Goodbye to the Blog!

Given that some months have passed since I wondered out loud about the future of this blog, and I haven't posted since then, I think the time has come to put this thing out to pasture. Since the last post I've published my second novel in America, almost finished writing a third, and even gotten married, and none of that made its way onto here. The only activity around here lately has been the spammers leaving their ads for male enhancement products, and I could do without those. The ads, I mean.

So, with some regret, I hereby retire this blog. It did me a lot of good in its time, but all things must come to an end. In the new year, I may get some time to post on my guitar blog, but I'm making no promises. But for now, cheerio to the Blogosphere. It's been real.

Oh, and Happy New Year!

To Blog or Not to Blog?

My good friend Moonrat announced recently that she was retiring her blog, Editorial Ass. Hers was one of the most entertaining and useful publishing blogs on the Interwebs, and I learned a lot from it. Likewise Miss Snark's blog, which was retired about two or three years ago, but is still archived online, and any aspiring author should make it a priority to read through its hundreds of posts. I wouldn't have been published without it.

Anyway, news of Moonrat's retirement caused me to look at my own blog. When I did, I was shocked and embarrassed to realise that I hadn't posted in almost three months. At this rate, I'll be blogging four times a year. It's a far cry from the time when I was blogging almost every day.

The original purpose of this blog was to share my experience of being one of the above-mentioned aspiring authors, and recording my progress as I wrote what would become my second unpublished novel, titled CONDUIT (thus the rather obscure URL for this corner of the Internet). Things carried on through the writing of THE TWELVE/THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST and the extraordinary chain of events that followed. I made many friends through this and other blogs, and learned a huge amount. In fact, it's no exaggeration to say I owe my writing career to the Blogosphere.

But after my first novel was published in July of last year, the blog began to fall off my radar. My postings became less regular, and to be honest, the content became less interesting, both to me and probably the reader. It's been bothering me for some time, and the blog has become a source of guilt rather than an outlet for expressing my aspirations.

Moonrat's stepping down has made me think about this state of affairs, and I'm starting to wonder if this blog has outlived its purpose. Now that I'm a published author, the journey this blog was created to record has long since reached its destination. So what purpose does it now serve?

I can't say it's networking any more because, like most of the Internet population, I use Twitter and Facebook for that. It's not for reporting news because my website fulfils that role.

The question I must now ask is: does this blog have any reason to go on?

Funnily enough, though, I've been thinking about starting another blog entirely. It'll purely be a bit of fun, concentrating on my guitar obsession, whether that be playing, fixing or breaking them. That'll be at http://resignedhobbyist.blogspot.com/. It may or may not get off the ground, but we'll see.

Anyway, that's all for now. If I do decide to close up shop here, I'll post accordingly.

An Open Letter to my Amazon Stalker

Dear Amazon Stalker,

I've been watching you work for a while, but until today I felt inclined to let you labour in peace. No author likes getting one-star reviews for their books, but we all realise it's part of the job description, so we don't let it bother us.

Unless, that is, someone like you starts posting negative reviews for the same book over and over again using different screen names. You've so far posted a total of seven one- and two-star reviews between the UK and US versions of Amazon. Even so, it wasn't worth my time to pay it any mind. But then Amazon went and updated the UK and US versions of my debut novel, titled THE TWELVE and THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST respectively, making them different editions of the one book, rather than entirely separate entities. In doing so, they collated all the reviews, meaning that the UK version now lists no less than five of your reviews in a row (click here to view them). Now that your stalking is laid bare for all to see, I thought I might as well address it.

Thing is, you didn't make it hard to tell all those screen names were really the one person. If anyone clicks on the profile page for each of them -- Cormac Mac, Noir Fan, and Crime Lover (there's also Crime Queen, though gender issues aside, he/she didn't review my novel yet, but I'm sure it's coming) -- they'll see that you have been reviewing a strikingly similar range of books. Amongst other obvious trends, they'll also see that you've taken an equal dislike to my fellow crime authors Tom Piccirilli and Laura Wilson, again posting multiple reviews of books you don't seem to have read, as well as the venerable broadcaster Terry Wogan.

It's obvious what you've got against my novel, and I've a good idea why you've taken umbrage with Mr Piccirilli and Ms Wilson, but that does leave me with one question, and I am posting this in the hope that I might discover the answer. My question is simply this: What on God's green earth did Terry Wogan ever do to you?

