Lesley Cookman's Blog, page 3

Thoughts at the end of August 2020 - I am NOT Cosy.

It is Tuesday August 25th, and I don't know where the month went. The weather has suddenly turned autumnal, as a consequence of which I feel considerably better. After almost six months of being told what to do, shielding, isolating and playing the "old lady", the worm has turned. I AM going to drive again, despite what my (non-driving) son says and despite my rackety old car. I don't go far, after all, chiropodist, hairdresser, doctor and I might even venture to attempt Tesco!
Meanwhile, I have been watching Foyle's War. Not quite bingeing (now discovered there's an "e" in the middle) but watching them over a few weeks consecutively. I'm now well into the Cold War in 1947 and I'm constantly surprised at how accurate it is. Last night, saw a specially made documentary "The Making Of Foyle's War", which encompassed the War Office expert, the properties and art department and various other experts, which explained a lot. Over the years the odd episode has given me material for my own books, one of which I was describing to my daughter this morning. "That doesn't sound very 'Cosy', Mum," she said. My reply? Guess.
I have been fighting a One-Woman War against the term "Cosy", coined in the States, for years. I'm sorry, but I don't consider homophobic murder and attacks, people smuggling, modern slavery, child abuse  and paedophilia very cosy, all of which I have written about. Other writers in roughly the same genre have also written about similar subjects. We are described as following in the wake of Agatha Christie, who would have been horrified to be descibed as Cosy.
When I started my career as a novelist I was already a writer, in that I wrote stuff for money. I called myself a writing whore. I adored many of the Golden Age writers, although not Christie so much, and read many modern crime novels. Yes, funnily enough, that was what they were. Crime novelists. Then, a few books in, I discovered - via Waterstones, no Amazon, then - that I was "Cozy". Yes, to compound matters, spelt with a "Z".
I even founded a Facebook Group called Traditional Mystery Writers UK, which attracted a few fellow novelists, but has never really thrived. But now I'm determined to fight against this rather derogatory and disparaging sobriquet. I am NOT COSY. Neither am I a doddery old lady. I can (mostly) look after myself - oh, and I'm still earning my own living. I am extremely grateful to my offspring for being there for me during the Covid 19 lockdown, for fetching and carrying and generally doing the things I can't, but we've all got to stand on our own two (wobbly) feet sometime. So off we go into the rest of 2020 with determination.

Mysteries-U-Like news

I am going to make a recommendation. I write, and enjoy reading, lighter detective fiction. As I have documented elsewhere, my love of this genre came from being allowed to run riot amid my parents' books, many of which I still have. These included Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe series (and occasionally a Tecumseh Fox), John Dickson Carr/Carter Dickson - Gideon Fell and Sir Henry Merrivale - and Ngaio Marsh's Roderick Alleyn series. I re-read them all, and the Alleyn books from start to finish at least once every two years. On the way, there were other writers; Gladys Mitchell and Patricia Wentworth, to name two.

I was already a professional writer (features, PR, theatre) when I went back to school to do a Master's Degree in Creative Writing, a fairly new discipline at the time, and one I was already teaching at local authority level. Sadly, it didn't improve my knowledge of literature, which I had hoped, but it did introduce me to the woman who became my publisher. Again, well documented. We more-or-less started off together. As my final dissertation I submitted 20,000 words of a detective story which had first been conceived for the long departed World One Day Novel Cup. I had never seriously considered authorship as a career, although I had dabbled freely in the murky waters of Romance. Like many others, I had thought I could write a Mills and Boon romance, or Category Romance, as I learned to call them. Easy, I thought. Wrong!!! I came to realise how very, very clever these women, and the occasional man, were. I remained content to be friends with many of them, friendships I have maintained to this day. More of that later.

