I’ve not posted for some time, partly because of the dastardly construct that is RL, and partly because my latest novel, The Hole In The Sky (let’s call it HITS for short, yes?), had been plaguing me with a sore plot point that didn’t quite make sense, and had caused progress to grind to a halt. During such times it has become my go-to response to start caterwauling that, “I’ll never write again!”

It’s happened before. Roughly halfway through drafting Man O’War I encountered a monumental, insoluble plot point. The strands were too complex, too and I stopped writing for about six weeks. When I finally managed to begin writing again, the resolution to this Meereenese Knot fell into my hands within an hour.

And the same thing happened during HITS. I hadn’t typed a word on it for five weeks before this last weekend, but perhaps the recent sunshine managed to dislodge something in my brain, for the solution fell into my lap a mere thirty minutes after opening the laptop. And it was so elegantly simple (by changing that to that), and took care of so many disparate plot and character strands, that I was especially pleased.

The thing is, the common advice is to “just plough on”, get some words down on paper / screen and deal with the problems later. I’m not so sure that this is actually very valuable advice any more. While the habit of writing is very important to maintain, when trying to achieve an end product, writing for the sake of writing can sometimes be counterproductive. I’ve no doubt that if I’d simply “ploughed on” with the plotlines I had before, then I’d have doubled my workload on subsequent drafts.

It’s not easy to step away from the work, and into the arms of Writerly Existential Crisis, but if you’re struggling, then taking an extended break could be invaluable.

Recently I had a debate with another writer on the topic of cultural appropriation that was too mild to be labelled as ‘heated’, yet interesting enough to warrant further investigation. Coincidentally, around the same time earlier this month Lionel Shriver appear on Mark Steyn’s ill-fated The Mark Steyn Show, primarily to discuss her now infamous “Sombrero Talk” at the 2016 Brisbane Writers Festival.

            I don’t usually wade into such politicised debates, preferring to stay within the relatively calm waters of writing and publishing technique, but these recent interactions about what is and what isn’t permitted as creative acts by writers and artists brought from me rather strong feelings on this point.

            My debut novel Man O’War is primarily set in two places in the 22nd century: London, and Port Harcourt, Nigeria. To me, it seems axiomatic that any story set in modern / future London features a diverse, multi-ethnic cast of characters. It’s my duty as a writer to populate and therefore represent the setting of my work as accurately (or, more importantly in genre writing, as plausibly) as possible. It simply wouldn’t be plausible for a sprawling story set across modern / future London to be ethnically homogenous. So, plausibility covered, I then comes to the point of the right I have to write characters of differing backgrounds, ethnicities and races.

            To me, even the thought of such self-censorship is a troubling concept. It’s not in my interest to think, “what would a Sikh do here?” or, “what would a Japanese woman do here?” True, our ethnicity shapes our worldview to some immeasurable degree, but less so when actually we’re all from the same city. So I mostly discard such thought processes. For me, writing is more about identifying commonalities (which I suppose is why it’s called the human condition). It’s the reason why identity politics is doomed to fail, as it’s a way of Othering the person next to you, rather than attempting to see the common ground you share (there are plenty of other good reasons why it’s just not feasible as a system of thought and even less as a system of action, but they are far too numerous to go into here. Another day, perhaps). Good writing has a way of making you feel a connection with a fictional character who, on the surface, has nothing in common with you. In conversation I always at this point wheel out the apocryphal Goethe quote: “it is the job of the poet to capture the specific, but reflect the universal.” If you, as a writer, can make a commuter on the train from Swindon to London feel something in common with a fisherman from Burma, then that’s a job well done.

            This is not to say we’re all the same. We’re all different, but as individuals rather than at group level. So, in Man O’War, there is a cast of people of different races, colours etc, but they all have their own thought processes, internal conflicts and motivations to deal with. On the surface I – or possibly you – can’t have much in common with them (such as the Sri Lankan gangster D’Souza; or the struggling jellyfisherman Dhiraj; or Nita, the Head of R&D in a cutting edge corporation; or Sir Ingham, the aging diplomat within the Department for Business), but if I’ve done my job properly (yes, I know, a big if), then there are more commonalities between these people – and their readers – than meets the eye. And that means enabling people to connect with a broad spectrum of other human beings. Which is as it should be.

