The writer’s life – Jericho Writers
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The visual pitch

Something a little different this week.I’ve jabbered a lot in the past about the importance of nailing your elevator pitch: making sure that your basic novel concept is one that people feel the need to pick up and explore.I think that’s not just commercially important. I think it’s artistically important too. It’s key to any genuinely great book.I’ve also always said that the elevator pitch – that basic concept – is FOR YOU. It’s a mother with 100 daughters. The daughters arise anywhere your book concept touches the world. So, for example:Your query letterYour book blurbA two-line pitch on social mediaA conversation with an agent at our London Festival of Writing.But also, for example:Your text itselfYour opening page (and what it hints at in terms of the future)Choices you make about what and what not to include.But also: Your book coverYour websiteYour Twitter profile (I’m not going to call that company by a stupid name just to please an erratic billionaire)Your Facebook ads (ditto). Today, I thought it would be interesting to pick up the very last of those. Here, for example, is a Facebook ad for one of the Fiona books.What’s the elevator pitch for that book? Well, all my pitches have two layers, I guess. There’s the series pitch (“Detective who used to think she was dead”). And there’s the individual book pitch, which in this case is something like “Dark religion + kidnap + remote Wales village”. That’s the pitch if you pick out the central ingredients. If you want a more conventional pitch, then “Woman, wearing bridal white, found dead in a country churchyard. Who is she? And why is she here?” I hope you feel that the image above connects adequately with the pitch. It’s not that they say the exact same thing, but they live happily together – like lemon and mint.Nearly all my ads use the same colour set – yellow and white text, dark monochrome image – because that basic mixture says noirish crime, with strong hints of seriousness. (Yellow and black together convey danger – it’s one of the standard colour sets of warning signs and crime tape.) Also, of course, the more consistency in the ads, the more casual users start to notice the brand on repeat viewings. Here’s another ad for the same book: That’s a more direct expression of the elevator pitch, but they’re both playing on the same basic turf. At the moment, both ads have roughly the same link click-through rate, so I can’t yet say which one will come out on top. Or take another example, this time for the ($0.99) series opener. Here, the elevator pitch is all about my damaged detective – who’s kinda nuts and used to think she was dead. The ad that’s worked best so far is this one: The actual image there is pretty much bog-standard: tough, crimey woman + moody landscape. But the ad text tells you who that woman is: “Brilliant, quirky, damaged, fascinating.” Again, that’s not a direct statement of the pitch, but it’s certainly a very clear echo. It makes you want to know more… and when you get to the actual book sales page, the basic offer expands from that exact starting point. The journey from ad to book page, to “look inside”, to purchase, should all be very clear, very consistent. Another ad that has done well is this one: That ad offers a landscape – a somewhat foreboding, Welsh-looking one. That establishes genre (moody, Celtic noir, crime), but it doesn’t say much directly about the pitch. But again, “Wales’ strangest detective” slaps the elevator pitch right there, up top. Both those ads have done better than one that uses a really positive review as its central element. Take this ad, for example: That ad has done OK… but it’s not been any kind of star performer. And I think that’s because its relationship with the elevator pitch is just too murky. OK, so Fiona Griffiths stars in some crime books. We’ve never met anyone like her. But… what? She’s super-girly? She’s a klutz? She’s half-robot? She speaks Ukrainian? She mostly works as a part-time hairdresser? In terms of ads that really deliver readers – that is, ads that command the user’s attention from first sight through to completion of purchase – it’s been my experience that the pitch matters. That’s why your original concept matters so much, even before you’ve started to write a word. It’s why that concept matters so much when you’re selling, not just with the text you deploy, but the image composition too. That’s it from me, my furry companion. May the grass lie softly for you and the air taste sweet. ***FEEDBACK FRIDAY - Explanations Do you have any visual material for your book? If so, let’s hear your pitch and see your visuals. That’ll be fun! If you don’t have anything available yet (and you really don’t need to), then just give us your pitch and sketch out for us what a book cover or Facebook ad might look like.When you\'re ready, log in and post yours here.Til soon. Harry

A chatter of monkeys

Mostly, as you know (you know, you know), These emails are long (too long! too long!), But then again (and again and again), At least they’re fresh (So fresh! So fresh!) But this one isn’t. It’s a reprint of something I wrote five years back. I came across it at random, and I liked it, and I thought you might too. It goes – with some teeny-weeny adjustments – like as follows. (Well, almost. I just wanted to call your attention to the ABSURDLY low price we’ve put on our Ultimate Novel Writing Programme mentoring taster sessions. In a nutshell, for £20 you get to have a twenty-minute mentoring session with one of the tutors from the Programme. If you’re halfway interested in doing the UNWP, then this is a brilliant option for you to explain where you are in your writing journey, what you want next - and to ask any questions you may have. But the offer isn’t restricted to UNWP-ers, so if the idea of chatting with a book expert is interesting to you, then jump on it. More info here.) OK. Here’s the email proper...***Into my inbox, crept this little beauty from Cameron: Hi Harry,Inspired by your own recent releases, I thought it would be a fruitful exercise to compile a list of things I wish I had known before embarking on a writing journey. It has been quite liberating and given me great perspective on how far I\'ve truly come as a writer. But I am curious: Of the many hard-fought lessons you\'ve learned throughout your career, could you identify one as the single most important? Or, phrased another way, which one do you wish you would have learned first? The short answer, of course, is that I don’t know and can’t quite engage with the question.Most writing wisdom is born of experience and interlocks with every other piece of wisdom. So a question of characterisation is also one of plotting which is also one of theme which is also to do with sense of place, and so forth. So mostly I come out with some stupid line that gets me away from the question and we move onto the next thing. Only – Actually – It did occur to me that there is one big piece of writing wisdom that I don’t talk about as much as I ought to. It’s simply this: You are many writers. You aren’t just one. I started out writing books in the same broad vein as Sidney Sheldon and Jeffrey Archer. I hope there was a little more to my books than those comparisons suggest, but they were big, old-fashioned, non-violent romps, with plenty of family drama. They were fun to write. My first two books were contemporary dramas, but then, for no especial reason, I turned to a historical theme. The books were still in the same broad mould, but they had an extra richness because of the early twentieth century backgrounds. And then –  Well, fashions changed and sales dwindled. My publisher would have been happy for more of the same, but not at the kind of advances I wanted. So I moved on again. I wrote popular non-fiction. I wrote niche non-fiction. I did some ghostwriting work. One of those projects was a really lovely one which hit the hardback and paperback bestseller lists. Another one sold in plenty of territories, made me a big fat bundle of money, and was just a joy to work on. And then, I changed again. I came back to fiction, to crime fiction this time, and found a character and niche I loved. I do still love that niche, but (as you may have noticed) I’ve also had time to update some old how-to books and republish those. And I’ve turned a bundle of these emails into a whole new book. Oh yes, and I have a mad-as-a-box-of-snakes literary project on the back-burner. And I get a glitter in my eye when I think of some new non-fiction work I’d love to write. I’ve also been traditionally published, self-published and am half-minded to flirt with digital-first publishing via a specialist firm.Almost none of that was in the game plan when I started out, and I’m not unusual. Yes, you have a few careers like John Grisham’s. His first book did OK. His second book (published in 1991) spent almost a year on the NYT bestseller list and sold a bazillion copies. After that, he’s bashed out a book a year, pretty much. His name has become almost synonymous with legal thrillers. And even so – Grisham has written non-legal novels. He’s written kids’ books. He’s written non-fiction. He’s written short stories. All those things are side dishes to the main thrust of his work – the raita to the tikka marsala – but I bet when he was writing those other things, he was fully engaged by them too. Even when you’re a hugely productive author who dominates your particular genre, it turns out you are multiple writers too. More than you ever imagined at the outset. So my answer to Cameron is simply: Be multiple. Find other stories, other genres, other wings. You can’t know yet what will work for you and what won’t. Life, it turns out, is not that interested in game plans. And look, I don’t know your exact position. But I do sometimes see writers working for seven years, ten years, some huge stretch of time, in order to bring one piece of work to publication. And sometimes that’ll be the right thing to do. But mostly it won’t. Mostly you try one thing – learn lots – see if it works – and if it doesn’t, put it down. Try a new thing. Something else in the same broad genre or something totally unrelated. Your passions are like a pack of monkeys. They want to skip chattering across the jungle. So let them. Chase them with your notebook. Catch the fruit they fling down from the trees. Watch them in the rain and in their nests at night. You may not be the writer you think you have to be. That a frightening thought, but it’s also a liberating one. It liberated me, not once, but repeatedly. My guess? My guess is, that if your writing career has any longevity, you’ll find the same is true of you too. ***There you go. Not quite that fresh-baked smell, that warm-from-the-oven, butter-me-now, golden-flakes-on-the-chin sort of freshness that you’re used to. But still toothsome, no?I mean – if you had a choice between that email and being thumped with a very small ruler, or having a bad-tempered copy-editor repetitively criticise your use of semi-colons, you’d take the email every time, right? Me too, old buddy, me too. ***FEEDBACK FRIDAYGo on. Tell me. What monkeys chatter in your jungle? What book are you writing now? What others have you written or have started? What other books are in contemplation?This isn’t quite a feedback-type exercise, I guess, except that there’s something about putting these things out into public that changes you a bit. So: put it out there - by which I mean, log into Townhouse and share it in this forum.And that idea that you’re not yet really to mention to anyone? Tell us about that too. Let’s enlarge ourselves. Let’s multiply. Til soon. Harry 

How I actually edit (I)

With the first lesson of our brand new Premium Member course Introduction to Self-Editing launching this week, I thought I\'d share my own editing process with you. I honestly don’t know how much it helps to understand another writer’s process. What matters to you isn’t how I write best, but how you do. There’s not one way to play this game, there are a million. But if you’re interested, and in the hope that it helps, here’s how I edit. The first thing to say is that, in my case, there’s no real distinction between my writing and my editing. I self-correct all the time as I write. My paragraphs are very often short, but if I write a reasonably meaty three or four sentence paragraph, I’ll almost always tweak it and nudge it into shape before moving onto the next. Indeed, I quite often edit a sentence before I’ve even hit the final full stop. Why so twitchy? Well, a few things. I’m a natural fidget. I’m not at the threshold for ADHD, but I’m certainly that way inclined. But also, I’m like my wife. She can’t quite be content in a messy or ugly room. She’ll always seek to remedy what can be remedied before she can really make herself comfortable and turn to whatever it is that brought her there. Same with me and bad sentences. Asking me to write new text when there’s messy text just behind me? It doesn’t work. The nagging distraction of that baggy sentence, that poorly chosen word, will stop me fully attending to whatever’s next. Here’s the start of an upcoming Fiona novel: Imagine this. A cold night. A scatter of snow. Not much, but there’s a fierce frost, so the hard surfaces around here – paving stones, gravel, brick walls, iron gates – are glazed with diamonds. No leaves left on the trees, or not many, but the tree trunks have an iced glitter, as though constructing some new armour. The light? Not much. A little moon naked under scraps of cloud. Streetlamps shining their joyless yellow. The colour of the last rags of autumn, but dimmer. More suppressed. Draining colour, not revealing it. In the street: no cars moving. Almost none parked, if it comes to that. On this street, the cars – the BMWs and the Mercs, the Range Rovers and the Teslas – are sheltered behind walls, in garages, protected by the red blinks of security alarms. And a white van, its lights off. And two people moving. Not quiet, but not loud. Not furtive, but efficient. Dressed dark, dressed warm. Which, in this weather, is also a way to say that their shapes and faces are lost, muffled, disguised. That’s how the text looks now. It’ll change again before publication, but nothing there really annoys me. Here’s my editing journey to get there: Imagine this. A cold night. A scatter of snow. These words went down first thing and I haven’t changed them. The first two words are critical: it’s not normal Fiona-speak – she doesn’t normally address the reader in any way – but they matter here for a reason which will become clear much, much later. The cold / scatter of snow details are – for me – nice and easy: that way of giving physical detail is an established part of the Fiona voice. I like it because the voice is clear and well-differentiated, but I also love it because it’s so compact. For those writers who are still slave to the “Gotta have a main verb” dictum, the same seven words would have come out a bit like this: It was a cold night, with a scatter of snow on the ground. To my mind, all the additional words there are essentially dull and add nothing. So if I were a slave-to-the-verb kind of writer, I’d have added juice. Something like this: The night was cold, with a light scatter of snow hardening beneath the frost. And, OK, I like that more, except I’m always bothered by the word ‘with’ in this context – it’s just a lazy way to add bolt detail onto an existing unit. So I’d probably have replaced the ‘with’, by writing: The night was cold and an earlier scatter of snow now hardened beneath the frost. I’d be pretty much happy with that now – ‘hardened’ feels more active and, literally, harder than ‘hardening’ – but as I say, my Fiona-voice just skips over all that hoopla, and delivers all the information in two sentence fragments boasting a combined 7 words. Then we got to this bit: Not much [snow], but there’s a fierce frost, so the hard surfaces around here – paving stones, gravel, brick walls, iron gates – are glazed with diamonds. No leaves left on the trees, or not many, but the tree trunks have an iced glitter, as though constructing some new armour. I had to pick away at that bit to get it into shape. An earlier version used the word ‘frost’ twice and I kept wanting to glaze things. The leaves on trees bit is sort of dull, except that the reader has no idea yet of time of year, so this was my way of telling the reader that we were in November, not January. The list of hard surfaces – paving stones and the rest – is also dull, but it’s dull in a quiet suburban way, which is just right for the location. I do not love the ‘around here’ phrase. Where else would the hard surfaces be? So those two words need to go: an edit that still needs to happen. I like the ‘some new armour’ image: that’s true to Fiona’s voice, but it also delivers a sense of battle-readiness. The next paragraph also needed some tweaking and plucking: The light? Not much. A little moon naked under scraps of cloud. Streetlamps shining their joyless yellow. The colour of the last rags of autumn, but dimmer. More suppressed. Draining colour, not revealing it. Again, the first two sentence fragments (four words in total) just went down on the page and stayed there. The moon and cloud stuff is quite like me – I’ve probably used something like that phrase before – but I’m happy with it. Should it be a little moon or not? I don’t quite know, but it’s going to stay little for now. Also (I’m only just noticing now; I don’t observe these things as I write) I especially like it that we have these themes of battle and vulnerability emerging from the text. Although we’re really just describing a theme, we already have a hint of battle (armour), a hint of vulnerability (a naked moon) and references to draining colour – a disguise, not a revelation. All this means that the description has a kind of sprung quality. Nothing dark has happened yet, but you already know this is a crime novel, not a romance. Then I had to tinker quite a lot to get the next bit right. I want to paint the colour of a suburban street, with a little snow on the ground, not much of a moon, and sodium-type street lighting. I could just say ‘The street is it by yellowy-orange sodium lights’ or something like that. But the point isn’t really the colour, is it? It’s the feeling. And what is the feeling? Well, that’s the bit I had to struggle to get to. What I’ve ended up with combines joyless, rags, dim, suppressed and draining colour. Listed out like that, it feels alarmingly single-note, but I think it works OK on the page. In effect, we start out with a colour description (‘joyless yellow’) then work through a chain of thought to figure out that what’s really happening here is an emptying out of colour, not any kind of addition. Oh yes, and some editors would worry about the repetition of the word ‘colour’, but I’m not fussed. The repetition doesn’t feel accidental or obtrusive, so it’s fine with me. And so on. The two people in the white van dump a corpse in one of these wealthy suburban gardens and then vanish. The book is about the investigation and shenanigans that follow. The chapter doesn’t quite say ‘they dump a corpse’, but it gets reasonably close… and this is a crime novel, so readers assume (correctly) that murder is going to be on the agenda. All this is how my editing process runs, always. It often starts before I hit a full-stop. It usually starts before I reach the end of a paragraph. It is very pedantic. It cares about two unnecessary words or a not-quite-perfect word choice. It’s utterly hard-wired and instinctive. The act of writing and the act of editing are so conjoined, I don’t really think of them as separate. I don’t consult a style manual for these edits. In the end, what drives me is a sense of dissatisfaction with bad text and happiness with good text. My whole writing-editing journey is just about making 1,000,000 tiny choices that move me from a mostly-grumpy place to a largely-happy one.Next week, I’ll talk a bit about my more macro-edits. Till then, I have the moon to worry about. Little, or not little? Hmm… ***FEEDBACK FRIDAYFor the next few weeks, instead of posting into the Feedback Friday forum, I want you to post into the Introduction To Self-Editing forum. Remember, to log in first. The task I set each week will correlate with what Debi Alper teaches in that week\'s lesson, so if you\'re not a Premium Member yet and want to get the video teaching that goes along with the task, you can join here, or purchase the course as a one-off here.This week\'s assignment from the course:Share a plot summary (can be written out as a synopsis or just with bullet points) in the forum. Point out where you think tweaks to structure, plot, and pace might be required, and see if others agree.Til soon. Harry

A simple, repeatable joy

My last email was grumpy. Bah humbug. A silver cane waved menacingly at orphans.This email is festive. A Merry Christmas to us all! A shower of sweets for street-children, a fat goose for chilly clerks.Just two things to say:One, aren’t we lucky? Aren’t we as writers lucky, to have this thing we love doing? Laying down sentences on an empty sheet. It’s free. It’s creative. It’s reliably joyful.And yes: this whole game has its arduous aspects, of course. All good things do. Getting an agent? Hard. Getting sales? Hard. Writing well enough to deserve either of those things in the first place? Yes, also hard.But that’s not the core of what we do or why we do it. It’s writing things like this:I’m Homer, the blind brother. I didn’t lose my sight all at once, it was like the movies, a slow fade-out. When I was told what was happening I was interested to measure it, I was in my late teens then, keen on everything.Or this:When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. The shape of it, to begin with. The very first time I saw her, it was the back of her head I saw, and there was something lovely about it, the angles of it. Like a shiny, hard corn kernel or a riverbed fossil. She had what the Victorians would call a finely shaped head. You could imagine the skull quite easily.I didn’t write either of those paragraphs. (EL Doctorow did in Langley and Homer, and Gillian Flynn did in Gone Girl.) But imagine the joy of writing those things. Not all at once, of course, but getting there slowly, chipping away at a paragraph – chip, chip, chip – until the exact right pattern of words made itself felt.We get that pleasure, you and I, and all we need is a laptop. Lucky us.That was number one. My number two thing to say is, are you a member of our Townhouse community? If not, you ought to be. It’s free and it gives joy and companionship… and, as it happens, it’ll give you useful feedback, support and encouragement too.Just go to the Join Us page on our website and select the FREE option.If you aren’t yet a member of Townhouse, you are genuinely missing out. You have friends there; you just haven’t met them yet. Make that a little free gift to yourself this Christmas.That’s all from me.***FEEDBACK FRIDAY:Your Feedback Friday exercise this week is simple: eat so much Christmas pudding that your EYES BULGE. In my view, it is perfectly acceptable if you get the same effect from eating mince pies. My wife likes Christmas pudding so much, she buys 12 of them at a time. They line a whole shelf and wink at me each time I open the cupboard, whispering softly of puddingy secrets.When it snows, at any time of year, we get a pudding from that cupboard, walk up into a snowy field and eat it there, with squirty cream from a can.And so, as Tiny Tim said: \"A Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, everyone!\"Til next year.Harry

This be the email

A short one today. And a little bonus.The bonus is that I’m doing a FREE webinar today at 12.00. The theme is elevator pitches and specifically how to:Build a pitch that fully expresses the DNA of your novel;Use that insight to help your novel fully express the delicious idea at its heart;Use that work when it comes to selling your bookI’ll give you a clue right now: Part C is the easy one.If you\'re a Premium Member, you may already have done our Take Your Novel From Good to Great course. If so, you can ignore this offer as the content of the webinar is very similar to module one of that course. If you aren\'t a Premium Member and haven’t done that first lesson, then this is a good opportunity to scope it out! As I say, it’s completely free - just sign up here to register.Now then...Last week, I ended a long series of emails on selling with a question to you all, via Feedback Friday. Or four questions in fact:What matters to do you in writing?What do you want to get out of this?What do you think the biggest obstacles are?What would help?It’s really worth taking a look at how people answered.On the first two questions – what matters – people mostly agreed. “Just seeing my books out there in some form or other would be cool.” Entertaining readers was a near-universal goal. People often wanted to be able to sustain themselves by writing, but no one had dreams of vast wealth from it.Other comments that spoke to me:A lot of people spoke about “the pure joy writing inspires, the fun we have putting pen to paper.” That’s true for me too. It has remained the one absolute constant through my career.“Recognition. The biggest buzz of all is when readers tell me they laughed or cried, or felt that constricted feeling in their throat — the feeling of something that *really* matters.” And yes, same here.“I want to be traditionally published and have a readership that likes my stories.” A lot of you were in that rough area, although I noted an increasing awareness of the various upsides of digital-first and sel-publishing options.“I’m already getting what I want out of this. It may sound crass, but all I ever wanted was to get my stuff out there. I’m achieving this now [via self-pub].”And a special mention for this comment, which we can all relate to:\"What matters to me in writing? I love it. Even when I hate it, I love it.\"On obstaclesComments that struck a chord were:“It is my first time writing, and turning a passion and an interest into something commercially marketable with no prior knowledge of the industry, standards, expectations, process, etc. – it’s terrifying.”“Second guessing every decision is really slowing things down and stopping me writing fresh stuff.”“Time. There is never enough time to write, to research the market, do the marketing, without all the things that Life throws at me.”“The system. Agents are the gatekeepers and agents are human. They pass certain things I would throw out. The publishers publish certain books I would never buy, but they regard as commercial. Thank goodness there are Indie Press and self-publishing routes.”On what would helpSome really good feedback here:“A little marketing genie would be good.”“Time. Money … But also actionable advice, feedback, safe spaces to ask questions. Knowing I’m not alone … Community has been more of a help than I realistically ever thought it would be.”“Help would help. Much like people who climb Everest, I would really appreciate the help of a Sherpa. Someone who’s seen and done it all. Someone who knows the secrets and can guide my feet over the dangerous terrain. I’m happy to do the hard yards. I want to get to the peak and plant my flag. But I can’t do it alone.”“A guide on what makes a good story and how to slice and dice away nonsense.”“Blue skies and sunshine …Someone to do all the advertising. Marketing, promotional stuff.”“What do I think would help? A kick up the arse. I’ve had some wonderful feedback on my work from some lovely people here. I’m deeply grateful for their kind words. They inspire me enormously.”“Access to professionals at a reasonable cost to those of us who are struggling to find the spare cash. I think JW already do this with their [premium membership service].”And look, we know where you\'re coming from.We\'ll use your insights to shape Jericho Writers Premium Membership for the coming year. We have a strong sense of what you want, and will be making some really huge improvements in 2025. We won’t announce anything until we’re closer to launch, but we’re aiming high.If you\'re not already a Premium Member, remember: today is Black Friday: a day of dark commercial magic, where we try to make your wishes come true! If you join us today, you’ll do so at the best price we’ve offered all year - and your writing, as well as your chances of publication WILL improve. We\'d honestly love to welcome you, because this community gets better, the more voices it has.*FEEDBACK FRIDAY: An Especially Lovely OneAnd because it\'s a special Friday, let\'s have an especially lovely Feedback challenge.So: I want a passage of yours (about 250 words) that you really love. Give us any context we need, and tell us why you love it. That\'s it.Post yours here when you\'re ready.***My two daughters are, just possibly, turning into writers. They love starting novels – all called “Murder in the Stableyard”, or rough variants on that. Then they write a cast list, which involves perhaps half a dozen individuals, notably girls 2-3 years older than my two. Then they extend the cast list by adding about four horses. Then they ask me to praise them. Then they write a first sentence or two. Then … they start again with a new novel.Some of you giving comments on Feedback Friday last week, noted that writerly procrastination did at least deliver a very clean house and a punctual approach to on-coming chores.I have not noticed the same effect with my kids.Till soon,Harry

How to Sell A Book, if you have the right mindset

We\'ve spent seven weeks thinking about how to sell books. In my last seven emails to you, we have reviewed: The split in the books market between ebook and print How print books are sold by publishersHow you can maximise your chances of success when working with a trad publisherHow to sell via AmazonHow to use book promo sites to sell your ebooksHow to use FacebookHow to build your mailing list. If you are confident you want to self-publish, you can probably afford to (mostly) ignore emails 2 and 3 from the list above.If you are confident you want to be traditionally published (and are also confident that you’ll get the chance to do that) then emails 5 and 6 are less relevant to you – though email 7 is very relevant, and you’d be nuts not to properly absorb the lessons of email 4.But I want to end with some thoughts on mindset. All that follows, but two things first. One, please can EVERYONE take a look at Feedback Friday this week. I\'d love as much involvement as possible. And two: NOVEMBER ALERT!It\'s November. This month, you can become a member for 30% off our normal prices. Members get: An entire suite of video courses. On How to Write, on taking your novel From Good to Great, on Getting Published, on Self-Publishing – and more. You could easily spend well over £1,000 on individual courses and not get as much useful information as you do from these. A huge collection of masterclasses. We have hundreds of hours of masterclasses: on craft, on finding agents, on working with publishers, on marketing your work – and much more. If you’ve got a concern about writing or getting published, we almost certainly have an expert to answer it. A vast range of live events. From “Ask Us Anything” to themed months on Build Your Book and Getting Published, and now including an online Writers Retreat, we have a ton of events to keep you educated and motivated – and in community with other writers. AgentMatch – a proprietary database of 1400+ agents, complete with detailed profiles and easy search / filter tools. Feedback Friday and query letter reviews - plus discounts on our other services. And more! Most of all, you get to be in a community of expertise and passion. I was in an internal meeting the other day with three of my Jericho colleagues. And – I noticed that all of us, all four, were published authors. We’re in this business because we care about it – and know a heck of a lot about it. With Premium Membership, we aim to make that knowhow available to you. You can sign up today at 30% off our normal prices. Info here. I really hope you do. We love serious writers and that includes you. BACK TO MINDSET...Right: mindset. Writing books is not easy. Many of you will therefore set the endpoint of your dreams to getting published: getting an agent, getting a book deal. After that, presumably, the whole show is in the hands of grown-ups who know what they’re doing, right? And you can kick back, and write more books, and let the adults do their thing.Except –That’s not reality. Writing books is hard. Selling them? Also hard.There are (estimated to be) well over 12,000,000 ebooks on Amazon. There are probably over 50,000,000 books of all varieties and formats on Amazon.How many of those actually get sold? A minority. It’s probable that at least half of ebooks have made no sales at all. Not one. And if you set even a very low bar for acceptable sales – a few dozen, say – then well under 10% of books will ever reach even that hurdle.Having a big publisher is certainly some sort of protection against these frosts. If you have a Big 5 publisher, you will sell some books, for sure, and not just in the low dozens.But…Print publishing is still a matter of 12 portly gentlemen running for the same door. On ground that’s slippery with rain, and in a high wind.My first Fiona Griffiths book was published by one of the best editors, at one of the best imprints, at maybe the best publisher in New York. The book was a Crime Book of the Year in a couple of major US newspapers. It was positively reviewed in the NY Times. It got starred reviews in Kirkus and Publishers Weekly. It had a halo around it: it was destined to do well, no?But it failed. The hardback didn’t do great, but the paperback was so shunned by retailers that it sold fewer than 1,000 copies across the entire United States. It was that failure which led me to buy the book back from the publishers and to self-publish instead. Buying the book back cost me $10,000 but within a short space of time, as a self-publisher, I had vastly expanded my readership and was making over 4 times the money I’d earned by way of advance from my trad publishing.The moral of this story?Not that self-pub is good and trad publishing is bad: they both have strengths and weaknesses, and the right choice for you depends very much on your book and your situation.No. Rather, the moral is that you will always need to stay in control of your own sales destiny – or as much control as you can possibly retain. With that in mind, here is some final advice before I end this chain of emails and turn back to the happy busyness of the Writer’s Craft.MindsetWriters – myself included – tend to want to skip the boring bits.Writing – that’s fun. Editing – well, I hope that’s fun, because it’s desperately important. Getting an agent and a publisher? Well, that’s fun and it’s glamorous and you get paid, so that’s a particularly good bit. And being published? Seeing your book on a shelf somewhere? Dropping the book in your mum’s kitchen waiting for her to go all pink and shiny with pride? Also good bits.But to turn that book contract into sales success relies on lots more.And yes, among other things it relies on luck. But focus on the parts you can control.Ask yourself:Is your book cover good? Not just good in itself, but good in comparison with its immediate competitors? This issue is so important, I’ll revert to it in a moment.Is your blurb strong?Is the pricing of your ebook realistic?Does your Amazon book page look OK?Have you been sent a proof of your ebook? And is that ebook laid out in a way that will boost your mailing list and encourage sales of further books by you?If physical bookstores don’t take your book in any quantity, does your publisher have a meaningful Plan B – which would need to place Amazon and your ebook at the centre?Does everything – the cover, the blurb, the other marketing materials – line up with the pitch that you’ve spent so long thinking about and honing?Is there anything you can do to foster your relationships with booksellers, with retail buyers, with book bloggers, with reviewers, with festival organisers and so on?One of the most professional authors I know used to visit bookstores in every town she went to. She introduced herself. She offered to sign books. She bought a coffee. She made nice.She also never let her publisher send out proof copies without including a handwritten note from her.She also wrote – always – to thank festival organisers and the like for events she’d attended. She made sure to know the names of book bloggers, and to find out about them, and to ask them about their children / dogs / pet iguanas the next time she saw them.Her mindset was right. Every detail mattered. No detail would even add 1% to sales, but if you take care of enough details, these things start to add up.You can have the right mindset and things can still go badly wrong – but your chances improve, and improve drastically. Don’t sit back. Don’t let the grown-ups take care of things, unsupervised. These are your books. You care more than they do.Lean in.Mailing listI spoke in the last email about how to build your email list, but I didn’t say this:Your mailing list is your strongest insurance against disaster.If you have a robust mailing list, you kind of know that you can sell books and make money. (Not if the books are terrible. Not if you publish them unprofessionally. But if you do those things right.)And that means, even if you are traditionally published and want to go on being traditionally published, you still need that list because of the protection it confers. It will be helpful if you (slightly) change genres. It will be invaluable if you switch publishers.Build that list. Cherish it.The book coverIt’s odd, but no one – including me – ever talks enough about book covers.However, those covers are INSANELY important.They matter in print publishing, because retail buyers are picking from a flipping catalogue. They are looking at one page of yadda about your book to see if they want to order it. The brightest, most attractive thing on that page is your book cover. They have essentially no text of yours to look at. The book cover (and your elevator pitch) matters hugely.And in a bookstore: readers are hesitating over which book to pick up. They can’t yet see the back of your book. What else do they have to go on, aside from its cover?On an Amazon selection page, the issue is even more devastating in a way. Users can’t even see a full cover, they can see a squashed-down icon of a cover. They see that, and book title, and price, and a summary of review ratings.The cover is vastly influential at that first moment of choice – and a bad cover can easily crush your sales conversions here severalfold. A good cover (and title) can increase conversions severalfold.And it’s not just that first moment of choice. It’s everything else, too. Your other visual marketing material will be (or should be) keying off that cover. You can’t, for example, create a good Facebook ad unless you have a strong cover. I mean, literally, you cannot do it. Because if you place the book cover on the ad, it looks weak, because the cover is weak, and you won’t get clicks. And if you don’t place the cover on the ad and use something more visually attractive instead, then you will get the clicks, but you won’t get the conversions when people land on your unattractive Amazon page.So, your book cover matters.If you’re an indie author, you sort of know that already and will have put proper time in to getting the cover right.If you’re trad published, it’s very easy to be seduced by the grownups-know-best thing and to accept the cover you’re given. (And everyone will try to massage you into accepting that cover; publishers do not love having to redo something that’s been settled internally, even if they secretly know that the settled-internally option is not yet good enough.) So trad-published authors need to be on their guard. If that cover seems off to you, it is off. Fight for a better one.Take your time When you’re writing and editing a novel, it’s almost a matter of pride amongst authors to boast about how many drafts they’ve done. How many times a paragraph gets re-written.But with marketing, it’s often the other way around. We like to get a job done so we can move on to the next thing that’s calling – maybe, some damn paragraph that wants another rewrite.Do not be like that.I’ve found when I mock up (say) Facebook ads on Canva, that I do something, and I like it. Yes: I like it after trying this element here or there, and this colour or that one, and this font for another.But I’m quick to like something.If I come back to the same task again the next day, I’ll do something better.And if I come back the next day, I’ll do better again. By this point, my first attempts don’t look amateurish exactly… just not quite good enough.And, realistically, for a lot of tasks – and definitely Facebook ad creation – you don’t need one utterly professional looking ad, you need loads. One of those ads will outperform the rest, but you can’t tell which one it’ll be until you try ‘em out.So take your time. Do multiple versions. Pick the best.And – good luck. Writing is hard. Selling is hard. And I hope these emails have helped.*FEEDBACK FRIDAYAn odd one, this week, but a good one to do.What matters to do you in writing? What do you want to get out of this? What do you think the biggest obstacles are? What would help? Let me know. I think it’ll be an amazing conversation.See you there.Til soon,Harry

