reading

Of Mice and Men…

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

Yes, it’s a reference to book by the writer of my favourite book of all time “The Grapes of Wrath” but it’s also a nod to that all important missive about counting chickens before they’re hatched.

It was the best of plans; it was simplicity personified – virtually no moving parts or interdependent actions.

And still it failed.

Of mice and men take a bow…

I wanted to publish my book, I want to publish my book, and I need to publish my book – a demon needs to be exorcised.

Pride must come before the fall, but if I don’t try then I’ll never know – and the not knowing is eating me up inside.

My work may fall flat on its face, it may come across as stilted, contrived cliché driven trope heavy nonsense – or indeed it may not.

The pudding only has one proof and that’s in its eating.

I think it has merit – I truly do.

I’m not that naïve as to think garlands will be thrown at my feet and accolades gifted from on high – but I do honestly think that once read my tale of Amy and her woes will be enjoyed.

She has a journey to take the reader on, some ups, some deep downs, some redemption, and some disappointing failure that will challenge.  Some of it will deliver a wry smile, some of it genuine tears of sadness, but each page will be willingly turned to find out what happened next…

That is my dream, that is my goal.

I had a plan.

It was a simple plan.

All it needed was the due backpay to arrive, the money would then pay for an editor, the editor would help me polish my work and then the absolute best version of Amy Grace: Thomas Payne would be released onto the world.

The editor – his time was booked.

It was all going so well.

And then pride tripped, we fell.

The money isn’t there.

What every year had been a (literal) bankable constant this year is still in stasis.

It will arrive, but no one knows when.

The frustration mounts.

By October I’d hoped to be in the final draft/discussing the artwork phase, and I’m not.

A Christmas stocking filler my work will not be.

It’s annoying.

I’m angry.

I’m barking at the moon – but I’m also helpless.

I cannot influence things; I can only stand in the sidelines as some sort of impassive spectator.

Patience will be my virtue, but frustration at this delay will cut deeply.

The project IS delayed, but NOT cancelled.

I have belief, and I hope you share this faith.

She is worth the wait – she truly is.

Amy IS coming.

Stay strong and hug those you love!

Take No Heroes Only Inspiration

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

If I were to state my literary inspirations, and limit those weavers of tales, those who’ve toyed with my imagination and left a lasting impression to just three, if I were to do that, then I’d amongst the many I’ve enjoyed over the years I’d have to highlight:

James Herbert – he wrote horror, and as a teenager I absolutely loved it.  Lapped it up. Spent all my pennies obtaining his works.  He wrote 20 something tales, The Fog, Fluke, Magic, and as I reread them years after their initial release, they still thrill me.  Tales of the extraordinary told in the world of the ordinary.  If I were to attempt the same tales, they would be twice as long (minimum) as that those presented by Mr Herbert.  I’d have overindulged my descriptive passions, where he balanced brevity with such panache.    

James Herbert takes a bow! 

Clive Barker is our second name to drop.  Longer tales than James Herbert, more descriptive fantasy and world building, but nothing is lost with it.  I picked up a copy of Imajica and I was instantly hooked.  More of his output was obtained, Weaveworld my favourite, and the bookshelf creaks to reflect my love of his craft.  Now it MUST be stated that as a rule, and we all break them, I don’t do ‘gore’, as (IMHO) splashes of blood are often used to mask a poorly told tale – not so Mr Barker.  Love his work.

Third from three, but not in matter of influence.  I have to, just absolutely must mention Terry Pratchett and his fantastical social commentary comedy and sheer entertaining brilliance.  I was given Good Omens to read (you like horror – read this) and from that moment on I was hooked.  The premise, the style of writing, the wickedly sharp humour, everything just clicked – and I just love his foot notes that go on for near pages.  I also think he’s written the only book of fiction that has managed to make me cry tears of genuine sadness. Forty odd books – love them all. 

An honorary mention must go to Jerry Ahern and his twenty-nine-book series The Survivalist – pulp fiction at its absolute best.  Whatever ‘literary’ means (and I do debate the snobbery attached to it) entertainment is key – and these books slip the brain into neutral and entertain.

In true Columbo style, one more thing, I must mention (it would be remis if I didn’t) the poetry of WH Davies, Rudyard Kipling and Percy Bysshe Shelly – a medium I’ve only ever dabbled in, but one that I very much admire. 

