David Rory O'Neill's Blog, page 9

What does it take to find success as a novelist?

First we need define what is meant by ‘success’. I think we can say there are two measures. One do with the quality of the work and the other more quantitative measure – sales.

I have been reasonably satisfied with the quality of my work. They have been well received by readers and well reviewed.  I have an editor I trust and who has improved my early work hugely. She says I am a ‘consummate storyteller’ and I’d agree, I am. That aspect of my work is easy. I do struggle with the pull to conform to genre limitations and commercial viability. I have leaned towards keeping my original voice, which is not mainstream as it does challenge and take readers on journeys into exotic worlds. Most have said they enjoyed the trip and they come back for more – so the quality is there.

Now we come to quantity – sales and branding. This is an area I am weak and I know it.

Because I’ve been concentrating on the writing for five years during which I’ve completed twelve novels, I’ve found the progress slow and painful when it comes to selling the resulting work.

I am aware I needed to learn and not make mistakes that would damage my prospects so I’ve been careful and have not gone for the hard sell or used all the social-media as fully as I could. I dipped a toe in twitter and withdrew confused and bewildered. But now I’m back.

I have film being professionally edited that will push the individual novels in short films and readings and two or three longer films about myself and the locations featured in the novels.

In stages over the next six months I will begin to put into practice what I’ve learned from those who have made a success of social media selling.

It remains to be seen how successful this will be but I do know one thing. I absolutely know the one thing I and any other writer needs.  I now offer that as my one piece of sage advice to anyone wishing to follow this hard writers path: determination, dogged never-say-die persistence.

My beloved B calls it my ‘terrier mode.’ Once I get my teeth in a thing I never quit.

terrier mode

I’m not sure one can learn such a thing but I can say you must try. Never stop believing in your self and never give up. Keep learning and keep trying.

Bookshops.

I recently posted a lament about the lack of get up-and-go in trad bookshops.  I’m glad to say there are imaginative and brave people out there with a love of books and indi books in particular. On the 5th of May a new enterprised started in the historic centre of Lincoln.

BookStop Café serves coffee, great homemade cakes and books! Both for sale and to sit and read over your coffee and cakes. Now that is my kind of bun-worry!

Needless to say my works is for sale there.

I wish Joff and Becky the very best of luck with this great enterprise.

Bookstop Café opening.

Tempter?

Love the waistcoat!

Cover re-designs.

I have re-designed the covers for Surviving Beauty and Beauty’s Price.

Feed back appreciated, thanks.

New Surviving Beauty

New Beauty’s Price.

Blue Sky Orphan New Cover.

The last of the trilogy now updated with new look.

A preview of work in progress

Beloved Warrior. Cover.

A preview of the work in progress, the next in the Historical Trilogy: Beloved Warrior.

This begins in 1913 and follows the life of Winny Goddard, Pat’s sister from Prairie Companions and Dan Dawes, Daniel Dawes’ grandfather from the Daniel series.

The novel begins as the first world war is about to engulf the lives of Winny and Dan.  Here is the romance of Chapter 2 and a little of the horror from Chapter 3.

I would hope to have this published by September this year.

From Chapter 2.

Winifred Goddard was only known as Winny by friends and family so when she heard, “Winny,” called as she was teeing up on the fourteenth hole at Christchurch golf club, she thought it was someone familiar. She was therefore surprised to see a young man she didn’t know striding towards her waving. He wore army uniform and was obviously an officer, given his gleaming brown knee high riding boots and Sam-brown belt. As he drew close he reached into his pocket and produced a gold cardholder. He handed her a card and waited while she read it. “ Lieutenant Lord J. D. R. Stapleton-Breton. 9th (Queen’s Royal) Lancers. Tidworth and Radley Hall, Dorset.”

Winny looked at the young man bemused and asked, “J stands for?”

“Oh sorry James, at your service Miss Goddard.”

“I see and how am I to address you since I’m at a loss to know what is proper when addressing a peer one does not know who accosts one on the fourteenth?”

The young man had removed his cap and now blushed a little. Winny decided she liked that, not arrogant and pushy. He looked very young for such a grand title she thought. Perhaps twenty-one. Certainly a little less than her own twenty-three years.

“I’m dreadfully sorry to be so bold Miss Goddard. I was encouraged to call upon you by my aunt. You may know her better as Maude Fitz-Gibbon, Clara’s Mama. Thing is, I am in need of a lady to accompany me to a rather grand regimental do and dear Aunt Maude suggest I call upon you. I did try your home and was sent here by your sister Mary. Please forgive me. May I wait in the clubhouse until you have finished your game?”

