Emma Newman's Blog, page 23

Here be monsters

Oh dear, it's got dusty here again already. Doesn't take long does it? There are a couple of reasons for this. One is that I am elbow deep in an audio book project at the moment, which has to be completed by the 25th of June. The other is that I am struggling.

What with? Oh, just the writerly life, s'all. Well, this little bit of swamp I'm crossing at the moment at least. No doubt in a few weeks all will be well again, once this sticky mud and all these damn mosquitos are fading in my memory and I am in love with writing again.

The swamps of pre-launch

As some of you know (most of you probably) my debut novel 20 Years Later is due to be released in hardback in a matter of weeks. Reviews are coming in, thanks to the Herculean effort of my publisher, and I have to confess, I hate this bit. Why? Because reviews are one of the single most awful things I have ever experienced in my writing life.

That bad eh?

Well, no, I haven't yet (to my knowledge – and I want it to stay that way!) had an appalling review. Most have been very good or even excellent. But there have been a small number that have been kind of middling, with a few throwaway comments that have felt like a knife in my stomach.

This is why I never write reviews for any book I haven't loved. The closest I have got to that is giving 1 out of 5 to The Time Traveller's Wife on Goodreads, and only because I figured that Ms Niffenegger wouldn't notice amongst the other 250,000 ratings or so, and was probably rich and happy enough not to care anymore. Even then I didn't go into detail about why I didn't like the book and couldn't even finish it, because I know how it feels to have spent years creating something, only to have someone say something awful about it in two minutes flat.

Wait a minute Em, aren't you breaking a rule here?

Oh yes, the rule that authors should never say anything about reviews. Well, I stand by the cast iron one that an author should never, ever respond to a hurtful review in situ, that is bad form. But I reserve the right to talk about how I feel right now on my own site. And this is blocking me at the moment, so I need to write my way through this. I'm not naming names, or even singling out the odd comments that have made me want to throw up with frustration and hurt, even though I might be burning to respond. I just feel this needs an entry in the Writer's Rutter, as this is a place that all authors come across in their travels, and I was not prepared for how hard this would be.

Whining

You know, I hate myself as I write this post. Oh for God's sake Emma, I hear my internal Evil Matron say (you've got one of those too, right?), get a grip! You got a publisher, you are on the road, you are so much further along than you've ever been, and it's impossible to write a book that everyone in the world will love!

I know that. Intellectually. And I know it's all subjective and I know I shouldn't read any reviews – good or bad – as they are only opinions and will screw me up but it's hard!

It's not just this that's going on though. It's the fact that I'm having to put myself out there more than I ever have before. I got some great experience launching From Dark Places and learnt invaluable lessons, but short story anthologies are a niche product, whereas YA novels have a much wider appeal, so it's ramping up a notch. I am being filmed this Saturday at The Liminal event in Weston-Super-Mare, giving a presentation at Frome Festival and reading at the Bristol ShortStoryVille event, and I find all of this agonisingly hard.

My confidence is at zero. Hell, it rarely gets much higher than 1.5.

I lay in bed last night and wondered if I really do have what it takes to live the life I've been striving for over the last 5 – no 6 – years. These days, authors can't just lock themselves away and write (unless you are China Mieville who told me that he blocks off time for promotion and then time for just writing). I'm right at the beginning of the more public part of my career and floundering already.

Now I'm wondering whether I should post this at all. Well, maybe it's good for others to know what this really feels like. I prepared myself for all the hard work, I prepared myself as best I could intellectually for bad reviews (heaven knows how I'll cope when I get a really bad one) but nothing has readied me for the gut-wrenching, soul twisting agony that is self-promotion and having someone pop your balloon before you've even left the fair.

Look, I can't leave this post like this. I'm a fairly optimistic person, and I'll bounce back. How about I tell you about the shiny new audio book I recorded for Iambik Audiobooks called Fall From Earth by Matthew Johnson. It's a great story and I loved recording it.

I should also mention that it's pretty cathartic to go to read reviews of books that you love, I mean really, really love, and see what the one-star reviewers have said. The day I get my first one-star review (or even 2 out of 5) is not one I'm looking forward too though. It will happen, as I said, it's impossible to avoid. I just hope I'm writing again by then, and that there is an extraordinarily large cup of tea to hand. And chocolate. Please God let there be chocolate.

Friday Flash: Being Light

He looked down into the valley below, the river so far away it looked like a silver ribbon. As soon as he'd had the thought, it all looked like a model, tiny wire brush trees glued to the hillside, the painted backdrop of dramatic mountains and the impossible blue of the cloudless sky. Then once the set was in place, he felt like an actor in a film, camera just behind his right shoulder, strings playing in the background to emphasise the peace and quiet drama of his surroundings.

His right buttock had gone to sleep, he'd been sitting there so long. The last inch of his last cigarette was smouldering away between his filthy fingers. He tried to grasp some wisdom from the three months he'd spent at the monastery. There was nothing but a slight light-headedness and ache across his sinuses, probably from the altitude, and the craving for a double cheeseburger.

