Craig Stone's Blog, page 3

About Craig Stone

Craig Stone (born August 24, 1980) is a British author. He left a job in the city to live homeless in a park,[1][2][3] during which time he wrote his first book, The Squirrel that Dreamt of Madness.[4] He later wrote shortlisted [5] Life Knocks,[6] Deep in the Bin of Bob [7] and How to Hide from Humans, and is the author of the blog, Thought Scratchings,[8] shortlisted for the 2014 UK Blog Awards.

Stone has appeared on the BBC [9] and in the British [10][11] Irish,[12] and American press.[13] His second novel Life Knocks was shortlisted for the Dundee International Book Prize.[14]

Career

Stone made his name when at the age of 30 he quit his job and moved into Gladstone Park, North London, to write his first novel The Squirrel that Dreamt of Madness, a semi-autobiographical account of his time in the park. His second novel Life Knocks was shortlisted for The Dundee International Book Prize, judged by Stephen Fry and Philip Pullman. Stone continues to write and appear in the national press, and is no longer homeless.

Stone met his wife while still homeless, through Twitter. She had messaged him as a fan, expressing how much she enjoyed his first novel. They have a son.

He is an advocate for homeless people in the UK.[15]

Social Media

Craig Stone is in the top 0.5% social media users on the planet.[16] He has over 100,000 Twitter followers,[17] trended in the UK in 2015 [18] and often hits the national and international press with his tweets.[19][20][21][22]

He is the #15 most popular author on Goodreads,[23] the world’s largest site for readers and book recommendations.

Future works

Craig Stone is writing for The Guardian Newspaper,[24] and his first article is due to be published on the 2nd January 2017.

In 2016 he teamed up with illustrator Alex Patrick.[25] They are working on the following books for children.

Spare Parts

Mr Lion Can’t Swim

No, You Can’t Have a Pet Yet!

Brian the Yoga Polar Bear

The Dinosaur Space Pirate Counting Contest

Horace’s Humungous Bogey

Under

References

[1] FHM Magazine

[2] FHM Magazine 2

[3] The Metro UK

[4] Matador Press

[5] Dundee University announce Dundee Book Prize Shortlist

[6] Gapyear.com

[7] Deep in the Bin of Bob

[8] Thought Scratchings

[9]The BBC

[10] The Lad Bible

[11] SBTV

[12] The Irish Examiner

[13] The USA Times

[14] Deadline News

[15] Joe

[16] Klear.com

[17] Craig Stone’s Twitter

[18] Craig Stone Trends UK

[19] The Sun

[20] Daily Mirror

[21] The Huffington Post

[22] The Independent

[23] Goodreads

[24] The Guardian

[25] Alex Patrick

External links

Craig Stone’s Twitter Page

Shortlisted for the Dundee International Book Prize 2012

The Guardian Bookshop 2014

Interview with Mashable 2016

Craig Stone starts global trend 2016

Source

Craig Stone Wikipedia

Photo Credit

https://twitter.com/lisajanephoto

lisajane-photography.com

Why authors should never comment on negative reviews of their own books

You’ve written a book. It’s been published. Your agent told you that he/she has never read a book like it. Your publisher has told you that your voice is entirely unique. The quotes from celebrities on the front cover of your book reinforce this sense of untouchable brilliance. The first fifty amazon reviews have flooded in from industry people who are encouraged to display kindness. Traction begins…but all of these opinions are inherently biased.

Then comes the first negative review from Jeremy, from Hounslow. Your brain immediately reacts by telling you that Jeremy must be mentally ill. Then you decide he must be a troll. (Because you’ve convinced yourself that you are so special, that there are people alive who spend their free time attacking your books, hoping you say something, because that’s how you think they think they will get famous. Even though nobody read your last novel.) So you check what else Jeremy the mentally ill troll has read. You read his reviews: a three star review for a dog toy and a four star review of a pop-up book about gardening. Excellent, you think. This supports my ego’s search to reaffirm my wrongly persecuted gloriousness. But then you see Jeremy has given the Grapes of Wrath and On The Road five stars too. Shit. You loved those books. You agree with his views that Steinbeck can make the reader taste dust and Kerouac can make people touch Jazz with their feelings alone. Jeremy must be too old then. Or too young. He’s not your audience. He must have been having a bad day. He’s too stupid. Too unimaginative. Too something or other and anythingative.