The corpse on the page

Last week, I said:“As you write, and as you edit, you are faced with 1,000,000 choices: again and again and again. Are you happy with this sentence? What about this one? Does the attacker strike your heroine? Strike her with what? Does he hurt her? Does she hurt him back? Does she escape? How does she escape?”And –Well, just casually, almost by way of an aside, I’ve assumed it’s just fine to write about violence against women. But is it? Pretty obviously, violence is bad, and male violence against women is especially unlovely … and making an entertainment out of all this? Isn’t that a bit Ugh?One approach is to say that violence of this sort should never be used for entertainment.A British screenwriter, Bridget Lawless, in fact set up a prize – the Staunch Book Prize – which rewarded novels that did not feature violence against women. The prize sputtered on for a few years before closing.The prize was never without controversy, though. Women thriller writers, Sarah Hilary and Julia Crouch, both noted that women do in fact suffer violence by men. Crouch said, what the “prize immediately knocks out is the lived experience of millions of women in this country.”That’s true of course … women do suffer violence, so we should talk about that rather than conceal it. And that feels like it might be a let-out, except if I’m being super-duper honest, my last book involved a contemporary detective running around searching for artefacts linked to King Arthur. The one before that involved an extended caving scene and some (literally) mediaeval monastic practices. My books aren’t really attempting to take the ‘lived experience of millions of women’ and make art out of them. They’re attempts to provide bloody good entertainment using stories which aren’t, quite frankly, all that plausible in the real world.I don’t think that I’m especially keen on having dead women, rather than men – I think I’m an equal-opportunities killer. But, yes, my books do involve violence against women. Fiona suffers ill-treatment in every single book and in many cases, other women are also victims, often dead ones.So do I use murder for entertainment? Yes.Does that include murder of women by men? Yes.Are my books intended to represent a carefully considered view of the actual ‘lived experience’ of women? No, definitely not.So, bluntly put, am I exploiting stories involving violence against women for pure entertainment purposes? Yes, I am.But do my readers, including my female readers, mind about any of this? No, they don’t. Or at least if they do, they care in such small numbers that the issue would seem not to matter all that much. And, I should say, I’d guess that at least 60-70% of my readers are women, maybe even more.Now, assuming that you (A) like writing books and (B) think that men whacking women is generally a Bad Thing, we need to figure out what’s going on here.The first thing to say is that books do generally need a splash of darkness. They don’t absolutely have to have an episode of violence at their heart, but an awful lot of books do. And it’s not surprising. We don’t want to read books about the everyday. We want our books to operate like really high-class gossip: “Gosh, no! Really …?” That reaction almost always derives from transgression of some kind and the blackest sort of transgression (especially in a sexually permissive age) is violence.The second thing to say is that there are ways of writing violence that are just … ick.Any time where the camera lens is pressed up against violence with a kind of glee is, for me, unreadable. (Indeed, I won’t even read on; I know I’m not going to like that book or that author.) Where the violence involves sadism or anything with a sexual edge, then any hint of glee or pleasure in the moment is, for me and, I think for a lot of readers, just a hard no.And for me, that’s what is always comes down to in the end.Does the way you write end up commoditising violence – making a kind of porno reel out of it?Or does your writing try to deepen our humanity? Does it try to enter those dark moments and speak truthfully of the fear, the grief, the compassion?I think if you do that, you’re OK – no matter what your genre, or story, or purpose in writing. There’s a moment in my upcoming book where Fiona comes across a corpse. The man has been hit hard with a frying pan, then shoved into a freezer, where he froze to death. That’s an ugly (albeit off-screen) dying, but it wasn’t played for laughs. It wasn’t played for sadistic thrills. The murder delivered a moment of quietness – reflection. And Fiona then went to see the dead man’s father and brother. And felt their shock and grief.None of this is filtered through some ‘holier than thou’ lens. The difference between my books and a sermon in church? Quite detectable, I’d say.So, for my money at least, entertainment is fine. Violence as part of that entertainment is fine. But – stay human, not icky.A good life rule, that....FEEDBACK FRIDAY: Be Bloody, Bold and ResoluteLast week, I asked for 250 words of happiness. Today – violence.The crack of a silver candlestick – Colonel Mustard falling – blood on the library floor. A country house aghast.Take any episode of darkness from your manuscript and let’s have a peep at it. Remember: we don’t mind a bit of blood and gore. But stay human, not creepy, please.Post yours here.Til soon.Harry

Nuisance emails from Margot & Ryan

Hello writers, we have TWO tasks in this week\'s email. If you want to take part in this week\'s Feedback Friday, keep reading to find out how to get involved - Jericho TeamSuperquick housekeeping to start off with: My How To Write A Novel in 6 Weeks course kicks off NOW. Anyone taking the courses gets a weekly video, an assignment, and peer-to-peer feedback via Feedback Friday.The first module (on planning) is free to all. I hope you get stuck in and make maximum use of it. More information in the PSes below about what to do next.After this first module, you’ll need to be a Premium Member to complete the course. If you’re not a PM and want to take part, check out our membership options here. I hope you join us.Righto.And today, I want to start with a simple question: What do you want to get out of writing?Don’t give me the ‘in your wildest dreams’ answer. We all know what you dream of: agents stalking you, publishers sending you limos with huge bunches of flowers, a bestseller list electrified by your presence, surging crowds at festivals, your own skincare range, Margot Robbie pestering you with requests to be in your movie, Ryan Gosling inviting you to his island birthday bash …And, OK, I’m sure that’s all bound to happen, but let’s have a sober version of your aspirations too.If you want to answer just that simple question, then do. We’ve put together a Townhouse forum, and please – everyone, not just Premium Members – get involved. The short version of the question is just this: What do you want to get out of writing?If you want to be more discursive (and please do!), then you might want to address any of the following questions which seem relevant to your situation:Do you think your basic idea for a book is strong enough?Are you going to finish your book?Do you intend to get help with the book (eg: via a manuscript assessment)?Do you intend to get help with your skills (eg: via a writing course)?If you’ve finished your manuscript, do you think it’s strong enough to market as it stands?What’s your preferred publication outcome: Big 5 traditional publication? Niche trad publication? Digital first publication? Self-pub?What will you do if you get your book out there and agents aren’t interested?What will you do if your self-publish your book and sales are miserable?What financial outcome would make everything worth it to you? Give us a figure.What other factors would make everything worth it? (eg: seeing your book in a bookshop. Holding a book in your hand. Getting some emails from readers.)Does critical acclaim feel important to you?Does feedback from readers feel important to you?Do you intend to write more than one book? If yes, then will you be writing in your current genre or multiple ones?Do you want to make a full-time career as author (ie: earn enough to live on from books alone.)Do you want to make a substantial part-time career as author? (Like loads of the team at JW, in fact.)Does a film / TV adaptation feel important, or is that just fantasy-land stuff for you?Don’t feel confined to that list. If there’s something I’ve missed that seems relevant, add that into your answers.And …Well, when I started writing, I definitely wanted a big 5 publisher. I definitely wanted an agent. I definitely wanted to make meaningful money.But I think the biggest thing for me was simply being a writer. I’d wanted to be an author since I was about 10 years old; I just always assumed that’s what I’d do. So being a writer for me was mostly about becoming me; anything else would have felt a bit strange, like having been born into the wrong body.I have had my work adapted for TV. That didn’t make a big difference to me, either emotionally or financially.I have had my work sold all over the place. That’s been gratifying, for sure, but not in an especially deep way. It’s fed my ego, not my soul, and these days my ego isn’t that fussed either.I’ve generally had very positive reviews from critics, but, honestly, that means less to me now than it might have done once. I feel that I know reasonably well how good or bad my books are. I’m not massively affected by what some third-party thinks. If someone doesn’t like my book, that’s as likely to be a matter of personal preference as it is to be something more fundamental.Getting really committed, insightful communications from readers? Well, that’s always been special and it’s become much more frequent in the internet age and (especially) with a bit of self-publishing.I’ve always enjoyed trad publishing (though it has also, often, frustrated the heck out of me) but I’ve always liked self-pub too (which has been much less frustrating and more reliable in terms of income.)I like writing fiction and non-fiction, but fiction is definitely harder – a lot harder, in fact.I definitely want to publish more books, but I don’t have the same fever around it as I used to. (Nor, admittedly, the same financial pressure.)I’ve never taken a writing course, but I have done courses on self-pub (well worth it) and no book of mine has ever been published without deep, professional editorial input.So: those, roughly, are my answers.What are yours?Write down your answers and actually give them some kind of sense check. If you have things like “Explore merchandise range to accompany my middle grade novel”, then ask yourself how many authors you know who have successfully done this. If your answer doesn’t get further than ‘JK Rowling’, you may want to reconsider things.The fact is that writing is hard. Getting published is hard. Not getting published is more common than getting published … and getting published in a small way is more common than getting published at scale.So, what\'s the point of all this? Well, we\'re not in the business of daydreaming. I want you to think practically about your writing future. If you have a goal in mind, it\'s much easier to reach if youknow what that goal looks like andhave concrete steps that will bring you closer to achieving it.Ask yourself: what does that journey look like? What can you do today, this very minute, to bring you closer? This could be any number of things but some ideas include: Clearing a set space in your week for writingImproving your home-writing set up to remove niggles or distractionsFinding beta readers (Try Townhouse)Getting formal expert feedback (Try a manuscript assessment, but do this only after you’ve worked hard at self-editing your work. It doesn’t pay to rush in.)Really structuring what your book is trying to be. Getting specific about things like your elevator pitch, your plot outline, your character plans, and so on. (That means writing things down, by the way. Thinking about these things while walking dogs won’t achieve the same thing.)Cultivating a writing community (Feedback Friday is a great place to start)Improving your writing craft. Why not dip your toe with this week\'s How to Write lesson? If there\'s another area you need bolstering, hit up our Masterclass library (available to Premium Members). There are also more rigorous, structured options like our flagship writing course. It really depends on where you are at and where you want to be.Doing the scary stuff. Not sure if your manuscript is ready to be marketed? Try sending it out to agents. See what response you get. Or book an agent one-to-one and ask for direct, truthful feedbackFor now though, that first step could be as simple as writing out your answers to the above questions and making sure every goal has a first step you can realistically make in the near future.Post your writing goals and next steps here. Don\'t want to share with the wider world? Reply to this post and let me know.FEEDBACK FRIDAY: HOW TO WRITE / MODULE #1 / PLANNINGWatch this video (this is the first lesson in the How to Write a Novel course. It’s free to watch, the rest of the course is for Premium Members)Do your assignment:Your pitch in <20 wordsWrite 1 short paragraph of plot summaryWrite 1 paragraph on everything else (notably character.)Upload the result to Townhouse here. I’ll see you there. Everyone welcome.Til soon.Harry

National service! More frogs! Better porridge!

Oh glory of glories, it’s election time in the UK, a summer election whose most notable emblem so far is a Prime Minister getting fabulously wet in the late spring rain.Whichever way you\'re planning to vote (and this isn\'t an invitation to let me know who you\'re voting for because that\'s not what this email is actually about) something I haven\'t been able to help but notice as I\'ve been watching the various parties campaigning is how they all use this time to come up with their sexy new offers. The Conservative Party have got their national service fairy tale, which probably would never even happen but is a good way to get lots of people talking (again, not an invitation to let me know your thoughts on this). I heard someone talking on behalf of the Green Party and, unless I was much mistaken, she got pretty close to promising the country more frogs. I haven’t in fact heard someone from the Scottish National Party promising us all better porridge, but they probably will.(And, by the way, this isn’t a way to get you to vote one thing or another. I dare say that the Green Party probably would produce more frogs. My point is that the type of promises varies according to how likely they are to be called on.)Which is all a roundabout way of talking about YOU.What do you really want from writing? From this book that you are now working on? From the one after that and the one after that?And what nature do those hopes and aspirations have?Are you in the more frogs / better porridge zone, where you list hopes in the secret confidence that you’ll never truly be called on to deliver?Or are you in the zone of grim realism about budget realities and overstretched public services, where your promises don’t really sound great, but they have a chance of actually being implemented?It goes without saying that there’s just no point living in the more frogs / better porridge fairytale zone. It’s not just that these things won’t happen. It’s that if you tell yourself fairy stories, you’ll make worse decisions.Take the tiny, but crucial, matter of book title.If you simply avoid having to think about the commercial realities of what it will take to get published and sell books, you may end with a title that you love … and makes no commercial sense.Now, I’m not in fact all that good at thinking of titles.I think the working title for my first Fiona book was Cardiff Bay. Which is a nice title, in a way, but doesn’t tell the reader that the book is a crime novel and doesn’t allude in any way to the book’s basic USP which is weirdo-detective-who-used-to-think-she-was-dead. My agent suggested Talking to the Dead, which isn’t a brilliant title but ticks both those boxes very nicely. So we went with that. If I’d been living in more of a frogs-world, I might have stuck with the less commercial title that had greater emotional appeal. I’d have been less likely to sell the book.Another example: I had a completely mad ending for The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths, which I loved. But it was kind of mental, and my editor kept nagging at it. Frog-world? I’d have stayed with my mad ending. Real-world? I edited the damn thing into shape – as I always do, and always will.So you need a hard commercial answer to the following questions:Is your work good enough? Sorry, but it probably isn’t. I say that just because only 1 in 1000 manuscripts are taken on by agents. At digital-first publishers, who may have looser entry criteria, the ratio is still about 1 in 100. So probability says that you’re still in the 999 or 99. The way to jump out of that category and into the top echelon is simply work. Self-editing. Improving your craft. Being honest about what’s not yet good enough. Using Jericho editorial services as needed. All of that. But grim realism, please. This is the most important question to ask.Is your basic idea strong enough? Too often, it isn’t. I’ve blathered on enough about elevator pitches, so won’t do so again here, but they matter. Does the basic commercial proposition of your book work? That’s similar to the question before, but it’s slightly different and it still matters. You have to be able to imagine your book in a store, or on an Amazon page, and competing with its peers on equal terms.Is your book one that will sell most in e-form or via print? That question will surprise plenty of you, but it matters too. I’ve seen people trying to pitch books to trad publishers that are really digital-first books through and through.Should you self-publish? These days, that’s a foundational question. You need to know the answer.Do you know enough about the industry? On things like approaching agents, picking titles, writing blurb – and, in fact, more or less every decision you make outside of actually writing the book – some industry knowledge matters. When you write blurb, what is the point of that blurb? What is it there to do? What length is standard? What do your competitors do? Any serious pro author brings some real knowhow to those questions. You can’t avoid them.Do you have realistic thoughts about marketing? Lots of people don’t. That matters less if you are being handled by a trad publisher. (Though even then, do you want to leave your career security in the hands of an editor who is handling 20 books like yours each year and whose life will not be much affected if your book fails completely? You do not.) But the more your route looks like indie-publishing, the more you have to have a grip on these things.I could probably more questions there, but that seems like a decent set to start off with. And of course, Jericho Writers is on the Grimly Realistic side of things always.Your porridge will not improve.We will not deliver frogs.No frogs, but … we will deliver a brilliant introductory course on HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL IN 6 WEEKS. Premium Members will get the whole course for free – course material, weekly tasks, and feedback via Feedback Friday. The first module will launch next week. This is ideal for people towards the start of their writing journey. (We’ll offer a more advanced course later in the year.)  If you aren’t a Premium Member and would like to be part of this course, this would be a good moment to join us.Feedback Friday: Tools Season - Should you Self-Publish?I said above that the question of whether or not to self-publish was foundational. And it is.So watch this Is Self-Publishing Right For Me? masterclass.And really, that’s the homework. Just spend a total of 9 minutes watching something that could push your career one way or the other. You need to make a smart, informed decision on this topic, so don’t put it off just because it’s scary.That’s not much of a Feedback Friday type task though, so on this – the last week of our Tools season – I just want you to Ask Me Anything. Whatever’s on your mind, so long as it’s to do with the business of brand / platform / tools / marketing architecture. I’ll do what I can to help....That’s it from me. Post your question here. There’s a Scotsman in my kitchen and frogs in my larder. My children are going to be snatched from me and turned into soldiers. It’s too much!Til soon.Harry

The author with two brains

All authors need two brains.The first (the lovely one) is the writing brain. This gives you your purpose, your depth, your flow, your joy.In any really well-written book, any bit you care to pick will have multiple jobs to do. It’ll set the scene, show a glimpse of character, raise a laugh, allude to theme, move the story on a notch, and so on. The biggest task in writing, in a way, is not to do any of those things – they’re all, individually, easy enough to do. The biggest challenge is to do them all at the same time … and make it look easy as you do it.But that’s writing-brain. It’s not the brain we’re talking about now. Because you also need to deploy selling-brain, and that one works very differently.For one thing, you don’t get to write lovely, lovely stories. And you have to engage in tech things and explore dashboards and (yuk!) Live in the Real World.But selling-brain does help you shift some books and make some money and create the space in your life to let writing-brain do what it does the best. So we need to help it do just that.And one of the big, big rules when you’re in selling-brain mode is that (nearly always) you need to ask: what is the one single point of this thing?Some examples:The welcome emailSomeone has just read your (paid-for) book. They loved it. They want more from you. They sign up to your mailing list because you offer them a nice free story if they do. You send them an automated email which has a download link for the free story.What is the purpose of that email?Most writers think they’re meant to pitch something. So they start selling. They try to sell the novel that the reader has in fact just read and enjoyed. Or they try to sell the future series. Or they try to push that reader to follow them on Instabook, or Facetok, or something like that.All that misses the point.The point of the email is to welcome that reader to your club. That’s it. It’s called a welcome email for a reason. Don’t sell. Just welcome.And that means that you shouldn’t talk like some brochure for dodgy Floridian timeshares. You need to talk like you. (In welcome-mode, obvs, not shouting-at-a-broken-vacuum-cleaner mode.)The point of the welcome email is the welcome. Achieve that, forget about everything else.Your cover designWhat’s the point of your cover design?Most writers, if they start to design their covers (either solo, or with a designer), are worried about honouring the book.There’s a key scene in a cave, right, where Elida comes face to face with a dragon that represents her past self? That’s key. So we need Elida (long red hair) and a cave and a dragon and obviously Elida’s serpent-sash, because that’s the key to the Elidian prophecy …And that whole line of thinking is just rubbish. Sorry, but it is.If you were designing a cover for yourself – ie: someone who knows your book intimately and adores it – then that would be the perfect cover. But the total audience for that specific cover is just one – namely you – and you’re not going to buy the book, because you’re the flipping author.So again: what’s the point of your cover design?It’s to get “warm” readers interested in buying your book.(A warm reader is anyone looking to buy a book in your approximate genre, but who hasn’t come to this bookstore specifically to buy your book.)That’s it.The point of the cover is NOT to sell the book. It can’t do that. It can induce someone to pick the book up (if they’re in a physical shop) or to click through to the specific book-page (if they’re on Amazon.)Once the reader is at that level of exploration, then it’s down to blurb, and price and reviews, and the text itself to make the sale.The job of your cover is to get warm readers interested in your book.Those readers don’t know who Elida is; they don’t know what the dragon represents; they don’t give two flying hoots about that serpent sash. They don’t know and they don’t care.So a good cover is one that says, “I look like an exciting dragon-n-sword type fantasy novel. You’d better pick me up and find out more.” The cover needs to advertise mood and genre and entice more exploration. (It’s extra good, if there’s some useful reverberation with the title.) But it does not need to speak especially about the content of the novel.Now of course, you can’t totally disregard the novel content. My second Fiona book (in the US, not the UK) had an image of a frozen landscape because a couple of the key sequences in the book involved the cold. But the allusion wasn’t very specific at all. The cover had a solitary tree in a snowy landscape. There was no solitary tree mentioned anywhere in the book and, in fact, the image on the front cover did not match anything referred to in the book. That didn’t matter. It was a great image. It invited exploration. It didn’t totally betray the content of the book. Job done.Here\'s one more example before I finish:The Facebook AdWhat’s the point of a Facebook ad?Pretty obviously, it’s there to sell books. Except that on FB’s choice of options, you have to click the thing that says “website traffic”, where the website in question is Amazon. (You can’t click an option which says “make sales” because you can’t force Amazon to share sales data with Facebook.)OK, so Facebook thinks you want to increase traffic to Amazon, and if you really want to do that, here’s a failsafe tip:Don’t put a book cover in your ad.That way when you have a brilliant image for your dragon-n-sword trilogy, you’ll attract readers … and people hoping for a movie … and people wondering if you’re offering a video game, or a T-shirt, or a set of fancy candles. The number of clicks through to Amazon will be impressive – and your sales will stink.So you need to put a book cover in your ad to deter the clicks you don’t want. Facebook will make sad faces at you and your total clicks will go down and your cost-per-click will go up. And that’s fine.The point of the ad is to make sales, not to maximise clicks.***And that’s always true when you’re selling (especially digitally.) You need to know what the point of any particular element in your selling chain is.The point of a welcome email is to welcome.The point of a book cover is to invite more exploration.The point of a Facebook ad is to make sales, and to hell with what Facebook might think the point of the ad is.At every single touchpoint in your selling chain, you need to ask “what’s the point of this?”. Then deliver that objective to the absolute maximum of your capacity.The more you load additional objectives onto a given link in the chain, the less well it will achieve its one true purpose. Forget omni-layered writing-brain. Go with uni-purpose selling brain.You’ll achieve a load more. There’s some really good content in Feedback Friday this week, so don’t stop reading here …Feedback Friday: Tools Season - Author BrandOK, we’ve got some really brilliant content for you this week.Go and watch this Establishing an Author Platform and Brand masterclass (This is Premium Member content only.)Gwyn GB, our presenter, is a really capable marketer, who also happens to be a really capable author and self-publisher. You’re in very good hands with her.This kind of material is critical if you’re self-publishing, but it’s also important if you’re heading down a more traditional route. And in any case: the more you know, the better your decisions will be.To take part in Feedback Friday, you can either:Give me a plan for your author platform and brand in 6-8 bullet points. Make sure that the first bullet point establishes very succinctly what you’re selling. What do you want to achieve in terms of cover design, mood, website, social media, and so on? It’s really fine (in fact, it’s actually positive) if your bullet points also cover what you’re not going to do. Is there an author out there in your genre who has a profile similar to what you want to achieve?Alternatively:If you have questions arising from Gwyn’s masterclass, then just ask. I’ll get to as many of your questions as I can.....That’s it from me. Post either your bullet points or questions here. Blooming Elida has got a dragon’s tail caught in that serpent sash. Again. I need to go and sort things out with my Scissors of Arandor and the Thimble of Ezagon.Til soon.Harry

The Elephant and the Technophobe

We’re talking (mostly) Tools this month – and Feedback Friday is going to hammer relentlessly at that topic, even when these emails decide to go spinning off route, down some cedar-scented hillside.And this week, we have an elephant to deal with.The elephant is Amazon or, more broadly, the digital domination of bookselling.The fact is that (so far as fiction is concerned) most books are digital. Ebooks and audiobooks together account for well over 50% of all fiction sales. The true total is probably over 70%. That’s not a stat that you’ll see bandied around by the big trad publishers – their digital share is a lot lower than that – but it’s the correct one, nevertheless. Big trad publishers account for the vast majority of bookshops sales, so their sales are skewed towards print. But that still leaves a ton of high volume digital-first publishers and the whole self-pub market which is, on its own, larger than the whole of Penguin Random House.Furthermore, print vs digital isn’t quite the right way to analyse things, because a lot of print books are sold digitally and the paths that lead up to a digital sale of a print book are normally themselves digital. So, for example, I recently read a very positive review online of Tom Holland’s Dominion, and I ended up ordering it from Amazon. The discovery, investigation and purchase process all happened online; but I still have a (very fat) book to read in the bath, not a screen.Non-fiction is a bit less digital-first than fiction. And children’s books are (thank the Lord) still mostly physical, but digital selling tools are huge no matter what.The upshot of all that?You can’t ignore the digital route to sales, no matter what you’re selling or who your publisher may turn out to be.There are lots of things that you may well choose not to do. For example, you may decide you don’t want a Twitter account, in which case I don’t care and nor will your publisher. The same goes for pretty much all other social media accounts. Social media is not an especially powerful way to sell books (or at least not to readers. If you’re super-engaged in books chat with the editors, agents, booksellers, reviewers, etc in your niche, then having those relationships will only be useful to you. But you can’t fake that engagement. If you’re not engaged now, that’s probably because you don’t want to be.But you do need a website. It can be simple. It can be one page long if you want. But you do need one. At the very least you need the following:A domain nameThis is the top-level web address – so in my case, it’s harrybingham.com.If you happen to have a very common name, or one you share with someone better known, then identify yourself with the “author” tag:  so, mikejacksonauthor.com, for example.Don’t name a website after your first book. That’s kinda fine for the first book itself, but the name will stale very quickly once we’ve written others. The exception would be if you KNOW you’re writing a particular long-running series. So, you could maybe call your website chroniclesofebradia.com, but in most cases, I think that’s an approach best left to experienced self-published authors. You can’t really go wrong with an author-led domain name.Costs for domain names should be trivial – the Jericho writers domain, for example, costs us a little more than £10 a year. (But you do have to keep renewing your purchase, or your website will vanish. You’ll get reminders, so don’t panic.)HostingThis literally means that your website has to sit on a computer somewhere, and different hosts will look after that for you. (In fact, they probably rent space from Google, or Amazon or one of the other big cloud companies, which means you shouldn’t have to worry one whit about security.)Your site will not make big demands of speed or memory or anything like that, so pretty much any web host will do for you.Content management system (“CMS”)Unless you fancy coding from scratch, you will need to build your website via an existing system designed for just that.You have two basic alternatives here:Simple / limited. Wix and Squarespace both offer affordable, drag-and-drop website builders. Pretty much anyone can use these, except my mother-in-law who comes out in a rash and starts swearing at things in German, whenever she has to deal with tech. If you are like my mother-in-law, then ask someone for help. They can do the drag-and-drop stuff. You can choose the pictures and get the tea.More complex / powerful – or, in other words, WordPress. You need to be technically competent to handle this beast, or you need to pay someone.Back in the day, WordPress was really the only way to go for people who wanted a powerful site (ie: one capable of handling a very wide range of functionality) but these days the simple options probably have enough power for 95% of authors, perhaps more.DesignYes, you’ve got a great cover design for your first book. Yes, everyone loves it. No, you cannot use this for the major images of your site.The reason is that any such design ages rapidly as you write more books. So your design idea – pictures, colours, fonts, and mood – need to highly consistent with your book cover and genre, but shouldn’t be too closely tied in. You can go and take a look at www.harrybingham.com by way of example. No major element there is tied in to any one book, but the whole mood is very well synchronised with my US covers. (Which look different from those in the UK, because of the way the  books got published. I prioritised the US because the designs were better and because I sell more books there.)ContentUnless you’re a real superstar – JK Rowling level, or almost – people aren’t going to spend long on your site. They’re going to use it, not read it, if you see what I mean. So help them – simple, clearly signposted blocks of content is all you need. Give readers what they need/want, then shut up. In most cases, less is more.Here are the pages you need:Home pageAbout me [ie: you the author]The books [an in-order listing of what you’re selling]Probably a page each on individual books, once you have more than 2-3ContactMaybe a set of blog pages, if you like bloggingReaders’ Club sign up pageWith a simple site, you can have the first five items on that list as sections on your home page. You don’t have to have a blog under any circumstances – though it can make life easier when it comes to add pages. But you certainly don’t need to start your site with a blog. It’s easy enough to add it later.The Readers’ Cub sign up page is essential for a properly run mailing list, but that page is delicate enough to deserve its own email.Just do itAnd finally – please don’t overthink this.When I first sold my Fiona Griffiths stuff in the US, I flew out to New York to meet my publisher. At that stage, I didn’t have a website. I spoke to a junior marketing person who said, yeah, you need a website. So I sat in my hotel room and spent 2-3 hours building a site. When I saw everyone for lunch the next day, I had a nice site to show them.I don’t turn red when I deal with computer things and I don’t swear darkly in bayrischce Deutsch, but I wasn’t especially skilled. I just got on with it. Nothing on this list costs much money. And the tools are now so developed that they’re super-simple.Got that? Schön. Ende gut, alles gut.Feedback Friday: Tools Season - The Freebie - WebsiteTwo options for you this week.Either – the freebie task againNot many of you attempted or nailed the freebie task last week, so I recorded a short video to help explain a little more accurately how readers actually find and sign up to your mailing list:Feedback Friday: Tools Season - The Freebie - WebsiteThe key things to remember are:Readers will find your “Join my Readers’ Club” message after reading your paid-for book. So you’re not seeking to sell that book. You are looking to cement your relationship with the reader. (And of course get their email address: you can’t have a relationship if you don’t have a way to get in touch with them.)When they click the link that that message, they are taken to your website where they give you their email address. You have promised to give them a freebie, by way of reward, so …You use automation tools to deliver the freebie to your reader.The freebie is going to be read by readers who have read your paid-for book, liked it enough that they want to stay in communication with you, and have downloaded your freebie. You are not selling anything to these people – or not now anyway. You are cementing a relationship. Say that phrase fifty times every morning after doing your Salute to the Sun or your 10km Ruck-a-thon. Don’t sell to your mailing list sign ups. Welcome them.If you want another go at the freebie task, then watch this video and give me:The title of your full-length novel and 2-3 sentences about it, so we know what the freebie relates to.The title of your freebie.2-3 sentences about what that freebie will offer.Your welcome text. That’s probably only 150 words or so, but be warm and welcoming and personal.Or – your websiteIf you have a website, give us the link so we can all laugh at you.If you don’t yet have a website, tell us what you’re planning.And obviously when I say, “we can all laugh at you”, I mean offer supportive positive feedback....That’s it from me. Post yours here. Til soon.Harry

A question from me to you

Folks,Mostly I write these emails according to whatever wind, breeze, draught or zephyr happens to be in my mind at the moment I start writing.But what if … I was actually a little bit more structured? What if our Feedback Friday challenges were a bit more disciplined?Here’s the vision:I want to span the year with a collection of little courses, or themed blocks of material. So, for example, let’s say that we choose one month to be entirely on the topic of character. In that month:My Friday emails will mostly talk about character. (I say mostly, because there’ll be times when it’s helpful to be able to wander around a bit.)The Feedback Friday tasks will consistently hammer away at the exact same theme– so one week might be on character appearances, the next on dialogue, the next on knowing your character, and the last maybe on characters in relationship. Remember that anyone is welcome to post work in our Feedback Friday group. I’ll only be giving feedback to Premium Members, but the peer-to-peer stuff is massively helpful on its own.For Premium Members, I want to send out supporting video tuition too. So it might be a ten minute video from me. It might be a whole Masterclass or course module. That material might be presented by me or by some other amazing person. But that means if you want to dive more deeply into a topic, you can.The idea, really, is that if you just stick around, we’ll cover everything you need to know about writing & publishing & marketing your work. As always, these things are repetitive. It’s not like we can just ‘do’ character, complete the tasks and never think about it again. Writing isn’t like that. You encounter a topic one time and learn lots. Then you encounter it again when you have more miles under your belt, and you’ll learn more.But this week, my question to you is simple.What do you want?What shall we cover?I think we should assume that the maximum length of any course or mini-course is six weeks, but apart from that, anything goes.Here are some ideas, together with some (very rough) guesses as to how long we’d need for each unit:A four-week (ish) course on planning a novelTwo or three weeks on non-fictionA compact “write a novel in 6 weeks” courseA 4-week season on Character4-weeks on plottingA week or two on plotting softwareAn advanced mini-course on making a good novel better? (4-6 weeks)4 weeks on Getting Published4 weeks on the basics of self-pub2-4 weeks on agents (how to choose them, how to work with them)And of course loads of one-off things: how to use social media, author productivity, writing & wellbeing, how to source a book cover, choosing a title, writing a blurb, making the trad vs self-pub choice.And so on!In a lot of cases, I’ll create and film totally new material for this, so I do want to know what you want. We’ll also use your responses to shape things like our Festival of Writing and our programme of live events, so the more you tell us, the more we can shape things around you.And that’s it.What do you want? What would you most like us to help with? Please let me know.You can either respond by filling out this form or by hitting the reply button, I doubt if I’ll be able to respond to every single-pingle thing that comes my way, but I will read absolutely everything.Thanks very much.May is genre month and the task this week ties-in with the upcoming events, both the Defining Your Genre workshop next Tuesday and the following virtual genre mixers.Please pick a passage that you feel particularly encapsulates your genre. Please keep your feedback for my Friday emails and Feedback Friday to the form we mentioned above and in response to this email rather than sharing it on Townhouse. What I want is:TitleGenreA line or so of explanation, if needed.A 250-word passage that conveys your genre.That’s it from me. Post yours here.Til soon.Harry

