Jennifer Thomson's Blog, page 22

It's a hard knock writing life

2013 has been a weird writing year for me. My first book in a series of revenge novellas I've dubbed Die Hard for Girls because a kick ass woman takes centre stage, was published and I finished writing the second. And How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks finally found a new home after two years in the wilderness despite having a book contract.

Two other novels are also on the shortlist of potential books for another publisher.

But there have been lows too. I've had one book, a book I devoted the best part of a year to researching, writing and blogging like mad about, remaindered because my publisher frittered away cash on marketing gurus instead of selling books. All of this publisher's other books were also remaindered. Despite me compiling an in depth list of online stores with thousands of potential customers who would buy my book, the publisher didn't bother to contact any of them.

Here's what else I've learnt in 2013...

The "publishing" industry is full of parasites who pose as publishers but in reality they are nothing more than money grabbing leaches feeding on the hopes and dreams of writers. 
They sell services like editing, marketing and book illustration and talk like they are doing you a favour. They might even look like genuine publishers, publishing some books without payment.




A book they wanted me to pay to be published.
Real life example - One publisher turned How Kirsty Gets Her Kicks down in a form email, but helpfully suggested "a friend" who did "great work for us" who'd format my book as an ebook and set up a Twitter account for the book for just £500.

I said "no thank you" when what I really wanted to say was "f*** you."

They even had the audacity to say that they could promise the money would be recovered by sales. NO publisher can promise that.

This was a book I'd had a publishing contract for and got a contract for two months later, so I knew it was good.

Unless you're a big name publisher, most publishers do little to promote your books and often they don't capitalise on any publicity you generate.
Case in point, my book was featured in a publication with sales of 250,000 copies. I notified the publisher of this expecting one of their publicists to try and use that as a platform to sell more books by contacting Scottish bookstores (my book's a Scottish crime thriller). They didn't bother, making me wonder why I bothered.

Publishers can take years to make decisions then change their minds, again.
One minute, they love your work. They think it's great and want to publish, the next they're not too keen, then they're back to liking it again and maybe wanting to publish.

Then they change their minds again.

Yep, I learnt this in 2013 and 2012 and 2011...

Most traditional publishers set prices too high costing authors sales.
Far too high, which is fine if its authors who are already successful, but not too good if you're trying to establish yourself.

Self-published authors have one major advantage over traditionally published authors, they get to set the price and when that price applies, particularly the eBook price the format in which most self-published books are sold.

I'm strongly considering self-publishing for that reason.

Keep writing. Work on different projects. You should always have a variety of projects on the go.
If you don't, when an opportunity presents itself you won't be able to capitalise on it. For example, some publishers who are usually closed to all but agented submissions may have submissions windows that can be as short as a month, day or even a week. Be ready to take advantage.

Unless you get hundreds of reviews they don't help to sell books.
Seriously. This has surprised me. Maybe the scandal of authors paying for good reviews or getting people to pour scorn over rival authors' books has led to readers not trusting reviews. Whatever the reason, in my experience reviews don't sell books. I've heard other people say the same thing.

Most top authors only endorse books by their own publishers.
They're too busy to do that to endorse anybody else's unless it's a friend's book.

Publishing is fast becoming a rich person's game.
Agents and publishers have programmes/courses that cost a small fortune to go on that boost your chance of getting published. These courses are out with the reach of most writers, many of whom don't have a barrister wife\husband or rich parents to pay their way.

Take the Faber Academy. They do courses like this one that cost £4,000. And, this online one that costs £2800.

No I'm not endorsing them, I just want to prove a point.

That's why if you don't have the benefit of coming from a well off background - think that covers most of us - you need to make sure your writing is sharper, more energised and entertaining than those who have the benefit of completing these courses and making contacts the rest of us can only dream of.

At the end of the day, readers want good books. They don't care who writes them. The next bestseller could be written by you.

An excerpt from Throwaways (Die Hard for Girls 2 book)

Throwaways will be published by Sassy Books on May 30th, 2014.

It's the second Die Hard for Girls book to feature crime-fighting duo Nancy Kerr and Tommy McIntyre.