"Oh stomach," he sighed, looking down at the papery skin stretched between his ribs and belly button. "You betray me."

He laughed, the sound was alien to him. When was the last time he'd really laughed, really cried, really loved, really hated? He couldn't remember. All that chanting and crappy food had kept him in a fog and now there was no money left, nowhere else to go and no time.

The cigarette tasted stale; it had been in a tin at the bottom of his pack for months. He tried not to read too much into the fact that the last pleasure he'd saved for this day had turned out to be a huge disappointment.

Thoughts of London drifted into him with the smoke, taking him back to a time in pubs before smoking bans, beer and birds, karaoke until their voices were hoarse and tuneless. He wondered what they were all doing now, whether they were missing him. Out of sight…

Then he wondered what Tina was doing and the bitter taste of their last conversation battled with the cigarette. He did the most harm when he tried to do the most good. Perhaps some bit of him had always known that and had kept him steady on the path of mediocrity. Perhaps it was because Tina had stolen his goodness in the womb. He'd always suspected when he saw the scan picture of them wrapped around each other, imagined her ante-natal leeching before they'd even come into the world. That was why he'd driven all her partners away, poisoning the soil of her relationships before any love had a chance to grow there. He needed all her love for himself.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she'd shouted at him the last time they spoke.

"Because I need to confess the things I did wrong in my life."

"Why?" Her mascara tears were like little black comets, leaving long trails down her cheeks. "To make you feel better? Didn't it occur to you that I might not ever want to know this stuff?"

"No," he admitted. He'd been so caught up in the need to absolve himself, he hadn't thought about the carnage his emotional bombs would cause.

He stood there and took the abuse as she catalogued all the ways in which he ruined her life. He waited for a gap in the tirade but by the time it came he'd lost the will to tell her why he was there. All he felt was the need to leave and do what the dream had told him.

So he went to his friends and his mother and he confessed and he cried and he cut all his ties to his old life. And now, eleven months and thirty-one days later, the dream was still just as vivid. He didn't have to close his eyes to see her silver hair floating around her like she was underwater, hovering impossibly above his bed whilst he couldn't move. He'd done everything she'd told him to, then travelled the world and did all the things people talked about doing but never did, usually over a beer in the pub just before closing time when the melancholy set in.

And now it was here, the day he'd dreaded and the day he'd looked forward to in equal measure. He drew on the cigarette down to the filter and stubbed it out, burying the remains under a couple of pebbles.

He waited. A lone bird circled, effortlessly majestic as it caught the thermals. The sun sunk lower until it was speared by the mountain opposite him, but still, nothing.

"Come on," he muttered. His stomach twisted as he worried whether he'd got the wrong date, but he'd checked the day he left the monastery.

He remembered her promise. "Do this, and one year from now you will be free and you will be King."

He couldn't remember why he had believed her, it was as if he skipped that step and went straight from loser to future King without the need to question her in between. But now, as the wind felt cold and the shadows in the valley deepened, he was doubtful.

"You will be light," she'd said. "You will escape the shackles of the Earth and you will join me in-"

"Oh crap," he muttered, cutting across the memory. "It was just a bloody dream, wasn't it?"

He dropped his head into his hands, wanting to cry but there was nothing in him but a hollow shame. He'd destroyed his life. He'd destroyed his sister's life and what for?

She hadn't even said where he'd be King of.

He stood, looked down at the ribbon now black, at the wire brush trees, at the bird swooping down into the valley's mouth and he knew what he had to do.

Then he felt light. Then he laughed and then he cried. It was all so clear now.

He jumped. He flew. He was King of the air.

—

P.S. If you enjoyed this, then you'll love From Dark Places, my anthology of 25 dark short stories.

Renegade A to Z: L is for…

… Liminal, as in, The Liminal, an event that I'll be reading at on the 18th of June in Weston-Super-Mare. You can find out all the details on the website,  but it's been summarised as

Sci-Fi. Fairy Stories for Adults. Dark Fiction. Set in carboniferous limestone.

Cool!

L is also for launches, and I am soon to have the last one for From Dark Places in Oxford on Wednesday (25th May).

I've had launch events in Manchester, Sunderland, London, Shepton Mallet and Bristol now, and I thought it would get easier. It hasn't. Don't get me wrong, I've learnt a huge amount, especially about the nuts and bolts of organising them, and that will feed into the events I organise for 20 Years Later. It's the anxiety I'm talking about.

L is also for lizard brain

It seems my stupid lizard brain needs to experience something many, many times to stop reacting to it as a threat. Actually, I worked out that after I'd written about 150 press releases for clients it stopped being a scary task in and of itself, so maybe I need to do 150 book launches to chill out about them.

Hmm.