I’m afraid the problem isn’t Jeremy. The problem is you. Jeremy isn’t a troll. He has better things to do with his time than hope he gets noticed on Amazon. Jeremy is offering his entirely honest opinion, as is his right. Jeremy is from a place called the real world. He isn’t linked to your publishing company, he isn’t your best friend or even that girl you once dated. Jeremy is a hero. He’s keeping your ego in check, albeit at the expense of your temporary feelings. You should love Jeremy.

However, instead of doing anything else, like squeezing a lemon in the kitchen or seeing how many Krispy Donuts you can eat in a minute…your ego tells your mind to focus on Jeremy. Bloody Jeremy. If he’s so intelligent, why doesn’t Jeremy write a book of his own?

Your ego won’t let you move on. You want to stay in your diluted self-induced coma of glory that’s been oiled by the gears of your own growling economy. You refuse to absorb and possibly learn from the information, and an invisible force stops you from smiling and closing your laptop.

So you hit the “comment on review” button on Goodreads, Amazon or wherever. You begin typing: chubby little fingers. Boiling little eyes. Mission of righteousness. This is a moral crusade to be apologised to by someone you want to control and define because you’ve forgotten that the world isn’t made up of people who have reason to worship the ground you walk on.

Tap, tap, tap go the keys on your keyboard.

This will show Jeremy, you think. This will teach my troll. Jeremy has picked on the wrong writer. My response will likely be picked up by the media. People will love me more than they already do. Other authors will rally around me. I’ll probably become the poster child for authors mobbed by trolls. Because of me one day all books will receive five star reviews. And after this comment I’ll go and make jokes about Jeremy on Twitter, without naming him, to make myself feel better because I’ve not found the time to iron out the flaws in my own character.

CAUTION: what you are actually doing is being a massive egotistical cock wizard. Justify it to yourself as much as you wish. But as soon as you comment on Jeremy’s review, you stop becoming an author of wisdom and purpose, of character and art, and you reveal yourself to be a person with a bigger ego than class.

Don’t do it. Stop yourself. Cry to your agent. Draw a picture of Jeremy being eaten by a giant evil crow. Make his family watch. Then put it in your bin, build a bridge, and get over it.

Your book is not as good as your ego has convinced you it is. Jeremy is entitled to his opinion. Your friends, family, early industry reviewers, publisher and agent are all biased to varying degrees.

Before you comment on negative reviews of your own books, consider the following:

The exposed brittle ego of an author is an embarrassment. A reader is entitled to share their reading experience without having to explain it to the author or anyone else.

Reviews have nothing to do with you. Zip. Nada. You are not invited to the party. You didn’t thank every single five star reviewer with a comment of gratitude, did you? So why cry in public about the negative reviews?

Let your book go before it kills you. I don’t mean if you have a manuscript in your top drawer you best set it on fire before it figures out how to grow opposable thumbs and turn paper cuts into something more serious…I mean: wake up. Live a little. You’ve just spent a year, likely more, masturbating too much, eating too much, drinking too much caffeine and hunched over a PC turning bad ideas into something that can be sold as greatness. That’s amazing. Who cares about the reviews? How can you spend years writing a book, only to then spend the following days complaining to The Internet about people who read your books? Get out of the house. Do anything other than obsess over the opinion of the masses. You wrote the book for you, right? Because you are an artist, right? If that’s the case, fuck the reviews. You’ve slit your throat and bled out over the page: now go see the world. Or at the very least, don’t act like a baby.

You are harming future reviews. Yeah, you narrow minded salmon. Authors commenting on reviews of their books, or publically mocking readers on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter can only lead to readers expressing themselves less in the future. You are engineering a literary world where only five star reviews can exist. Shoot. Me. Now.

If your book is that good, readers will defend it for you. Look at Goodreads or Amazon. You are only a storyteller. If readers want to defend your book from negative reviews, brilliant. If they don’t, brilliant.

Your silence respects the experience of the reader. Your whining voice insults it. So SHH. Everything you need to say is in your book. Everything your publisher needs to say is on the front and back of it.

If you are thinking of commenting on a bad review of one of your books: wait. That’s all you have to do. Time will reveal that your book will not be destroyed. Your book will still be out there; only you won’t have made yourself look like an idiot by publically raging against the reviews.

You’ll also be free from writing something solely for the purpose of gathering good reviews, because you’ll understand bad reviews won’t kill you. This will make you a better author. Give me an author who says fuck reviews over an author who plays to the crowd any day. You might not have heard of them, they might not be household names, but they have soul. They have purpose and drive. Give me those books. Let me read those authors.

