Derek Thompson's Blog, page 27

Spit it out

It's better to light a candle...
than pay for electricity.
William Shakespeare said: "Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honour, I lose myself." That, of course, was back in the days when we didn't have honour sat-nav.
The problem with honesty is that it can disengage an audience faster than the phrase emotional rollercoaster. And when it relates to the practice of writing, well, I don't want to burst anybody's bubble...

Oh, go on then, you've twisted my arm. 


Writers, as a bunch of people, are:
- Superstitious (favourite notebook, anyone?).
- Obsessive (just one more edit and then I'm done).
- Prone to fits of frustration, depression, and utter, bloody bewilderment.
- Incredible optimists and terrible pessimists.


And why is this? Well, in my opinion, it's because we have set ourselves goals that we have no overall control of. This is true of most of life's ambitions, but cut me a little slack please for the promise of a good tale in a minute or so. We write, we edit and we craft away like a happy elf, only to hand over our precious literary progeny to strangers. And then we wait.


Okay, story time. Make yourself uncomfortable, blanket at the ready. Then let us begin...


30th June 2011 - The sun shone and the birds sang like angels. Why? Because an independent publisher whispered those magical words though my inbox: We are happy to receive submissions. I sent off material from my Brit thriller, Standpoint, the next day.


13th October 2011 - I ping the editor and a few days later receive this tantalising morsel: We are due to discuss at next editorial board meeting. Holy criminy, this could be the one!


23rd December 2011 - I ping the editor again. Yes, I know it's a bit pingy, but two months is a long time to grip your tenterhooks and my fingers were beginning to ache.


10th January 2012 (Happy New Year, anyone?) - Apologies for the delay but Christmas crept up on us quicker than we expected. We are not now due to meet until the end of January but we will be discussing 'Standpoint' at that time. And the song that's playing in my head is this one. 


17th April 2012 - I not only ping the editor, I also use the word 'ping' in my email. Light hearted desperation, that's me! The next day (at least the ping replies are coming quicker) I receive this: Sorry for the delay. We are actually due to discuss Standpoint next week. Will get back to you as soon as...


16th May 2012 (I think it was Spike Milligan who wrote: The milk of human kindness hasn't dried up, but oh Christ, it's in short supply.) I write to the editor, explaining that it's been a month since the last reply and a whisker under 11 months since I first submitted to them. 


I also say that I appreciate, as an indie publisher, they've probably got a ton of other activities to attend to, as well as day jobs. This is true, because I know from my own experience with A Word with You Press, that indie publishing is as much as labour of love as it is a business enterprise. I also suggest, perhaps radically, that I'd like to have a quick chat on the phone. I figure that my NVQ in Customer Service ought to cut both ways. And, mindful that there is a story here about the challenges of being an indie publisher, I ask if they'd be interested in being interviewed for either this blog or Strictly Writing, so we can all get an insight into the view from their desk.


17th May 2012 (In the wee, small hours - say what you like about them, but their turnaround time for emails has really come to good), I receive this:
Firstly many apologies for the ridiculous amount of time it has taken us to come to a decision. I'm afraid that at this point we will not be taking our interest any further. Best of luck with your search for a suitable publisher and once again sorry it has taken so long to come up with this response. 


The letters that came to mind were W, T and F. 


And so, on the basis that I have nothing to lose, and that I'm now like a terrier with a rancid bone, I have asked them: when they actually came to a decision and what factors were involved, whether they can provide me with any feedback, and why the wheels came off this experience to the point where the go-kart actually became just a large box with a piece of rope tied on the front. 


Answers on a postcard, and any response I get back will be shared like breadcrumbs.

Flash Fiction that speaks for itself

Once upon a time, not so long ago, a kindly editor - by the name of Rachel Carter - brought together a disparate bunch of writers in the West Country to create a flash fiction anthology.


Fortunately, my off-colour comments didn't put her off any and five of my shortest pieces have been added to the pot. (I should point out here that, as far as I know, I'm the only writer who noticed the loophole that didn't specify a limit on entries.) 


