Mark Capell's Blog, page 4

Writers, are you an Artist or a Brand?

Pressure is increasing on writers to be more marketing savvy than ever. So where’s the line between creativity and business? Is there one any longer?

I thought I’d take a light-hearted look at the difference between being an artist and being a brand. No harm is intended to artists, brands, or anything in-between.

You’re an artist when you miss your deadline by at least two months.
You’re a brand when you never miss a deadline.

You’re an artist when you spend hours searching for just the right word.
You’re a brand when you spend hours searching for your golf shoes.

You’re an artist when you think there aren’t enough years to write about all the various characters in this complex puzzle called life.
You’re a brand when you plan to write about the same character in your next thirty-two novels.

You’re an artist when the title of the book is larger than your name.
You’re a brand when your name is even bigger and nobody cares about the title.

You’re an artist when you plan to blow your brains out like Ernest Hemingway the moment you sense your creative powers waning.
You’re a brand when you never have an off-day (not officially).

You’re an artist when your partner leaves you because of your selfish dedication to your art.
You’re a brand when your partner divorces you for the pay-off.

You’re an artist when you sometimes disappear up your own rectum.
You’re a brand when you book an appointment for a colonic irrigation.

You’re an artist when you beg people to review your book.
You’re a brand when reviews can’t touch you.

You’re an artist when you hope they’ll read you after you’re dead.
You’re a brand when you consider getting cryogenically frozen.

You’re an artist when advice is a ruination of your artistic purity.
You’re a brand when advice is market research.

You’re an artist when you can’t bear having your own books around you in case you spot a mistake.
You’re a brand when they’re stacked on your bookshelves like a musician's gold discs.

You’re an artist when you believe branding is about selling baked beans.
You’re a brand when you believe that writing is about selling books.

Copyright (c) Mark Capell 2013. www.mark-capell.com. Use permitted with accreditation and a link to this website.

Turning an Actor into an Undercover Cop

I was hesitant about creating a detective for a series of books. I love crime fiction, both as a writer and a reader. But there are so many pitfalls in featuring a detective: 

It’s easy to neglect the detective character because of the extensive details of the crime he, or she, is investigating.  This often means having to put in a subplot about the detective’s private life that just takes the reader away from the crime and adds little else.
What I was determined to do was create a detective that had a lot of depth, whose character was brought out by the work itself.

So I created Myles Morgan, a struggling actor who becomes an undercover cop. There's a lot of conflict within Myles, with his colleagues, and with the job of being a police officer. I’ve written one short story and three novellas, which are now available in one volume called MYLES UNDERCOVER.

The video below is about how I came up with idea for Myles and what I think about him.

MYLES UNDERCOVER, featuring the short story, NO HERO, and the novellas, RIOT MURDER, KILLER WHISPERS, and SHADOWS GROW, is available from Amazon US, Amazon UK, Smashwords, and will soon be available from Barnes & Noble, Kobo and the iBookstore.

But you can download a FREE copy of the short story, NO HERO, here by clicking on either Kindle or ePub (for Kobo, Nook, etc).

What Lance Armstrong Says About Us

I’ve been following the Lance Armstrong story for a while now. It’s mainly a professional interest - research for one of my mysteries, set in the world of professional cycling. But, as Lance Armstrong gets ready to sue me (that’s so last year, Lance), I thought I’d share what I think is the most illuminating aspect of the drama – that our reactions to the story say as much about us as they do about Lance Armstrong.

I’ve noticed that people who comment on the issue, their attitudes and their opinions, fit into commonly recurring categories. So here they are. Which one are you?

THE TRUTH-SEEKER - This person knew there was something amiss from the beginning. They have usually read everything written about Lance, all the scientific background, and every article. They usually react to their moment of triumph in one of two ways. The hero of this story – journalist, David Walsh – who was sued and vilified by Lance, booed by some fellow journalists, has been very dignified. He hasn’t gloated, just got on with his job. Others have not stopped telling people that they knew the truth over a decade ago. Critics of the truth-seekers say they are obsessional egotists, chasing an individual when he was just a pawn of the prevailing environment.

THE HERO-WORSHIPPER - When this person heard about Lance’s fight against cancer and subsequent conquering of the world’s toughest bike race, he was in awe. That reaction hasn’t altered much. I think most people were amazed by Lance’s story, in the beginning. It would have been hard not to. It was the stuff of legends. But the hero-worshipper is the person who has had the most trouble letting go of the Lance Armstrong he once knew. He wants to believe in myths and legends. He has trouble adjusting to this new reality. You will often find him spouting views such as ‘well, everybody was cheating’. The hero-worshipper is quite a romantic by nature, yet can be truculent and unwilling to concede.

THE HUMANITARIAN - This person usually has little interest in sport. He thinks sport is silly and can’t understand why everybody gets so excited by it. Very often the humanitarian points to Lance Armstrong’s charity work. He set up Livestrong to raise awareness of cancer and that, in their eyes, is all that matters. So what if he lied and cheated? So much of what he earned has gone towards the fight against cancer, that any damage caused to the sport of cycling is just collateral. Critics of the humanitarian say that Lance Armstrong used his cancer charity as a shield, to deflect criticism of his other more nebulous activities. They point to Jimmy Savile, a DJ in the UK who raised gargantuan amounts of money for hospitals and children’s homes. Only after his death were people made aware that this was a front for hundreds of sexual abuse crimes. They say that by raising millions for charity, Lance raised millions for himself and made investigations into his misdemeanours off-limits.

