By my own modest standards I have had a successful month. Having finally got to grips with how to set up adverts I have sold a number of books, which has boosted my confidence and given me a bit of a buzz. I’m still a long way from the bestsellers list, but that’s okay I’m not in a rush.
My favourite moment was after my wife lent some of my books to a friend. The friend’s sister read them while she was staying at the house and wanted to know; “how come I’ve never heard of this author before?” So it’s official, I’ve written books, sold books and someone has referred to me as an author. I can legitimately put it on my CV now.
This was compounded a few days later when someone left a lovely review on Amazon under the heading ‘Fantastic Book and I think I’ve found a new excellent Author.’ So if two people have said it it must be true – right?
So, farewell imposter syndrome and hello to a renewed focus on the finishing touches to my new book, then the hard work of editing and amending the now completed first draft of the one after that.
My parents have been having a tidy up and sort out, so when I went over earlier this week I was presented with an envelope full of my old secondary school reports. I present here, without comment or commentary, some of the edited highlights of my school career:
1977 – “He does not seem to consider it worthwhile to put the extra effort into it that could raise his standards.”
“Steven obviously did not take the subject seriously, not a very good term’s work.”
1978 – “Steve is easily distracted from his work and finds concentration rather difficult.”
“Steven is clearly capable of a good standard of work, but it is all too seldom produced.”
“There is still an inclination to show off and thereby distract others.”
1979 – “Could be better if he applied himself to work in lessons.”
“He works only because he is made to.”
“Steven has shown interest in music this year, even to the extent of joining the assembly choir, which proved too difficult at present as his voice is on the change.”
1980 – “He is beginning to make use of some of his ability.”
1981 – “Steven has made almost every mistake possible in his mock literature exam.”
“He is not working really hard and likes to relax too often for my liking.”
1982 – “Steven turned in a very poor performance in his recent examination.”
“Steven’s level of achievement has been disappointing, both from the point of view of effort and achievement.”
“Steven has more or less reached his limits academically it seems.”
1983 – “A poor ‘mock’ examination result, well below any previous scoring.”
These quotes are obviously cherry-picked from reams of pages extolling my pleasant nature and hard-working attitude. Maybe there were some mentions of me needing to work harder too, along with the obligatory best wishes from teachers who fervently hoped that I would not be studying with them the following year.
I have not indicated which subjects the various comments came from, there are a range of different areas, from French to History, via art and Needlework. The second quote from 1977 was, in fact, my entire report for needlework that year.
For clarity, I had not ‘reached his (my) limits academically’ as I went on to pass a degree after finishing school. From there I managed a 30 year plus teaching career and have written several books.
Currently I am running ads for my first book on Facebook, I actually published it on Amazon a couple of years ago but have only just got round to figuring out how to do the advertising thing. It is going well, in a low key kind of way, and I have sold as many books in the last month as I did in the previous year. Thank you so much if you are one of the lovely people who purchased a copy, I hope you enjoyed it.
Anyway, in the blurb I describe 1986 as having “some of the best music ever recorded.” For reasons best known to themselves two people took umbrage at the statement, they started a little conversation with one another about why mid 80’s music wasn’t any good (one preferred the 70’s, the other liked the whole Britpop thing). I let it run as it was amusing me, even though it had nothing to do with the book.
I also started to doubt myself a little, was the music of my late adolescence really as good as I remembered? The 70’s was my growing up music and I loved it, but it wasn’t all good was it? Boney M dominated the late 70’s, along with The Village people and Abba, none of which is my cup of tea. Similarly, some Britpop was okay, some was bleh, and the 90’s had Boyzone and East 17. The worst I can say about the 80’s was that I didn’t much like The Smiths or Wham! – although I could tolerate them in small doses.
For me the mid 80’s music was very influential, Tom Waits was recording the best albums he has ever made, The Sisters of Mercy were in full miserable swing, The Gun Club were still riding drunkenly on the back of their wild rush into the decade. The Cramps released A Date With Elvis and bands like Siouxsie and the Banshees and The Cure were touring with impressive back catalogues. I loved it.
I know my musical taste isn’t everyone’s, and I’m sure somebody will find something to disagree with in this post (apologies to anyone out there who still thinks Brown Girl In The Ring is a masterpiece). My record collection spans over 45 years and I am constantly finding new bands that make me smile, but surely I’m allowed to use a little bit of hyperbole for the soundtrack of my formative years, aren’t I?
Anyway, if you too have fond memories of the 80’s here is a link to the book, it’s called Nothing Happened in 1986 and some people seem to be enjoying reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it – but without having to spend hours and hours hunched over a laptop.
A while back I won an award. I mean, a long while back, over 50 years ago in fact. Also, it wasn’t for writing – it was for art.
