Tracey Sinclair's Blog, page 4
June 26, 2017
Bridesmaid Blues price promotion
If you like your books on Kindle, Bridesmaid Blues is currently only 99p!
"A perfect read for fans of Bridget Jones and Lindsey Kelk" "A perfect holiday read" - https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bridesmaid-B...
"A perfect read for fans of Bridget Jones and Lindsey Kelk" "A perfect holiday read" - https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bridesmaid-B...
June 8, 2017
June 6, 2017
London strong
I wrote this on Sunday, while still in a daze at the news, but it got such a phenomenal response when I shared it on Facebook that I thought I would also share it here. While I recognise there's horror everywhere - and am certainly not hard-hearted about tragedy just because it doesn't happen on my doorstep - I lived in London for over a decade, I return there often, and it has a very special place in my heart...
So, I was in London yesterday - drinking in Borough Market, actually, only a couple of hours before the attacks, having had a day out at the Globe, so my natural horror at the event and sorrow for those affected is also tinged with a visceral relief that my friend and I weren't caught up in it.
And I remember, as I sat in the sunshine watching a throng of people just going about their weekend - having enjoyed a theatre production that took a work of England's greatest writer and made it into an inclusive, vibrant, diverse show for a modern audience - thinking just how much I loved this city, in all its busyness and bustle. I love that you can be on a bus and hear conversations in 10 different languages. I love that you can be surrounded by people who don't look, sound or dress like you. And I love that London, like Manchester before it, reacts to such horrors with kindness and defiance and a fierce determination not to let an evil few taint their cities and communities.
So I am sad that I'm reposting this, which I wrote after the Westminster attacks, but I believe it more than ever...
"And it made me think of what London is…
London is a city that is stoic in the face of disaster, but apoplectic in the face of inconvenience.
London is where we casually joke about keeping a spare pair of comfy ‘bomb shoes’ under our desk at work in case we have to walk home, but lose our minds at a five-minute delay on the Hammersmith and City line.
London is where we have no time for your ‘Not all Muslims are terrorist but all terrorists are Muslim’ bullshit because we remember the IRA and the Admiral Duncan bomber and know that extremists and evil come in all stripes. London has always survived worse.
London is where you can visit some of the world’s best galleries and museums for free, but the price of a pint afterwards might bankrupt you.
London is where it’s unacceptable to hate people because of their race, religion or sexuality, but perfectly fine to wish strangers a terrible death for walking too slowly or standing on the wrong side of the escalator.
London is where in a tragedy people will go to extraordinary measures to help those who, in ordinary circumstances, they would go to extraordinary measures to avoid speaking to or making eye contact with.
London is imperfect: inequality and unfairness is baked into its bricks. It is flawed and full and noisy and dirty and frustrating. It defies your idealisation. Romanticise it and rhapsodise about it, and the next minute you will find yourself with your head in someone’s armpit as you listen to a braying posh boy brag about his skiing holiday.
London doesn’t care if you love it, and it hardly ever loves you back. (Oh, but when it does…)
But London is all of us, London is all of ours."
So, I was in London yesterday - drinking in Borough Market, actually, only a couple of hours before the attacks, having had a day out at the Globe, so my natural horror at the event and sorrow for those affected is also tinged with a visceral relief that my friend and I weren't caught up in it.
And I remember, as I sat in the sunshine watching a throng of people just going about their weekend - having enjoyed a theatre production that took a work of England's greatest writer and made it into an inclusive, vibrant, diverse show for a modern audience - thinking just how much I loved this city, in all its busyness and bustle. I love that you can be on a bus and hear conversations in 10 different languages. I love that you can be surrounded by people who don't look, sound or dress like you. And I love that London, like Manchester before it, reacts to such horrors with kindness and defiance and a fierce determination not to let an evil few taint their cities and communities.
So I am sad that I'm reposting this, which I wrote after the Westminster attacks, but I believe it more than ever...
"And it made me think of what London is…
London is a city that is stoic in the face of disaster, but apoplectic in the face of inconvenience.
London is where we casually joke about keeping a spare pair of comfy ‘bomb shoes’ under our desk at work in case we have to walk home, but lose our minds at a five-minute delay on the Hammersmith and City line.
London is where we have no time for your ‘Not all Muslims are terrorist but all terrorists are Muslim’ bullshit because we remember the IRA and the Admiral Duncan bomber and know that extremists and evil come in all stripes. London has always survived worse.
London is where you can visit some of the world’s best galleries and museums for free, but the price of a pint afterwards might bankrupt you.