Meanwhile, as Hazel Cushion went on to become a fully fledged publisher, she asked me if there was any more of my dissertation, and if so, could she have it. And, could it be a series. Well, by this stage in my life I had expanded my reading habits and discovered, among other things, many writers writing in the same genre I had loved as a child. So there was a market for it, although received wisdom from the industry was, between much sucking of teeth, that there wasn't. We all know how that turned out.

And that market also extended to Television, exemplified by the hugely popular Midsomer Murders. I had read the original books - only seven of them - and even met Caroline Graham, the author, when we were both tutors on a Writers' Holiday. There have been other series in a similar vein, although none as long lasting. Father Brown might be heading the same way, but Rosemary and Thyme didn't last long. Shakespeare and Hathaway is a little more jokey/pastiche, but quite enjoyable if you suspend serious criticism. The Coroner didn't last long, either, although it should have done.

But I've found a new one! I suspect a lot of my readers discovered it before I did, but I'm terribly glad I did. It's been airing on UKTV Drama since 2017, and now I have all my streaming ducks in a row, I have been - I believe the term is "Binging" (!) - on it since the beginning of the series. It is a New Zealand small town detective series called The Brokenwood Mysteries, and has some very familiar elements. Lead detectives, of course, and recurring characters, often rather quirky ones. And very odd murder methods - remind you of anything? Anyway, that's my first recommendation.

My second refers to something more personal. You remember I mentioned retained friendships? Well, some of us go away "on retreat" each year, which I have written about before. Not this year, of course. Anyway, a few of them decided to release an anthology of shorts as a 2020 beach read. And to my surprise, they asked me to join them. Surprise, because they are all romance writers, and all have been, or still are, Mills and Boon authors. I really struggled with this, and failed miserably on the romance front, but I was edited by one of them, a particular friend, who brought me into line. And the result is up for pre-order. You can find it on amazon, and this is what it looks like:
So there you are! Happy watching and reading. 

More thoughts on lockdown

I posted this today on my Facebook work page, and then decided I would post it here, too.

Lockdown has changed us all, even those of us who could be said to be living the same way we always do. One of the things that has happened to me is my younger daughter, currently living with me, was appalled that I was still paying separately for my landline, broadband and Sky connection. She immediately set about finding me a better solution, which she did, while she and younger son, also living with me, extolled the virtues of streaming services. I had looked at Netflix and been frightened to death. I couldn't see anything I liked and I just liked the fact that the Radio Times told me what there was to watch tonight in a nice, safe way. But I've had to change. The Sky signal stopped, and I needed an ordinary aerial to watch my nice safe TV. And my aerial appears to be broken. So, until an aerial man can come out, I'm more or less stuck with streaming. So I've found my own streaming service, Acorn, and those programmes I do like watching - even on Netflix. I am slowly coming into the 21st century. I have realised how much my life is governed by radio and television instead of my social life. I no longer do anything outside of home and work, which is depressing. I am lucky enough to have a garden, so I can go outside, but as I am a certain age with underlying health problems, the offspring are keeping me under house arrest. So, I'm watching streaming services and I've joined Zoom meetings and quizzes. I'm beginning to feel quite up to date. But when we're allowed out again, I'm going to take up every invitation I receive; I shall make the effort to go and see the plays and exhibitions that appeal to me, even if it's a bit of an effort. Because I shall remember what it was like when we couldn't do any of those things.

Writer in Lockdown - thoughts on Covid 19

Well, I suppose it's not that different from normal for those of us who survive on our writing income. I spend most days in the office working, or pretending to, stop at about 4 pm for a cuppa and a read on the sofa, cook dinner for between 6.30 and 7 and then watch television until bed. BUT. If I want to I can go shopping - supermarket, high street shops, big shops in Canterbury or farm shops. And if someone rings me up and says "fancy a drink?" I can say yes, put on a bit of a face and nip down the pub. Well - hobble, if truth be told, but the intention's there. And I can "Go Up West" to the theatre - as the girls and I did the day before the whole thing kicked off. We went to see City of Angels, which was wonderful - and, as I've got used to, someone one of them knew was in the production, this time in the orchestra.

