I could name this woman quite safely because she won't be reading this. How do I know? Because when I asked her whether, in her thwarted quest to become published, she read any blogs or books about writing, she had a confident answer.

"Oh no, I don't have time for that. Anyway, as I say, my book is as it is."

Struggling a little, I tried another tack.

"So, what are you writing now, while you're waiting for responses to this one?"

She looked at me blankly. (This was the first time she'd looked at me at all, so even blankly was a start.)

"Oh, I'm not writing anything else. This is the book I've got to write."

"But that will be a problem for a publisher," I said. "You need to show that you have more than one book in you. Besides, don't you want to write more?"

"God, no. I'm not doing that again!"

And she then went on and on about how it was ridiculous that all the publishers had said no, how there was nothing wrong with her book, and that it was important that it be published.

Sadly for her and frustratingly for me, neither of us achieved anything during this conversation. I gave away at least twenty minutes when I could have been speaking to other genuine writers who actually wanted advice. To be fair to her, she hadn't asked for my help. But I knew from a comment that she needed good advice and I stupidly thought she might welcome it, free and warmly offered. I was actually incredibly patient and really did want to help, but she was, without doubt, the most unhelpable person I have ever met.

(Edited to add: because so many of you seem to be worried that YOU might be delusional wannabes, I am now going to do a separate post in which I define one!)

Why am I telling you this?
Because, after many months of you saying nice things to me, I want to say something nice to you. I want to say that I hugely appreciate that none of you have fallen into the trap that this poor woman was stuck in. You have shown, by your comments and contributions that you are damned hard-working writers, seeking the best and most undelusional ways towards publication. Many of you are already published and you know how hard the business is. Many of you have been rejected many times, as I was and as most writers have been, and you believe that hard work and talent are the most likely ways through that.

So, I want to say well done, thank you and huge good luck, too. May you all find exactly the right book and write it in exactly the right way. SOON!

Why am I being so nice? I don't know. Anyone would think it was my silver wedding anniversary today or something. OH! IT IS! Better go and check the champagne's on ice.

INSPIRATION, INDULGENCE AND SHEER BLOODY GRATITUDE

You've all put up with enough of my moaning. There's been the failed heating system and need to replace ALL the pipework beneath the floors of the "new" flat. There's the broken oven, broken washing-machine (which flooded my legs as I tried to stem the tide), blocked sink, broken waste disposal, dripping taps, cellars full of appalling rubbish left by the previous owner, and the fact that when we arrived, the previous owner hadn't left. Nor had his possessions. And of course you had almost two weeks of me moaning about lack of internet access and how I was getting fat in Starbucks just so that I could get online.

Today I bring you the other side of the coin, because there is always another side. And this side is so spectacular that I feel ashamed for moaning. I bring you a story in pictures and you need to know that these pictures were all taken within a ten minute period on Saturday, beginning in my new back garden, all with my iphone.

I bring you the story to do two things: to turn the tables on my moaning and to show you where my inspiration is going to come from while I live in this flat on the side of fabulous Calton Hill, in Edinburgh. Calton Hill is what gives Edinburgh its name - the Athens of the North - and you will soon see why.

First, I stood beneath the palm tree in my garden and looked skywards.
 

Then I walked through our gate, into the amazing gardens owned by all the residents of this street and the next one. We all have keys, and each time I walk into these gardens I have to pinch myself. So does my dog, I think.

Through one of the gates and we're on Calton Hill. I offer no words to accompany the following pictures - they say it all. You may question how the weather could be so different within ten minutes but all I can say is that a) this is Scotland and b) we have 360 degree views from this hill so the pictures are taken in every direction, with the first one taken straight into the sun.

 

 

One lucky author and one lucky dog? To have this on our doorstep? Remind me never to moan again.

And the "gratitude" mentioned in the title? To you for putting up with two weeks of moans. This week I will be bringing you some proper writing / publishing advice and also a very exciting piece of news. But it's currently embargoed. Hehehe.

IN WHICH I ATTEMPT TO CONTROL AN INTERVIEW

Look, I really will get on with some trenchant and perceptive advice about improving your publishability. Soon. Honestly. Probably on Tuesday. But first, I had such fun today. After telling you yesterday (scroll down one post - save me linking) about Lynn Price's hilarious promo video for her forthcoming book, The Writer's Essential Tackle Box, I investigated the software she'd used. I felt I should.

A couple of hours (well, OK, four hours) later, I had come up with my own effort. And if there's got to be a "learning point" in every post on this blog, it is this: that getting published is only the beginning. Life from then on becomes one heady round of "interviews" and associated madness.