Usually I calm down once I get started, though I never exactly relax. However, at the London launch, I felt horrifically anxious throughout, and then that evening, once I was back at my best friend's house, I was a wreck. It took a little while to figure out what happened, but now I have, I need to write it out to help process this. I want to try and repair this before the next one and the London launch for 20 Years Later!

Why the London launch?

At each of the launches I've had, there have been members of my family, old and new friends, and people who I met for the first time in the real world after becoming friends online. But what was special about the London launch in particular was that some old friends from my university days were there, and it brought up some old demons that were so deep down – and so long ago – that I'd forgotten about them.

A profound belief

I studied at Oxford. I was the first person on both sides of my family to go to university, and, quite frankly, very few people believed I would get in. Apparently 400 or so people applied for the very few places available on the course I wanted to study, and I never once believed I got one of those because I was good enough.

I need to give you some background to understand why I believed – and still believe that. My childhood was pretty disrupted by various family shenanigans and I went to four different secondary schools (11-18 years of age for my US friends). At the penultimate one I made a pact with my best friend that we would both apply to Oxford. I wasn't that fussed about the place, but she was. Then I was moved to another school (that's a long and not very happy story in and of itself) and we still kept the pact.

At the fourth school, all my teachers said I would never get into Oxford. My education had been disrupted too much, I hadn't received a good enough education, blah, blah, blah. Well, all I was worried about was keeping loyalty to my pact, so I dug my heels in and insisted on applying. They said I didn't have a hope in hell at passing the entrance exam, so I should try the alternative route; send in two pieces of work and hope they give me an interview. They added that they thought if I could get an interview, I'd talk my way into Oxford.

So that's what I did. I wrote about what happened next in a very old post, you can read it here but if you're in a hurry, this is the skinny:

I wrote a sci-fi short story and submitted it for coursework
My English teacher said it should be one the samples to send to Oxford
After arguing I did what she said and got an interview
The admissions tutor told me that story had got me my place (not my interview, my place)

Of course, I still went through 3 agonising days of interviews and nerves, but true, I got a conditional offer of AAB – if I got those three grades in my final exams, I could go to Oxford.

And I worked like hell, and I got 3 A's. And I went to Oxford.

So what on earth does this have to do with the London launch?

Well, the whole time I was in Oxford, I truly believed I was only there because some crusty academics were amused by the fact they'd received a short story about time-travel instead of one of the hundreds of Shakespeare essays they must get. I felt like I was making up the freak quota, I imagined meetings after the interviews saying "And what about this Emma girl? Not really up to scratch is she, but she's quirky and it would be good to have someone odd in the year group. Let's see how she does in her exams, and if she gets the A grades we'll let her in out of pity."

I made friends there that I will have for the rest of my life. I discovered a group of friends with amazing minds, with creativity oozing out of every pore, brilliant sparkling gems of people, and all the time I thought I was just a rough pebble that had been tumbled enough by life to pass off as something shiny in the right light. I felt privileged to have the opportunity to know and study and have fun with them because of some bizarre quirk of fate.

Not because I was good enough to be there.

Fast forward a fair few years, and I'm standing up in front of some of them after similar twists of fate and happy luck conspired to bring me into contact with my editor and publisher, and bring me a contract. Was I really good enough to be published? Was From Dark Places really enough to merit a book launch?

Would they see for the first time that I wasn't good enough to stand there in front of them and say "look what I've done!"

The sad thing is that these friends are amongst those who I love most in the world. And they love me. They are wonderful, funny, tender, kind people, and yet I feel like they are mountains and I am a crappy little molehill next to them.

How do I deal with this?

I don't know, in all honesty. This is a basic assumption, a deep assumption about myself and my time at university and a deep assumption about them.

And it goes to show that even getting published doesn't make all of those insecurities go away. Sorry.

So L is for the Liminal, London launches, lizard brains and low self-esteem.

Friday Flash: The Hanging Branch

He sat on the back step, hands curled around his mug. The steam rising up from the tea tickled his nose as the November cold pinched his ears. He was wearing his favourite gardening jacket, the warmest one he had, but he was still shivering.

He stared up at the tree.

The squeal from the back door's hinges made him jump. "I'm off out then," his wife said.

"See you later," he stood up to peck her on the cheek.

"I won't be long," she said, looking up at the same branch that he'd been frowning at moments before. "You will get it done by the time I'm back, won't you?"

"Yes love."

"Because I want to get the rubbish cleared and the packing boxes off to the dump before the party tomorrow."

"I know love."

"I'm not fussing," she said, putting her hands on her hips and watching him sit back down on the step.

"I didn't say you were," he replied, tired.

"You did with your eyes," she muttered and looked back up at the branch. "One storm and that'll go through the conservatory roof. The old owners were lazy buggers, look at the state of this garden! After the housewarming is out of the way, we'll cut it all back and start it from scratch."

"I think there's an old patio under here," he said, scuffing a hole in the deep pile of autumn debris at his feet.