Training the beast

A slightly niche topic this week, but an important one.On the whole, new writers think, “I have to make sales. It doesn’t matter who I’m selling to. I just need to sell as much as I can, and the more I sell, the more booksellers will love me, and the more publishers will love me, and the better my chances of being asked to write another book.”That sounds terribly logical and, in bricksandmortarland, it is logical. Sales are sales. A supermarket doesn’t know or care whether Customer X is or is not the ‘right’ customer for the book they’ve just bought. If it turns out that your gran went shopping without her glasses and accidentally bought your sweet historical romance instead of the blood and guts Viking-monster-horror stuff she normally buys – well, that’s her tough luck. She discards the book unread. The superstore has its money. No one (except you) cares much about your gran.But.Amazon.Amazon doesn’t work like that or think like that, and you need to be careful.So let’s just say that you have a sweet historical romance to sell. Very imaginatively, you have called your novel My Sweet Historical Romance. The cover depicts a maiden dressed in white lace looking shyly up at the duke who will (by chapter 33) be thoroughly smitten with her.Let’s also say that you are (I know you are) particularly kind to your gran and her circle of Viking-monster-horror-loving friends.You ask your gran if she wouldn’t mind buying your new book. She’s happy to oblige. Her friends are also happy to oblige. You get a couple of dozen sales early on, when your book is newly launched.Not bad, huh? I mean, two dozen is only two dozen, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step, and a ragbag of other assorted cliches to boot.Except Amazon has a new product to offer and it has to figure out who might want it.At first (judging from the cover, the title, your book blurb and all that), Amazon guessed that your book would mostly appeal to people who liked sweet historical romance and shyly smiling maidens and all that. But then a wave of Viking-monster types charged in and bought the book. So Amazon tries offering it to other people with those reading preferences.At that point, one of two things happens.Either, loads of people are shown the book and don’t buy it, so Amazon thinks the book must be rubbish and stops marketing it.Or, people do buy the book, find it different to what they were expecting and to what they usually read, and stop reading the book partway through – and perhaps leave lacklustre reviews to boot.These outcomes are both catastrophic.The Amazon-stops-marketing-your-book option is bad, because you’ve just lost the services of the biggest and most sophisticated book retailer on the planet.The lacklustre-response option is equally bad, however, because Amazon knows (via its huge Kindle-reading base) how much of an ebook gets read. If your book doesn’t get finished, Amazon will prefer to market what it sees as better products. Further, those lacklustre reviews are going to be a stone around your neck for years to come.Either way, getting the wrong readers into your fiction early on will cause lasting (and very hard-to-reverse) damage to your sales.If all this sounds a tad theoretical, then stay tuned.Plenty of (mostly indie) authors aim to make money by using ads to direct traffic from Facebook to Amazon. What could possibly go wrong, right? For relatively small amounts of money, you can fish in the largest pool of users in the world and send them to your very own page in the world’s largest bookstore.But unless you are careful to get Facebook sending the right readers your way, you’re going to end up sending the wrong ones. And, OK, you probably won’t find that you are sending Viking-monster-horror readers to your My Sweet Historical Romance bookpage, but you might find that you are sending (say) lovers of billionaire romance to your book page. Or lovers of raunchy romance. Or other readers in nearby but definitely different niches.Any such misalignment of traffic and product will be just as injurious as the Viking-monster-horror example I started with.You’ll get weak conversions, poor reviews and people failing to finish your book.This email was sparked by a message from Dave Chesson at Kindlepreneur, who was running a profitable Amazon ad. (Or Faceboook ad; I forget which.) At one level, the arithmetic was simple. Chesson was spending X. The ads were generating X-plus-something. Everyone a winner, right?Except that the ad was badly targeted. He noticed he was getting poor reviews – and reviews from people who clearly were not his target reader.It’s not that easy creating an instantly profitable ad, but Chesson had done it. Yet he saw that the ad was doing him long-term injury, so he killed the ad. Protecting the quality of the book’s traffic was more important than making a few dollars of profit in those early days and weeks.He was absolutely right to take that step. I’d have done the exact same thing.Now, to be fair, there’s a big qualification here – namely, that once you have a decent sales record with Amazon, the beast will essentially know your readership and a few left-field readers won’t especially impair its ability or willingness to market your book. After all, readers are eclectic, and Amazon knows perfectly well that sometimes Viking-horror readers do also like a shyly smiling maiden or two. (And not just to sacrifice.)But you have to approach the Amazon sales process in order, always. Train the beast carefully. Then feed it.You’ll know when you have it nicely trained: your “customers who read this book also read” list will look like a nice collection of comparable authors. The sponsored ads (“Based on your recent views”) will also look, for the most part, like a logical collection.This advice comes in large flaming letters for indie authors. For trad authors, who just don’t have much control over what their publishers choose to do, it makes less difference. But even there, just remember that bad sales are worse than no sales, especially early on.Here endeth the lesson.Feedback FridayI’m doing a live feedback event next week, so your task this week is really simple. Premium Members can register for it here. I want, please, 250 words (max) that you really like. Also, title and genre.I’m going to give live feedback on this stuff next week, so if you don’t want your work torn to shreds in front of a baying mob, please mark it: NO LIVE FEEDBACK.(Truth is, I only pick work I already quite like and I’m never that mean. But if you don’t want the live experience, then please just tell me so.)That’s it from me. Post yours here. I’m off to slay a sea-monster and plunder a couple of Lincolnshire villages.Til soon.Harry

Making the New York Times happy

Some thoughts that have been skittering around my brain-pan like:Kittens on a polished floor.Dried chickpeas in a Bedouin caravanCorks on the eddy beneath a weirA flapper girl dancing at the Ritz with her caddish beauThe final stages of the flea high-jump OlympicsSelection of simile is according to customer choice and on a first-come-first-served basis.Before those thoughts, I will just say that a lot of you have been irritated by some slow and somewhat glitchy behaviour on our Townhouse community. It doesn’t affect everyone, and has been getting better, but it’s still annoying when it happens to you. We are aware of the issues and have got a team of boffins working on them. I hope there’ll be a major improvement by the end of this month. Here endeth the housekeeping.Thought the firstA while back, I had a chat with my agent about an author who had just been shortlisted for the Booker Prize. I said that I’d read the book and just didn’t think it was much good. No particular prose excellence. A slightly silly story. The whole thing feeling more like a performance than a story you could invest in.My agent agreed, but said that the author in question was very good at playing the literary game – essentially, she knew how to act the Grand Literary Author, so people had a tendency to believe her act.Thought the secondA while back, I mentioned that I’d been reading Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These, a novella about the Magdalen laundries in Ireland. (The laundries were run by convents, mostly, and took in prostitutes or, indeed, simply unmarried girls who had become pregnant. In theory, these places offered rehabilitation, but in practice often kept their inmates for life, and in very restrictive conditions. The system collapsed in the 1990s and the Irish government formally apologised in 2013.)There’s no question that Keegan is an excellent prose writer: understated, subtle, deft, confident. But at the same time, there’s something a little strange going on, isn’t there? The book was published in 2022 and told a story set in the Christmas of 1985. The book was nominated for, and won, the Orwell Prize for political fiction.And, OK, I liked the book, though probably not enough to give it any kind of major award. But an award for political fiction. Huh?Politics is, presumably, a system for allowing society to sort through its choices. Higher tax or less tax? More immigration or less immigration? More pay for teachers, less pay for teachers, or all teaching staff to be paid exclusively in biscuits?In any interesting political conversation, there’s something to be said for both sides. Indeed, for any interesting political conversation to happen at all, there have to betwo sides – or more.When it comes to the Magdalen Laundries, however, there aren’t two sides. There’s just the one. Absolutely everyone in the entire world, including the Irish Taoiseach and the Pope and Bono and probably every priest in Ireland, thinks that the Magdalen Laundries were a Bad Thing.So a political prize has been awarded to a book that is arguing something even less controversial than “War Can Be Rather Nasty” or “Democracy is Quite Good Really”.Why? Why bother? Why even call the book political, when it clearly is nothing of the sort?Thought the thirdOne more thought – an alarming one.What if you can’t escape your own branding? Or rather: what if you can’t escape the branding that you’re given by Publisher Island & Media Land?Anyone looking at my own publication history will see some decently reviewed commercial fiction, some odds and ends of non-fiction (at the less hefty end of the scale), and that’s it. But what if – as I do – I have a highly literary project to sell?Literary fiction needs reviews in a way that commercial fiction doesn’t, so the stuff needs to appeal to reviewers. If I had spent the last ten years traipsing around the literary salons of London and saying the right things about the right books, and mwah-ing plenty with the right editors and critics, and having minor spats with the sort of people that I was meant to have minor spats with, wouldn’t my profile be very different from what it actually is?And sure: you can definitely go from Major Literary Figure to Writes Crime Novels for Fun and Money. But can you make the move the other way around? Won’t reviewers worry that if you’re a lightweight crime novelist at heart, any supposedly literary undertaking will have an emptiness at its centre, a fundamental unseriousness?***Well, I don’t know.I do think that authors and books which carefully set out to please to the New York Times are (unsurprisingly) more likely to please the New York Times. And since the NYT is massively influential, you don’t just win that one newspaper, you have an excellent chance of establishing a particular opinion about you in Media Land generally.That’s why, I think, books like Claire Keegan’s get so heavily praised. Being any kind of reviewer or critic involves exposure. “I’m tempted to think X, but what if everyone else thinks Y? I’ll be like the only child who dressed up as Tinkerbell for World Book Day, when everyone else was doing something from the Hunger Games.”So if the opinion you’re being asked to hold is an utterly safe one (“Magdalen Laundries? Ooh, ooh, I know the answer! They were baaaaad …”), there’s a kind of relief. You won’t be the only Tinkerbell in the playground. You can safely rest assured that all the other kids will come as Tinkerbell too. The equation is roughly:                Claire Keegan = Good Author                Claire Keegan’s prose = definitely Good Prose                Theme of the Book = Ooh, yes, we definitely agree with everything here                Overall Judgement = Must be a good book, right? It must be safe to say so.And that’s why someone (I don’t mean Claire K) who writes a rather moderate book but has spent ten years acting the Great Literary Author has a competitive advantage over someone who has spent a long time writing about corpses and shootouts and things that are, y’know, actually fun.I’d like a world where what mattered was the quality of the book itself, with no distractions about who the author has or has not air-kissed, or even about who the author has or has not thrown off a (fictional) cliff or near-drowned on a (fictional) trawler. I bet you’d like that world too.But that is not the world we have and that’s a shame. On the other hand, the problem I’m talking about here is one that doesn’t really afflict debut novelists. For most of y’all, youse and you plural, this snow lies virgin, unprinted by boot, hoof, claw or tippy-toe.That said, if you want to make of yourself a young literary cub, then go for it. Write for an acclaimed (if largely unread) literary magazine, help run a literary festival, get into a Twitter spat with someone. Those things will help.If you want to write YA fiction, then it does truly help to be in the conversation. That might mean going to the right festivals, or engaging with agents / editors / booksellers / bloggers etc on Twitter, or it might mean some other form of engagement too. Those things too will definitely help.And yet …Well, the main thing is still the quality of your writing. I’ve never yet failed to sell a book that I really wanted to sell. I’ve not always looked like the person who ought to be writing it, but your writing alone should be enough to dispel those thoughts.In the meantime, though, I’m going to go and write a book about how Global Warming Could Be Quite Bad. I’m going to follow that up with my bestseller on Why Big Tobacco Might Be an Itsy Bit Dodgy.

A tale of three prologues

A few days ago, we began a new evening routine. At about 7.00 pm, the whole family sits in the living room and my wife reads a chunk of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone to the kids (two sets of twins, 7 and 9.)This is the children’s first exposure to HP and, predictably, they’re liking it very much.But interestingly, they didn’t immediately fall in love. Because kids are demonstrative, it’s easy simply to watch how engaged they are. More fiddling, more looking around, more playing with cushions – all those things are signs of weak or fading interest.And what I noticed was interesting.We all know the basic Harry Potter story. In the first book, especially, it’s mostly: Orphan goes to wizard school. Yes, there’s a whole Voldemort story being born, but the thing that grips you in that first book is the transition from boy-in-the-cupboard to student-wizard.And the very first chapter of the very first book is, in effect, a prologue. The focus of that prologue is, initially, on the (boring, repressive, Muggle) Mr Dursley. He sees some odd things – people in cloaks, a map-reading cat, too many owls. He disapproves. He thinks about drills.Then the chapter transitions to a long dialogue between Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid. That dialogue has plenty of sparkle and interest, of course. (Hagrid is a giant with a flying motorbike, Professor McGonagall was a map-reading cat, and so forth.)But?My kids were losing interest. We’d told them that this was a great book and that they’d love it, but they were visibly losing interest.All that changed with Chapter Two. In effect, the second chapter still has something prologue-y about it. There’s still no mention of school. The actual story (Harry goes to wizard school) hasn’t yet started. All that happens is we get to see Harry’s strange living arrangements and we learn about a trip to the zoo.This chapter, however, did engage the kids. If the first chapter was losing its audience, the second one captured them. It did that via Rowling’s plentiful humour. It did so by shocking the kids with the basic unfairness of the Dudley / Harry setup. It did so via the bizarre escape of a snake.Now, I’ve got a few things to say about all this. The first is that there’s something quite remarkable about JK Rowling’s pacing here. My own Fiona Griffiths stories are aimed at adults, and a pretty literate group of adults at that – but, by heck, I get my stories started in Chapter One. That doesn’t have to mean a lay a bloody corpse out for the reader’s delight (although I might), but there’s certainly a drop of blood in the water, the first tickle of story.JK Rowling, on the other hand, writes for kids. Her chapters are longer than mine. And she gets her story properly underway, only in Chapter Three. That’s remarkable and it’s a tribute to the excellence of her writing that she gets away with it, especially here, in the opening book of the series, which couldn’t rely on reputation to get its readers over humps in the road. In effect, Rowling presents three prologues to the readers in turn:Vernon Dursley’s owl-ridden day Three (strange) adults talking about something momentous Harry Potter takes a trip to the zooObserving my kids, I’d say that the first two prologues didn’t quite work, while the third one absolutely did. And bear in mind, that this is JK Rowling. She’s funny. She’s warm. She’s surprising. She’s inventive.If she’s starting to lose kids’ interest, that’s not because her writing is flaky. It’s because there’s something structurally awry.The first most obvious point is that Chapter One managed both to have a relatively dull central character (Vernon Dursley) and to have no central character at all – Dursley being pushed aside halfway through the chapter by the Dumbledore / McGonagall / Hagrid trio.So who were the kids meant to be focusing on? Because they didn’t know, the answer that emerged for them was, No one. Simply throwing in flying motorbikes doesn’t solve that problem.Likewise, the whole chapter was just too long, a total of 18 pages in the edition I’m looking at.A third problem: the Dumbledore / McGonagall / Hagrid scene didn’t involve drama – it involved adults talking about drama. No matter how big, important or strange that drama was, people talking is still just people talking.My kids were starting to wilt. The next evening, we kind of had to force Harry Potter on them. They’d rather have had a few minutes of telly.As soon as Harry Potter himself entered the book, that changed. We’re still in somewhat prologue-y territory – we have a proper central character now, but still no hint of school – but the kids had someone to bond to. They had an unfair situation (boy in cupboard) to inflame them. They had some kind of conflict (Harry vs Dursleys) to watch and engage with.Then all Rowling’s warmth and humour and inventiveness could work its magic. Although we weren’t quite in the story proper, it didn’t feel like that. The kids were off, and flying, and wanting more.Writers often, often struggle with prologues. I have done myself. But here are some rules that don’t often go wrong:Avoid them if you can Keep them short Don’t, for heaven’s sake, double up: Don’t jump from Dursley to Dumbledore inside one prologue. Talking about drama is not drama Know why you’re prologuing at all. What’s the purpose? A really bad purpose is “the first few chapters are a bit dull, so I want to tell the reader it gets more interesting later.” A really good purpose is “use the prologue to alter the way the readers understand what happens next.” For all its excess length and talkiness, Rowling’s first chapter does in fact do that: it shines a kind of lustre on Harry, that the snake-in-the-zoo chapter couldn’t do.In the end, readers want to meet their central character sooner rather than later. They want to reach Story sooner rather than later.JK Rowling is a wonderful writer and that first book of hers deserved everything that later happened. But the over-prologuing? In the hands of a less engaging writer, that weakness could have toppled the book before it started.Me, I doubt if I’ll ever write a book with a prologue again. Most of the ones that cross our editorial desk here should just be deleted.And me? Tis a frosty day with lots of sunshine. I am going outside to find an owl.

Yellow trees, November winds

I’ve just finished reading a novella, Small Things Like These, by the Irish writer, Claire Keegan.People liked that book – a lot. Hilary Mantel said, ‘wastes not a word … exquisite.’ Colm Toibin said, ‘The best novel I read this year.’ It was a Book of the Year in more publications than you can shake a stick at.It starts like this: ‘In October there were yellow trees. Then the clocks went back the hour and the long November winds came in and blew, and stripped the trees bare. In the town of New Ross, chimneys threw out smoke which fell away and drifted in hairy, drawn-out strings before dispersing along the quays, and soon the River Barrow, dark as stout, swelled up with rain.’ The simple, accurate, unshowy style is applied to descriptions of the hero’s inner life as well. Like this: Eileen was fast asleep, and for a while he watched her, feeling the need of her, letting his gaze idle over her bare shoulder, her open, sleeping hands, the soot-black darkness of her hair against the pillowslip. The longing to stay, to reach out and touch her was deep, but he took his shirt and trousers from the chair and dressed in the dark, without her waking. More is happening in that passage than it first appears. He lets ‘his gaze idle’ – that’s a good phrase. And he’s looking at a ‘bare shoulder’, which is nicely balanced. The word ‘bare’ suggests a waft of sexual attraction, but the humble word ‘shoulder’ keeps the moment restrained and almost innocent – exactly matching the couple’s interactions. Even hat last little touch about him dressing in the dark is a light but telling way to suggest the husband’s basic kindness – his willingness to suffer (a tiny bit) to allow his wife a better sleep.So: good writing, but also humble. ‘Bare shoulder’ might be a good phrase, but it’s hardly showy. ‘Soot-black hair’ is pretty darn close to cliché (albeit a cliché that works nicely here, in a domestic setting with a coal fire downstairs.)And in a way, that’s what a lot of people think novel-writing is all about. Find a character. Find a theme. Find a story. Connect all those things up with a vividly realised sense of place. Use prose that is as accurate as possible. Make sure that characters feel real. That emotional moments connect.Claire Keegan, no question, did all those things – and the critical response was amazing. She was shortlisted for a few literary prizes and won two.So: that’s one model for excellence. Spare, accurate, cumulative. Plenty of writers come to this game thinking that’s what they have to aim at. That that’s what good writing is.But it isn’t.It’s what one model of what good writing is. There are others, and just as good. Here’s another author opening a very different sort of book: Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening Hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables that ran the length of the Hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches pulled out ready for the guests. In one way, that passage is a simple enough description of a traditional Oxford college hall. Except -that fourth word. You know immediately that Philip Pullman (the author of the book, Northern Lights) has created something strange and fantastical. A world where a girl moves through it with a daemon (in this case a brown moth) alongside.That fourth word instantly eliminates any possibility that this book is going to be an accurate description of any world there’s ever been. Whatever follows that fourth word, Pullman’s excellences are not the same as Keegan’s. He’s taken her model, and trashed it.Now, OK, Pullman was writing fantasy and kids’ fantasy at that, but there’s more than one way to pull away from Keegan. Here’s the first paragraph of Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses: The candleflame and the image of the candleflame caught in the pierglass twisted and righted when he entered the hall and again when he shut the door. He took off his hat and came slowly forward. The floorboards creaked under his boots. In his black suit he stood in the dark glass where the lilies leaned so palely from their waisted cutglass vase … He looked at the face so caved and drawn among the folds of funeral cloth, the yellowed moustache, the eyelids paper thin. That was not sleeping. That was not sleeping. There’s no daemon, but this certainly isn’t Claire Keegan either. On the one hand, this is an acceptably accurate description of a non-fantasy world. But at the same time, McCarthy’s language is busily reshaping the world. He’s not entering the world as a mere reporter-of-detail. He’s entering the world with an intention to remake it.Take that sentence about the black suit, the dark glass and the leaning lilies. McCarthy writes, ‘In his black suit he stood in the dark glass.’ That sounds accurate enough – but it isn’t. He didn’t stand in the glass (a mirror), he stood in a room. By putting the man into the mirror, McCarthy takes an ordinary scene and transmutes it into an oil canvas, painted in lights and darks. It’s a canvas where where the lilies (leaning ‘so palely’ from their waisted vase) seem just as alive as the man.With his opening paragraph, McCarthy is effectively telling us, ‘Look, this world might be as real as Claire Keegan’s, but I’m going to show it to you in my way. I’m going to take an ordinary moment – man, flowers, mirror – and put a twist on it, my twist. You’re going to be reading what follows as much to see what I do as to see what the characters in my story do.’McCarthy and Pullman both draw attention to themselves. Pullman says, ‘I’ve created an astonishing world. Do you want to explore it?’ McCarthy says, ‘I render my world in an amazing way. Do you want to explore all that I can do?’The reason for hammering away at these things?Because a certain type of creative writing class can often tend to present the Keegan way as the only real way to write literature. And that’s just not true.Literature is baggy, expansive and creative. One strange line, one strange thought, can set the tone for an entire book. (‘Lyra and her daemon …’). Some books spring from exactly that disruptive impulse.My Fiona Griffiths books arose, more than anything, from her voice. Who the heck talks the way she does? Who has her humour? Her craziness? Her toughness? Her brain? Her dislocation? Her introspection? By creating a voice – an assertive, non-standard voice that takes the Claire Keegan model and shatters it – I created a book or, in fact, an entire series.So, yes, write like Claire Keegan if you want to. That’s a wonderful way to write and the people who are best at it are terrific writers.But if you don’t write that way, don’t think you have to. The best disruptors write wonderfully too. Literature is huge and capacious. Enjoy the space.And (go on, why don’t you?) behave disruptively and see what happens.PS: You know the Ultimate Novel Writing Course? The one that’s had over 600 prospectus downloads in what seems like little more than a week? Yes, well I forgot to tell you last week that there’s 10% off the price to anyone making an application before the end of this month. Good to know, right? Details here. And, yes, places are limited and demand seems very strong …

A tale of two authors

A cheaty email this week, because I’m stealing most of the content.Here’s a (lightly edited) email from – well, we’ll call him the Earl of Pembrokeshire, a gentleman widely known for the splendour of his moustaches:Way back in 2019 I was excited finally to acquire a literary agent who set about trying to find a publisher for my second novel (the first having been self-published through Matador who were very easy to deal with).Like many authors I thirsted for a conventional publication deal, but though working diligently - and getting great feedback but ultimately rejections from Doubleday and Harper Collins amongst others - my agent eventually had to inform me that he’d pretty much exhausted his list and we were at the crossroads. In the end, at my agent’s suggestion, I tried a hybrid publisher who seemed to tick most of the boxes. The price was surprisingly reasonable and their vetting process and author list suggested they were reputable and only in the market for quality stuff. They read the novel (which had already been edited by one of your own editors) and ‘made an offer’ based on my receiving 100% of royalties until I’d recovered my outlay, then 70/30. So now we have the paperback already listed and the ebook to follow soon. Simples?Not really. The publisher’s marketing is third-rate and outdated (worse still, they honestly seem to believe they’re at the cutting edge of marketing). As an author I naturally want to do as much as I possibly can to boost sales of the novel and in the several weeks between the manuscript going to the printers and the novel being listed on Amazon I immersed myself in JW’s huge resources and in David Gaughran’s courses, spending most of almost every day for three weeks reading and listening to everything I could absorb.Then I found that I had lost control of my own book because of the intransigence - and at times sheer rudeness - of the publisher. Even as I write this I’m pushing to get the publisher to give me direct access to his two distributors so I can get them to replace the book description (which the publisher has taken directly from the back cover) with the one I’ve drawn up using JW’s template which appeared in a recent article, and also to allow me to drill down into Amazon’s sub-genres and insert relevant SEOs/keywords per JW and Dave Gaughran. I may eventually get this access but it will only be through persistence and a whole lot of anxiety dealing with a belligerent publisher.The publisher insists he has done a great job and that the book is up there on Amazon and the paperback has been well printed. What more could I ask? However, I cannot overcome the feeling that all they’ve done really is introduce me to a firm of typesetters and cover designers, organized a print of the paperback and then put the listing into the hands of two distributors.All of this I’ve paid for and I still don’t have a conventional deal, plus I am committed to paying out 30% of my earnings on future sales and I am having to fight to use the marketing skills I’ve diligently put together. In short, why on earth didn’t I do this myself? …I realise this kind of story might not be new to you but it’s a salutary lesson and my experience with this project might add something to the debate. I have never at any time been anything but totally honourable with the publisher and have cooperated with everything he’s asked of me but I’m left feeling I’ve made a massive mistake.And here is an email from – a rascal known as Thorvald the Merciless, widely known for the magnificence and ferocity of his orange beard. He writes:I just wanted to send you a quick note to let you know how much of an impact Jericho Writers has had on my journey as an author. I used the Manuscript Assessment service back in January 2021, and the brilliant Lesley McDowell provided a candid review of my first novel. Needless to say, my efforts at that time were raw (a gentle way of saying the book was a bit rubbish) and needed a lot of work, but Lesley\'s advice on story structure and the other key elements of writing craft were amazing. My eyes were opened, and I was able to kick that first manuscript into shape.  I self-published that book, Viking Blood and Blade, in September 2021 and it has become a best seller in numerous Amazon Categories and I have been awarded Kindle All Star awards in each of the last 3 months. I have released three further novels since that initial release, and all have done well. My first traditionally published book, Warrior and Protector, is due to be published by Boldwood Books in October this year. I signed a four-book deal with Boldwood this summer. I have also been lucky enough to sell foreign publishing rights to my self-published series in the Czech LanguageBoth writers did what they were meant to do. Get rigorous editorial advice, preferably from Jericho Writers? Yes. Take that advice seriously? Yes. In the case of the Earl of Pembrokeshire, there was even some real dalliance with Doubleday and HarperCollins, which indicates that the book essentially was in the zone of publishable. (Which is all you need. Self-publishers need to hit that mark, but not go beyond it. Often enough, indie authors have a better sense for their market than publishers do – and the data proves it.)One writer went with a hybrid publishing solution and ended up feeling sore, out of control, and with weak sales. The other said, the hell with it, I’m going to get stuck in myself – and, by the way, did an extremely good job of it. If you check out those Vikings books on Amazon, you can see how well presented and sold they are. I’ll bet anything you like that the sales machine behind those book pages – the website, the mailing list and all that – are equally strong.Ambitious writers who go with hybrid publishing solutions usually end up feeling like the Earl of Pembrokeshire.Not always: there are some exceptions, albeit not many.And not all authors are ambitious. If you’re writing a family memoir, then a managed-publishing solution may well be a terrific way to generate a nicely printed, nicely designed book.But still. Most ambitious authors who choose a hybrid solution do usually end up feeling sore, even if just a little.The inverse is not quite true of Thorvald the Merciless.Plenty of people try the self-publishing route and find they don’t shift any books. As a matter of fact, the large majority of self-pub authors don’t sell a significant volume of books.That’s not surprising, because to succeed at self-pub (with a few exceptions, as always), you need:To be able to write wellTo write several booksTo master the various disciplines of self-pub (cover design, copy-writing, website set up, mailing list set up, paid advertising, etc)To actually execute on those disciplines in a steady, committed wayBut if you have those four arrows in your quiver, you pretty much will succeed. The scale of that success will be highly defined by your niche, your audience, your competition and so forth. What counts as success for Viking historicals may look very different if (as I expect you do) you write mostly Swamp Monster Erotica.And look: this email contrasts two route to publication – hybrid and self-pub – and, on the whole, I very much prefer the latter. But I should add that I don’t see traditional publication as being the highest and best solution for all authors. It isn’t. It goes wrong a lot. There are great outcomes in trad publishing and really disappointing ones too.I think, for most authors, the best publishing options are either trad publishing (with publishers large or small) or Thorvald-style self-pub. Everything else, honestly, feels like a compromise … though, to be clear, compromises are sometimes the right solution. (That little non-commercial family memoir? Get it nicely printed. Don’t worry about sales. Let someone else do the legwork.)That’s it from me.The Earl of Pembrokeshire is currently in Bond Street purchasing the right kind of scented wax for the tips of those moustaches.Thorvald the Merciless has just made landfall in Strathclyde – but what he’s doing there, I can’t possibly tell you. But blood will be shed …

Is your writing just a hobby?

Last week, I got this email from a writer – we will call him Mitch. And I believe that Mitch lives on a ranch in Kentucky, can handle a shotgun, has an easy seat in the saddle, and inclines towards a leathery manner in his personal relationships. Also, I don’t know why, but I see him with a small white terrier, named Rascal.Mitch writes:I fear that my writing is just a hobby and I’ll never achieve my modest ambition to get a readership that covers my self-pub costs. How do you tell? What are the signs/criteria that it’s time to move on? The industry is full of encouraging people telling everyone to just keep writing. If I played guitar or painted I wouldn’t necessarily expect to find an audience but so many writers do. But we’re not all good enough to find an audience. I’m asking you as you talk straight and don’t sugarcoat things. I’ve self-published two books of historical fiction and benefited greatly from Jericho Writers - your video self-pub course was great and I enjoyed being a FNL finalist in 2021. [FNL = Friday Night Live, an amazing event we run at both our Summer Festival of Writing and our York Festival of Writing].I decided to self-publish after winning a prize at a literary festival, getting multiple requests for full MS, and being offered a (scandalously bad) contract from a digital first publisher. The books have attracted some decent reviews and very modest sales. But now I’m questioning whether to continue investing the considerable amount of money to ensure my books are professionally edited and presented. The time is not a problem as I enjoy it. I don’t want to end up like the self-published author I know who’s published 17 books with fewer reviews in total than I’ve had on my two and even lower sales. But he keeps plodding on.What questions should I be asking myself? Well – good question, and I don’t really know, but here are some of my thoughts:Are your books good enough?If you are an FNL finalist then your book is unquestionably strong enough that it can make sales.I’d say that, in the past, whoever has won our Friday Night Live competitions is almost always strong enough to get an agent and be taken on by Big 5 publishers. I’m definitely not saying people should necessarily choose that route over self-publishing, just that the Big 5 do lay down a clear quality hurdle, which an FNL winner has successfully leaped.If you’re a finalist but not a winner, then you’re still there or thereabouts. So, if you were playing the trad publishing game, you’d be expecting to be taken very seriously by agents, you’d certainly be looking at offers from reputable digital-first outlets, and you might or might not get an offer from a Big 5 house.Either way, your books are strong enough to be published and – definitely – self-published. I won’t name names, but there are unquestionably million-plus selling authors whose books are not as good as yours. So do you have the basic quality? Yes.For anyone reading this email whose books aren’t yet in that zone, I’d generally recommend that you work more on your books (and yourself) before publishing. Mitch is in about the right zone to get published. People who aren’t yet in that zone can get published and can make sales … but real quality makes everything easier, there’s no doubt.Trad or self-pub?I think for you, there’s a real question about which route to follow.Historical fiction is one of those genres which hasn’t been so heavily colonised by indie authors. It also tends to invite standalone writing, which is just tougher to sell than anything in a series. It’s not that there’s a huge market for traditionally published hist fic, but at least there’s an ecosystem already present and thriving.But that’s not my main concern. The thing about self-pub is that – with very few exceptions – books don’t sell themselves. You need to be really clear-eyed and determined when it comes to:Editing and proof-readingCover designBook description and metadataEmail list set up and useWebsitePromos & advertisingAnd you also need to write plenty. It’s hard to make any real sales from one or two self-pub books. The flywheel really starts to spin when you have three or more … and even three is only a start.The issue here is that any shop works better when you have more to sell. So it’s tough to advertise successfully on Facebook, if you are trying to make your money back from a $4.99 ebook. But if you are promoting a $0.99 ebook that leads a reader into a series of several further $4.99 books, then your conversions will go up (because the first step is so cheap) and your income will go up (assuming that enough readers end up buying the series.)In other words, if you want to stay self-pub – and, remember, I love self-pub – then you need to make sure you’re being professional about everything, not just the editing. And you need to write more.But good books + proper marketing + several books in the series? That sounds like a winning formula to me.Other types of tradMy hunch – not based on anything much – is that you’ll be happier when accompanied by the right kind of publisher. That could definitely be digital-first: the best of those publishers are relentlessly excellent in their digital marketing. The best of them also have excellent author relationships, very often better than those to be found in the Big 5.But there’s also that long tail of regular print-led publishers I spoke about last week. The Big 5 houses don’t have all the best editors. They don’t have all the best marketers. A sizeable proportion of Big 5 authors end up completing their contracts, having made disappointing sales and never having felt the power of a big marketing machine rolling into action. I think if I were you, I’d be looking to make contact with several of those firms and see what you can make happen. Outside the Big 5 and their nearest peers, you don’t need an agent to make the approach.If you do want to go down the agent route, then the simplest, easiest route to seeing how near or far you are is to book a few one-to-one sessions with an agent (more info here). For not very much cost, you’ll get a pretty accurate read of how you’re doing. My main tip here would be to get opinions from more than one agent. In your case, you’re certainly in the zone of being saleable, and you don’t want to rely on just a single verdict.The great unknownAnd in the end, Mitch? None of us know, right? I’ve had some book deals which worked really well, others which really didn’t. The quality of my work was not always, or even usually, the largest factor in those outcomes. As authors, we’d like quality alone to determine success – the competition would still be horrendous, but at least we’d accept the basic terms of the race. But life’s not like that. It’s just less predictable. So I can offer advice, and the advice might even be wise … but reality might snake away in a different direction all the same.I hope this helps, a bit.Give Rascal a tickle under the ears from me. And easy with that old mare of yours there. Her withers look a touch inflamed.

