Hooray, hooray, it's publication day. Or not exactly...
By EmmaDAnd such are the peculiarities of the book trade that, actually, A Secret Alchemy has been available for a couple of weeks online and in the shops. Best of all, last week it was The Times' Recommended Read, available in W H Smith for £2.99, if you bought the paper. It's the kind of promotion you hope and pray and try not to murder your stablemates at your publishers' for, because it can do magical things to sales: according to Bookscan, last week A Secret Alchemy was officially the 14th biggest selling paperback fiction in the UK.
Now that's a one-week-only appearance, obviously. I may be wedged between Katie Fforde and Val McDermid, but they'll still be there in quite a few weeks. But though the promotion costs my publisher a fortune, it means that there are now several thousand people with copies in their hands, who might buy my first novel The Mathematics of Love, or seek out my third. I'm not a total newbie in the sales charts: TMOL made no.7 in the Heatseekers chart, which is made up of the bestsellers among books by authors who haven't appeared in the main charts. But to have my second novel - "that difficult second novel" - an official bestseller, however fleetingly, is amazing. On the other hand it's also disconcerting. What you can't see is that I'm not really blogging here, I'm actually slap in the middle of writing the first draft of a new novel. It's bare, it's bony, I've just realised this chapter has no plot, and I'm not at all sure I like one of my MCs. So how the f***k am I going to get it higher than no.14? And now that ASA is out there, it's no longer - I'm no longer - private. Until now, the only people who held opinions about me and what I do were people I knew. Not any more.
So, what's A Secret Alchemy about? This is my publisher's blurb, so I'll turn away and blush in private, because is there anyone who can take standard booktrade hype without blushing? To quote Four Weddings & A Funeral, "if there is, they're not English":
"Powerful and utterly convincing.'"- Daily Mail
"There is historical fiction - and there is historical fiction... It takes real skill - and devotion - to bring characters blurred by the passage of time into focus, to breathe real life into them... Emma Darwin has managed such sorcery... Passion is the key to the success of this book... Spellbinding" - The Times
Two murdered princes; a powerful queen betrayed; a nobleman riding towards his certain death...
The story of the Princes in the Tower has been one of the most fascinating - and most brutal - murder mysteries in history for more than five hundred years. In a brilliant feat of historical daring, Emma Darwin has recreated the terrible, exhilarating world of the two youngest victims of the War of the Roses: the power struggles and passion that lay behind their birth, the danger into which they fell, the profoundly moving days before their imprisonment, and the ultimate betrayal of their innocence.
In A Secret Alchemy, three voices speak: that of Elizabeth Woodville, the beautiful widow of King Edward IV; of her brother Anthony, surrogate father to the doomed Prince Edward and his brother Dickon; and that of present-day historian Una Pryor. Orphaned, and herself brought up in a family where secrets and rivalries threaten her world, Una's experience of tragedy, betrayal and lost love help her unlock the long-buried secrets that led to the princes' deaths. Weaving their stories together, Emma Darwin brilliantly evokes how the violence and glamour of past ages live on within our present.
And if that hasn't put you off, you can buy it in all good bookshops now - really truly, they should have it - or online at The Book Depository, (miles the cheapest) Waterstones, or Amazon
Being brave...or not.
By KimWell, that time has come. A time we prospective writers both look forward to and that fills us with foreboding. A time of excitement, anticipation, heartache, concern, self gratification, self doubt, joy, sadness, hope and anxiety...But what to do next? Which voice in your head do you listen to?
Do you actually insert the freshly printed off second re-write laying on your desk next to the two covering letters; one to Harry; one to the Editor, into the envelope, affix the postage and send them off? The letters are dated after all, so it makes no sense for you to have to redo them. Or do you give it one last onceover? You did give it one last onceover yesterday... and the day before if it comes to that. Okay, so you’ve been dithering for weeks, admit it.
With the feedback you’ve had so far, is it now the best it can be? In truth you have no idea because you’re exhausted and all out of ideas on how to improve it further. You hope so. You think so. You believe you’ve ticked the boxes on the Editor’s to do list but what do you know? You’ve now read the bloomin’ SP so many times that the words have lost much of their meaning. The funny parts bring barely a titter and the sad parts fail to draw a tear anymore; relentless repetition has taken its toll.