Anyway, those are all things that I, and most people, took for granted. And suddenly we couldn't do any of it. Lou and I had a plan mapped out for productions we were going to see over the coming months. Phillipa, having just got back from a month entertaining rich people on a cruise ship, was about to go on tour. Lou had concerts planned. Miles had gigs planned for the whole year. Leo's book comes out this month, without the events it was going to have, and his American wife Carrie was due here at the end of the month. We are all, as a family, self employed, and the kids are now completely without income. Lou's partner is also a pro musician, so no hope there, then. In my household I am the sole earner. See last post on Fiscal Matters.

The consolation is that people are beginning to read more, and ebooks are essential. Book shops are closed - our local independent is now closed for good - and the warehouses are struggling, so ebooks are a lifeline. I will carry on saying I'm lucky, because I am. I have been offered, and accepted, a three book contract with Headline, my new publishers, although I haven't signed on the dotted line yet. All their employees are working from home, so things are taking longer than usual. This is due to my agent Kate Nash, someone I have known for years, but with whom I've only just formed this highly beneficial working relationship.

Meanwhile, I'm desperately trying to work on the short I'm writing for inclusion in a sort of anthology with five other writer friends. It's proving desperately hard - but whether that's the effects of the virus or just of laziness, I'm not sure...

Keep safe, everyone.

Some reflections on fiscal matters...

The Guardian piece Louise posted on my Facebook Timeline, The Guardian, might appear, at first 
glance, to suggest that we're all rich. You know - the classic rich, white, middle class majority. 
Oh, whoops! Did I say majority? Well, them, anyway. And believe me, as the writer says in her 
piece, there are entitled, middle class hobbyists out there, supported in a variety of ways 
including working husbands, but also many, many writers who have other jobs. The only reason I'm 
able to do this job is because I was lucky enough to have no mortgage to pay, as my late husband's 
aunt had paid it off when she died. But the reason I HAVE to do this job is because I have no 
other income. 

Late DH and I were never brilliant with money. We did some smashing jobs, but none of them 
actually paid well. Our children have followed faithfully in our footsteps. And frankly, I consider
myself bloody lucky. Most of the time I can support myself and even any boomeranging offspring that appear for the odd fortnight.
Just occasionally, this all gets a bit on top of me. Such as learning that my new publisher won't be paying me until July. Now I know received wisdom states that it is terribly non-U to discuss money, but sorry, folks, sometimes you have to. I need people to know why I can't do things sometimes. Like go on holiday. Or to conferences. Or even to speaking gigs, which the organisers always tell me will "raise my profile" and that I shall be able to sell some books! Well, the amount of books I'd probably sell would maybe pay for a cup of tea and a bun, and rarely dothese bookings offer to pay, even the fairly well known book festivals. Yes, it's wrong, and at the beginning of my career as an author (not as a writer - that's different) I'd willingly go dashing off to various parts of the country without even getting expenses. But now? I would rather keep what I have to pay for essentials and the moderate comforts of home.
For instance, today my PLR has come in. This is Public Lending Right, which we get once a year for all the borrowings of our books made over the last twelve months. It has saved my life morethan once, and today I immediately paid for my recent delivery of coal, my car tax for a year and booked an MOT for next week. Oh - and my granddaughter's birthday present. Very self indulgent, all of them. But this why I write books - because I can actually afford to buy coal, keep my car on the road (just) and buy my grandchildren birthday presents. I can manage to pay for the landline, keep my mobile topped up, pay my Sky subscription and my gas and electricity bills and my counciltax. I can even indulge my small vices - not to excess, but a bottle of Scotch a week? - and until fairlyrecently, buy a few new clothes. (Warning - don't lose a lot of weight unless you're rich. Your wallet will not love you.)
So there you are. The real life of a writer. I'm not moaning - as I said, I consider myself very lucky. If I have to work, at least I'm lucky enough to do this. But this is also why I, and a lot of my fellow authors, worry like mad with every new book. Will they like it, the publishers? Will I ever get another contract? Will I be able to eat next year?
Frankly, it's a bloody silly way to earn a living...