London is where it’s unacceptable to hate people because of their race, religion or sexuality, but perfectly fine to wish strangers a terrible death for walking too slowly or standing on the wrong side of the escalator.
London is where in a tragedy people will go to extraordinary measures to help those who, in ordinary circumstances, they would go to extraordinary measures to avoid speaking to or making eye contact with.
London is imperfect: inequality and unfairness is baked into its bricks. It is flawed and full and noisy and dirty and frustrating. It defies your idealisation. Romanticise it and rhapsodise about it, and the next minute you will find yourself with your head in someone’s armpit as you listen to a braying posh boy brag about his skiing holiday.
London doesn’t care if you love it, and it hardly ever loves you back. (Oh, but when it does…)
But London is all of us, London is all of ours."
May 4, 2017
Handling change
Talking about change - good and bad - and how to handle it over at Polymath Pam: https://polymathpam.wordpress.com/201...
May 3, 2017
Guest post at Emma the Little Bookworm
Is perfectionism holding back your writing? Thanks to Emma for letting me guest on her blog about how done is (almost always) better than perfect: https://emmathelittlebookworm.wordpre...
May 2, 2017
Goodreads giveaway
I'm doing a Goodreads giveaway for GB readers - so if you fancy a free copy of my funny romcom Bridesmaid Blues, you know what to do!
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...
April 18, 2017
Why a BAD review can be a GOOD thing
One of the pleasures of publishing is other people’s reactions to your writing: I don’t imagine there’s a writer out there who doesn’t love getting nice feedback. If you didn’t want readers to connect with your writing, you wouldn’t put it out there, and the validation that comes with a good review can’t be overstated. Equally, because writing feels so intimate – you’re putting a little piece of your soul up for judgement – when someone doesn’t like your book it can feel like a personal insult, and some authors can be driven to react accordingly. Here’s why that is a very, very bad idea – and why, in fact, a negative review can be a blessing in disguise.
Accept it will hurt – then get over it
I know, as an author, what it feels like to read a bad review, and I won’t lie to you, it’s never fun. You spend ages and ages – months, sometimes years – slaving away over something, you put your heart and soul into it, and then someone who probably skim read it on the tube or with one eye on whatever TV show they were watching dismisses it out of hand! How very dare they! Clearly they are imbeciles who wouldn’t know a good book if you hit them over the head with it… etc, etc, etc. And that’s fine: you can throw a tantrum, rant at your partner or your friends or even your cat about all these idiots who shouldn’t be let near a computer… but that’s where you need to stop. In public, online, you never, ever react.
Don’t try and ‘correct’ them
The fact is, whatever they say, their opinion is correct because it’s their opinion. Your opinion might be that they are a moron, which is your right, but there’s really no benefit in trying to change their mind. So don’t add a comment on their blog about how they ‘misunderstood’ you (I’ve seen even well-established authors do this, and it never goes well); don’t bitch on Twitter or Facebook, don’t comment on Goodreads or vote their reviews as unhelpful on Amazon. It makes you look petty, turns other readers/bloggers against you and it’s simply a fight you can’t win.
Don’t get others to defend you
There’s plenty of craziness out there already: don’t add to it. We’ve all seen these dramas where authors have been so offended at a review they’ve vented to fans, who have ended up swamping blogs with nasty comments (or even threats, which is obviously never justifiable) simply for the crime of not liking a book. Don’t sockpuppet comments yourself or get friends or family to do it for you. (There's a particular crime author whose books I actively avoid after discovering he openly brags about sockpuppetting his own books and, worse, negatively reviewing those of his competitors: for god's sake, don't be that guy). If there are people out there who want to debate your work, fine, but you shouldn’t be manipulating this out of hurt feelings.
Can you learn from the review?
This is particularly helpful for indie authors, who tend not to have the same process of quality control for their products as mainstream authors - though plenty of mainstream authors could also take this on board (see for instance how touchy some straight white authors get over subjects like appropriation, or writing about people from different backgrounds). Go back to the review, when you’re calm: maybe there are some valid comments in there? Is there something you could have fixed, or points you could take on board? Some things may be easily mended; for instance, if you’re an indie author and a reviewer says that the book was poorly edited or proofed or the cover looked cheap, maybe next time you just need to spend some money getting your next manuscript professionally worked on before you put it out there. If they say the story is confusing, or the writing sometimes not that clear – do they have a point? Think about what your beta readers said (and you should always, always have a team of beta readers to give you feedback before you publish – nobody in the world can properly edit or objectively judge their own stuff). Did you ignore any feedback from them that is being repeated by the reviewers? If so, you might have to accept they were right. Look at the good reviews you are getting – are they saying similar things, even though the reader in question liked the book overall? It’s rare you’ll get a review from someone who thinks your book is flawless.