Right, so that’s it then. Only one thing for it. You’ll send it. Decision made.
Or...You could just read it through one more time, just to make sure?
“God Almighty, just send it off woman!”
Who said that?...There’s no need to shout.
What defines a writer?
By JMOCKBrowsing the web last week, I came across a discussion among a group of writers and like minded individuals (I cannot remember the web address), and the point being raised is what qualifies the individual as being termed as a writer/author.
A matter of opinion, but the general concensus appeared to agree that writing in print, as opposed to on-line, is the defining factor. So now begs the question, is a writer who sells an article for publishing on the web any less of a writer than one who has attained author status in print?
(It did appear that those who agreed on the 'in print side' were the majority who have previously achieved publication of a novel or magazine).
Should 'in print' be the aim for all writers, or can on-line publication be of equal acclaim?
Writing Advice
By JMOCKDuring one of my (frequent) episodes of self-doubt, a director/screenwriter in America responded with this comment:
"Self-doubt is of the human realm, creativity is of the divine. Don't let the human aspect rule the divine, and keep an open mind and heart to all possibilities."
Do you have any advice to share with the fellow writer?
Hub, Issue 79
By Boudica
The story in Issue 79 of
Hub plays with
format.
SBIR Proposal by Richard K Lyon takes the well used guise of
a letter from one organisation to another. There is quite a lot
of back story early on that I think would be unlikely to form
part of the content of such a letter. The central idea is
entertaining and suits the letter format, but it might have been
more effective to have had an exchange of letters. I found myself
skipping a couple of paragraphs. It's a neat idea that could have
been executed better.
An older article of mine on the occupational hazards of being a writer.
By JMOCKHow often does one consider the seemingly innocuous life of a writer to be that which is laced with occupational hazards? Probably seldom, yet evidence prevails that would suggest the field of writing to indeed be an occupation that is coveted by negative characteristics.
The exploration of scribble, scrawl, script and print brings forth mixed potential to all who delve into its murky waters. Achieve the well-deserved accolade and pleasant remuneration, and it will be accepted with open arms and a pat on the back, but writing is also fraught with traits of disillusion.
Rejection
Pray tell - for I truly wish to know the answer - what other vocation openly accepts rejection as a duty incumbent upon the role? Why is it that you can spend hours, days, even weeks and months, committing your body and soul (down to the last ounce of sustenance) into producing an amalgamation of words that appear to be drawn in your own blood, only for it to be discarded in the blink of an eye, or be deemed only worthy of a pittance in compensation? A cruel fate, I can admit, but not nearly enough of a deterrent - although this opinion is subject to change of view.
Tiredness
Why do writers feel compelled to endure the nightmare that is sleep deprivation in the quest of the written word? With heavy eyelids, the words take on one of two forms. A masterpiece of flowing text, well-formed and constructive, or a collaboration of the native language that makes little sense in the glimmer of the morning light.
It is a fact, though, that when in peak flow, time will become irrelevant to a writer on a mission. Many hours may pass before the realization of day and night, as if all around dissipates into a black-hole. Concentration levels can extend to such pronounced depths that the writer become oblivious to their mortal surroundings. Communication with family and friends cease to exist, as the author lives and breathes the written word. One could argue that even the presence of mortal danger would not up-seat the writer from their place of work. To test this theory one could place a writer at a desk in the path of stampeding bulls to see if he or she would remain.
Aches and pains are common ailments one may exhibit, all in the line of duty.
Eye strain
Hours spent staring at a screen must rank high on a writers list of negative characteristics, but this hazard is probably exasperated by sleep deprivation. Red, watery, swollen eyes, after 48 hours without sleep may do nothing for the individuals outward beauty, but it is perfectly acceptable when the person is embroiled in the quest for a literary masterstroke.