Here's a wee taster...

As the ball gag cut off her cries for help, Diane tried to steady her breathing. If she didn’t, she’d suffocate. She sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow in her head and imagined she was in the kitchen singing along with Kyra as they washed the dishes; little Kyra standing on a stool so she could reach the sink, her wee sleeves rolled up so her top didn’t get wet. But, no matter how hard she tried to tune everything out one thought was trapped in her head: she’d never see her daughter again.
“It’s good money,” Traci had chirped as she’d flicked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was platinum blonde today. “All we need to do is put on a girl on girl show, lez it up a bit and we’re onto a big score. It’ll be fun.”
She made a gesture with her hand as though she was counting money. “From what I’ve heard this punter is seriously loaded, and not shy about throwing his cash around either.”
The prospect of a big pay day was tempting, but Diane had never done anything like that before. With her, a blowy down a dark lane and a wee car ride to the back of a disused warehouse was more her usual. She’d never done any lezzy stuff, but she couldn’t afford to turn this job down. Not with her Kyra needing some shoes.
Despite the protests in her head, she said, “Okay, sounds good. But, how did you find out about this gig? Do you know the guy?” She’d long since learnt that if something sounded too good to be true, it always was.
Traci shook her head. “Nah, but a friend of mine vouched for him.”
“Who’s your friend?”
Her question made Traci smile, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “If I told you that, doll, what’s to stop you cutting me out and doing the gig yourself?”
There was an implied threat in her words. Diane knew she’d get rag dolled if she crossed Traci. She’d seen her in action enough times; once she’d dragged another girl along the pavement by the hair because she accused her of stealing one of her punters. The other girl had screamed like a banshee, but nobody had gone to help her. You looked after yourself on the streets and never got involved unless you wanted your face rearranged. That was rule number one.
#
Traci hadn't been capable of battering anyone the last time she'd seen her. Her ginger hair (he must have ripped off her wig) had been hacked off. Tufts of it stuck out, reminding Diane of one of the hairdressing dolls Kyra was always playing with. She called it Angel, but it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, especially after Kyra had cut off its hair with nail scissors when she’d been out of the room.
What Diane wouldn't give right now to have the doll on her lap whilst Kyra used her best lipstick as blusher.
A tear trundled down her cheek. Nobody was ever going to find her. She'd die here, alone in this damp, dark room, with rats that were as big as cats scuttling around. She’d starve to death and then they’d eat her, gnawing on her face first; sharp, jagged teeth tearing into skin and bone. She’d seen that in a movie once. All she'd been given to eat was bread that was only fit for the birds and milk that smelled funny. She’d thought about not drinking it, but with nothing else to drink she was always glad when she saw the plastic cup.
When he brought the food, it was the only time he removed her gag. He'd leave her for five minutes then return to replace the gag. If she resisted he'd inject her with one of those needles he always carried. Pain would scream through her veins and then she’d be out of it. She’d wake up with a raging thirst and tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat on her face. But then there were worse things than being injected…

Chapter 1
As a division of labour, it didn't come more unfair than this. As Tommy sat in a comfy car, heater up full bung, sipping a Starbucks and leisurely munching on a cheese and onion bagel (with extra fried onions), I was standing outside, shivering my barely covered butt off, as the wind whooshed up my skirt and the rain came down like nails.
This was summer in Scotland.
Huddled in a doorway, in a scraggy blonde wig, and my best Pretty Woman outfit, I'm already soaked to the skin. And, I know it won’t get any better because there are men who will pull over in their cars and ask how much I charge for a blow job or full sex.
As downward spirals go, this was bad. At least it would have been if I hadn’t been out here to catch a killer and not because I was reduced to turning tricks for a living. I know I don't have to say it, but all text is © Copyright Jenny Thomson 2013.
Any breach of copyright and I'll send Nancy round.
Be warned: she carries a taser and has a seriously bad attitude:)

An excerpt from Throwaways (the new Die Hard for Girls book)

Throwaways will be published by Sassy Books in 2014.