Write those books: true art transcends reviews.

Read your reviews for fun if you have to, but don’t review the reviews.

You just aren’t that important.

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Fake reviews. Fake reviews everywhere

A wedge of authors have became popular against all the odds. A chunk of writers have sold material on the back of paying people to review their books. Some writers have grown their careers by selling books explaining (in detail) how they made their name, but conveniently the chapter describing how they initially paid for hundreds of fake reviews is missing. They have ballooned the perception of their talent and taken your money, then taken your money again by selling a lie, which covered up the truth about what made you buy their books in the first place.

These ‘writers’ are the enemy of words. They are the plastic Phoenixes rising from the heat of their own moist flatulence.

They have manipulated an environment where they are statistically more successful by throwing money at fake reviewers. These authors might be perceived as important, but I believe for a person to write something of worth, a person must first be worth something. And paying to rig a system, alludes to a mind less beautiful. Some justify the process by saying paying for a reviewer does not mean paying for the review. Some reviewers even say they will take the money, but only review honestly. Then you check the reviews. And they are all five star: once money exchanges hands, a grey cloud appears in the sky above the land of honesty. And that cloud later rains urine. And clowns. And spiders.

No, it later rains tiny incontinent spider clowns. And umbrellas are outlawed.

That’s not a town I want to live in.

Your book could be brilliant, but if you’re not prepared or cannot pay money to manufacture a false review system, then your book, even if it is wonderful, will be perceived to be worse than books that are successful, but actually terrible.

Here’s a fact: each time someone pays for a fake review a fairy gets its wings pulled off by a goblin, who then shits the broken wings out into the face of a yawning angel.

I don’t like the idea that “literary success” is less about talent and more about expenditure, but perhaps it is: perhaps that is the way it’s always been – not just in the indie world, but in traditional publishing too. Marketing is king, and money supports marketing. There are very few, if any, traditionally printed books that are not smothered in gushing quotes by some famous name from within the industry, regardless of how rubbish the book turns out to be.

We had a chance to create something better.

We had the chance to create a world where good books are judged by their content, and not their cover. But instead of being authors, we studied marketing. We filed into the system and waited for our heads to be patted, and because of the same selfish people that turn up at the beginning of everything that could be good, we have corrupted that system.

People with more money than wisdom, people with a bigger budget than talent: these are the Gods of this literary cardboard Babylon.

Read books and say what you want about them. Support the people out there who have sacrificed for words. Support talent. Support authors who write regardless of what people think of their writing, and recognise the people who write because they are desperate for an affirmation from strangers: for a Facebook like, or a five star review they handed to a reviewer and wrote themselves.

Stick two fingers into the dry eyeball of truth: review, and just say no to fake reviews.

Theresa May’s poppy stunt makes me want to vomit.

Not wearing a poppy doesn’t make you anti-war, and wearing one doesn’t make you pro-death. BUT how anyone can’t see the hypocrisy of Theresa May wearing the poppy and wanting the England football team to wear the poppy is beyond me.

Theresa May put a poppy on outside number 10 – this makes it political. Theresa May heads up the conservative government who are systematically cutting the British Army budget and have been for years – the tory government will eventually reduce the British Army to its smallest size in 250 years [2]. Considering the tory government has cut mental health budgets [3] and the NHS budgets [4] and specifically DISABILITY BENEFITS [5] – and how are people not shouting at the TV when Theresa May puts a poppy on and tells the UK that the Football team should be wearing a poppy and you, at home, should pay money to cover the government’s cuts?

The only reason she is doing this, is it saves her money, because instead of the government taking care of our wounded military (the very people they have sent out to die and get injured in the first place), they have encouraged, cultivated and fostered this bullshit atmosphere in this country whereby people who wear poppies feel like they are supporting heroes and judge people who don’t – and using the England football team to promote the poppy just pushes the poppy into every home in this country. Football fans generally speaking are the average brit – hard working families who are not millionaires – the people the tory government is taking men from via cutting taxes and family benefits [6].

If Theresa May gave a f*ck about the armed services she would be putting money in the pot for the British Army (including the British Legion), mental health services of this country, but she is emptying it. And, not only that, she is using the England football team to make sure the England football fan picks up her bill, by creating social pressure to wear a poppy and fighting FIFA by acting all holy and supportive.

