still here (more or less)

You know what? In many ways I've had a pretty shit year.

It hasn't ended well. I have a new job in a new career and I've fucked it up. My future is in jeopardy, and people are not queueing up to tell me how great I am. It's tempting to look back at the last few years and list all the ways I've failed.

I'm a forty-one-year-old woman with an eight-year-old and a two-year-old and it's fucking hard. I've had to make hard decisions. About what, who, when to prioritise.

There was a time when I was sitting in a training session. I was invited to think about how I could make someone close to me happy.

I thought of one of my very-best-most-loved persons, who I had nursed through an anxiety attack only the night before, and who had felt so much worse when I told them how amazing they were. "Don't", they moaned. "It doesn't help."

"What can I do to make this person happy?" I asked myself. And the answer came, "Nothing."

So I thought about my son. "What can I do to make him happy?"

I considered the conversation we'd had. "I wish you still worked at home," he said after I failed yet again to pick him up early and save him from the parent-stealing tedium of after-school club. What could I do to make him happy? I could give up my new job, the thing that had me sitting here discussing what I could do to make people-important-to-me happy.

Not long after that I found myself in an office, crying, as someone senior to me listed all the ways in which I was falling short of expectation.

But I'm still here.

Not that anyone will read this, as I haven't been here for ages.

For the first time in years I have shaken with the wide jaws of anxiety open before me. Threatening all that they brought before.

But I'm still here.

This is a bloody stupid job. It destroys its practitioners, yet they come back for more, those endless streams of unthanked fodder.

But I'm still here.

And I'll still be here when I'm there. And I'll get there because I'm stubborn. And bloody-minded. And bloody bloody stupidly-fucking bloody stupid.

Anyway. It's Christmas, and a birthday, and bloody Christmas, and merry bloody stupid fucking Christmas bloody birthday to you all.

xxx

George Takei Socks it to 'em

Lovely video!

George Takei (the doctor from Star Trek, who was also on I'm a Celebrity recently) challenges anti-gay Arkansas School Board member. Good for him.

Ha

I received this from a commenter...

"I know you'd like to put a line under it, so I wondered if this could help.
xxx"

Out of Print

A few days ago I mentioned I was thinking about cancelling the possibility of a second print run and quitting while I was ahead. Then, spurred on by friendly commenters, I decided to have a go at getting 54 orders before mid-November, which would have allowed a second print run in time for Christmas. But then I realised that would mean spending the next four weeks being slightly obsessive about how many books I was selling and then possibly having to call a halt anyway, but on the tails of failure instead of success.

The thing is...

(a) My life has moved on. I'm immersed in my new job and have no time or energy spare for anything else. So...

(b) I can't promote the book, which means I can't do the job of selling it properly, and it's no fun doing something half-cocked. And anyway,

(c) The original aim was to use some spare time I had over the summer to make a limited number of books available to family and friends, and then wrap it all up neatly and say goodbye to writing for a while. It was a good aim. It made sense.

When I do things, I like to do them properly. I don't like things lingering in the background and being faintly irksome. I want to give them my all.

I'm really pleased with the book and the way it turned out, and I'm delighted that I sold 100 copies in such a short space of time. It's understandable that those sales should be petering out now, because I'm putting no work into selling or publicising the book. Trying to self-publish fiction is notoriously difficult. The average number of sales is around the 100 mark, and that's for people who spend a lot more time and energy on pushing their books.

I've just about got enough spare books to cater for the people who placed orders recently, so they will get their books and that will be that.

It's good to end on a positive note, as well as a relief. Those of you who have books can feel very smug: You own a rare article. Treasure it. Love it. Stroke it. Whisper sweet nothings to it. And stop feeling guilty because you haven't got round to reading it, or posting a review online, or whatever. There's no need any more. Hooray! Thank heavens for happy endings.

And now I can have a rest.

Autumn

Sheesh! Bit of a nip in the air now, eh? I am now fully entitled to get all smug on yo arses about how I am still cycling to work every day and will continue to do so throughout the winter. That's an hour of solid exercise every day, come rain, shine or snow. Last winter I cycled to work in a blizzard. That's how hard I am. In your face, cake-and-chocolate-induced lardiness! Of course I will just eat more chocolate and cake to compensate but shhh, we'll pretend we didn't notice.