Kissing Frankenstein & Other Stories , which takes its title from an entry by prize-winning writer Tania Hershman, is packed to the gills with intelligent, diverse and surprising flash fiction. Think of it as the bonsai of literature.


The anthology of 53 pieces, by writers from all over the West Country, was produced in celebration of National Flash-Fiction Day, which is on May 16th this year.


Along with all the other writers involved, I'd like to thank Rachel Carter and her team of word elves who made it all possible.


It's a great little read that loses nothing in its brevity and can be purchased here.

One more thing - found in a notebook

I suppose you're wondering why this note has been left for you on the mantelpiece. Don't worry, all will become clear by the time you get to the end. First off, I've left you. I can't say I'm leaving you, as that has been happening, by degrees, ever since you had that affair at work. Oh, I know we went to counselling and both worked on our issues. I know we said we'd both try harder. But all my soul searching has led me to one irrefutable conclusion: I can't be with you any more. That doesn't mean that I don't care about your well-being. Fifteen years of what was once a happy marriage can't be undone even by your infidelity. I want you to be happy, but I want me to be happier more than that.
You're probably wondering what did it, whether there was something you said or did that finally pushed me over the precipice? Well, it wasn't the second affair - the one you thought I didn't know about, with one of your sales rep, even though the scent of her perfume on you after those sales conferences used to make me want to retch. But, for the sake of everything we'd worked for, I tried to get beyond it. 
No, my light bulb moment, when I got wise to the fact that it was always going to be like this from now on, was when you suggested we didn't need to go see someone anymore and air our dirty laundry in front of a stranger. Because, you see, I kept on seeing him. And, over time, I started to see a pattern, going all the way back to my first boyfriend - the one I told you about when you accused me of being insecure. You were right - I did have a problem after all. And now I've decided to fix it.
It's important that you don't misunderstand me when I say that I don't want you to come and find me. I know exactly what I'm doing, perhaps for the first time in a very long while. We'll need to sort out all the details - house, savings and so on - but my new solicitor will be in touch with you after the weekend.
I know this must come as a shock to you. You were probably expecting to return home with a suitcase of washing and some improbable tales about sales projections and what Mr Latimer said in the bar. The only thing is, I've seen the photos of the two of you cosying up together - you and Joanne, I think her name is? I also know that she's married, for the time being anyway.
Do some thinking over the weekend about what you want to do with the house. I don't mind if you want to buy me out; otherwise we can sell it. And please don't ring my mobile. If you do I'll just change the number. One more thing, don't forget to put the rubbish out Sunday night.

It all started a couple of weeks ago.

I don't know whether there was finally enough sunlight in the morning to adjust my circadian rhythm, if it was because I was able to set Scars and Stripes aside with something approximating a smile, or even if I'd just managed to write a few decent jokes for greetings cards. But whatever that thing was, I woke up with a sense of well-being.

Everything was okay. The books would get published, or they would not. The sitcoms would live to see daylight again, or I'd charge them rent for living on my hard drive. I felt as if, in some indescribable way, that I'd arrived at a point of stillness.

Life still flicked dried peas in my direction, of course. Writing rejections, temping shenanigans, and the curious incident of the non-appearing garden waste bin, to name but three. Even today, someone thinks it's perfectly acceptable to offer me £0.007 per word for copywriting. I, naturally, gave them my £0.112's worth of polite decline. But in the balance, when I weigh everything up, it's all okay.

Anyway, I really just popped in to say that today I am joining the Strictly Writing blog which I have followed avidly for some time. As the new boy, I've been grilled and toasted, and will be served with a vinaigrette salad. You can read the introduction here.

Whether you're celebrating May Day, Beltane, Labour Day, Labor Day or even the anniversary of the birth of the Duke of Wellington, have a good one.

One or t'other

So, I've been practising what I preach, as far as getting back to the actual business of writing goes. I've turned up two prologues - each for a different novel. Both, I think, will involve Thomas Bladen and Karl McNeill from Standpoint and Line of Sight, but the two books are quite different animals. So, by way of a social (media) experiment, here are the two prologues, along with their draft titles.