Giants eating giants

It wasn’t that long ago since the largest publishers were collectively referred to as the Big 6.In 2013, however, the two largest companies in that pack merged to form Penguin Random House – a perfect example of how to merge two really strong brand-names into a nonsensical hodgepodge.The same is happening again now. PRH – by far the largest trade publisher – is wanting to eat up Simon & Schuster, the smallest of the Big 5. The US Department of Justice promptly launched an anti-trust lawsuit aimed at blocking the merger.        It’s easy for an author to feel like the flattened little guy in all this. Big companies merge. The fewer companies around, the fewer buyers have for their books. The less the competition, the lower the advances. Authors lose, right?Only the case is a nonsense, and it’s useful and comforting to remember why not.Self-publishingTen years ago, self-pub wasn’t really a thing. Now it certainly is. These days, there’s no longer any good public data for the scale of the self-pub market, but very roughly you should assume that self-published titles sell as many copies as all Big 5 titles on Amazon combined – in other words, one heck of a lot. Indeed, there are corners of the reading globe (romance and erotica especially) where self-publishing utterly dominates.What’s more, indie authors make money. Again, public data is no longer available, but when it was, it was clear that at every single income level you care to name, there were more indie authors earning at that level than trad-published ones. More million-dollar indies. More $100K indies. And so on down. I’m certain that that basic picture hasn’t changed.Multiple imprintsA friend of mine is currently selling a book, via a top British agent at a top British agency. The list of editors who are receiving that book include (of course) all the Big 5. It may surprise you to learn that the book doesn’t go to just one editor per publisher. It goes to as many editors, at as many imprints, as may be right for the book. From memory, the book is therefore going to two editors in different bits of HarperCollins, the same at PRH, and so on.If an auction arises, those two HarperCollins editors, let’s say, might find themselves bidding against each other. A PRH / S&S merger wouldn’t necessarily reduce the number of editors that an agent pitched to. It would just change the email addresses of one recipient.The long tailGood publishing simply does not stop at the big firms.My friend had as many small- to mid-sized publishers on that submissions list as Big 5 editors. And honestly? I think it’s simply 50/50 whether the book ends with a large house or a small one. The right publisher for that book will be one where the editorial, design and marketing visions align the best … along with a dollop of good chemistry between author and editor. A real passion from a Faber or a Bloomsbury or a Granta would (to my mind) be a better deal than a more lukewarm offer from a larger firm. (Those are British firms, but there are similar firms in the US and elsewhere too.)The quality in some of these smaller houses is incredible. You often get more daring publishing, greater willingness to take risks, and generally bolder decisions at every level of the firm. You also, as an author, actually feel important to the firm, which is not something that’s easy to feel when you’re in the grip of one of the big machines. I once rejected an offer from a top, top quality British independent and I’ve always wonder if I did the right thing. If I had to guess, I’d say probably not.MoneyThe Department of Justice suit against the PRH / S&S merger may possibly be one of the strangest anti-trust lawsuits ever conducted.The suit does not argue that consumers will be hurt by higher prices. (That won’t happen.)It doesn’t argue that consumer choice will be limited. (It won’t be.) It doesn’t argue that most authors will suffer. (They won’t.)It goes to extreme and bizarre lengths to argue that self-published books live in some wholly different realm from the trad-published ones. (Which is just dumb. Books are books. It’s not like readers even notice or care.)So why is this merger supposedly such a terrible idea? Answer: because authors of books expecting a more than $250,000 advance may be negatively impacted.Huh? That’s worth a lawsuit? Because of a possible – and highly theoretical – impact on a tiny handful of superstar authors?It’s madness.SanitySo perhaps now is a good moment to point out that:Advances aren’t everything. There are film rights and foreign sales and speaking fees and lord knows what else.Advances are advances against royalties. Highly successful books will always make money for their authors.Advances are not a metric of marketing zeal or marketing intelligence. A smaller advance from a brilliant publisher may do more for the author than a larger one from a less impassioned house.Most authors I know don’t ultimately care about money anyway. Yes, they want to be paid properly for their work, and they want that side of things to be handled with proper justice and professionalism, but the real payoff is more intangible. It’s the passion of a publisher, the respect of a community of peers, the book in the bookshop, the reviews and comments. All those things are every bit as likely – perhaps likelier – for authors working with strong indie presses as for those working with the Big 5.The simple fact is that it’s better to be an author today than at any point in the last two decades. Indeed, that’s probably underselling it. I think it’s easy to argue that this is the best ever time to be an author.The Big 5 firms are great. The indie publishers are better than they’ve ever been. Self-publishing creates a tremendously inspiring and effective route for countless authors.Author-led marketing tools are the best they’ve ever been.Barnes & Noble and Waterstones (respectively the flagship bookchains in the US and UK) are both in better shape than ever.The independent bookstore sector has lost a lot of poor-quality stores, but the strong ones remain strong.Books (thanks, especially to low cost ebook pricing) are insanely affordable – and you can read in any format you choose much more easily than before.Oh yes, and Jericho Writers is here, to make your journey to publication sweeter, better informed and more companionable than it’s ever been.Be happy. Life is good.

Fake mouldings, potted palms

Last week, I wrote a ‘Pears, walnuts, blue cheese’ email, the gist of which was that if you need to characterise a minor character fast, you just choose a very small handful of ingredients – three or four. You lay those in front of your reader. Then move on.I illustrated the notion with a very short – 200 word – scene that characterised a woman (Marianna) by calling attention to:The room (luxurious and aesthetically considered)Her appearance (slim and aesthetically considered)Her politenessThe hollowness of that politeness – the real relationship here is that of master/servant, with Marianna very much in the former roleThe scene, obviously, gets its zing from the contrast between the third and fourth bullet points there, but I did also say that you can apply the same basic technique to pretty much anything, including scene description.To prove it, let’s take this really tiny description (from the same book, This Thing of Darkness.)I meet Carolyn Sharma, Livesey’s fiancée. We meet in the lobby of my hotel, drink coffee, decaf in my case. The hotel is nice. Cheap, of course – police budgets aren’t designed to support long haul travel – but nice. The lobby is black and white and a soft coffee-tinted cream. Fake colonial mouldings and potted palms. Sharma wears khaki shorts, boat shoes, and a blue linen shirt, the colour of the sky.That’s 70 words long. The first sentence is just a statement about what’s happening: it’s not a description of anything. The second sentence just says where we are: again, it’s not actually descriptive. Then there are 35 words from “the hotel is nice” to “potted palms” which do constitute description, before the paragraph ends by turning its attention to the person again.There’s terribly little there. If we unpack it, we have:NiceCheapColours (black, white and coffee-tinted cream)Colonial mouldingsPotted palmsThere’s no real zing in that description, the way there was with the one of Marianna.It’s easy to think that must be bad. (\"No zing? But that means you’ve just bored the reader with some pedestrian text. Shouldn’t everything be zingy? Where’s my zing?\")On the other hand, this is 35 words in a 115,000 word book. And whereas, in the Marianna scene from last week, it did matter who Marianna was, here it truly doesn’t matter where Fiona and Sharma meet. We’re not going to be in this place again. Nothing really consequential happens here. They happen to meet in a hotel lobby, but could meet in a sitting room, or a coffee shop or, indeed anywhere.But the reader still needs something. Suppose the scene ran like this:I meet Carolyn Sharma, Livesey’s fiancée. We meet in the lobby of my hotel, drink coffee, decaf in my case. The hotel is cheap but nice. Sharma wears khaki shorts, boat shoes, and a blue linen shirt, the colour of the sky.You could, in theory, run the rest of the scene from that introduction, but the effect would be placeless – absent – unreal.In a way, you could argue that that shouldn’t matter. The key here is the conversation between Fiona and Sharma, nothing to do with where they met. But placelessness affects everything. If the reader doesn’t feel themself to be in a real place, everything that follows will be drained of reality Our manuscript assessment team sometimes get manuscripts like that – entire books that almost seem to be set in a blank white room. Those books always fail because they never fully engage the reader. You have to encourage the reader to get on the train before the train can move them anywhere.So this tiny little description of mine scatters just enough ingredients to give that air of reality. Cheap-but-nice hotel lobby. Black, white, cream. Fake mouldings, potted palms. That’s enough to ground the reader, to give them some sense of real people in a real place. And that – for in inconsequential scene like this – is all you need.My description, please note, follows the “three or four ingredients” rule economically, then exits. Bingo.Incidentally, it’s also worth addressing a concern that afflicts a lot of writers (and not only amateurs.) Writers often think, “If I’m describing something, doesn’t my description have to be, you know, useful?”And the answer to that is no. My little scene offers almost nothing of value to someone actually wanting to visualise the room, in the sense of finding it on a map, sketching a rough layout, or anything else. The hotel I’m describing is in Norfolk, Virginia, but I don’t:Say where in the town it isWhat the street view outside is likeWhere the hotel reception is or what it looks likeWhether there are sofas or chairs or beanbags or tables or nothing at allWhether it’s busy or not busyWhat’s black, what’s white, what’s coffee-colouredAnd so on. If you were trying to specify a location for an actual human to find and identify, you’d have to supply those details – but you aren’t and you don’t. It doesn’t matter how much you leave out. The more, the better. You can ignore the practical elements of your description almost completely.So for really simple, boring, don’t-matter-at-all descriptions, I think you can use the three to four ingredient rule and be done with it.Where you want a bit more of an emotional flavour to the description, then you use the same technique – but throw in a bit more zing.Here, for example, is a tiny vignette in a London coffee shop, where Fiona is meeting an expert witness:‘Who cares, right?’ [says Willans, a telecoms expert]‘Yes. Who the hell cares?’ [says Fiona.]All enquiries have their moments like these. That sense that an important truth is here, lurking somewhere in this coffee-scented steam, this pinboard wall flapping with student posters. A truth that might just jump up and settle if only I knew what to ask – and how to recognise it when it arrived.Again, there’s almost nothing descriptive there, except the bold-highlighted elements both suggest something confusing and hard to see. Steam blurs things. If it’s coffee-scented than that’s somehow a sideways pull on your attention. A pinboard wall flapping with posters means that any individual element is hard to pick out and understand.Partly that hard-to-see theme reflects the current murkiness of the enquiry. But it also reflects Fiona herself – her always fragile mental health, a theme that recurs at the end of the scene.Note though that the three or four ingredients rule is still doing its stuff: coffee + steam + notices on a pinboard.Note too that I’ve still told you very little about the coffee shop. (How many tables? How busy? View outside? Size?) The little bits I’ve given the reader are enough to make the scene rooted, not placeless.Finally note that your zing – the little bit of remarkable – can come from anywhere. Last week, it came from the clash between surface politeness and no real politeness at all. This week it arose by offering descriptors that both referenced visual confusion – mirroring both the investigation and Fiona’s headspace.The sweet joy of writing is its extraordinary versatility. Metaphor and meaning are scrambling to get into your manuscript at every pore. Your job is just to marshal the sluice gets to determine what does and does not get admittance.Pears, walnuts, blue cheese: it’s the formula that keeps giving.

Pears, walnuts, blue cheese

We used to have a cookbook, the theme of which was that if you found three harmonising ingredients, you essentially had a meal.So, if you just wanted a posh starter, you could put some pears, Roquefort and walnuts on a plate with a bit of dressing and, boom, a starter that you’d want to gobble up. Or you could add salad leaves and one or two other ingredients to bulk things out, and you’d have a substantial lunch.The same idea just goes on working. Scallops, peas, spring onions. Yum. Pork, apples, potatoes. Or (and this one has to be made with home made Oxfordshire elderflower cordial) gooseberries, elderflower and absolutely anything creamy.Now all this sounds like a distraction, except that I’ve wanted for a while to write something on tiny characters. Or micro scene descriptions. You know the kind of thing: you introduce a character who plays a part for a page or so, then vanishes from your book. You want that person to be lifelike and compelling for their brief appearance, but you have no great arc to play with, and you just don’t have much time or page-space either.So:Choose three or four simple ingredients. Lay them on the plate. Exit.That – or something like it – is the formula. I realised this last night as I happened to pick up one of my Fiona Griffiths books. (And, by the way, re-reading your old stuff is always a good idea. You always learn something.) In that book – This Thing of Darkness – I came across this passage, which runs to about 200 words, or about two-thirds of a paperback page:The boy – Lockwood’s son, I assume – takes us through to a big, light-filled room. Cream carpet, soft suede sofas. A painting, which might be the [$2 million] Rauschenberg, hangs over a stone fireplace.A slim woman – cropped trousers, leopard-print shoes, loose green jumper – is talking on the phone. Holds a hand up to us, meaning wait. The boy vanishes. Jon and I hang around, looking at the Rauschenberg and try to see if we can see two million quid in it.[…]The woman finishes her call and approaches. ‘Hi. I’m Marianna. Thank you for coming out.’There’s something disconnected between her words and the rest of her. As it happens, I had to push to get an appointment, so if anyone should be thanking anyone it should be us to her. But her handshake is limp, absents itself too early, and her gaze gropes in the space behind my shoulder for someone who isn’t there. I think she’d forgotten we were coming.I introduce Jon and myself, and conclude, ‘Would you prefer us to call you Mrs Lockwood? Or Marianna?’Again, that absent dart of the eyes, then, ‘Oh Marianna’s fine. Look, someone should have told you. You didn’t need to come out again about the pictures. They’re here. We got them back.’ There’s a bit more yadda yadda before the scene ends, but nothing that especially adds to the characterisation of Marianna Lockwood. Yet she seems alive, no? This doesn’t seem a character without life or personality – but there’s almost nothing there. The actual level of authorial input there is about as low as you can get.So, if you agree that this little micro-scene basically works, let’s try to figure out what’s going on.First ingredient, the room.This is Lockwood’s home, so the room is a reflection of her. It’s large. It’s full of light. It’s got suede sofas. (Q: who the hell has suede sofas? A: anyone without young kids and who values the aesthetic over the practical.) It’s got a stone fireplace with, yes, an incredibly expensive picture hanging above it.Second ingredient, Lockwood’s appearance.Not much here, but we need something. She’s slim. She’s casually dressed (trousers and a jumper), but also with some style – the shoes are a bit fancy, the trousers are cropped. Some thought has gone into this ensemble.Third ingredient, her politeness.Two junior cops have just turned up at this woman’s home. She doesn’t normally deal with those kind of intrusions, but she thanks them for coming. She says it’s OK for them to call her Marianna. She’s reasonably polite in the way she says the cops aren’t actually needed here.Fourth ingredient, the master / servant relationship.The element that gives this little scene its crackle is something else, however. Pears and walnuts go nicely together, but it’s the blue cheese that turns a nice pairing into a killer combination.So far, we have a woman who’s rich, polite, and aesthetically aware. But she’s not exactly polite, is she? In fact, she has a surface politeness which conceals a rich woman’s total lack of interest in ordinary folk.So when Fiona and Jon enter the room, Marianna’s on the phone. She doesn’t cover the mouthpiece and whisper ‘Sorry, two minutes.’ She doesn’t make a wrinkly, smiley apology face. She just raises a hand to mean, ‘Wait.’ That’s an order, not a request.Then when she does say ‘Thank you for coming’ she gets her words wrong. As Fiona observes, it’s not really a situation that calls for thank you. The politeness is the politeness of an internet chatbot – on autopilot, not actually reading the situationAnd then: there’s that disconnection between the words and the rest of her. Her handshake isn’t real and vanishes too fast. Her eyes are elsewhere. Her thoughts clearly are too.In short: she doesn’t actually give a damn about these people or their concerns at all. She doesn’t want a conflict, hence the politeness, but she doesn’t actually engage even once. She doesn’t ask them to wait, she commands them. She says thank you, but doesn’t mean it. She shakes hands, but is thinking of other things.***I think that basic strategy works again and again for these minor characters, these minor pieces of scene description and the like. If you find the right ingredients, you have all you need.In terms of finding those ingredients, I think you almost always need the basics.If we’re in a new location (Marianna’s living room), you need some basic description of what that’s like. Big, light-filled, fancy sofas – done.If we meet a new person (Marianna), we need some basic description of what she looks like. Slim, casual, stylish – done.And then I think you need to find the point of piquancy – the blue cheese in your salad. Here, the piquancy comes from that polite / not-polite clash.You don’t have to throw your piquant elements in the reader’s face. You’ll notice that our little micro-scene has nothing along the lines of “Wait there!” She commanded, an icy contempt carved into her classical features. That kind of writing never ever helps anything – except agents looking to add to their daily rejections count.Just do the basics. Add your point of piquancy. And you’re done. You have something clean, memorable – and short. Biff, baff, boff.

Things not to bother about in a heatwave

Folks, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – a country name so inept, you’d imagine is was a splinter republic of some collapsed empire rather than a country whose Parliament has been running continuously for 800 years and more – has just has had its Hottest Ever Day.And since this week has been hot, and last week you all liked being told that you didn’t have to bother with social media, I thought I’d make you a list of some other things you don’t have to bother with … along with some suggestions for things you should bother with and a few more things you might want to consider.THINGS YOU DON’T HAVE TO BOTHER ABOUT1. Split infinitives.Sentences with a split infinitive mostly sound better unsplit. But who really cares?2. Social mediaUnless you enjoy it.3. SEO for your author websiteThere’s a lot of best-practice stuff out there for Search Engine Optimisation. If you have a big, complex site like Jericho Writers, then SEO needs to be your God. For an ordinary author website, you can just forget it.4. A whole ton of other author website stuffLook, best practice involves lots of things, to do with your hosting and your CMS and your mailing list integrations and all that. If you want to get serious about mailing list and writing plenty and building a market and driving sales yourself, then you need to get into all that. But honestly? At least 98% of authors don’t want to be bothered with that, including the majority of big selling names. And you don’t need to decide now. If your career does start to lift off, you can always pay attention to all that website / mailing list stuff then. Unless you’re planning to self-publish (in which cas, get everything in place for book #1), you can always just defer the issue4. Sentences that end with prepositionsAgain, sentences mostly sound better if you don’t have a slightly dull little word hanging around at the end, but that’s only a mostly. Some sentences work better with a preposition at the end. Do what you think’s right5. Securing puffs or blurbs from famous authorsNot really your job. Not something you need to do. Not something you need to worry about. I mean, yes, if you happen to know Someone Famous, then use that connection, but don’t stress.6. Hiring a PR companyIt won’t work, so don’t bother.7. Chasing the agent who seemed so excited but now doesn’t even replyLook, agents shouldn’t do this. There’s no excuse. But agents, even those at good agencies, do behave like this. Just let them go. Send one or two chasing emails, then leave it. There are hundreds of other agents out there, so don’t stress about one fruit-loop.8. Copyediting and proofreading your manuscript to eliminate any tiny errorAgain, if you’re self-publishing, then you do need to do this. If you are a non-native speaker, or are dyslexic, or have some other reason to suspect the basic cleanliness of your text, then again you may want to consider professional copy editing (such as we offer). But most writers don’t need to worry. Just pay good, close, intelligent attention to your text as you sweep through it multiple times as part of your editing process. That, really, should be enough. No sane agent will reject a manuscript because there are some typos and the like. 9. Writing every dayI spoke to my head of marketing (who has a book out, did you know?) and asked her what her biggest “don’t worry about it” topic was. She told me that the idea you have to write something every day was, ahem, one she did not endorse. (I can’t tell you exactly what she said, because I’m afraid her language was a bit too flavoursome for a public email.)I agree with Sophie. Writing daily works for some people and not for others. Don’t stress about it, if you’re in the latter camp.10. Perfectly adapting your cover letter to individual agentsLook, the standard advice is that writers should pore over agents’ tastes and craft their covering letter to appeal directly to the specific agent addressed.But why? That just puts a ton of work on the writer, in exchange for minimal benefit for the agent. And agents are professional, right? They know that you’ll be sending your work to multiple agents.So personally, I think you should choose your agents with some thought – don’t send a thriller to someone who only handles cookbooks – but beyond a point, don’t stressTHINGS YOU DO HAVE TO BOTHER ABOUT1. Writing a bookObviously2. Editing the bookDitto3. Dealing with the necessary palaver of your publishing journey as effectively as possibleDitto4. Writing the next bookDitto5. And alsoThere is no “and also.” Write. Edit. Publish. Repeat.THINGS YOU MIGHT WANT TO BOTHER ABOUTLook, there are lots of ways that companies like ours ask you to spend money. And for some people, at some stages in their journey, spending money might be a sensible part of the answer – that’s why we exist, obviously.From top to bottom, some of the options you could think about if you wanted to are:1. Our Ultimate Novel Writing CourseRidiculously good. Also very expensive. This will appeal to people who want a writing course that will do more for your actual book than an MFA / MA type writing course. (How come? We’re more serious about plot. We’re more serious about 1-2-1 mentoring. We’re more serious about genre fiction. We’re more serious about routes to publication.) But it’s a commitment – financial and emotional. More here. If you do want to apply, remember that there’s an early bird discount for applications received before close of play on Monday.2. Our York Festival of WritingThis is just a ridiculously good weekend that somehow – always – amounts to more than the sum of its parts. It’s partly the synchronicity of everything – the deluge of thoughts and voices that fly at you all weekend – and partly the power of a community of people who share the same passion. I love this damn event, and always will. More here. 3. Manuscript assessmentThis is the rock at the heart of everything. A good manuscript assessment from a good editor remains THE best way to improve your work. If Jericho Writers could only offer one service, that’s still the one I’d probably pick. More.4. MembershipCheap as chips. Utterly brilliant. And getting better. More info. We’ve got more plans that I really can’t wait to tell you about, except those scary people in marketing keep telling me not yet.  And more, of course. There’s tons more that we can do for you. But whether to bother about all these good things? That’s your call. It depends on who you are and what your journey is. I’d never say, for example, that any serious writer HAS TO buy a manuscript assessment at some point, because that just isn’t true.And if in doubt, just call or email our Writers Support team. We employ zero salespeople. We never have and never will. We just employ people who are there to support writers. Hence their deeply unimaginative department name.Meantime, I am going to go and add to the long list of things I have no intention of bothering with while the sun shine.

Eh, toc toc toc

My kids, if they think something is ridiculous, tap their fingers to their heads and cry, “eh, toc toc toc.” When I told them that there is in fact a video site called Tik-Tok, they took a second to assess the news, then danced round the room shouting “eh, toc toc toc. Eh, toc toc toc.”But Tik-tok doesn’t just exist; it’s huge. In the first quarter of this year, Tik-tok saw more app downloads than anything in Facebook’s stable. It’s true that Tik-Tok still skews heavily towards youth – but kids read books too and every major publisher now includes “BookTok” in their marketing plans.For most authors, these facts are basically terrifying. It’s rare that an ordinary writer has a significant Twitter following. They’re still more unlikely to have a meaningful base on Tik-Tok or Instagram or anything else. Many authors are somewhat introvert and loathe the idea of having to go out on social media to promote themselves.At the same time – and everyone says it, so it must be true, right? – authors these days have to do more of their own marketing than ever before. That presumably means that authors have to be on Twitter and Tik-Tok and everything else if they ever want to get a book deal. It can easily sound as if the doors of the industry are closed to most authors.Now, I’ve never ever believed that – mostly because it’s simply not true. But I’ve lacked hard data to prove my point. Today, thanks to the redoubtable Jane Friedman, that’s no longer the case.In her latest Hot Sheet newsletter (subscription needed), Jane presents an interesting piece of analysis.First, she looked at the market for memoir. If any part of the books market should be eaten up by celebrities and social media influencers and all that, then it should be the memoir market, because that’s directly about the author themselves.In practice, Jane found 159 memoirs published in the first part of 2022.Those memoirs divided up as follows:22% - Books by outright celebrities5% - Current events angle (for example, people with Ukrainian expertise writing about Ukraine)20% - Media angle (either the author is a broadcaster/journalist or have first hand experience of a highly newsworthy topic, eg: memoir by someone involved in the LA crystal meth trade)21% - Established authors9% - People with a social media platform, or similar23% - People like you. No platform No media angle. Just a good story.There are a couple of points to be made here.First, the single largest category in memoir is simply people who have a great story to tell. These books have no media angle, no platform, no celebrity. Just a story worth telling and publishers who want to tell it.Many of the authors involved either weren’t on social media at all, or their profiles were so modest that no publisher would have been remotely swayed. (You really need SM followings in the 100s of 1000s to impress a publisher. Plenty of the authors concerned brought social media followings of 1000 or less.) Put bluntly, these people weren’t picked up for their ability to market books, but for their ability to write them.Secondly, this is memoir. Of course, this is where the celebs go to play. Of course, this is an area where media connections are going to help shift some books.When it comes to fiction – or plenty of non-fiction too, for that matter – celebrities don’t really get a look in. Nor do Tik-Tokkers or Instagrammers or anything much else. If you performed the same analysis for debut fiction, you’d find – give or take the odd celebrity exception – essentially no impact from social-media profile.The simple facts are these:If you do happen to bring a massive social media profile – and, as I say, you need to measure this in the 100s of 1000s – then terrific. That’s an advantage. Very few authors deliver this.If you have a social media in the thousands or the tens of thousands, then fine. Publishers will certainly make use of that profile when it comes to marketing your work, but they would never make an acquisition decision based on that profile.If you have effectively no social media profile at all, no one will care. It just doesn’t matter. There are other ways to market books. For most authors, most of the time, social media isn’t especially effective anyway.So why does the myth persist? Why do people keep saying that social media matters more than it really does?Well, Jane Friedman has an interesting view here. She says: “Platform has become a frequently cited reason for rejection. I see it as an easy-way-out response, because it is nearly impossible, in the short term, to build a platform big enough to merit a book deal, and agents and publishers know this. (My guess is they would rather not state they don’t believe in the work.) Fiction writers and memoirists especially should spend less time worrying about social media numbers and more time addressing questions like ‘Why should anyone care about this story?’ or ‘How can I write a better story?’I think Jane’s right.I think it’s genuinely exceptional for social media profile to affect a book acquisition decision.I think agents and publishers would do much better to be simply honest: “this book isn’t good enough.”I think writers should focus 95% or more of their efforts on improving their work, 5% or less on finding an agent, and about 0% on social media … unless they happen to enjoy social media, in which case they can spend as much time as they fancy.Simple, right? And if you want to know whether I walk my talk, then please know that I’ve reasonably often brought out a book without mentioning it on social media at all. Not even once. Did it injure my sales? Not even a weeny bit.That’s it from me.I’m going to lie in a peach and eat some sunshine.

Authorial Yoga

Last week, I felt rubbish, so I said so and wrote a “let’s be gentle with ourselves” email that applied as much to me as to anyone else.Unexpectedly, I got a ton of responses which told me that the message really hit home. And it made me think more broadly about the pressures we put ourselves under:“I promised myself I’d start on my next manuscript now, but I’m feeling really tired and need a long holiday this summer.”“I told myself this would be the manuscript that got an agent, but I’ve not heard anything positive yet, and maybe I just need to accept I won’t get published.”“I wanted to reimagine myself as a crime author but Expert X trashed my elevator pitch and now I can’t face the labour of bashing out the rest of this draft.”And so on.Almost every time, the thing that disables us from doing what we want to do (write a book) comes from our own set of self-demands and self-expectations. The moment we ease up on those expectations is also the moment that we release ourselves into motion again.Being kind to ourselves often has a corollary: changing our idea of who we are or who we ought to be.So take that person who thinks she ought to start her next manuscript now, but actually realises she needs to give herself a proper summer break.Perhaps part of her thinks she ought to be tough and all-conquering: Rest is for wimps. Manuscripts don’t write themselves. If a bear needs wrestling, I’ll wrestle it. That kind of person.And maybe she’s not. I mean, yes, perhaps she’s happy to wrestle bears from September to June, but come the start of Wimbledon, maybe she just needs a break. That’s OK. That’s not better or worse than the wrestle-bears-all-year sort of person; it’s just different.There are plenty of other ways in which we can be caught by our own demands. In my career, I wrote old-fashioned Sidney Sheldon style romps, then those drifted into historical fiction, then I jumped to non-fiction, then switched to crime, and currently have a ridiculously literary project on my laptop.I didn’t plan those switches ahead of time. They just made sense, so I made the jump.Take, for example, that switch from my early fiction to non-fiction. I saw that my sales, while perfectly respectable, were declining. I knew that my advances would drift down to a level I wasn’t happy with. So I changed my approach.The simple fact is if I’d stuck narrowly to a particular conception of myself as a writer, I’d have stopped writing.Maintaining a flexible sense of who you are will pay huge rewards. It will:Allow you to mess around with different genresAllow you to mess around with different approaches to publicationAllow you to reconceive your current project in ways that might be creatively richer than the path you are now onAllow you to get more from the friends and connections you make on your writing journeyIt will, in the end, help you write better books, get more readers and (deo volente) make more money.That flexibility is also an essential part of creativity. Without thinking too hard, I can think of occasions when:I turned a male character into a female one. The book worked better.I realised I needed a splash of violence halfway through the MS. The book worked better.I realised my ending was a total mess, and I re-did it. Then realised it was still a mess, and re-did it again. The book worked better.I realised there were 20,000 words too many in my book. So (contrary to the advice of my editor at the time) I slashed the length, and the book got better.Honestly, I think one of the things that separates a successful writer from an unsuccessful one – and a long career from a short one – is that ability to bend. To think one thing yesterday and a fresh thing tomorrow.Do that, and you have every chance of making this writer-lark work out for you.I was going to end the email there, except that two further thoughts keep banging at the door.Thought The First: LifeI write as someone with a disabled wife, four young children, a business to run, and no books published for several years now. I don’t know what your life situation is, but quite likely it’s full of demands as well. In which case, stop beating yourself up about inadequate productivity. Life is long. You’ve got plenty of time to write books. And there’s not a lot of point writing them if you don’t enjoy the process.Thought the Second: PublishersThe “be gentle on yourself” and “be flexible in your self-perception” messages are good ones. They’re true, they’re kind, they’re helpful.And at the same time, it’s simply a fact that sometimes – too often – agents or publishers behave in such a distressing way that it becomes almost impossible to put our focus where it needs to be – on the act of creativity. How a creative-centred industry can so often be so hopeless at looking after its talent is beyond me, really, but these things happen a lot.In these circumstances, that “be kind to yourself” slogan – how is that meant to help?“Be flexible” – yes, but what about the duties of others to be flexible, kind and basically professional in the way they handle you, your book and your career? They should count for something too, right?In the end, I don’t have an answer. Agents and publishers should always act professionally, but often they don’t, and their failures can make it miles harder to do your job. There’s nothing I can do to help with that, other than to say it’s true – and to tell you that, yes, I’ve been there myself, not once, but often.That’s all from me, now. My kids have produced some poetry books, two of which include extremely lengthy and heartfelt odes to our two gerbils. I need to go and be moved.

A little rain

Oh, there are sunny days and rainy days, there are rise-with-the-lark days and please-an-extra-hour days.There are days of ease and days of grind. There are days of inspiration and days of nothing.There are days of multitudes and days where the same sad and solitary note tolls like the bell at evensong.They don’t mean much, these grizzly days. Or if they mean anything, they are most likely to mean “Oh, I’m coming down with an infection” or “all this house- and family-admin is doing my head in; I need a break.”But that’s not necessarily how we interpret them. Because we’re idiot humans, we’re more likely to interpret a lousy day as:I’m a rubbish writerThis book is hopelessMy entire Work In Progress should be jettisonedThis idea is basically a bad oneNo agent or publisher or reader will ever want thisOnly extremely well-connected people called Charlotte or Tamara or Persephone ever get agents and I’m not even called something sort of OK like Emma or Caroline or Rosalind. As a matter of fact, I’m called Jason, and what’s the use of that?In the end, though, you have to be grimly realistic about these things. This is about rigorous mind management, not some wishy-washy getting in touch with your feelings process.Your very first task is to acknowledge the truth. You’re feeling bad. That\'s almost certainly nothing to do with the book. It’s just a passing mood (or a coming flu, or a sign that you’re tired, or a hint that you need to deal with other parts of your life, or you need a holiday, or whatever.)If you’re in that place, then don’t even think about making decisions about your book. Quite the opposite. Just assume as fact that every negative thought you hold about your book and your writing is so much horse poo. You can’t make useful decisions from that place. It’s like trying to steer a car when the wheel will only turn one way.So deal with the underlying issue. The flu, the bills that need paying, the school problem that needs addressing, whatever it is. Address that stuff first.And don’t bring blame into it. Don’t heap guilt onto whatever other burdens you are already carrying. Why give yourself the heartache?Yes, OK, you might have an ethic which is 2 hours writing every day, or a minimum of 10,000 words a week, or whatever else. And yes, a big part of the purpose of those commitments is that they have a rain or shine quality to them. You don’t have to want to do it, you just have to do it.But – be gentle on yourself. Be kind.There are days when really the bed is calling you. Let it. You won’t write good words on those days. The two hours you spend in a front of a screen are two hours further from rest and recovery.Please use this email as a FREE PASS to discharge yourself from writing duties whensoever you want. No guilt. No anxiety. No self-blame.(Do we need to place a cap on that pass? Well, OK, maybe. So you can use this pass up to 30 times a year. After that, you need a doctor’s certificate.)Is that a deal? And, by the way, I rather hope it is, because I’m having a rainy old day myself. I think I’m coming down with something. I can’t face a normal monster email. I’m going to issue myself and redeem a free pass in the one same email.Please do the same. Whenever you want. And without guilt.