If Theresa May said the England team should wear a poppy and the conservative government would match any money raised from this year’s poppy appeal, I would be all for it – instead, she is taking from the poor, and then making the poor pay for what the government should be paying for, while also acting like she’s all for the British Army – when all of the facts clearly state that she’s insulting the intelligence of this country – she is stealing the money from your wallet, then telling FIFA to break their own rules to brainwash you into paying her bar bill.

So stick that poppy on your coat in front of the camera’s Theresa May, shout in parliament about how unfair FIFA are being – give the press soundbites about how you support our military past and present – look like a saint to the press but peel back a layer, and it’s all bullshit and lies.

[SOURCE]

[1] http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/conservative/11457429/Philip-Hammond-fails-seven-times-to-rule-out-defence-cuts-after-election.html

[2] http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/defence/11449136/British-Army-could-be-cut-to-just-50000-over-next-four-years-report-warns.html

[3] http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/david-cameron-has-created-a-mental-health-crisis-that-cant-be-solved-with-1-billion-worth-of-funding-a6807631.html

[4] http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/budget-2016-george-osborne-cuts-11bn-from-nhs-repairs-fund-a6942301.html

[5] http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-35749078

[6] https://www.theguardian.com/money/2016/feb/07/tax-credit-cuts-escaped-osbornes-u-turn-hit-800000

RIP Peaches, sorry the world is full of ignorant cunts

I’m reading a lot of hate aimed at Peaches Geldof on Twitter and Facebook, here are some words to balance the hate. I should add I wasn’t a fan. Professionally speaking, there wasn’t really much to go on. But, I’m not talking about her career.

A lot of people have taken the view ‘I hate Peaches, but have only sympathy and love for the children’, but this view is muddled.

Peaches is her children, all grown up.

Peaches suffered the same event her children suffered, only she was older at the time of her mother’s death so would have lived her life enduring clearer memories. So those who are saying ‘I sympathise with the children, but think Peaches is evil and selfish’ make no sense. Unless these people mean that they have sympathy for Peaches’ kids until they grow up and start trying drugs to cope with their mum’s death. In which case, that’s not really sympathy, more allowing the first emotions (anger, superficial judgement etc) to rule the head, which is too simplistic a system to base any worthy conclusion on.

To blame any addict for their own death, shows a lack of insight into the history of the addict and the depths of suffering the human mind can plummet to. The reasons for Peaches’ drug problems are well documented. (And if she was taking heroin in the day with her kids, she was an addict. Addiction is not enjoyable.)

Nobody can judge, because nobody is Peaches. Typing this makes me feel weird, because on one level I understand it’s not my life to discuss, but on the other, I wanted to say something to balance the same moronic, hate-filled, ill-thought out conclusions the masses always seem to reach.

Nobody knows what happened, nobody was in Peaches’ head. These tragic events coupled with the response of the majority of people (pointing fingers and blaming Peaches while having only love for her children) merely highlight the cold flaw of society, and the idiocy of people high on the confidence of being in a large group protected by the anonymity of their on-line persona.

All this hate wont help Peaches’ children as they grow up. The very same children the bleeding heart of the masses claim to bleed for, will be crushed further when they grow up to read the hate aimed at the person who gave them life. The ‘blame Peaches’ stance will only continue to create more pain for her kids.

I await the stance of the masses to change from ‘protect the children’ to ‘hate the mum’ should – in 20 years time – either child fall into the same depression, become a mother, then lose their battle with drugs and a life that began with a struggle most of the people hating can thank their lucky stars they never had.

RIP Peaches, I hope your children find a way of figuring out this complicated life without you, and I’m sorry the world is full of ignorant cunts.

If you #VoteLeave, then I’ll think the following…

If the UK votes to leave the EU and afterwards our economy goes to shit and everyone begins pointing fingers of blame and complaining, all I’ll think is this…

…You voted for this. You fuckwit. You voted for more austerity. You voted to hand the NHS to the people who told you they wanted to privatise it, meaning you are the reason your children and their children and so on risk dying from cancer because they can’t pay for expensive operations and over priced medicines charged by a healthcare system turned into a business. You voted to push the beer in your hand up by £2. You voted for public transport to become even more expensive. You voted for your holiday to become unaffordable. You voted to move back in with your parents at 45 because you can’t afford your rent. You voted to lower job seekers allowance. You voted to increase tax. You voted to only have a cabbage in your fridge for dinner. You did that. You voted to put up walls, and to take us back 100 years in terms of evolution and communication with the world. You voted to be led by men with the hearts and consciousness of Farage and Boris Johnson. You fuckwit. It was our United Kingdom, and your collective fuckwittery blew it up.