After posting my previous blog on getting out of the house, one or two people mentioned to me that it’s not always that easy and that not everyone is as outgoing as, well, me, I suppose. It’s very easy to espouse a certain behaviour when it comes relatively easily to oneself.

This difficulty of presenting oneself to other people is compounded for those who regard themselves s introverts. Here’s the thing, though. I regard myself as an introvert. By and large, in a professional context, I keep myself to myself, and don’t reveal the “full” me or the “real” me to a person until I’ve gotten to know them and judge (not in the moralistic sense) their character as being compatible to my own. I like to feel comfortable around others before I show myself. I keep a lot back when I meet people. I don’t tend to gush.

Which is why I like the company of other writers. It’s my observation that a great many writers (though not all) are, in fact, introverts. We observe, and think, rather than instinctively open our mouths to see what comes out. Perhaps that’s because the way our brains are wired means we’re more likely to have an understanding of causality and consequence. That can also mean we’re sometimes reticent to actually make that first move, which is essentially what the previous post was about. Being proactive, opening your mouth. I’ve learned to do that, to the extent that if I meet somebody who I think I can deal with, one of my first instincts is to ask them for a beer. That sounds really forward, but I only do it once I’ve made up my mind it’d probably be worthwhile, so after a number of online interactions, and probably in a group so it’s a safer space.

When together, all this reticence that can mean that we take a while to “get going” and for the conversation to become animated, but it’s frequently worthwhile.

The most valuable friendships I’ve made over the past two or three years have been made with other writers, both personally and professionally; without these new friendships (they’re much more than merely “connections”) I wouldn’t have had all the publishing credits I now do, I wouldn’t be signed to a publishing house, and I wouldn’t have the upcoming opportunities I do. So it was definitely worth leaving the bloody house. I highly recommend it.

Over the last few weeks things have going very nicely over at Jones Towers, with a few little opportunities and meetings here and there happening that give me quite confidence that I’m slowly but surely moving in the right direction in my writing career. Baby steps, perhaps, but once aggregated they feel more significant. And the next step in the sequence is only made possible by the previous one. Even without a book out on the shelves yet, that feels like progress to me.

These are not earth-shattering meetings where six-figure sum deals are being thrashed out (yet…!). They’re a meeting with a publicist here, a writing group meet up there, a coffee with a fellow writer, a publisher over there, an email exchange with a PR agent, but together they are greater than the sum of their parts as the network enables me to join significant dots together.

But all of this is only possible because I put myself in the position where I can possibly meet these people, whether it’s online or, increasingly, face-to-face. It frustrates me when otherwise talented people don’t create the opportunities they need to get themselves ahead. Somebody I know is an enormously talented musician. I’m talking virtuoso-level stuff, with songwriting chops to boot. Hugely impressive, and with some amazing recordings to show for it. But that’s all. Without engaging with the wider world, all that remains is a slew of incredible recordings and songs that have an audience of about 5 people. Despite the ambition to circulate this stuff, it languishes on a hard drive somewhere, reaching nobody.

Ambition is a powerful thing; it can lead us to create great works of art, and nourish our creativity, whether it’s an ambition to be commercially or artistically successful (or that Holy Grail, both. Very few Special Ones make it to that place). But ambition cannot be satisfied by the creative process alone. For ambition to be realised other people need to be involved, be engaged, be pressed and persuaded. Will Self said of writing that, “The writing life is essentially one of solitary confinement – if you can’t deal with this you needn’t apply.” But that’s only a small section of the truth. To leverage your opportunities you need to start talking to people.