I had a long list of things to do today and this wasn't on it. But it was much more fun.



Oh, and still don't forget to try to win your free copy of the Writer's Handbook. Your deadline is Thursday.

ARE YOU REALLY REALLY READY TO BE PUBLISHED?

I am about to disappear again for a few days, this time to Paris - yeah, I know, being an author with a book to promote sucks - and I am also aware that a) I have been dilatory with your edification recently and b) I am about to enter a phase of being even more dilatory, as I have to hurl myself into more promotional stuff AND there's been (still is) the bloody Nanowrimo (sorry, Elen, I mean incredibly wonderful Nanowrimo which you kindly organised) and some guest blogs I've promised to do and a list of tasks the length of several arms. No mountains though, or only metaphorical ones.

So, until I come back from Paris (did I say that was where I'm going?) I thought I'd leave you with an excellent website full of sound advice and a particular post within it, which I thought was apt to all of us.

The website (and you should bookmark it, as I'm about to) is Casting the Bones, and thanks to "Sarah" for pointing it out. Robert Gregory Browne is the no-nonsense, successful author and I recommend his advice. I also hope you will look at the craft-honing articles BEFORE the "how to get an agent" ones ... I think he would agree.

The article I want you to think about is Are You Ready to be a Published Writer? There were so many lines in it that had me silently cheering but I particularly liked this: "So don’t be so anxious to get published. Be anxious to hone your craft. Expand your understanding of the process. To write stories that will have editors and producers thinking they have no choice but to buy it." This is exactly the drive of my blog.

We've all had that moment of finishing something and being desperate to send it off NOW because it's FAB and we're WRITERS and need to be READ, NOW, or SOONER if possible. But a) when we look at it a few days later, we should be very glad we didn't send it and b) it is almost certainly not as brilliant to a reader as it felt to us as its writer. When we step back, if we've learnt anything, we'll see those faults and know that there are also more faults that we haven't seen.

We must work to find those faults and improve until our writing really is the best it could be. And also good enough to be read and enjoyed by our intended readers, however many they may be.

This leads on from the interesting conversation in the comments on my recent self-publishing post, because there's so much I didn't have time to say about that, and calm though the opposing reasoning was, I simply wasn't persuaded by it and its sieviness. The reason it leads on is that this time to hone, this need to understand about not being ready to be published, this vast chasm that too often exists between how you are writing now and how you could be writing given good direction, is precisely why self-publishing is a very poor answer for the author in that position. (But a good answer for some other authors.)

Self-publishing tempts the unpublished author to bypass that crucial honing and improving and growing stage - unless you really think that your self-published book is only a practice run and you really don't care whether it's the best you can do, or indeed good enough - and if you don't care, well, er, good luck to you because possibly I don't too much care about that sort of writing or writer either ....

The only sort of writer I care about, and the sort of writer this blog is written for, is the sort of writer who will go to the ends of the earth on hands and knees with a cactus strapped to his back to become a better writer, the best writer you can be. Because nothing else is worth doing, as far as I'm concerned. And granted that "better writer" or even "best writer" is not a finite or objective or box-tickable target, it's the only one I am aiming for.

Yay, crabbit is back! And now is going again ...

From Saturday morning till next Wednesday night, I will be unlikely to get online much, not because they don't have the innernet in Paris (did I say that was where I'm going?) but because I am going to be expected to be working for my baguettes; I've seen my programme from the schools and no minute is left untended, believe me. Even the bits that are not work (and to be very fair, there are many, as they have a decent pace of living over there) are occupied by things like "walk in such and such beautiful garden" or "have coffee in such an such café" or "drink champagne in..." No, sorry, got a bit carried away there: there was no mention of champagne.

Oh, by the way - funny question in one of the school-talks I did this morning (from an eleven-year-old boy, remarkably): "Why aren't you wearing blue boots?" My fame precedes me, clearly.

Au revoir.

WHO KNOWS BETTER? READER OR WRITER?

Interesting piece on BookBrunch here. The woman who button-holed Trevor Dolby is making the same mistake as some unpublished authors - believing that there's some kind of conspiracy amongst agents and publishers not to publish good writing. (Er, hello, can someone please suggest a single sane reason why such a conspiracy might exist????) It's another deluded idiot symptom and will get her nowhere. (Understandable though her frustration is, and I really mean that.)

Such people also seem to think that no agents or publishers would know a good piece of writing if it came up and spat at them. No, sorry, it's we the authors who are the last people to be able to be objective about our own work - though we need to try - and the sooner we accept that the opinion of our desired readers, including the professional and multi-experienced ones, matter more than our own, the sooner we will become published and enjoyed by the reading public.

