I was going to call this little missive Mohamad and the Mountain, but the current title seems fair enough.

I’ve tried, I’ve been very trying, to get myself traditionally published.

It could be a timing issue, my sales pitch, or indeed the project just isn’t up to scratch.

It could be all the above.

Maybe it is just a few of those points?

Although I don’t think it’s the last one.

So, If I’ve real belief in my project why don’t I back myself and self-publish?

It’s a good question.

It’s a superb question.

It’s one I’ve attempted to rationalise away for years, and now I can no longer do that.

I MUST publish or indeed be dammed for eternity to never know if my work would ‘make it.’

I am aware that self-publishing is as fraught to the vagaries and whims of its traditional sibling. 

I know that my timing and delivery will be as susceptible to the whims of the gods as any traditional effort, but at least I’ll have tried.

So that is what I’m going to do.

I am seeking a professional editor to help me polish my script as best we can, and then I’ll seek out a professional to design a captivating book cover.

Coins have been counted; funds set aside.

December is my target.

Hopefully, my product will be successful, but if its not, if I fail, then I know that I will never be one of those who know neither victory nor defeat.

I am entering the arena.

A ride so long delayed is now starting with earnest.

Stay safe & remain sane!

We all know the rules, so the less said the better.

We also know what hobbies not to talk about, what utterances are beyond mere social faux pas.

LARP has a certain social contagion akin to going public with your fascination for Post Boxes…

Some things are best kept to yourself, or only shared with carefully vetted likeminded individuals.

Scribbling out the depths of your imagination is one of those such pastimes.

This uniquely languishes in a bit of a paradox not suffered by any other pastime.

You really want to talk about your ‘thing,’ you so desperately want folk to read your ‘thing.’

But you cannot, unlike a vegan or a CrossFit cyclist evangelise your passion – those pale emaciated spandex folk get an eye roll – you get open mouthed disbelief!

If innocently asked about your tall tales, and without being able to help yourself, you purge your very soul and tell all about rape, murder, magic, and disembowelling your enemies…

You speak with the intoxication of a true believer, you pause only to circle back to explain a brilliantly crafted plot twists, or those oh so cleaver pop references (for those in the know) that rest hidden in the text.

Your eyes have rolled all the way back, you have passed speaking in tongues, you can see no colleagues in the office, you only have visions of lightning storms, passionate lovers, and vanquished foes…

You tell all.

It’s cathartic.

It’s a mistake.

Your desk now has a group of co-workers who’ve shuffled back that little bit further than a double masked and triple jabbed Covid-19 devotee…

It’s not the air conditioning that has dropped the room temperature – it’s YOU.

Nobody will come into the kitchen while you are in… that mild mannered (if somewhat eccentric) man is now seen through a prism of death and destruction – even the purple haired girl who likes to think she is the office devotee of all thing Poe and Goth gives you a wide birth.

So, you work from home for a few days.

A bit of remote distance may help things shuffle back into place.

You won’t mention it again.

But, fuck, did it feel good!

Stay safe & remain sane!

“When the drink is in the wit is out.”

Had it in my mind on the bus into work.

I needed to set words around it.

It was such a great start to begin a passage – so I did.

One opening line now has a body hanging from the belfry (only to be moved when it rots and falls to the ground), and a very serious blood vengeance from the little people.

It’s the most inauspicious of beginnings that create great oak trees.

Feeling good.

Scribbling away.

No pressure – enjoying the telling.

Stay safe & remain sane!

It’s shiny, it’s Narcissus and the pond.

It is these things, and it is so much more, and so very much less.

Distractions, deviations, digressions, call them what you will, all those rabbit holes combine into so much time spent NOT writing.

I think we all do it, we all excuse our indulgences, we know and recognise the ailment in others, but seldom in ourselves.

We would never succumb, never fall foul.

But we do – we have!

Intervention is never pleasant.

A redeeming feature in this instance is that this is self-help (physician heal thyself etc).

Acknowledgement is the first step for so many solutions.

First principle is that we want to be read, and to do that we need to write!

Captain of the pub trivia team isn’t our objective; the table display in Waterstones is.

I have a few issues.

These we’ve admitted.

These we will address.

Words will be written, tales of adventure and daring do will be told.

Stay safe – remain sane!

All work and no play may indeed make Jack a dull boy, but reward rarely comes without effort.

And effort is our topic.

Is it futile?

Is it misdirected?

Is it sufficient?

All these and many more questions rush through the mind of a scribbler of fanciful adventures.

Yes, it is indeed true that some shockingly bad books are both published, and some are even successful – does that negate my need to focus on producing a quality product?

I think not.

Exceptions never prove the rule, well rarely…

The market has a place for my wares, there is a gap that my piece of the jigsaw is perfectly matched to fill.

It’s not the delusion of the mad, it’s not.

I cannot sell, but I CAN write a good page turner!

Amy, when read, would be enjoyed.

She has substance, she has agency, she is a character that you can invest in – if only she was read.

So, we type away, we send out our applications and we patently wait for that near mythical letter.

We continue her tale, further her adventures, we lay out a bountiful feast, sumptuous indulgences for those with inquiring imagination – we do this, we continue to do this because despite the frustrations of the unpublished we still have faith.

We still have hope.

Effort still goes in.

One day the result will come out!

Stay safe and remain sane.

Is that why you scribble?

Is that your aim?

Could be yours, but it’s not mine.

Stoic pragmatism interwoven with a whisper of whimsical optimism, that’s me.