Maximum Absorption II: The Sequel

Last week, we said this:A book, in any genre, is good to the extent that it absorbs its audience.That means that the book holds your imagination when you’re not reading it, but also that it holds your attention with particular fierceness while you are reading it. You can’t glide quickly over a sentence (or paragraph or scene) because you’re aware there may be some crucial weight or implication which you’d miss.Last week, we looked at how a fairly short piece of dialogue can convey whole layers of meanings to the reader. In fact, my explanation of what those meanings were ran to more than two times the length of the dialogue itself.This week, I want to illustrate how you can build absorption into your work at almost every level, from bog to small. So for example:The TwistThe classic plot twist isn’t something that features much in my work, but you can think of Big Twists – like the mid-book reveal of Real Amy in Gone Girl, or the shower scene in Psycho – where the entire book hangs on a moment of revelation or upended expectations.Those twists work in part because the book is forcing the reader to work hard.  So, to take the Gone Girl example, the reader spent the first half of the book trying to figure out the relationship between Nick and Amy, based on his (basically honest) narrative and her (very dishonest) diaries. Then you hit the plot twist and all the past understanding has to be recomputed in light of the new information. Nick’s position suddenly looks very different. Amy’s character looks very different. The reader can’t coast through these changes. They have to ditch one map and rapidly, construct a new one … while also mentally understanding the genius-but-diabolical nature of Amy’s fraud.Plot complexityI don’t really go in for the kind of twist where the book hinges in a moment. But – like many crime writers – I do make use of plot complexity. Think, for example, of a Raymond Chandler novel. The plot is tangled enough that, even when you’ve only just finished the book, you’d struggle to recap what you’ve just read.That means, of course, that as you read, you need to pay close attention. (“Hmm. So Marlowe is chasing Moose Malloy’s girlfriend, but then he’s to help deliver a ransom payment for another client, when he’s banged on the head, and that client is killed, but then Anne Riordan picks him up – and, hold on, who the heck is Anne Riordan anyway?”)The sheer intricacy of the structure means that you have to focus relentlessly on each page, because you’re worried that you’ll miss some essential fact if you don’t.Result: absorption – and a happy reader.World-buildingAnother example: world-building.The phrase (a good one) is used mostly in relation to speculative fiction but, really, you construct a world for every book and the interest you create in that world is a powerful mechanism for absorption.So take Ursula Le Guin’s Left Hand of Darkness. Early in chapter one, we encounter the famous sentence, “The King is pregnant.”Bam! You can feel how electrifying that phrase is. In four words, the reader learns something crazily unexpected about the world they now inhabit. The result: they start reading the text with intensity, keen to gather further clues about the way this world operates.That’s a classic SF example, but you can take something as simple as Before I Go To Sleep, about an amnesiac who comes to doubt the story she has about who she is. That world is our world – muesli-eating, clipped-lawn suburbia – but it’s still the fascination of the world-building that keeps people glued to the text.LocationsEven much smaller descriptions of place can force the reader to pay close attention. In one of my books, Fiona is abducted by bad guys, has a very horrible experience, and ends up taking shelter with her friend Lev, who lives in a squat. Here’s Fiona’s arrival at that lovely place:The downstairs room is lightless. The doors and windows have been boarded up front and rear. There’s a poor-quality kitchen in place – white formica doors loose on their hinges, chipboard surfaces bubbling and splitting with damp – but I already know there’s no water in the tap, no power in the sockets.Lev says nothing. Just points me upstairs.Upstairs: two bedrooms, one bathroom, nothing else. Bare boards. No furniture. No heating. No bathroom fittings, even. Lev has taken over the larger of the two bedrooms. A military looking roll of bedding, neatly furled. A ten-litre jerry can of water. A wash bowl. A primus stove and basic cooking equipment, all clean, all tidy. A black bag, of clothes I presume. A small box of food. The front window was boarded, but Lev has removed the boards and they stand leaning against the wall.Light enters the room in silence. Leaves again the same way.I don’t say anything.There’s no dialogue in this scene. No astonishing bit of writing. Much of the text is basically a list of nouns: a can of water, a wash bowl, a primus stove …Yet the contrast between Fiona’s fragile emotional state and the uncomfortable starkness of this places forces itself at the reader. Again, the reader is being made to work. They have to assess how this place is going to work for Fiona. There’s also the tremble of some kind of conflict in the air: Lev presumably thinks this place is OK, Fiona thinks … what? The work involved in figuring these things out keeps the reader (I hope!) glued to the page.HumourHumour plays a huge role in writing and not only in books that set out to be comedies. The reason is simply that humour (like dialogue) has a vibrancy that keeps readers on high alert – like an audience hanging on the words of a talented stand up.The extract above about Lev’s squat continues thus:I am not what you would call a girly girl. I don’t have a particular relationship with pink. Don’t revere handbags or hoard shoes. I don’t love to dress up, or bake, or follow faddy diets, or learn new ways to decorate my home. On the other hand, I have just spent the weekend being tortured in a barn near Rhayader and I was, I admit it, wanting something a bit homelier than this.I mean, that’s not laugh-out-loud funny or anything like that, but – in context - a funny response to the situation Fiona’s now in. The description of the squat introduced a hint of conflict (is this place suitable for Fiona right now?) and here we get the first outright declaration of Fiona’s feelings. So short paragraph delivers some humour – that contrast between “girly girl” and “spent the weekend being tortured” – plus a development of the nascent conflict. The result is intended to be a paragraph that the reader can’t safely skip over. The text demands absorption not skimming.WordsYou can take this emphasis on absorption right down to individual words. In an email a while back, I wrote:Here’s a sentence made up of the Dull Five Thousand [ie: the most common words in English]: “A bird had somehow got into the room and, unable to find a way out, flapped feebly at the windows.”Here’s a sentence that draws richly from the glittering parades [ie: more interesting vocab]: “There was the ballroom, gleaming and empty, where once – in the chill of late autumn – Alma had encountered a trapped hummingbird, which had shot past her ear in the most remarkable trajectory (a jewelled missile, it seemed, fired from a tiny cannon.)”The second sentence is from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Signature of All Things, and its language forces attention in the way that my first version of that sentence clearly didn’t.That phrase – a jewelled missile, it seemed, fired from a tiny cannon – isn’t particularly hard to decode. It’s not like the kind of literary writing that you need an English degree to understand. But it forces the reader to do some work: “OK. Yes. Parabolic flight of bird = missile shot from cannon, got that. And right, hummingbirds are colourful, hence jewelled missile. Got it.”The sentence forces the reader to do some work, but that work is rewarded by a valuable payoffRewarding workAnd that’s the whole deal. Getting readers absorbed in your book is all about:Making the readers work damn hard, ANDRewarding that labour as generously as you canThat’s the whole deal. The secret of writing.Adult fiction, kids’ fiction, non-fiction, short stories, poems. Heck, it’s the secret of writing emails like this. It’s the secret of query letters or book blurbs or pretty much anything at all. Your mission – maximum absorption – operates at every level from plot to word choice. So all you need to do now is implement that strategy.Easy, no?Oh, and thanks to Sebastian Herrmann on Unsplash for the delightful header image :)

The maximum absorption theory

I got a fair few responses to my “Curse of Cool” email last week.The majority of replies, obviously, were people disagreeing with my “Tom Cruise, I am not” statement. Indeed, the email triggered another set of annoying calls from Barbara Broccoli at Eon Productions badgering me – again – to take up the Bond role. (And, Babs, no means no. This is getting silly now.)But I also got this (from someone who was grappling a bad guy and hanging by one hand from a speeding train as he wrote.)Nothing can be substituted for depth and character work … [But] there is a difference between an archetype and the end product in my view. It\'s not the what of it, it\'s the writer\'s chops. Raskolnikov is the original bad boy from every teen book and uses tropes popular at its time (a \'pure\' fallen woman), but hardly anyone would consider Crime and Punishment shallow.And he’s right, of course. You can take what looks like a battered old archetype and just write it well. The result won’t feel battered or old at all, while still generating power from the depth of that cultural history.Which brings me to the actual point of this email, which is the Maximum Absorption Theory of Writing.What makes a book good? I mean: there’s a purely literary set of criteria which work (kind of) for separating the kinds of book that compete for Pulitzer and Booker Prizes. But there are good crime novels, good literary novels, good SF novels, and so on. What makes a good book good? What do they have in common?I think the answer is a simple – and illuminating – one.A book, in any genre, is good to the extent that it absorbs its audience.That’s partly about the book’s afterlife. If you lay a book down, reluctantly, and find yourself thinking about it later in the day – as you drive, as you wash up, as you walk the dog – then that book has absorbed you.But it’s also about the experience of reading itself. Do you read every sentence with intensity, keen to break open the richness of each one? Or do you already roughly know how this scene, or this character, or this bit of dialogue will unfold? Because if you do already know, you’ll find yourself scanning forwards to get to the next juicy bit of plot, or whatever else keeps you engaged.Once you think about writing in terms of absorption, it clarifies every task you approach.This week and next week, I’m going to unpack that theory a little bit more in terms of its implications for the way you write. Today, I’ll show you what I mean in terms of dialogue. Next week, we’ll look at the same issue in other aspects of writing too.In the bit we’ll look at now (from This Thing of Darkness), the two people speaking are Fiona Griffiths and her boss, Dennis Jackson, a senior and capable detective.‘You hurt your hand,’ he says, exhibiting the observational prowess of a seasoned officer.‘Yes, sir. I splidged myself in a car door.’‘Did you now?’‘Sir? That stuff in Rhayader. You and DI Watkins. I want to say that I really appreciate the way you handled that. I couldn’t have managed it if we’d gone down official routes. So thank you. You really helped.’‘You’re more than welcome.’This isn’t hugely remarkable or significant dialogue in some ways, but it’s mobile. You can’t predict its next move. So:He notes the injury to her handShe narrates a sarcastic comment about him stating the obvious …But she also answers the implied question, using a word – splidged – that isn’t a real word.His ‘did you now?’ comment implies some scepticism, but not really an intent to take the issue any further.She jumps on the opportunity to change the subject and does so via a statement of gratitude that’s perhaps intended to appeal his emotions or his vanity.He accepts her thanks, but this is now the third of his comments which is so flat as to be almost opaque. It’s as though he hasn’t yet shown his hand.Those numbered comments are twice as long as the text itself, but that’s good. Because there’s a lot going on in that dialogue, the reader can’t safely skim it. And although readers won’t consciously remark on, let’s say, the repetitive flatness of DCI Jackson’s comments, they will somehow notice them and integrate that flatness into their computation of what’s going on in Jackson’s brain.Sure enough, what we have is the start of a much longer bit of dialogue, which ends up with Jackson virtually accusing Fiona of being one of the crew-members of a trawler that sank – the crew-member in question being a woman of approximately Fiona’s height and build, and with a damaged hand.As he loops back to the accusation, Jackson notes the hand issue again:‘Remind me, Fiona. You “splidged” your hand?’‘In a car door, sir. I know “splidge” isn’t a real word.’‘Odd though. The same injury.’Here, you start to feel the weight of Jackson’s interrogation technique. He doesn’t bang the table and shout. He just returns, forensically but neutrally, to the challenging facts.You also note the little reward for attentive readers. Anyone who was paying attention to the earlier bit of dialogue would have noted the use of ‘splidged’ and probably also noted that it’s not a real word. Here we come back to it, find the reader’s previous attention rewarded with a nod, and encounter Fiona’s characteristically deflecting comment about it not being a real word.That deflecting comment is kind of funny, but it also signals a ratcheting up of the pressure. Fiona looked like she won the first round of interrogation (she gave nothing away; Jackson didn’t push), but the weakness of Fiona’s deflection here suggests that Jackson is winning this bout.The key thing here is that our early bit of dialogue didn’t just yield absorption-rewards as the reader first read it. It is paying off again, several pages later.It’s as though the book is trying to say to the reader, “The more you pay attention to this text, the greater the rewards you will collect.”Just contrast that with a non-absorbing version of the same rough sequence:‘How did you hurt your hand?’‘I hurt it in a car door, sir.’‘You have the same injury as the mystery woman on board the trawler. Are you that woman?’’No.’The non-absorbing version here is much, much briefer, because it replaces all the text I’ve already quoted, plus plenty more. And brevity is good, right? I personally bang on about brevity a lot, and prize it greatly.Except nothing trumps absorption, and there’s nothing here to hold the reader – literally not a single word. So yes, the reader might be intrigued to see if Jackson can stand his accusation up. (Not least because Fiona is, of course, the mystery woman.) But really, this is the kind of dialogue that an intelligent reader would want to skim through. Should want to, in fact. The more you absorb the reader – with hints of emotion, with humour, with unexpected words, with unspoken conflict, and so on – the more intently the reader is forced to read.Which means the more they attach to the book.Which means the more likely you are to find a publisher and make sales.We’ll come back to all this next week.

The Curse of Cool

Ah, Top Gun. A film so shimmering with a certain kind of macho cool that a studio can successfully bring its star back to reprise the role, even though he’s in touching distance of collecting his pension.And – that star is good at flying. He looks cool on a motorbike and, well, just looks cool. He walks with swagger, talks with attitude. Women love him. Men have bro-crushes.And with a character like this, you already know a lot. They won’t walk smack into a glass door when they’re leaving an office. They won’t get ketchup on that gleamingly white T-shirt. They’ll wear the right sort of watch but won’t bore you stupid telling you about it.They might or might not have a preference between a ’55 Petrus and a ’53 Petrus, but – if they were less James Bond and more Die Hard’s John McClane – you know they’d order a cold beer from a fancy wine waiter and somehow end up looking confident and right. They’d make it look like ordering beer in a fancy restaurant was the coolest, smartest thing to do, like anything else was somehow missing a trick.And there’s the physical prowess, of course.This hero doesn’t merely ride a motorbike; he rides it fast and has perfect control of the machine at all times. The same with the plane. Those flying scenes might look tough, but you know that, in the end, you’d rather have the 59-year-old Cruise flying for your life than any number of beautiful 20- and 30-something hotshots.The moral of these thoughts? Presumably that Cool Works. Cool, in this case, has already gathered $600 million at the box office. That’s good, right? You wouldn’t mind too much if your current Work In Progress gathered, oooh, even one tenth of that sum on publication.But, oh my friends, Cool is Bad. Cool is Boring. It’s not in film, of course, where there’s a pleasure in seeing Cool on the big screen. It’s just damn sexy. Tom Cruise has got his smoking hot brand of sex appeal, but all those big stars – male and female – bring their A-list charisma to their parts. We just don’t ask too much by way of character or story from a Tom Cruise film. We just want him to be the fullest possible, most daydreamy version of Tom Cruise for the film’s two-hour running time.But in books? Well, Cool is just dull.It’s actively hard to think of a really successful hero who’s as cool as Cruise – or, really, anything like. Just to take a few names from crime thrillers:Sherlock Holmes – super-smart and physically capable … but also cold, arrogant, tin-eared around emotional things, cutting to his friends, a drug-addict, often mournful. Verdict: NOT COOLHercule Poirot– You don’t even need to ask. The guy’s Belgian, for Pete’s sake. Verdict: NOT COOLMiss Marple – Ditto, only not Belgian.Philip Marlowe – OK, this character is smart, tough, funny, and has chemistry with women. But he also drinks too much, lives alone, is visibly lonely, and gets plenty of things wrong. He’s flawed in a way that Top Gun’s Maverick just isn’t. I don’t think we can quite give him a verdict of NOT COOL – Marlowe beats the heck out of the first three on the list. But he’s SEXY, COMPLICATED AND INTERESTING, more than cool.Tom Ripley – OK, an anti-hero, but also the star of multiple classic novels and films. But he was something like sociopathic. His romantic orientation was, by the standards of his homophobic age, a wrong one. He’s definitely not someone you half fancy, or would want your son/daughter to marry. Verdict: NOT COOL.Jack Reacher – an interesting one that, as he is super-tough and super-smart about the things you want your tough guy thriller hero to know. (Weapons, sniper-positions, military law, criminal tattoos, and so on.) That list feels quite Cruise-y – and sure enough the diminutive Tom Cruise has played Reacher, the man mountain. But whereas the audience, male or female, just kind of wants to marry Tom Cruise in the role of Maverick, they’d think twice before marrying Reacher. Reacher is basically a hobo. He’s not exactly emotionally blind, but he’s a million miles away from being able to sustain a complex relationship. He’s like a thriller version of idiot savant, incredibly dumb and incredibly capable, both at the same time. The overall verdict? Well, heck, if Maverick is the standard here, we just have to rate Reacher as NOT COOL.And so on. You can throw my Fiona Griffiths onto that list too. Yes, she’s smart and, in some ways, confident, and, in some ways, skilled. But she also does say the wrong thing to waiters, she does walk straight into glass walls, she’s a useless cook, she’s mechanically inept, and so on. Very definitely you wouldn’t get her played by a female Tom Cruise type (Angelina Jolie? Charlise Theron?). And if by chance you did find Angelina or Charlise in a role like that, you’d know they were sniffing around for an Oscar.The real point here is that cinema worships the exterior: that’s really all they can show. And yes, we can see great actors frown, or tremble, or add a shading when they speak their lines. But it’s still a basically exterior experience. Cinema therefore glorifies the exterior. It gets beautiful humans doing the sexiest possible thing in the most amazing possible locations. Obviously, there’s more complex cinema too, but complex isn’t cool. The cooler cinema gets, the simpler it gets.And books are interior things. Readers want complexity. Sherlock Holmes would have been a lesser character if he hadn’t been annoying and brilliant in about equal measure. (Fiona Griffiths the same, of course.) Philip Marlowe would have been duller if he’d always got things right, if his life wasn’t a bit of a mess. Without the whole hobo-schtick, Jack Reacher would have been just another thriller character, entertaining and forgettable.I see quite a few manuscripts where the Lure of the Cool has, in my view, led the author astray. The writer is, I suspect, thinking about film and considering what would make a great scene in cinema.But forget that. You almost certainly want a character who is both glittering and frustrating, heroic and flawed, sexy and infuriating. How you exactly whip up your ingredients is up to you, but the main point here is to forget Tom Cruise and insert the complicated character actor of your choice instead. Find things for your hero to be bad at, find ways for them to fail, find ways for them to annoy the reader.It reads better and, as always, it’s more fun to write as well.That’s it from me. I once flew with a stuntman in a microlight aircraft and almost left my lunch all over the plane. Tom Cruise, I am not.

Big to little, little to big

After last week’s monster of an email, I want to offer something shorter and a bit more Zen this week.So, the normal advice to authors is to proceed from big to little. First, get the basic idea for your novel. Hammer out your elevator pitch. Plan the novel out around that. Find the big markers first: set up, basic trajectory, denouement. Sketch out your character in the broadest strokes first. Define the basics of setting and theme.Then go round again. Add more detail. Make sure story is talking to character is talking to setting is talking to story.And again round, always refining the details, taking that first big vision and translating it into a useable blueprint.Then you start writing. You bash out a draft, with Jane Smiley’s advice in mind at every point: Every first draft is perfect because all the first draft has to do is exist.And then you edit, working again – as before – big to small, big to small, big to small.First you check the major plot turns are working, that your story-seals are watertight. You check that the basic structure is OK.Then you might get onto pacing at a relatively gross level: is this scene needed? Could we compress these two chapters into one?Then smaller and smaller, until you are fixing sentences, turning 12-word sentences into 9-word sentences and noticing that, gradually and over time, the whole book is getting faster and lighter in the water. Better. More saleable.I said at the start with this was the ‘normal’ advice and it is. I give it myself. I think that the basic model is the way to go.But …It’s not the only way to go, is it? The week before last, I wrote an email (here) about one author’s attempt to secure an agent. The gist was that the author was great, she’d done our UNWC course which is super-great, and an agent LOVED her work, yay, … except that the agent ended up saying no anyway. The email turned into a bit of a meditation on elevator pitches and trying to stay true to that basic original vision with every page.OK, All standard, wholesome fare. Except that when I do these emails based on the actual experience of an actual author, I always change names. A Kay might become a Carlotta, or a Carlotta the Mighty, or a Silesian princess called Karolina, or whatever the heck.On this occasion, the author who inspired my email was a woman with a normal Anglo-type name beginning with J. I wanted to stick with that opening initial and find a woman’s name that appealed.I went to one of those baby-name finder websites and scrolled through some Js. The name that most appealed was Jaroslawa, largely because I just liked the sound. Then I noticed that the root of the name means ‘fierce and glorious’.So my Jaroslawa become an “accomplished circus trick rider, a part-time intelligence officer, and a highly skilled swordswoman”. In line with her general fierce gloriousness, and her ability with a sword, I said that when she received the agent’s rejection she “smote the heads off a couple of cabbages with her swordstick.”There wasn’t any strategy here, no plan for the future. I just wanted a name beginning with J, found Jaroslawa, then discovered I had something ‘fierce and glorious’. Once I wrote the line about cabbages, I toyed with the idea that, over the course of the email, she would go through her entire kitchen garden decapitating vegetables.That idea felt tempting but hard to deliver – how do you decapitate a runner bean? – so I took a different route, and gave her a castle, a forest extending to thousands of acres, and a hunt that accounted for a stag, some badgers, and so on.Then she was in Ukraine, meting out justice.Then finally, she “uprooted fourteen oak trees, tore the top off a mountain, hurled a cloud as far as Ireland, and quenched her thirst by swallowing a waterfall.”In other words, she started out colourful but ended up in the realm of pure myth. And, because in the end we were only talking about agents and elevator pitches and the actual author involved quite likely does not have a castle or an extreme lust for bloodsports, the whole thing was pleasantly absurd as well.Was the email better for those flights of fancy? I think it was. Indeed, if the email lingers in the mind, it’ll probably be because (a) there was a ridiculous flight of fancy that involved castles and cloud-throwing and that kind of thing and (b) there was some modestly helpful advice about elevator pitches.The point of this analysis is simply this: I didn’t start out with the whole castle-and-cloud idea at all. I simply looked for an appealing name beginning with J. The whole thing started from there.So yes, please, in general plan from big to small, write from big to small, and edit from big to small. That’s good advice and I mostly follow it.BUT: be open to the purely adventitious. If you see something glittering and golden, then stoop to pick it up. Turn it over and play with it. Quite likely, the gods and masters and The Big will tell you that the geegaw you’ve just picked up will play no part in your book. In which case, OK, set it down.But maybe not. Maybe by making time for this small, interesting thing, you end up with a strand in your book that would never otherwise have been there. I can think of countless examples in my own work where that’s been the case.One small example: in my first Fiona Griffiths book, I had her be bad at cooking because that seemed like a sensible character move. But that little random element grew to be a significant running joke through the course of the series. At one point, she blags her way onto a commercial trawler pretending to be an experienced ship’s cook. That was a neat little plot device, of course, but it also tied up with my readers’ delighted awareness than anything involving Fiona and food was going to go catastrophically wrong. A minor early decision delivered on a larger scale much later.A bigger example: at one point, I knew that my next Fiona Griffiths book was going to be about kidnap, and I started plotting out a perfectly sensible story around that basic idea. Then a clerical friend of mine, with an interest in church history, told me something about medieval anchorites, and my book took an amazingly different turn.Big to small is always good, always right … but my goodness it’s also very sensible. And you’re an author, or want to be, which isn’t very sensible at all.So sometimes, yes, pick up the little thing and allow it to derail the bigger thing. It’s fine doing that – a lot of fun – and your book will get better.

Snakes and Angels

Quite often – a couple of times a month – I’ll get an email from someone asking me about ‘hybrid’ publishers. Are they good? Are they bad? What’s the difference between them and a vanity publisher? Should I invest my cash? And how much to invest? And what can I expect to back in terms of sales and royalties?I’ve put off writing an answer because the area is complex and just doesn’t lend itself to easy guidelines. So let me say upfront, this email will not provide you with any certainties. In every case, you need to do your own research and figure out what’s right for your situation. I don’t know what’s right for you.That said, let’s start off easy, with some definitions:Traditional publishingTrad publishing comes big or small. You can access it with or without an agent. Pretty much every book you find in a regular bookshop comes via a traditional publisher of some description, though of course the same books are available online as well.The one thing that really defines traditional publisher is that the author pays nothing and will expect to receive some money. With bigger publishers, you’ll get an advance plus (if book sales are sufficient to pay out the advance) royalties as well. With smaller publishers, advances may be small or even zero, but you’ll still get royalties on sale. And you, the author, never pay anything. I mean that literally. I’ve been an author for more than twenty years and I have never once paid a publisher any money for anything. I’ve never paid my agent. I’ve never even paid for a lunch. The flow of money is always from them to you. That’s trad publishing.Self-PublishingSelf-publishing, in its truest sense, means that you take responsibility for writing, editing, designing, producing, distributing and marketing your book.That doesn’t mean you have to do all those things personally. It’s not just fine but positively sensible to outsource certain tasks to experts. Jericho Writers offers great editing and copy editing services. Cover designers can create great covers for you. And Amazon and other online retailers offer the world’s most extraordinary distribution platform. A solo self-publisher today can access – easily – more readers than I ever could with my first book, which was a super-lead title sold by a major Big 5 publisher, with a ton of marketing spend behind it. (And yes, there’s a difference between the ability to access readers and selling books - but you need the first to achieve the second.)In financial terms, self-publishing can be defined as this: You own your work. No one else has a claim on your royalties. You have complete authority for every aspect of the book (text, design, blurb, pricing, etc). The costs and the revenues all flow through to you.(And, OK, to be really precise about this, some online distribution services such as Draft2Digital take a percentage of sales for their distribution efforts, but you can choose to operate direct at any point. Arrangements like that are a convenience, nothing else.)Book productionWhere it starts to get tricky is that some firms offer to bundle the whole book production process together for you. Lulu, for example, says: “Whether you need 1 copy or 1,000 copies, you can create and print bookstore quality books online with Lulu.”Originally, in fact, Lulu was mostly there to help you simply produce a nice-looking book. My sister, for example, took some of the best photos from my father’s memorial service and put together a beautifully produced photobook to commemorate the day. Kate didn’t think she was publishing anything, and the purpose was never to make sales. Lulu just offered a slick online tool to get a great-looking book. The book was never on sale, nor did we want it to be.A pure book production company will charge a set amount for delivering a certain mumber of books. The amount will vary with book length, format, number of illustrations and so on, but in the end, it’s not all that different from ordering canned fish. You specify what you want. You agree a price. You take delivery. What happens next is up to you. Services that do an honest job and charge nothing in terms of ongoing royalties include Scribe Media and AuthorImprints.Inevitably, however, plenty of people who use these services also have an ambition to make sales, so many such companies don’t just offer a ‘print and deliver’ service, they offer a ‘publishing’ service too. In most cases, that means your book will be uploaded to Amazon and the other online retailers and made available for sale, most likely as both print and ebook.When something that is basically a production service starts to get branded as a publishing service, things get murky. (And, just to be clear, I think Lulu is fine. I’ll have some nasty things to say about some companies, but Lulu isn’t one of them.)Vanity publishingVanity publishing is best understood by its ethics – or lack of them.The classic vanity publisher is one that purports to operate like a traditional publisher but is nothing of the sort. There’s one toxic British vanity publisher which invites writers to submit work, just as though this were a trad publisher looking for manuscripts. But when it comes to it, you’ll be told, ‘Hey, congrats, we loved your book. But you know what? This is a really tough market and our editorial board didn’t quite have the confidence to take this on in the regular way. But we’d love to handle this via our partnership process and …’Inevitably, the nature of the ‘partnership’ is that you end up paying a lot of money for the firm to produce, distribute and market the book, with sales royalties split between the two of you. (It’s that royalty split which allows them to claim a partnership exists.) The trouble this causes is many-fold:The vanity publisher has a strong financial incentive to take on any old rubbish. If they can convince an author to pay up, the firm makes money. So they honestly wouldn’t care if the were sent an old dishwasher manual. (I’m not making that up, by the way, I once did send one of these firms an old dishwasher manual. They were very excited to accept it for publication.)Real bookshops know that these firms have a strong incentive to take any old rubbish, so they don’t want to stock the books. That doesn’t apply to Amazon, of course, which essentially doesn’t vet the material being uploaded, but it does apply to all physical bookstores. There’s a hard upper limit to how much cash writers are willing to hand out in exchange for ‘publication’, so publishers can increase profits by saving money on editing, copyediting, cover design, and everything else. That means the quality of books being produced is likely to be poor, even setting aside the lack of quality control when it comes to the actual text. Marketing is hard even where good books are concerned. Marketing rubbish is effectively impossible. Since vanity publishers mostly publish rubbish (plus some good texts in the mix as well), they are not about to do any real marketing. So yes, they may offer you some marketing services for a premium price, but those services are not likely to be effective. They’re not intended to be effective; they’re intended to make you part with your cash.The ultimate problem here is simply the dishonesty. Vanity publishers aim to sell their (typically shoddy) service, while persuading writer that what they’re getting is very largely the same as they’d get from a trad publisher.I’ve seen some absolutely loathsome behaviour from vanity publishers over the years – and the list of culprits is sadly long.Ethical hybrid publishersWhich brings us to the central question in all of this:Is there such a thing as a full-service, ethical, hybrid publisher?To be specific, we’re looking for a publisher, where:You, the author, would be paying a significant sum upfront and a significant share of ongoing royalties.In exchange, you wouldn’t just get a pure book production service, or a pure production / distribution one. You’d also be getting one that looked to market and sell your booksThe answer is yes, such services do exist.Names that are usually mentioned positively in this context are She Writes Press, Girl Friday, Greenleaf and (in the UK) Matador. Please note, I’m reporting here on the general industry consensus. I haven’t recently vetted those companies and can’t guarantee that what they offer YOU will be right for your needs.But before you rush to send your book to these outfits, you need to note:They are somewhat selective. You can’t be an ethical publishing service without refusing a proportion of the books that come your way.The upfront fees can be large. She Writes Press charges $8,500 for a service with additional fees on top. You could self-assemble that core service yourself for very much less money – and with highly acceptable outcomes in terms of quality. Most authors lose money, and maybe a lot of it. With the best companies out there, perhaps 10-25% of authors recoup their investment. Maybe even 33%. The rest all lose. For very few will the investment make financial sense, when your time and effort are taken into account.When to consider an ethical hybrid publisherBy now, you’ll understand why I – and most people like me – are deeply dubious of any hybrid publisher. Wherever possible, my strong preference is to steer authors towards proper trad publishing or proper self-publishing. Both of those routes are great. They offer different things and pose different challenges, but the basic pathways are sound as a pound.Equally, if you just want a nicely produced photobook, then go to a Lulu or similar and bodge one together. It’s simple and fun.But that still leaves a whole heap of authors whose books aren’t salesy enough for a trad publisher and whose talents or ambitions don’t run to self-publishing. What then?Well, I think there is a role for ethical hybrid outfits. I remember one client of ours who had spent almost fifty years as a nurse in her home community of Leicester. She wrote a memoir about that experience, which was true, touching, nostalgic, wonderful – the record of a good life, well spent. But there was nothing especially remarkable in the story. A big commercial publisher couldn’t possibly have seen a way to strong five-figure sales, or even four-figure sales. The trad route essentially doesn’t exist for books like that.At the same time, the writer was elderly and clearly not about to start wrestling with all the tech and interfaces involved in self-publishing. So, with our encouragement, she hooked up with Matador, a reputable, full-service, hybrid. I know the lead publisher there and know him to be a decent man. Critically – this is just essential – he’s honest with his clients. He tells them what to expect. He tells them that they’ll probably lose money. The process feels like explanation, not selling. As I understand it, She Writes Press for example takes the same, full disclosure approach.Personally, I think writing a memoir is an utterly brilliant thing to do – and who cares if the resultant work isn’t one that a trad publisher wants to handle?If you write a memoir, then please, get it printed. Get enough copies that you and your loved ones can all have one. Get the things handed out like teacakes at your funeral. If you want to do that by handling the tech yourself, then fine. If not, pay someone. Either way, it’s a wonderful thing to do.As it happens, my Leicester nurse had a ton of contacts in her area and proved to be a capable saleswoman. She sold upwards of 500 copies and earned back what she’d spent. But if she’d sold nothing, but given away 500, that would still have been a great outcome. What matters was the book, not the revenue.There are other examples where it might make sense for you to just pay someone to handle things. Let’s say you run some kind of consultancy business. You think that authoring a book would prove your qualifications and be a great thing to hand out to potential clients. In that case, you’re intending to monetise the book in a way that lies outside of book sales and you just need to deal with book production and swiftly and cost effectively as you can. Snakes and angels: how to tell the differenceAs I warned you early on, it’s hard to give easy conclusions here, but here are some:Trad publishing is always a perfectly honourable route to publication The same goes for self-publishing. I like both routes. If you just want a physical book produced, then go for it. The key here is that there’s no royalty-sharing – there’s no pretence of this being a joint publishing venture. Most ‘hybrid publishers’ are deeply sleazy. To repeat: a hybrid arrangement is one where you pay upfront and via royalties. The majority of these services are, in my view, deeply deceptive and fundamentally dishonest. I know many, many authors who have been injured by them. That said, there are some honest hybrid publishers and there are some circumstances where such an arrangement could easily make sense for you. I’ve mentioned memoir and business books, but there’ll be plenty of other situations too. Hybrid publishing – with the right publisher – can make sense for some people some of the time. If you think you might be in that category, then do your research, ask questions, and trust your gut. If you feel you’re getting truthful and full disclosure answers to your questions, your putative publisher is probably honest. If you just feel heavily sold to, then treat that publisher like a rat bulging with buboes. If in doubt, run. Be pessimistic about your chances of making sales. when you are figuring out the finances of your venture, run the figures assuming that you’ll sell 50 copies. For many authors, that 50 copy figure will prove to be a gross overestimate. Books are hard to sell. What happens if you sell none? Can you live with that? Would the venture still be worthwhile? In publishing, you have to assume the worst because the worst is really quite likely to happen.That’s it from me. And lordy me, this email’s a whopper, but the topic’s important – and difficult.