Two limbs, three ailments
Numbness in all ten fingers (eight fingers and two thumbs for those who wish to be pedantic), tired, aching wrists and repetitive strain injuries can present itself due to the excessive use of the keyboard and mouse. Even laden with bandages, after medical intervention, the afflicted will continue to tap away at the keyboard, though production tends to decrease.
Work and play
Can the writer really separate work from play? At any time of day, even at the most inopportune of moments, the mind sees fit to take it upon itself to reveal a sample of text that strikes the writer as sheer brilliance. For no apparent reason, the mind will conjure a passage of words that must be transferred into print.
Take, for example, the supermarket. You could be strolling down the aisles, calmly filling the trolley with the wanted luxuries, when there it is! No warning, just a free-flowing stream of words that make sense. It's as if the mind wants to tease you, because you are in a place where you cannot automatically record this revelation.
What follows is a hastened rush, to reach a destination whereby this 'broadcast' can be transplanted into hard evidence, before it vanishes into the dark realms of non-existence. It appears that the writer can never put the writing aside, for it remains ever-present in daily life.
So there you have it! Writing is fraught with occupational hazards, and is not the safe vocation it would initially appear to be. Will it deter the writer? I doubt it, for the passion of writing overwhelms all negativity. I'm off now in search of the latest 'rejection' because at some point there is sure to be a reward of some description, either internal or external.
A Country Crime - A short story in need of work.
By JMOCKHe eased himself slowly down onto the weather worn seat, uneasy as to whether it would take his weight. He paused repeatedly, half expecting the decades old plank to crumble beneath him. With baited breath, he finally relaxed and applied his full weight.
The branch above creaked and groaned, as he pushed gently with his feet to start himself in motion. Oh, how this stirred a thousand memories of his glorious childhood, of summers spent in a seemingly distant world of ease and playful dreams.
The gentle breeze brushed his face, the sweet smells of the
summer air enveloped his mind, opening long shut rooms that had
lain dormant since his transition into adulthood. How he
wished to regain those thoughts, to live through them again, not
to change a thing.
A tear rolled down his beaten face, a tear confused with joys and
despair. Joy to be back amongst true harmony, mixed with a fear
and longing, a knowing of times elapsed, never to be retrieved
again.
But he had had to return to this place, and a time not forgotten, but paused. That is why he had left the city, traveled 300 miles in the blistering heat, as soon as word had reached. He had to return, to see for himself the crime that had robbed a part of his life.
He raised his gaze, the anger swelling through his veins. Why, why had this happened? For money no doubt. Greed even. The heat rose deeper, almost boiling. He had the money, a good life, friends, a family. He worked hard for which the rewards were seen. A posh apartment, the latest gadgets, a 50-inch TV and sports car. A diet of the finest foods, made by the classiest of chefs tempted his tastebuds almost eveyday of the week, but all that meant nothing now. Nothing compared to the cruelest of fates that had changed his life.
In his field of view lay the deepest cut he could endure. A slash
that only he could see, a wound deeprooted in an acid stomach.
For what was once the beauty that had made him, of what had given
him his soul was destroyed. Gone forever in the eye, and left
only to the memory of the seen.
Staring forward in rhythm, with a total disbelief, forever
blinking in hope that when his eyes opened it would reveal a
dream. But no, it was still there, in vivid view.
The sounds of engines roaring, men chatting, of foundations being
laid. These were the noises that now filled his ears. Not a
stream trickling, or grasshoppers singing. No! This was the sound
of development, of modern times. and urban expansion.
A new housing estate, here, where he had lived. How dare
they! Who would allow such a thing to happen, to him? This was
his life, his youth, being swallowed whole before his own eyes.
And he could do nothing to halt this, this opinionated progress.
He stopped suddenly, his shoes scraping fiercely on the dry grass. This was the finest place on earth, he had spent his childhood running through the open fields, of climbing tall trees and chasing rabbits and deer. Now it was empty, a nothing land. He could never again return to the place he called home.
The dull thud was heard by him alone, as he fell back off the
swing. This was fate, he thought. A fate to be thankful for. He
knew, but did not care. He did not reach for his phone, or call
out for aid. He just lay there, his pupils fixed through the
leaves of the tree.
