Facebook friends are not real

Everybody I can persuade to buy Echo has done so. Some people I don't know have also bought it. I'm now trying to squeeze out a last few sales as I've almost broken even, which I think was goal number five or six twenty blogs or so ago.

To try and drum up the last few downloads I've started a Facebook page. I could have just pushed the book through my personal FB but I'm fairly sure people would get fed up of me shamelessly promoting it at them. Again.

The strategy is about like the one I use on twitter. Post a couple of paragraphs taken from an interesting part of the book. The difference, this time is that I've also set up FB accounts for the major characters and they're going to be commenting, making snide remarks and generally refusing to do what I want them to do. No change there then

It's a real pain in the bum. I have to keep switching accounts. To make it a bit easier I've given them all the same password, but FB software has cottoned on to that and decided I had to prove they were real people rather than sock puppets by asking for a different mobile number for each. Between us we have four mobiles so, if I ask to borrow yours, and then you find a strange text in your inbox, I've just added another member of the crew.

At the moment I'm working through the story set out in Echo. When I've done that I think I'm going to work on a back story for some of them. If you read Echo (and were paying attention), you'll know a little bit about Grace Hemingray, but almost nothing about Eleanor Pearce or Edmond Ash. I'd like to colour them in a little, give them a life before York.

I'd like to think the readers know a little bit about who some of the characters are and what they're like. I have notes on them in a paragraph that I cut from the finished chapter and paste into the new one. it tells me a bit about them. It also helps me remember their first names. Apart from Cavendish, who doesn't appear to have one.

Navigator                 Grace Hemingray loyal but lacks confidence to command
Weapons and tactical Edmond Ash         Cynical whinger
Comms and scans         Eleanor Pearce Geek
Pilot.                       Marcus Dryden.              Daredevil

C/S Cavendish         Pragmatist
LC (Suz)Anna Gregory          Likes sex. With pretty much anybody
P Caitlin Acre         Angry (but funny)
P Helene Cartier            

C Nat(asha)Livingston             (Left handed) medic
P Marianne Nansen
P Jude Cromwell

On a completely different note, I took the hard copy and showed my Dad. Science fiction isn't really his thing so I'm not sure if he'll read it, show it to everybody, or pretend he wrote it.



P Caro(line) Hall Easygoing. Doesn’t say much

The joys of the West Yorkshire Road Car Company

Blogs are like buses. You don't blog for ages and then several ideas come at once. Blogging is different to authoring in that, as I've discovered and many other writers will tell you, just putting words on the page will eventually kick the muse into action and then you can delete all the dross. With a blog, it's different. I try to find something to say reasonably frequently so that I can then tweet about it and, at the moment, each blog/ tweet appears to generate one sale.

I should probably post more stuff from E2. Lots has happened in the last few chapters and it was quite exciting to write. The difficulty is that I need to select a bit that will work out of context. And without giving too much of the story away, after all, I'm looking to you lot to buy the next one. The tax man will eventually be looking for me to make a profit, rather than the UK subsidising Cathy Helms and the US revenue.

An unforeseen consequence of the iPad is that the blogger site doesn't seem to handle it particularly well. Hard returns (does anybody remember typewriters?) and  speech marks just seem to be ignored, so the final product is all bunched up without the dramatic spacing I wanted. Never mind, still think the iPad is the best thing since sliced bread for writers on the move.

Next blog will look at giving your book a title. Hopefully see you then. Single to Aireworth Road, please.

How do you comfort the grammar police?

Give them a big hug and say "Their, there, they're."

I've been reading the hard copy of Echo and the typos are just flying off the page. I went through the e version, then printed it out and went through it again, although to save trees it was two pages per side, so it wasn't that big.

Everybody says you should get a professional editor to avoid these things but something like that would have been a massive outlay when i didn't expect it to get read by more than a handful of people.