Winny giggled a little and said, “You may wait but it will be a long wait. I take it you do not play and you’ve not told me how I should address you?”

“Oh dear what a clot, call me James please. No I’ve not tried the golf. Is there a problem?”

“Only that I may not enter the club house. Rather stuffy rules. Ladies may be secondary members and play the game but we may not enter the clubhouse. My sister Pat once stormed in there and nearly caused apoplexy among the old duffers at the bar. Only the fact that Father is the club secretary, saved her from being banned.”

James put his hand over his mouth to hide his laugh and once again Winny was struck by his manner. An odd mixture of upper class assurance and boyish shyness. He looked at her directly then and his eyes shone with humour and openness that made Winny smile too. “I’ve had reports about the redoubtable Patricia’s boldness in letters from cousin Clara.”

“Really. Clara is in touch then? I rather thought she was under a bit of a cloud in her family. For her and Pat’s bold endeavour in the wilderness you know.”

“Oh yes she writes to Mama and I, once a month or so. There was a good deal of tutting and stuff when she and Pat left for Canada. But well, Aunt Maude and my Mama are, well, lets say a little unconventional and are rather independent sorts. Baroness Maude was always known as bit of rebel in the family.”

“Baroness? Goodness gracious I’d no idea the family were titled?”

“Oh. The Fitz-Gibbons are not titled. The title is an old French/Irish thing that runs in the female line. Baroness Maude Fitz-Gerald of New Grange. Cousin Clara will inherit the title and estates when her Mama passes.”

“Oh indeed. What a surprise. Pat has never mentioned this.”

“I doubt if she knows. I’m not even sure if Clara does. Oh dear, I do seem to being rather indiscreet. Please forgive me. Perhaps I could walk with you and carry your em, container, implements bag?”

Again Winny was struck by his boyish otherworldly manner that seemed at odds with his commanding appearance and voice. He grinned at her and blushed only a little. “That would be grand. You may indeed carry my clubs. But you must promise not to distract me as I address the ball. I’m on the way to improving my handicap and have a par so far. Might I ask why me instead of one of the young ladies of your own set?”

James picked up her bag, put his cap back on and tittered again. Winny was finding his readiness to laugh most appealing. “Well, I am rather shy and find my set, as you call them, rather demanding. I don’t know many young ladies and those I do, are shallow bores of the first order.”

“Oh I see. What makes you think I won’t be?”

“Gosh! You are out here whacking the ball around on your own and doing well too if I understand the meaning of par. Hardly boring what? I say, have I been too awfully impertinent in approaching you like this without a formal introduction?”

Winny paused as she was about to address the tee and looked once more at the young man standing a few yards away. He looked rather dishy she thought, once one got past the boyish thing. His voice was deep and steady and not excessively brittle and clipped as many of his class were. He seemed to be amused and smiling always and his deep blue eyes sparkled with what Winny thought of as mischief. “No James, I don’t think you impertinent. And yes I would be glad to accompany you to your regimental, what ever it is. Now let’s have a little hush.”

James stepped back and watched as Winny set herself for the strike. He looked carefully at her and thought she looked very little like the picture he’d seen of her elder sister Pat. Patricia looked rather pugnacious and bit too formidable. Winny was much prettier and had a little more height. Her hair was dark fair and tied behind in a loose bun. Her complexion was pale and her face round and girlish with pale blue eyes. Her lips seemed plump and she smiled often and without strain or false restraint. He liked that and he liked the fact she had met his gaze and had not been silly or bashful. He was a little taken aback by her forthright ways and apparent lack of what he thought of as feminine manners. He’d never been spoken too by a girl in this way. Not that he had much experience, mostly cousins and formidable ladies like Aunt Maude.

Winny smiled at him once more then swung at her ball. James could not contain an expression of surprise as her uninhibited athleticism send the ball soaring with a loud whoosh and thwack: “Oh I say, what a jolly good whack you fetched that.” He instantly blushed again and felt stupid for his schoolboy enthusiasm and language. Winny waited until she’d seen the balls fall then looked at him and gave him a smile that engulfed his embarrassment and left him surging with feeling that was both thrilling and unfamiliar. They set off and once again he smiled as he found he was having to stride out to keep pace with her. He regretted wearing his uniform. The britches were too tight and the boots stiff and new. He noticed one of his cavalryman’s spurs was a little lose and clicked as he walked. He saw Winny glance down at his boots as she sought the source of the clinking. She stopped, bent behind him and made some adjustment. “Your officers servant needs a rocket for that sloppy fitting,” she said as she rose and strode on.

