With fewer publisher pounds going into publicity these days, authors are increasingly expected to do the bulk of their own book promotion. Fortunately for us, the web provides a wealth of free opportunities. Unfortunately for everyone else, some authors don't realise what will do more harm than good. Here are the instructions for becoming one of those authors...


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In contrast to next-door Trafalgar Square with its national monuments and celebration of Empire, there's something almost cosily parochial about Leicester Square, with its trees and benches, half-price ticket-booth and the statue of the 'bard' lounging on his plinth, surrounded by cinemas and pavement cafes.

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Just a little update/plug.

The supercool reading/music night, Tales of the Decongested, is this Friday (I'd love to be able to go to one, one day) is happening this Friday (details below) and my very short story, Lists (click to see it in its initial outing here) will appear in the handouts, which is something that really makes me very happy.

If you're in London, get yourself down there!

And here are the details:

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Phew! That's a toughie. Sorry, but you may not find what you've been looking for in this blog!

Or maybe not looking for?

I think a lot of talented writers tend to shy away from answering the question of what inspiration is. When asked they rarely give a satisfactory answer. It’s as though to look at it to closely may cause it to disappear and be lost forever. I think that scares more people than anything. Don’t examine what you don't need to examine or if it isn’t broke, don't fix it.

Of course some may think my inspiration, my ideas, are rubbish.

But who cares? It’s mine, it's there to be used because if I don’t use it I think it will wither and die, Becoming something once experienced, a distant echo, barely remembered.

To me it's youthfulness. All children have it, their minds race at supersonic speeds inventing stories, drawing pictures, creating games only they can understand. As we get older and 'grow' up, becoming mature (sigh!), it fades away, replaced by conforming, study, a means to make a living. Perhaps that's why some people show a quiet resentment when hearing I write. They want to write too but they've let it slip away or fear has strangled their thoughts.



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No make up. No tights. No stockings. No short skirts. No trousers. No hair dye. No rocking rolling devil music. And, most certainly, no boys. Just tell the truth, shame the Devil, cross your legs and say no. Ah, those Carmelite nuns knew how to party though, simpering bashfully beneath their wimples when the jagged jaw of the parish priest came a calling. Rock on Sister, for you are indeed the bride of Christ Himself and the blessed one turns her eyes only heavenward as the fires of desire stoke the flames in your soul.

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Next Thursday evening (2 July, 7.30pm) I’ll be reading from Kill-Grief at Fulham Library, as part of an event run by Exclusively Independent, the initiative that brings together independent publishers and booksellers. Kill-Grief was one of the Exclusively Independent choices for April...

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I have just written 600 words, and it's 11.27 am. For me, that's huge! A good day. And I am thinking about ritual, because on my last day here at Anam Cara I realised that I sort of set up a ritual: breakfast, walk down to the river, sit for a while thinking about what I might write, or thinking about something else and waiting for it to come, it arriving, and going back to my room to write it - and writing it while also playing at least one game of online Scrabble (Wordscraper on Facebook) which helps me not get stuck. (I did this except the day it rained so heavily I couldn't see the garden at all.)

Sounds easy, no? It made me realise that I haven't had a ritual until now. Since we are moving countries in August and I don't know where we will be living, can I come up with one that isn't place-specific? What are your rituals? I'd love to hear what other people do.

And rules, do you have any? Apparently, Rick Moody has 14 of them, as he detailed in a recent interview in Night Train:


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If you've ever played the Chad Valley game Whoosit, you'll know it's very good training for developing the skills of young detectives. Each player conceals the identity of a mystery person from the other player, who has to use deductive reasoning to eliminate characters from their playing board. You must have played it. the players take it in turns to ask questions, usually based on the physical attributes of the characters, such as hair colour, sex, or whether or not the person wears glasses or earrings.

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Are they? I only ask because I’m sure I once killed one. You’ve heard of fratricide and patricide. This was a case of ficticide.

I didn’t mean to. I meant to nurture it until the day it would fly from the nest and bring back a lovely plump book deal wriggling in its beak.
Instead, it suffered the equivalent of being eaten by a neighbourhood cat. And it was all my fault.

Here’s how I did it.

Exhibit number one:
This is just a hunch, but I think the fact that I didn’t do any writing had something to do with the story’s failure to thrive. What I did instead was endless planning. This was an attempt to distance myself from the way I wrote its predecessor. My first attempt at a novel was put together in a state of wild abandon and unplannedness [yes reader, I was a panter of the highest order]. The result was a plot that had, shall we say, a loose and relaxed structure. In other words, it was rubbish. So this time I intended to plan my story to within an inch of its life.


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I had hoped to be able to announce some lovely news here but it isn't public yet so will have to rein myself in! The good news is that my week here at the Anam Cara writing retreat, which draws to a close tomorrow, has helped enormously, as I hoped it would. Not in terms of writing reams of words, but in turning what I had seen as a strange mess of vaguely connected bits and pieces about my character, into a much more coherent whole. I have around 10,000 words and can see some kind of sense developing across them, an arc, which, not a novel, I think I will call a "story", which may be book-length, slim or slightly wider. Clear? Yes, I thought so. Anyhow, structure has fallen into place, interestingly non-linear, and some themes are emerging which are signposting me onwards. So: direction. What more can a writer want?.......


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