It's the second book to feature crime-fighting duo Nancy Kerr and Tommy McIntyre.

Here's a wee taster...

As the ball gag cut off her cries for help, Diane tried to steady her breathing. If she didn’t, she’d suffocate. She sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow in her head and imagined she was in the kitchen singing along with Kyra as they washed the dishes; little Kyra standing on a stool so she could reach the sink, her wee sleeves rolled up so her top didn’t get wet. But, no matter how hard she tried to tune everything out one thought was trapped in her head: she’d never see her daughter again.
“It’s good money,” Traci had chirped as she’d flicked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was platinum blonde today. “All we need to do is put on a girl on girl show, lez it up a bit and we’re onto a big score. It’ll be fun.”
She made a gesture with her hand as though she was counting money. “From what I’ve heard this punter is seriously loaded, and not shy about throwing his cash around either.”
The prospect of a big pay day was tempting, but Diane had never done anything like that before. With her, a blowy down a dark lane and a wee car ride to the back of a disused warehouse was more her usual. She’d never done any lezzy stuff, but she couldn’t afford to turn this job down. Not with her Kyra needing some shoes.
Despite the protests in her head, she said, “Okay, sounds good. But, how did you find out about this gig? Do you know the guy?” She’d long since learnt that if something sounded too good to be true, it always was.
Traci shook her head. “Nah, but a friend of mine vouched for him.”
“Who’s your friend?”
Her question made Traci smile, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “If I told you that, doll, what’s to stop you cutting me out and doing the gig yourself?”
There was an implied threat in her words. Diane knew she’d get rag dolled if she crossed Traci. She’d seen her in action enough times; once she’d dragged another girl along the pavement by the hair because she accused her of stealing one of her punters. The other girl had screamed like a banshee, but nobody had gone to help her. You looked after yourself on the streets and never got involved unless you wanted your face rearranged. That was rule number one.
#
Traci hadn't been capable of battering anyone the last time she'd seen her. Her ginger hair (he must have ripped off her wig) had been hacked off. Tufts of it stuck out, reminding Diane of one of the hairdressing dolls Kyra was always playing with. She called it Angel, but it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen, especially after Kyra had cut off its hair with nail scissors when she’d been out of the room.
What Diane wouldn't give right now to have the doll on her lap whilst Kyra used her best lipstick as blusher.
A tear trundled down her cheek. Nobody was ever going to find her. She'd die here, alone in this damp, dark room, with rats that were as big as cats scuttling around. She’d starve to death and then they’d eat her, gnawing on her face first; sharp, jagged teeth tearing into skin and bone. She’d seen that in a movie once. All she'd been given to eat was bread that was only fit for the birds and milk that smelled funny. She’d thought about not drinking it, but with nothing else to drink she was always glad when she saw the plastic cup.
When he brought the food, it was the only time he removed her gag. He'd leave her for five minutes then return to replace the gag. If she resisted he'd inject her with one of those needles he always carried. Pain would scream through her veins and then she’d be out of it. She’d wake up with a raging thirst and tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat on her face. But then there were worse things than being injected…

Chapter 1
As a division of labour, it didn't come more unfair than this. As Tommy sat in a comfy car, heater up full bung, sipping a Starbucks and leisurely munching on a cheese and onion bagel (with extra fried onions), I was standing outside, shivering my barely covered butt off, as the wind whooshed up my skirt and the rain came down like nails.
This was summer in Scotland.
Huddled in a doorway, in a scraggy blonde wig, and my best Pretty Woman outfit, I'm already soaked to the skin. And, I know it won’t get any better because there are men who will pull over in their cars and ask how much I charge for a blow job or full sex.
As downward spirals go, this was bad. At least it would have been if I hadn’t been out here to catch a killer and not because I was reduced to turning tricks for a living.    I know I don't have to say it, but all text is © Copyright Jenny Thomson 2013.
Any breach of copyright and I'll send Nancy round.
Be warned: she carries a taser and has a seriously bad attitude:)  

An Excerpt from my revenge thriller Hell To Pay - Out now on Kindle & in paperback

PROLOGUE



"How deep
down do we need to go?"