Not everyone will like you…
Of course, you may also just think that the reviewer is stupid (who knows, they may be, there’s plenty of dumb people in the world) or that they didn’t ‘get’ your book. So what? Every book you loved, every writer you adore – someone, somewhere, will hate. Why should you be any different?
...And that’s a good thing!
Nothing is more suspicious on Amazon or Goodreads than pages of perfect reviews: it looks like, at best, the only people who’ve read the book are your friends, at worst, you’re paying people to say nice things. Throw in some one and two star reviews, and at least it looks like actual people in the real world have read your book. Sometimes getting a bad review can prompt discussion, too – and people talking about your work is exactly what you want.
NEVER buy reviews!
Do I need to even spell out why buying reviews is a terrible, terrible idea? It undermines the whole system, it tars all indie authors with the same brush, and ultimately, it’s bad for your writing. I know plenty of people in professional publishing, and it’s not a kind industry. Buffeting yourself against genuine, helpful feedback means you won’t ever get better, and sooner or later, your bluff will get called. Putting yourself out there inevitably means that some people won’t like you and they might say mean things about your work: but that’s part of what being a writer is. Authors who can’t accept that are in the wrong job.
A version of this article appeared on the Dark Dates website
Accept it will hurt – then get over it
I know, as an author, what it feels like to read a bad review, and I won’t lie to you, it’s never fun. You spend ages and ages – months, sometimes years – slaving away over something, you put your heart and soul into it, and then someone who probably skim read it on the tube or with one eye on whatever TV show they were watching dismisses it out of hand! How very dare they! Clearly they are imbeciles who wouldn’t know a good book if you hit them over the head with it… etc, etc, etc. And that’s fine: you can throw a tantrum, rant at your partner or your friends or even your cat about all these idiots who shouldn’t be let near a computer… but that’s where you need to stop. In public, online, you never, ever react.
Don’t try and ‘correct’ them
The fact is, whatever they say, their opinion is correct because it’s their opinion. Your opinion might be that they are a moron, which is your right, but there’s really no benefit in trying to change their mind. So don’t add a comment on their blog about how they ‘misunderstood’ you (I’ve seen even well-established authors do this, and it never goes well); don’t bitch on Twitter or Facebook, don’t comment on Goodreads or vote their reviews as unhelpful on Amazon. It makes you look petty, turns other readers/bloggers against you and it’s simply a fight you can’t win.
Don’t get others to defend you
There’s plenty of craziness out there already: don’t add to it. We’ve all seen these dramas where authors have been so offended at a review they’ve vented to fans, who have ended up swamping blogs with nasty comments (or even threats, which is obviously never justifiable) simply for the crime of not liking a book. Don’t sockpuppet comments yourself or get friends or family to do it for you. (There's a particular crime author whose books I actively avoid after discovering he openly brags about sockpuppetting his own books and, worse, negatively reviewing those of his competitors: for god's sake, don't be that guy). If there are people out there who want to debate your work, fine, but you shouldn’t be manipulating this out of hurt feelings.
Can you learn from the review?
This is particularly helpful for indie authors, who tend not to have the same process of quality control for their products as mainstream authors - though plenty of mainstream authors could also take this on board (see for instance how touchy some straight white authors get over subjects like appropriation, or writing about people from different backgrounds). Go back to the review, when you’re calm: maybe there are some valid comments in there? Is there something you could have fixed, or points you could take on board? Some things may be easily mended; for instance, if you’re an indie author and a reviewer says that the book was poorly edited or proofed or the cover looked cheap, maybe next time you just need to spend some money getting your next manuscript professionally worked on before you put it out there. If they say the story is confusing, or the writing sometimes not that clear – do they have a point? Think about what your beta readers said (and you should always, always have a team of beta readers to give you feedback before you publish – nobody in the world can properly edit or objectively judge their own stuff). Did you ignore any feedback from them that is being repeated by the reviewers? If so, you might have to accept they were right. Look at the good reviews you are getting – are they saying similar things, even though the reader in question liked the book overall? It’s rare you’ll get a review from someone who thinks your book is flawless.
Not everyone will like you…
Of course, you may also just think that the reviewer is stupid (who knows, they may be, there’s plenty of dumb people in the world) or that they didn’t ‘get’ your book. So what? Every book you loved, every writer you adore – someone, somewhere, will hate. Why should you be any different?
...And that’s a good thing!
