Andrew McEwan's Blog: Words Are the Gravy On the Mashed Potato of Life - Posts Tagged "arse"
The End
Always comes too soon. Or else dies an uneasy death. Not sure which is preferable in the context of a novel, the writing thereof, but having laboured over a beginning and luxuriated in the possibilities of a middle, the end is, frankly, a pain in the arse.
Thirty five chapters and 80,000 words seemed about right. I'm at 69k and thirty chapters. Again, seems about right. Only: what next? I don't wish to grasp at a denouement. I mean, how undignified. I'm actually getting through about 1000 words an evening at present so maybe I should just relax. But 10k suddenly seems a big chunk.
In other news I waited two weeks for delivery of five copies of Ocellus, one of which I needed to get to the manager of Newcastle Waterstone's. They didn't arrive. Seems my order may have been 'rejected' by the printers on account of me not entering a full enough delivery address (my mum's). What? Really? Oh come on. I had one copy which I would have liked to have kept it being the first but I posted this rather than wait another week. Boo. Oh well. If said manager at Waterstone's nods I can then lean on Durham and take it from there...
Ebook sales are rubbish by the way. Shame on you.
Thirty five chapters and 80,000 words seemed about right. I'm at 69k and thirty chapters. Again, seems about right. Only: what next? I don't wish to grasp at a denouement. I mean, how undignified. I'm actually getting through about 1000 words an evening at present so maybe I should just relax. But 10k suddenly seems a big chunk.
In other news I waited two weeks for delivery of five copies of Ocellus, one of which I needed to get to the manager of Newcastle Waterstone's. They didn't arrive. Seems my order may have been 'rejected' by the printers on account of me not entering a full enough delivery address (my mum's). What? Really? Oh come on. I had one copy which I would have liked to have kept it being the first but I posted this rather than wait another week. Boo. Oh well. If said manager at Waterstone's nods I can then lean on Durham and take it from there...
Ebook sales are rubbish by the way. Shame on you.
"Depress To Reset"
As a writer I find I am empowered by criticism. I'd rather be ripped to pieces than buttered up. Just so long as I'm read.
I have several ebooks on Amazon, which I rotate on a free download basis every couple of weeks. I might get 200 hits, or 50, mostly Stateside, but thus far I have only attracted two (lacklustre) reviews. Clearly my work is not to everyones' taste; which fact I'm comfortable with. I've droned on in the past about finding my audience and it being small, scared and apt to run away. Again, I've got used to fighting an uphill battle. In near 30 years of writing I've enjoyed little success* but have never once considered giving up. A part of me (perhaps my inner curmudgeon) seems to enjoy the challenge. A universe of indifference stares me full in the face on a daily basis and I stare right back. I am alone. Truly. There is no one in my life. I have no friends and I don't understand the first thing about relationships. Every now and then, sometimes for no reason, my eyes well up. But I am seldom lonely. Why? Because I have a far bigger life, one seething with colour and energy. I laugh at myself as much at others. My head spins and words rebound. I make things up. I write things down, and it makes a kind of sense. That others don't always get it is neither here nor there. Which is not to say I don't crave success. I'd like nothing better than to be discussed at dinner parties and quoted in magazines. It may never happen of course, and as ambitions go is both pointless and flakey. No writer, however, is without vanity; it's just a question of scale.
And now I've got that off my chest I shall put it aside. At least till I think of a suitable punchline**.
Ocellus is today available in electronic form. I've redesigned the cover but not made any other changes. Saving edits for a second edition in the new year - so the infamous 74 word sentence is yet extant, and might indeed endure. Because I can***.
*I don't always help myself.
**This will never get funny, alas.
***(your answer here)
I have several ebooks on Amazon, which I rotate on a free download basis every couple of weeks. I might get 200 hits, or 50, mostly Stateside, but thus far I have only attracted two (lacklustre) reviews. Clearly my work is not to everyones' taste; which fact I'm comfortable with. I've droned on in the past about finding my audience and it being small, scared and apt to run away. Again, I've got used to fighting an uphill battle. In near 30 years of writing I've enjoyed little success* but have never once considered giving up. A part of me (perhaps my inner curmudgeon) seems to enjoy the challenge. A universe of indifference stares me full in the face on a daily basis and I stare right back. I am alone. Truly. There is no one in my life. I have no friends and I don't understand the first thing about relationships. Every now and then, sometimes for no reason, my eyes well up. But I am seldom lonely. Why? Because I have a far bigger life, one seething with colour and energy. I laugh at myself as much at others. My head spins and words rebound. I make things up. I write things down, and it makes a kind of sense. That others don't always get it is neither here nor there. Which is not to say I don't crave success. I'd like nothing better than to be discussed at dinner parties and quoted in magazines. It may never happen of course, and as ambitions go is both pointless and flakey. No writer, however, is without vanity; it's just a question of scale.
And now I've got that off my chest I shall put it aside. At least till I think of a suitable punchline**.
Ocellus is today available in electronic form. I've redesigned the cover but not made any other changes. Saving edits for a second edition in the new year - so the infamous 74 word sentence is yet extant, and might indeed endure. Because I can***.
*I don't always help myself.
**This will never get funny, alas.
***(your answer here)
Words Are the Gravy On the Mashed Potato of Life
...there may be lumps in either or both.
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