I am a fraud.

First, we’re at mum’s, having stopped for an al fresco lunch with Mary on the way to Colchester on Friday. And things are fine. Mum’s actually in a good place. Today we popped into Clacton and got mum a new watch and a new ‘stroller’, which should mean she can make it to her local Tesco and back again without tripping unnecessarily. We’re leaving later today and going back via Kevin’s kids (they’re both young adults now). It’s the first time we will have seen them since his death.

[image error]like mother, like son

Other than that I wanted to talked about me for a bit – I know, it’s always about me.

I woke very early on Friday morning and felt a bit glum. Having self-published Blood Red Earth the previous week and sent Of Black Bulls and White Horses to four beta readers, I was devoid of writing. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was I felt a fraud. That my writing was okay, but it was hardly worth me getting excited about and expecting others to do the same. What was I thinking? If the books were good they’d have gone viral by now. And they haven’t. I’m thinking I’m delivering something loads of people will pay money to read … but I’m delusional.

[image error]I was up early on Friday …

And I’d like to think I know a thing or two about art/music. For example, I play the guitar and piano. I am probably best described as semi-competent. But there is no way anyone would ever pay me to play professionally. If, maybe, I’d played relentlessly since I were a kid there might be a chance I could play in a bar somewhere for £40 a night. But there is no way I’m anywhere close to being a professional musician. Nor will I ever be. And, to be clear, playing an instrument is not subjective. You are either good, or you are not. And I know the difference.

I’ve done some art as well. 70% the pictures on our walls are mine. And I’ve given a few away and people seem to like the stuff. Visual art is more subjective than music. But, even so, you and I both know that when you see good art you know you’ve seen good art. Could I be better? Possibly. Could I sell stuff on an international stage? No … even if I worked and worked, I know my imagination and technique would never be good enough.

So, to writing. Who am I kidding? Because that’s what I’m trying to do. With almost no experience (I’m a maths teacher/engineer by background) I’m telling myself that my books can sell internationally and can compete with the very best spy thriller writers, like Le Carre and Deighton. The key here is what I can’t do, like you can do with art, is sell my books proportionately cheaper than the best-sellers. Art masterpieces sell for millions … less experienced artists for a tenner. In books, Jack Reacher ebooks sell for £2.99, the same price I’m putting out my latest novels. Any less and I’d be paying you lot to read my books. And they also get the added advantage of selling paperbacks at discounted prices – because they’re printed in their thousands. Mine are all print-on-demand and cost over a tenner.

I’m a fraud. I’m marketing, asking for beta readers, pushing for reviews with novels which, in comparison to the million pound masters, are worth a tenner. (I’m not asking for compliments – I’m just telling you how I feel.)

Ho hum.

Back home tonight and, hopefully, a week of Mrs Sun. We have some stuff to do around and about, so it would be good to have her on board.

Keep safe everyone.