A smile crossed his face. He was now at peace. A peace he
deserved. A peace that he desired and would wholly allow. He
thought of his family and hoped that they would understand his
reasons through their grief. Just one last photo
image amid a retracting breath. Then a darkness fell over
his vision, that to him was the brightest of all lights.
Little Gods
By AiylaWe share a comfy, cosy little community, and I’m jolly pleased to be amongst you all. We understand the dark sides to being a writer; the dubious stares we receive as we write in queues, pubs and on public transport and the sometimes discouraging comments we endure from our families. But we know (I hope) to take it all with a pinch of salt.
The passion is in our blood, running through our veins and this red hot passion creates an invisible energy that keeps us at it, day after day. It rewards us with a satisfaction that sometimes can be hard to find in our daily jobs. Even if we never reach the stature of the published novelist, it is this journey that we are on now that matters.
Sometimes we can feel like failures and look longingly at those who seem to be having a wild time in life, out every evening, living it up, whilst we are alone at our desks wallowing in our world of words. But we are doing a worthy job. Don’t forget that.
We only have one chance on this earth. It is important to do something special, and that’s what we do. Through time, with discipline and constant motivation, we will become better writers. The importance is to do what you love. Whether we make it or not doesn’t really matter at the end of the day. Think of Mozart or Beethoven. Where would we be without their sensitive emotional pieces of music? They never reaped the praise they deserved but I’m sure they enjoyed what they did. They lived for their passion and saw it through to the end and that’s what made their lives complete.
We create - not the universe -but we create. We are geniuses and the world needs people like us. The world needs YOU.
We possess the gift to imagine the world a better place, a reconditioned world with all the dust taken away, and we can add in chocolaty delights wherever we want. In fact, we are nothing less that little Gods. Little Gods camping out in the sky on this lovely cloud and we float around searching for the bundle of words that might mean something special to someone.
(I hope this makes at least a little sense. I do tend to get carried away at times. But as a writer, you probably do too).
We writers are needed and have an important job to do. We dig deep. We mine in the mind and in doing so find treasures more beautiful than most people will ever see. Many people pass through life without realising that this cluster of precious stones exists. But you know this, and I know this, and that is why we write.
Without us, the world would be a dreary place indeed.
First Hot Curry.
By KentyFirst Hot Curry.
Keep this out of the reach of children. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre! They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.
Call 999. I've located a uranium pill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drain Cleaner. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting pissed from all the beer. -- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds?
Carol, the barmaid, was standing behind me with fresh refills. That 20 stone woman is starting to look HOT...just like this nuclear waste I'm eating! Is chilli an aphrodisiac?
My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead, and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The waiter seemed offended when I told him that him chilli had given me brain damage.
Carol saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the glass. I wonder if I'm burning my lips off. It really pisses me off that the other people in the restaurant asked me to stop screaming. Screw them. My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulphuric flames.
I am definitely going to **** myself if I fart and I'm worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Carol. Can't feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my arse with a snow cone ice-cream.
. You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water.
My shirt is covered with curry which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava to match my shirt. At least, during the autopsy, they'll know what killed me. I've decided to stop breathing- it's too painful. Screw it; I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air I'll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach...
Colonoscopy.
By KentyThis is from news hound Dave Barry's colonoscopy journal:
I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis . Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America 's enemies.
I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.
Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.) Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: Have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.
After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.
At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said.
Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.
Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this is, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.
When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anaesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anaesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' had to be the least appropriate.
'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.
I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine,' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that It was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.
ABOUT THE WRITER:
Dave Barry is a Pulitzer Prize-winning humour columnist for the Miami Herald.
On the subject of Colonoscopies...
Colonoscopies are no joke, but these comments during the exam were quite humorous..... A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) while he was performing their colonoscopies:
1. 'Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!
2. 'Find Amelia Earhart yet?'
3. 'Can you hear me NOW?'
4. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?'
5. 'You know, in Arkansas , we're now legally married.'
6. 'Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?'
7. 'You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...'
8. 'Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!'
9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!
10. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.'
11. 'You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?'
12. 'God, now I know why I am not gay.'
And the best one of all.
13. 'Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up
there'