A clear vision for your book

A little while ago, a writer (Jaraslawa, an accomplished circus trick rider, a part-time intelligence officer, and a highly skilled swordswoman) wrote to me to with details of a rejection letter she’d had from an agent. That letter read, in part, as follows:I love the way you write, I’m intrigued by the characters, but something isn’t hanging together for me and I’ve pored over it trying to see how I’d work with it to ‘fix’ it but it’s not coming to me. I’ve taken on books I feel this way about before and it’s never been a good decision. I believe so strongly in agent-client fit and while I think we’re ALMOST there, I think the fact I don’t have a clear vision for the book means I’m just not the right agent for you.Having said that, I think it’s an excellent novel, and I think you’ll have no trouble securing representation elsewhere.Jaraslawa (whose name means fierce and glorious) smote the heads off a couple of cabbages with her swordstick and asked me what I thought she should do. Try more agents? Get a manuscript assessment? Or what?And look. Aside from inactivity and despair, almost any option here is a good one. The right path for you really depends very much on your circumstances and priorities. I can advise, but only you can decide.That said, this particular combination of agent enthusiasm with agent rejection is very often a sign that you have an excellent novel that doesn’t yet know quite what it is. So I wrote back to say, among other things:What’s your elevator pitch? Very often a failure to get an agent comes from a core offer that isn’t quite strong enough. There are plenty of flawed books that did superbly, just because they nailed their pitch. (Hello, Dan Brown, and many others.) So: what’s the pitch? 12 words or less, please …Jaraslawa rode out into the forest that spreads for thousands of hectares about her castle and slew a stag, two foxes, three promiscuous badgers, and an animal that possessed the head and body of a boar, but the tail of an ordinary woodland squirrel. She wrote back to me thus:Arrgh I hate this. I’ve been tussling with an elevator pitch for 18 months and I’m useless at it. This is the best I have come up with:Young man learns that sex and Beethoven are no cure for grief.That sort of sounds like an elevator pitch ought to sound like, right? It has a certain salesiness to it. A certain spring.But salesiness isn’t the point. Hard-hearted as I am, I said:I have no idea why I’d want to pick up that book. But you’re trying too hard. You’re trying to encapsulate the whole book in a few words. You can’t, so don’t try. What’s the one single element of the book you’d pick out for a reader? One element. You’re trying to tell me about the man (young), his issue (grief) and what doesn’t work (sex + music). Result is an incoherent pitch. Your book may be coherent enough, but why would I pick it up?Jaroslawa uttered a great roar, the roar of a bull elk in fighting season. Saddling her best horse, she galloped east to the Ukrainian steppe, where, in a single day, she brought about the destruction of twelve Russian tanks, two self-propelled howitzers, one anti-aircraft battery and three slightly moth-eaten Cossack colonels. She wrote:I know this is crucial but I actually think it would be easier to write an entire new book! What I want to get across is that it’s a story about an immature young man in a casual relationship whose parents die horribly. His grief forces the relationship onto a more serious level than it was ever supposed to be and inevitably it cracks. He then spends the rest of the novel trying to win her back/not win her back/win her back, but it only comes together at the end when they’re both battle-hardened and ready for the full-on, proper serious thing. Lots of other stuff happens alongside, but this is the centre of the story.But how to encapsulate that? Everything I try sounds either too convoluted or too bland. How about this:Jamie and Zoe’s relationship is all about fun. But what happens when one of them suffers a terrible, life-altering loss? I know it’s 20 words, but is it any better?I wrote back – happily this time – to say:Yep! That’s it, or roughly:A man’s casual relationship gets rammed by the life-altering loss of both his parents.You’re not looking for a shoutline or piece of blurb. This line is only really for you. It connects you to the heart of why people might want to read this thing. You don’t have to say how things finish (“orphan goes to wizard school” explains the first few chapters of the entire HP series and nothing else.) The pitch doesn’t have to bring out all the other elements – readers will encounter those in the book, or via the “tell me more” conversation with a friend, etc. You just want to understand the heart of the reader appeal: why people might pick up the book in the first place.Then I think it’s worth you thinking about whether every page of your book and every significant development somehow honours that basic promise to the reader. It really may be that the answer is “yes” --- in which case, it’s really quite likely that another agent will pick the book up. Or it may be – it quite often is – that the book’s premise gets a bit muddled through the course of the plot. So (for example) a musical subplot might take on a weight that it wouldn’t have if the “casual relationship rammed by tragedy” was always foremost in your mind. It’s those cases, I think, where an agent most often loves a book but can’t quite commit to taking it on. It’s there but not-there. If the actual book lines up perfectly with a pitch to the reader, that “how would I market this?” question is solvedAs I say, all this MAY be helpful, but it also really might not be. I haven’t read your book and good books are rejected for more than one reason. But the one we’ve been talking about is, I think, usually the commonest [so far as good, well-written novels are concerned.]Jaroslawa uprooted fourteen oak trees, tore the top off a mountain, hurled a cloud as far as Ireland, and quenched her thirst by swallowing a waterfall. She wrote:I can’t thank you enough. Everything you say makes total sense and I can almost feel the path clearing before me. I shall leave you alone now and get to work.It’s obviously nice to be of value, but – now that Jaroslawa has finally stopped throwing clouds around – a few sober reflections too:When you get the kind of rejection letter that Jaroslawa got – excited, positive, but still no – the answer is very often something to do with the basic sales pitch of the book. If that’s the case, then finding the one single thing you’d want to tell someone about the book is massively helpful. Forget about salesiness. Forget about encapsulating everything. You just want one thing. A casual relationship is struck by tragedy. What happens next? That may or may not be a book you’d want to pick up, but you know immediately what it’s offering. It’s not enough to know. You also have to deliver. Does every page of the book honour that basic promise? If it does, your agent knows how to sell the book. If it doesn’t, she doesn’t. And although the answer to this kind of conundrum often lies in understanding the book’s elevator pitch better, it doesn’t always. Sometimes an agent just doesn’t quite click. Sometimes the elevator pitch is fine, but the characters aren’t quite singing. And so on. I happen to have come out of this email exchange looking prescient, but quite often the issue lies elsewhere. In other words, if the elevator pitch line of attack delivers something for you, great. And if not, OK. Don’t worry about it. You’ll find the issue lies somewhere else.That’s more or less it from me, except I did have to quote one more email from a reader who is sick the back teeth of everything to do with elevator pitches. Tuck into her rage in the PSes below.---PPPS: Emma wrote to me (in relation to last week’s “round and round, round and round” email.) She said:Yes, I absolutely agree with you about the usefulness of repetition. Apart from one notable, infuriating exception.The concept of the elevator pitch.It is explained in detail (often giving the same \'Aliens\' example) in practically every ****ing workshop/webinar/video on novel writing ever.It is akin to the presenter holding up a biro and showing the pointy end.And uh, yes. This is another email about the pointy end of the biro. To all the Emmas out there, I beg your pardon. By way of compensation, I shall get Jaroslawa to steal, flay and roast you a herd of bullocks.

The Book of Tom – or how to see a halo

As you all know, I have about a million kids. (Don’t ask me for an exact number; I haven’t counted recently.)The older boy, Tom, is bright, imaginative, interesting, kind, wise – and absolutely hopeless when it comes to anything involving pens, pencils and paper. He’s coming up to nine years old and his hand-writing is worse than that of his six-year-old siblings. It’s not just bad, even. It’s bananas. When writing his name, he’ll write a giant T, a teeny-tiny O, and then an M placed orthogonally to the other two letters. He’ll then probably colour in the O, add a bird, drop his pencil, then forget completely what he was doing.The process is joyous, and liberated, and inventive … and unlikely to pass any exams.In part, we’ve decided to address that challenge by side-stepping it. OK, he can’t write. So help him type. He’s learning to touch-type and is about 100 lessons into a 450-lesson course. He already knows the placement of every key and is reasonably accurate in using them.  The process remains slow, so it’s a labour to produce a sentence – but there’s definitely progress.But what about his experience right now? Just this week, my wife and I realised that Tom’s inability to write meant that he couldn’t see his thoughts. His twin sister, for whom writing comes fluently, has the ability to come up with poems, think great thoughts, write cards, make jokes – and to see those things on paper. Tom’s never really had that joy.Nor is it simply that Tabby can see the product of her mind. It’s that, seeing it, she can refine it. You can’t easily hold a poem in your head. But if you get the first line or two down, you can stop thinking about them and move on to the next one. If all you have is a fragile memory to rely on, the anxiety around your ability to retain that material essentially disables the production of further content.All that’s been heavily studied, of course. Plenty of purely oral societies don’t have a word for ‘word’. How could they? And why would they? To a non-literate culture, the notion of a word feels like a dubious scientific hypothesis. As soon as you’re literate, the existence of words (and sentences, and clauses, and verbs, and everything else) looks like accomplished fact.Because oral cultures don’t have a way to pin down the spoken word, they tend towards fierce conservatism (“No, that’s not how we build a barn”). They value mnemonics, no matter how dodgy (“Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight”). They venerate collective and ancient wisdom over anything else. Preservation of knowledge is way more important than challenging and, possibly, improving it.Up till now and in some respects only, our little Tom (whose reading is absolutely fine) has been like an oral-only child living in a highly literate world.We realised we needed to give him the gift of seeing his thoughts.So I sat with him with my laptop at the ready. We created a new document – The Book Of Tom – and I told him that he could simply dictate anything he wanted: thoughts, poems, jokes, inventions, ideas, songs, sentences, anything.For about two minutes he was shy and uncertain, but then we got going on “An Invention” – and he lit up. He became fluent. His words became text, and not even the scrappy text of normal eight-year-old handwriting, but the text of a beautifully sculpted font (Gill Sans, if you want to know.) His words didn’t just take on permanence, the perfect typesetting lent them a kind of beauty too.The Book of Tom is now a document that’ll grow a little bit longer every day. A mostly-oral child has hopped over the fence into full literacy and he loves it. It’s like there’s a halo around his writing, which means around his thoughts, which means around him. Tom has seen his own halo, and it’s wonderful.Now, OK, that’s a beautiful story, but what does it have to do with you? (I’m taking a wild guess here and am assuming that you don’t yourself labour to generate text.)More than you might think, I suspect. We all share the joy of seeing our words take shape on the page. Tom, it’s true, experienced the pleasure particularly sweetly, because this was the first time he’d had that feeling, because it overcame a deficiency he knew in himself. But still: seeing our thoughts take physical shape – that’s still a reliably golden experience. You have it. I have it. We all do.What’s more, though you’ve most likely been a confident writer from childhood onwards, the first time you wrote real long form text – that novel, your memoir, your whatever – you did have something of a first-born experience:I thought up a story in my head, and here it is, and it’s wonderful.Because you can’t hold 100,000 words in your head, or anything close, there’s a step-change between day-dreaming a novel and actually having my_great_novel.doc live on your computer. The aroma of that first story is intoxicating. You’re like Tom, seeing his invention come to life in Gill Sans before his delighted gaze.Cherish that joy! What a gift it is to have such a deep and reliable pleasure on tap – and where the only cost involved is the tiny effort involved in opening a laptop. We’re writers; we’re lucky.But also: beware, oh beware of that that joy.The joy can easily trick you into thinking that what you’ve written is actually good. And maybe it’s not. The invention that Tom wrote about? It’s rubbish. His first story? It’s terrible. Of course they’re bad: he’s eight.For Tom, right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters now is our giving him a power and him learning to use it. It’s the learning that matters, not the outcome.You’re not like that. You want some actual readers to read your actual book. You want them to like it. You might even want to get paid.But because you’re giddy with the joy of seeing your story unfold in rich and beautiful detail on the page, you may not see its inadequacies. Agents – those brutes – don’t feel your joy and they’re keenly attuned to the inadequacies. Editors are worse. Critics are horrible. Readers are fickle.In a strange way, the process of maturing as a writer is one of retaining the joy while developing your critical eye. You have to love your work and harshly critique it, both at the same time, and, ideally, without your head exploding.Love your work too little and you will never finish it. Critique it too little, and what you have will never pass muster in those cold commercial winds.Finding the balance ain\'t easy - but it\'s also one of the most crucial tasks you face.Good luck.

Authority, platform – and wit

I don’t always talk enough about non-fiction, which is daft in a way, because plenty of you write it and I’ve always enjoyed doing so myself.So this week: a few thoughts on non-fiction – which novelists should read as well, as there are some thoughts in here for you too. In particular, there’s are two basic motors at the heart of the acquisitions process which matter every bit as much to fiction as it does to non-fiction.Those motors take the form of two questions that an editor has to be able to answer for every potential acquisition:Will readers like the book? That is: is the book any good, given its target market? Can we sell the book? It doesn’t really matter, in a way, how good a book is, if the publisher doesn’t have an effective way to sell it.With fiction, a positive answer to the first question doesn’t necessarily mean that the second is taken care of. Ages ago, I remember helping an editorial client with a kids book that had bullying as a theme. As far as I was concerned, the manuscript’s obvious warmth and quality meant it would sell, and deserved to. And sure enough, the writer found an agent, only to be told that bullying was sooo last year, and the book couldn’t sell to retailers jaded by too many bullying-books in the last few seasons.Likewise, a really strong answer to the second question can overcome some nerves on the first point. I know one writer whose book was pretty mediocre, but she had a great backstory that tied into the themes of the book. She was extremely capable on social media, on TV, with journalists and so on. And in the end, her brilliance at supporting the selling of the book drove that book high, high into the bestseller lists.The looming importance of that second question – the “can we sell it?” one – is, for me, a massive reason why writers have to nail their elevator pitch before they start to write. Mess that up, and you may have a completely competent and well-written book … that no one will ever buy.For non-fiction writers, the questions are the same, but the types of answer are different.Take Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahnemann – a book about the difference between our slow/reflective thinking and our fast/instinctive thinking. The topic is obviously interesting, but maybe a little niche. Suppose, for example, that you are a clinical psychologist of no particular note who just happens to be interested in these topics. And let’s say, you went ahead and wrote the exact book that Kahnemann wrote, but with the first-person stuff suitable modified.Would a publisher have picked that book up? Well, maybe. It’s an interesting topic, for sure. But Kahnemann wasn’t just some random clinical psychologist. He invented the entire field of research. He won a Nobel Prize. He had a decades long partnership with Amos Tversky, who died before the book came out and in whose memory it’s written.In other words, any publisher knew that they could essentially snap their fingers and get media attention from any outlet they wanted. The book still needed to be clear, not unreadable – you can’t sensibly drive people to buy a terrible book – but the basic sales job was going to be easy.That’s one kind of answer you can have to the sales question: if you bring clear authority, many of the sales questions are just taken care of. Back in 2020, my sister masterminded the UK’s vaccine procurement programme, with stunning success. That’s clearly an interesting topic. She’s a clear authority. That book will get a ton of media coverage.But authority isn’t the only kind of sales-power you can bring. The other one frequently mentioned is platform. When Pippa Middleton – Prince William’s newly minted sister-in-law – brought out a book called Celebrate, no one really thought that she brought any kind of ninja power to the business of planning parties. But who cared? She was hugely famous. She was gossip column gold. She got a huge advance for the book. (And, though UK sales were lacklustre, the book made a profit for the publisher before it was even published: overseas sales were that good.)You don’t have to be near the British royal family to deliver platform. You can be big on social media, you can be a broadcaster – you can be an anything, so long as large numbers of people know your name. (And, by the way, the numbers in question need to be in six or seven digits. It just doesn’t really make a difference whether you have 100 Twitter followers or 10,000. Those numbers aren’t going to be enough to sway a publisher’s sales decision.)Now all this can be slightly depressing to people who have managed to clatter their way through life without (a) picking up a Nobel Prize or (b) having a major royal for an in-law.But, but, but …It’s just not true that authority and platform are the only routes into effective non-fiction sales, just as you can sell a thriller without being an intelligence officer, or science fiction without being an astronaut.The fact is that if you bring (A) a great elevator pitch and (B) a great writing style, then publishers will want the book. When I wrote This Little Britain, a popular history book, I brought absolutely nothing in terms of authority. I don’t even have a history degree. I wasn’t a member of any specialist historical societies. I didn’t bring a particular skill (like military architecture, say) to bear. I brought damn all by way of platform as well. On the two great axes and authority and platform, my score was exactly 0-0.But who cared? I had a great idea. (Roughly: what are the ways in which British history has been exceptional – unlike the histories of its neighbours?) And I could write with humour and inclusiveness. People didn’t have to feel smart to read the book. They could treat it as a Christmas gift book with a bit more depth and interest.And that was enough. It’s still enough in non-fiction. The same basic principle works in fiction too.Nail the elevator pitch. Write well. And toss in a Nobel Prize, if you have one.That’s it from me. Something REALLY GOOD is happening in May, but I can’t tell you about it, or the Special Ops team at Jericho Writers will have me killed in what looks like an ordinary road accident.

What books? How many? How bossy? How greedy?

Earlier this week, I did a members’ webinar on Trad Publishing vs Self-Publishing, and how to choose your route. I can’t recap the whole of that – very enjoyable – session here, but let me run you through four key questions which we spent time considering. They are:What books?Some books work well with self-pub, others not so much.Genre fiction does particularly well with self-pub. If you look at a category like romance, it’ll be dominated by e-book sales, not print, and by indie-authors, not trad. The self-pub/trad split is probably something like 85:15.The same is broadly true for loads of other genres: paranormal and dystopian fiction, lots of science fiction, lots of fantasy, and so on. The crime category is more mixed (partly because there are some huge brands from the pre-ebook era who still sell loads.) As you move upmarket, the balance shifts towards trad publishing. With proper literary fiction, you’ll struggle to find any real self-pub authors at all.At the same time, don’t place too much weight on genre. My books sit at the most literary end of crime fiction, and they’ve done absolutely fine that way. In the end, if your books connect strongly with readers, you’ll do OK.In terms of non-fiction, indie authors can do fine with the kind of books where the title could be a Google or Amazon search term. So, for example, my Jericho-published “How To Write A Novel” does fine, because it’s linked to an obvious and popular search term.Conversely, if you have written a dazzling memoir about (let’s say) your mountaineering adventures in the Ruwenzori, it’s hard to think of any way that your book would naturally appear on Amazon. Yes, if you had a chain of six such books, you could start to build a readership and work that way – but a single quirky book is near-impossible to sell successfully on Amazon. Authors like that should head firmly towards a traditional route.How many?The next question is simply: how many books do you intend to write? And at what pace can you write them?There’s an outfit called 20booksto50K (check it out on Facebook) whose core idea is that if you can write and publish 20 books, you can earn a $50,000 a year income from them. Increase the number of books beyond that point, and you can earn more than that. In other words, you can plausibly target a proper fulltime income from your work, should you simply commit enough.Now I don’t really love the “just churn em out” model myself. When I was self-publishing most intensely, I wrote just one book a year and did fine with that.But … the point remains. Most successful self-pub authors are successful because they are good AND prolific. It’s essentially impossible to make real money from a single book. Write a trilogy, and you have something. Write a longer series or two trilogies and you have a shop with enough products to start putting cash in your pocket. You are unlikely to make meaningful cash until you have 3-5 books for sale. (And again: the quality of the books really matters. The better and more distinctive your work, the fewer you need to build an income.)So again, if you are definitely a one-book-only author, or a one-book-every-two-or-three-years author, then you should head to Trad world. Planet Indie is not for you.For similar reasons, by the way, I’d strongly advise any indie fiction author to write in series. A series just works much better than a group of standalones.How bossy?Another question to consider is how bossy you are.The gist of any commercial book deal is simple: you sell your book for an advance plus royalties. So it’s not your book any more. It’s the publisher’s.The publisher will end up having the final say, and perhaps the only meaningful one, on book cover. And title. And blurb. And marketing. And pricing. And formats. And timing. And promos. And, really, everything. Yes, they’ll be polite and try (mostly) to include you. But politeness has its limits. It’s not your book.It’s easy, as an unpublished writer to think, “Yes, but don’t I want these experts making all those decisions for me?” … to which I can only gently suggest that you don’t find many experienced authors thinking the same thing. Those expert publishers have a lot of things on their mind and they don’t always make the right calls. They will also, never, ever care as much as you.By contrast, the indie author can make any decisions they want, whenever they want. Got a book cover you like? Use it. Decided it’s not as effective as you thought? Change it. Want to put the price up? Then do it: it takes 2 minutes. Want to change the blurb? Do it.Some authors just don’t want the hassle of all those extra decisions. Other are peeved when they see salaried employees making decisions more lazily than they’d do themselves. The type of person you are should definitely guide your path to publication.How greedy?On the whole, self-pub authors make more money than traditionally published ones. That sounds odd, not least because nearly all the authors you’ve ever heard of are traditionally published.But, if you want an oversimple rule of thumb, trad authors get more acclaim. Indie authors make more money.The root of disparity is not hard to trace. Let’s say a trad author is selling their ebook at $9.99 (or, to make the maths simple, $10.)Amazon’s share is $3, or 30%.Of the remaining $7.00, the publisher will keep 75%, or $5.25, leaving $1.75 for the author.The agent then scoops between 15 and 20% of that, leaving under $1.50 for the author. And, of course, because $9.99 is a lot for an ebook, the author is likely to sell a lot fewer too.By contrast, the arithmetic for the indie author is simple. You sell your book at a penny under $5.00. Amazon keeps $1.50. You keep $3.50 per book. That’s more than double what the trad author makes – and you sell more books.Easy!And yes: trad authors sell plenty of paperbacks. And yes: they sell via bookstores. And yes: this, that and the other.The fact is, however, once you view all this in the round, there are more indie authors at any income level you care to name than there are trad ones. There are more indies earning over a million bucks a year than there are trad ones. There are more indies earning above quarter of a million. More indies earning over $100,000. And so on down.If you’re serious about money – and you’re willing to take on the entrepreneurial burden of selling as well as writing – then self-pub ought to look more tempting.

Conversations with fists

Folks, I’ve had covid all week and today is my birthday. So I reckon I’m justified in giving y’all / youse a slightly cheaty email – because most of it is made up of text I’ve already written.And it follows on from last week’s email, about how sex scenes needed to be all about conversation. I said the same, in passing, about fight scenes as well, and a few people wrote back to say, in effect, “All very interesting, oh Pale Lord of the Email, but how do you actually write a fight scene when people take turns to whack each other and make interesting conversation? I don’t get it.”So here’s an example – from my (extremely realistic) novel, The Dead House. This culminating scene has Fiona spend the night with a monk in a small stone cell. The monk (Anselm) is not a nice guy – he wants Fiona to spend the rest of her life praying in this cell – but their past relationship has always been warm. In the opening bit of dialogue, Anselm essentially tells Fiona that her own spiritual needs have led her to this place and this situation. There’s a part of Fiona which can’t easily disagree.Anselm is a big, strong, fit man. Fiona is a short and slightly built woman. My fight scenes nearly always start with this kind of disparity so part of my challenge as a novelist is finding a plausible way to flip the odds.The italics type is the fight scene as I wrote it (slightly edited for clarity). My comments on that scene are in bold.***In a very gentle voice, Anselm adds, ‘And what happened in there, in our church tonight: can you really tell me that you did not feel the Spirit of the Lord moving within you?’I don’t answer.Can’t.‘You chose us. It was you who chose us.’I bow my head.‘Forgive me, brother.’‘You are already forgiven.’This material feels – and is – at least partly authentic, a spiritual and loving moment between the two of them. Yes, as we’ll see, Fiona is also thinking strategically, but she’s both things – strategic and moved. It’s a moment of loving union. We move to the glass and pray again.Four o’clock and Anselm yawns.My own relationship with sleep is so impaired, so strange already, that a night spent awake hardly signifies. But Anselm is different. His monkish body-clock is all askew. Kneeling all night when he should be asleep, and these hours of prayer are hard on any bones, old or young. This isn’t the first time he’s yawned, but it’s the biggest so far.I yawn too. Ampliflying that contagion of tiredness.The first whisper the reader has that Fiona’s been thinking strategically all along – she was captured many pages back.‘Excuse me, brother, I need to use the chamberpot.’And do. I’ve been drinking water half the night and have a whole bladderful of urine to release.More insight into how her past behaviour has been strategic. As readers, we’re getting a prickle of excitement – but also wondering how much of the past few pages has been a true insight into Fiona, and how much was a deliberate sham. That also means we’re at the point of reconsidering the Fiona/Anselm relationship. Perhaps we’ve not been reading that right at all?I squat over the little pot and pee, as noisily as I can.Use the sound to cover me, as I empty the little ewer of water out over the floor.Use the sound to cover me, as I take two handfuls of finely powdered lime [there for making mortar].A natural product. Beautiful when used right, and one that does all those good things to do with letting old buildings breathe, that sort of thing.But also caustic. Fiercely, dangerously caustic.When wet, lime is one of the most strongly alkali substances available outside a chemist’s laboratory. One that will react, and react strongly, to moisture of any sort. The cornea of the eye, for example. The soft linings of the nose and mouth.Stepping up behind Anselm, I give him one handful of lime in his eyes, the other over his airways.Such a violent act in the context! Here’s a man she’s prayed happily with and she’s squashing a ‘dangerously caustic’ powder into his cornea, the soft linings of the nose and mouth.This is what I mean by ‘conversation’ in a fight. We know that Fiona’s spiritual moment with Anselm was at least partly real. But here’s the other part: utter fury and refusal to comply. This is the moment when Anselm realises he hasn’t understood all of Fiona at all.All of a sudden, the relationship shakes into a new phase.He gasps in pain and surprise and the gasp allows me to shove a whole big handful into his open gob.He’s in pain. He’s surprised. That’s an emotional response – a new turn in the conversation. How does Fiona respond? With more violence: her response to his awakening.There’s no treatment for caustic burns, except plenty of fresh water and I’ve just emptied all the water we have.Stepping quickly back as Anselm roars and flails, I snatch up the chamberpot. Smash the thing over his saintly little head. Which stuns him, if only a little, and makes more of him wet. I take the bag of lime and pour it, throw it, scatter it over him.He’s a man powdered and, beneath the powder, burning.My fight scenes need to explain how a small woman can defeat a big man, so I’m careful here. He ‘roars and flails’, indicating that he still has a ton of strength and power. It’s also a moment when the reader realises how Fiona has been planning this thing the entire night. She’s played a long game to get to this exact point.When he opens his mouth, it’s white and void inside. The same thing with his eyes. It looks like they’re closed, but they’re not. They’re open. Just white and grey and staring.He tries to clean the lime away with his robe, his hands, but he’s like a fish trying to wash away the river. Whether he’s permanently blind, I don’t know, but he’s functionally sightless.He thrashes around. Cries out, I think, saying ‘Sister! Sister!’, but his mouth is full of a powder that burns and his roar is the roar of a beast.He’s sort of defeated now, isn’t he? I mean, Fiona still needs to deal with the power of those thrashing arms, but the odds are now heavily on Fiona winning this one. That means, the reader can now consider Anselm as a victim. His mouth is ‘white and void’. He’s basically blind, a fish trying to wash away the river. And he’s saying ‘Sister, sister’ – how the monks referred to Fiona – which is hardly the most aggressive possible response. He’s trying to call on that old relationship, trying to summon its memory to deflect Fiona from her current course. That’s yet another emotional turn in the fight. A plea, a cry for mercy.I stay clear of his arms, ducking and weaving as I have to, but I don’t actually think he’s trying to hurt me. To restrain me, yes, but not actually to hurt me.And again, this shifts our emotional understanding again. He cries ‘sister’, and seeks to restrain, but not hurt, her. This man was going to do great harm to Fiona, but there’s a true godliness, or something like it, there as well. Once again, the fight makes us ever so slightly adjust our emotional calculations. Yes, he is a bad man, but no, the praying wasn’t all nonsense either. There was and is something holy here as well.Choose the fight you want, not the one they want. If you can’t win, don’t start.Any time before now, those monks would have had the fight they expected—and that Brother sadist Thomas wanted. Right now, I’ve got the fight I want, and one that takes place when and where and how I want.A strong, blind man whose instincts are for gentleness versus a petite, but seeing woman who has her entire life hanging on the outcome.No contest.Fiona finally places all her cards on the table. “Hi reader, you thought I was just going along with these horrible monkish plans, right? But of course, I wasn’t. I’m always smarter than you and I’m always thinking ahead. You want to know what happens next? Right? Simple: I win.”I wait until Anselm is a little off-balance—skidding on china and urine—and kick hard at his only standing leg. He starts to fall.As he goes down, I grab his head and throw it downwards against the stone. It bounces horribly, but just once.He starts to move, just a little. Not in combat mode now. Not even restraint mode. More am-I-still-alive mode. I put in a few more considered, disabling kicks and stamps, then leave it.That brother ain’t gonna bother this little sister no more.And that’s the sentence that tells the reader, yep, we’re done.Except that … well, the fight is done, but isn’t there some closure needed to the relationship? We’d thought these guys had one kind of relationship. Now our thinking on that score has changed rather abruptly. But at the moment, we don’t quite have a nice place to settle.I step up onto the bed. I can’t reach the gap in the ceiling like that, but my little glass prayer-niche gives me a foothold and—clumsily, clumsily—I scrabble up to the roof and through it. [the only way out of this, unfinished, cell.]Look down.Anselm is dragging himself upright, or sort of upright. But he’s not trying to stand, he’s trying to kneel. My kicks were scientific enough that he’s going to have problems with his ribs, knee and testicles, but he somehow accomplishes a kind of lopsided lean up against the wall.His burned hands search for and find the little palm cross. The bit of glass through which a pair of seeing eyes would find the altar.He’s seeking to pray: final confirmation that Anselm’s piety wasn’t all horse-poo. Perhaps his piety was even the bigger part of things. Perhaps the bad-monk thing was just piety taken too far. But this closing snapshot gives us a somewhat kind and tender image of this complicated man.I leave him at it.A basic clip-together tower scaffold provided support for the monks as they built the roof. There are stones still here. Some mortar left overnight with a square of plastic keeping it moist. I add a few more stones to the roof. My stonework is of the very crudest sort—Anselm would hate it—but it doesn’t have to hold for long. There’s still a gap here, but not one that a man could climb through.That is: she effectively imprisons him, at least for as long as it takes to summon the cops.‘So long, Brother,’ I call down. ‘You were always nice to the pigs. I’ll remember that.’And this is the closure we needed: an acknowledgement from Fiona that she recognises there was a good man in with the bad. This is her talking without strategy or duplicity now, because she doesn’t need them. We move, in effect, from the fake-union of the opening prayer sequence to this truer kind of friendship-voice here.And leave.***That’s it. There’s dialogue before and after the fight, but nothing during it, apart from Anselm’s ‘Sister, Sister’, which doesn’t really count. Yet I hope the fight itself conveys the shifts in emotion and relationship that are similar to the beats you’d find in a really important bit of dialogue.That’s it from me. Cough, cough.