And here's the thing: all the agents and publishers who rejected me during my now well-documented and shameful 21 years of failing, were RIGHT. And I am even grateful to them. (Though at the time, I'd probably have stuck pins in a few publishers' wax models if I'd been any good at fashioning passable likenesses in wax.) See, I believed I was good enough a writer - which we have to believe, in order to keep going, don't we? And yet at the same time, we also need to recognise that there's something about what we're doing that isn't yet good enough. That's the dilemma, the razor-edge we have to walk along. And all that is why I'm deeply grateful (and not even through gritted teeth) to all of them for not publishing my substandard stuff.

I don't know about you, but much as I desperately need to be published, I more need to be read and enjoyed. We don't write in a vacuum, or even in a nurturing bubble occupied only by our family, undiscerning friends and pets: we write to be read and heard. Don't we? Therefore, we simply have to listen carefully to those who might read and hear us and those who might have a fighting chance of taking our words to the wider audience.

And if no one wants to listen to our words, then we should either shut up or write better.

Woah, crabbit or WHAT today??

SLOW DEATH BY COFFEE GRINDER

OK, I promised and here it is: my heart-warming story of staggering ineptitude. You need to understand that it is absolutely true, every bit of it, though I have changed names and locations to protect the innocent.

Before you read on, you need to understand three things:
1. Sophie, PR person extraordinaire and the star of my story, was wonderful and I really liked her. She battled with extreme conditions that were not her fault (sort of) and made me feel strangely (very strangely) relaxed. She was the bright spot in a terrible day. I would promote her if I was in power. I also want to emphasise that having directional confusion is very common amongst intelligent people (I should know) and I do not intend to cast aspersions on her undoubted talents and intelligence in other fields. Honestly, if I could afford a PR person, I would employ Sophie like a shot. I just wouldn’t ask her to drive me. By the way, Sophie works for a PR company, not my publishers. And my publishers are lovely too and this was not their fault either. Just so that's clear.

2. It may have been a terrible day, but no one died.

3. I have never written a book called Brainteasers. Nor do I plan to.

Anyway, to set the scene:
I was asked to do a charity (ie free) school event in a coffee shop somewhere not close to Glasgow. (Sensible readers are at this point asking “why?” As in “Why free? Why in a coffee shop? And why the hell did you say yes?” There is no answer to these questions.)

About a week before the event, a lucky school was told that if they took thirty ten-year-olds to a coffee-shop at a certain time, an unnamed author would read stories from her book "Brainteasers". And sign free copies of the book for them. When the school resorted to Google for more info, they were perplexed not to be able to find such a book in existence anywhere in the universe. Not surprisingly. Luckily, I cottoned onto the fact that there was a problem, and phoned the school, thus introducing myself and sorting things out. Kind of. Temporarily. We established, at least, that the book in question was actually called The Highwayman’s Curse.

I had almost pulled out of the event the day before, but was mollified by Sophie, the charity’s PR person. I was very impressed by Sophie’s ability to mollify me - she will go far. She even sent me flowers to apologise for distress caused - and that was BEFORE The Day From Salvador Dali-land.

So, Dali-Day arrives. Sophie is supposed to collect me at 8.30. At 8.30 Sophie phones and says she's "had a bit of trouble with the car" and will be "a bit" late. At 9.15 Sophie arrives. She then tells me that she won't be able to turn the car round in my very small cul-de-sac because she's dyslexic and doesn't know which way to turn the wheel when reversing. (I am very sympathetic to dyslexic people, having taught them for many years, and I understand the issues). So she asks me to help. I assume she means that I should stand outside the car directing her. Or maybe drive the car myself. Either of which would be fine. But she means me to sit in the passenger seat and show her which way to turn the wheel, with actions and WITHOUT using the words "left" or "right", because Sophie doesn't do left and right. (Nor do I, actually, but I decided not to tell her that, as one confused driver in a car facing the wrong way in a cul-de-sac is enough.)

We arrive at the venue late, (after we have tried to park in three places that are not carparks and Sophie has had the same issue with reversing without the concept of left and right). The café is full of journalists, hyper children, bemused customers, and a TV crew from Newsnight. Yes, Newsnight. (Note to non-UK people: this is a big deal in the UK.) Unfortunately, although the kids have permission to be photographed, they do not have permission to be filmed on moving film - which is different - and the Newsnight thing was too last minute to get permission sorted. The cameraman explains to us that paedophiles prefer moving pictures. Which is a charming thought and doesn’t help my stress levels. So they can’t be filmed and the Newsnight team is mightily miffed.

