Gotta be Wessensday!

People are asking who I’m publishing with. The short answer is me... self pubbing with Kindle, Smashwords and a couple of other reputable electronic publishers. For hard copy will most probably go with Amazon’s, Create Space. Heard good things about them. Haven’t hawked my work around any of the big publishers – not that I would say no if they offered to take me on – providing the ‘deal’ is a good one.

Publishing is changing. New writers are no longer nurtured and grown to maturity, they have to do most of the leg work before sending off their masterpiece... then they wait... and wait. Can’t be arsed, so doing the proofreading, formatting through a pro in the States to suit whichever E company, cover art (using some of my son’s Africa pics and some of my own) and editing via other learned people who don’t want nearly a grand up-front to read my work. The book is out there in a space of weeks instead of years, my commission return is 75% instead of eight or ten at best as a new writer, and the rights are mine. I keep control. Set the price to within non-extortionate limits and if the writing and storyline are both good, should get a good return for my efforts; forever – ad infinitum – not dumped on the scrap-heap when ‘Millicent’ thinks my book is ‘out of fashion’.

Sent, Sons of Africa to one of London’s bigger agencies; haven’t sent it anywhere since. Sink or swim, my way’s the way it’s gonna be. This was their reply;

Hello!

Sorry, this email fell into the murky depths of my inbox. I did indeed get it and our reader is currently raving about it, so I’m going to take a look and will get back to you soon.

 All the best.

*******

Then, later... much later...

You’re a great writer. It’s pacey, you’ve got a way with dialogue and you know how to build narrative tension. You throw the reader right into the story and immediately engage with him, which is key to any great writer, commercial or otherwise.

That said... I just wasn’t convinced about the story. I know you’re going to resent me considering our previous conversation about how only vampires are currently in vogue, but this just felt a little bit old fashioned.

 That said... I would love to see anything else you’ve got in the pipelines as I think you could write a cracking upmarket thriller.

All the best,

*******

Doh! Will I be sending it out again? Guess I would rather grow hair on my eyeballs. End of rant.

Dropped in the threatened story from another genre. My book, my story, after this it’s back to An English Boy’s...

Think you’ll see the funny side...really happened...hope it entertains; ‘night everyone and thanks for staying on...

Jeff

APPARENTLY, WE’RE ALL THE SAME? (Sorry, no vampires)

Not too long ago, it was perfectly acceptable to go into a shop and ask for a book about Pygmies. Now it seems that all the Pygmies have mysteriously been replaced by tribes of ethnic colouring and vertically challenged origins, and apparently, can no longer be referred to as, ‘little black people’ either. I did exactly that, albeit innocently, and my reference to nomadic little black people went down like a dropped jug at a séance.

The young lady who was serving me stared at me in abject horror, habitually straightened her ‘Jennifer’ badge and informed me that ‘being of different colour and smaller than ourselves wasn’t a crime.’ Then I felt my wife tugging at my coat, which usually means there’s trouble brewing and please let’s go before the police get here.

I ignored the coat tugging, gripped the counter more firmly and dug in for the fight. That was the moment my wife disappeared. She had sensed that my state of political incorrectness was about to reach its crescendo.

‘So what, exactly do we call them?’

Suddenly, the young lady behind her redoubt of books and pencils seemed unsure of how to deal with the situation and with up-stretched trembling hand, summoned her department supervisor.

The shop’s zealot with her very own, ‘Judy’ badge swept to her rescue.

‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘Pygmies.’ I got in quickly.

‘Pygmies?’ chirruped the supervisor and then peered over my shoulder as if a throng of little people with spears, bows and poisoned arrows had followed me into the shop.

‘I’m looking for a book on the subject?’

Now they were both confused. Books about gardening or the breeding habits of Vietnamese ladybirds they could cope with, but Pygmies? Obviously not.

The ‘Jennifer’ lady rallied and now that support had arrived squared herself for battle.

‘It was the way you said it,’ she pointed out, a little too gleefully for my liking. A sort of, ‘Now my mother’s here you’re going to get it.’

The supervisor stepped into the breach. This was the type of situation she had been trained for; you could sense the mental wheels ripping through her store of sensitive subjects. The needle stopped at, ‘politically incorrect situations and how to deal with awkward customers’. She looked at her underling and demanded more information.

‘What, exactly happened?’

The Jennifer lady’s face, hardened. ‘He called them; little black people.’

I grinned at her. I was enjoying myself; my adversary had been sucked in for the showdown.

‘So what exactly would you have me call them?’

‘They’re human beings like everyone else in the world,’ Jennifer trilled.

I shook my head and looked at her boss. ‘Fine. In that case, I would like a book about human beings, preferably those who live in the forests of equatorial Africa.’

The boss-lady appeared satisfied that I had seen the error of my ways and had given in.

‘Could you be more specific, sir?’

‘Pygmies,’ I informed her. ‘Little black people?’ I held my hand at just over waist-height. ‘About so big?’

Silence. Then Jennifer, seemingly on the verge of tears; ‘You’re doing it again! I should report you to the race relation’s people.’

‘For what reason?’ I spoiled. ‘Or have I missed something?’

The supervisor took off for the rear of the shop then just as quickly, marched back with the supervisor’s supervisor in tow, a tall, beaky looking man in his early sixties. Then I got another rendition of, ‘What seems to be the problem, sir?’ Explained the situation and watched with growing admiration as the more worldly, commander-in-chief of my favourite high street book shop, defused the confused, calmed the waters with great aplomb and pointed me in the direction of all things related to Pygmies.

‘The lady in the far right hand corner, sir she will help you find what you are looking for.’ And with a courteous nod of the head, left me to it.

‘Which one?’ I asked the now, almost composed Jennifer, for I could make out two assistants of different stature and origin discussing whatever at the back of the shop.

‘The little coloured lady on the right,’ she offered, and for me that was enough.

*