Any thoughts?

1. False Positive

Harnell Street, a Tuesday morning. Playgroup is closed for the day, Janey is out of ciggies and that bloody kid won't stop screaming.            "Just shut up will you?" she snaps, as little Jacob bawls on defiantly. She feels her hand tremble with rage, waiting for him to look away. It's stupid, but she can't hit him when he's staring right at her.            Jacob's in luck - Janey's remembered the twenty in the emergency tin; the one that her uncle, Jack Lane, used to top up periodically when he came round to check up on her, and his post. She scrabbles at the back of the cupboard, pops the lid and leaves it clattering on the Formica, smiling to herself. Sorted.            "It's all right, Jacob, we'll go out and get some sweeties yeah?"            Jacob cuts the racket at the sound of the magic word; now he's smiling too. She's still rough with him as she gets him ready, because it's all she knows. And he doesn't really make a fuss because it's all that he knows as well.            It starts pissing down when she's half way up the road. Jacob's all right, lucky bastard - the plastic cover fastens down, no bother. Janey hunches forward, pushing the buggy along like a penance. The high street is a ghost town; the East London that opportunity and regeneration somehow bypassed.             Janey relaxes her grip on the buggy handle as the shop comes into view. "Nearly there, darling," she waves a hand in front of the blurred plastic, and little Jacob squeals excitedly. She snatches her hand back and pulls her mobile out of her jeans. "Greg, where's my money this week?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Don't be bullshitting me - your kid's gotta eat." It's a short call - promised extracted, there's nothing more to say. Jacob wriggles in the buggy. "That was daddy," she says with spite, "being an arsehole again. He'll be over later, if you're a good boy."            She reaches the shop, parks him up outside so he can see the cars, and nips inside. The girl serving is about as slow as the old cow in front of her. So back out she comes, and sure enough the little sod is kicking off again. He wants to see the cars and the cover is all steamed up. His choice then; he can get rained on watching traffic. She rolls back the cover and legs it back inside before some other old dear arrives to take her place.
Janey doesn't hear the screaming at first; it's someone else rushing into the shop that wakes her up. The buggy hasn't moved, thank god, but Jacob... She rushed round to pick him up, and stos, paralysed. For a moment she's certain it's blood puring down his face, and then she realises that it's paint. Someone has sprayed her baby's eyes. And now the two of them, mother and son, are screaming together.