"That can come up too. I want decking. And a pond. And for that horrible tree to go," she pointed up at it.

He didn't look up. "I know love. You get on now, we're almost out of milk. And can you get me some of those jammy doughnuts?"

"Mmm. Don't sit on that step too long. It's cold, it'll give you piles."

She left him to his tea and eye-rolling. The cold stone was making his buttocks numb. He found himself thinking of all the jobs he could be doing in the house, or in the new garage, before a gust of wind made the tree creak and bow towards him. The low hanging branch his wife had heard in the night, knocked on the conservatory roof as if asking for permission to come in.

He shuddered and downed the last of the tea. "Come on lazy," he said to himself and went to the shed, leaving the mug on the step next to the fading patch of warmth left by his backside.

He found the chainsaw easily enough, thanks to his meticulously labelled boxes. Maggie had moaned that if he paid as much attention to packing the rest of the house as he had the garage and shed, the move would have been a lot less stressful. What she didn't understand was that all of the things in these boxes were critical for getting the new house sorted out. And that he didn't give a rat's arse about the rest of it. Maybe if they'd been able to have children, she'd have had less of an urge to fill their house with ornaments and sentimentality.

He noticed that some of the roofing felt had come loose and dug out a hammer and tacks to repair it. Then it seemed important to screw his tool organiser onto the shed's wall and get all of those unpacked and organised properly too. It wasn't until he heard the tree's creak again that he remembered the branch.

He found the chain-link gloves, wrestled the ladder out of the garage ready for when he'd need it and set up the extension lead, running it through a window in the conservatory.

All the while, he didn't look at the tree, though he could feel it looming over him and the small garden. He retrieved some rope from the shed, thinking that he'd tie the branch back to pull it away from the conservatory, and then shimmy up the ladder to chop that branch off near the trunk. It was heavy enough to smash the roof if he didn't take that precaution first.

Rope coiled in his hands, he had to force himself to look back up at the branch. The moaning, groaning wood swayed above him. He thought of this tree, standing for hundreds of years and he, some insignificant gnat of a man, about to mutilate it.

And he was a gnat. Couldn't even father a child when thousands of idiots did it every day. Couldn't keep a job, couldn't make real friends, couldn't even talk to his wife.

Couldn't even love her.

He tossed the rope over the branch and held onto both ends, letting them and the branch take his weight.

The new house would make no difference. It would give Maggie somewhere to redecorate, something new to fill the hole in their lives. They were only having the housewarming so she could show her friends how awful the house was. Then she'd have a big reveal six months on, and they'd all gasp at how she'd transformed it. Two years from now they'd be in another neglected house, profits in the bank, more photo albums of the latest amazing refurbishment instead of tiny feet and babies on play mats.

It was all so futile.

He took one end of the rope, looped it without even thinking why, listening to the mournful creaking of the tree. It would be so easy to end it now.

"Malcolm, I'm home!"

He released the rope and leapt back, as if it had just turned into a snake. A horrid cold sweat ran down the back of his collar as Maggie opened the back door.

"Oh bloody hell Malcolm, I ask you to do one thing!"

"It's the chainsaw," he lied. "Needs a new part. I'll sort it out next week love, alright?"

Muttering, she withdrew into the house and he pulled the rope from the branch. The last owners hadn't been lazy, he realised. They'd just listened to the tree.

—-

P.S. If you enjoyed this, you'll love From Dark Places.

Renegade A to Z: K is for Kindle

In the true spirit of being a renegade, I'm tackling my renegade A to Z challenge when it suits me. No, I'm not fooling anyone, I'm failing to keep to a post a day at the moment as life is frantically busy, so I'm getting to the letters as and when I can. Whilst the lovely Joely is on R (that makes me blush with shame) I am only arriving at K, which seems like a good opportunity to talk about something that has been on my mind about Kindles, and then something that will help all you Kindle authors out there…

Sony vs Kindle cagematch?

A while ago I posted about my life with a Sony e-reader and later answered questions sent in about my experience with it. Since writing those, I've had the chance to play with a Kindle, and I have to admit, it does give a superior reading experience.

I don't regret buying a Sony Touch for an instant, as it has functionality I have come to depend upon as an audio book narrator, namely that of being about to add notes written with the stylus, appended to a highlighted section of text. That may not sound that sexy, but when you're editing audio and need to re-record a line, the ability to make a note of the timestamp and audio file, then call up the list of notes and read them easily in one go is just fantastic.

However, if I had bought it just for reading e-books, I would have regretted it. There is an issue with glare, which thankfully isn't a problem with the way my recording booth is set up, but it has held back my adoption of e-books for pleasure, I must admit. What's so impressive about the Kindle is that it is entirely without glare, and much lighter too. One day, when I actually have some disposable income (laughs bitterly) I might well get one. But right now I can't justify a non tax-deducatible extravagance.