Nothing is more suspicious on Amazon or Goodreads than pages of perfect reviews: it looks like, at best, the only people who’ve read the book are your friends, at worst, you’re paying people to say nice things. Throw in some one and two star reviews, and at least it looks like actual people in the real world have read your book. Sometimes getting a bad review can prompt discussion, too – and people talking about your work is exactly what you want.
NEVER buy reviews!
Do I need to even spell out why buying reviews is a terrible, terrible idea? It undermines the whole system, it tars all indie authors with the same brush, and ultimately, it’s bad for your writing. I know plenty of people in professional publishing, and it’s not a kind industry. Buffeting yourself against genuine, helpful feedback means you won’t ever get better, and sooner or later, your bluff will get called. Putting yourself out there inevitably means that some people won’t like you and they might say mean things about your work: but that’s part of what being a writer is. Authors who can’t accept that are in the wrong job.
A version of this article appeared on the Dark Dates website
April 11, 2017
Favourite books!
Talking about my favourite books over at Jenmedsbookreviews: https://jenmedsbookreviews.com/2017/0...
April 10, 2017
In memory of Terry Pratchett: A defence of genre fiction and reading what the hell you like
I’m not usually that affected when famous people die: it’s sad and all, of course, but mostly it’s time for a moment’s reflection, then you get on with your day. This week I’ve been reading two very different books by two very different people, both of whose deaths hit me harder than normal, because they felt like such a big part of my life: Carrie Fisher and Terry Pratchett. Both books are honest, funny, wise and moving – all the more so because you realise it’s the last thing of theirs you’ll likely read. Both, in their own way, also felt like they shed useful light on my own art.
While Fisher’s Princess Diarist has a gimlet eye for sexism and the double standards that come with it and so is a useful primer for Hollywood, Pratchett’s A Slip of the Keyboard is a collection of non-fiction that is a must for any writer.
He talks not only about the oddness of literary fame, but the inherent sexism too often found in fantasy (his chapter on the reason there are no male witches or female wizards is fascinating) but also the snobbery and dismissiveness around writing what is classed as ‘genre’ fiction. Fantasy is not serious, so people who write it are not serious writers – if someone literary (say Margaret Atwood) writes it, it magically becomes transformed into something that is no longer genre. (He also neatly skewers the elitism that often accompanies this, saying ‘magic realism’ is a term used by reviewers to mean ‘fantasy by someone I went to university with’).
It’s a topic I’ve written about myself – though obviously he is, ahem, just ever so slightly more eloquent – and it made me think not only about how other people see my books, but also how I do. Because as well as writing contemporary fiction, I’ve written in genres that are routinely dismissed as ‘silly books for silly girls’ – romance and paranormal. And it does affect how people view them, and talk about them (or don’t – I have friends who will enthusiastically praise my books to me, having clearly read them in some detail, but would never admit to reading them to anyone else: yes, guys, I have noticed). But it also affects how I treat them myself. It’s like (and in fact is, I would attest, related to) internalised misogyny: it’s easy to find yourself judging things by criteria you never agreed to, and don’t even actually believe in.
I’ve found myself adding a disclaimer, an apology, making sure whoever I am interacting with knows I am making no great claims for my books or, conversely, emphasising that though they seem superficial, they touch on weighty topics: they are feminist and diverse, they deal with issues such as sexuality, bigotry, racism, class and the toxic erosion caused by loneliness. But honestly, why do I bother? If Terry Pratchett – with the benefit a knighthood and 50 million sales or so behind him – still had to defend himself against the idea that he wasn’t a ‘real’ writer, then clearly I can’t fight it. But I can stop joining in.
It seems like every couple of months another storm kicks off on Twitter when some genre or other is dismissed as trivial, its readers undiscerning and stupid: romance, children’s, YA, anything to do with vampires, even – sometimes, though less often – crime (often – surprise! – in any field where readers or authors are predominantly female). Of course, there are crappy books in those genres, but there’s also about a thousand too many ‘literary’ novels about a middle aged white guy having a midlife crisis: dross is everywhere. And so what if the reader isn’t ‘discerning’, by whatever standards some Times or Guardian journo has chosen to define that? Maybe they just want a few hours’ escapism from a shitty or demanding job, the stress of childcare, the grind of a world that is fast doing its own imitation of a YA dystopia. Or maybe a cheesy romance with an easily obtained Happy Ever After genuinely feels more real to them than another book about a middle class novelist having an existential crisis?
Many YA and romance books offer clear-eyed, compassionate takes on major topics, from rape to mental illness, loss, ageing, divorce and dysfunctional families. Sci-fi and fantasy can be a way of exploring our own world’s attitudes and social constructs: Pratchett wrote witheringly – and with great humanity – about everything from people trafficking, class and extremism, to the destructive nature of unchecked capitalism. But that’s not serious fiction, right?