A few people have expressed an interest in buying the actual book. It's slightly embarrasing when people are shelling out a couple of quid, but the paperback is £7.99 on Feedareed.com. If people want the book i'm going to have to go through it, make all the changes and upload it again. I can also re-upload to Kindle and list it for free for a week so that people who bought it can download a copy without all the mistakes (including one use of the wrong sort of their (there, they're). Not that i mind, but it's not as much fun as writing Echo2.

Having said that, Echo2 isn't much fun at the moment. I've just finished chapter 3 but there's a pressure for it to be as good as the original. Self imposed pressure, but still real. Echo was never meant to be read which allowed me to write whatever i wanted. I'd like to write E2 with the same freedom, but i don't think that's going to happen. I now understand the difficult-second-album syndrome that effects bands.

Does it matter if E2 is rubbish? Not in the grand scheme of things, no, but a remarkable number of people have said very kind things about Echo and i don't want to disappoint them with a disappointing follow up.

Anybody else have this problem?

My Precious

So far Echo has only existed virtually. On Amazon and on my laptop and on some of your Kindles / iPads  /iPhones. The other day i decided it would be really nice to actually have a copy. A real copy. A real book. (Would that make me a real author?)

I love books. Kindles are great - half of my luggage for the last holiday was books - but there's just something about an actual book.

I looked at a couple of sites and they looked a bit complex. eventually i picked Feedaread.com, although that was a bit complicated and i had to have several goes before they'd approve what i uploaded. I'm still a bit concerned that the formating template didn't work out properly and the first letters of every right hand page will be too far down the crack to read. It'll be a bit like trying to play some of the music that somebody in the band has photocopied badly and missed off the key and time signatures and the first note.

Anyway, i've sent for a discounted author's copy. It's still relatively expensive compared to the price that ASDA sell older Lee Child and Andy MacNab paperbacks for but who cares. It'll be mine! The advantage of print on demand is that, if the formatting isn't right, i can upload a new version and there's only one copy that is wrong. I knew somebody who wrote a novel and had a couple of hundred copies printed. At the top of almost every page there was the title of the book - The White Sleeve. Apart from page 1, which had, in the header, The White Sleve

So, in a few days i should have my hands on my own book. It's very exciting. Although not exactly career changing, being a writer continues to be very rewarding, even after the writing is finished.

My favourite dress

Blood had soaked through the front of my dress, turning green silk to black. The shawl covered part of the stain, but I kept to the shadows and the narrow streets, avoiding anybody who might remember seeing me. I could faintly hear the music, echoing between the stone facades of the trading quarter, but nothing to suggest the alarm had been raised.

The last time I had worn the ball gown was on the eve of the war when I danced with Gabriel York and, with his assistance, murdered Admiral Morton. Since then it had spent five years stuffed in a travel case and dragged from one posting to another, but the chance to wear it again never arose. Despite that, it looked pristine as I waited in the market square, watching a small group of musicians set out their instruments. The sun was setting over the castle hill and lanterns were being lit by the owners of the bars and restaurants that had re-opened, now that the war was almost over.

  He strode across the market square, radiating authority and purpose. His greatcoat displayed medals that weren’t there when we last met, and each one of a row of silver stars along the left sleeve signified an enemy ship destroyed. As I moved to cross his path, I hoped he would remember me. My hair was longer, and a different colour. He had shaved his head and grown a goatee beard. It made him look dangerous; it suited him.

  “Admiral York.”

  “My lady.” If he was surprised he didn’t show it. Once again he bowed and kissed my hand. “You look different, but as beautiful as I remember. I have thought of you so often.”

  This surprised me. We had been together for only one night and so many terrible things had happened since then.

  “I would have expected a warrior to think of nothing but war. You have been most successful.”

  He didn’t reply, but led me to a table outside one of the bars. We sat and he gestured an order to the waiter.

