I recently read a blog about a relatively successful English author and how hard he’d been hit by the “decline in traditional publishing”. He’d resorted to chucking in his rented South London office and building a writer’s den in the attic of his multi-story house. The enormity of this tragedy can’t be under-estimated. The poor bastard has to go for the cheaper caviar and the Bentley needs a polish – for God’s sake, is he expected to do that himself?
Then we read about David Baldacci and his “working day”. This entails walking his dog, before a leisurely commute to his downtown office in Virginia where no less than three assistants have been beavering away at his latest best-seller.
Okay, I’ve got an office – but it’s under the house and I built the bloody thing myself. I also have to walk three dogs (Hah! I win there, Baldacci!) No assistants, I’m afraid. And aside from my writing, I’m also required to clean the house, do the shopping, feed the donkeys (yes, donkeys), cook dinner… and that’s daily chores before getting to anything specific for that day. I’m what is known in Oz as a “house bitch” while my wife has a “real job” in town. Apparently, I don’t have a “real job”. When people find out I’m a professional writer working from home (bearing in mind that freelance journalism is my bread and butter above my novel writing) they look at me like I don’t actually do anything at all. My life is one long, endless holiday with the occasional tap at the keyboard.
I’m blaming that whinging sod in London and Baldacci’s assistants, since apparently the man doesn’t do anything for himself anymore. Perpetuating the myth that a writer’s life is so idealic.
Of course, I have it pretty lucky – honestly. Hell, my office could be invaded all day by children, rather than the four-legged miscreants above (actually, it’s 3.666667 recurring legged, if you look closely). How the hell do people with children ever write books?
In fact, I’ll guess that some of the best writing today is created by authors who don’t have the resources to do it. They’re cramped in the corner of a house filled with family, on a junk computer because that’s the only way to stop every bastard from borrowing it to use Facebook and surf the net… no one believes they’re “serious” about writing. They’re doing it the hard way. Sound familiar?
I’m only saying that comparisons to “famous” writers with South London offices, three assistants and only one dog aren’t helping.
But keep writing anyway.
Because it was my birthday last week, plus I did a heap of work for the Blues Festival (earning a bit of cash) I decided to treat myself to a new Blu-Ray DVD player/PVR HD Recorder. Of course, once it was all plugged in and set up, the first thing I did was go down to the video store and look for a Blu-Ray title that would show off the high def’ picture and all that… and I found The Hobbit.
Now, I read The Hobbit a long time ago, but I still remember it as more of a fairy tale rather than the epic saga that’s LOTR. And the main villain is a dragon sitting on a pile of gold — albeit a dragon that bears no resemblance to the one in Shrek.
Two and a half hours of gratuitous sword-slashing, Orc-stabbing and lobbing-off-heads later the movie kind of ground to a halt without actually sighting the bloody dragon and… we’re only half-way through the damned book!
Okay, I know that The Hobbit was always going to be split across two movies and after LOTR I shouldn’t be surprised — but the novelty of LOTR helped you get through the long movies. Now I’m starting to suffer Hobbit Fatigue. No doubt I will watch The Hobbit PT II, but that bloody dragon better turn up early and be nothing short of f##king spectacular.
God help us, if Peter Jackson ever gets the film rights to The Silmarillion.
Maybe you’re like me. You’ve got a Kindle or an iPad (or something similar) and you’ve launched yourself into the world of ebooks. They’re cheap, plentiful and available on-demand within seconds- awesome! The trouble is, after a while, you discover that GOOD ebooks aren’t so easy to find. First of all, there is a tremendous amount of shit out there that’s promoted as the best-ever, most brilliant and entertaining books ever written… except those endorsements are written by the authors’ mums. Every unpublished man and his literate dog have embraced ebooks as a means to self-publish, even if they can’t spell- let alone write a decent novel. The really good stuff (or the new releases anyway) isn’t cheap at all, thanks to the publishers being in chaos about pricing. And a lot of backlist titles from famous authors you’d expect to be available… well, aren’t. Maybe the publishers are hanging on to them, maybe they can’t confirm the digital rights… who knows?
The reason I’m suggesting my ebooks are good- depending on your reading tastes, of course- is their track records. Of the eight I’ve now released seven titles have been published in Australia and around the world. Between the original publishing, subsequent reprints and licensing to Readers Digest (for one title) there are about half a million copies of my books on bookshelves somewhere. That’s got to stand for something. Only “Ghost Tales, Four Stories of the Dead Among Us” is a brand new title released by me exclusively as an ebook and is, I guess you’d say, unproven.
Yes, this post is a piece of blatant, unashamed self-promotion… which is where the publishing industry is heading, so you’d better get used to it. Look at the good side- you get to read a great book at $1.95 (Ghost Tales) and if you don’t like it, you can hurl abuse through the comments section below. Brilliant.