Authors Prefer Profit or People?

On this day in 2016, as I am reliably informed by my one-time daily viewing of Facebook, I started reading An Image of the Times: An Irreverent Companion to Ben Jonson’s Four Humours and the Art of Diplomacy.  This took me down a rabbit hole of memories, and by a happy coincidence gave me a post to write today instead of trying to finish several book reviews that are on the go, not to mention the three hundred other drafts still patiently guilt tripping me.

One of the things that also comes up on my social media feeds constantly are adverts for how to sell a manuscript, which I don’t have, and how easy it is to make £££, which I believe it isn’t.  It’s all very tasteless and mercenary, although I’m never one to begrudge anyone a profit for their hard work.

Whilst casting my mind back to starting An Image of the Times (and smelling those pages!), I remembered the surprise of opening the parcel and finding four books instead of the two that Nils-Johan had originally, and kindly, offered to send.  That wasn’t the best thing however, inside An Image of the Times, was a letter typed on a thick piece of paper, this unexpected letter (currently still inside the book, which sits a continent away) encouraged me to keep reading, writing and making friends with people who love words.

Too often I see the term ‘networking’ used in the adverts, it’s such a cold term, and is off-putting which is why it is rare these days offers to review authors are accepted.  Lots of novels have been turned down, usually romance and thrillers because authors don’t take an interest in the blog or the type of person they are asking to review the book, they just want to get the book out there regardless, which is fine but find the right blogger for your book, and write a letter that’s not been copy and pasted a thousand times.

Continue reading “Authors Prefer Profit or People?”

Gloaming Thoughts

The family snooze away in bed, and I write late into the night.  A beer on the go, and a nocturnal cool settles subtly on my bare arms.

Books are, of course, my chosen subject to write about, a topic that has so many facets, often hidden in plain sight, and so much scope.

Yet as I catch up with the notes on my recent reads, the memories of books long given away take over.

In this late and gently expiring hour, the recollections come thick and fast.  The night always makes one introspective, especially for the past.

On this particular night my eye – and hand – run down the imaginary bookshelf of recall, mixed with different eras of my collecting, the covers vivid and smooth.

An old Famous Five cover from a nearly complete set purchased years ago, the variously tactile cover of the hardback edition of Endymion Spring…

An exploration of architecture in Egyptian temples, and the stark bleakness of outer space, adventuring astronauts lost to everything but themselves.

It’s these times I value.  The unique wanderings in a labyrinthine world of words, reminding me of literary corridors I will, perhaps, walk down again…

Whether in contemplation or purposely.

Reminders of books moved on, in necessity or wrongly thought of as outgrown, treasures lost to me in haste.

Always these ghosts come at night, I like it that way, I am forever grounded in their literary shadow.  Elusive yet bound to my heart.

 

*Image found at Pixabay

Precipitate Companionship

As it has been raining a lot here recently, it brings to mind one of those thoughts that is made for just such days.  The creative flows when the rainwater does…

Precipitate Companionship

The ‘pock’ sounds on the fabric of the umbrella,
jarringly unlike the gentle susurrus of those
which thud on the ground.
Surroundings tingle all the senses,
the rising scents
the tangy taste on the air
the cleansed colours.

The walk is a glorious thing
especially shared with the closeness of a companion,
shoulders sometimes touching,
Perhaps an entwining
of hands on handle
A sense of total togetherness, intimate,
through delicate and momentary caresses.

The way that makes one feel
in no particular rush to be anywhere
time slackened
just existing
under the brolly,
a closed world,
Shared solely between two.

 

 

*Picture found for free at wallpaperbetter.com

Woken Up

I recently had a moan about all the meaningless (and prolific) ‘inspirational’ posts that clog my Facebook feed, when all I want to do is have a quick and peaceful nosy into what people are doing in their lives.  I’m sure some find such slogans helpful and positive but stop to give even a brief thought to the actual content and it quickly becomes irritating.

After posting a somewhat, ‘grumpy’ status about the situation, (and having no one really react which, perhaps, tells its own story) I came across another nettlesome post on Instagram, that was originally a Tweet.  I’m assuming some of you came across this statement over the last week or so,

You’re not well read if all you read is white authors. 

It didn’t take long to analyse the flaw in that statement.  Whilst it is probably (hopefully) a well-meaning encouragement to people to read widely, the stench of identity politics is overwhelming. Substitute the word white for fantasy, people of colour (or your group of choice), gay, women, or men, and the point could still be taken.