Happy New Year (a bit late)

Well, here we are in Mid-January and I'm trying to get to grips with Life, The Universe and Everything.

My new publishers, Headline, are busily trying to resolve all the issues that bubbled up during the takeover...., and if anyone didn't receive their order of Murder Repeated this is the correct link. Murder Repeated. There are still a few unresolved problems, but Toby Jones, who is Editorial Director and my personal contact, is bending over backwards to be helpful. I have started the next book, with a delivery date of April, but I have no idea if the original publishing date of June will be adhered to. I have my doubts!

So, meanwhile, I have been in the process of setting up a Patreon Account. This will entitle those who sign up (for a small fee in US Dollars, I'm afraid) to some exclusive material. Regular readers, my Libby's Loonies, have all given me ideas for this, and my tech savvy children (that's the three younger ones - eldest's worse than I am) have been bullying me into doing all sorts - Podcasts, live interviews with other authors, you name it, they reckon I'm equal to it.

However, I've thought and worried about it for a week now, and woke up clear eyed and bushy tailed this morning, realising that what my regular readers wanted was More Libby To Read. That's what they ask for - when's the next book out. Only this morning, one of them sent me a message saying she'd just finished Murder Repeated and it was like sitting down with old friends, and when was the next one?

Also, we discuss all sorts on the Libby's Loonies group, which you can join if you're on Facebook (the link will take you there) as long as you answer the question, and that's all free, so why would you pay for it? What no one gets (it's my living, after all!) is free reading material. So - how about a little short story or chapter from an exclusive novella, say? That seems more sensible to me, and is the sort of thing I would sign up for. I don't really do Podcasts and stuff, although daughter Philly has introduced me to a great Stephen Fry one in the car.

So, when I've got to grips with all the details, I shall post the link and you can all become Patrons! (Only joking - not obligatory.) Meanwhile, I've still got the next book to write (no title yet) and my tax bill to pay. Cheers!

Fairly Fed up December

Well, folks - this is - theoretically - out! Murder Repeated. There have been many issues - books not arriving at distributors, bookshops, amazon and other outlets, let alone customers who were expecting them on Thursday 5th. According to amazon, delivery is still taking longer than average, and currently there are only 2 copies in stock. I have had virtually no promotion, and have resorted this morning (Sunday) to rushing round trying to drum up a little blog tour; a fairly hopeless task, I feel, this close to Christmas.

I also discovered that Headline have raised the Kindle price to £5.99. This is unacceptable to me. I desperately need an agent, but all of those to whom I've applied have failed, so far, to reply. I wish now I'd stuck to my guns and refused to go to Headline at the time of the takeover. There is another publisher to whom I would far rather have gone, but I don't know the legal position, and the various stratagems employed in wrangles of this kind. I have repeatedly complained to my editor at Headline, who has, again, repeatedly assured me that all issues have been addressed.

I'm telling you, dear readers, all this because I'm seriously considering giving up the whole thing. I'm not fishing for compliments here - I know full well that Libby Sarjeant fans will not want Libby to disappear, but right at the moment I genuinely don't feel like writing another word.

Anyway, I wish you all the merriest Christmas you can possible have, and thank you all for your support - I shall wear it always

Betjeman's Banana Blush

This is a self indulgent post. While I am holiday in Turkey every year, I listen to my iTunes collection in my room, due to lack of internet. Among quite a large selection of old comedy - I'm Sorry I'll read That Again, I'm Sorry I haven't a Clue, Alan Davies, Stilgoe and Skellern - I have two albums by John Betjeman, with music by Jim Parker.