I am told to start the event, with no introduction, something which always bugs me but which is the least of my problems today. The event involves me delivering my words of wisdom at the top of my voice for an hour and a quarter to the kids, while journalists take pics and teachers and PR people run here and there trying and failing to organise filming permission, and while innocent customers carry on drinking and chatting loudly to drown my voice, and while milk frothing machines regularly spurt incredibly noisily and coffee grinding machines grind horribly, to the extent that occasionally I have to stop shouting and give up. I learn afterwards that the Newsnight people were desperate to film because they thought the event was perfect (for a comedy show, I assume), but they can't get permission so they eventually scarper.

The kids (who are incredibly lovely and lively - probably helped by the free coffees they are slurping) ask questions on and on and on and on, and on quite a bit more, and no one thinks to stop them when an hour is up. I am too polite to ask if we can please stop. Eventually a teacher asks if they could possibly go and catch their bus, I look at her as though she is my saviour, and she takes them away.

First, however, they are all given a copy of The Highwayman's Curse. Some of them bring them back three minutes later, complaining that the covers are upside down, which they are. I try to persuade them that this might make them valuable later on, but they look at me as though I am a con artist or an idiot. I am certainly one of these.

I ask Sophie if I could have a sandwich and a coffee or I will pass out. She agrees. She doesn’t eat much. Her stress must be internal. She will probably collapse once this is all over but meanwhile she is determined to smile. We then go back to the carpark. Luckily, I have remembered about Sophie being dyslexic and have taken note of where the car is so when she says, "Which way do you think the car is?" I know the answer and we find it quickly.

But ...

...the weird unlocking mechanism doesn’t work and we can't get in. It's a car from a car-share scheme and there are fancy electronic devices to scan. Sophie's scanning card doesn't work. If we don't get in soon, we are going to be late for an award ceremony I’m supposed to be at, which is about 40 mins drive away, and which I really do need to get to because I am on the shortlist, although I would much rather stick red-hot needles in my eyes and twist them a few times while inhaling chilli powder.

Sophie phones the car-share scheme head office, says she can't get in her car and asks if they have any suggestions. They suggest she puts the key in the lock. She does. It opens. We get in. The car won't start. Sophie phones the head office again and they say that four buttons have to be pressed simultaneously on a special gadget inside the glove compartment. This is physically impossible for one person to do but, between us, Sophie and I get four fingers on the right buttons and the car starts.

Sophie then refuses to trust Simon, the Satnav voice, even though Simon really does need to be obeyed, and we get hopelessly lost on the outskirts of the place that is not Glasgow. Actually, I have sympathy with her, as I don’t really trust Simon either, and he is asking us to go onto the motorway back to Edinburgh, but I have a sneaking feeling that he must be right - he sounds so very confident and Sophie doesn’t. Sophie is now on the hard shoulder as she debates whether to go onto the Edinburgh-bound motorway or not. We don’t. Simon is concerned and patiently tries to force us to turn round "as soon as safely possible". Several times. Eventually, after much argument and concern, during which I am convinced I hear his voice begin to panic even though I remind myself that he is only a machine, Simon tunes in to Sophie's dogged refusal and allows us to go a very stupid way sort of towards Glasgow, until I say that actually we must trust Simon and we get to the award ceremony with five minutes to spare.

Simon and I are by now complete wrecks and I really need a bit of TLC, (or even maybe a cup of tea - well, anything really), but somehow survive without anything until two hours later when my friends Lindsey and Kathryn rescue me and drive me home. I can only hope that Sophie managed to reverse out of the narrow street I left her in. She may still be there. Perhaps I should check.

This is the sort of day I should be paid for. A lot. But I shouldn’t complain: I did get a very nice tuna sandwich and a more than decent (though cold by the time I got to it) Christmas Special coffee. Highly recommended. But preferably drunk in peace and quiet. Or maybe in the company of Simon. He does sound very charming. And he would stop me from doing stupid things like saying yes.

BOOTS AND BATS: METHOD-WRITING, LEVEL 1

Today, we're going to look at my patent technique of method-writing. This means not actually writing at all but instead preparing by getting into the role and mind-set of a writer. After all, an athlete has to do all that training and buy the lycra and snazzy running shoes (which is the only reason they can run so ridiculously fast, trust me), so an author in training must behave in all ways like a professional author. In fact, being an author is very much like being an athlete, although you would not know that to look at most of us. But in our minds, oh! How sculpturously we are honed and toned! We are veritable Greek heroes of mentally muscular perfection. And we have terrific imaginations, too.

