I Don't Like Mondays...

How are you this Monday? Did your alarm go off and you couldn't quite believe the night had disappeared? Did you open your curtains and think, shit, that's the Summer gone then, as a murky September scene greeted you?

If that's the case, then grab a coffee and read on. Maybe I'll be able to inspire you into starting your week with the vigour of of an X Factor contestant getting through to boot camp...or at least convince you not to top yourself with a tea spoon.

Why are you so bloody perky I hear you cry. Aren't you meant to be weeping over your cornflakes over the state of the publishing industry?

To be honest, I probably should be but I'm in full on Pollyanna mode because last week my editor finally signed off on book five. I cannot tell you how great this made me feel. I mean, it's always fab when you get to the end of the editing process and the work is done. But this time the usual sense of release is coupled by an enormous sense of relief.

This dear readers has not been an easy book. I'd heard all about the difficult second albumn syndrome but hadn't been affected. Who could have guessed I'd come so unstuck on book five!!!!! Surely by now I could do this malarky with my eyes shut?

Well let me tell you my eyes were wide open when I had to do a flippin' great re-write. Yes re-write. It would be disingenuous to call it an edit. This was big. Major heart surgery. And it had to be done to a tight deadline. You see the book is called Twenty Twelve and is set during the London Olympics, so not suprisingly, the sales and marketing dudes want it in the shops by next April/May. That'll teach me to come up with the old high concept book. I thought I was being clever but it turns out I was just making a rod for my own back.

Actually, the whole thing made me realise that there are many myths out there doing the rounds that I can dispell in one fell swoop.

1. Editors no longer edit. Wrong, wrong, wrong diddly wrong wrong.

2. Publishers don't care about the quality of high concept, highly commercial work. Sorry, but that's a bunch of crap.

3. Commercial writers stick to a formula and can do it in their sleep. Nice try but no cigar.

Anyhow, I dug deep and got the re-write done. And my ed is....drum roll please...very happy with it.

Now I have a clear path ahead of me. I can do exactly what I want. I can start book six which is due to be subbed in July 2012, or I can tackle on of the other projects that have been calling me. Or I could do bugger all for a couple of weeks. Life don't get much sweeter than this.

So I'm going to raise a cuppa to you all out there and hope that some of this great feeling is contagious. Happy Monday.

Cry Me A River

On Sunday night, the kids and I, like millions more, settled down at 8pm to watch the X Factor.


Less typically, we were dressed respectively as Voldomort, a werewolf and Frankenstein's monster as we'd spent the evening trick or treating.

Sadly, as we traipsed our sorry route through the village begging for sweets, it bucketed it down, so our face paint and fake blood pooled unattractively under our chins.


Fortunately, we had amassed two carrier bags full of fun sized Milky Ways to cheer our spirits, as we sat, steaming, glued to the set.


Far removed were the poor contestants who looked like they could well do with some chocolate.


For the uninitiated, the X Factor is a talent show which culminates in a weekly public vote to decide who will remain to fight another day and who will be kicked off the show.
Brutally, the contestants are lined up like christians waiting for the lions to be released, while the public cheer and jeer.

Then, one by one, the survivors' names are read out until only two acts remain. These are the losers who will have to howl their way through another number before being subjected to the final judgment by Simon Cowell and his mates.


Imagine Herrod asking the crowd between Jesus and Barrabus and you're not far wrong.


This week, the losers were a girl band in very high heels and a funky young hipster who sounds like she smokes forty a day.
As they waited for the axe to fall they wept bitter tears with the world watching.

And the question on any normal sane person's lips must surely be...why would anyone put themselves through that?
Why would a person bare themselves to the thumbs up or thumbs down, time after time?


And I understand the incredulity, but, as a writer, I've got to admit that I get it.


As soon as any of us scribbers put pen to paper we begin the rejection courtship dance.


First, there's our inner critic. The one that tells us we are rubbish wiht every word we write.

Next comes 'feedback' from trusted readers, writers groups or mentors. It's a very rare day when they smile at us and declare ' you've a Booker winner on your hands.'

At some stage we release our work and try to secure an agent. Cue letter upon letter thanking us for our submission but actually, it's not for them.

And if you thought getting an agent was the end of the merry jig, think again. Enter a raft of publishers, all gushsing with praise, but on reflection, they won't be buying your book, they just don't love it enough.

Finally, the writer gets a deal. Yay. Salad days. Except...the editor isn't too keen on the title/the ending/the sub plot.

But there it is, at last, a book. A real book. You've done it. No more rejection.

WRONG.

It's only just begun...sales figures disappointing, the supermarkets not too sure. Then some bastard pans you on Amazon.


But you know what? Despite all the knockbacks, I love it. I choose to put myself and my work out there so I have to take the pain. If you can't, you're dead in the water and this game aint for you.
Same as the contestants on the X Factor, today their heart s breaking but tomorrow they'll be back in the saddle.

Cos that's what we do...now pass the Maltezers.

The Complete Package

My kids are addicted to The X Factor.

There, I’ve said it.

I tried, really I did. I fed them organic pieces of cardboard...sorry, rice cakes, I read them poetry. I even played Classic FM on the school run.

Alas, they now settle down each Saturday night with a packet of crisps and the remote control, discussing whether Cheryl Cole is the most beautiful woman on the planet and whether Simon Cowell waxes his hands.

Worse still, I have been sucked into my children’s world.

Yes, I am now an avid watcher of the darn show. I won’t say I’m a fan but must admit to an unseemly interest in the whole spectacle.

One of the things that fascinates me most is the constant commentary from the press and public as to which candidate is ‘the complete package.’
It transpires that it’s not enough that Joe McElderry sings like an angel. The guy will never make it, apparently, until someone fixes his teeth.
Similarly Stacey Solomon gains more column inches for her giggling than her undoubted talent for belting out a song. How, the public asks, will she ever give interviews when she’s clearly bonkers.

Have these people never heard of David Bowie or Kate Bush?

I must confess it makes me slightly uncomfortable, not least because this idea that an artist must be all things, ‘the complete package’, is gaining pace in the publishing world.
Nowadays, it’s simply not enough to pen a good story. A writer needs to be able to engage with radio DJs, write pithy features and lead creative workshops in schools and libraries. All of which require skills that may not be part of the average scribbler’s make-up.

I’m currently doing the publicity rounds for my latest novel and have been told, with indecent rubbing of hands, that I have a terrific back story.

‘You’re such an easy sell-in,’ said my PR gal.

Well, of course I’m pleased about that. And I actually enjoy chatting about work and craft. I’m naturally loud and opinionated and I have a terrific arse for radio.
I don’t even mind being asked for my views on being a working parent, or whether Olly Murs is the new Robbie. My commitment is to my book and I will do whatever it takes to help it reach an audience. And I’ll do it happily.

And yet...I do worry that the idea of being a personality is taking hold. And that like the poor contestants of The X Factor, being great at what you do will never be enough.

I worry that good writers won’t cut it because they couldn’t do the whole publicity thing.

A friend asked me today, why the hell I care, when I’m like a pig in the proverbial.
The answer, in truth, is I’m not sure.

Maybe I’m just being old fashioned.
But, you see, I love books and I love reading and I would hate to be dnied a fantastic author just because they needed a brace, or couldn’t dance.

Oh ignore me.
As my kids never tire of telling me, I’m just showing my age.