My husband and I were introduced to the first album, Betjeman's Banana Blush, by a schoolfriend of the old man's, Colin Eades, who, appropriately, lived in the heart of Metroland, as we did ourselves. I loved it so much I bought it, and later, the follow up, Betjeman's Britain. I didn't know much about Betjeman or his poetry at the time, but he soon became my favourite poet. One I particularly loved was Business Girls, which describes with the utmost poignancy the solitary residences of these ladies in Camden Town, backing on to the railway cuttings: At the back precarious bathrooms Jutting out from upper floors; and ends with: Rest you there, poor unbelov'd ones, Lap your loneliness in heat. All too soon the tiny breakfast, Trolley-bus and windy street.

Then there's the famous Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel, an event which, in my youthful ignorance, I knew nothing at the time. I was fascinated. And Lenten Thoughts of a High Anglican: Isn't she lovely, the Mistress? With her wide-apart grey-green eyes? I could go on; each poem brilliantly nostalgic, often humorous and always with the underlying sadness. Even Hunter Trials, from a young girl's point of view, competing at a local event, and ending with: Oh, wasn’t it naughty of Smudges? Oh, Mummy, I’m sick with disgust. She threw me in front of the Judges, And my silly old collarbone’s bust. That resonated - the same thing happened to me on a pony called Charade at the Clapham Common Gymkhana. Not quite the same as a posh "county" event, but never mind.

All of these enhanced by the wonderful music of Jim Parker, of whom I had also never heard. You might not have done, either, but I bet you know the atmospheric theremin theme for Midsomer Murders.
Told you it was a self indulgent post. Ever since Colin introduced me to the album I have loved both Betjeman and Parker, so to him, wherever he may be, thank you. I don't suppose this will set any of you off on the same path, but if it does, good. And when I get home I'm going to watch Metroland again. I shall also re-read Laurie Lee, suggested by Peter, a friend out here in Turkey, which will no doubt set me off on another trail of nostalgic discovery.
Happy listening!

"I have confidence in me!"

See that title? If you know the song - young people please Google - you will realise it's about someone bolstering her own courage. Well, that's me at the moment.

I refer you to my previous post Worries of a mid-list Author. You will see how a writer friend and I were worrying together. This is now explained by the fact that Accent Press have been sold to Headline, part of the great Hachette Group, one of the Big Five Publishing Groups in the world. Now my friend Chrissie and I are used to being published by a smaller, independent press. Although Chrissie was one of the big names, along with our other friends, Katie Fforde and Jill Mansell, she has had publisher problems before, as explained in the aforementioned previous post. And I have never aspired to be at the forefront of popular genre publishing, so how were we going to fit in with this go-getting young publisher? Would we be shoved into a corner and forgotten? Would they understand us - and our public?

Well, some of the worries have been addressed, but there are still people who tell me I just like worrying and "it's all going to be all right". Mainly my children. And no - it isn't. There are typographical errors in the ebook that came out last week (where did my corrected proofs go?), there has been no promotion, orders have been cancelled. I now know the paperback will come out on December 5th - almost two months late - and no idea about the next book for which I'm contracted.

However, tomorrow I'm going to have a chat with the publishing director and hope we can clarify the situation. After all, it's quite a Big Thing to be published by one of the largest and most successful of all the genre publishers, but it's going to take some getting used to!

Along with the chaotic disaster that has taken over our country at the moment, about which I also constantly worry and get angry, it hasn't been the happiest of summers. On Monday I go off on my annual pilgrimage to rural Turkey to metaphorically hide under the duvet.  See you when I get back!

Worries of a Mid-List author, or Where did July go?

The first weeks of July were entirely taken up with trying to finish the book which should have been delivered by the end of June. However, youngest son Leo's wedding, together with attendant overseas visitors rather got in the way, and I had to lie down in a darkened room with a wet cloth on my head. Just as the new bride was about to leave to go back to America, a parcel arrived for the new groom, containing, to our surprise, proof copies of his book, due out next April.