2. Intervention

7.00am, the alarm went off; that was the rule. It didn't matter how drunk he'd got the night before, there had to be some standards. Almost mechanically, he got up, shuffled to the bathroom and wrung out his kidneys in preparation for the next onsluahgt. He avoided the mirror these days, but sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of the man he used to be - that straight-backed, square-jawed servant of the crown. Memory would paint in the beret and fatigues - those were the really painful days.            By 07.40am he was ready for the day; a crisp, ironed shirt and creases in his trousers sharp as paper cuts. Cereal, toast and tea; all to the backdrop of Radio 4 and big decisions he used to care about.            He locked up the bedsit - flat was too grandiose a word - and moved briskly down the steps before anyone else's doors could open. Occasionally he'd pick up some shopping for one of the old-timers, but not first thing - that time was sacrosanct. His shoes clipped the stonework rhythmically, reminding him of the marching gait - maybe that was why he didn't like being interrupted.            Sometimes, when he drew that first breath out on the street, that fragrance of decay and neglect, he'd wonder how he ended up like this. A wife remarried and a daughter he could hardly pick out of a line-up, living god-knows-where in the North East and sending a photo at Christmas. So he always picked up the pace, first thing, lulling himself with the tap-tap-tap against the pavement.            The guy in the corner shop gave him a nod and watched, nonjudgementally, as he picked up a tabloid, some provisions and a four pack of lager. A brief exchange of words, and cash, and he was on his way. 'As you were,' he liked to think.            As the door shift at the club didn't start until 8pm, the wide expanse of the day stretched before him. The world played out around him like a tape loop. Cars and commuters left their positions with secure routine. Two schoolgirls across the street drifted on their way to a local comprehensive - as you were. He smiled, once he was past their line of sight; he was camoflaged, invisible. There was a spring to his step now, as he re-entered the block. On a good day, the tabloid would fill up half an hour. He took the steps two at a time, ears pricked for the sounds of life. A ground floor radio balring out hits he'd never heard of, that screaming kid along the landing; a familiar landscape to welcome him home.            He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks. It took an instant to analyse his instinct. The black rubber mat outside his door was twisted diagonally. Not a great deal, but enough to jar his senses. Too early for the post. He approached warily - no wires on show, but a faint bulge in the centre. A deafening pulse led him in, guided his arm to a corner of rubber. He eased it back, lifting the mat away, inch-by-inch, until he found an envelope. He turned it slowly, examining it at arm's length - nondescript and anonymous, apart from his flat number typed on the front.            Safely inside again, he rested the envelope on the kitchen table and put his shopping away, never more than a couple of steps away from it, circling it like prey. Kettle boiled, tea poured out; now there was nothing else left to do.            A single piece of paper had been folded twice. No marks on it. Just the same size type, showing a mobile number, a time to call and the phone box to call from. The last line read: Work opportunity.            He rested the page against the cruet set and sipped his tea. Someone knew where he lived, knew the area, knew his routine and knew that he needed the money. And they hadn't wanted to be heard by the neighbours otherwise they'd have used the letterbox.            At 13.30, overfed on a diet of tabloid opinion and daytime television, he left the bedsit, leaving himself half an hour to make a ten-minute journey. He pulled out two hairs and set them top and bottom of the closed front door, haf convinced that some bastard planned to rob him while he was out. But they could have done that this morning. Even so, he'd brought along his good luck knuckle-duster that accompanied him to the club.            The world seemed different in the afternoon, foreign and foreboding. Cars he didn't recognise - new faces. He dropped into the corner shop for some chewing gum he didn't need a handful of change. After walking past the phone box three times, he creaked the door back and took a good look inside. Nothing out of place, even the usual smell of stale cigarettes and BO. He could hear his own breathing, echoing in the old-style kiosk. Just curious, he told himself, wanting to follow the rabbit's trail. HIs watch counted down the last couple of minutes.            The phone picked up first ring. "Who's calling?"            "Ken Treavey." No point pretending when they already knew so much.            Silence followed. He closed his eyes and imagined two people at a desk, exchanging notes. He wanted to smoke now, even though he'd given up six months ago.            "Very good. Take down these details."            Two hours' time, across town; no explanations. He figured it was a test of his ability to follow instructions; he could live with that for now. At least until he knew what the job was and what the pay was worth. And it wasn't as if he had anywhere to be, apart from his TV date with Trisha. 

Grace Kelly

Occasionally, caught in the slipstream of social media, our own voices can be drowned out by the baying of a crowd that yells, "Like me, follow me, review me, add me, and friend me." And 'friend', last time I checked, isn't even a verb. How close a relationship can it be when someone wants me to 'noun' them?

I try really hard to accommodate my fellow writers. Honestly. I know that, whether in the short term or long term, a raised profile means more book sales, which in turn means more likelihood of another book becoming economically viable. Plus, as I have a foot in both Musa Publishing and A Word with You Press (not the same foot, silly), I recognise the importance of standing shoulder-to-shoulder and backing those who have backed you.

I know all of that, but sometimes - just sometimes - I would love to see Twitter (my favourite playpen) have a non-promo day. Just a blissful 24 hours of opinion and stupid jokes - even if they're not mine. Of course, I might feel differently if I had a clutch of my own books to sell right now, but in a way...and I'll whisper this next part...I'm pleased that I don't.

Right now, I can reintroduce myself to the business of writing, taking those scrappy notes from my writing pad and seeing whether they merit further attention. In short, I can be a writer for a time.

And the photo? I know you're dying to ask. It's connected with Scars and Stripes, my recently edited comedy drama, about a semi-fictional year spent living the American Dream. For a whole bunch of reasons, some of them related to Richard Bach and his books, Oregon was my Sarras island. Naturally, reaching there changed little for me, but it was the culmination of an inner and outer journey. Sounds hippyish, I know, but it was a long time ago - before I found my inner cynic.