I understand it can be daunting. Hell, it might not even seem fair, though that’s a bit of a paradoxical train of thought (but who said humans were logical creatures?). But ambition cannot be realized without engaging with other people. Sure, the internet helps, but it lacks the richness of conversation that only comes with meeting folks face-to-face. So get out of the house, get to a writing group, even if you’re not confident (especially if you’re not confident). Get to a local event, get to a local reading and/or signing. Get to an industry event. Learn. Hand out business cards. Even if you feel like a fool. Embrace the foolishness. After all, we want to make a living out of aliens and robots and swords and magicians – and there are people out there who will pay for it – which is pretty silly, really, isn’t it? So don’t sweat it. Get out of the house.

I’m currently re-reading Bryan Wigmore’s wonderful debut The Goddess Project (my review of it is here), and a passage in Chapter 11 struck me with its lyrical, majestic prose. It’s a passage related by the main character Orc in the second person singular. Here’s a taste.

“When your famished body had been eaten and shed as tears by the greatest monster, all became stars. You saw the wheel of the stars, and they formed the pattern you’d been trying to draw since you were born: the serpents’ dance of the great wheel of stars and the great wheel of earth that was one and the same. The serpents’ dance of the great wheel of life and the great wheel of death that was one and the same. The serpents’ dance that was the great wheel of You and the great wheel of All that was one and the same.”

And so it goes. The whole passage adds up to a powerful song of self by the lost Orc as he tries to identify the blurry fragments of memory, which stubbornly refuse to be brought into focus in his chopped-up mind. But here’s the thing. I read my review copy of TGP on my e-reader almost a couple of years ago, and didn’t recall this passage one little bit. At best I skimmed over it the first time around. This time around, I’m reading the paperback version.*

Why was this, and I why have I paid so much attention to it (the attention it deserves) this time around?

It made me wonder whether the way we digest words is influenced by the way they’re presented to us. Now I have the book in paperback, I find myself drawn into many more of the details of the world, being hooked on the particular qualities of the prose, and understanding a lot more of what is going on. The e-copy of TGP still presented me with a great book, but I was more focused upon the actual plot rather than the layered depth of the book. An electronic book isn’t the same product as a tangible book, a paper or hardback, and the differences go beyond the obvious digital versus analogue contrast.

There is a throwaway quality to ebooks, a digital dispensability that is anchored around three particular characteristics:

• It’s not tactile. You can’t flick through it, touch the cover and feel its matte or glossy finish
• Details and intricacies of design are lost, or approximated. Maps, illustrations and other decorative elements cannot be seen or accessed easily
• Ebooks are cheap, both literally and figuratively. The low cost of production and storage (the price for digital storage is pennies for kilobytes, if that) steers the very low cost of ebooks, which then becomes the business model for the vast majority of self-published authors.

It’s that cheapness has a psychological impact upon the reader, that makes one consider the product somehow less important than a “real” book. That might not be right, but I’ve certainly noticed how much more attention and appreciation I’m giving TGP this time around, when I’m holding it in my hands. I’ve also noticed how I’m pretty much over my “e-phase” of reading. If I buy a book now, I buy a paperback or, occasionally, a hardback. I haven’t bought an e-book for over a year now (unless there was no alternative paper edition). That might be because, as somebody with a hardback out later this year, I now have a stake in the industry and want to support that.

But it goes deeper than that. I met my friend Nick Lloyd, author of the excellent SF Emergence and the forthcoming Disconnected, at LBF, and he lamented the fact that, as an SP author, he has to sell the fruits of his labours for less than a quid. Is that all the effort and sweat and headaches are worth? Less than a cup of tea at a café? Funnily enough, the royalties an author earns doesn’t vary that much, whether an £18 hardback is sold, or a £3 e-book, but the experience is completely different. A cheap product is a devalued product, and both creators and consumers of the written word (especially when it’s as fabulous as Wigmore’s) deserve the best experience they can get. The cheapness of digital books undermines that, and makes the words therein seem less valuable, less worthwhile, than a beautiful book that costs £8 for the paperback, or £20 for the hardback. I’ll certainly be holding out for the hard copy of Disconnected, so that I can get the proper, immersive experience.

And I’d urge others to do so too, whichever books they’re next intending to buy. Yes, it’s more expensive, but the experience is so much better.