James once again looked fondly at her. Oh golly, I do like this girl. I do hope she doesn’t think me too young and foolish. He had to trot to catch up and when he did he asked, “How do you know about spurs and such, may I ask?”

“My brother Buller is accepted for the Irish Guards. He is up at Cambridge just now but is in the university officer cadets. He is a duffer and always needs help with his kit. Step back now unless you want to risk a painful thwack,” said Winny taking an iron from the bag.

From Chapter 3.

As the order was given to go over the top, Dan tried to swallow but found he couldn’t. His throat rasped dry and he wanted to take a drink but knew he couldn’t. As his head rose above the parapet and he could see what lay ahead for the first time, it seemed less fearful than he imagined. Because of the way the first wave had attacked, the wire before them was not littered with the dead and dying as it was before British lines almost everywhere else on the Western Front on the 1st of July 1916. Dan followed Billy through the gap in their wire marked with a white tape. Once through the men spread out in long lines and walked and trotted forward. There was very little noise, just the sound of shells whistling overhead and the distant chatter of the machine guns. Dan looked to his left and in the distance he could see a sight that made him look away but his eyes were drawn back. The division on their flank where laid out in neat lines before their own wire. Like scythed wheat they lay where they had been harvested by the machine guns. Many had reached the German wire, which was not cut. Hundreds of men now lay upon it. Some still moved and writhed. Some bodies were being turned to blood mist by machine guns nearby firing through and past them. Men crawled like slugs in all directions, into holes, back to where they came or forward towards the wire and their pals, stuck like awful blackberries on a bramble of death.

Dan took all this in moments and then shuddered and looked forward again. He must not see that. He must not think about that but must put one foot before the other and go on. He glanced across at Billy who winked at him and gave a big smile. They where half way across when Dan became aware of a sound that was new. Close by the chat-chat-chat of machine guns came to him. Dan turned to the source of the sound, off to his right. Not in front but to the side. That puzzled him for a moment until he realised they had past through the ruined German front line and were now well forward. He looked along the line of men to his right and suddenly knew what was happening. He threw himself sideways and knocked Billy to the ground. They tumbled into a shallow shell hole. As he’d done this, Dan had seen the men to his right, all the men to his right, begin to fall. In neat rows they went down. The perfect machine gun targets are lines of men, not from the front but from the side. They literally cannot miss when firing from the side or at an oblique angle. German guns had been repositioned when they saw the second wave of Ulstermen moving into the salient made by their comrades. They knew they would take revenge for the loss of their palls taken by the Ulster’s first rush. The machine gun crews knew very well the Ulster’s were a perfect crop for the bloody harvest.

Dan rolled off Billy and they lay on their backs gasping for breath. Made breathless not by exertion but by terror. Above them, a dreadful sound stung them to stark dumb stillness. It sounded like a million angry wasps buzzing and whistling. Machine gun bullets tore the air a foot above their heads. They could feel their passing like a hot stinging wind on their faces and they knew absolutely that if they moved they would be tattered in that tempest of metal. Above the high pitched shriek of the bullets they heard the results that hail was having on their palls. Howling and screaming all around. Cursing and moans close by. One voice called for his mother, another for a stretcher-bearer. Then a man rolled over the edge of their hole and tumbled across their legs. He lay on his belly, still but groaning softly. His legs were a bloody pulp. They could see the bones of his lower legs where the flesh had been ripped away. Blood pulsed steady so they knew he would bleed to death soon. They knew there was nothing they could do. If either sat up to try to help, their heads would come above the crater edge and death waited there. They knew who lay on them with his life ebbing away. It was Sergeant Murray. Their Sarge. He turned his head and looked at them. His face was grey and pale. “I’m done fer lads. Keep yer heeds doon now and when I’m gone jes kick me aff ye. When night comes, get me paybook and tags and letters and crawl back te our lines. God keep ye me brave boys.”

Sergeant Murray turned his head away and a few moments later they heard a long sigh and a murmuring cough. The blood stopped pulsing over their thighs. Dan looked at Billy and he nodded. They each wriggled one leg free and, as gently as possible, pushed and rolled the body off their legs. They closed their eyes and tried to disappear. Not to sleep but into an exhausted weariness that enveloped them and dulled awareness so they could go on. Just go on breathing and not scream or leap up and run. They willingly sank into its soft deadening embrace.

Nostalgia and inspiration.