He can see her
plump silhouette in the torchlight and imagine her tight, frightened face as
she speaks.



"How the
fuck do I know, Maureen? It’s no like I’ve done this before."



He instantly
regrets biting her head off, but he doesn’t feel well: the sweat’s coming off
him in waves and his heart’s beating so fast a heart attack is a distinct
possibility. The last one had very near finished him off.



"You said
you knew what you were doing, Willie."



She left the
part she always got to about him not having a clue hanging in the air, but he
knew it was there. It was always bloody there. He’d spent the last forty-five
years pretending not to notice the tone that spoke of umpteen disappointments
and things he'd done wrong.



He carries on
digging. His back’s buggered, but he needs to keep on filling the spade with
dirt and then dumping it to one side before it starts to get light and the
neighbors start asking questions. He’ll take the soil to the dump later. Much
later. The way things were going; he’d need to sleep for a week first.



The flashlight
Maureen’s holding starts to dip; her hands must be cold (she always had bad
circulation – there was a fancy medical term for it, but he could never
remember it). It occurs to him that she might be shaking with fear and he knows
he should tell her that everything’s going to be all right, so he stops for a
moment, glad of the rest and props his body against the muddy shovel, wiping a
dirty hand across his sweaty brow.



"We’re
doing the right thing here. You know that, hen. If the police find it, it’s an
automatic five years. He won’t last that long in prison. Not at one long
stretch. You know that. He’s too damn soft."



In the darkness,
he hears her crying. "How did it come to this? Where did we go wrong?"




As he resumes
digging, the crunch of the spade on the soil drowns out the sound of her tears.




 

Two Days Later…



"You know, Nancy, it takes more
muscles to frown than it does to smile."



A workmate pointed
that out and got a two-fingered gesture in return.



Today had been a
right bitch of a day, frowned Nancy
not giving a monkey’s whether it gave her wrinkles. All she wanted to do now
was curl up on her parent’s couch; hands curled around a bowl of mum’s homemade
lentil soup, with butterbeans the size of canoes and listen to Mum’s latest
gossip, as Dad snorted from behind his book.



The prospect of
going home, made her want to punch someone. Michael was being a right moody
bastard these days and she wanted to avoid him and his soulless flat in Glasgow’s West End that
she’d stupidly agreed to move into. If he plonked down one more coaster, and
warned her once more not to mark his Charles Rennie Mackintosh coffee table, she
was going to turn into the Hulk and smash him over the bloody skull with it.



She pulled up
outside the house, relaxing as she took in the view. Little lanterns glowed in
the windows and the Christmas tree (a real one, not one of those ‘plastic
mutants’ as her mum called them) was the usual grand affair with twinkling
lights and enough tinsel to wrap around the whole of Glasgow. Perched on top was the fairy she’d
made when she was six-years-old; the poor thing was lopsided with a grin that
was more troll than fairy, but her mum always insisted on placing it on the
tree every year along with the Shug's star. He’d made it when he was seven; the
last time he’d made his parents proud.



She trotted up
the short gravel path, surprised to find the door ajar. Her parents weren’t
usually that careless. No one left their doors open in Glasgow, not unless they wanted their house
to get burgled. There were too many thieving scumbags around. She knew that
because her brother was one of them, what they called a ‘career thief.’



As she strolled
down the short hall, she heard drawers being pulled open and cupboard doors
being slammed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Whoop-de-do, just in time for
her parents to have one of their, "I don’t know where it is, you saw it last"
type arguments. That’s all she needed, when she’d come here for some peace and
quiet, not their bickering.



But, she
couldn’t hear any voices. And something else struck her as odd. She can’t hear
the TV either; usually it was blaring away as her parents watched the latest TV
crime drama.



Something wasn’t
right.



She wanted to
leave, to get back in her car and drive. But that was ridiculous. This was her
home. Where she’d always been safe.



"Mum, Dad,"
she shouted.



She expected
them to appear at any moment and start arguing with one another about who left
the front door open.