You blew it up!

So if you still don’t know, DECIDE. Or if you really can’t be bothered trust the European Central Bank, trust The Bank of England. Look as the FTSE 100 tumbles to a 3 month low. Look at the value of the pound decreasing. Look. Read. Find out.

And then Vote Remain.

Hold onto your prayers: take a black marker to religion instead

Senseless. Shocking. But hold onto your hypocritical prayers – 99% of all major religions do not accept gay people. Time to evolve. Rewrite our religious books so our kids have a chance. Yes, whoever did this is ill, but how long can we go on ignoring the hate and division contained within this planet’s religious books? Time to edit the divisive text from within the pages, as the thinking from sections within the books is counter intuitive to the peace on earth religious people bang on about wanting. The bible says fuck all other Gods or be cursed, the Quran says fuck all other Gods or die. Religious books are against gays and difference. Leviticus describes homosexual acts as an abomination. Religious books state homosexuality is a sin. And we wonder where hate and division comes from?

Keep the good things religion teaches, as there are plenty of good things. But isn’t it about time we deleted the rest? Why leave hate and madness open to interpretation by the sick, and the foolish?

And this morning, when UK leaders condemn the attacks; David Cameron, Carwyn Jones, Alex Salmond…One voice remains silent. Arlene Foster, the first minister of Northern Ireland isn’t saying a thing, and her silence screams narrow minded hatred injected into her dead black heart by her shitty religion. So keep your prayers. Until people from all religions are able to look at their religious books in a fair and balanced light and take responsibility for the hate-filled sections contained within them by removing certain passages, keep your prayers. They feel hypocritical at best and weak at worst. The man was mentally ill, but my son will grow up in a world where this can happen again – because despite the outpouring of grief, and everyone getting on their knees to pray again for a pile of innocent dead human beings, what will religion actually do to prevent another sick mind using specific passages to advocate mass murder? It’s time for a full review, and for the religious books of so many to be updated into something Christians, Catholics, Jews and Muslims don’t have to keep defending.

And I get it, it’s the crazy 1%, I completely agree – so why not amend the books so that the crazy 1% are unable to use religious books to justify hate crimes? Let these crazy people take responsibility for their own hatred, by removing hate and division from religious books. Why keep the parts of the books that holds large communities back, when they could become something that unite and inspires? Unless, of course, as shown by the silence of Arlene Foster, there is an element within all religious communities that deep down behind closed doors believes this is God’s work. And I fear that might be the case. If so, maybe this is hell on earth, we are such a disappointing species with any potential muted by anger and hatred, that it would no longer surprise me.

So after you’ve finished praying, question your religious books. Search your consciousness and delete the hate from within. Take a black marker, and remove it. First from your books, and then consequently from the future minds of the babies of Earth, currently residing in religious homes all over the planet.

America: will the last person left please shoot out the lights?

Woah, America. Another mass shooting. This time it’s racist. Next time it might be racist, or a terrorist attack, or whatever category the media decide to label it under to avoid looking in the mirror – three things we can predict with some certainty about next time: the killer will be a young male. In his hand will be a gun. And there will be a next time.

Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Gun control has failed. None of us have control over anything.  Not even Obama is in control. We need to control to feel safe, but control is a lie. You should be afraid, hell, you should be fucking terrified – not because of guns, but because we live in a world where citizens from the self-appointed land of morality are genuinely convinced that only with the capacity to cause death, can they feel safe. Fuck that.

In America when a teenager hates the world, when they say they are going to kill somebody, they are never far from a gun, and the capacity to act out the rage of being young. They can pick up a gun and replace frustration with becoming a God.

Alfred said some men just want to watch the world burn – well, here’s the horrible truth about young adults: at some point, every single teenager in their petulant selfish minds, has wanted to kill their own parents and set fire to the world just because. No reason, just because. In America, that because is a possibility because America is littered with weapons. But not just that: young Americans also have to suffer the complete bullshit of the American Dream. The notion that belief and hard work will turn you into a millionaire and a sexy movie star that all the girls want to party with. The American Dream is essentially an ideology that makes 99% of Americans feel like worthless failures. It’s based on a false premise: that you, right now, are not good enough – and you need to change.