So, there are my names dropped.  Some names you know, some possibly you don’t, some of the more successful authors conspicuous by their absence Stephen King, Stieg Larson & Margaret Atwood et others.  I wanted to write my ‘top three’ and so I’ve stuck to that maxim.

None of which my scribbles emulate in style, and nor do I attempt to claim any sort of parity.  But I mention these writers whose prose has taken me on many an imaginative journey.  Inspiration from the above has come, and continues to motivate me to tell my tales, to purge my imagination of the stories that it creates.

My struggle continues to reach/create an audience for my work via the ‘traditional route’, and we are continuously teased with the enticing lure of ‘self-publishing’.

Option A is my preference, but B may just become the practical reality of necessity.

So, this missive must come to an end, and the lesson, the point of it all?  Read. That’s it, that’s the aspiration of this scribble.  Read.  One day you may read my scribbles, but until that day read someone else’s and enjoy the ride. 

Whatever you are doing, stay safe, remain sane, and take no heroes – only inspiration!

Oh, the book that bought a tear to my eye – Snuff (harvesting diamonds).   

TBR & WiP

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

Time is indeed the stuff of life, and how we spend it is the greatest freedom and responsibility we’ll ever have.

Priorities compete, and sometimes what we should have done, what we should be doing, come second and third to what we are actually doing.

Today’s example is the great battle between that alluring pile of newly purchased books – colloquially known as the to be read pile or TBR and that other passion of the works in progress aka WiP. 

These competing piles are part of our passion for life. 

We read because life enthrals us, and we write because we have tales to tell.

My TBR is never empty, and my WiP never complete.

Yesterday, to my TBR, we added another three eclectic titles.  A book on Irish Fairy Forts, a book about Fake Heros, and finally a reread of a classic novel from my youth – James Herbert’s ‘Fog’.

Now these three recent additions won’t sit on the shelf in isolation, they join an illustrious group of other titles competing for my time.

If a book of say 80,000 words takes about eight hours to read, reading in the evenings after work and all chores of domestic life are complete, one book a week should be achievable.

I have fifteen books in my TBR. 

Assuming the one a week rhythm, that’s enough unread books to last a smidge over three months before my TBR shelf is empty – and that again assumes no new books are added (which they will be).

So, it’s safe to say that we have a lot of reading banked up. 

Then we have the near unquantifiable output that is my WiP. 

As a rule, my tall tales have the two-inch spines, they’re long reads, and even longer writes.

Sometimes the prose flows, sometimes it is an all-consuming passion that precludes all others (domesticity being exempt) and it consumes hours as a starving man eating at a free banquet voraciously eats roast chicken.

And then sometimes it feels like untold hours watching a cursor blink… 

For now, the balance is more creaking spines than tapping keys, but this will change, and the pendulum will swing the other way. 

Point of this missive?

If it makes you happy – do it.

Don’t stop doing what makes you happy.

Don’t feel you need to defend your happiness.

And most important of all, don’t assume you have to read sixty books a year AND write a million words.

Pace yourself, enjoy the ride, pause often, and keep your pursuits as varied as you can.

Hug those you love, stay safe, and try to remain sane! 

Turning the Supertanker

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

“So, you’re a writer, published anything?”

Shoulders curl in to touch each other, your gaze falls to the floor and a barely audible whisper wrapped in shame says “no.”

That’s it, its all over.  From this position there is NO recovery, you’ve been found out, you are indeed a liar, charlatan, and all-round despicable person.

Stolen Valour vibes permeate the air…

That’s kinda how it feels, maybe not how it goes, but definitely how it feels when folk ask “what’cha doing book boy, you writing a book or sumfin?”

Okay, I couldn’t resist it, yes, a little artistic licence is at play here – after all I am a writer.

The sentiment however, the feeling of despondency and disappointment they remain undiluted and true.

If I was a painter I’d show you my canvas, the result of my effort and you’d be satisfied with my claim at being an artist, so too if I picked up my guitar and played a riff so sublime the very birds from the trees flew down to join in.  At no point would a critique follow about my inability to fill the Royal Albert Hall or have my work displayed in the National Art Gallery in London – nope for those artistic outlets participation would be enough.  For those talented folk, a rendition of Malaguena or just some canvas covered in oils is the only evidence of accomplishment ever needed. 

And yet it’s different for writers.

You can’t stand there with a ream of papers and pronounce ‘ta da’ and expect accolades to fall from the heavens. 