And Grace Kelly? Surely it's obvious!

The Making of Her

It's a rare thing indeed to witness the journey of a writer, from a newbie finding their feet to a fully fledged author in the eyes of the world. I met Susie at a Novel Writing Summer School in Falmouth, back in 2006. We worked together in a few exercises, under the guiding hand of tutor Jane Pollard. Over the course of a week we all whipped our ideas into some sort of shape and experienced the familiar flow of elation and deflation that happens when a course of this kind...well, runs its course...and ends.
I can't remember who suggested it (probably Susie), but not long afterwards a few of us decided to meet up at regular intervals - every two or three months - to give a shape to the solitary business of writing and of editing (a joy we had yet to encounter). As our respective novels developed we offered support, commiseration, objective feedback and a sense of shared experience, as we moved forward from the exaltation of the completed first draft to the trench warfare that is editing.
It's a particular pleasure to see a friend achieve one of their goals. Friday, April 27th, The Making of Her is published. Here's to you Susie, you've climbed the peak and can now take a breather!  
Naturally, I couldn't resist the opportunity to put her on the spot and find out what the view is like from there, whether her feet have blisters, and her highs and lows of the journey so far.
But first, here's a summary of The Making of Her, in Susie's own words:
Set in the pressure-cooker world of television, The Making of Her is a blackly funny retort to a society which values youth over age and appearance over experience.       The Making of Her is the makeover programme that Clara never wanted to produce, featuring the one person she never would have chosen.  Add to the mix an errant husband, a barefoot counsellor and a reclusive rock star, and change is inevitable.  But does transformation come from the inside out, or from the outside in?       And will The Making of Her prove to be the making of them all?

(Cue sound of spotlight being clicked on...)
 1. What, if anything, has changed in your writing from the way you wrote at the summer school to the published version?
I think the main difference is that I’ve learned not to be afraid of discarding and rewriting.  I was terribly precious about writing before I began this novel (and throughout much of the writing of it).  It was very late on before I dared to really make the necessary changes - dared to ‘let go’.  I have also learned to lighten up – the original version was called ‘The Change’ (I know, I know) and full of gloom, doom and menopausal mentions.     2. What are your views on opportunities that are specifically for women, such as Mslexia, The Orange Fiction prize and Linen Press Publishing?  Are they a niche, a response to an industry deficiency or purely a matter of choice for the organisations involved?
I’d say, a matter of choice for the organisations involved.  I guess you could also see them in terms of a ‘brand’, which sits easier with me.  Linen Press is a publishing house which brands itself as ‘great writing for women - by women’.  This allows our readership – mainly women – to find and recognise us, just as The Women’s Press or Virago did before us.
 3. What inspired / drove you to write about the themes in your book?
I’ve always been fascinated by transformation since devouring C.S. Lewis’s Narnia stories as a child, together with The Brothers Grimm.  Fairy tales always feature an element of transformation – Cinderella, The Ugly Duckling, The Little Mermaid – and it seems as if this longing for personal transformation has developed, over the centuries, through various incarnations – alchemy, psychoanalysis, personal development and finally, in today’s youth-obsessed culture, cosmetic surgery.  It could be argued that changing your outer appearance is more a matter of changing gold into lead – but I was interested as to whether changing the outside could actually bring about inner transformation.  In The Making of Her, one woman opts for surgery whilst the other enters therapy.  And both are transformed, in very different ways. 
 4. Do you see yourself differently, as a writer, now that you have made the journey from first draft to book launch date? And how might this influence your future writing?
I feel validated, after years of rejection.  Not particularly estimable, but when people ask what I do, it’s a great relief to be able to answer that I’m a writer, without dreading the inevitable next question:  So do you have a book published?
But my confidence as a writer has both grown and diminished – because I have no idea whether the next one will be publishable, or even writeable.  And because I’ve opened the Pandora’s Box of publishing, I can never again approach my writing in the same innocent and exuberant way that I did.  Although - as in the story of Pandora’s Box - in spite of all the terrors, Hope endures.
 5. Was it difficult to say goodbye to your characters?
Yes and no.  No, because they each found resolution and redemption, so their stories – at least for now – are complete.  Yes, because I grew very, very attached to them.
 6. What would you have liked to have been asked?
How did you come to be published by Linen Press?  And my answer - apart from writing the novel - 7. What would you have not liked to have been asked?
How many hours a day do you spend writing?  The reluctant answer would be – none.  My hours are spent marketing and tweeting.  This must change soon!
The Making of Her is available from Linen Press - www.linenpressbooks.comAn ebook version will be available in due course.
Susie Nott-Bower, who neglected to mention that she's a BAFTA winner, is available for talks in the Bristol area. She is currently working on a new novel called Reborn, which is about painting, magic and rebirth.
* Sometimes we're metaphorical signposts for one another, whispers of possibilities unseen but almost within reach. Other times, if we're really lucky, we can be the actual link in the chain for someone else to reach their dream.