  “Success? Yes, we have almost won. But the cost has been so high. I have lost many ships and thousands of men. And the war has taken a toll here too. Before the war, we prized art, music, poetry. We were civilised. Now, all that matters is protecting the state. And we have done many terrible things to achieve it. I have done terrible things. Everything is different now. Everybody is different, and something important has been lost.”

  He fell silent as the waiter brought glasses and a dusty bottle. He showed the label to York, who nodded his approval. As the waiter poured the first glass, a clarinet began to play, an argument against York’s words drifting across the square.

  “In times like these, everything needs someone to keep fighting for. I don’t know why, but all these years I thought of you. Wondered where you were. If you were still alive.”

  “Me? But you have family. Your brother?”

  “We were never close when we were young and, once we grew up, our paths were decided for us, just like the children of all the old aristocratic families. The first son goes into public service, the second into the military. I hear it said that he will be the next Prime Minister. I’m pleased for him, but we’re almost strangers.” He took a sip of the wine and looked me in the eye. “Five years and every day it’s you I’ve thought about.”

  I understood. I didn’t want to, but I felt the same. We had only been together a few hours but, in that time, we had shared an experience that bonded us intimately and inextricably.

  The band was playing melancholy tunes and few couples were dancing. York was right; before the war the square would have been packed, the crowd swirling to fast and exciting melodies. York put his glass on the table and stood. He laid his greatcoat over the chair and held out his hand towards me.

  “My lady, will you dance with me?”

  “Admiral, I’d be honoured.”

  We held each other like shipwrecked survivors cling to wreckage, like we were the only two people left. I lay my head on his shoulder and his jacket absorb my tears. I hardly heard the music; just let myself follow where he led. As one piece finish, he muttered “Enough of this.” and called an instruction to the musicians. They conferred briefly and then struck an opening note. Naval officers, all drawn from the elite families, were schooled in etiquette and the full range of social skills. His tango was impeccable; aggressive and arrogant, but not aloof. Every time we faced each other, his eyes locked on mine. I saw no fear, no regrets, and even the question I feared most wasn’t asked. But he already knew why I was here, and I could see he understood, even if I did not.

  The music came to a close and I took his hand and led him into a narrow alleyway, pushing his back against the wall. As I pressed my lips to his it would have been so easy to succumb to the passion I felt rising. To abandon everything I was and beg him to take me with him. Then there was a knife in my hand and I thrust it upwards with all my strength.

Training had taken over and I ran, putting as much distance between myself and the market square as possible. Twice I stopped and almost went back, but there was nothing I could do for him now and no help that I could bring to save him. York was dead; my knife had pierced his heart and his blood marked me for the crime.

  I would have given everything to spend the night with York, but it was not to be. I did not choose my profession; indeed, I was never given a choice although I had never been ashamed to embrace it. I had done many terrible things to protect the state, but surely none worse than this. Morton had to die to make way for a far superior man and there was honour in that; but I killed York and never knew why it was necessary.

  I had to press on, not through fear of imprisonment, but because I served the state and it would have need of me again before the war was over. By daybreak I would be back in the capital and deep within the corridors and chambers of the Department of War. I would inform Minister York of the death of his brother, and he would give me my next set of orders.

The wisdom of Gary Player

I've been struggling a bit with E2. I spent a lot of time thinking about it, but getting something worthwhile down wasn't going too well. Because of the arm (and a house full of in-laws), i was only writing in short spells and it wasn't very satisfying. Partly there's the pressure to make sure that Clarke satisfies my legion of fans (that would be you, Paul) and partly i hadn't figured out the underlying theme - is Clarke still about the relationship between Echo and York and, if so, where can i take it? Is it about the clash between a secular culture and one with a strong belief system. Is it about discovering your past.

And then i discovered the wise words of Gary Player (or at least the wise words of a golfer and the majority of the net thinks it was Gary Player).

He said - The more i practice, the luckier i get.

Translating this to writing - the more i write, the easier it is to write.