Best wishes,

Stuart

On Recognition, Or Otherwise, And Why My Diamond Shoes Are Too Tight

I did a live radio interview today with Wendy Austin on BBC Radio Ulster's Talkback programme. I've long since gotten over any nerves that I might have had in earlier radio appearances, so even when we couldn't get the microphones to come on in the remote studio (I was in Armagh, Ms Austin was in Belfast), I didn't panic. You can hear the results here, if you so wish.

Anyway, right up front, Wendy rattled off a list of quotes from the great reviews I've had on both sides of the Atlantic, as well as the best-of-2009 nods from both the New York and LA Times, as well as mentioning that THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST (a.k.a. THE TWELVE) has been optioned for a movie. Wendy asked how all this recognition felt, and at first I could only answer: "Not bad."

Then on further consideration, I made the point that recognition for one's writing is a wonderful thing. And it's not entirely because of vanity, though in all honesty, that must be a part of it. In reality, it's more about insecurity. I've made this point repeatedly in interviews, but it bears even more repeating: In my experience, writing seems like a completely ridiculous thing to waste one's time on. To sit for hour upon hour, staring [delete as appropriate] (a) at a blank screen (b) out the window (c) into space, deleting more words than you leave on the page, with no realistic prospect of anyone ever reading what you've done, is a completely daft thing to do. There are so many things one could do instead: clean the bathroom; take a walk; gather together bank statements and invoices for the accountant; play Grand Theft Auto 4. The list goes on. But instead, you sit there and grind it out, word after word.

Apart from the people I knew online in that clandestine way one knows people online, I didn't tell anyone except a very close friend that I was writing. I kept it secret, even from my closest family members. Why?

Because I was embarrassed.

If you come from the kind of working class background that I do, intellectual and creative expression don't come as second nature. And if, like me, you somehow get promoted from the working class educational stream to the lofty heights of a predominantly middle class grammar school by way of passing a few exams, you're taught to keep your mouth shut and be grateful for the chance to study algebra in such a rarefied environment.

I've told this story before on my blog, but here it is again: I spent my first two years of education at the little school on our housing estate that normally kept kids for three years. Because my reading was ahead of my classmates, I was moved a year early to the big school in town. On my first day there, at the age of six, the headmaster came around to see the new boy. He said he'd taught my dad years ago. He asked me if I was as stupid as my father was. This pretty much set the tone for the rest of my school life.

So, when the Observer or the Daily Mail, or indeed the NY or LA Times, heap praise upon my novel, it's not just the massaging of my ego that I enjoy (and of course, I do enjoy that a lot, I'm only human after all), but most of all it's the vindication. It's knowing that I haven't wasted years of my life chasing a dream that I could never hope to make real. It's realising that despite Mr Moffat dismissing me as just another dimwit from the estates, I can prove that old bastard wrong and achieve something truly worthwhile. Something I can be proud of.

And the recognition doesn't have to come from a famous newspaper or a well-known author. I get more emails from readers than I can ever hope to reply to, and they all make my day brighter. If someone tells me they couldn't put the book down, that it scared the bejesus out of them, then fantastic. If they tell me they learned something in the process, then even better.

The great reviews on Amazon mean a huge amount too, both in the UK and the US. But the shine can be dulled, if you let it, by a few people. I've had overwhelmingly positive feedback from Irish Americans who bought THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST for the obvious reasons. Many have told me they connected with the book in a very personal way, and that's wonderful. It would be easy to let a tiny minority of readers spoil that buzz when they express how much they dislike having their green-tinted glasses dislodged, but really, what's the point?

If, like one Amazon.com reviewer, one of your main criticisms of the book is based on where I went to school, and its sports curriculum, how can I take your views seriously? I didn't like my school either, or its sports, so what does that prove?

Or if, like a couple of Amazon.com critics, you start throwing words like "orange" around, then that says more about your prejudice and ignorance than it does about the book. As soon as your review is tainted by sectarianism, no matter how well-informed about the land of your forefathers you might think you are, I stop placing any value on your opinion.

And then there's the charmer who has so far placed six negative reviews, under three different screen names, across two editions of THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST/THE TWELVE, spread between the UK and US Amazon sites. The same wannabe critic also has grudges against my friend Tom Piccirilli, crime writer Laura Wilson, and, of all people, the velvet-voiced radio and television presenter Terry Wogan. On the spectrum of offensiveness, Terry Wogan is somewhere between vanilla ice cream and warm scones, so I really can't imagine what he's done to upset this particular critic.