To balance the bullshit of The American Dream, here’s some truth for young American adults:

You will die one day, and about twenty people will come to your funeral, ten of those will turn up for the free booze and four of those will shed a tear. Later it will be revealed that one of the people crying didn’t even know you, and they were crying for attention from strangers to fill a void from their own childhood. So, relax. There is no pressure to become anything because you already are. You can be happy without money. You don’t need to be famous, or beautiful. You don’t need to achieve anything. Right now, as you read this, you are the achievement. You are the culmination of millions of years of evolution. The reflection of love. A miracle. And remember, us adults don’t have a clue what we are doing. We are pretty miserable sometimes too. We don’t have any real answers. Get drunk, and learn to laugh about it – because life is actually funny. God doesn’t give a shit about you. He literally couldn’t care less that you imagine shagging your teacher. In fact, he’s more likely to be all for it considering the pressures of the bigger picture. Everyone is just as lost as everyone else. So laugh at failing. Enjoy your flaws. Revel in average: because that’s all everybody is. Even Justin Bieber shits. Consider who we look up to, and feel better about yourself, not worse: actors are adults who have to remember words in an order and speak them into a camera. And they genuinely think this makes them special. Models need to walk in a straight line and look like they’ve just stood on a nail. Learning to love average is the most beautiful fucking lesson you will ever learn. Learning to appreciate that everyone else is as useless as you think you are is a massive step towards giving yourself a break and cutting yourself some slack.

In America young adults should be in their bedrooms, masturbating six times a day….but not in America, where the bible bashing masses make masturbation a sin. The only release a young guy has at times is to ejaculate into a sock, but no, he can’t have that. But, he can have a gun. Religion and the church in America are bedfellows – the right want your teenager to be sleeping with a gun under their pillow. Masturbation is ungodly, but polishing a gun and firing it makes you an American. And God loves Americans. And the cunt hates a sinner. Polish that gun kid, rub it as hard as you can. Hold your breath. Focus. Squeeze the trigger. Fire out a bullet. But something doesn’t feel right does it? There’s a simmering rage beneath everything you do because the rules you follow make no fucking sense. And so a young adult starts to see the world as hypocritical – this is the start of going fucking mental. What if these serial killers are not entirely mental, but a consequence of a series of treatable causes, which lead eventually to acts that appear insane by our definition because we have absolutely no way to understand them because as adults we have become blind to our own bullshit?

Gather around your constitution America and tell me what it really means, because I can’t see the signature on your precious piece of paper because it’s covered in the blood of the innocent.

If I had a job where I was so afraid to perform it, that the only way I could do my job was to carry a gun and have the idea in my head that at any minute I might die or have to kill someone – and then I defended my right to carry the weapon because my job was dangerous and it demanded it – well, if I had that job, I would complain to the management. I wouldn’t want that job. Nobody in their right mind would want that job.

But, if you are an American Citizen that is your job (and worryingly, that’s also the job description of a US Marine). And you aren’t even getting paid for this job. And you don’t even decide if you want it or not. From an outsider looking in, your job is becoming bloody terrifying. You are being abused. Living in fear is abuse. Thinking you need a gun to be safe, is madness. A land where books shops are closing and gun shops are booming cannot be the home of the mostly rational thinkers.

If you question your own safety, the answer is not more guns: the answer is to figure out why you are really afraid. The answer is less bullshit: as an American parent or teacher, or any parent anywhere, stop drilling into the youth of today that happiness and financial success are the same thing. Stop making teenagers feel guilty for wanking – stop bashing adventure over the head with The Bible, and stop masking your failures and lack of bravery in confronting the rules you didn’t agree with as a child, by teaching your children about guns as an adult. Perhaps if you had called bullshit a few more times when you were a kid, you wouldn’t have grown into an adult who thinks you need a gun to protect yourself.

Teach your teenage kids to express disagreement, make sure they understand that wanking isn’t a sin in any book that makes sense and remember to teach them that the American Dream is entirely bullshit – replace it instead with the beautiful reality of being entirely average.

Enough already. And stop invading countries under the pretence of helping people – it’s a total dick move. And kind of embarrassing to anyone not blinded by American media.