It’s not enough to have written, to have crafted, to have taken the reader on such a journey that for weeks, maybe months later they will reminisce that one scene in the kitchen and long after the book was finished still shed a tear.  

It’s not good enough when you write to have crafted such a tale, for those words ONLY have validation, only achieve worth when they are read.

And therein dear reader of my blog is the $1,000,000 question, the true conundrum of my life. 

My art, no matter the passion of its creation, my art is without worth until it is read.

To be read is the prima facie function of a tall tale, and it is one that I am struggling with. 

I am, I know, stuck in a loop of my own making, and the success or failure of my work is completely within my control.

I can publish via Amazon (et others) and be dammed, let the tiles fall where they will, or I can strive struggle and suffer trying to hook that elusive white wale of a traditional publishing contract.

These I can do. 

Bemoaning my fate, I should indeed abandon.

It’s such a self-indulgent cop out – and reality needs to be acknowledged.

Sympathy evaporates and so too should my self-flagellation.

If I am to evoke Invictus or indeed emulate ‘the man in the arena’ then act indeed I must.

Prevarication is a comfort blanket that protects me from criticism, but it is also one that smothers out any embers of praise…

It’s slow to turn, but the supertanker is changing direction.

Thanks for listening.

Stay safe, hug those you love, and live the life that you’ve been gifted with all the passion that you possess! 

Counting Backwards.

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

I started this entire process with no real aim in mind other than finding out what happened next after my carefully crafted first line ended. 

Back in those simpler times my only struggle was to write the next sentence – but then, and I don’t know at what point, but thirty or so pages into my tall tale I developed a need to have my scribbles read.

This need is part self-serving validation, and partially some sort of philanthropic desire to share this awesome story I’ve been writing.

Friends, total strangers, and all points in between have learnt not to maintain eye contact, to discuss contentious current affairs, matters of faith, anything other than “so you’re a writer, what’ve you written.” 

They’ve learnt it, and I think I’ve learnt it too.

If badgered, if asked more than once they I’ll offer up my scribble, but long gone are those days of self-publicity and puppy dog eyes…

I don’t want to brow beat folk into reading my work, but I do want them to read it [conundrum].

I’ve tried the traditional route to publish my work – score currently reading zero from a lot of submissions.

It could be my submission style, my choice of agents, my timing, or indeed the mediocre quality of my work…  could be any of these, could be many, could indeed be all.

So, undeterred I’ve decided to back myself and publish my own work.

Some say its long overdue, some that it’s a fool’s errand, an expensive one at that!

Most first-time authors sell around 250-300 books (many considerably less), so any return on investment is going to be limited.

I may buck the trend, but if I’m going to plan, then the current trend must be my handrail.

From a commercial point of view my book has many obstacles to overcome. 

Howsoever you cut the number, strike a deal with a sympathetic editor, the initial outlay from the family funds is not insubstantial.

Two big costs I can’t seem to avoid.

An editor will cost me £1500 – £2000, a book cover £400. 

My vanity is £2000 in debt before the first book is sold.

I could of course avoid both costs and publish ‘as is’ – after all a) do I really need a professional editor and b) who looks at the cover of a book?

Okay, I know the answer to both (hence this little missive), but it is still a lot of money just to service my vanity.

So that’s my current struggle, my first world problem.

Stay safe, hug those you love and remain sane!

Pick me (Nigel).

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

If ever there was a pop reference to age me, maybe that one is it!

Still scribbling away, still casting my bait into the deep dark waters without attracting a bite.

Fishing is a game of patience. 

Even when standing shoulder to shoulder along a crowded bank, I still have faith that my hook is more than worthy of a nibble (or two).

Amy is a strong character, she’s interesting, fully rounded, not dependent upon anyone else for validation – she looks at both Bechdel and Mako Mori, nods in acknowledgement and moves ever onwards.

The tale is a wonderful blend of fast paced adventure, revenge, and the struggle to recover, all mixed with the subtle spice of steampunk and Irish mythology.  

The first book is a true standalone project that starts and stops with questions answered, and loose ends tied up nice and neat.  Yet, for those with a taste for this mix the adventure continues for another four volumes… 

As grand as they are (and they are) all those finely crafted words are for naught if they are never read.

Would you pick Amy?

Will Nigel pick me? 

I’m casting my line, loading my bait, and hoping for a bite.

While I patiently wait, stay safe and remain sane.