I’d like to be published.

To be published and be read.

And if read hopefully enjoyed.

That’s it.

That’s my aim.

It’s a simple wish.

One day, one day…

Stay safe – remain sane!

We all love our children; their achievements proudly displayed.

Potato print on the fridge case point.

Then you look at your own output.

Am I creating potato prints?

Are those nodding heads and words of encouragement really celebrating your creativity, or are they just saying “bless, he tried” (smile/don’t hurt his feelings)?

Self-belief is important, getting knocked down and standing up again – fall seven, stand eight etc.

Are we being tested to see if we have the resilience to go on, or are we ignoring the great reality check that is our potato print on the fridge?

But, at what point do we accept that the cosmos has been trying to tell us (somewhat bluntly) for several years, that our scribbles really are akin to potato prints on a fridge and not the superbly crafted narratives exploring the complexities of the human condition we think they are?

Stay safe – stay sane!

It has been too long, far too long since I made any real progress with my writing.

I’ve more plasters than Elastoplast, more excuses than a lying politician.

I’ve dabbled.

I’ve looked.

I’ve written the odd word, tidied the odd phrase – but in real terms I’ve added no discernible progress.

Amy is in Peshawar waiting for me to write the next page, and Rose is still sat in a cottage waiting for all the fairies/murders etc to make sense.

Two women trapped by the interminable blink of my cursor…

If there is a reason for my lack of progress, I don’t know it.

I don’t have writer’s block.

The ideas still flow.

I haven’t fallen out of love with telling tall tales – that joy still exists.

But what I have done is wallowed in a mire.

I have Jabberwocky levels of distraction.

Rejections, both the silent and written polite ‘no, not for us’ have taken their toll, but those cuts aren’t really that deep.

I’m a big boy I can take it.

Yet still I write so very little.

Maybe it’s not them, possibly it is me?

Could we try a trial separation?

Maybe some enforced absence from the keyboard would help?

Maybe less naval gazing?

Maybe so many things.

We mutter, we muse, and we write so very little…

Stay safe – remain sane!

Ever wonder just how many ripping yarns never make it through a combination of a bad sales pitch and poor timing?

If the Agent in question, despite advertising otherwise, is really looking for the next moody teen angst/coming of age YA and you offer up your highly polished script about a nobody, who ends up touring the galaxy because aliens want to demolish the world to make way for a galactic super highway (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy c 16m sales), and you are indeed subject to that silent rejection what do you do?

Or what if your superbly crafted tale, an absolute byword for the narrative craft, is the tale of a man who marries a woman so that he can seduce the teenage daughter (Lolita c50m sales)?  Would your story ever pass the 30-second scan.  A grown man who seduces a child…  the police would be round your house quicker than a quick thing.

I’m not moaning, I’m not.  Neither am I comparing my work to either Nabokov or Adams. 

I am just attempting to articulate the real frustration, the near forlorn hope, that a teller of tall tales feels when offering up their work.

The pitch has to be perfect, your summary must pull the scales from jaded eyes, and above all your tale must, absolutely must make that ‘kerching’ sound of a cash register opening, and your timing, your timing must be superb! 

I’m not complaining in a woe is me kinda way, this little missive isn’t a pity party, these words are just me, blowing over the hot cup of tea, and mumbling into the great empty auditorium. 

The game is played thus, and I know and accept the rules. 

I’m still allowed to grind my teeth in frustration, that’s also in the rules.

This game is long, it is hard, the pitfalls many, and not all of them of your making, and the behemoth of the publishing world isn’t going to change because the fragile butterfly of your ego is bruised by another silent rejection…

Avē Imperātor, moritūrī tē salūtant (“Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you”)

Stay safe and try to remain sane!

What’s it about?

Amy’s tale starts in 1884 and is a fast-paced chase across the British Empire.  Her quarry is Thomas Payne, the man who sold her into a brothel.  We have spectacular fights, Celtic folklore, and a whiff of steampunk.  Vengeance runs hand in hand with the slow recovery from trauma.  Eventually we have our showdown, our meeting of victim and prey, and then for Amy everything goes so sadly wrong.  What she gets isn’t what she needed.  Shots ring out and a broken woman flies away…

Who’s she like, give me contemporary pointers!

If Sally Lockhart had the grit of Lisbeth Salander and was moving in the darkness of Caleb Carr’s New York, then I think we would have a taste of young Miss Amy Grace. 

Why this tall tale, what has Amy got that others haven’t?   

To start with she passes both Bechdel and Mako Mori, she is a truly rounded and independent character, not a facsimile, not a simpering damsel waiting to be rescued.  She has flaws, failings, depths of despair.  She has all of these, and she has triumphs too.  Amy is driven, focused and vulnerable. 

She can channel the battle calm and power of warrior priestesses from Irish legend, but she isn’t dependent or driven by this energy – it aids, it does not dominate or define her.  The violence isn’t without consequence, she is knocked down, she is cut, and she bleeds, she suffers for her trials. 

Amy isn’t some big-busted Amazonian caricature, she is a petite 5’2” woman with a tower of red hair, and a temper to match.  She drinks whiskey, smokes, and dabbles with drugs.  She seeks no male companion to complete her, instead her occasional itches are scratched by warm and obliging women.  Amy is the amalgam of many things, but above all she is an interesting character without current equal or comparative singular reference.  She has all the potential to carve a space for herself in the literary world – she just needs a helping hand to get started.