Why authors should never comment on negative reviews of their own books

You’ve written a book. It’s been published. Your agent told you that he/she has never read a book like it. Your publisher has told you that your voice is entirely unique. The quotes from celebrities on the front cover of your book reinforce this sense of untouchable brilliance. The first fifty amazon reviews have flooded in from industry people who are encouraged to display kindness. Traction begins…but all of these opinions are inherently biased.

Then comes the first negative review from Jeremy, from Hounslow. Your brain immediately reacts by telling you that Jeremy must be mentally ill. Then you decide he must be a troll. (Because you’ve convinced yourself that you are so special, that there are people alive who spend their free time attacking your books, hoping you say something, because that’s how you think they think they will get famous. Even though nobody read your last novel.) So you check what else Jeremy the mentally ill troll has read. You read his reviews: a three star review for a dog toy and a four star review of a pop-up book about gardening. Excellent, you think. This supports my ego’s search to reaffirm my wrongly persecuted gloriousness. But then you see Jeremy has given the Grapes of Wrath and On The Road five stars too. Shit. You loved those books. You agree with his views that Steinbeck can make the reader taste dust and Kerouac can make people touch Jazz with their feelings alone. Jeremy must be too old then. Or too young. He’s not your audience. He must have been having a bad day. He’s too stupid. Too unimaginative. Too something or other and anythingative.

I’m afraid the problem isn’t Jeremy. The problem is you. Jeremy isn’t a troll. He has better things to do with his time than hope he gets noticed on Amazon. Jeremy is offering his entirely honest opinion, as is his right. Jeremy is from a place called the real world. He isn’t linked to your publishing company, he isn’t your best friend or even that girl you once dated. Jeremy is a hero. He’s keeping your ego in check, albeit at the expense of your temporary feelings. You should love Jeremy.

However, instead of doing anything else, like squeezing a lemon in the kitchen or seeing how many Krispy Donuts you can eat in a minute…your ego tells your mind to focus on Jeremy. Bloody Jeremy. If he’s so intelligent, why doesn’t Jeremy write a book of his own?

Your ego won’t let you move on. You want to stay in your diluted self-induced coma of glory that’s been oiled by the gears of your own growling economy. You refuse to absorb and possibly learn from the information, and an invisible force stops you from smiling and closing your laptop.

So you hit the “comment on review” button on Goodreads, Amazon or wherever. You begin typing: chubby little fingers. Boiling little eyes. Mission of righteousness. This is a moral crusade to be apologised to by someone you want to control and define because you’ve forgotten that the world isn’t made up of people who have reason to worship the ground you walk on.

Tap, tap, tap go the keys on your keyboard.

This will show Jeremy, you think. This will teach my troll. Jeremy has picked on the wrong writer. My response will likely be picked up by the media. People will love me more than they already do. Other authors will rally around me. I’ll probably become the poster child for authors mobbed by trolls. Because of me one day all books will receive five star reviews. And after this comment I’ll go and make jokes about Jeremy on Twitter, without naming him, to make myself feel better because I’ve not found the time to iron out the flaws in my own character.

CAUTION: what you are actually doing is being a massive egotistical cock wizard. Justify it to yourself as much as you wish. But as soon as you comment on Jeremy’s review, you stop becoming an author of wisdom and purpose, of character and art, and you reveal yourself to be a person with a bigger ego than class.

Don’t do it. Stop yourself. Cry to your agent. Draw a picture of Jeremy being eaten by a giant evil crow. Make his family watch. Then put it in your bin, build a bridge, and get over it.

Your book is not as good as your ego has convinced you it is. Jeremy is entitled to his opinion. Your friends, family, early industry reviewers, publisher and agent are all biased to varying degrees.

Before you comment on negative reviews of your own books, consider the following:

The exposed brittle ego of an author is an embarrassment. A reader is entitled to share their reading experience without having to explain it to the author or anyone else.

Reviews have nothing to do with you. Zip. Nada. You are not invited to the party. You didn’t thank every single five star reviewer with a comment of gratitude, did you? So why cry in public about the negative reviews?

Let your book go before it kills you. I don’t mean if you have a manuscript in your top drawer you best set it on fire before it figures out how to grow opposable thumbs and turn paper cuts into something more serious…I mean: wake up. Live a little. You’ve just spent a year, likely more, masturbating too much, eating too much, drinking too much caffeine and hunched over a PC turning bad ideas into something that can be sold as greatness. That’s amazing. Who cares about the reviews? How can you spend years writing a book, only to then spend the following days complaining to The Internet about people who read your books? Get out of the house. Do anything other than obsess over the opinion of the masses. You wrote the book for you, right? Because you are an artist, right? If that’s the case, fuck the reviews. You’ve slit your throat and bled out over the page: now go see the world. Or at the very least, don’t act like a baby.