*Incidentally, I think TGP is the only book I’ve read in both formats, which made me think of this point of difference. Am I noticing new passages, and discovering new appreciations for the text because I’ve read it before?

Yesterday I attended the London Book Fair for the second time (2016 being the first for me), and once again it was an illuminating and valuable experience. What’s more, it was a very different experience to the one I had last year. In April 2016 I hadn’t yet finished Man O’War, and hadn’t yet signed a deal for that book with Snowbooks. My one publishing credit at the time (a story in The Haunting Of Lake Manor Hotel) had been published that very week. That meant I was very much a budding author, rather than an author outright, and I was travelling to the Fair speculatively. It was an interesting, if slightly overwhelming, experience, and I wrote about it on the SFF Chronicles website here.

This year, as a contracted – if not yet established – author, I was travelling slightly less speculatively, and with a few specific aims in mind. High on my list of objectives was to network with people who would be able to help me with respect to cross-promotion, PR and marketing for my book(s). It made me think about the nature of the opportunities open to authors, and what we can do to try and leverage them. Hopefully some of the thoughts below are of some use. Let me know what you think of them. For my part, I’ll definitely be attending the LBF in 2018, as each time I’ve gotten something valuable from it so far. It’s taught me that opportunity is…

…Speaking Out

I attended the Genre Spotlight session at the Author HQ, the section of the Fair exclusively tailored for writers. Tellingly, it was sponsored by Kindle Direct Publishing, which I inferred to mean that most authors there were looking to self-publish. A lot of the sessions did cover aspects of SPing, which I covered in last year’s debrief, so won’t go into here.

In any case, on the SFF panel were: publisher Jo Fletcher, owner of Jo Fletcher books; agent Ian Drury of Sheil Land; and Ed McDonald, a debut epic fantasy novelist and one of Ian’s clients. When it came to questions, I’m not usually the person who asks questions of the panel. A little voice tells me not to ask a stupid question and make a fool of myself. I quickly told that voice to pipe down. Another little voice told me that if I did ask a question I should shut up about being contracted to Snowbooks as it would look like showing off in front of my fellow audience members. I quickly told that little voice in my head to be quiet, too, and said it anyway. It made the response of the panel quite different. They first congratulated me, then sat up to take notice, and invited me to talk with them afterwards. Don’t hide lights under bushels.

…Serendipity

I made some useful contacts with companies and individuals that were such a good fit for where I was that it seemed too good to be true. I met a delightful lady from Jacaranda, who specialise in publishing work promoting ethnically diverse writers and/or settings. When I told her that half of Man O’War was set in Port Harcourt, she was very excited to learn more, and we’re hopefully going to set up some cross-promotional activity when the release rolls around in the autumn. The more I thought about it, it wasn’t too good to be true; it was serendipity. You only enable good things to happen if you set up the right conditions for them to happen. Just by being at the Book Fair I hugely increased the chances of meeting good people like Jazzmine from Jacaranda, and from the other PR firms and publishers I stopped by to talk with. Get yourself to events. Talk to people. Tell them what you’re writing. There will be people – be they commercial or niche – willing to listen.

…Being Prepared

For two years now I’ve taken business cards, and copies of whatever books I’ve had in print along with me. I’ve learned to dish out the business cards liberally and unashamedly. It takes some getting used to, because there’s always that voice saying “what if they think I’m an idiot/a charlatan/chuck it straight in the bin?” The answer is, so what? People go to these events to make contacts. All it takes is one person to take an interest for you to get your foot in the door (see below). If everyone else chucks the card in the bin, it’s of no consequence.

I’ve also taken a rough plan of who and what sort of people I’ve wanted to talk to. The Book Fair is a huge, overwhelming event, with thousands of attendees and hundreds upon hundreds of exhibitors across seven massive halls and two storeys, with myriad corridors and nooks and crannies, and a few tucked away areas. Without an idea of where to go you can quickly get swamped and just end up walking around in circles. Last year it took me about three hours to find the Author HQ. This year, I efficiently visited the exact places I wanted to visit, as I knew where they’d be (I worked at Farnborough Airshow for 8 years. These trade fairs always have the same visitors year on year, and the big exhibitors usually take the same stand locations each show), allowing me the time to have a browse afterwards.