I was in fracture clinic yesterday and had a couple of hours to kill and a laptop. By the end of it i had 1500 new words for chapter 3. But, better than that, i'd figured out how i was going to end the current scenario and move on, the cause of the relationship twist between Echo and York, where i'm going to insert the prequel stuff that i posted on here a few weeks ago. I now have so much stuff in my head that i'm struggling to get it down before i forget them. It doesn't help that some of you kind people keep adding more exciting ideas. So many i'm drowning in them. It's great.

We have lift off.

Writer's Block

I've been working on book two for a while but it's been a bit of a struggle. I know the broad outline of the story and i'd managed to complete chapter one but then it all ground to a halt. Partly that wasn't a problem as i was editing book one and getting it on to Kindle, but there was a real pressure there.

i read this in The Musings of DS Taylor today               http://www.dstaylor.me/?p=111


If you don’t spend your days either writing, or thinking about writing, don’t tell me you want to be an author.

 He also said a lot of other useful stuff in this post. If you're a writer yourself, have a read.

For the last few weeks i've spent a lot of time thinking about publishing and marketting and selling book one, but hardly at all about the important stuff. Writing. Last night i spent a long time thinking about how to get the team out of the conundrum i'd put them in. By morning i had an outline for chapters 2, 3 and probably 4.


I suspect that i didn't actually have writers block, i just needed a rest. Now I'm back in the grove. Hurrah!

After the fuss dies down

It's been two weeks since i published. After a couple of days of good sales it's settled down to one every couple of days. I've just hit twenty copies sold, which i'm really pleased about.There are a few more expected from facebook contacts who are reading other stuff but the initial burst is over.

When i started down the publishing route, i set some goals -
1) Sell one copy - tick
2) Sell a copy to somebody who's not a friend - tick. The comms department asked me to write a guest blog on the PCT site and people whose name i've seen in emails got in touch and said they'd bought a copy
3) Sell a copy to somebody i don't know - tick
4) Sell a dozen copies - tick
5) Break even - there's still some way to go on that one. I need to sell around 60 copies in the UK to do that. (I've sold a copy on Amazon.com but, unless huge numbers of US readers start buying, i'm unlikely to see that money as Amazon will only pay up once they owe me $100)
6) Get a good, independent, review. I was really pleased to see Jim Graham get a fab review on Republicbot.com. Somebody wrote that writers only feel jealousy when other writers do well, but i really don't think that's true. There's room for all of us. Ross and a couple of other people retweeted about Jim's review so i'm not alone in thinking that. So, as soon as one of my readers puts a good review on Amazon, i'll try and use that as a tool to get a review site to have a look at Echo.

So future sales will be a long haul and i'll need to work at if i'm going to cover my costs and be able to pay Cathy for the cover to book 2

Happily it's not about sales. I wanted to be both a writer and an author. I've ticked the author box now, which makes me happy, but the real pleasure is in being a writer. Book 2, which has the working title Clarke (as in Arthur C Clarke) hasn't progressed too far as i wasn't sure what themes i wanted to explore. But i've had the space to give that some thought and i've got some ideas about that now.

7) Get an actual copy printed - loads of people are raving about Kindle and one person bought a kindle just so they could read it (i'm really flattered - happily they think it's a great thing for their holiday reading as i didn't want Echo to cost them £91). ebooks are great, but i think there's still something about having a book in your hands. Particularly if it's mine.

An author, i am

i know it's been quiet recently. There are two reasons. firstly i was away last week. I have a real job, this stuff is just for fun, although it has brought in a tenner in the last few hours.

Secondly, i've been finishing the formatting and final read through ready for publishing.

And today, i published :-)

Sometimes, at work, you write a difficult / slightly controversial email and your finger hovers over the send button. Eventually you just have to say 'bugger it' and press the button. Publishing the book on Kindle has been a bit like that. There's been a bit of a psychological block.