My picture of Father Christmas was chosen by Miss Harris as one of the best in the school, it was actually put on display in her office – along with all the other drawings and paintings that were considered worthy of the accolade. As a special honour, in recognition of our collective talents, we were all allowed to the, normally out of bounds, upstairs room to see our pictures on display. All in a neat row along her office window sill.
I can still remember how proud I felt, that my picture had been selected from the literally dozens of other entries. Fame, fortune, my name in lights, recognition and acknowledgment for all my hard work and effort.
Unfortunately, this was all undone shortly afterwards. One morning in January my friend Kenneth decided to ring the fire bell on the way back from taking the register to the office. It was a proper old big, brass handbell that he just couldn’t resist. He strongly implied that it may have been me that did it, made plausible by the fact that he passed the bell to me when he had satisfied his urge to make some noise. Having been effectively caught red-handed, my second visit to the headteachers office was altogether less pleasant.
Still, I did win. I am considering adding it to my author bio – ‘Award winning author, Cowick Street Infants 1969’ – or maybe not.
It was one of my classmates, raising his hand and raising the query mere minutes after starting the task which we had been set for the lesson. The teacher, probably exhausted after a day of managing poorly behaved kids, looked up from her desk and replied in an exasperated – slightly desperate – tone;
“You can’t have possibly finished yet, you only just started.”
“I haven’t Miss,” came the answer, “I was just wondering if it would be worth rushing or not.”
This week I finished the first draft of the book I have been writing since last Spring. I have enjoyed writing it and by the end I was impatient to tie up all the loose ends and make sure everybody lived happily ever after. In the enthusiasm of getting towards the chequered flag (okay, I know it’s far from ‘complete’, but you know what I mean) I never stopped to consider what I would do when I’d finished.
I do, of course, have other projects to be getting on with. There’s always lots to do with marketing, editing, cover design, formatting and all the other jobs that come with being a writer – as well as the ‘day job’, listening to records, gardening, housework, all the facets of day to day living.
The next book? I don’t know yet. I’ll trawl through my ideas bank and discarded notes and see what rears it’s head. Until then you can potentially look forward to two new books this year; the follow up to Nothing Happened in 1986 – cunningly titled Nothing Happened in 2011, and King of the Car Park – the story of Tim King, trolley collector and coincidental crime and mystery solver.
Do we take letters for granted? Once we have finished learning the names and sounds that go with these shapes (usually by about aged 4 or 5) we abandon them in favour of whole words. The individual letters get lost in that morass of words, sentences and paragraphs we surround them with – with the noble exception of ‘I’ and ‘a’ which manage to hold their own.
We do tend to notice them if they land in the wrong place, usually, but apart from that they are fairly passive.
At least, that used to be the case. Nowadays more and more words and phrases are being replaced with anacronyms as we text and message one another in our hurried lives. Some of these are now second nature to most of us – LOL, ASAP, YOLO, TFIF etc. Others can take more time to work out, requiring you to consider the context and work on it like a cryptic crossword clue. Here are some examples I came across from the FBI’s list of internet slang – good luck!
None of this though can beat the apocryphal tale of the newly formed university of Newcastle. It reputedly had to abandon it’s plans to name itself ‘City University of Newcastle on Tyne’ when someone pointed out what the sweatshirts would look like.
On a tangent to this, I got the selection of letters that go after my name during this period of reorganisation in the English higher education system. My college was absorbed by a larger institution after I left, but before I graduated. This meant that I got my qualifications from a Polytechnic I didn’t attend, in a city that I have never even so much as visited. Stranger things happen I suppose. Happy new year everyone. Keep lettering.
The Mystery of Tally-Ho Cottage is not a classic of modern literature that I had read before last week. It is also one I don’t feel the need to read again. I came across it in a box of old books and was intrigued – it was by Enid Blyton, but I did not recognise it as one of the Famous Five books I remembered from my childhood. It was, in fact, a precursor to that series. One of a dozen or so books centred around the exploits of ‘The Five Finder-Outers and Dog’ (Honestly, I’m not making this up!). The first half dozen pages described the return of Fatty from his holiday, much of this section was taken up with the others describing how fat Fatty was (hence the nickname I guess) and how vindictive and stupid PC Goon the policeman (also fat) is.
The story then heads into a ridiculous plot that had something to do with some cruel dog sitters, missing people, and a stolen painting. If you know much about Enid Blyton you will probably guess that the art thieves were foreigners (in turbans no less), and that the children – in particular the brave, clever and resourceful boys – solve the crime in spite of the bungling policeman. I may have got some of that wrong, I was anxious to end my ordeal by page 100 and kind of skim-read the second half.