I have a beautiful cycle path to get to and from work every day, and the best bit about it is the crunchy autumn leaves. I am developing pin-point precision in squashing every crunchy leaf in my path, and the pleasure of this never diminishes. Soon the crunch of leaf will be replaced by the crunch of ice-covered puddles, which is equally satisfying.

I'm knackered and my kids keep getting ill and life is BLOODY HARD, but it's the right kind of hard. It's satisfying-hard, challenging-hard, never-boring-hard. Smug-hard. EXHAUSTING-hard.

I wrote a poem the other day. It woz kwite gud. I think. But I won't show it to you, so you can never prove me wrong. HA.

Right. I have work to do. Toodles.

Slow

I never look at the picture part of postcards - I always turn over straight away to read the writingy bit, cos I always think that's more interesting.

The postcard on my doormat was writing-side-up anyway, so I picked it up and perused it.

But the other thing that happens with me and post is that I never read it properly at first. This is partly because my first sight of any post tends to happen with a bike in my arms. I cycle to work, but I keep my bike inside the house, and we have steps leading up to the front door, so I carry my bike over the threshold, simultaneously looking down at the post, and then I have to do a million boring small things like remove cycle clips, helmet, fluorescent vest, and any other waterproofs, hats, gloves, scarves etc that might be cluttering my person.

Often it's just a pit stop, and all I'm doing is swapping work-laden pannier bags for a child seat on the back of the bike before I dash back out again to pick up the kids. Sometimes I have a little golden window of time before that next part of my day, and usually that's spent flitting about the house trying to decide which is most important out of
(a) kettle on (cup of tea),
(b) computer on (check email, find out whether my book has become an internet sensation overnight)
(c) dinner on (it's easier to cook without a 2-yr-old wrapped around your shins)
(d) klobber off
(e) wet laundry out of machine
(f) telly on
...which generally ends up with teabags, fluourescent vests, wet pants and computer keyboards being combined in all the wrong ways.

Aaanyway. That was all an attempt to explain why it took me so long to work out what the hell was the postcard on my doormat, and who it was from. The first thing I looked at was the handwriting. I didn't recognise it. So I looked for a signature. There wasn't one. It was covered in close writing, but there was no name at all. I looked again. There must be a name, surely? No. So I scanned the content. It was something to do with the angle of a chair. Wtf? I looked for a name again, more slowly this time. Nope. Nothing there.

Finally I turned it over and found this:



Aha! Snailr! Of course!

All the time I had been pondering this, I had also been removing cycle clips, putting the kettle on, turning the computer on, etc. I still had tea to cook, kids to pick up, yadda yadda, and I didn't want to read the content in a rush. I wanted to savour it, because this was An Exciting Event. In the end my partner read it before I did. Not knowing who it was from and not having heard of the Snailr project, he pronounced himself Amused But Thoroughly Confused. I'd been through the confusion part already, so I settled on amused. It was a very nice postcard. I'm glad I got it. The writingy part looked like this:



(I couldn't resist the product placement. Forgive me. I wrote that book. You can buy it / find out more about it here. Lucy Pepper designed the cover, and Francis Blake illustrated it. Isn't it beautiful?)

...and this is what the postcard said:

"As I write this the Eastern European grandfather in front of us has been trying to recline his chair to his satisfaction for the last 18 minutes. Continuously.
It is like this angle [see first chair pic on postcard above]
he wants it like this angle [second pic]
it keeps doing this angle [third pic]
Yes. It is basically the same angle three times over. As far as I can tell, he wants to recline it 15 degrees and keeps getting it at 30 degrees by mistake. So he tries again. Ratches clank and scrape as he goes up, down, up, down, his yellow thumbnail hanging over the back. 'Is not stay.' He turns and says to us. Then tries it another 40 times."

It also has a number 3 on it, which I presume means it was the third card sent.

Snailr is Anna Pickard's latest project. It's a brilliant idea. She went on a 2-week train trip around the US of A and documented it by sending postcards. A kind of one-destination-only hard-copy Twittery thing. Ish. Sort of. It's explained better here. Anna is lovely and clever and good with words and I felt very special for having my very own unique Anna Pickard artefact. Thankyou Anna.

Lovely stuff

People have been steadily receiving books all this week, and I've been getting various bits of feedback, some of which have appeared in some form or other on Twitter, but these were too long:

"Picked up Dance Your Way earlier. Read for a few minutes, entranced, then thought of something Alice can use for her plaudits :

DO NOT READ THIS BOOK while making lunch. You will burn the scampi.