I’d be interested to hear your views on this. Which group do you fall into? Maybe more than one? Do you have any more categories?

One thing’s for sure, this epic story and its fallout will continue to divide people.

by Mark Capell... www.mark-capell.com

The Future of Reading in the Bath

My favourite place to read is in the bath. It always has been. I remember, as a child, reclining in the tub,  picking up my book (usually a Sherlock Holmes mystery back then) and reading for ages, until the water temperature chilled my wrinkled toes. Even now, nothing beats it.

But I have a problem.

I’m a complete e-reading convert. I love ebooks. I bought my Kindle long ago and was immediately knocked out by being able to access and buy so many books. Carrying my entire library around in my pocket has never got old.

But e-readers and tablets don’t like baths. The steam acts like James Herbert’s fog. It rolls across the screen, leaving a surface mist. Then it works its way inside the chips and throttles them. Or so I imagine. Besides, even if it doesn’t have a corrosive effect, I know that at some point it would slip out of my fingers (probably because of my penchant for bath oil), and that would definitely be the end of that device.

But I won’t give up. There is just something so appealing about reading in the bath. 

I like reading on trains but I don’t commute, so that’s no good. Anyway, there’s always that man in uniform who leans over your shoulder and says, ‘Tickets, please.’ It’s hard to explain to him that I’ve reached a pivotal part in the plot and his need to carry out his job is completely unacceptable.

In a bathroom you can control the environment. You lock the door. You’re alone. Nobody can interfere. You can light a candle, if you want to. Candles are very versatile. They work with both ghost stories and romances. If you’re reading my favourite genre, crime (it should be my favourite, I write it) I find that it’s better to have more harsh lighting. Lighting that gets right into the grouting of the tiles.

Don’t get me wrong, I also read in bed and curled up on the sofa. But both experiences are incomplete, prone to interruption. It’s hard to explain to my girlfriend that her altruistic question: ‘Do I want a cup of tea?’ has just wrenched me from chasing a villain up the Empire State Building.

I’m quite happy to read in those locations but they can’t compare with a bath. It’s the difference between playing football in the park or at Wembley Stadium, playing basketball in the street or at Madison Square Garden, playing… you get the picture.

What I’ve started doing is reading collections of short stories while in the bath. The poor little paperback looks most forlorn on the bathroom shelf, like a wallflower at a dance, knowing she’s only picked up when there’s no other choice.

But maybe I’ll find salvation in the future. I hear that Samsung is developing flexible screens that are made of plastic. I have no idea what effect water, or steam, has on them. I’ve also heard that TV screens will be ubiquitous in the bathrooms of the future. I don’t like that idea, though. It’s too intrusive. It ruins the meditative, spa-like atmosphere I like to create.

So come on, e-reader and tablet manufacturers. Let me have a reading device that doesn’t fear my 41 C, 106 F, perfectly heated water. Save my bath-time.

Mark Capell is an Amazon bestselling author. His latest novel 'Vows to Kill' is out now. Also available are the 'Myles Morgan Mysteries' and 'Run,Run,Run'.

Why I Dread Weddings

I think it was a deeply-held dread of weddings that led me to the idea for my latest novel ‘Vows to Kill’. It’s the only way I can explain it.

I realised I had a problem when I attended one of my best friend’s weddings last year. It was ridiculously, magnificently, irredeemably perfect. I sat there very moved. But I was also, at the same time, strangely detached from events.

Let’s take a look at some weddings that have hit the headlines in recent years:

An American woman in Pennsylvania stabbed her groom to death. Then, when she appeared in court the next day, she went into complete denial, telling the judge that he should double check to make sure that the groom was dead. She couldn’t believe that she’d committed such a crime…

In Brazil, a groom told the assembled guests to gather round because he had an announcement to make. He promptly shot dead both his fiancée and the best man, before blowing his own face off…

And in Plymouth, England, a bride left her groom only hours after the ceremony, preferring to spend her wedding night with another man. The next morning she cried rape, so her new husband stomped round to her lover’s pad and battered him to death.

But, of course, it’s not that I’m in fear for my life whenever I go to watch two people get married, or that I’m in fear for their lives. So what is it?

I didn’t go to a wedding for years while growing up, which was probably a good thing. I was a shy little boy and the experience would have overwhelmed me. I think I’d have stood in the background, hoping nobody talked to me. Yes, I was that bad.

The first wedding I went to was my cousin’s. My friends were, to a man and woman, reluctant to go down the aisle of anything other than a supermarket. So it was left to family ties to drag me into a church. Churches – those forbidding structures of stone and dark heavy wood, with stained-glass windows that never quite make a dent in the gloom.