What if i can't figure out how to upload it? - actually that was dead easy
What if i can't find it on Amazon? i couldn't, but Bill found it and kindly sent me a link - cheers mate
What if nobody buys it? as i said, so far i've made a tenner. I'm hoping if the people who said they would buy it do so, i'll just about break even but that doesn't matter. I am an author

Oh, and then there's the big one. What if it's rubbish?
So far six people have read it and the feedback has been good. There were issues around trying to stuff too much into the first couple of chapters, but i'm not the only one guilt of that. I'm reading something that wants to move apace, but sometimes pace just leads to overload. I'm hoping the readers will find out a bit more about my characters in each chapter. There might be action and adventure and blood and spaceships but it's really a story about two people (and their friends).

I'm still buzzing

So, if you've bought it, thank you. I really appreciate it. I'm blessed with good friends, most of whom will tell me if it's rubbish and demand their £1.95 back (come and get it!).

If you haven't, just click here 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Echo-ebook/dp/B007HA6CQW/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1331051979&sr=1-3

Snow White's Revenge

Snow White had no need of the knife, hidden in the folds of her dress. As soon as the Huntsman had stepped out of the tree line an arrow had whispered across the clearing, piercing his neck and severing the carotid artery.

“You let him get too close!” shouted Grumpy, from the doorway

“We had to be sure” answered Happy, slinging his bow across his shoulder. “He could have been hunting.”

“Unlikely! Are you sure he’s alone?”

“Sneezy and Doc are guarding the paths. There’s nobody else out there.”

“You know what this means” said Grumpy to Snow White, who was turning the body over with her foot. “The Queen has found you.”

“Perhaps he came across us by chance.”

Dopey was searching the body. He held up his findings. “I’m sorry, Snow White. He was carrying poison apples. This man worked for the Magic Mirror, and when he doesn’t report in, more will come. It’s time.”

“Well, I for one am glad.” Said Happy. “We’ve been hiding out here long enough.”

The Castle was a wonderful place for a girl to grow up. Staff scattered as the fourteen year old heir apparent, ran through the chambers. Always there was one of her personal guards, fearsome warriors from under the mountains of the North, close by. Every chamber, except those in the Queen’s Tower. No-one entered the Queen’s Tower except the King. The Queen herself had not ventured out for several months. Snow White was not unhappy with this, as her relationship with her stepmother, difficult at the best of times, had become increasingly volatile, and her father often seemed troubled and distracted.

“Dozey, have you ever been in the Queen’s Tower?” asked Snow White.

“No, my Princess.”

“Do you think we could get in, could get to the top?”

“Nobody goes in the Queen’s Tower, snapped Grumpy. “The Queen has forbidden it.”

Disappointed, Snow White didn’t notice Happy approach but, suddenly, he was by her side, speaking quietly.

“I can get you in. Midnight.” Casually, he drifted away.

Snow White was ready, and followed Happy through long forgotten passageways filled with debris and thick with cobwebs. They rested at the top of a long staircase that spiralled between the inner and outer walls of the massive tower. When Snow White pressed her ear against the timbers of the door, she could hear raised voices. Producing a large key,

Happy unlocked the door without a sound and led the way through a series of narrow passageways, built into the tower walls. Small holes looked onto the Queen’s rooms. Most were empty but, looking into a dimly lit chamber on the far side of the tower, Snow White’s life was changed. The King lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading slowly across the stones. The Queen was turned towards a large mirror on the wall, the simple wooden frame out of character with the ornate furnishings. Snow White could see no reflection in the mirror, only a shadow in the shape of a man. When she looked at the mirror, a sense of bitterness and hate almost overwhelmed her.

“It is done. Now, will I rule?”

“Not yet, my Queen.” The voice came from nowhere. “Send for the Princess. She stands between you and the crown.”