A few days ago, I expressed a small amount of chagrin to my girlfriend about these minor blemishes on my otherwise shiny and bright critical landscape. As girlfriends are wont to do, she responded with some simple but truthful wisdom: Me complaining about such trivial annoyances is rather like that scene in FRIENDS where Chandler says, "Oh no! My wallet's too small for my fifties, and my diamond shoes are too tight!"

Yep, she nailed it.

Instructive, constructive, intelligent critique is a good thing. Affirmation from those who appreciate what you do is also great. Attacks from the ignorant and ill-informed are nothing more than a minor annoyance, like flies buzzing around the arse end of a cow.

So, with joy in my heart, here are a few other things that are currently floating my boat:

Tomorrow night, Thursday 8th of April, I will appear on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson on CBS. I'll post a YouTube clip as soon as it's online so that, even if you're not domiciled in the USA, you can witness me blinking like a bunny in the headlights and mumbling incoherently on national television.

THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST is a finalist in the Mystery/Thriller category of the LA Times Book Prize! The winner will be announced at the LA Times Festival of Books, where I'll be appearing on a panel with fellow nominees, as well as signing at the Mystery Bookstore stand. Check my website over the next day or two for details.

THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST is also nominated for a Spinetingler award - you can vote here!

The audiobook of THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST has been awarded the Earphones accolade by Audiofile Magazine in a rave review that described it as "everything a listener could want from an audiobook."

And that's all for now. I'll try not to leave it so long next time.

A Tip For Aspiring Writers: Don't Be A Dick

There's a publishing industry fact that blogging agents and editors have been telling us all along, and in all my six months in print I have learned this to be true: Publishing is a very, very small business. Everybody knows each other. And everybody talks to each other. If a junior editorial assistant at Harper Collins knows that Famous Author X has gas problems, you can be sure that a senior editor at Random House knows it too.

If you behave in such a way as to make a literary agent think you are rude, arrogant, stupid, or even mentally unstable, that reputation will spread and you will never shake it. In other words, if you act like a dick, people will treat you like a dick. The easy answer? Don't be a dick.

As some of you may have seen, there has been a furore in recent days as a Frustrated Writer publicly vented their spleen, decrying the role of the literary agent now and in the future. That was foolish enough, given that agents are treasured beyond all else by most published writers, me included. This particular Frustrated Writer took it a step further, though, by personally attacking a well-established and respected agent in a lengthy blog post. This was just a day or two after this same Frustrated Writer had a go at a blogging editor whom I consider a personal friend. Previously, this same frustrated writer had posted another thinly-veiled attack on another respected agent.

You see where this is going?

Frustrated Writer has now publicly attacked three well-liked and respected publishing professionals. Now, I don't imagine these three professionals are gossips, but they don't need to be. Several other professionals have weighed into the mosh pit in defence of their colleagues. Because their colleagues are well-liked and respected, those other professionals will be very pissed off on their behalf. And they will all talk about it to other colleagues, and so on and so on throughout the industry. What's more, they will all remember for a very long time.

So what do you think the chances are of Frustrated Writer even getting a sniff of an offer of representation or a contract? Approximately nil, I'd say. They could write a novel that combines all the commercial appeal of the Da Vinci Code with the artistic value of Crime and Punishment, and they would never sell it.

And it's not just because they offended some well-liked and respected publishing professionals. It's also because all publishing professionals choose the authors they want to work with based not just on the quality of writing, but on how that author behaves. If an author is rude, arrogant, stupid, and/or showing signs of mental instability on a public blog, it's a pretty safe bet they're going exhibit those traits in their working relationships too. And who wants to work with somebody like that?

Incidentally, I'm not going to post a link to Frustrated Writer's diatribes because (a) I don't want to fuel their attention-seeking fire, (b) I don't want Frustrated Writer following the trail back here and stinking up my blog with their hateful crap, and (c) there's a good chance you've already seen it.

Yesterday, I posted the following question on Twitter: Is there anything more pathetic than a bitter wannabe writer who blames the "gatekeepers" for their lack of publication?