I have been busy with the visual magicians Paul and Ria of Creative Flux Media, shooting film on the books and places that inspired me or are locations in them.  The last scene we shot was in Bangor, County Down. (The location of Lauren’s upbringing featured in the Daniel Series.) It’s a very important place for me. I spent many happy hours there as a child. The joy of rock pooling and the freedom I enjoyed there was fundamental to the formation of my belief system.

Pickie as it was in the books.

The seeds planted in the boy’s imagination as he peered into the mini-cosmos of rock pools, would germinate in later life into unshakeable certainties about the natural order of life. Certainties that excluded the mysticism of religious explanations and the dogmas that so disfigure Ireland to this day.

The images of the Pickie area of Bangor are as I describe them in the books. It is not nearly so lovely now I’m afraid. The place is utterly dominated by the marina now filling the bay. An ugly ill considered piece of commercial pragmatism that destroyed the bay.

Pickie Pool

While shooting a bit with me waxing philosophical about rock pools and the role they had in my life, we gathered a small crowd of interested onlookers. After the shoot they were curious and asked questions about what we were at. It turned into a nostalgia fest as the ladies recalled the Bangor of my youth. Indeed one had recently published a book on old Bangor. I gave them a few of my cards and we parted having enjoyed a great old chin-wag. I was delighted to find a comment on my blog that night from Dolores, one of the group. It makes me feel positive about humanity when I meet delightful people such as that group of interesting and involved ladies of a certain age. I did warn them my work is a bit racy and that got a few giggles.  The contact, the nostalgia and the warmth I took from the meeting  was inspirational.

Bangor at its peak as a resort for Belfast’s workers.

The films will be book reading for each novel as sales aids. A two or three biographical documentaries dealing with the places and events that shaped my life and writing. These will be on You Tube. The edit and production is going to be lengthy and magical so I’d expect the results to be worth the wait.

A new novella.

Leotie.

I decided to publish Leotie,Flower of the Prairie as a short novella and sell it at just .99.

Smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/309878

And on Amazon for kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CIUG1IK.

It’s new kind of work for me in which I play with time to explore different cultures. Irish and Native American.

Need they die?

The bookshop

There must be a way to stop the traditional Indi bookshop fading into a fondly recalled past. Most of us who love books also love bookshops. We can fondly recall the smell and feel and hush of the ranks of familiar and yet to be discovered friends in our favourite shop.

Perhaps there was an owner whose knowledge we’d tap into. Perhaps he sold second-hand books too and took our read ones in trade – but only those that we didn’t put on our own shelves to cherish or forget for years until the house move, when the dust gets blown off and they’re opened once more to produce a sigh of remembrance and a promise to read again.

Those shops are dying all over Europe and North America and that’s made sadder because in many cases it needn’t happen. Often the reason is head-in-the sand owners trying to deny the new relaity. The refuse-nicks who shun Indi publishers and Indi writers and who recoil in horror when on-demand publishing gets mentioned or who chill when the name of the great evil devil Amazon is whispered.

There are ways for small shops to live with the new reality but it needs bravery and new ways of thinking and above all it needs a willingness to speak, to talk to people like me who want to support them and sell our books in their shops. Oh sure, some self-publishers and Indi writers have stupid ideas about margins in shops and don’t understand the need for sale or return and so on.

But I do and I have ideas that would enable a shop to sell my books at a good margin and take no risk and yet… no one will listen. All attempts to talk are rebuffed, emails ignored phone calls cut short, appointments refused.

I am close to giving up but… I love books and bookshops so I try. Is there anyone listening, anyone who will talk and solve the problems and help build a new business model that includes the small shops?

Premature Celebration.

Please forgive my indulgence but I am compelled to share my celebration of our anniversary. Both the date we met 2nd April and our wedding date 7th April.  No not that soon! A few years past between the dates. It may be corny and it may be romantic but I am proud to share my joy at finding Brigitte and my ever deepening appreciation and love for her.

The pink champers.

It is our tradition to share a bottle of Rosé champagne on this day. Our first was on our wedding day and we’ve sought out a new one to mark each year since. They are lined up on high shelf in the kitchen.

An easy aid-moiré for me, who has trouble with numbers or knowing what date it is or what year.

 

 

This year we marked out meeting date by going out for drinks and dinner at a local hostelry.

Marking our first meeting.

This picture was taken by the waitress who was a bit bemused by seeing oldies celebrating and showing their love for each other. I do like to confound peoples expectations of what male behaviour should be.  The young waitress was obviously stunned but pleased by my request and my explaining what we were celebrating. I was much more open and enthusiastic than she’d have been used to. She liked it when she got over the surprise. The aaah aint it sweet factor.