And while we're talking about Kindles…

.. I want to have a ramble about kindle books, if I may? Selling them specifically. 20 Years Later is already out as an ebook, in Kindle format amongst others, and From Dark Places is out for the Kindle too. What I'm struggling with is a way to let people know about them without being hugely irritating.

This is something I've wrestled with before, as I have a fear of self-promotion as it is, and have seen too many other authors turn into ugly creatures who do nothing but tweet links to their books. But I'm aware that I'm cowering at the other extreme end of the spectrum, and struggling to tweet about them at all.

Sigh.

But there is hope!

One thing I did learn about this week (several years after all the other savvy authors it seems) is tagging. This lit up a bulb in the brain for me as I've been an SEO copywriter for years in my other incarnation as someone who writes to pay the bills (I promise I don't do anything evil), and it makes a lot of sense to me to associate keyword phrases with a book to help people find it. What I didn't realise is that Amazon makes it very easy to tag books, and therefore easier for people to find it. So, of course, I went and tagged my two books that are up there straight away.

How do I tag a book?

It's easy to miss the tags section of the page, but if you tap your 't' key twice quickly when you're on a book's page, a little box comes up into which you can type your tags all in one go – but they need to be comma separated. Tagging with the author name also helps when people are looking for books by an author they have just recently discovered and want to find other books by them.

Can I have some examples please?

Why, of course, and I'll be cheeky and tell you what I tagged my books with!

20 Years Later is tagged as: ej newman, emma newman, post-apocalyptic, post-apocalyptic fiction, post-apocalyptic ya book, science fiction, speculative fiction, ya dystopian, ya science fiction

From Dark Places is tagged as: short story anthology, short stories, dark fantasy, speculative fiction, urban fantasy, ej newman, emma newman, short story collection

The more people that tag them, the higher in the searches on those particular tags the books should rise (according to some websites I read yesterday anyway). So, if you could go to my book pages and tag them too, that would be fantastic. More than fantastic, it would help reinforce my faith in humanity. And if you do that for all your favourite authors and books (you might need a cup of tea to hand) that would help them too.

Here are the links:

From Dark Places in paperback   UK US

From Dark Places Kindle edition  UK US

20 Years Later hardback (released on July 5th) UK US

20 Years Later Kindle edition UK US

And if you want to buy one whilst you're there I won't mind at all

Can I help your books too?

If you have a book on Amazon, let me help you do the same by leaving…

its name
its amazon link(s) *warning* Apparently my spam filter won't like that, so maybe only put in the bit after the .co.uk / .com bit and we'll see if that works.
(and a little blurb too if you like so we can all see if we'd like to read it too)
tags you'd like added to it

…in the comments below, then I will go and add those tags to your books. And if we all do this for each other, wonderful things might happen, like baby unicorns being born, or sunshine returning to the UK. Maybe I'm being a bit silly there, but hell, we're all trying our best to make a living from writing things that people enjoy, and if I can play a part in helping that come true for you too, it would be my pleasure.

Renegade A to Z – J is for…

Joely Black

… Joely Black, author of the Amnar series, and the person who inspired me to start podcasting 20 Years Later all that time ago. Joely was one of the first people who I really conversed with on Twitter, and has been a source of inspiration to me as a writer who just gets on with writing and putting it out there, which is ultimately what we authors have to do.

I asked Joely some questions so you can get to know her too. If you're on Twitter, go and find her (she's called @TheCharmQuark) and you can find her blog on her site here.

Why do you write?

Joely: It's never really occurred to me not to write, to be honest. I've met a lot of people who'll say "I've always wanted to be a writer" and I wonder what stops them actually writing. I began when I was very young, like you did (I have the same story of being very young and putting together books for relatives), and I see it as being a bit like breathing. There's stuff in my head to be written, so I write it.

What do you love most about writing?

Joely: I enjoy being with the people, watching their stories play out. I do get a massive thrill out of getting through some scenes, especially if I've been planning them for ages, or something big and dramatic happens. Then there's the joy of being able to create a whole world, and when you get a piece that fits perfectly, and ties everything together.

What do you hate most about writing?

Joely: The worst bit for me has been the conversations, when you're introduced to somebody by a friend as a writer and they say "Are you published?" and when I have to say that I'm not, they give me that "You're not for real" look. It's been hard struggling against the feeling that I'm getting nowhere with something that is very precious to me, and wondering if I'm insane for doing it.

Amnar: The Inheritor

Can you give an introduction to Amnar for people new to it?

Joely: Amnar is a huge fictional world, not earth but very much like it, in the sense that the people struggle with the same personal issues that we do. It's a civilisation dealing with a massive problem: it's peaceful, and now it has a despotic dictator destroying one of its biggest states, and doesn't know how to handle it.

There's a mixture of personal and political, private and public drama. There are a lot of people's stories in there. I think of it as being a cross between the complexity of China Mieville, the spirituality and theories of consciousness of Philip Pullman and the sociological perspectives of Ursula le Guin. I guess in terms of the way the civilisation is structured, people should expect something a bit like a fantasy version of Iain M Banks' Culture novels.