DO NOT READ THIS BOOK while eating dinner. It goes cold.

I feel as if everything's gone quiet. We're all reading the book!" - Sarah Kachel

and from the designer (Lucy Pepper):

"they DO look and FEEL lovely... well done YOU, mostly.
and I LOVE the acknowledgement. not many people appreciate my bra talent."

Majestic Man

The new job is in full swing, and I am exhausted. My grandfather was buried at the weekend in a truly beautiful and historic location, in view of both mountains and sea. It is sad. I miss him. My mother drew a picture of him (reproduced below), not long ago. I have a copy of this picture, and it is beautiful, but at the moment I have placed it carefully face down on a table. It is just too sad.

I am having occasional tearful moments of "Oh, no, it can't be true." He was 100 years old, so it is not only true but no great surprise. Nobody gets to live forever but he really did his damnedest and there is nothing to regret. But he is gone, and I miss him.

The books haven't arrived yet, which is ever-so-slightly annoying, particularly as I can't easily ring from work to discover their whereabouts. But they were apparently dispatched yesterday via next-day wotsit, so they can't be far away.

Here is what I said at the funeral. I don't normally read from a script when doing public speaking, because it never works as well as ad-libbing from notes, but I was in no fit state to do anything else. It was written in a rush, on the morning of the funeral, with my nephews running in and out of the room shouting and playing cars around my feet, but sometimes the best things are written under such circumstances:

"I went into the chemist a few weeks ago and got talking to Sandra, the lady behind the counter. I mentioned Brenda and Bill, and she knew straightaway who I meant. Bill in particular was the one they saw the most, and they used to call him Sir Fenton.

'Oh no,' he would say. 'You must call me Bill.'

This tiny tale encapsulates for me the essence of Bill. The title, 'Sir Fenton', would have been earnt by his immense dignity. As a very small child, I was ever-so-slightly scared of him, but I quickly learnt what lay beneath that majestic exterior. I expect we can all imagine the expression on his face when he said, 'You must call me Bill.' The twinkle in his eyes and the subtle smile. Right to the end he maintained that dignity. He bore his illness calmly and with little complaint, he chose his words carefully and he always knew what he meant.

When I saw him last, only a few weeks ago, he was very weak and for a while we sat in silence. But then he showed his immense love by asking after my two sons - his great-grandchildren - and smiling as he heard of their exploits. And then he said a very firm goodbye. Few words, clear intention, dignity and love to the last. He has been a quiet solid presence for all of my life. Presence was something he had in abundance, and his absence creates a very large hole. I'll miss him."

My grandfather:



I really want to write a longer piece, like I did for my other grandfather, but it may have to wait.

Loop the Loop

I coped all right when my first grandad died, a few weeks ago. But the cumulative effect means that I am managing a little less well now that my other grandfather has gone. He was 100 years old and died peacefully on Saturday afternoon. I'll write properly about him soon, I hope.

Life's a little difficult right now. There's the new job, the bereavements, the ongoing infirmity of our ageing dog (featured here, looking remarkably well), some other stresses and strains, my knee is infected (I fell over and cut myself on a mountain rock) and then there's parenthood.

I love my kids, enormously. They are beautiful and clever and gentle and sweet. But one of them is a toddler and the other is an 8-yr-old and it is hard to keep them both happy at the same time. And I am a woman of extremes, so when I am with them they get so much of me that I can't cope with giving any of me to anything else. Which is not a practical or realistic way to exist. And I can't bear to hear them cry. Toddlers cry quite a lot.

So, the summer has been a bit of a strain. I have spent more time with my two boys than I normally do, and I have become very tired. I am 41 years old. I am a naturally energetic person, but children are tiring and my bones are old. Ish. OK, I am less than half the age that my grandfather reached, so it is silly to talk of being old. I still feel it.

So, I've been fretting and stewing and miserabling and struggling to relax, or to make the most of things I should have found enjoyable.

This afternoon my two sons and I visited the Manchester Museum. But first we went to the doctor, who pronounced my knee infected and sent me with an "urgent" note to a clinic that couldn't fit me in. We then got on a bus, which was a bit of a faff. One of the main corridors in the museum - which we had to pass several times to reach the lift - contained several prominently-displayed corpses (Egyptian mummies). These were pronounced "scary" and resulted in an increasingly-heavy two-yr-old demanding to be carried every time we walked past. Both children enjoyed the stuffed animals, the live frogs, the colourful insects and the dinosaurs. By the end of it all, I was knackered.