She took a few
more steps into the living room and walked straight into hell…



 

Chapter 1



I’m cold, colder
than I’ve ever been in my entire life and I don’t know why. Slowly, I open my
eyes, tentatively at first because even opening them a fraction feels like
someone's shoving red-hot pins into them. The light is so bright.



What’s with the
light anyway?



Has Michael
wandered in, blootered on some poncy new beer and left the light on, after
collapsing in a heap onto the bed?  I’ll
brain him if he has. I’m no good to anyone when I don’t get my eight hours.



Pulling myself
up in bed, I reach out my arm to nudge him awake so I can give him a right
mouthful. My hand finds empty space.



Where is he?



My eyes sting as
I prise them open – it’s as though there's been an accident with false lashes and
I've glued my eyelashes together - and that’s when I realise I’m not in our
flat. The reason I’m freezing is because I’m wearing a tracing paper thin
hospital gown: the kind that shows off your backside when you’re being whisked
off to x-ray.



A tidal wave of
panic hits me and I jerk into full consciousness.





What’s happened to me?





I try to
remember, but my brain’s all bunged up as if the top of my head's been removed
and the cavity filled with cotton wool.





My arms are
bandaged up. Have I been in an accident? 
If I have, I don’t remember. Maybe I hit my head.





I take in my
surroundings. If I’m in hospital, it’s no ordinary one. For one thing, my
room’s more like a cell. There’s a bed and a table bolted to the floor, but no
personal stuff: photos, or cards, or stuffed animals from people wishing me
well. Does anyone even know I’m here?





I grope for a
call button to get a nurse, but there isn’t one. What the hell? This place is a
prison.





Staggering out
of bed, I fight the wave of nausea and dizziness that make me want to yell at
the world to stop moving because I want to get off the carousel. The tile floor
is stone cold and there are no slippers by the bed. My feet are ice blocks. Why
don’t I have any socks or tights on? 





Before I reach
the door, there's a jingle of keys, then a key scrapes in the lock. Holding my
breath, I brace myself for what’s coming.





A woman I don’t
recognize with brown hair tied back in a ponytail appears. She’s dressed in a
nurse’s uniform and there’s a small smile playing on the edge of her lips.





"Good,
you’re awake, Nancy."






She sounds
pleased, as if we’re bosom buddies, when I’ve never seen her before in my life.






"Where am
I?"





My voice comes
out as a rasp as though my throat’s been sandpapered down.





The nurse puts a
hand on my shoulder. "Let’s get you back into bed, Nancy."





I do as she
says. I’m worried if I don’t lie back, I’ll faint.





"You’re in Parkview Hospital," she says, as she fixes
the pillows so I can sit upright.





I know all the
hospitals in Glasgow,
but I haven’t heard of that one. I ask her what kind of hospital it is and she
tells me it’s a psychiatric facility. The reason I haven’t heard of it, is because
they don’t publicize it. Perhaps because it’s full of nutters they want to keep
away from society. The prospect terrifies me because that would mean they must
think I’m cuckoo. Why else would I be here? 






I suck in my
breath. When I ask her if this is a nut house, she presses her lips tightly
together as she tells me no one refers to psychiatric hospitals in that way any
more. Suitably chastised, I mumble an apology not because I think one’s needed,
but because she’s the one with the keys.





"Why am I
here?"





I’m dreading the
answer, but I need to know. I don’t feel any different. Surely if I’d lost my
mind, I'd know.





"You had a
breakdown."





The way she says
it, she could be talking about the weather.





She asks me if I
want anything and I tell her a pair of proper pajamas, a dressing gown and
slippers would be nice because I’m an ice block. If she gets in touch with Mum,
she’ll bring me in some stuff.





Her smile’s
still there, but breaks down around the corners of her mouth. There’s something
she’s not telling me, because she’s worried how I’ll react. There’s fear in her
eyes. I notice she’s wearing a lucky heather brooch, the same one I got for
Mum. I’m staring at it as she tells me she’s going to fetch a doctor, when a
memory stirs inside me and no matter how hard I try to push it away, someone’s
taken their finger out the dyke and the water’s rushing in.