In the book I am currently writing I had referenced this element of Enid Blyton’s writing in a derogatory way and was unsure if I should leave it in. Having happened upon this book I am now more inclined to add to it. I don’t think we should excoriate people who grew up in an era with vastly different values to those we now consider the norm (although EB was criticized in her own lifetime for some of the views she portrayed), but we should recognise how far society has moved on. But don’t pause to celebrate for too long, I’m pretty sure we still have a way to go yet.
This morning something fell behind one of our radiators at home. No biggie, I got my ruler and hooked it out. Okay, not just my ruler – my ‘Paddington’s Special Ruler’. I couldn’t tell you how or when I came by this, but I can say that I had it when I was at school. It got me through my ‘o’ levels so it has been in my possession for at least 43 years As well as being marked in both centimetres and inches it even has a handy bit on the back that helps convert from imperial measures to metric (although my eyesight isn’t really up such tiny writing now.)
It is not just for retrieving lost objects, it is also handy as a thing for reaching stuff off high shelves, it’s the perfect tool for reaching under beds, it’s a back scratcher, and a good emergency bookmark. Occasionally I have even used it to measure things with.
I haven’t held on to it for sentimental reasons or nostalgia, it’s just a ruler. It’s earned it’s place through it’s usefulness and ability to adapt to different situations. Now, if only I could learn something from it I’m sure I’d be a better person. Until then, call me if you need something from behind the radiator – or if you need to know how many millimetres are in one inch.
A while ago I decided, in my wisdom, to write about my childhood – a kind of fictionalised autobiography type of thing. I was very enthusiastic about it, romping through the first few chapters and putting about 10k words onto my hard drive. I was quite pleased with how it was all going too – until I read it back. My critical eye looked at it and then told me that ‘fascinating as you think your childhood was, nobody’s interested.’
To be fair, my critical eye says that about most of the things I write. But in this case I’m inclined to think it was right. As much as it was fun for me I agree with critical eye that for anybody else to have to struggle through it, it would have been hard going. So, I sent it to the ‘unfinished work graveyard’ section of my computer and moved on.
Last week, looking for something else I found it again. A quick read through confirmed my initial thoughts about it not being very good, until I got to a short section that I think sums up the injustices that were heaped on me as a child. I reproduce those paragraphs here so you can judge for yourself if I was indeed the victim of a cruel and uncaring world;
My penance that evening was to have to wash and dry the dishes by myself after tea. My brother kept finding excuses to come into the kitchen while I grumbled my way through this task, gloatingly asking if I was having a good time and if I was nearly finished. Honestly, you’d think he would have something better to do. The third time he came past I accidentally splashed him with some water from the sink, causing an all-out war in the kitchen that my little brother and sister had to come and watch and my dad had to come and break up. Mum wisely stayed in the other room and watched Crossroads.
Later in the evening, after the little ones had gone upstairs, me and my brother got read the riot act. It was only the second day of the holiday and we were, apparently, already acting like savages. If we weren’t capable of occupying ourselves then we would be given something to keep us busy. Although unspecified, it did not sound good, probably best avoided by my reckoning. I nearly blew it when I agreed wholeheartedly with dad that my brother was big enough to know better, although you would think that he would appreciate the moral support. We promised that we would both try harder, but we still had to go to bed early, because life is unfair like that when you’re a kid.
I recently got back from a trip to Italy where I enjoyed some late summer sun and gave my shorts and flip flops their last outing until next year. It was a great week, brilliant scenery, fantastic food, a visit to Pompeii and some beer. What’s not to like?
While I was away I did no writing at all, but I did manage to read a fair bit. I took a limited number of books which I had exhausted before the week was out. My wife had been reading Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt and I asked her what it was about. She gave me a full synopsis – every last plot twist and nuance of the story – thinking I would not read it. She had made this assumption due to the lack of spaceships, monsters or dystopian nightmares.
But I did read it, and I loved it. It’s about an octopus called Marcellus (fun fact, Italian for octopus is polpo – which is such a great word.) I won’t tell you the story, but I would recommend the book.
Anyway, this is all leading to a confession. When I was younger I thought seahorses were fictional/mythological creatures, like unicorns or dragons. It was years later, as a young adult, that I was amazed to actually see one in an aquarium. My own family laugh at this foolishness, although in my defence there were limited ways of fact-checking this sort of information in the 1970’s. Also, you have to admit that seahorses are pretty unlikely animals, aren’t they?
So, after years of being the butt of jokes, I was delighted when one of the characters in the book admitted to the same misunderstanding in their own childhood. I felt elated, vindicated and happy not to be the stupidest person in the entire world.
I am currently reading The Bandit Queens by Parina Shroff, which I am also enjoying very much in spite of the lack of spaceships, monsters or dystopian nightmares. I haven’t finished it yet – so no spoilers please.
stevestuff 