What?
Am I mad, deranged, just plain off my rocker?
Well, me old cocker, quite possibly.
But what the hell. My new horror novel Last Night At The Stairways is now available for just $0.99 right here.
To claim your 50% discount, enter code SP82W prior to completing the purchase.
It's that easy.
But hurry, like a strong cheese carelessly left out of the fridge, the discount will only last a couple of days.
Some Interesting Stuff About KDP Select
Here are the results of a survey into KDP Select carried out by Freebooksy.
The results I got from The Money Star are way below average, though I have only one review, and the findings here recommend 10-15!
With two more days of my second three month stint to go, that'll be it for The Money Star and KDP Select for the foreseeable future. Gonna try it out on Smashwords, with a new opening chapter to boot.
The results I got from The Money Star are way below average, though I have only one review, and the findings here recommend 10-15!
With two more days of my second three month stint to go, that'll be it for The Money Star and KDP Select for the foreseeable future. Gonna try it out on Smashwords, with a new opening chapter to boot.
Quote Unquote
I am not very good at remembering who said what. And I've probably got this quote wrong, but it's interesting nonetheless. Here goes:
All novels are, in some way, about the novel-writing process.
I think the rationale was that because it takes so long to write a novel, and that it dominates your life to such an extent, you can't fail to refer to or write about the process, subconsciously or otherwise, somewhere along the way.
All novels are, in some way, about the novel-writing process.
I think the rationale was that because it takes so long to write a novel, and that it dominates your life to such an extent, you can't fail to refer to or write about the process, subconsciously or otherwise, somewhere along the way.
The Difference Between Those Who Write And Those Who Think They Can't Write
It's all about getting it right first time.
Those who write don't mind getting down some crap on the page. They know they're going to rewrite and rewrite and rewrite until they get it, well, right.
Those who think they can't write get frustrated by a blank page. They won't put anything on it until they think it's perfect, and often, that means nothing gets put on the page at all.
To write, you've got to be prepared to write crap first. And you've got to believe that the crap will turn into something better over time.
Those who write don't mind getting down some crap on the page. They know they're going to rewrite and rewrite and rewrite until they get it, well, right.
Those who think they can't write get frustrated by a blank page. They won't put anything on it until they think it's perfect, and often, that means nothing gets put on the page at all.
To write, you've got to be prepared to write crap first. And you've got to believe that the crap will turn into something better over time.
First Draft vs Final Draft, PART II
My word, here I go giving away words for free. The kind of words in the kind of order that people have already paid good money for.
But it's all for a good cause, I reckon. To explore the changes that an opening of a novel goes through as it's shaped and given greater focus.
I'm currently happy with how this opening reads, but as time passes and as the need for me to position The Money Star more clearly in one genre, I'm getting itchy feet and feeling the need to amend again, to make it either more sci-fi or more heist right from the start.
Enough already. Here's the opening to The Money Star as it now stands.
But it's all for a good cause, I reckon. To explore the changes that an opening of a novel goes through as it's shaped and given greater focus.
I'm currently happy with how this opening reads, but as time passes and as the need for me to position The Money Star more clearly in one genre, I'm getting itchy feet and feeling the need to amend again, to make it either more sci-fi or more heist right from the start.
Enough already. Here's the opening to The Money Star as it now stands.
What the diamond robbers lacked in equipment and
experience, they made up for with their desperation and determination.
Simon Remnant was not one of them. But he was
acutely aware of their fumbling presence in the jewellers next door to the café
outside of which he was toying with a late fried breakfast, feeling every one
of his forty-six years following another evening wasted getting wasted.
He had been sitting at the table for nearly two
hours, catching the autumnal sun rays that managed to beam between some of
central London’s lowest high rises. During that time, he’d been forced to shoot
several smiles at the little girl sitting with legs swinging at the next table.
She was determined not to take her eyes off him, staring like he was an outcast
here in his own neighbourhood. Trying to figure him out. Who was he? What was
with his old face and his streaky grey hair? Where were all his friends and why
was he pushing his food around his plate like her mother told her not to?
In between glances down Greville Street to the
junction with Hatton Garden, Remnant demonstrated his disappearing napkin
trick, much to the girl’s fascination and her mother’s consternation. It was a
trick he’d perfected while trying to entertain his own little girl some twenty
years before.
After another performance, he looked down at a
sheet of paper that had held his attention periodically for the past week. What
to say, what to say about her? ‘This is the proudest day of my life.’
That was a good start, but was that a word, proudest?
Edgar would know.
He looked up to see the girl’s mother pointing
out the bits of blueberry muffin her daughter should be eating while berating
an absent father on her mobile phone.
A yell from within the jewellers and the
sprinkle of a necklace falling on concrete diverted Remnant’s fragile
attention. His first thoughts were for the audacity of the raid. Straight in
the front door, bold as brass bracelets, middle of the day. They had to be
amateurs.
First Draft vs Final Draft PART I
So how much change does a novel go through as the drafts slip by? No point pontificating on the matter. I'll show you, by posting the opening few paras of the first chapter of my debut novel today, The Money Star (Ccccclang!!! There I go dropping the name again), and the opening para of the latest, published draft tomorrow, creating the first ever cliffhanger in this blog's history.