What first inspired you to start writing Amnar?

Joely: About 13 years ago now, I was completing my undergraduate dissertation, and a set of different stories about various worlds coalesced into one, centered around the character Io. She was always a young woman, androgynous, and feeling that she didn't particularly fit in anywhere. I wrote the first version of the story back then, and then began really developing the world. Since then, it's really been the only thing that I've felt inspired to write. It feels as though I was given it and told "This is what you work on now."

Can you tell me about your experiences with self-publishing?

Joely: It's been a weird ride. I assumed (as I've said elsewhere), that no publisher would be interested in Amnar. I break a lot of rules, and it doesn't seem to be an easy sale (female lead, fantasy without a lot of the "traditional" fantasy elements). So I put it up on a blog and just said "Here it is." I thought all my readers would say "This is rubbish, go back to academia." But they didn't. Eventually, it reached a point where people were asking for the stories as books, so I decided to put them out there.

I'd grown up with this dream of being a published author and put it to death, as much as I could, because it just looked impossible. I still don't know if I'll get anywhere with it, to be honest. I have a core of people who follow the stories on my websites and will get whatever I put out straight away, but it isn't easy taking this route. I still feel like I'm a bit of a fraud for even calling myself a writer at this stage but for those people who like Amnar, I just keep putting it out there.

What are your future plans regarding Amnar?

Joely: I have given up on making plans at this point. I used to make plans and then life would come along and laugh at me for it. Right now, I'm just writing and writing, because that's what I love doing most, and when I've got a book ready, I put it out there. The thing about Amnar is that it's a huge world, built on the ruins of an even older civilisation. The complexity and depth mean that I could probably keep producing new material based there for the rest of my life.

What is your dream as a writer?

Joely: I've always wanted to be a published author, and support myself from my writing. Amnar has potential as a game or movie, but for me, it's still about the books at the core.

Which writer do you admire the most and why?

Joely: There are so many, it's difficult to pick one. I grew up reading a lot of Eastern European and Russian literature, and Emile Zola, writers who went for really challenging, dangerous subjects and ideas. At the moment, I'm fascinated by Yevgeny Zamyatin. He lived through the Communist revolution in Russia, was a dedicated supporter who used his writing skills to express his doubts about the system in "We", but his book was banned. It was written back in 1929 It took until 1989 for it to gain any real recognition in his homeland. It's a weird read – Zamyatin is as synaesthetic as I am but uses it in his writing that I'd never dare. The result is an almost hallucinogenic experience, and the ending is devastating. It must have taken incredible courage – beyond that of commentators who wrote from the safety of a democratic state about Communism – to write and publish a book with such a critique of a system he had once so wholeheartedly supported.

If you could be a character in any novel, who would it be and why?

Joely: When I was younger, I really wanted to live in Ursula le Guin's archipelago. I still would. I'm not sure who I'd be (I did love Ged), but that's where I'd be if I couldn't actually go and live in Amnar itself.

Thanks Joely!

Renegade A to Z – I is for Ink (Friday Flash)

Ink

He insisted the barman open the coke bottle in front of him and watched the dark liquid being poured. After refusing the offered ice, Lewis took the glass, already sweating as much as he in the oppressive heat, and sat at a table. The gentle whirring of the overhead fan simply disturbed the soupy air rather than cooling anything, and the chair creaked as he sat in it.

Setting the glass down on the rickety table, Lewis sat back and reflected upon how much he hated Africa. Every mote within it irritated him. The millions of insects all wanting his blood, the millions of natives all wanting his blood, the dirty water and dirty money, all of it made his temples throb. He glanced at his Rolex, the senator was late but that was no surprise.

The hotel bar was an ironic homage to colonialism and he was the only patron, having arranged to meet outside of normal opening hours. The barman was either one of the Senator's stooges or a spy from the local aspiring warlord but he couldn't bring himself to care. In twenty-four hours the ink would be drying and he'd be on a plane to Miami and swimming pools and prostitutes.

Africa may be hellish, but life was good.

"My friend," the deep voice swaggered ahead of the senator, fat in his gaudy clothes, white teeth shining like a string of pearls caught between his lips. His sullen son followed him in.

Lewis stood and clasped hands with the Senator and they sat, the fat man's chair creaking even more than his. The son lurked nearby, eyes on the door. His Saville Row jacket was open and Lewis caught a glimpse of the holstered gun. He took a sip of the coke, his heart barely reaching a gentle canter.

"I have considered your offer," the senator drawled, his tongue wrapping around the syllables as if they were toffees. "I am satisfied with your terms and am pleased you came to see my point of view."