It was a nice wedding, my cousin’s, and I’ve been to several since. I’ve been to weddings in churches, on horse racing courses, in stately homes, country mansions, and on a beach. But no matter the weather, rain or shine, that feeling of unease usually crops up.

I’ve never been married myself. And I’ve never thought I would be. Is it a fear of commitment? I don’t think so. I’ve had long-term relationships. Now you can believe this or not, but I’ve always felt that it’s because I’d feel uneasy as the centre of attention on the day (next in line to the bride, of course). But I’m not sure if it’s true, or just something I tell myself.

And while I’m in the mood for confessions, here’s one.

I said my friend’s wedding was perfect. But that’s not entirely accurate. Something unfortunate did happen. It was held at a beautiful country mansion, on the only gloriously sunny, and unseasonably warm, day that January. After the ceremony, beyond the speeches, past the dancing into the small hours, that’s when it happened. I broke up with my girlfriend. Curious. It was a sad end to a lovely day.

‘Vows to Kill’ by Mark Capell is available from Amazon US and Amazon UK. For more details visit www.mark-capell.com/vows-to-kill

The Last 5 Minutes - a short story

‘Help me,’ she said.

I hadn't noticed her sit down next to me in the cafe, that cold, dark and wet November afternoon. I was lost in the maze of my thoughts. At first, I wasn’t sure that she was speaking to me.

‘Help me,’ she said again. She was calm, measured, but insistent. When I turned to her, she wore a smile. It somewhat softened the demanding tone of her statement.

‘Excuse me?’ I replied.

‘Help me.’

My coffee cup was down to the last, dirty wash of cappuccino. I should have left for my meeting ten minutes ago. But this stranger had a way with her. She wore a suit that belonged to a lawyer and a way of looking at me that was at home in a courtroom.

She spoke again. ‘Help me with this. My friend asked me, what would I do if this were my last day on earth?’

For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. I could either ignore this stranger or engage her in conversation. What the heck, I thought. ‘What would you do if this were your last day on earth?’

‘That’s the point. I don’t know.’

There was a lengthy pause. I wondered if that was the end of this unusual, brief encounter. But it wasn’t.

‘Then my friend changed the question. She asked, what would I do if this were my last five minutes on earth?’

I repeated myself. ‘What would you do?’

‘I don’t know. That’s the problem. You couldn’t do anything, I guess. There wouldn’t be time. Forget about having sex, my friend said. You have to assume there’s nobody to have sex with. So I suppose you could only think. That’s all you’d have time for. ‘ Her gaze wandered to another part of the cafe before returning to me. ‘What would you think about?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

She crossed her legs. ‘They say, live every day like it’s your last. But how do you do that?’

I paused to think. But I didn’t have an answer. I decided to fire a question back at her. ‘Have we met before?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m just making conversation.’

Her manner was familiar. Yet I couldn’t place her. I was sure that if I’d been confronted by those viciously attractive features before, I would have remembered them. And remembered her.

‘What would you do?’ she asked.

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What would you think about with your five minutes?’

‘Good times I’d had, I guess.’

‘Of course.’

‘For me, that would be time spent with my wife, my holiday in Vietnam — that was stunning. Finally getting a Ferrari. That was nice. I’d wanted one ever since I was a kid.’

There was a pause before she spoke. ‘You see, I’d remember the things I regret.’ The way she said it made it sound like an accusation. 

I was annoyed. I snapped back at her. ‘I don’t regret anything.’

I wanted to pick up my briefcase there and then, but even though her manner made my skin bristle, the conversation intrigued me. I remained seated.

‘You don’t regret anything?’ she asked.

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Your whole life, you regret nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

She nodded, a signal of understanding. She took a sip of her coffee.

Just then, a man nudged my back as he tried to squeeze by. I looked over my shoulder, but he was already opening the door to make his exit. He didn’t say sorry or even acknowledge that he’d bumped into me. He ignored my stare completely. The cold air from outside was wafted in by the door swinging shut.

I turned back to face the woman. ‘Some people,’ I muttered, grimacing.

‘Yes, some people,’ she agreed, half-heartedly. She drained her coffee cup. ‘I have to go.’ She stood up.

‘Have you got an answer for your friend?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good.’

Her voice betrayed a feeling of uncertainty. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

‘My pleasure.’

And with that, she placed the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and walked to the door. Another current of cold air streamed in as she left. I hadn't known her long, but she had made me worry about her.

I looked around. The bar was empty. It hadn’t been bustling before but there had been four or five customers trying to rejuvenate themselves with caffeine.

The barista walked up to me from the other end of the bar. ‘Can I get you another coffee?’

I looked at my watch. I’d missed my meeting, but I didn’t care. They could go hang themselves.

‘Another cappuccino?’

‘No, thanks.’

I didn’t fancy going outside. I hated winter, always had. There’s something slum-like about cold temperatures. I should have been born in a warmer climate.

I wrapped my scarf around my neck, picked up my briefcase and headed towards the door. I paused to watch, through the cafe window, a couple walk by outside, arm in arm.

I opened the door. More cold air.

A gunshot rang out. Echoed.

The air became colder, so much colder, freezing. It was inside me now.


Copyright (c) Mark Capell 2012. All rights reserved.


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