It's worth remembering that I would have been happy with how this first draft opening was shaping up at the time.
THE MONEY STAR FIRST DRAFT
It's worth remembering that I would have been happy with how this first draft opening was shaping up at the time.
THE MONEY STAR FIRST DRAFT
1. Edgar’s Riches
‘Parts for sale here. Space and human’
‘The Whittington’ crashed in a treasure chest of flames onto the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral in the early hours. The charred body parts, burnt bones and sinew of the crew littered the ancient grey stone cobbles. Fried metallic wings lay bent amid discarded fried chicken wings. The nuclear-powered engine smoked over smoked cigarettes, and warped computer chips lay scattered among a greased bundle of discarded cod and chips.
Those who witnessed the impact were either too drunk to notice, too blasĂ© to care, or too eager to salvage parts of the vessel for their own ends. Two kids on skateboards made off with a rusty box that had been thrown clear of the wreckage by the force of the crash. The only witness to take any interest in the welfare of the crew, whose blackened limbs and livers, lungs and legs he’d have to sweep up was Edgar.
Like other roadsweepers, the one thing Edgar never swept was the road. Gutters, pavements, tree-bases, bridges, they were his stock trade. The road? Too dangerous. ‘Stick to the pavements’ the boss and wife would say. Edgar was used to looking down for his living. Down at the chewing gum circles he couldn’t shift. The sun-pinked Coke cans. The russet green leaves. The pennies and the pounds. Broken chains of gold silver platinum and worthless plastic that all blended into the same detritus of life. Folded, rain-soaked papers that occasionally looked like fifty-pound notes, but never were. Bits of foil masquerading as five pence coins, the fall-out from a night out, some space head stealing a line off a car bonnet or atop a racing green telecoms cabinet.
Edgar knew he could always make a little bit on the side from the things he picked up. A little bit on the sidewalk his American counterparts might say. He knew there was enough silver and copper on the streets of London to tide a man over. To buy himself a coffee once a week. Especially round here, near the tourist trap that was St. Paul’s. He’d heard say of a theory that there was over a thousand pounds in dropped change and lost jewellery on the pavements of England at any one time. Despite the presence of these potential riches, for Edgar, London’s streets weren’t paved with gold but with puke, spittle and stale ale.
And now like everyone else, he was having to look up more. To dodge the ships falling from the sky. The spirallers out of control. The plummeters. The speeding fireballers.
‘Parts for sale here. Space and human’
‘The Whittington’ crashed in a treasure chest of flames onto the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral in the early hours. The charred body parts, burnt bones and sinew of the crew littered the ancient grey stone cobbles. Fried metallic wings lay bent amid discarded fried chicken wings. The nuclear-powered engine smoked over smoked cigarettes, and warped computer chips lay scattered among a greased bundle of discarded cod and chips.
Those who witnessed the impact were either too drunk to notice, too blasĂ© to care, or too eager to salvage parts of the vessel for their own ends. Two kids on skateboards made off with a rusty box that had been thrown clear of the wreckage by the force of the crash. The only witness to take any interest in the welfare of the crew, whose blackened limbs and livers, lungs and legs he’d have to sweep up was Edgar.
Like other roadsweepers, the one thing Edgar never swept was the road. Gutters, pavements, tree-bases, bridges, they were his stock trade. The road? Too dangerous. ‘Stick to the pavements’ the boss and wife would say. Edgar was used to looking down for his living. Down at the chewing gum circles he couldn’t shift. The sun-pinked Coke cans. The russet green leaves. The pennies and the pounds. Broken chains of gold silver platinum and worthless plastic that all blended into the same detritus of life. Folded, rain-soaked papers that occasionally looked like fifty-pound notes, but never were. Bits of foil masquerading as five pence coins, the fall-out from a night out, some space head stealing a line off a car bonnet or atop a racing green telecoms cabinet.
Edgar knew he could always make a little bit on the side from the things he picked up. A little bit on the sidewalk his American counterparts might say. He knew there was enough silver and copper on the streets of London to tide a man over. To buy himself a coffee once a week. Especially round here, near the tourist trap that was St. Paul’s. He’d heard say of a theory that there was over a thousand pounds in dropped change and lost jewellery on the pavements of England at any one time. Despite the presence of these potential riches, for Edgar, London’s streets weren’t paved with gold but with puke, spittle and stale ale.
And now like everyone else, he was having to look up more. To dodge the ships falling from the sky. The spirallers out of control. The plummeters. The speeding fireballers.
Gets Up Your Nose And Curls Your Toes - a free excerpt
This goes out to the few billion people out there who have yet to download this irreverent moan at 68 things about modern life that, well, just need to be moaned about.
MAGNETIC INJURIES
You
dislocate your shoulder. Or badly bruise your elbow. Whatever the injury, you
can bet strangers and friends alike will manage to accidentally but annoyingly
knock, bump, scrape or pat the precise zone of pain, however small or obscure
it may be.
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