You have to laugh

The interesting thing about comedy writing is that what's funny to one person can be entirely unfunny to the person sitting next to them. And although you can dissect it until you're blue in the face, there are ultimately only two kinds of humour:Funny humour and unfunny humour.
Something works or it doesn't work, and all the tea in China doesn't change that to any great degree. Although my eternal banner cry of 'Content and Context' often sheds an illuminating light on material.
Running a comedy writing workshop, like the Moon Hut one I delivered in Falmouth yesterday, reminded me again why I enjoy the company of other writers. We're like magpies, picking up snippets of life experience, ideas and associations, and then assembling them together in our creative nests. (Too many bird analogies? Fine. I'll stop here.) Writers speak different dialects of a common language, seeking to create, interpret and reinterpret the worlds (inner and outer) that we inhabit. Humour - and in this case, the art of joke writing - offers a range of models and techniques for squidging those ideas together in a variety of shapes.
Over the course of the day, we looked at what jokes are for, where material comes from, old jokes, corny jokes (I hold my hand up), offensive jokes, easier routes to jokes, topical jokes, cartoon jokes and, here and there, how that same toolbox relates to writing fiction. 
The same objectives are there, whatever it's writing humour or dramatic fiction:- To keep the reader hooked until you're ready to deliver your own punchline.- To entertain, challenge and enlighten.- To take the reader or audience on a seamless journey where you, the writer / performer, are always at the helm. Even when, and perhaps especially when, it doesn't seem that there's anyone at the wheel. 
So my thanks to all the Moon Hut event participants who tuned up yesterday. You helped me appreciate what I do in a fresh light, gave me a glimpse into other people's creative processes, and let me take you on a little journey of my own. And it was funny too!

As in Bodge*

Whatever else it is, writing can also be an outlet for the frustrations and confusion of daily life. Writers can create take those uncontrollable influences and experiences and then reshape them into situations, characters and plots where the world makes a little more sense (but doesn't have to be predictable, of course). Or we can just tell it as it is.

With that in mind, here is a stranger-than-fiction tale of a recent foray back into project management.
Now, before we start, I'd like to do two things:1. Check if you're sitting comfortably (come back Listen with Mother, all is forgiven).2. Give you a little background.

Freelance writing can be a fascinating and lucrative way to earn a living. It can also, in common with other forms of self-employment, be a case of feast and famine. So it pays to have a Plan B. Back in the corporate jungle, I became an accredited project manager, so I continue to look out for proj man temporary roles, among other work. Got that? Okay then let's move on.
Once upon a time...the telephone rang and it was a temp agency I'd registered with. And a good one too (and that's not just in case they read this)."It's good news," they said. (See, I told you they were good.) "There's a project management job doing the rounds - full-time and a three-month contract.""Hmm..." says I, checking the bank balance (which we also call 'The Pallor of Money'), and lacing my fingers together like a Bond villain. "Tell me more..."
And so they did, about a golden role that centred on Compliance and Project Management - in times past, two of my favourite subjects. Indeed, it was me who once coined the phrase about some of my product manager colleagues: Never Knowingly Compliant.
Anyway, the fairy jobparents sent me a job spec and, despite some hesitation on my part, due to the specificity of the role, I agreed to them sending in an application. Weeks passed before the fairy jobparents returned, with great news and gladness. I would be receiving a telephone interview.'Crikey,' thought I, 'I'd better do some serious prep on this one.' And before you could say two hours I'd learned about compliance all over again, plus codes of conduct, government contracts and all manner of wondrous things.