Lewis painted on a smile. "Senator, I'm a reasonable man, and I have the utmost respect for a political leader with only the best interests of his people at his heart." He'd also started the negotiations high so he'd look like he'd conceded to the man's demands. He hadn't even lowered as much as he'd thought he'd have to.

The senator grunted, nodding as his drink was brought to him. "The mine will bring many jobs to the region and prosperity to all."

All of your family and friends, Lewis thought but locked it firmly behind his teeth. "Then I'll draw up the contract tonight and we'll conclude our business here tomorrow morning, if that's agreeable to you?"

"Yes, yes," the senator grinned. "Tomorrow morning, you come here with the paperwork and the…"

Fat bribe…

"… administrative fee, and all will be set into motion."

"Pleasure doing business with you Senator." He stood again, extended his hand. A glance at the son told him the promise of the administrative fee wasn't enough.

"But tell me, my friend," the senator said, still clasping his hand and pumping it up and down cheerfully. "What makes you think this valley holds these minerals? The Shell and BP men, they spat on our ground a long time ago, said it was worthless."

Lewis smirked. "They just didn't know where to look. You've seen my portfolio Senator, you know I'm never wrong about these things."

"Let's hope your good luck holds for us then," the senator beamed, no doubt thinking of the twenty percent he'd cream off the open cast mining profits for the rest of his days.

Lewis gave a hollow laugh. "Luck has nothing to do with it."

***

The air in his office was just as thick when Lewis got back, he was already sick of the sight of it. The cabin overlooked the valley, close enough to the town to be safe, private enough for his purposes. He flicked on the light once the door was secured behind him and approached the desk as he tossed his jacket over one of the tatty chairs. The red slick stopped him.

He stared at the pool of red spread over the paperwork. For a sharp, needle-prick moment he thought it was blood, but then he saw the pot of ink on its side, the glass stopper smashed where it had fallen. His heart had climbed to a gentle thrum, he released the tight breath he had sucked in and went over to inspect the damage.

None of the soiled papers were important, everything of even minor sensitivity was on the Blackberry in his pocket. He glanced around the room, noting that one of the drawers was slightly open, and the window's clasp was undone, even though he'd locked it before he left.

Lewis pulled the gun from his own holster, flicked the safety off and lay it on the desk, thinking of the Senator's son. The ink had been recently spilt, it had happened whilst he'd been at the hotel bar. Only the Senator knew of the arrangement, and his son only needed a mobile phone and a grudge against the white exploiter to arrange the break in. He sniggered. Had his lackey spilt the ink to frighten him?

Nothing frightened him anymore.

He opened the desk drawer, took out the shaving mirror and razor blade and rolled his sleeve back. It only took one drop of blood on the glass to bring the darkness into the room; his master had been watching.

"The contract will be signed tomorrow," he reported, and the mirror's glass rippled in response, peeling back to show the valley in a year and a day, stripped of its trees, the river running black and orange, the smoke clinging to its slopes with a sulphurous tang.

Lewis smiled, enjoying the cut finger's throb and the thrilling staccato of his heart. He hated Africa, but he loved his job.

Renegade A to Z – F to H!

I groaned when I realised how far behind I am in the Renegade A to Z challenge. Ooops… the London launch took over my life for a few days and then I had to catch up on all my work and then the dog ate my computer… or something like that.

So, I'm going to catch up over the next couple of days, rather than letting this go altogether. Where was I up to? E – yes, I remember, I was telling you all about the e-book release of 20 Years Later, eMergent Publishing and the amazing Elbow.

F is for From Dark Places

Of course! The book launch tour is going well, last week was Shepton Mallet and London, both were fantastic. I need to get hold of some pictures actually… Signed copies are available here by the way, as are VAT free e-book versions. The last two launch events are in Bristol on the 21st of May and in Oxford on the 25th of May – do come if you can!

Oh, it's also for Frome Festival, and I'll be participating in two events. One is on Sunday 10th of July, in which I'll be giving a talk on writing for the YA audience and building a presence online (tickets go on sale on the 22nd, I'll keep you posted) and the other is an event being run by Hunting Raven Books – more on them later – called Teatime Treats in which children can meet local authors.

G is for Goodreads.

Oh, how I love thee! In case you don't know about it, Goodreads is a social networking site for book lovers. It is addictive. I love it for several reasons; the sheer voyeuristic pleasure of seeing what your friends are reading, discovering books that you're likely to enjoy too in the process and seeing lots of book covers at a glance in the updates – I have a much better sense of genre cover clichés and trends. It's a great place to express my love for my favourite books and help fellow authors promote their titles, and as an author, seeing 20 Years Later and From Dark Places appear on people's Goodreads shelves makes me very, very happy. Come and find me over there, so we can be bookish together.

H is for Hunting Raven Books…

… an indy book shop in Frome, Somerset. I went to see them today for a photo shoot to promote the Tea Time Treats event, and they were all lovely. I love indy bookshops. They have such soul. I want to live in one. Or be a writer in residence, with a little table in the corner. How lovely.