White is the word that will get the most traction in terms of comments though and is most likely the reason behind the wording which will guarantee the fifteen minutes of internet viral fame so craved.  On reflection it strikes me as lazy, picking an easy target. Like Trump or George W. Bush jokes back in the day, for example, it lacks finesse and plays only to the easily pleased crowd. Continue reading “Woken Up”

New Editions

To keep in theme with the blog, a book pun is always welcome start.  After going into hospital on a Tuesday, we got to see our Amelia Cyrene three days later when she finally arrived via C-section on a Friday at 4.22am and weighing 7 lb 14 oz, in old money.   It was a long ordeal but we got there in the end and have been well supported by friends family and all the workers, midwives and phalanx of other helpers from the NHS.

Before we went to the hospital we just has to time to find out which of those two Michelin star chefs had made the most accurate Kit Kat on that TV show, and then it all went a bit mad.  There was inducing, sleeping through contractions, a Tikka Masala, random bleeping alarms, and finally with baby refusing to come out, some surgery, just to make sure that our stay in hospital didn’t get too uneventful.

Having been surprised with the speed with which baby was extracted, I had the ordeal of walking around Crissy’s still being operated on body to get my hands on little Amelia.  I admired the painted walls intensely so I wouldn’t see anything to make me pass out. I had in mind a vision of the surgeon with Crissy’s intestines slung over his shoulder as he worked to pop everything back in.  In my peripheral vision I did see the surgical team hurriedly moving things like instrument tables out of my way as I keep my eyes firmly on the lovely white paint and blundered about.

Its been a hectic week.  We are still extremely dishevelled (the photo below is pretty much how we look now, minus Crissy’s sexy hospital gown) but elated to be well into day six, with our hungry, bundle of joy.  Amelia has already been enjoying the cool breezes and the sun, as well as discussing when she is allowed a boyfriend and in which order she will be accomplishing her career goals, which are: model, astronaut, ninja, spy, and pilot.

Nightscapism

Stood at the bus stop one Monday evening at 7:05pm, the traffic rushing by, and the fine spray of rain hitting my face, misting my glasses, I realised how much I had missed this weather. After the relentless sun in Asia, it was lovely to feel the cold wind blowing through my bones, and seeing a leaf lazily drop to the wet pavement, reminding me of the pending closure of another chapter of life, a handy metaphor, in many ways.

On the bus with a work colleague, small talk done,  she, lost in music, earphones blocking out the natural roar of the bus. And I gaze through the window and my own reflection, and take in belit pubs, the chairs and tables outside abandoned after the brief use of summer.  Melancholy car parks, empty save for a lonely vehicle, flash by, yet remain imprinted on the memory. I wonder what the owner is doing at that moment.

And then the pitch black as we leave the city behind.  Careening along at what feels like a dangerous pace in the rain, even the well worn bus route seems strange and mysterious.  Glimpses of trees and houses captured for a second in the lone street lights before the darkness consumes everything back into itself. We speed along yet never progress further than I expect us to be.

My mind wanders back to the time I spent working in a cinema,  on occasion I would get the job where I would be alone, but able to gaze out past the gaudy neon lights of the ‘Funstation’ that shimmer on the portals of glass, my one link to the outside world.  The falseness of human endeavour at odds with nature.

Branches slap the front window of the double decker as we pull up to a cheap looking bus shelter, drawing me out of my revelry.  As I ready myself to brave the full blown rain storm that now rages outside, I just have time to reflect on the onset of another season, and the underrated  bus travel  – which I for the most part enjoy – which helps me fully appreciate life.  Sometimes its good to close the book and just gaze outwards, and inwards.

 

*Image found on Pixabay

Demarcated Days

Demarcated Days

Change in the air is finally tangible, as I wind my way to work.

Discerning one season, interlacing into the next, a mixture of benign restraint and brooding power.

The crispness of the air has taken over from the heat that so recently sat on my skin,

an unlooked for blanket in the early morning. 

A creeping feeling of the days soon to be closing in, chasing away the hazy summer mornings.

The onset of this turning is one of dissipation and delight amalgamated,

entwined in a melancholy delirium, held fast for only a short spell.

in isolation.

Before the onset of the enchanting Autumnal elements converge.