Ooh, Your Grace

The missus and I have slightly random TV habits and don’t generally just sit down to watch whatever the show-of-the-moment is. But I will say that I often go to bed earlier than Her Mightiness and she occasionally watches a bit of extra TV in that time. And during that first year of the pandemic, there was a week or two when I seemed to be going to bed early every night, the TV was always running late, and Shonda Rhimes’s Bridgerton seemed to colonise the ‘Continue Watching’ spot on our TV dashboard.There was, of course, quite a lot of critical conversation about the series, reinvigorated by the release of Season 2. I was interested enough in all this that my wife and I ended up watching, or rewatching, the whole of Season 1.I think the series did well in part because it involved a (gently managed) collision of two genres. Yes, the series looked roughly like your standard issue Jane Austen drama. Same dresses, same carriages, same houses, same reliable mixture of unmarried women and dashing dukes.But where a BBC Jane Austen drama will aim for precision on language, clothes, settings, and the rest, Bridgerton simply didn’t care. Its string quartets played themes by Nirvana. The Regency landscape was suddenly full of people of every race and colour. The wisteria which was in full flower at the start of the season bloomed and bloomed and went on blooming week after week after month. The cinematography was often given a hyper-real tint, a child’s Cinderella remade for adults.All this was done with the lightest of touches. The multicultural invasion of the Regency period was barely alluded to. It just was. The ever-blooming wisteria was never mentioned. An improbable monarch reigned happily over a world that never was.This broad strategy works like a dream for any kind of storytelling. If a reader or viewer loves a genre, they’ll read plenty of it and it won’t be long before they find themselves wanting the same thing (because they love it) but done differently (because they’re human and humans, bless them, get bored more easily than any creature except the show-poodle and the Barbary macaque.) Mixing up your genre conventions is a delicious, subversive-feeling way of delivering that same-but-different sensation.I’ve done it myself in my crime writing. The Deepest Grave took a standard-issue police procedural (the genre beloved of my core readers) and rammed it with a storyline revolving around King Arthur. The whole thing was just about a plausible procedural – I adhered to the basics, just as Bridgerton did – but the whole thing was plausible only if you closed your eyes to the shimmer of absurdity that flitted across every page.However, it’s actually illegal to talk about Bridgerton without touching upon the sex scenes and making specific reference to (a) Regé-Jean Page’s torso and (b) the way those scenes were shot for the ‘female gaze’, not the male one.Now, I’ll admit I don’t quite understand the fuss made about RJP’s torso – it looks much the same as my own. But the female gaze idea is really quite interesting, especially for the writer.Through the whole series, which contained plenty of bedroom scenes, one almost never saw a naked breast. Not one of the main female characters were ever shown bare-breasted. During the sex scenes, they were either clothed or covered by sheets. The same was absolutely not true for RJP’s character, the Duke of Hastings. It’s not just that he was asked to reveal his pecs during bedroom scenes. The Duke had a merrily improbable friendship with a boxer that called for a whole lot of gratuitously bare-chested scenes as the two of them sparred.So in part the female gaze idea is just a boring one. Men like boobs. Women like hunky torsos. So if you’re doing a show aimed mostly at women, offer fewer breasts and more torsos. Obvious, right?But one of the things that struck me was that the radical female gaze of these sex scenes seemed mostly to feature … Daphne Bridgerton’s face. The single sexiest thing in the whole series wasn’t RJP’s pecs, it was the face of the central female character.Where a series directed by a man might have concentrated on the act of sex, the physical activity, the female-led Bridgerton concentrated relentlessly on relationship. So when Daphne Bridgerton has sex for the first time, we see her shocked delight dawning in her face. That’s what’s sexy. That’s what’s emotionally charged. The act of sex was (nearly) always subservient to its emotional context, because the emotions were what mattered most. Again and again, the camera returned to Daphne Bridgerton, so we could read her emotional transitions.That’s a good lesson for writers. We don’t have RJP’s torso to conjure with. Yes, we can describe such things, but in the end our written descriptions will fall short of what a TV-screen can show.But emotions? Yep, we can do those, and we can do those better than Bridgerton, or anything else, because can climb inside the human brain and tell readers what we find. Sex, for the novelist, is a continuation of relationship, by other means. That’s it. Don’t think of sex as sex. For novelists, it’s a relationship that unfolds in the bedroom. Any physical activity is really just a way of nudging that relationship forward into new places. It’s a different type of exploration. That’s all.Same with fights. I saw the lovely phrase recently that a fight scene should be thought of as a ‘conversation with fists’. Exactly so.Fight scenes can become incredibly convoluted very fast. ‘He placed his right hand on my left shoulder and, as he did so, the blade in his free hand flashed up towards my thigh. I saw the move and countered by twisting my leg round to the tree behind me. At the same time, I …’ You can sort of imagine what’s going on there, but only by working hard at it. In a way, you decipher that kind of writing the way you decipher IKEA instructions – bit by bit, frowning, manipulating shapes inside your head.As soon as you consider the fight as a conversation, everything becomes easier. You can drop the judo-manual type language, and simply focus on what’s happening in the relationship. There’ll be more room for dialogue. Less need of complicated explanation. The scene will breathe more. It’ll read with greater clarity. Your story won’t be interrupted by the fight; it’ll be moved nicely forwards.A conversation with fists. A conversation with bedsheets. That’s how to write your sex and violence – and keep your reader glued to every word.

The ballad of Molly McGhee

I’ve complained often enough in these emails about the shabby treatment experienced by too many writers at the hands of agents and publishers. And I’m right to complain.If an agency allows writers to submit via the slushpile, as they nearly all do, that agency has an obligation to treat those writers with some basic courtesy. If a publisher takes on a book, they have a duty of basic professionalism in the way they handle it and the author.But this email has a different theme.The fact is that publishing is a tough trade. Hours are very long. Pay is modest. Advancement is slow. Bright graduates entering the profession will find themselves falling behind their peers in countless other fields. You get the kudos of working in a cultural industry. You also get the flipside, the crappy pay and conditions.All this is widely known. It’s the theme tune playing gently behind every other discussion you hear in publishing.Why, authors ask, are publishers not more active in marketing their books? The sotto voce answer: everyone works too hard as it is; most books don’t repay any real marketing effort; no one has time or money or energy.Why, authors ask, are advances mingy and possibly falling? Why has the option of self-publishing not forced publishers towards a more equitable share of e-book royalties? The sotto voce answer: everyone works too hard as it is; there’s not enough money to go round; we can’t pay authors more because we don’t even pay ourselves enough.Why, authors ask, do big publishers feel so conservative, so safe in their selections? Where’s the radical, risk-taking creativity that ought to be the lifeblood of the industry? The sotto voce answer: everyone works too hard as it is; most novels don’t make money anyway; small print runs are loss-making; everyone wants to be risk-taking, but we’ve got to look after the profit and loss.Every now and then, however, these sotto voce conversations burst into the open. They did so recently where, as it happened, four American editors announced their resignations more or less simultaneously. The four were Hillary Sames and Angeline Rodriguez at Little Brown/Orbit, Erin Siu at Macmillan Children’s, and Molly McGhee at Macmillan/Tor.The match that lit the fire was McGhee’s commentary around her resignation, which she posted on Twitter. She wrote:Today is my last day at Tor Books. My promotion request was denied and as such I am leaving as my first acquisition … debuts at number three on the NYT Bestsellers list … this should be a “great beginning” not a heartbreaking end.But it has been made clear to me that I would need more “training” before being promoted from an assistant position and that it would be unrealistic for me to leave the admin duties of assisting any time in the next five years. After eight years of experience working in the publishing industry, I decided ten years of assisting would be my limit, let alone fifteen.She went on to identify the technophobia of more senior staff as a big part of the problem – so assistants were expected to handle the tech cores that their seniors couldn’t handle.Neither McGhee nor the others criticised their firms or their imprints in particular. On the contrary, the wider discussion around the issue recognised that these issues were industry-wide.I’m on McGhee’s side here. Fifteen years as an assistant? Ten even? I’d never have done that, not in any industry, and not for any money. At Jericho Writers, we wouldn’t dream of imposing that kind of eternal serfdom on our juniors. People want a sense of flourishing, of expanding, of creative possibility. And so they should; you only live once.It’s common for more senior publishers to sigh wisely and admit, yes, theirs is an industry where money is always tight and margins low. But that’s not actually true. Publishers have been boasting record profits. Penguin Random House has an operating margin approaching 20%. That’s an astonishingly fat margin for a mature industry with no meaningful barriers to entry. Truth is, that margin is suggestive of oligopoly, not competition. Walmart has a margin of under 5%. Amazon Retail has a margin of around 2%, and its international retail business, until recently, was lossmaking.So in a way, those sotto voce conversations are missing the truth. Here’s a slightly more accurate version of one of them:Why, authors ask, are publishers not more active in marketing their books? The sotto voce answer: We make a lot of money; we want to go on making a lot of money; our business model is to recruit smart people, pay them badly, work them hard, and keep them in junior roles too long; along the way that forces a lot of compromises – on marketing and lord knows what else – but we’re going to continue to operate like that, because our shareholders really, really like their dividends and we’d absolutely hate to disappoint them.So yes, Molly McGhee, good for you. The only way pay and conditions will change in publishing is if enough people protest or quit or insist on change. I don’t actually see that happening, but sometimes you just have to take a stand, no matter what.And for authors: is there a takeaway in this? Is there some actually useful purpose to this email?Well, yes, I think there is. When you deal with the industry, you need to know that pretty much everyone you deal with is overworked and underpaid.So reduce their burden, don’t add to it.Make sure the draft manuscript you submit is in spanking good shape. If you have thoughts on cover design, put those together in a professional one-pager that your editor could simply forward to their cover designer. If you have an important meeting, send out an email summary of points from that meeting, because no one else is likely to do so. If you don’t like the way your ebook is being set up, then offer your thoughts in the kind of email that can just be approved and actioned. If you meet a bunch of people at some industry conference, then take notes on who you’ve met and send nice-to-meet-you emails to anyone significant.Honestly, there’s a limit to how much difference you can make by being a hyper-businesslike author, but it’s still better to be that than the opposite. Quite apart from anything else, it creates goodwill amongst your publishing team and that goodwill is always valuable.That’s it from me. I will find a merrier subject next week, you just see if I don’t.

Showing and telling, a middle route

It’s weird. No matter how many of these darn emails I write, I never quite know in advance which ones that are going to get a torrential response, and which ones just a trickle. We weren’t quite at torrential levels last week, but we were certainly healthily full – and a LOT of you spoke about how you’d found yourself gummed up by misleading advice on the showing / telling topic.So I think it’s worth risking a follow-up here. In particular, I want to suggest a sensible middle path, that’s easy to follow and won’t make you tense up over a perfectly ordinary piece of writing.Oh, and you’ve probably noticed, but – after a stupid, two-year pandemic brought to an end SINGLEHANDEDLY by this magnificent woman – the York Festival of Writing is back. Yabadabadoo! If you’ve been before, you’ll know exactly why you want to come again. If you’ve not been before, then scurry off and find out more.Right. I’ll start by recapping from last week. We looked at this pair of examples from Jerry Jenkins:Telling: When they embraced, she could tell he had been smoking and was scared.Showing: When she wrapped her arms around him, the sweet staleness of tobacco enveloped her, and she shivered.The great JJ preferred the shown version in every case, but I commented:Of those two sentences, the first is clearly better. The word “embrace” means “to wrap your arms round someone”, so the second sentence is simply preferring a more cumbersome way of saying the exact same thing …As for the second clause – well, you could go either way on that one, depending on what the purpose of your sentence was. But it looks like the purpose of the sentence is to connect (A) her awareness that he’s been smoking and (B) her emotional reaction to that knowledge. In which case, the first sentence does the job with economy and elegance. The second sentence actually clouds that understanding by avoiding direct statement.And, I didn’t say so last week, but one of the troubles with the “Show! Show! Show!” brigade is that it constantly tempts writers into bad writing. Take a look at this pair of sentences (from Reedsy this time). Again, Reedsy prefers the shown version:Telling: Michael was terribly afraid of the dark.Showing: As his mother switched off the light and left the room, Michael tensed. He huddled under the covers, gripped the sheets, and held his breath as the wind brushed past the curtain.Now it’s definitely true that the telling version there just does the job of conveying information more cleanly.  The reader needs to know something. So you tell them. Boof, done!But also: every single part of that showing paragraph is cliché. All of it.“Gosh! How on earth do I show that Michael is afraid of the dark? I know! Genius! I’ll place him in a classic fear-inducing situation – exiting mother, lights off – then I’ll show a fear response that no one could possibly misunderstand. Let’s have a bit of tensing. Not enough? No. OK, so let’s have Michael huddle. And grip the sheets. And, damn it, let’s have him hold his breath too. That should do it. Except, hmm, maybe we haven’t got into Michael’s head enough? I wonder what specific sounds or thoughts might be troubling him? Hmm. ** thinks really hard, swallows pills, drinks gin ** I know! Gee-Nee-Us! Let’s have wind rustling the curtains. That caps a magnificent paragraph, no? A brilliant telling detail that no one in the History of Literature will have thought of before. By heck, I’m on fire!”The thing that underlies writing like this is anxiety – induced by a million dumb articles on showing and telling that totally confuse the issue. The result is authors so anxious to ram their point down the reader’s throat, that they end up at the small intestine.So the main message here is:Relax. Don’t worry about it.The second message is:If it feels natural just to tell the reader something, then tell them. Why stress?But a third message is that there is an easy middle ground. Very often, we do want to see something more character-specific than the told version might convey. In which case, first tell the reader what you need them to know, then show them the character impact or response.So for example:When they embraced, she could tell he had been smoking and was scared. As she pulled away, she put her fingers to the corner of his mouth and said, ‘Oh, Kevin.’ Her voice was more sad than accusing.He said, ‘Sandra, I –’ but his intended denials died before they were truly born. [And so on.]Because you’ve already dealt with the “what’s just happened?” issue clearly and in a sentence, what follows can be subtle and unobvious. It can allow the characters to breathe as fully as they wish, because they don’t have to hurtle round the page trying to show the reader what the underlying issue is – like people trapped in some frantic game of charades, run by a mime-artist pickled in industrial-grade espresso.Here’s the fear-of-the-dark example, done the same way:Michael was terribly afraid of the dark, he always had been. As a child, he’d always needed a nightlight. In rural Ohio, powercuts hadn’t been that infrequent and his parents had learned they had to have a lantern on standby, with a candle stout enough to burn the whole night through. Even now, an adult, the first thing Michael considered on seeing any new place to sleep was how to avoid that total blackness. He preferred windows with streetlamps outside, doors that admitted a crack of light from the corridor, alarm clocks whose LED lights blazed bright enough to cast shadows.Does that feel like showing or telling? It feels like showing, right? But you only get to the later, shown-style content, because of the easy doorway given to you by that opening sentence.So relax. Tell if you want to. And “tell, then show” is a mantra that’ll work for you any time you want it.

Showing, telling, and a truckload of nonsense

Showing and telling is probably the topic on which more nonsense is spoken than anything else – but is also an area where, if you truly understand what you’re doing, you can make a colossal difference to your work.One of the main bits of nonsense around this topic is the idea that, as per this quote from autocrat.com, “Show Don’t Tell. It’s the first rule of writing and for good reason.” It’s not the first rule. I don’t think there is a first rule, but if there were it would have to do with the basics of character and story.I’ve also seen it suggested that any telling is bad. That agents will reject a piece of work that has telling in it. That statements like “Jane was angry” are bad. And so on. This is all untrue.Indeed, many of the examples of telling (=bad) and showing (= good) are unconvincing and, worse, actively unhelpful as a tool for explaining how to write. Here, for example, is a list from the (generally perfectly dependable) Jerry Jenkins. In all the pairs that follows, Jenkins favours the shown version, not the told version.Telling: When they embraced, she could tell he had been smoking and was scared.Showing: When she wrapped her arms around him, the sweet staleness of tobacco enveloped her, and she shivered.Of those two sentences, the first is clearly better. The word “embrace” means “to wrap your arms round someone”, so the second sentence is simply preferring a more cumbersome way of saying the exact same thing. Cleaner is better.As for the second clause (“could tell he had been smoking” versus “sweet staleness of tobacco”) – well, you could go either way on that one, depending on what the purpose of your sentence was. But it looks like the purpose of the sentence is to connect (A) her awareness that he’s been smoking and (B) her emotional reaction to that knowledge. In which case, the first sentence does the job with economy and elegance. The second sentence actually clouds that understanding by avoiding direct statement.Telling: It was late fall.Showing: Leaves crunched beneath his feet.Here again, I suspect the first sentence is preferable is most cases. You wouldn’t ever, in a novel or memoir, say, “It was late fall”, unless you were at some transition point – in other words, some significant time had elapsed since the last piece of action. And what easier way to mark the transition, than simply to say, “It was late fall”? That gives you what you need to know and does so with speed and clarity. Sure, in the rest of the scene, there’ll be plenty of crunchy leaves and chilly wind and slanting sun and whatever else you like. But mark the transition, then move on. That’s helpful storytelling.Telling: Suzie was blind.Showing: Suzie felt for the bench with a white cane.Again, what on earth is wrong with that first sentence? Nothing. It transmits the key information without any problem at all. If you only had the second sentence, the reader is liable to think, “Suzie must be blind, right? But if so, why is the author not just telling me? Is there some mystery around this?”And look, you don’t have to take my word for this. EL Doctorow was one of the great writers of his generation, and one of his books (Homer and Langley) begins with these words:“I’m Homer, the blind brother.”That’s telling, right? And EL Doctorow wasn’t a dummy, so presumably that sentence is OK. What’s more it’s the opening sentence of a beautiful paragraph:“I’m Homer, the blind brother. I didn’t lose my sight all at once, it was like the movies, a slow fade-out. When I was told what was happening, I was interested to measure it, I was in my late teens then, keen on everything. What I did this particular winter was to stand back from the lake in Central Park where they did all their ice skating and see what I could see and couldn’t see as a day-by-day thing. The houses over to Central Park West went first, they got darker as if dissolving into the dark sky until I couldn’t make them out, and then the trees began to lose their shape, and then finally, this was towards the end of the season, maybe it was February of a very cold winter, and all I could see were these phantom shapes of the ice skaters floating past me on a field of ice, and then the white ice, that last light, went grey and then altogether black, and then all my sight was gone though I could hear clearly the scoot scut of the blades on the ice, a very satisfying sound, a soft sound though full of intention …”Now I’m pretty sure that no sane reader would read that paragraph, and think, “Well, nice try, EL, but the first sentence is pure telling, as is the second and the third. Personally, I have to consider the writing rubbish until we get to the fourth sentence.”In fact, what I think an alert reader would notice is that:There is a gradual movement from very blunt telling to very expansive showingAlso, from short sentences to longAlso, from full vision to total blindnessAlso, from rather general statements “I’m the blind brother” to ones – that last one – with real granular detail about how the world manifested to one particular individual.The emotional movement feels wholly reassuring and absorbingAnd it’s wonderful writing, from first word to last.And this, remember, is the first paragraph of a book. The blunt opening sentence sets a scene. The next two give a bit of context. The subsequent sentences then make use of the reader’s position of knowledge (“We have a teenager, going gradually blind”), to elaborate on what that experience is like. The first sentences create the opportunity for what follows.So one useful observation from all this is that telling is (generally) best used at transition points. The blunt information download would feel empty if that’s all you gave the reader. But of course, you won’t stop there. You’ll go on to deliver more flavoursome, showing-type language as you get into the scene.Equally, sometimes there are points within the scene, where it would be just nuts to try to show something. For example: “The CIA is broken into four departments, or directorates – of operations, intelligence, administration, and science and tech. The Directorate of Operations is also known the Clandestine Service, and is responsible for collecting foreign intelligence from human sources, or assets.”It might be necessary for a reader to know something like that to make sense of what’s happening in your story. But how would you show that? Why would you? Would you want a scene with the Director of the CIA gazing at a wall chart with an org-chart on it, while a helpful secretary says, “Sir, am I right in thinking that the Directorate of Operations is sometimes also known as the Clandestine Service?”Pretty clearly, telling is fine at any transitional point in the book. It’s pretty damn useful for data download. And all books are a mixture of telling and showing.

The power of narrative

That phrase ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’ is mostly horse-dung, right? Right now, the Ukrainian President, Volodymyr Zelensky, isn’t asking the west for pencils. He’s definitely asking for drones and anti-tank weapons.And yet, and yet.I can’t help noticing that events in the Ukraine right now are proving the invincible power of story.Putin’s (crazed) story about the conflict is that Ukraine isn’t really a real country; its soul belongs to Mother Russia, and always has. Hence sending 190,000 heavily armoured troops into a neighbouring country isn’t really an invasion, it’s a liberation.Pretty obviously, you can refute this nonsense with facts. (Ukrainian democracy is vastly more real than anything in Russia. Large majorities of even Russian-speaking Ukrainians wanted to maintain independence. And so on.)But Putin’s view of the world never depended on facts in the first place. It was all about the emotional rewards his narrative offered: a return to past glories, the country’s suffering and courage during the ‘Great Patriotic War’, the long line of Russian power that expresses itself through Ivan the Terrible, Catherine the Great, and so on.So, as well as a battle by air and ground, there’s also a battle of narratives.On that score, and by a thousand Russian versts, the Ukrainian narrative is winning.It turns out that Ukraine is a real country. Its soul does not belong to anyone else. The Ukrainian government is nobody’s puppet. It’s amply capable of managing its own affairs – and with remarkable courage and dignity. And so on. But what’s really interesting, I think, to those of us who write fiction and any more creative flavour of non-fiction, is that the clinching elements of that Ukrainian narrative victory lie less in presidential addresses and more in the humble details. For example:The 13 Ukrainian soldiers who radioed, ‘Russian warship, go **** yourself’, even when faced with what must have seemed like certain death.A 60-something Ukrainian man who picked up a landmine with his bare hands and moved it to somewhere safe … a lit cigarette hanging from his lips all the while.Unarmed civilians standing in front of a Russian tank telling the soldiers to go back to their own country.In a virtually empty railway train running from Lviv, near the Polish border, to Kyiv itself, a journalist is told off for putting his feet on the seat opposite. Standards are standards, even in times of war.And not just details, but the grimmest of jokes, or defiance laced with black humourPresident Zelensky, asked if he wanted American help to escape, responded, ‘The fight is here. I need ammunition, not a ride.’A Ukrainian grandmother approached a Russian soldier to ask him to put her sunflower seeds in his pocket, so ‘there will be flowers there when you die.’When that same soldier asked the old lady not to ‘escalate’ the situation, she responded, ‘How can I escalate it? You invaded my country.’And the thing about these details is that they prove the Ukrainian narrative is the true one, and that Putin’s one is false. The military battle is not even half-fought. The ultimate outcome is not known. But already, we know that Putin’s entire narrative has been defeated utterly – by grandmothers with sunflower seeds and 13 soldiers swearing at a Russian warship.Indeed, one of the ironies here is how completely Putin managed to defeat himself. Perhaps, before this most recent invasion, there was some doubt about where the loyalties of Russian-speaking Ukrainians might lie. But not any more. Putin’s attempt to advance his narrative with tanks and howitzers has ended up destroying it. The Ukraine is now, in some ways, more independent, more essential, than it has ever been before.I’ve said often enough in these emails that details matter, that sense of place matters, that little character observation is crucial. I’ve said so in the past because I thought, “that’s what you need to write a good book.” And OK, that’s true. But it turns out the power of those details is vastly greater than I realised. The power of those details is enough to win a war and consolidate a country’s sense of nationhood. They’ve been enough to secure the most important victory of all, the victory of narrative.That’s why we’re not dumb for caring about those things. That’s why stories matter.Slava Ukraini!___And here are my favourite memes so far:

A hundred ways to fall over

Last week, I got an email which said, in effect, “I want to write, but …”I get a load of these emails, maybe dozens a year. The actual nature of the “but” varies a little, but some common examples include:I have so many ideas that the new ideas jostle the old one out of prominence. I have books full of ideas that I’ve started and then abandoned. I don’t know if anyone will want to read it I realise I’m going wrong and lose confidence in the whole idea The book just feels bad.And so on.It’s strange to say it, but these feelings are deeply common even amongst commercially successful novelists. That includes people who have written top ten bestselling novels and whose upcoming novel would certainly be expected to sell equally well.So – these thoughts have their somewhat crazy edge. But given that they’re so common, they must be grounded in something. And the common denominator is pretty simple: Most first drafts are problematic That’s an observation so familiar, it probably doesn’t need much expansion here. But there’s a second issue, especially where less experienced authors are concerned, and it’s crucial: Purely technical problems manifest as fundamental flaws with the idea or writer. So let’s say that you haven’t understood something important about (say) creating a sense of place. Perhaps you do the basics – this scene is set in a coffee shop, that one on a park bench, this one in an office – but everything still feels flat and without atmosphere.How will that feel to you, the author, as you look over your work? And inevitably, given that there will be other issues too (plot awkwardnesses, character issues, some bad prose habits, etc) what are you going to conclude about your book?The answer, very often, will be that writers think either “this must be a terrible idea” or “I must be a terrible writer”. Or both.And look: I do think it’s critical you have a great idea before you start writing in earnest. You should spend as much time as you need to get the idea bullet-proof. You (mostly) can’t change that idea once you’ve started writing and if it’s of only mediocre quality, your book will always struggle.But if your idea is OK, then everything else comes down to two things. Only two.Your ability to identify the technical issues in your writing You having the tools to fix those technical issues.So take that concern over sense of place. There’s basically a repeatable template for generating atmosphere and sense of place. You have to learn what the template is. Then practise applying it. Then edit, and edit your edits, and edit the edit of your edits. And you’re done. Problem solved.Assuming your idea is good, and assuming you have the wit to be at least competent as a writer (the large majority of you getting this email pass that test), then the feelings of doubt you are experiencing now are probably the result of technical issues which you haven’t yet properly identified or fixed.That’s it. That’s why writing craft matters so much. It’s the siege engine which breaks every challenge down into a set of basically solvable puzzles.If your writing craft isn’t yet all that it might be – something that is true of most pro authors as well as nearly all new writers – then there exist an absolute host of resources to help you out. Ranked (very roughly) from cheapest to dearest, you can consider any of the following things:These emails Blog posts, podcasts and the like Hanging out with other writers (which is helpful, but also dubious as errors can be propagated just as well as truths) A decent writing book, like the one wot I wrote. A Jericho Writers membership. If you buy for one month and then cancel, you’ll spend very little money and still have the ability to do our complete How To Write course, alongside an absolute ton of other material. That course is there to help you (A) identify technical issues and (B) solve them. That’s it. It’s about actionable help, not airy-fairy nonsense. (More.) A cheaper writing course – this will focus on skills, not on your manuscript, but your manuscript will certainly improve. (More.) A manuscript assessment – this will focus on your manuscript, not on skills, but you will also learn a ton and become a better writer as a result. (More.) Mentoring. This is where you work on your manuscript in the company of a professional author. You’ll get a mixture of technical and editorial type advice, but also a kind of motivational life coaching. For some writers, this kind of relationship is absolutely core to their evolution as authors. (More.) The Ultimate Novel Writing Course. This does exactly what it says on the tin – a phrase which will make sense to British writers, familiar with the old Ronseal ads, but which may be perplexing to everyone else. But yes: it’s our attempt to build the most complete possible writing course we could imagine. (More.)On the whole, I’d urge people to muck about in the shallow end before diving into the more expensive options here. So for heaven’s sake, before you pay for the top-dollar UNWC, do something low cost – like reading a book – to see if the focus on writing craft feels productive. It probably will, but be sure to buy a bottle, before you acquire the whole damn vineyard. Taste the bacon, before you buy the pigs.That’s it from me. Oh la la, and what a week it’s been. I have news for you, my little buddies, and you can’t guess what it is.Shall I tell you? Yes. One day I will.

How many words

The length of your manuscript matters. Partly, there’s just a crude commercial standard, varying somewhat by genre, as to how long a book needs to be. Subject to one major qualification (more on that later), the crude commercial standard is a thing of iron. You need to live within its constraints, or not be published.But also – word count has a kind of Zen quality. Every story has an ideal weight. If the length of your manuscript is wrong for the story, then your manuscript won’t work even if, technically, you fall inside the publishing industry’s demands.Let’s start with the Crude Commercial Standard.Every market for books has a set of largely standard prices. In the US, for example, a standard hardcover novel will retain at about $25. The same book with paper covers will sell at about $16-17.The cost of manufacturing a 200-page book is very largely the same as manufacturing a 400-page one. Most of the actual cost of the book lies in things like the author’s advance, the editorial process, the publicity and marketing, and so on, most of which are largely independent of length. That’s the main reason why price doesn’t vary much with quantity.But customers don’t think like that. If a customer notices that Someone Dies on a Train by Chris Agather is 400 pages long and selling for $25, they’ll resent paying the same price for the 200-page Someone Dies on a River by Aggie Christopher. Readers will buy the first book and ignore the second, while the latter’s publisher will learn not to put out a 200-page book.At this point, most actual readers will want to scream at me that some of their favourite books are very short. And OK, they are. But the customer hesitating between Someone Dies on a Train and Someone Dies on a River doesn’t know much about the quality of either book. The one certain piece of data is that the longer book will deliver more hours of reading than the shorter one – and for the same price. So (subject to the big qualification we’ll come to later) very short books don’t sell. They, mostly, aren’t even published.Following this logic, the Crude Commercial Standard therefore says that commercial novels need to be a minimum of 70 or 75,000 words to sell. Literary novels might start a bit smaller – say, 60,000 words or even 50,000. Nevertheless, the damn things need enough heft to satisfy the reader’s demand for value.The CCS doesn’t really have a firm upper end. There are sites on the internet which will tell you that 120,000 words is a hard upper limit, but it really, truly isn’t. My first book was more than 180,000 words long when published. The entire editorial process with HarperCollins didn’t shave more than a few thousand words from the original manuscript – and that shaving came mostly from me, not them. Likewise, epic fantasy fiction is meant to run long. Plenty of big historical fiction runs long. Plenty of thrillers run long. And of course, children’s and YA books run short. In every case, you just need to figure out how the CCS affects your particular market.OK. So much for the basics.The more Zen point is this.A professional reader – a Jericho editor, a skilled mentor, or a literary agent – will be able to read a synopsis and feel how long the book should be. Some stories feel like 80,000 words ones. Others feel like they need 120,000 words or more.I don’t pretend that this is an exact science, but it’s a real one all the same. I remember once reading a manuscript which was really good. A love story, with some extra trimmings, set in a great location, with good characters and some strong writing. That story should have been easy to sell. But it was 120,000 words long and the (fairly simple) story called for 80,000 words, or 90,000 tops.I told the author to delete text without removing content. That feels like a puzzling instruction – but I meant it literally. If you have five sentences of description about (say) a Victorian horse-market, you will almost certainly find that you can convey all the relevant atmosphere in three. If you have four paragraphs describing a rail journey from Vienna to Trieste, you can probably handle that in one or two. Authors who tend to the prolix, will also find that an eighteen-word sentence can be reduced to twelve without actually saying anything materially different.The mantra has to be, “Reduce length, maintain content”. If you do that, you’ll find you actually enhance your content, because you’ll be deleting the least effective words / sentences / paragraphs, so the impact of what’s left will be all the greater.(I should also say that although it’s much more common for people to need to cut their work, it can operate the other way round as well. Sometimes a writer delivers a book that’s fine – just too short. Journalists in particular, trained in being sparing and factual, are especially guilty of this. The trick here, once you’ve recognised the issue, is to figure out where the book is missing. It’s often textural stuff: descriptions of place, of feeling, of character nuance.)The author of that 120,000 word book struggled at first to do what I’d asked. The manuscript came back with maybe 2,000 words shaved off it, then – after I’d yelled at her again – another 5,000 words.It was only after the book went out to agents, secured plenty of interest, but no firm offers of representation that the writer sat down and really properly addressed what I’d asked her to do originally. The book came down to well below 100,000 words, and it wasn’t just shorter, it was denser, it was better, it was richer, it was more alive. That book secured an agent and, subsequently, a book deal. It deserved to.The book had found its proper weight and, at its proper weight, sold easily.Oh yes, and the one big qualification when it comes to the Crude Commercial Standard?Simple. The better the book, the less the CCS matters. If you are an author of genius, then write whatever the heck you want. The market will find a way to sell it.That’s it from me. Please don’t die on either a train, or a river, but if you do choose to do either thing, make sure you are travelling in the company of a portly Belgian detective.

One Small Thing

I happened to see a clip of Amazon’s Reacher TV series, based on Lee Child’s bestselling thrillers.And the clip I saw, had Jack Reacher – a giant of a man at 6’ 5” and arms like tree trunks – step off a Greyhound bus in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know what happened next, because I was looking for something else, but boof, right there, you know you’re in Reacher-land. You’re in Lee Child’s universe and nowhere else.If you’re not a thriller-reader, you may not be aware, but Jack Reacher is an ex-military policeman. He’s big, strong and an astonishing fighter. Those things are run-of-the-mill for this kind of territory, but the element which makes the books stand out is that Reacher has nowhere to live. He travels on buses, sleeps in motels, and carries no luggage. He owns literally nothing. When his clothes get dirty, he discards them and buys fresh. That’s why when a big, handy-looking man steps off a bus without luggage, you know instantly, who it is.And look: Lee Child’s novels are excellent. They’re thriller masterclasses. The tone is spot on. The invention. The intelligence. The technical knowledge. The prose style won’t win the Booker, but the prose style is dead right for these books.All the same, very good books often drop out of sight. Lee Child’s didn’t. How much did that owe to the instant recognition factor – the branding element – of Reacher’s mobile lifestyle? Well, I don’t know, but it definitely helped.Or since we’re talking thrillers, think of James Bond. Fleming’s early work wasn’t all that strong in a way. But he had a British assassin – a state assassin – who was expert in wines and snobbish about clothes. (Or, actually, just snobbish.) Narrow Bond down to a brand, and what you have is instantly recognisable. Here’s a guy whose palate is discriminating enough to care whether a cocktail is shaken or stirred, but he can still beat the living daylights out of an adversary. That’s pretty much the opposite of Reacher, but it’s still excellent branding.Or forget thrillers. My kids are, at the moment, delighting in the Igguldens’ The Dangerous Book for Boys and its Double Dangerous follow-up.Here, the branding narrows down to a single word, Dangerous. There isn’t actually anything dangerous about the book. It doesn’t tell you how to tightrope-walk over waterfalls. It doesn’t advise you to set your head on fire. But it’s gleefully keen on the kind of masculine interests and activities that have somewhat lost favour in recent decades: military history, paper planes, carpentry, card tricks, tree houses, party games, constellations, casting techniques. That word dangerous opens up a world of the Good Masculine. It gives it the glitter of something forbidden, exciting, alluring.It\'s a quite brilliant word, the best thing about a fine pair of books.And yet, if the purpose of this email was to talk about One Small Thing – to suggest how a single word can be the difference between bestseller-success and quiet adequacy – I’m not sure I’ve succeeded.Because although the examples I’ve given do narrow down to something small – a lifestyle, a snobbery, a word – they also open up into something big.Take The Dangerous Book for Boys. That one word inspired a genius bit of cover design – here. The design was retro, nostalgic, but also proclaiming something of a manifesto. “Look, the 1950s might have had plenty of bad male archetypes and things that, as a society, we’re pleased to have moved on from. But what about the good stuff? What about the men who knew history, and could handle a power saw, and could find true north from the moss on a tree trunk or the tilt of a constellation. This book celebrates all that – we’re retro and proud.”The contents of the book then followed through. Plenty of what’s in that book is totally inappropriate for kids. Are my children really going to build a tree house? Of course not. But that didn’t matter. The logic of that word dangerous, and that brilliant cover design, all pointed to a book that celebrated a certain kind of old-fashioned manhood and didn’t care too much if it was child-appropriate or not.And again: brilliant. There are any number of activities books for kids. Some are good, some are bad, but none of them are going to sell 1.5 million copies in hardback. That word dangerous pointed to and encapsulated a defiant opposition to the normal expectations of an activities book for children, and in that defiance lay its success.The point here, I guess, is that – if you can – you should try to find the One Small Thing that nudges your book from a perfectly acceptable work to something with extraordinary potential.That’s the shift from An Activity Book for Kids to The Dangerous Book for Boys.That’s the shift from a thriller led by an ex-military policeman to one led by an ex-MP who lives on buses and owns nothing.That’s the shift from an ordinarily professional government agent to one who’s at once Etonian-suave and East End-violent. Sometimes you only need a small shift of perspective to find that thing. Sometimes you’ll never find it (and still produce a perfectly fine and saleable work.) Sometimes, you’ll find an idea that nudges some of your other, earlier ideas aside so forcefully, you’ll end up with something other than the thing you first set out to create.I’m not great at the One Small Thing. My emails are too long. My books are too long. Even my short stories are too long. That teeny dab of marketing genius is something I find hard.But does it work? You bet it does. Hunt the One Small Thing in your own work – change your work if you have to - and good luck.