Snow White didn’t wait to hear more. Numb with fear and grief she fled the Tower. Happy had served many regimes and knew what had to be done. Before the Queen’s word had gone out, the Princess and her bodyguards were gone.

In the four years since the flight from the castle, the land had gone from a rich, fertile, welcoming place to one filled with suspicion and treachery. A wise monarchy had been replaced by despotism, the Queen falling further under the influence of the malevolent spirit that was trapped in the mirror. The seven warriors had taught Snow White many skills. She was proficient with the bow and could fight with every weapon they brought to her. She had also mastered the art of moving through a crowd unnoticed, of passing, almost invisibly through shadows. Of all the skills they had passed on, this would be the most important if they were to get back into the castle.

In the morning, before setting out for the castle, they burnt the cottage, resolute that there would be no turning back. The Mirror would be smashed and the Queen would die.

Once upon a time

Today somebody asked how writers write. That's an easy answer and almost every writer will tell you a similar answer. One word at a time. Just write.

 He made some comment that, if he wrote a story, it would probably start Once upon a time as if that would be a bad thing. True enough; if i started my novel with Once Upon A Time, you'd probably think you were reading something by a five year old and wouldn't get past the first paragraph. So, what if i started with A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away? It's basically the same sentence and, yes, it's from a sort of fairy tale. But it's also the opening line of something very special. Well, i think so.

If it works for you, start with once upon a time. That doesn't have to stay in the final version. I wrote a piece about a fireman attending an accident on the motorway. I'd probably written 500 words and it just wasn't working. it wasn't a story, it wasn't exciting and i didn't want to know what happened next. i kept going for a while then stopped, highlighted the first paragraph and pressed delete.

No better. The next paragraph went the same way. Once i'd deleted the third, i realised i have the start of the story, but hadn't been able to see it because it was hidden amongst all the rubbish. The start sometimes isn't at the start.

Joseph Grand, one of the characters in The Plague by Albert Camus is a writer. He is trying to write the perfect opening sentence and rewrites and revises it constantly , never actually getting on to the next sentence and never writing the book. Many people who want to write end up in a similar trap. There is a cure, although it's a bit extreme. National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) sets the challenge of writing a fifty thousand word story in a month. Starting with a blank sheet on the 1st of November each year thousands of people try to get 1500 words a day down. It's not easy, particularly if you want to create a masterpiece from the start. However, NaNoWriMo's strap line is that it's all about quantity, not quality. Put words on the page and you can come back and polish, revise, edit, change, delete, add later on. Just Write.

Part of the charm (or not) of blogs is that they aren't thought through properly before typing begins - this one certainly isn't. It's a stream of consciousness, clunky and rambling. Unfortunately, when i run out of things to say, i just press the Publish button. So, what you get is the raw version of what i wanted to say. However, as i'm spending more time blogging and twittering and facebooking in the hope of raising awareness of my book (published on Kindle in February) than writing the sequel, i haven't got time to revise and polish etc etc. Sometimes i'm blogging at midnight, and it shows.

Publish and be damned (he said, out of context).

Were you expecting somebody taller?

Strangely i hadn't a clear picture of what my characters looked like. I've described a couple of features, but that's it. So, when the draft covers started coming through it was very exciting to meet them. 

Then i started to interfere and there was a slight hiccup as photoshop (other manipulation products are available) did something slightly wierd to her face.

So, it's down to a choice from two. I've a vote going on via Facebook, but would like to know what the rest of the world thinks. However, they're busy, so i'll settle for you. Please comment on whether you prefer the first or second picture.

Everybody who votes for the winner will be put into a draw for a prize.

Number one? Slightly prettier than i intended and having a bad hair day

Or number two? More exotic and slightly alien

Vote now. Thanks

From Thornaby on Tees to Whitby

Where to start? So you've got all these ideas whizzing about in your head and perhaps you've had a few abortive attempts to write the perfect novel. How do you actually turn your ideas into the real thing.