And then we walked outside. There is an installation in the courtyard called the "Reflective Room".



My 8-yr-old had bought a polystyrene aeroplane for 50p in the museum gift shop. His brother had one too. They were happy for well over an hour, launching their planes from various different locations and performing a series of impressive stunts. I just sat in the installation and marvelled at the sky, which was blue, and the roofs, which were red. It was a very comfy installation.

I ambled back into the cafe for a coffee, accompanied by an excited 2-yr-old. We went back out into the sun. We bought more planes. Another family appeared, and we donated one of our aircraft, which made their children very happy.

It was one of those spontaneous outbreaks of peace. My 8-yr-old suggested that maybe his dad would look after him and his brother one weekend and I could come back, to sit there and read a book. He's considerate like that.

We had to go in the end. The museum had closed long ago and the little one needed a nap, but we were all content.

It's hard to exist and let things be. When you do, it's magical.

Him Indoors

By the way I should have said, it was that other half of mine that wrote, directed, edited and generally masterminded the Beast of Birker Fell, not to mention conceived it as a way of entertaining bored youngsters on a rainy day. He also did the whole thing in about ten minutes flat (all right so I exaggerate, but only a bit). He very clever.

What I Did on my Holidays

This is good too!

It is on YouTube!

And I AM IN IT.

OMg OMG OMG, will i be FAMOUS?

The Beast of Birker Fell

(by the way: You have to watch the very last second of the credits, because the monster's final facial expression is classic.)

tHE sHELL wITH fEET!

This is really really good. Everybody watch it NOW.

A film about a shell with feet

Because I said so.

Come in Number Six, Your Time is up

Megan has been writing here about feminine maintenance and her own slap-dash attitude to it, and that reminded me of similar musings I was having today on a bus.

When I was a teenager, there was a brief period when I did at least try to read and understand the articles in Jackie magazine. Like Megan, I became aware that everybody is supposed to have a particular face shape, but could never work out what mine was, or what I was supposed to do about it. I managed to get to grips with eyeshadow and eyeliner, but lipstick and foundation and hair always went a bit wrong. I made a few vague attempts to master them, but mostly failed. I suppose these skills are supposed to come from mothers and sisters, but my mother was brought up in the countryside and educated by nuns and was far more interested in books anyway, and my sister made a point of looking the other way whenever I came near.

I didn't care much anyway. I liked myself for who I was, I had long ago accepted that I didn't fit in and was already starting to relish it. It wasn't long before I decided I was a lesbian, shaved my hair off and gave up on make up altogether.

But I had this vague idea that anyone could be beautiful, and one day I would get around to it too. I had a good figure, good skin and glossy hair. My chin, nose and ears were all too big, but a clever haircut and some cunning make up, a bit of attitude, a bit of style... were all I needed. And one day I would find them. Maybe I would go into a department store and get one of those make up girls to teach me about make up. Except that they all applied their own with a spade and looked universally dreadful. Or maybe I would find a book to teach me, or get a girlfriend who would take me under her wing. Maybe there would be a wedding day. Women always look beautiful on their wedding days. I'm not sure how, but maybe I would have a wedding and learn some lessons. Except I couldn't / can't be bothered with all that, and neither can my non-husband.

It was never a priority, I never got round to it, and now it's too late. The things that are wrong with me are permanent. Saggy, wrinkly, greying, fat, drawn, tired, haggard...

Yesterday the checkout man had a conversation with my 2-yr-old son about his nan. He meant me. It's not the first time it's happened.

OK, so hair can be dyed and weight can be lost... but the same problem exists as always did. I don't care enough. Hair dye only works if you reapply every time the roots come back, and I'm never going to be that on-the-ball. The idea of wasting my precious time on tedious beauty routines irks me. I don't even moisturise. Shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, eyeliner and mascara are the only items in my spongebag.

I can't think of an easy way to end this post other than with a faint shrug, so I will move onto the reason for my presence on a bus, which was a trip to the dental hygienist. Who are these people? Who would voluntarily do that to people all day long?