Blood, blood
everywhere. Dad’s slumped in his favorite armchair, head bent forward as if in
prayer (he never prayed a day in his life); a single bullet hole in his head. I
know it’s him, even although his face has been beaten to a pulp: his blood
staining the fireside rug my mum was so fond of. Even in death, my dad has a
presence. He fills a room with the sheer weight of his personality. Discarded
nearby is the baseball bat they used on him. It’s covered in blood and
something sticky and dark brown, resembling raw mince.



 
All material is copyright of the author Jenny Thomson (C), 2012



Hell To Pay is available on Amazon in the UK USA CANADA and in all good book stores.

You can also get it for Nook



 

Winners of have a character named after you in a Die Hard For Girls book...

 

When Hell To Pay came out in July, I held a
competition for readers. The prize, a starring role in the 3rd book in the series,
Don't Come For Me.



There was only supposed to be 3 winners,
but thanks to an amazing response (and because I'm so garbage at naming characters)
I decided to have 5 winners.






And the winners are...



Thomas Dettingen





Kirsty Lothian





Per Lundberg





Connie Lundy

 

Bonnie Smith



Congratulations to all the winners. Thanks
to everyone who entered and who took the time to write a review for Hell To
Pay.



Each winner will have a character named
after them in the 3rd Die Hard For Girls book, provisionally called Don't Come
For Me.



Each winner will receive a complementary
copy of the book when it comes out in 2014. Winners will be contacted when the book comes out.



Here's a wee taster -



Nancy Kerr's in trouble. Boyfriend Tommy
McIntyre's missing, presumed dead, and the police think she's killed him. But,
how can she prove her innocence when she's got no idea where he is, or whether
he's alive or dead?

Does your publisher deserve you? Questions you should ask before you sign on the dotted line.

It sounds crazy doesn't it that you you work your backside off to get a publishing deal, but you might be offered a contract by a publisher and not take it.









But the truth is, not all publishers are good publishers. And the last thing you need or want is your precious manuscript that you've slaved over and put so much love and care into, to end up with a publisher that won't do you or your book justice.



Why is it important to get the right publisher?

Any publisher is better than no publisher. Right?



No.



It might cost you a deal with a better publisher because they'll look at the sales of previous books and go "Oh, they only sold 10 copies of their last book." They won't check to see how proactive your publisher was in selling books - even although promotion's a two-way street. They won't care that the price of the book (that'd you'd no say in) cost more than the new Harlan Coben.



So, how do you spot a good publisher from a bad one? Read on my writing friends -



1. How do they treat authors? Try a simple Internet check. You might get lucky, although authors are cautious about discussing publishers online, in case they come across as whiny or the publisher reads it and takes the hump, or other publishers read it and think, "They're trouble - avoid."



Also, visit/join writers' boards and see what they're saying about publishers. Many users use fictitious names so they're more likely to be honest.



2. What appearance do they present to the rest of the world?

At the bare minimum, every publisher should have a professional website, a blog, Twitter and Facebook account. If they can't present themselves well to the world, they won't be able to sell your book.



3. Do their books sell and how proactive are they in selling them? Try following one of their titles on Novel Rank (www.novelrank.com) for a few weeks. How are estimated sales?



4. Are their royalties and advances (if applicable) industry standard? One writer I know, was offered just 2.5% royalties on paperback sales. That's too low and no, they didn't offer an advance.



Remember, Amazon never pay the full price for a book. The trade price they pay might be as low as 30% of the cover price. If a book sells for 7 pounds or 7 dollars and the publisher gets £2.10 pounds or 2 dollar 10 cents for every book, the writer gets a measly 5 pence or 5 cents.



5. What kind of reviews do their books get? Ignore the "this zombie novel didn't have enough romance in it" (that's one of the reviews Dead Bastards got) comments and look for phrases like "badly edited" and "character died in one chapter and miraculously came alive in other."



6. Are their covers the kind that will sell books? Do they look professional or are they cheap and tacky looking? Covers sell books.