I’m not saying everyone should go out and read a genre they hate (even though they might be pleasantly surprised). Personally, I’m not a fan of high fantasy or hard sci-fi (ironically, perhaps, since I devoured both in my youth), but I see that an expression of my personal taste, not a sweeping judgement either on those kinds of books or the people that enjoy them. So maybe, in the same way I try not to fall into the trap of dismissing genre books by other people, I need to stop doing that to my own. They won’t cure cancer: but that’s not what they are for. Sure, they are feminist and smart, but they’re also just fun, entertaining reads that you can turn to if the world outside starts to press in a little too hard. I just want people to enjoy them. It’s probably time I just let myself enjoy them, too.
While Fisher’s Princess Diarist has a gimlet eye for sexism and the double standards that come with it and so is a useful primer for Hollywood, Pratchett’s A Slip of the Keyboard is a collection of non-fiction that is a must for any writer.
He talks not only about the oddness of literary fame, but the inherent sexism too often found in fantasy (his chapter on the reason there are no male witches or female wizards is fascinating) but also the snobbery and dismissiveness around writing what is classed as ‘genre’ fiction. Fantasy is not serious, so people who write it are not serious writers – if someone literary (say Margaret Atwood) writes it, it magically becomes transformed into something that is no longer genre. (He also neatly skewers the elitism that often accompanies this, saying ‘magic realism’ is a term used by reviewers to mean ‘fantasy by someone I went to university with’).
It’s a topic I’ve written about myself – though obviously he is, ahem, just ever so slightly more eloquent – and it made me think not only about how other people see my books, but also how I do. Because as well as writing contemporary fiction, I’ve written in genres that are routinely dismissed as ‘silly books for silly girls’ – romance and paranormal. And it does affect how people view them, and talk about them (or don’t – I have friends who will enthusiastically praise my books to me, having clearly read them in some detail, but would never admit to reading them to anyone else: yes, guys, I have noticed). But it also affects how I treat them myself. It’s like (and in fact is, I would attest, related to) internalised misogyny: it’s easy to find yourself judging things by criteria you never agreed to, and don’t even actually believe in.
I’ve found myself adding a disclaimer, an apology, making sure whoever I am interacting with knows I am making no great claims for my books or, conversely, emphasising that though they seem superficial, they touch on weighty topics: they are feminist and diverse, they deal with issues such as sexuality, bigotry, racism, class and the toxic erosion caused by loneliness. But honestly, why do I bother? If Terry Pratchett – with the benefit a knighthood and 50 million sales or so behind him – still had to defend himself against the idea that he wasn’t a ‘real’ writer, then clearly I can’t fight it. But I can stop joining in.
It seems like every couple of months another storm kicks off on Twitter when some genre or other is dismissed as trivial, its readers undiscerning and stupid: romance, children’s, YA, anything to do with vampires, even – sometimes, though less often – crime (often – surprise! – in any field where readers or authors are predominantly female). Of course, there are crappy books in those genres, but there’s also about a thousand too many ‘literary’ novels about a middle aged white guy having a midlife crisis: dross is everywhere. And so what if the reader isn’t ‘discerning’, by whatever standards some Times or Guardian journo has chosen to define that? Maybe they just want a few hours’ escapism from a shitty or demanding job, the stress of childcare, the grind of a world that is fast doing its own imitation of a YA dystopia. Or maybe a cheesy romance with an easily obtained Happy Ever After genuinely feels more real to them than another book about a middle class novelist having an existential crisis?
Many YA and romance books offer clear-eyed, compassionate takes on major topics, from rape to mental illness, loss, ageing, divorce and dysfunctional families. Sci-fi and fantasy can be a way of exploring our own world’s attitudes and social constructs: Pratchett wrote witheringly – and with great humanity – about everything from people trafficking, class and extremism, to the destructive nature of unchecked capitalism. But that’s not serious fiction, right?
I’m not saying everyone should go out and read a genre they hate (even though they might be pleasantly surprised). Personally, I’m not a fan of high fantasy or hard sci-fi (ironically, perhaps, since I devoured both in my youth), but I see that an expression of my personal taste, not a sweeping judgement either on those kinds of books or the people that enjoy them. So maybe, in the same way I try not to fall into the trap of dismissing genre books by other people, I need to stop doing that to my own. They won’t cure cancer: but that’s not what they are for. Sure, they are feminist and smart, but they’re also just fun, entertaining reads that you can turn to if the world outside starts to press in a little too hard. I just want people to enjoy them. It’s probably time I just let myself enjoy them, too.