I can be very obedient when instructed by people with medical degrees, and I was there because the dentist told me to be. But WHY? I was stabbed and poked and prodded and made to bleed, and it was all thoroughly unpleasant. It HURT. And I felt thoroughly battered about, and for what? My teeth weren't decaying, they just had a bit of scale on them, and it was all sitting there quite happily. It wasn't causing holes. Indeed you could say it was providing an extra layer of protection. And surely it can't be good for your tooth enamel to be scraped like that with a sharp thing? Isn't it a bit like cleaning a non-stick pan by scraping at it with a fork? Here I was paying good money, giving up good time, to be attacked with painful pointy implements, and I hadn't even asked why. And nobody had attempted to explain it to me.

And what is all this dental hygienist business, anyway? Last time I got scraped and polished it was done by the dentist herself, and it was bloody ages ago.

"See you in three months," said the hygienist.

"You'll be bloody lucky," I muttered under my breath, and ran away very fast.

They do feel quite nice now though, my teeth. I'll give her that.

Flowers and Smiles and Puppy Dogs

I've been doing an awful lot of moaning of late. I spent most of the latter half of my holiday whingeing and sighing about how hard it is being the 41-yr-old mother of a 2-yr-old and how impossible it makes it to relax or have any fun or enjoy one's holidays... but then I gave myself a metaphorical slap and reminded myself of how adorable he is, how short-lived this phase of his life is, and how motherhood is hard for everyone.

My life does swing at the moment between moments of wonder (his skin as he wraps himself around me, his smile, his squidginess, the speed with which he learns) and of hell (tying to cook or pack or clean or shop while he trails after me, grizzling and wailing "Mummeeee"), but I try too hard to fight what has to be. It is the way it is, and this too shall pass.

Likewise with the book. There are tons of positive things about this book, not least all the lovely things peple have done and said and the gorgeousness of the cover, and the fact that I am in control. It's also done what I wanted it to do, which is revive my faith in myself as a writer, stop me from defining myself as "Failed Writer", and give me a little creative boost before the mayhem and potential drudge of the new job.

Publicity is a pain. Trying to sell oneself and one's work is a pain. But it doesn't have to be. All I have to do is stop whingeing, decide what I'm happy and comfortable doing, and sod the rest. I am answerable to nobody but myself.

Publicity Fatigue

This post is a continuation, after my guest post here on Strictly Writing.

It's the "look at me" thing again, and how it relates to being a writer.

I used to rather enjoy saying "Look at me," but it has become less enjoyable since I've been trying to get published. The main thrust of my guest blog was that I like it less because I'm not successful at it. I said "Look at me," and nobody did.

It's not just that though. This brilliant piece here is by Liane Spicer, and is about how readers can help writers. But she has inadvertently highlighted the other reason I don't enjoy look-at-me so much any more. The main way readers can help writers is by spreading the word about their work, and there are a gazillion ways of doing this. These days they mostly involve online tools such as Facebook, Twitter and book recommendation / review sites like Amazon. But none of that will work unless the writer or their publisher has opened up those avenues in the first place. Sadly the main effect Liane's article had on me was to have me fretting about how my book isn't listed on Amazon. It's technically possible, as I do have an ISBN. But I'm not planning on holding books in stock, which would make it hard for the Amazon thing to work. And I can't afford the kind of cut Amazon would demand on sales. And anyway I'm probably too small an outfit, and and and...

The main reason is that I find it all so exhausting. Each little bit of online tomfoolery takes up even more time and adds even more soul-destroyingness to the number of places you have to check for feedback, and then sigh at when there is nothing there.

There is a distinct "Oh, sod it" element to the way I'm publishing this book. There's a part of me that wants to make it deliberately hard for people to get hold of it. And then I can cite that as the reason, when sales are inevitably low. I can also throw my hands up when people say, "But haven't you tried..." and I can reply, "No, I haven't, because this is a necessarily small enterprise and can never be anything else."

And although I keep being pulled in the direction of Sales Maximisation, Publicity Saturation and all that jazz... even though I secretly dream of my book suddenly Going Large... there's a large part of me that thinks, "Sod it. Only a handful of people will ever know my book exists, and it's worth it for the peace."

Still. Ahem. [cough] The only way my book will ever sell is as a result of word of mouth. So, er. You know. The power is in your hands. If you've ordered a copy... if you enjoy it when it arrives... if you happen to hang out in any of those online places and you have a moment to spare... feel free to do my publicity for me. But if, like me, you get a pain in your left ankle at the very thought of it, then hide the book under your pillow and keep it as a very special secret, which is for you and nobody else. I really won't mind.