And, remember, there's always self-publishing so you can at least get your work out there:) 

Police on the lookout for ladies in pajamas - Unlikely stories come from unlikely stories

Recently, where I live, there was an incident where a marquee was damaged. Apparently a drunk man and two women in pajamas were spotted fleeing the scene and are wanted by police.



This is a true story.



For any writer, a news story like that is fertile ground for your imagination to run free.



Who were the three, and what were they doing running around late at night in their jammies?



What do you think? There are so many stories you could write, in so many different genres.



Erotica - they were looking for somewhere to have a naughty three-some in public?



Horror - they'd been chased by zombies and were looking for somewhere to hide?



Crime - One of their relatives had lost their mind and had started murdering their family as they slept?



Tragi-com - One of the group doesn't have long to live and it was a dream of his/her to sneak into a marquee at night and have a picnic.



These are just a few possibilities, but there are an infinite number of possibilities.



Here's an exercise for you. Look through the newspaper headlines. Don't read the whole story; just the headline and first two lines.



Now unleash your creativity and write your own story.

RIP Jack - You deserved better

Two weeks ago, my neighbour Jack died. I'm sorry to say that I didn't know Jack that well. He was what we call a curmudgeon. 



Permanently grumpy, always bickering with the neighbour above him who also happened to be one of his best friends, he always clapped our dog, but he made me cry the day we moved in.



My dad has bone cancer and two sticks to stop him falling over. My mum is so frail at times she can be blown over like a cigarette packet tossed about in the wind. When they drove over with our furniture, naturally they parked outside our new home in the disabled spot - they both have blue badges; they're entitled to park there. It's not a residential parking spot, although Jack treated it like it was.



He ranted and raved at my mum and dad, cursing his head off. I cried because I thought "Great, now I have the neighbour from hell, and I've just moved in."



Our last neighbour used to let their grand kids use the floor as a trampoline. Now this one was gonna be big trouble.



As things turned out, Jack was fine. After that day, we never had a cross word, although he had plenty of cross words with everyone else.



When he died it came as a bolt out the blue. He collapsed and  was taken away in an ambulance and died the next day in hospital.



The next day, two of his relatives arrived. What they did next was disgraceful. And, I've seen some pretty low things in my life.



They rummaged through his things at the speed of light. Taking anything of value. They dumped everything else of his in the communal bins. Personal stuff. Private stuff. They dumped his glasses and his bunnet in the bin. Our neighbour, one of his Jack's friends, found them when she went to put out her rubbish. Despite inviting his 2 relatives into her home, giving them coffee and sympathy, they went back home to Birmingham. They didn't tell her when the funeral was. One of his few friends probably wouldn't be there, but two of his money grabbing leech relatives would be. That's if they even bothered to have a funeral at all.



I half expected to see poor, expired Jack in the bin.



Hey, I'm not laughing as I write this because I'm too bloody sad.

One minute you're there, going about your daily business, the next you're a gonner and people have their greedy, fat fingers rifling all through your stuff. They don't give a shit about you or your memories or what matters to you. All they care about is taking anything of value.



I hope wherever Jack is, he never got to see all this. The callous disregard for his possessions and his life.



As for his heartless relatives, what goes around comes around. In years to come, it could be you who's dead, having some callous someone's fat, grubby fingers rifling through your stuff, before tossing out the glasses and hat you last wore in the trash like you and your life meant nothing for your friends and neighbour to find.

Me and JK Rowling in the Scottish Daily Record

Hell To Pay's in the top right hand corner:)









I'm in the Scottish Daily Record's  today talking about my crime thriller Hell To Pay with someone called JK Rowling.



Well, we're on the same page and it's her Robert Galbraith novel that nobody was supposed to know she wrote that was being featured.



Although, I think I need the publicity more than her. Think she sells a few books:)

Me and JK Rowling

I'm in the Scottish Daily Record's  today talking about my crime thriller Hell To Pay with someone called JK Rowling. Well, we're on the same page and it's her Robert Galbraith novel that nobody was supposed to know she wrote being featured.



Although, I think I need the publicity more than her. Think she sells a few books:)