You are harming future reviews. Yeah, you narrow minded salmon. Authors commenting on reviews of their books, or publically mocking readers on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter can only lead to readers expressing themselves less in the future. You are engineering a literary world where only five star reviews can exist. Shoot. Me. Now.

If your book is that good, readers will defend it for you. Look at Goodreads or Amazon. You are only a storyteller. If readers want to defend your book from negative reviews, brilliant. If they don’t, brilliant.

Your silence respects the experience of the reader. Your whining voice insults it. So SHH. Everything you need to say is in your book. Everything your publisher needs to say is on the front and back of it.

If you are thinking of commenting on a bad review of one of your books: wait. That’s all you have to do. Time will reveal that your book will not be destroyed. Your book will still be out there; only you won’t have made yourself look like an idiot by publically raging against the reviews.

You’ll also be free from writing something solely for the purpose of gathering good reviews, because you’ll understand bad reviews won’t kill you. This will make you a better author. Give me an author who says fuck reviews over an author who plays to the crowd any day. You might not have heard of them, they might not be household names, but they have soul. They have purpose and drive. Give me those books. Let me read those authors.

Write those books: true art transcends reviews.

Read your reviews for fun if you have to, but don’t review the reviews.

You just aren’t that important.

Artists, be strong. The world is trying to change you

I am a writer. World, stop trying to change me.  Please.

I don’t need to change. I am the living embodiment of change because this is who I am and what I want to be. I make enough money from writing to cover my bills. Sure, I could do what you want world. I could make you feel better about failing your own dreams by taking a job in an office or a popular franchise. But, why would I? Sure, world, I’ve been saving for eight weeks for a new pair of trainers. Sure, there’s no chance of me getting a Playstation 4. But, you know what world? Waiting is good. Waiting is important. Waiting has value. World, I know you don’t understand. I know you are confused. I know you’ve grown to measure success by the size of a bank balance. But, world, you are wrong. True success is what’s achieved by following dreams. You won’t find it on a payslip or at a free staff Christmas party, because success is a feeling. Failure is everything else. Failure is looking back on your life and wondering why you spent so long chasing money you can’t spend when you’re dead. Failure is a person still wondering at the end of their life what they’ll do with it once it begins. Failure is dying with a head full of questions and not a smile because you found your own answer.

World, we only get one shot at this life. So, please stop asking me and other writers/artists the following because you all sound the same and it’s boring:

You got any work yet?

How’s the job hunting?

You’re still young enough to have a career.

I’ve left the newspaper on the side. It’s got some decent jobs in it.

The bloke from Securitas might need someone.

What are you going to do, really though? 

Have you thought about joining the army?

Artists – writers, poets, musicians, actors, street performers, lion tamers etc:

Ignore the world. The people who doubt art are often artless. They are experts in other fields, but in the field of art they have a moving mouth but a silent heart. They are bland and grey and dull. They shoot down anything original with carefully harvested piles of bitterness. So, please world – next time you ask a writer or an artist of any kind if they’ve found a real job yet, stop and think before you do. You big silly arrogant drone. Ask yourself what’s so great about your career and life that you think you’re in a position to offer advice. If you think you love your career, that’s great. But remember, it’s not over yet. Wait until you get old and realise the job you love doesn’t love you back. Maybe then, in your old age, once the system has spat you out, you’ll pick up that old battered guitar and learn how to play Stairway to Heaven again. You should encourage artists. You should embrace artists. You should buy their books and share their music, and you should encourage others to do the same.

World, ask yourself if your job really fills your heart with peace, because only if it does, can you ask an artist if they’ve found a real job yet. Remember: if how you live doesn’t fill your heart with peace, you also don’t have a real job. And if you are questioning artists whilst unhappy in your own job, then you are simply working for the system. Trained and brained.

This is you, if that’s what you do: Wake. Coffee. Work. Coffee. Recruit. Work. Sleep. Repeat.

Sounds rubbish to me.

Here is food for thought: artists are the people who have the real jobs. Most writers don’t make much money. We don’t wear suits and own shares. But if you  look really closely, you might just realise it’s most of the other jobs that chip away at the will to live.

And meanwhile, it’s the artist, who dances.