The next day...09.30 Interview time. I sat by the phone, flexing my fingers. By 10.00 my fingers ached. No call. No show. No clue. I rang the agency, and they had no clue either. They did explain that the job dude was given my details days before. Oh well, these things happen (to me). I asked them to reschedule it for the following day, and went about my business.15.30 Same day. My other business concluded, I got back to the house and picked up a phone message. Interview dude said he never got my details until after the call time and that he'd try to ring me later. I left him a message, confirming my understanding of the new day and time, along with my number (even though, obviously, he'd already rung it to leave me a message - but one can never be too careful).
Day 2 (feel free to imagine a Big Brother style voiceover from here on in)...09.30 Those fingers were flexing again. Right up until 10.00. No call. No show. Even less of a clue. I emailed the agency, who reminded me that they themselves were dealing with an agency, and they said they'd investigate.10.15 Phone call. Brilliant. But it's not the interviewer. Not so brilliant. It's my agency. Interview dude apparently rang the wrong candidate - similar surname, although a completely different number - and interviewed my semi-namesake instead. My call would now be at 11.30.11.30 Ta da! The interviewer called, and the first thing he asked was how much I knew about the role. I told him that I've read the job spec in detail and spoke a little about compliance and government contracts and so forth.
There followed an awkward silence. "That's not the job," he said, a little wearily I thought.
I hastily scrubbed out the half dozen or so pertinent questions that I'd put together and changed tack, asking him what the job was about. Both being professionals, we quickly got back on track with the job requirements, the high-level project objectives and the key skills and experience ncessary to fufil the role. The call ended after 30 minutes, with all the bases covered.
It's been just over a week now, and it's all gone very quiet indeed.
Worst case scenario - it's a blog post...
*Proj as in Bodge

The Name Game

There's a definite art to naming your book. Or perhaps that's an indefinite one. On the face of it, it's the headline for the story - pure and simple. A title can create reader expectations about the setting - 1984, Animal Farm or even Great Expectations itself. Or, perhaps, act as a teaser - Tell No One. What has always surprised me is the confidence and the artistry with which some authors (or their publishers!) name their work.
Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha is one example, I think, of a title that can only have come from an established writer. It's confident, bold and stands apart.
I've written four novels now and the way I arrived at the title has been different each time.
In the beginning, Covenant started life as The Promise of a Rainbow. Fine for a tinkly fantasy, but it seemed mismatched with its central themes of reincarnation, death, retribution and inner worldly mysticism. The original title came from a 'message' I was given once, and the replacement title was suggested by a friendly editor (not friendly enough to take it on, mind), as two of my original chapter headings included the word Covenant.
Next in line was a novel born at a novel writing summer school, Standpoint. I hacked and hacked at this one, keen for the title to have a clear association with both the protagonist's surveillance photography and the story of him making a stand against injustice. It's still not too late for Thomas Bladen Ho Ho Ho, though.
Third in line is Line of Sight, sequel to Standpoint. Again, there's a clear association with the plot and the central character's ability (or inability) to understand the subtleties of what's going on around him.
Lastly, for now anyway, there's Scars & Stripes, my wunderkind. A no-brainer really. The comedy drama novel is set mainly in the US and tells the tale of Alex 's efforts, following the end of his relationship, to live out the American Dream.
Here are some titles by friends of mine:The Making of Her by Susie Nott-BowerThe Reluctant Detective by Sinclair MacleodThe Geneva Connection by Martin Bodenham
So, dear reader, what are the best, worst and most intriguing book titles you've ever encountered?