 

 

 

 

Starters and laughs.

 

Every year I cook B a special meal on the 7th.

This year it was Serrano ham and melon balls soaked in orange juice.

 

The main event.

The main was escalope of veal with sage and ham in butter. Served with wild mushrooms in a mascarpone and sherry sauce, with fondant potato’s. After was strawberries marinated in balsamic and pepper on a mascarpone pavlova.

It was wonderful. Next day we had a lazy Sunday only slightly hung over. That day was marked by Brigitte suddenly exclaiming: “Bloody fool! I got the dates wrong. I was so sure it was Saturday but today is the seventh.”

Like I said, I rarely know what date it is. I’d never have known.

The Rainbow Nation.

I am still in a whirl emotionally after our three week stay in the Western Cape. The nature was truly fabulous and was what we sought out most. That aspect of the trip was a great success. The culture of the area around Cape Town and Stellenbosch is perhaps not typical of the whole country. Stellenbosch, where we were based, is an old Dutch style settlement dominated by its university, tourism and wine estates. Its picturesque and comfortably familiar for a European visitor and that in itself was very odd. This is Africa, there are settlements all around Stellenbosch or what the locals call ‘the village,’ the houses are often pretty fortresses with electric fences and big dogs. Armed response security vans tour the middle class estates and everywhere are warning signs about the alarms. This comfortable whitewashed prettiness feels like a place under siege and that is very unsettling.

We met three types of African, Afrikaans white, English speaking white and ex-pat immigrant white. We were introduced to a few black Africans who worked for these people. Hearing them described as: ‘the garden boy’ or ‘the house girl’, even by liberal intelligent people was a shock. These ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ were my age!

Integration is a worthy aim but it’s slow and difficult and paternalism is everywhere. Not just among the white population. The upper ruling elite of wealthy black Africans are just as paternalistic and they too have alarms and live in gated and guarded communities.

The division between the striving and those at the top is stark, as in many developing countries. The white/black/coloured issue, ingrained tribalism and the legacy of the old apartheid regime complicate things here but the fact is South Africa is doing better than its neighbours. Vastly better than the totally corrupt and violent dictatorship of the former Rhodesia that became Zimbabwe.

Nelson Mandela’s influence lives in the Rainbow Nation ideal that sets South Africa apart still.

They are trying a new thing here. Its not easy and there are problems but it remains an example of how bringing a nation out of colonialism into the modern world could be done, imperfect as it is, its still better than most African nations violent attempts at the same difficult transition.

African Impressions.

A Looking hole.

 

South Africa is not all the same. The Cape is very different to the area around Jo-Burg. It’s all in the seeing I guess. Many people from our parts hated their visit to Jo-Burg, too shocking and too massive and without the compensation of wonderful scenery, cool sea breeze and Penguins and the Cape Wineries.

This watering hole in the Addo reserve is a case in point. Nothing here, right?

Well, while we cooked for an hour stood above this we saw: the dead Eland in the middle of the pool, driven there by Lions perhaps. Stuck in the mud. On it were turtles nibbling the flesh. Nearby stood a Jackal fondly wondering how he could get at all that meat. Just out of shot a hartebeest nervously came and went, staring at its dead cousin. A family of warthogs came for a drink, giddy and flighty, sensing danger.

Birds alighted and pecked at the exposed rump.  A huge and ancient tortoise, maybe ninety years old, lumbered down to drink and remained, dazed by the 40c heat.  Africa raw and hot and exciting – the place of all our births.

Wonderment.

Nellie the Elephant packed her trunk,

And said goodbye to the circus,

Off she went with a trumpety-trump,

Trump, trump, trump.

 

Elephants are such iconic creatures, we have all seen them in the circus, safari parks and on TV.

Seeing the huge heard that gave Addo Elephant Park it’s name was a shock.

Two hundred wild animals gathered in and around a watering hole, mid day, 40c, dry, hot. Watching  as we sweltered in a very puny car just thirty feet from a huge bull and his females and young was an experience that will live with me for the rest of my days.

Seriously Impressive.

.

Aah.

 

 

 

 

Majesty.

 

The king of beasts. We came upon two young male lions lying just ten feet from the edge of the track. It was early morning and they looked well fed and lazy. At four that afternoon they had moved a few yards away from the road but remained lazy and sleeping. Spectacular raw power and absolute fearlessness.

 

 

Lunch.

 

Lion lunch! The very beautiful red hartebeest gets its name from the heart shape made by its head and horns. We saw many of these roaming with the Zebra and other antelope.

Next time the people and the energy and the stark poverty.