...and I also promise to stop moaning and whingeing, starting here.

s-Press

Daily s-Press - a rather nice daily online mag re indie publishing - has a feature on my book today: http://bit.ly/cZWdRk

Meanwhile I am at home with the kids, who are playing cardboard boxes but getting bored cos it's raining... have at least managed to unpack after fortnight away though. Alton Towers this Wednesday! Woohoo! I mean it. I rather like it. I just turn into an 8-yr-old again.

Update

I'm still on holiday, but have been sorting bookish things out while I'm here...

There's a guest post by me on Strictly Writing here:
http://strictlywriting.blogspot.com/2010/08/why-do-we-write-guest-post-by-alice.html

The order has been sent to the printer and the books should arrive on my doorstep in about 3 weeks' time, at which point I'll send them straight back out to those who have bought them. Currently 79 copies have been sold, and I'm keeping ten for myself, so another 11 are available for sale. I can't guarantee another print run but there may be one around Christmas time.

Right, I'm off to admire the view!

Never Mind the Goats

A letter to my grandmother from a fellow writer, found folded between the pages of a short story in a 1974 political magazine:

“Dear Mrs T,
Thankyou for your card and note at Christmas - I was sorry not to have seen you during the year after all; perhaps we’ll be better organised in 1974!
This was what I was writing when I spoke to you, and you very rightly said start now, don’t stop, so I thought you might like to see it. I’ve often thought of you writing with girls dispatched to school and goats milked, and admired it - and admire it even more now! To say nothing of R*’s industry and stickability.
I hope all’s well with all of you. Please remember me very warmly to Mr T,
and with love -
M.”

* R is my mother, Mrs T’s daughter, who herself is a published writer.

Girls dispatched to school and goats milked. And then some. An amazing woman. I saw her this week and she was concerned about the woman sitting next to her in the old people’s home, who didn’t know who she was when asked. “Come on now, do your best,” she said. My grandma didn’t know who the woman was. She didn’t know who the four great-grandchildren playing at her feet were either, but she loved having them there.

PS Since writing this I have visited her again. “I know you, don’t I? … Good, because you look nice.” She also asked whether I was a writer, and was very pleased to find that I was.

Fast

[NB - this was written on Mon 9th August, while on holiday]

FAST

I was thinking just now about the whole publishing ting - unsurprisingly it’s not out of my thoughts much these days - and I realised, it’s less than a week since my book was launched. And I’m already moving on - seeing it in the past. Which technically it is - the launch date anyway - but the publication of my book is still - or ought to be - an ongoing process.

This tells you something about me. I’m always in a mad rush, trying to squish a million things into one small space, whether it be clutter in a cupboard or life in a weekend.

That makes me sound like the kind of person who might abseil down a tower block, drink 20 pints in a weekend or travel the world at the drop of a hat. I don’t do big stuff like that. I do smallish stuff, and I never travel far, and I always make sure I have a safety net. But I do it BIG. Or maybe I just do it fast. Or slightly mad. But also slightly sane.

The thing about me is that I have ideas. I’’ve written before about my crazy-bonkers ideas and how most of them never get anywhere. But occasionally I’ll take something forward. There’s some critical point, which is never easy to identify at the time or even afterwards, but at this point it stops being a crazy dream and starts being The Thing That I Am Currently Obsessed With And Will Move Tower Blocks To Achieve.

At first I thought this self publication thing was an unworkable idea, the kind of thing you dream of but never do. But it wasn’t until it became the kind of thing you dream of that it became likely. For a while I toyed with the idea of sticking it on Lulu. No offence, Lulu, your books are great for what they are and they serve a purpose and all that, but… their covers bend and curl. I’ll never get past that.

As long as the self-publication dream was a matter of cheap expediency, it was never attractive enough to bother with. But as soon as I thought a little bigger, the nugget became buried in some crucial part of my brain. What if I put a bit of time, money and effort into it? What if I made something I could truly be proud of? The answer came, Sod Off. Don’t be daft. You haven’t got the money or the time. Or the energy. Or the confidence. But the idea stayed hanging in some dreamy bit of consciousness and refused to go away.

As recently as six weeks ago I thought it was just another crazy scheme and would never become reality, or if it did it would be a bit shit.But then the illustrator painted the beautiful picture, and the designer wove it into something wonderful, and I managed to do a final edit that I was happy with, and then…

The thing is, I’m stuck. I’m trapped in a bubble of time. I have been for ages. It hasn’t happened yet, this bubble. It’s over there somewhere. In the future. And I’m stuck there. And I can’t escape. My whole life has been about getting somewhere else. Making plans. Preparing. And I never arrive. So now my book has been launched - only days ago - and I’m already elsewhere. Done that. Time to move on.