The first, and almost certainly most important, aspect of method-writing, is developing a full range of Work Avoidance Strategies (henceforward: WAS). I am delighted to tell you that you have already passed Level 1 of this technique, because you are reading this blog, and reading blogs (as well as writing blogs and posting eulogistic comments on them) is the important first stage.

Now, although I am not normally one to boast, I am officially ranked World Number One at WAS. I have won medals in all categories, not only in the standard classes of coffee-drinking, blogging, attention to emails (I won the Butch Cassidy Award for being fastest answerer in the west), shopping, and suddenly remembering phonecalls I have to make, but I have also, I am proud to say, won the Nobel Prize for Innovation in Work Avoidance Strategies after my propensity to vacuum behind the fridge on a daily basis. (I was given a supplementary citation after I took the dead mouse I found there to the vet, thus avoiding work for another hour while I waited for the vet to call my psychotherapist.)

I believe it was in recognition of this talent that yesterday I was given the wherewithal to take my excellence to a new level. It's all the fault of Vanessa Robertson, whom those of you who read the Fidra Blog will know. She and her husband, Malcolm, own the Children's Bookshop in Edinburgh, which is within spitting distance of my house, should I wish to spit on it, which I absolutely don't. (Vanessa is even scarier than I am, I'll have her know.) Anyway, recently, Vanessa and I were chatting about blogs (chatting about blogs is a very good Level 1 WAS which you can all try at home at any time, by the way) and she asked me how my stats were. I thought this was a bit of a personal question, but she quickly explained. My eyes lit up. This sounded very cool. So I tried to install a stat counter myself and was doing fine (it had taken at least half an hour when I should have been working, so this was good - bit like a warm-up for an athlete) but then I came to the word html and freaked, as I always do. Anyone who doesn't freak at the word html has Klingon blood. (By the way, did you know that there are more people in the world who speak Klingon than there are who speak Gallic? Also, that in the Klingon language Klingon language is tlhIngan Hol? It's amazing how educational a quick WAS-related trip to Wikipedia can be.))

"Don't worry," said Vanessa last Friday, when I told her about my dismal failure to install a stat counter. "Malcolm can do it. Come to the shop at 11.30 on Monday." Malcolm? I'd met Malcolm before and he seemed very normal. Surely the Klingons had not got him too?

Anyway, I had to wait the whole weekend in nail-biting anticipation of what I just knew was going to be the dreamiest new WAS toy ever. How could I work with that kind of excitement going on? I wouldn't be able to call myself a real author if I could block out such anticipation. It would be like waiting to hear whether I'd won the Carnegie Medal (not something I have ever experienced, but I have an imagination and day-dreaming is merely a Level 3 WAS).

Anyway. Yesterday came, as expected, and I went along to the shop and there was Malcolm, who showed remarkably few signs of Klingon blood. And ten minutes later there was my stat counter, on my blog. Malcolm showed me amazing things I could discover about you. Like which part of the world you are from. And how many seconds you looked at each page - yes, I know two of you only stayed three seconds and it hurt me, it really did. Have a heart, for goodness' sake - I'm a human being with human feelings. And remember, I know where you live. Or not exactly, I hasten to add, and I suppose "USA" is quite a big place - but I will search for you. (Actually, one person stayed zero seconds - how does that work?)

I can see which pages you looked at first and which were the most popular pages. And I can even see which words you put into the search engine to find my blog. Three people actually searched on "turquoise boots" - no, mine are not for sale, not for ready money or any other kind of money, not on ebay or anywhere.

Vanessa spoiled it all. Just when we were getting along so nicely AND I'd given her and Malcolm the second ever batch of my delicious new invention, Brain Bars(TM) (shameless plug alert: see my main website for Brain Cake(TM), as described in Know Your Brain). "I wonder if anyone searched on crabbit old bat?" she said.

"Don't be silly," I said. "You wouldn't find my blog if you searched for crabbit old bat."

Well, I regret to say that I just tried it (under the lame excuse of a WAS). And you do. It's the first (and second) result in Google. Mind you, the Fidra blog is third ...

Do I really have to go down in history as the first crabbit old bat on Google? Or could I achieve fame as the owner of these gorgeous turquoise boots, which are mine, all mine?


Is there a serious point to this post? Er, no. Except that you might want to consider the words of that other great time-waster, William Henry Davies, who wrote, "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?" You have to take your hat off to those guys back in the old days: think how much better their writing would have been if they'd had stat counters instead of just having to rely on having something boring to stare at, like scenery or something. Amazing.

Hmmm, looking at those boots a bit more closely, I think they're a bit dirty. Better go and clean them.