Do you have any indy bookshops near you? Why not give them a shout out in the comments below and spread the love?

Renegade A to Z – E is for…

… the e-book release of 20 Years Later!

If you can't wait for the hardback (released in July) then you can go and download the book right now from wherever you usually buy your e-books. The most recent list of distributors I have from my publisher is here:

•    Barnes & Noble (the Nook)

•    Kobo

•    Amazon UK Kindle store and US Kindle store

I talked about the lovely things you can do to help 20 Years Later take off yesterday, so I think it would be overkill to do it again!

So, I will move swiftly onto another e for…

eMergent Publishing, my other publisher (it sounds decadent to say that), who transformed my tiny self-published e-book From Dark Places into a shining, beefy anthology in print and e-formats that I am proud of. There, I said it.

I would link to eMergent's site, but it's being redesigned and Jodi (co-founder and editor of From Dark Places) hates the current site! Instead I'll point you towards Write Anything, a website that eMergent runs which is all about writing and is ace.

There's a blurb all about eMergent in the From Dark Places press pack which sums up the ethos of the company very nicely:

eMergent Publishing is a partnership founded in 2009 by Scottish writer, Paul Anderson and Australian writer, Jodi Cleghorn.

eMergent is a unique venture; an indie publisher run by writers for the benefit of writers, founded on the business ethos that writers always come first. That is why eMergent insists on higher royalty shares for all their writers.

eMergent supports new and emerging writers from across the English-speaking world, providing grassroots editorial assistance and publishing opportunities from new writing talent via innovative anthologies like Chinese Whisperings. The Write Anything website functions as a community and information hub for writers.

You can download the whole press pack here by the way ;o)

And my last e is for…

Elbow - as in the band. A friend put me on to them years and years ago, when he made a CD of different tracks he thought I might like. Scattered Black and Whites was the track (oh! so, so beautiful), I went and bought the album, their first one called Asleep in the Back.

Now, several albums later, they are one of my favourite bands – actually, they might be my favourite (I always have a tussle between them and Radiohead when I say things like that) as every single album is simply magnificent.

The trick to discovering Elbow, if you haven't already, is to buy their albums rather than individual songs, as they are so immersive, and to listen to the album three times (at least) before deciding whether you like it. The music is so deep and rich it's impossible to fully appreciate the first or second times.

Lyrically, their songs are beautiful, poignant, funny, devastating and often make me weep, even after listening to a song hundreds of times. I have never heard a band capture so many emotions, so perfectly.

Of course, that's just my opinion. Elbow, I love your music, thank you for feeding my soul for so many years.

Renegade A to Z – D is for…

… Dystopia Press, the wonderful publisher who took a chance on my debut novel and made 20 Years Later their inaugural book.

It's a small press, and I have enjoyed all of their attention as my debut book is also theirs, a bit like being an only child I suppose. I'm in regular contact with Mark, the owner, and I like this close collaboration. I've never experienced being published by one of the 'big 6′ so I have nothing to compare it to, but I feel very looked after.

Being a small independent press (i.e. not owned as a subsidiary imprint of one of the big 6) we are entirely dependent on people talking about 20 Years Later and spreading the word. That's where you guys come in. If you buy it, read it, love it and recommend it to others, you're not only helping my dream to come true, but also Mark's.

The e-book version goes on sale tomorrow, and will be available from all of the places you normally buy your e-books. If you can't wait for the hardback (released July 5th) or prefer e-readers now anyway, then that's the one for you.

Let's imagine that you buy 20 Years Later and love it. I mean, really love it, and want to read more. Here's some of the lovely things you could do to support our dream:

Become a fan on Facebook (so your friends on there might see it too)

Add it to your Goodreads Shelf

Add it to your LibraryThing Shelf

Write a review and post it on your blog, and also on Amazon, Goodreads, LibraryThing etc.

Buy it as a present for others

Choose it for your bookclub (and let me know so we can arrange a Q and A session by phone or skype with your group)

Tell your friends, be they on Twitter, Facebook or the local pub

I don't usually ask for help as explicitly as this. I'm being extra brave, because I have worked so hard, for so long to reach this point, and 20 Years Later means such a lot to me.

But I think that's enough for now. Time for another D which is for:

Dark Fiction Magazine

This is a monthly podcast magazine, specialising in short stories in the horror, fantasy and general speculative fiction genres.

And it rocks.

I may be slightly biased, as they recently asked me to read for them again and that story went live today. It's called Paying For Rain by Jaine Fenn and I really enjoyed it – you can listen to it here, and the rest of this month's stories can be found here.

You can also find The Devil in Chains on the Dark Fiction Magazine site too – that's a steampunk novella by the lovely Adam Christopher in five episodes (that was narrated by me too).

So, two lovely Ds for your reading and listening pleasure. It's the Shepton Mallet book launch party tomorrow too, so I am going to go and try to relax before my sleepless night.