It’s not you, it’s them

Oh dear.Every now and then I get an email which is just so annoyingly familiar I want to scream.In this case, a wonderful human – one of you, a Jericho client – wins a literary prize. The prize is for unpublished manuscripts and the major element of the prize is a publishing deal with an up and coming new publisher.We will call our wonderful human Jacaranda Cappucino, or Jax for short. In my imagination, Jax is a woman with abundant black hair and always dramatic headgear. Today, she is wearing a red fedora with a pair of pheasant feathers in midnight blue.And …I advised Jax to get an agent, but for various reasons, she didn’t – including the fact that the competition rules were restrictive, so there wouldn’t be much room for contract negotiation, so in theory not much need of an agent.And …The competition rules were displayed on a website, but after the winner was announced, the website was changed and the rules were no longer posted and Jax could not longer see the rules by which she was bound.And …By the time I spoke to Jax about agents, she had actually been introduced to some, one of whom turned her down rather cattily. (And, jeepers, turn someone down if you will, but why cattily? So she didn’t feel great about agents, and I get why.And …The book was published. Yay! Jax began work on the next. That next book needed a new contract. She pushed back on reversion rights and got language that she wanted in there. (Yay #2, and well done, Jax.) She also wanted the publisher to modify its language on optioning the next book. (So a lot of contracts mean that the publisher of your contracted book has a right of first refusal over the next book you write. That can be a venomous and destructive little clause, so you need to be careful with it.) The publisher would not modify its option language, but it was worth a go.And …Around this time, more agents were in touch with Jax. One agent talked to Jax and said, don’t worry about the option – if this publisher doesn’t take your next book, I can always place it elsewhere. They then apparently, and without consulting Jax first, rang the publisher and told them more or less the opposite.And …The book sold. It sold well. Or at least the publisher told Jax that they were ‘thrilled’ with sales. That was their word: thrilled. And thrilled is good, right? Except that after three months of working with Jax on Book #2, the publisher told her abruptly that they wouldn’t be publishing it after all. The publisher “struggled terribly to tell me this and preceded it by saying he wished I had an agent.”And …Look: Jax is doing the right thing. She’s writing another book. She’s been published once. She’ll do it again.But also:Why does this industry have to be so damn ungenerous to its authors? Why can’t its people simply be truthful? If you win a competition, why not make sure that the winner has a copy of its rules. If you’re an agent rejecting an author, why not do so without cattiness?  If you’re an agent, don’t say one thing to the author and another to the publisher. If you’re the publisher and you are pleased with sales of book #1 but cautious about book #2, why not say exactly that to the author and explain why?The key here is the industry’s problematic ‘niceness’. The publisher ‘struggled terribly’ to give the author bad news. Don’t struggle. An investment banker doesn’t struggle. A market gardener doesn’t struggle. A plumber doesn’t struggle. Just tell the truth. And do so without personal charge.This shouldn’t be hard, right? And yet stories like Jax’s are all too common.It’s not you. It’s them.

The icy leap

A few years back, I used to live two or three hundred yards from the Thames. I swam a lot, often a mile or two at a time. In summer, I used to swim so long that my cocker spaniel, a particularly anxious and loyal dog, would start to fret. At a certain point, she’d break out of the garden and trot down the river footpath until she had found me and ‘rescued’ me. Her relief and joy were always boundless.But that was summer. My first swim of the year was always May 1, a date which has a sunny sort of feel to it, but the water at that time of year still held the shudder of winter ice. There was often something literally breathtaking about taking the leap. Your chest clenches and your breath locks up and for a short moment you wonder whether any of this was at all a good idea.Now all this is to introduce a writing dilemma we’ve all faced - a critical one.So: You have an idea for a book. You want to write the book. You start to develop your ideas. But when do you make the leap? When do you go from thinking about something to writing about something?These things have consequences.Skip too fast over the planning phase and the risk – a huge one – is that you are embarking on a project that has no chance at all of ever being realised.Let’s say, for example, you want to write a crime novel. You think, yes, people always love serial killer novels. You choose a city (Phoenix? Liverpool? Chipping Sodbury?). You choose a weird and wonderful habit that the serial killer has. (Uh, let’s say his murder methods combine exotic flowers and dangerously musky perfumes.) Then you pick a detective with a few little personal quirks (collects matchboxes, drinks too much, something dark in his/her past.)Boof! You’re off to the races, right?Well, yes and no.Yes, in the sense that you could write a book like that, and get to the end, and do all your edits, and arrive at a completely competent manuscript. But also no, because why would any agent want to take this on? They get a ton of competently written serial killer stuff. Why take yours? The probable answer is that they wouldn’t. They mostly don\'t.On the other hand, where the \"go too early\" risk is potentially lethal, the risk of spending too long in the writing / planning phase is rather smaller. The issue, really, is that you waste time and, perhaps, let a little air out of the inspirational rush you started with. Those risks are annoying and silly, but they’re not quite as existential as the ‘leap too soon’ risk.So when to start writing? How do you know? What is it like to judge that leap correctly?Well, I don’t always know. I sometimes get it wrong. But here’s an example of where I nailed it.I was ready to write book #6 in the Fiona Griffiths series. The theme needed to tie in nicely with my Welsh setting. There had to be an opening murder. I wanted an underlying crime that was novel and intriguing. (Not just weird nasty guy being weird and nasty. Not just drugs. Not just prostitution.)I googled around, looking for ideas about what crimes existed. Found something about art and antiquities theft and fraud. Discovered that this area is one of the world’s most significant criminal enterprises.Good. That felt like a nice idea to latch onto.But Welsh history posed a bit of a problem. The history of Wales goes back a good old way, but it’s never been the centre of British art or prosperity. If I wanted to write a book about antiquities fraud then Rome, or Avignon, or Cairo, or Jerusalem would all look like better settings than Cardiff.Only … and this was Inspiration #1 … maybe not. If I wanted to go really nuts, what about a story that involved King Arthur? He was an ancient Briton (that is: Celtic, not Anglo-Saxon) and there’s plenty of circumstantial evidence to suggest that, if he existed, he was quite possibly Welsh.(And, by the way, it’s quite likely that he did exist – ancient sources on both the British and Anglo-Saxon side suggest that he did. He wasn’t a king, though, nor was that ever suggested until much later.)I liked the idea of Arthur and, if antiquities theft was to lie at the heart of my book, then that antiquity just had to be Arthur’s sword, Excalibur. (Or, more accurately, Caledfwlch: there’s no way Arthur would have called his sword by a cod-Latin name that was popularised around a millennium later.)I loved this idea, but was worried that if I centred a contemporary police procedural on an actual Excalibur, I’d just lose too much credibility. So the bad guys had to create a fake Excalibur, then find a way to sell it. Obviously that meant they had to find a way to ‘authenticate’ the discovery.That felt complicated – but good-complicated. Crime stories should have a twisty, hard-to-follow structure. That’s part of their yumminess.But so far, I felt I had something credible – plausible – a nice idea for a book.But did I have a stunning one? There was something still missing. So I didn\'t yet start writing. I was still in the thinking / planning / researching phase.I scratched away at reading source material. (Books on Arthur. Material on how to fake antiquities. Stuff about the Dark Web.) I made little notes about my starting murder. I had some nice-looking scraps, but I didn’t have the courage yet to make the leap.And then – and I remember the moment – I had Inspiration #2. How was my Fiona Griffiths going to catch the bad guys?And it came to me. The best place to sell dodgy stuff is on the Dark Web – where you can find highly encrypted, super-anonymised eBay stores for drugs, guns, counterfeit documents, anything you like.If you wanted to sell a counterfeit Excalibur, that’s where you’d want to sell it. So how would Fiona stop the bad guys selling their dodgy sword? Answer: by making one of her own! By selling hers as well! With two swords on offer, no buyers would want either. So the bad guys would have to contact Fiona to get her to remove her sword from sale. And bingo: with contact made, Fiona could catch the bad guys.The idea worked perfectly at one level: it would introduce a totally unexpected mid-book twist, perfect for this kind of novel.But it would work perfectly for my character too. Her audacious, three-steps-ahead, rule-breaking resourcefulness was just perfect for this twist. I remember bounding around the garden in my joy at figuring this out.It’s like I had the keystone that would lock everything else into place - bring the story and my character into perfect synchrony.And for me at least, once you hit that sense of inspiration – the shape of the story, the keystone, the excitement – it’s fine for you start writing immediately. If you’re more of a planner than I am, then it’s also fine to plan things out a bit more before that icy leap.And I should say that taking the leap at the right point in your book’s development doesn’t mean that everything will run fine from there on. You’ll still find plot knots that are desperately hard to untangle. You’ll still encounter patches where you feel the book has lost all its energy and reason to live.In the end, a powerful inspiration – the insight which secures your book’s basic viability – still requires the whole discipline of craft and time and attention.But for me at least, if I have the security of an idea I know I can trust, the rest never gets too far off track. I never wholly lose my appetite for the story I’m telling.Find the idea - so solid you know you can count on it. Then the leap into the water. That way round, every time.

What do you want?

One of the challenges that assails self-published writers is the sense that everything is important. You should have a mailing list – you should have a highly engaged Facebook page – you should tweet – you should be on LinkedIn or Pinterest – you should write more books – you should advertise better – you should set up promos – and much more besides.That sense of obligation can get into your head, and not in a good way. One of the ways you can spot a newbie self-pub author is that their email footer is often desperately cluttered. Follow me on Twitter! Like me on Facebook! Buy my book! Join my list! Come to my birthday party! Try this recipe!It’s like a blizzard of calls to action, as a result of which any normal reader is inclined to take no action whatever. It just feels overwhelming … and a very little bit needy. (Which is OK: we forgive all authors pretty much everything. We’ve committed every sin in the book ourselves.)But the issue is a general one and it’s not limited to self-pub authors.The question, time and again, is simple: what do you want from this?For example: what do you want from your book?Consider the concept of your book itself. It’s not that uncommon for us to get people asking us for help finding an agent for their book, which is presented as a mixture of:A stunning true-life story about the writer’s adventures in – wherever Eight lengthy chapters about an abusive childhood Two dozen poems that are very personal to the author … and are often, not always, unreadable by anyone else.Now, I hope it’s blisteringly obvious that there is no market whatsoever for such a book. The stunning true-life story could be publishable and, yes, there is a market, of sorts, for poetry. But once you throw all these things into a great book-pie together, there’s just a mess.With manuscripts like these, the author invariably has a wildly mixed set of motivations. They want a strong commercial publisher for the adventure part of the memoir. They want emotional release in relation to the childhood trauma. They want some kind of private, aesthetic joy in seeing their poems in print.But no one cares. Publishers want books they can sell. Books like these are unsaleable.I speak from experience here. Perhaps the most remarkable project we’ve ever worked on was published as West End Girls by Barbara Tate. To sell that book, we needed to cut a 165,000 word manuscript down to 90,000 words – work that we did in-house because the book’s 80-something author was no longer able to handle work on that scale. But all we really brought to bear was simple clarity of purpose. We just found Barbara’s story and released it. The book went on to be a Top 10 bestseller – it’s phenomenal.The same basic question brings clarity time and again. For example:What do you want from your book cover?The answer ought to be simple: you want it to sell the book. But very often, writers think, ‘Yes, but I have this vision of a lighthouse on the cover and my Uncle Neil used to do a lot on Photoshop and putting a text on a cover can’t be that hard, and I really want the cover to express my vision of the work, so …”The result? Almost always a hopeless cover.A pro designer doesn’t think that way. They know almost nothing about your book, bar the genre, a one-page outline and perhaps a list of possible visuals. So they’ll work with that – and with a single goal in mind: sales.It’s not unusual to come across a book whose cover connects almost not at all with the content. But who cares? Once the sale is made, the cover has largely done its job.A friend of mine was presented with a draft book cover by her Big 5 publisher. The cover was awesome, but it had nothing, literally nothing, to do with the book. So she said yes to the cover and rewrote one scene in the book to accommodate the image introduced by the cover art. Bingo!What do you want from your Amazon page?You want your Amazon page to sell your book. Or, to break things down a little further, you want your Amazon page to at least induce the “Look Inside” click, then you want the “Look Inside” material to induce the buy.So your blurb needs to induce the buy. Your title does. Your subtitle does. Your pricing does. And you need to induce the buy in people who don’t know who you are, who are giving your book page about seven seconds consideration, who don’t like wasting their cash, and who are only a click or two away from Lee Child / EL James / Harlan Coben or whoever else.That means a tightly worded blurb. A clear reason to buy. A mood and offer that’s closely united with the promise made by the cover. It also means ditching any verbiage that’s about you and what you want to tell the world.What do you want from your agent query letter?You want the agent to turn – with interest – to your manuscript. That’s all.So keep the letter short. Make the purpose of the book – its USP, its hook, its soul – clear. Say a sentence or two about you. Then get out.You’re not making friends with the agent. You’re not even looking to impress the agent. You just want them to turn to your manuscript.Clarity. Sales - and writing.Again and again, you will find that to make a good choice, you need to prune your motivations to just one. And in nearly every case, that motivation needs to be ‘I want to sell more books’.That’s not because I’m vastly greedy, but because selling books is hard. Making a career is hard. Finding readers is hard. Unless you prioritise those things, relentlessly, you may not get into print at all.And of course, there is one vast area where of course you should bring multiple, complex and layered motivations – namely, when it actually comes to writing your book. Yes, you should think about what readers want, but in a funny way, you shouldn’t think about that too much. In crafting the basic concept for the manuscript, you have to consider your market very closely. But thereafter, just write the best book you can.Take my Fiona Griffiths work, for example. In terms of genre, it’s contemporary police procedural and I pretty much follow all the rules of my genre. But thereafter, it’s all about me and my taste. I like humour, so there’s humour. I care about prose style, so my writing is carefully (and unusually) styled. I evolved quite an unusual central character, because I liked writing about her. I certainly didn’t run some kind of spreadsheet on what fictional police detectives ought to be like.That’s more or less it from me for this week. I will just say, however, that if you are serious about self-publishing, we are offering what may be one of the most amazing courses ever developed. It’s hands-on, practical and with loads of feedback from Debbie Young, someone who knows self-pub so well, she practically invented it. More here.

The flash of gold

Our family has a tradition in which my wife and I bury some ‘treasure’ and some time after Christmas the children find it.A couple of times, we’ve led them to the treasure via maps and clues, but last year, accidentally, the kids found the treasure before we’d done the whole map ‘n’ clue thing, and their excitement was wildly greater than it had been in earlier years.So this year, we aimed to follow that same basic template. The kids had already searched our garden and found nothing. They didn’t grumble exactly, but their disappointment was there.Then, yesterday, Nuala and I led them up the road for a walk. It wasn’t a treasure-hunt, just a chance to walk in some rare January sunshine.On the way out – nothing.The light started to fade. We began to return home. As we did so, one of us saw a single gold (chocolate) coin shining from the mud on the verge.Had that coin been there before? The kids weren’t sure, but no, it hadn’t been, I placed it there while they were running ahead.They started to inspect the site more carefully and saw a second coin gleaming from a nearby tree.We adults did the adult thing: warning that someone had probably just dropped a coin, it probably wasn’t really chocolate, none of these things really meant anything – but then one of the girls found a spade leaning up against a tree, a sure sign that there was digging to be done.With a little bit of guidance, they found the right spot – a place where the ground ivy could be simply brushed aside and some clean, bare soil exposed. The kids were, by this point, almost leaping with excitement, except that the tremble of the impending discovery kept them almost hypnotically glued to the spot.Then they started digging, made a mess of things, and asked me to help. I plunged the spade into the earth and we all heard the soft thud of a spade hitting up against a hard object in the soft earth.Tabby, the older girl, then scraped away enough soil to expose an old metal box with yellow markings. At this point, the kids were literally jumping and screaming. Tabby had to hand me the spade, so she could jump and scream too.We levered the box (an old army ammo tin, bought from eBay) out of the ground, brushed it off, opened it – and found a mass of gold coins, more than 100 of them.And in all of that, it occurred to me that the whole adventure was a kind of story-making. The very faint grumbling discontent that this year, no treasure had materialised. An evening walk in end-of-day sunshine. A quiet, domestic ordinariness on the journey out – nothing to rouse suspicion. Then, on the way back, a tiny sign of something unusual. A sign repeated by that second gold coin in the tree. A sign affirmed, emphatically, by the presence of a spade. Then a frenzy of action – characters responding to their story situation – and the genuinely thrilling moment when spade thumped box,For almost all of us, and perhaps for literally all of us, the appetite for story begins in childhood. My kids are aged 6 and 8, which is about the peak for make-believe play of all sorts. The world just shapes itself into story at least as easily as it shapes itself into an adult-style, empirical conversation about reality.And it occurred to me that, if we’re writing for kids, it’s blooming obvious that we need to write those finding-treasure type scenes. We need to generate the sense of wonder, of discovery, of the quotidian breaking into the magical.But isn’t that also, and equally, the case when we write for adults? If you’re a crime novelist, doesn’t the discovery of a corpse offer something like the same kind of thrill? Even in properly hi-falutin’ literary fiction, isn’t there a demand for something like that moment? The moment when, in Atonement for example, a lewd letter is misdelivered, when ordinary consensual sex is mistaken for something darker.I won’t say that every published book out there has those moments, or even that every successful book does. But they nearly all do and they probably all should.I think alive in all of us, as readers or writers, is the desire to re-stage and re-encounter those moments of magic. Unlike the kids, we know it’s fake, but we don’t care, we just want that feeling repeated.And, for us as writers, I think that means we have to be honest about discarding some of our adulthood when we write. Of course, to get by in our complicated modern world, we need to reason, and study evidence, and build a picture of reality as it is. But as writers, we just have to drop some of those attitudes, or loosen them.We need to allow ourselves the moment of watching a spade plunge into earth believing, that yes, really, there’ll be treasure beneath.

Who owns your book? A message for the New Year

Who owns your book? That sounds like a nice, simple question, so here are four answers to choose from. Who owns your book – the trad answerThe essence of a publishing contract is simple. You sell your book in exchange for (a) an advance and (b) sales-based royalties. But the first four words of that sentence are the really significant ones, the ones that count more than anything else in the contract. You sell your book.The publisher, not you, will determine the cover, blurb, marketing plans and sales strategy. They will probably make a polite effort to keep you in the loop and not unhappy, but that’s about it. All the final decisions will be made by someone other than you. You can yell, cajole, persuade and reason – but the decisions lie elsewhere.Furthermore, suppose that, as is increasingly common, you sell World rights or World English rights. (For example, let’s say you are a British author selling World rights to a British publisher. That publisher would publish the book in the UK, but then sell the rights to other territories to publishers operating in those territories. “World English” means the same thing, but in relation only to sales in the English language, so that translation rights are excluded.)Once you’ve sold World rights, those rights are there for your publisher to exploit, not you. You will not get consulted about sales strategy. You won’t learn much about what is or isn’t happening with your book. Yes, deals will be presented to you for your approval, but only in a “take it, or leave it” way. There’s no meaningful choice on offer.In short, once you sell a book to a trad publisher, it is not your book. Don’t be unhappy about that – it’s the culmination of everything that you wanted – but don’t be under any illusions as to what is happening. Who owns your book – the indie answerIf you’re an indie author, of course, the answer is stunningly different – and utterly simple: You own the book.No ifs, not buts.You can change the cover at any time. You can (and will) change pricing whenever you want. You can change your distributors. You can move in and out of different formats as you please.It’s your book. Who owns your book – the book’s answerThe first two answers talk about your book as a product and in terms of commercial exploitation. And, OK, that’s important, but it doesn’t really get to any interesting artistic truth.But think about this.Let’s say you embark on your manuscript with a particular set of goals. Perhaps you want to write a modern country-house style murder mystery. You want to imitate the crystal elegance of an Agatha Christie plot, but brought into the modern day.Fine. You need an investigator, of course, so perhaps you choose a former Paratrooper with combat experience in Afghanistan and Iraq. That combat experience has shattered him in some ways, but has also left him with something like higher sight in matters of murder and human conflict. He’s an excellent choice of detective. Terrific.Now you, the author, have really only one task, which is to write the best book that you can.Your choice of hero brings a challenge: do you honour the emotional complexity of his character? Or do you attempt to properly imitate those great Agatha Christie novels that elevate the puzzle way over any real psychological depth for the detective?It’s a no-brainer.When your manuscript comes into conflict with your original goals, you need to change those goals. The manuscript has to win every time. Yes, you are authoring your manuscript, but you are also constantly listening to it. What does it want? What does it need from you?In this sense, your manuscript isn’t owned by anyone at all. It owns itself. It knows its mind. Your only task is to bend low and listen closely. Then do what you’re told.Most relationships wouldn’t work well like that, but the author-manuscript relationship really thrives. Not only does the manuscript get better that way, but you have more joy in the writing. More belief. Who owns your book – an answer for JanuaryBut it’s January, the season of winter damps and New Year’s resolutions.Sp the hell with publishers. The hell with self-publishing. And (whisper it softly) the hell with what your manuscript wants.This is your year. It’s your book. Don’t be bossed around by what publishers want, or might want. Don’t be bossed around by what the Amazon algorithms are said to want. Don’t be bossed around by these damn emails or by any advice from the wise heads of Jericho.Write.You’ve got nothing to work with until you have words on a page. That first draft is just hauling a block of stone into your studio. The editing is where you start to carve it.Jane Smiley says, “Every first draft is perfect because all the first draft has to do is exist. It\'s perfect in its existence. The only way it could be imperfect would be to NOT exist.”So let it exist. Make it exist. Your task for the year.Attaboy. Attagirl.

What do you want? I mean, really?

I know an author – she works for Jericho Writers – who always wanted a two-book deal with a commercially ambitious Big 5 publisher. So she wrote a book and got an agent and the two of them got themselves in front of an outstanding imprint at a Big 5 publisher. The publisher said yes, please, they wanted the book.I know an author – me – who had a perfectly successful career as a trad and self-pub author. Now admittedly life got a bit over-complex (kids, a business, disability in the family), but he’s still writing. The logical book would be #7 in the successful Fiona Griffiths series. It’s already mostly written.I know a highly successful self-pub author – Debbie Young, who runs our brand-new self-publishing course – who has a very popular crime series. That series was badly in need of a next instalment and she felt perfectly able to write it.But, but, but …Last year was pretty damn grim. It was all about lockdown and anxiety and rampaging sickness statistics.This year’s hardly been merry either. More lockdowns and more conflict over lockdowns. Some brilliant vaccine news (yay!) but also a succession of new variants. Here in the UK, the news cycle is, once again, crammed with a particularly grey shade of pre-Christmas gloom.Which is why I ask: what do you want? What do you really, really want?My colleague, the one with the two-book offer from the fancy publisher, said no.The publisher in question wanted to dumb down her book, to strip it of personality. It was clear they wanted someone to deliver a commodity product which they would package up and sell as a commodity online. So she said no. Instead, she’s signed up with a smaller (but very able and ambitious) indie publisher instead, because they wanted the book she had actually written just as she had always envisaged it.It’s a better solution for her.And me? Well, that #7 Fiona Griffiths book just feels too large and complicated for where my life has been this year. So I’ve almost completed a literary book so barmy I don’t even quite know how to tell you about it. (Hmm: “It’s a literary novelty book about story-making, polar adventure and cannibalism.” Something like that.) I can’t tell you if the book will ever be published or not, but I can tell you that I’ve loved every minute I’ve had while writing it.And Debbie? She confessed the following:In the last few months, more and more indie authors have been telling me they are weary of the pay-to-play rollercoaster of certain publishing platforms. I know quite a few who are recalibrating to focus on quality rather than quantity. Particularly after the battering our mental well-being has taken from the Covid pandemic, stepping back from marketing pressures, while maintaining an effective author platform (website, social media, etc), can feel like a much-needed healing process.… As to myself, I made a conscious decision this summer that whenever I start a new project, I’ll write whatever is in my heart, rather than necessarily what makes the most commercial sense. I took time out to write a standalone novella when I was overdue to write the third in a series of mystery novels. But I’m really glad I did it, and I will continue to take this approach for the foreseeable future. It feels controversial or even heretical as a successful indie author to be saying this, but I have a feeling that a significant number of authors out there when they read this will be thinking, “Oh please, yes, let me just write for a while! In 2022, I just want to write!”I think it’s great to be commercial about what you write. Books are better for having readers. It’s hard enough getting published, let alone making any money. Manuscripts that start out without any feel for the market normally end up essentially unread.But there’s a balance to be struck. Not one of us thought, “Gosh, I’d really like to be stupidly rich, so I’ll just write some books.” On the contrary, the passion came first. Thoughts about publication came second. Thoughts about making money from publication came a snail-like third.So here’s the question: are you getting joy from your writing? Do you love the project you are currently working on?And I don’t mean “love” as in “right now this minute”. Even with projects of passion there are dark passages that just need to be muscled through. I mean love, more like marital love: with its ups and downs, but still most definitely love.Do you love your writing? I hope you do.Have a very merry Christmas. I shan’t email next week or the week after. Normal service will resume in January.

The opposite of Mr Koontz

Last week we pondered the awkward prose and strange success of Dean Koontz. Today – rather stupidly – I’m going to do the opposite.Our theme this week is Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell. The book deals with the death of Shakespeare’s son, Hamnet. (The two names, Hamnet and Hamlet were used more or less interchangeably in Shakespeare’s time. Shakespeare wrote the play a few years after the death of his son.)The book is obviously Great Literature. My copy is jam-packed with superlative reviews and the book won both the Women’s Prize for Fiction in the UK and the National Book Critics Circle prize for fiction in the US.So: serious critical heft, plus it talks about Shakespeare, so what’s not to love?Well, when we were looking at Dean Koontz last week, we thought that some of his writing habits are there to reassure his readers that they’re going to get what they came for.Koontz’s readers don’t want fancy writing, so Koontz is quick to reassure them: buddy, you’re not going to get any. On the other hand, they do want big, clear, comic-book style characters, and Koontz makes sure he places one prominently on page one.I suggested that that Koontz’s approach to prose was like a box of cheaper chocolates, where the point of the packaging was to reassure shoppers, “This is not too fancy. If you feel worried by fancy, expensive chocolates, we promise that you won’t find any of that stuff inside.”But how about the opposite? If you’re buying fancy chocolates, you want the packaging to match. Elegant fonts, dark colours, plenty of layers of foil and fluffy packaging and fancy tissue. The packaging says, “You want fancy? We’re going to give you fancy. Worried that these chocolates won’t pass muster at your posh dinner party? Don’t worry. We’ve got six layers of fancy tissue and each chocolate comes in its own mini-wrapping, so your guests are just going to KNOW that you’ve spent real money on this box.”OK. Hold that thought.Here are some bits from Hamnet:Quote 1You might find the [edge of the forest] a restless, verdant, inconstant sight: the wind caresses, ruffles, disturbs the mass of leaves; each tree answers to the weather’s ministrations at a slightly different tempo from its neighbour, bending and shuddering and tossing its branches as if trying to get away from the air, from the very soil that nourishes it.Quote 2The words fly out of her mouth, like hornets, words she didn’t even know she knew, words that dart and crackle and maim, words that twist and mangle her tongue.Quote 3He gives a nod and a shrug, all at the same time, eyeing the broad back of his father, who looms behind his mother, still facing the street. He is, despite himself, despite the fact that he is clutching the hand of the woman he has vowed to marry, despite everything working out which way he will have to duck to avoid the inevitable fist, to feint, to parry, and to shield Agnes from the blows he knows will come.Two things before we go on.One, please look at those quotes and see what you think of them. Forget that you are reading a hugely successful work of literary fiction. What do you think of the quotes on the page?Two, I’m going to have some challenging things to say about those snippets of writing, but I’m not so daft as to think that Maggie O’Farrell can’t write. There’s plenty of excellent writing in the book – just, I’m not sure she nails it every time.Right-o. So let’s dig in.Quote 1, commentsYou might find the [edge of the forest] a restless, verdant, inconstant sight: the wind caresses, ruffles, disturbs the mass of leaves; each tree answers to the weather’s ministrations at a slightly different tempo from its neighbour, bending and shuddering and tossing its branches as if trying to get away from the air, from the very soil that nourishes it.If I were being mean about this snippet (and I am), I think I’d point out the following:Verdant means covered with thick green foliage and it’s a word almost never used in ordinary speech. It’s what you might expect from a Victorian poetess. Any more recent usage tends to feel like it’s straining a bit too hard.Restless and inconstant mean much the same thing. Certainly, it’s not clear that both are needed here. What is the additional word supposed to add?On the topic of pointless repetition, caresses, ruffles and disturbs seems like repetition for the sake of it. When O’Farrell writes the mass of leaves, she could just as well have written the leaves. The word mass adds a kind of pretension without any useful addition to meaning.The weather’s ministrations: the use of the word weather here seems like an awkward way of repeating the word wind. But she doesn’t really mean weather; she definitely means wind. So the sentence needed a bit of a rethink… And the word ministrations is rather like verdant: do you ever actually use the word if you’re not straining to sound posh? I’d suggest mostly not.On the matter of a slightly different tempo from its neighbour – I actually liked this. Different trees do move in different ways, as do their leaves. So a poplar alternates rapidly between showing a darker upper leaf, and a more silvery underside. A beech behaves differently. An oak differently again. If O’Farrell had offered us some detail of observation along those lines, we might actually see something new in nature – taking stock of something we’d seen but never before noticed. As it is, the comment is blandly general and getting close to a statement of the obvious.When we get to bending and shuddering and tossing its branches, then once again I think we mostly have repetition for the sake of it. I’m not even sure that trees do shudder. That implies a rapid repetitive movement which is not really how trees behave.And trees moving in the wind suggests that they’re trying to escape from the air and the soil? Really? I mean, I love a tasty metaphor, but for me this just seems like a fail. A big, bold image that in the end just feels unconvincing.Quotes 2 and 3, commentsI’m not going to comment on these passages at length, except that now we’ve noticed O’Farrell’s habit of repetition, it’s hard to un-notice it – and it doesn’t feel better on further acquaintance.But do just take a note of this: ‘The words fly out of her mouth, like hornets’. These words are clearly not very like hornets, since they dart and crackle and maim none of which are things that hornets do. These words also twist and mangle the woman’s tongue and you’d have to be a very muscular (and peculiar) hornet to do that. The thing that hornets are best known for doing is stinging people, and there’s no mention of sting here. So: these words aren’t really like hornets at all, are they?Presumably, O’Farrell knows that, so why does she write it?Well, I think two things. First, there’s the literary attraction to the big, bold metaphor, and the attraction remains, even when the metaphor isn’t sound. And secondly, if you want to cut a dash with book critics, then some great tips are:Write about Shakespeare or adapt a story of Shakespeare’s (Jane Smiley, A Thousand Acres) , or adapt another classic tale (Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles), or  …Make sure that, every now and then, you talk about words themselves, or sentences, or parts of speech, or vowels, etc. That way, you’re showing proper deference to the tools of the literary tradeUse fashionable phrases where you can. ‘Freighted with a cargo of X’ for example is an excellent way to say “possesses X” for pretty much every possible instance of X.Use some fancy words (verdant, not green)Toss in plenty of verbs, in lists.Use semi-colons freely – or avoid them completely. Doesn’t matter which: you just need a clearly visible policy.And so on! This list is definitely not exhaustive.The opposite of Mr KoontzThe truth is you can write a terrific novel and still fall prey to some of the weaknesses of Literary Writing – no novel is perfect, after all.But as with Mr Koontz, I think part of it has to do with wrapping and how you appeal to your target market. In the end, it’s the chocolate itself that matters. But clever packaging is a smart way to market yourself to your target audience.It’s not just Dean Koontz that does that, it’s prize-winning Maggie O’Farrell too. And hell, it’s not just those two: it’s all of us. Nowt wrong with that. But we still need to make sure that the writing passes muster. The writing has to come first.
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