Then it was grandson Gus's birthday, then eldest daughter Louise's birthday. And then younger daughter Phillipa arrived yesterday. Within minutes, I was in the middle of a political, philosophical and social discussion between her and her brother, upon which I stopped trying to comment after a bit and just went and got dinner. After which, she set off on her bike training for the triathlon she's attempting next month. When she came back, we ended up having a long conversation about childhood, visiting places around the world and mortgages. More darkened rooms call, I feel. Oh, and by the way, we had HOME MADE ice cream after dinner. Yup - I made ice cream. Not in an ice cream maker, with a bowl and a whisk. Quite a lot of it went over the kitchen work top and me, and Godiva the Elder Cat enjoyed what went on the floor. But it was pronounced lovely, and didn't taste home made.

After all this domesticity I now have to get down to planning the next book, while awaiting the edits on the one I finally delivered in the middle of July. I'm also awaiting the contract for the next book, so there's a sort of shall I/shan't I feeling about it. I asked the publisher, who more-or-less said "Get on with it!" But without a contract I feel a little nervous. This is something that never leaves you as a writer - in fact it's true of most creatives, especially those who are self employed. This means all my family. We're dead worried all the time that the next book/gig/tour won't happen. We all reassure each other, of course, but we still worry. Especially me.

I am still a - rather remote - member of the Romantic Novelists' Association, despite not writing romance, and most of my best writing mates are members, too. So, thanks to soshul meeja I get to see lots of posts/requests for advice/moans from aspiring writers. And most of them appear to think that when they land that elusive first contract, their worries are over. Oh, no. Not on your nelly. Sometimes, a debut novelist is so good, picked up by a major publisher, that she/he has an immediate second book contract and fulfils everybody's hopes. Like my friend Joanna Cannon, whom I met when she was still doing her rotation as a young junior doctor, and writing little bits which I was lucky enough to read. Eventually, she went on to be published by The Borough Press, part of Harper Collins (one of the Big Boys of the industry) with a world wide best seller, The Trouble with Goats and Sheep. Her second book, Three Things About Elsie, did just as well. So, yes, first contract - worries over.

Now let's look at another friend of mine, whom I've known for a good many more years than I've known Jo. An absolute top seller, every book was rich in comedy, atmosphere and often unlikely romance. Her characters were a delight. And then her publisher sold to another publisher and it all fell apart. Luckily, she was picked up again by a further publisher, but it was only after two years in the wilderness with a lot of wrangling over contractural obligations. She and I are still very good friends and spend a lot of time worrying together about this sort of thing. Of course there are people who tell us both that we've got nothing to worry about: "With your track record?" they say. "You'll always be published." No, we won't. See aforementioned reasons.


So there are always worries. And heaven help you if you rely on an income from your books. The powers that be in the publishing industry, who look after our interests, commissioned a survey last year of authors' earnings, in which I took part. The dispiriting results informed us that authors' incomes have fallen by 40% over the last few years. The average author earns less than the designated living wage. I used to get very annoyed with what I called the "dilettante lady writer", someone who relied on her husband's income to support her while she dallied with writing, or had possibly retired on a large pension. I knew several. Writing wasn't essential, although they said it was; "Oh, I have to write," they'd say, waving a limp hand and dabbing their temples with cologne. (No, not really. But you get the idea.)

Anyway, the upshot is that I'm still worrying about my career. Despite having one non-fiction book, two romances, three Alexandrians, twenty full lenth Libbys and three short Libbys, plus occasional short stories in collections and magazines, I am still worried. You see, publishing these days is no longer about nice old men in tweed suits with pipes, shaking hands over a walnut desk. If it ever was. This is what it's like these days. Pretty, aren't they? See why I'm worrying? They aren't exactly my reader demographic...Ah, well. See you all again soon.