…Having A Foot In The Door

It’s amazing the difference in people’s attitude towards you once somebody within the industry has given your work some sort of seal of approval. In my case, being able to mention Snowbooks gave me a sort of seal of quality that – in the eyes of the publishers, PR people and agents I spoke to – made me more worth talking to. Jo Fletcher’s reasoning was that “somebody with influence has already done the reading for [her]” so it makes her easier to make a decision on somebody. Does it make me any better than all the uncontracted / unagented authors out there? No. I was in that same position last year. But it does reveal how the industry works. Once somebody says, “yes, you’re good,” then everybody else will sit up and take notice. Getting that first “in” is the key (although many would claim that’s when the real work begins). I won’t go into how you do that here, but I still believe in the power of the network. If you talk to other people that move in the same circles as you, you’ll eventually come across somebody who can offer you an opportunity. The key thing is being able to spot the opportunity when it comes, and then being able to reach out and take it.

There is a current controversy surrounding whether or not Waterstones are being underhand or manipulative in opening new book stores in Southwold, Rye and Harpenden but withholding the Waterstones company name from the facade. The argument goes that apparently this impersonation of an independent bookshop is damaging the high street by killing off the real indie bookshops, like Goliath squeezing into a tiny David costume and trying to fool everyone on the battlefield at Elah that he’s the Chosen One.

But it’s not an open and shut case.

From the perspective of a reader and a writer, I simply do not understand this, and I want books, knowledge and culture to be readily available to as many people as possible. I suspect much of the outrage is faux. Perhaps if Waterstones were cannibalising the audience and market share of an already-existing indie bookshop in the highstreet I could understand it, but Waterstones has not done this. They’ve brought books (or brought books back) in some cases, to UK highstreets. Not a bookies, which seem to litter every high street the length and breadth of the land, but books. How can this be in any way criticised?

In fact, if you’re listening, Waterstones, is there any chance you would be able to open a store in Wickford, Essex? Such a move would be like manna from heaven for a reader in this town. I will be there, first in line, to welcome you.

I can’t think of a single way in which this is damaging. It exposes the good folks of the aforementioned towns to books. That’s a good thing. It adds further evidence that, contrary to previous received wisdom, that the paper book isn’t quite as dead at the feet of its digital offspring as everyone had thought. That’s another good thing. And it adds a cultural focal point for a local community. Why are any of these things bad?

It’s not fashionable to champion large companies, but really, compared with Amazon, its Waterstones who are the David, not the Goliath, and I for one think they ought to be applauded.

One of my Journeys co-authors, Juliet E. McKenna, who wrote the story The Road To Hadrumal, has kindly hosted a guest post by yours truly over at her place, where I talk about some of the real-life back story to the creation of my own story, A Warm Heart.

The collection is still available for a steal – just 99p at Amazon for another 4 days, after which it’ll rise to a still-very-respectable 2.99, still an outstanding price for such a great collection.

Woodbridge Press’s first fantasy anthology, Journeys, is out today and, like a Panini sticker book, is the ridiculously low price of 99p for the first week before it reverts to its RRP of… whatever Woodbridge deigns it to be.

My story, A Warm Heart, about a trainee assassin on his first proper assignment who is unwillingly joined by an unexpected companion, takes pride of place as story #8 of the collection of fourteen.

It’s a marvellous collection, but don’t take my word for it. The folks over at Black Gate, who know their wizards from their warlocks when it comes to fantasy, have said that fans of quest fantasy should “rejoice” at the collection; indeed, their reviewer David Coe noted my story for its “startling conclusions”, and that’s good enough for me.

Over the next few days the fourteen authors will be doing a spot of cross promotion, and I’ll be writing a guest post for Juliet McKenna’s blog next week. 

Let the Journeys begin!

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