And then I realise… oh. I’m actually still here. And it’s quite a nice place to be.

Maybe I’ll stick around.

Taking Stock

I think the book launch is going well. I've sold 61 books, and have decided to go to print when I have 90 orders (I'll keep 10 books back for personal use / emergencies). I'm really really hoping that Magical Ninety will be reached this weekend... which brings me to the point of this post.

At several points during this self-publishing process I've got confused about why I was doing it. There have been a few (unpleasant) moments when I've got my knickers in a twist because I worried that I was Doing The Wrong Thing. Usually in respect to some attempt at publicising the book, but sometimes regarding its content. All of those worries could be summarised as either What will the publishing industry think? or What will potential buyers think?.

I do care what other people think, of course I do. But why should I care what the industry thinks? I've already accepted I'm not going to get a conventional publishing deal, and that's no longer my aim. If it was, this would be the wrong way to go about it.

I really want people to buy my book, and enjoy it when they read it. But does that mean I want to start jumping through all those publicity hoops, doing anything I can to get sales at all costs? No. That's one of the things I was trying to get away from. And there are practical issues here: I have a young child, who needs a lot of my time. And soon I'm starting a new job.

I switched careers a year ago and have spent the last twelve months retraining to do something astonishingly demanding and stressful. When I start the new job I'll scarcely have breath to call my own, let alone time or energy. I knew I'd have some spare time this summer, and I decided to use it to publish this book. But I also knew that the legwork would have to fit into a small window, and then I'd have to abandon it to its fate.

So, I can't set up a situation that means I'll still be faffing about with websites, online orders, stuffing books in envelopes or general publicity when the summer ends. And that's why I'm thinking about what I'll do when sales reach 100. I'm contemplating stopping there.

I'm going on holiday for two weeks this Sunday. I'll be in a remote location with minimal internet access, and I'll be on my own with the kids (my partner has to stay behind for work). When I return I'll be manically preparing for the new job. I knew this holiday was coming, and squeezed the book launch in the gap. If I can reach 90 orders this weekend then I can fire off the print run, close down the website and go on holiday with nothing much to worry about.

But... but... but...

What if I could reach 285 sales? If I sold that many, I'd break even. That would be nice. It's unlikely, let's be realistic. But why on earth have I put so much work into spreading the word if I'm going to stop when I've only just begun? And what if some kind of miracle happened and Some Proper Publisher noticed what I was doing and decided to publish me after all?

Argh. That would be a hard one. I'd be a bit dismayed, to be honest. Like I say, I'll very soon have no spare time. They would want me to Do Things which I might not want to do. But maybe I'd be so excited I wouldn't care? Or maybe we could schedule all the Doing Stuff for some future breathing space? But I've already turned my back on all that. I've already published the book myself, and I've made a Damn Nice Article. I think I'd be tempted to say "No, sorry, I can't be arsed." Still. I say that. It's easy to say when I know it won't happen. If it DID happen... oh well. It won't, so that's that.

What I'll probably do is just tinker with things a bit: When the Magical Ninety is reached, I'll change the site so that instead of paying for books, people are making a £2 deposit. If 100 people make a deposit, I'll bill them for the full amount and fire off another print run. And so on, ad infinitum. That would require minimal maintenance, apart from the envelope-stuffing, but I could rope in some help for that. I think I'll do that.

There's an extra tinge of poignancy to this whole adventure. A year ago I had written myself off as a Failed Writer and didn't expect to have anything to do with writing or books for many years to come. Now I'm popping my head back around the door... but it's only to say goodbye again. It took me four years to get my first book into a publication-ready state, and six years for the second. Even if I had spare time to write - which I won't, not for a long time - it would take me an age to get another book out there. I've finally acknowledged that the third book I wrote, the one still in first-draft stage, is never going to be worth continuing with. I'm sure I will write another book. I'll never stop being a writer. But it will be a long time coming. Five to ten years, I reckon. Which is another reason why I'm no kind of proposition for a Proper Publisher. I don't have enough to offer.

I'm really proud of this book, but if you want to read something written by me, you'd better move fast - because after this summer, you'll be waiting a long time.