For me it was an Open University online creative writing course. Over three months a group of twenty people worked through a set of creative challenges, each one a little bit more complex than the last. We started with 100 word scenes and worked out way up to a 1500 word short story.

I had a great time and i learned loads. One of the biggest things was understanding what i liked about the books i read. i like novels with a small number of well drawn characters (i can't cope with too many major characters; i just get confused). I love the early Jack Reacher novels by Lee Child but, as the series progressed, i was less enamoured and i realised that, with each new book, i wasn't really learning much about the character. i kept going, and was rewarded for that when i read 61 hours, which told me a little bit about Reacher's back story and introduced a new, enigmatic, character - Reacher's replacement -  who may play a large part in future stories.

As part of the course, i wrote a piece that created a character. I didn't know much about her - not even her name, but thought it would be interesting to follow the character through the rest of the course and see what i could do with her. In the next few exercises another character developed. He had a name - Gabriel York - and a job; a Captain in the Imperial Navy

By the end of the course i'd developed a slight obsession with these two and really wanted to know what was going to happen to them. Suddenly i was a writer and 100,000 words later i had an answer to my question.

The next entry will be the first story i wrote about my main character.

If nobody reads a book, did it actually get written?

It's often said that we all have a novel inside us. It's also said that, for many of us, it would be better if the novel stayed there. Well, for better or for worse, my novel escaped from captivity and is now roaming the hard drive of my laptop and is on the verge of being released into the wild. Or Amazon Kindle.

Almost everybody has a story to tell. For some of us it's a quick anecdote, suitably embellished. For others there is a complex tale of heroes and villains that takes 100,000 words to tell. I've wanted to write a novel for a long time. I've fallen into the trap of writing and re-writing the first chapter endlessly, and never progressing to chapter two. I did once get a couple chapters in to a police procedural / thriller, but some sort of IT disaster wiped it forever. Probably not a bad thing.

I'm writing the perfect book.

I've read some great books. In the really good ones i've connected with one of the characters and followed them through their adventures. But for the majority, there's been something missing. Not something i could really put my finger on. Perhaps the hero wasn't quite brave enough, or vulnerable enough. Perhaps there wasn't enough description for me to see the landscape they were moving through, or so much description that they were lost in it. Or they won too easily, or they were saved by a deus ex machina device.

What i'm trying to say is that so many books are, just slightly, disappointing. So i decided that the only way to get round the problem was to write my own. The Goldilocks of books - just right.

Having finished my first book, i've realised that, actually, it's not just right. Rather than writing just for me, as i intended, i've writen knowing that, eventually, somebody else would read it. The book i wrote is not the book i started out to write. I suspect most writers find that.

Having said that, i still like the book and i'm really happy with it. Perhaps one day i'll go back and write a director's cut that never sees the light of day. Perhaps not. Writers write so that readers can read.

Or something

My name is Pete and I write science fiction

When people ask about my book i tell most of them that it's a thriller. This is true, but i'm actually avoiding telling them that it's a thriller with a science fiction setting. For reasons that escape me, I'm a bit embarrassed by that. Considering that the shelves are full of books about vampires, mages and people carrying large swords, clearly there are loads of authors happy to put there names on the covers of books that the world at large might consider sad and nerdy. However, if they're being printed then plenty of people are reading it.

So, I don't mind admitting that i quite enjoyed one of the Twilight books, i think Joe Abercrombie is a superb storyteller, Robert Heinlein and Arthur C Clarke were great authors and visionaries. All have sold millions of books to millions of people.  SF is mainstream and yet i'm embarrassed about what i write.

(Whispers) My name is Pete and i write science fiction

Writer v Author

I read, today, that there is a difference between writers and authors. Writers are writing and authors have written. Or writers are writing and authors have been published.

I'm a writer. I have written a novel and six people have read it. Now i want to be an author. This Blog starts off as a commentary on the process to get from A to B.

There may be other stuff too.