It didn't stay up very long because my good friend Betsy pointed out that it could sound more than a little snotty coming from someone who's been as fortunate as I have over the last two years. And Betsy was absolutely right, it was a very glib comment, so I removed it. I've reposted it here because I want to expand on it a little.

I've been incredibly lucky in my writing career so far. I got my share of rejections, and I have one-and-three-quarter novels stored away that'll never see daylight. But I didn't struggle for years and years, manuscript after manuscript, rejection slip after rejection slip. I know some excellent writers who have. I also know some writers who have been published, by major houses no less, but have found themseles used, abused, chewed up and spat out again with their novels never having been given a fair chance. I even know some writers who blog publicly about those experiences, don't sugar-coat it, and point out the flaws in what everybody knows is a far-from-perfect industry. But they don't get personal, they don't indulge in bitter rants, and they don't come off as borderline psychotic fools by announcing that their work is simply too artistically challenging for bottom-line obsessed publishers.

In other words, they don't act like dicks. So that's my tip for all aspiring writers in 2010. As well as all the usual write lots, rewrite more, get critique, keep trying and so on and so on, that's my current top tip for success: Don't be a dick.

My Blog Marathon is Over

I have now fulfilled my commitment to blogging every day up to publication. I think I did pretty well, all things considered. I only missed one day, and that was because I just plain forgot. And this post compensates for that one, seeing as I'm not really obliged to blog today. And I don't think the content of my posts was too bad. Sure, there were some fillers, but there were also some more substantial efforts.

Anyway, the purpose of this post is just to share a couple more photos. The first is from my joint launch with John Connolly at No Alibis last week. Can you tell it was a rather warm evening? Can you tell I was on my third beer?



And the next is to illustrate what being Waterstone's Irish book of the month looks like (courtesy of Keith at the Lisburn branch):



Incidentally, at the time of writing, THE TWELVE is at #265 in Amazon.co.uk's sales rank, #34 in Crime/Thrillers/Mystery, and #21 in the Mystery subcategory. Which is nice (waves at Aerin). :)

Update: Make that #237, #31 and #18. Which is even nicer.

Publication Day (and a little clarification)

So I got published today. Which is nice.

To be honest, today was a little bit like birthdays are when you get past thirty. It's a day much like any other, but you know there's a milestone at the back of your mind, that today isn't really like other days. But you still have cornflakes for breakfast, and you still get annoyed cos your internet isn't fast enough, and so on. My epiphany moment was last Friday when I first saw the books on the shelf at my local Eason's, so in my mind, publication day was really last week.

Anyway, on to a small bit of housekeeping...

During yesterday evening's interview on Radio Ulster, and at my reading at Lisburn Library (which was fun, by the way), I was questioned about who the characters in THE TWELVE were based on.

The truthful answer is this: NOBODY.

THE TWELVE is a work of fiction, and no major characters are based on anyone real (see caveat below). When I said as much yesterday and today, the questioners scoffed somewhat, said that obviously, this character was based on (insert name of prominent public figure here).

No they weren't.

I did base some of the characters on archetypes. There are certain kinds of people that exist in Northern Ireland, and I did use those broad groups as the basis for some characters.

For instance, there's a lawyer who makes his money defending people he knows to be guilty, but publicly describes himself as a "human rights lawyer". There are many lawyers here who do just that. The character is based on them collectively, and not any one individual. Just because a reader makes a comparison between the portrayed archetype and someone they know who fits that archetype, doesn't mean the character is based on them.

Another example is a British politician. On the page, he performs two roles: one, to frame the events of the book in a wider political context, and two, to provide some comic relief from the relentless darkness throughout the rest of the book. He regards his administrative role in Northern Ireland as a poison chalice, the job that no one else wants. He is an archetype, and one every citizen of Northern Ireland will recognise in every Secretary of State we've ever had. But he is not based on any of them (he's not even the Secretary, but rather his assistant), even though people are jumping to conclusions.

Likewise, there's a character who is based on the archetypal rural gangster. There are many such people who make their money in similar ways and live in similar places. The character portrayed is an archetype. Again, just because there's someone you're aware of that fits that mould, it doesn't mean the character is based on them. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of people who could match that archetype. The character in the book is not based on a single one of them.

So there.

I guess the lesson in all this is that readers will bring their own preconceptions to a piece of fiction; they'll see the things that they want to see in it. For instance, I am constantly surprised that some readers are quite adamant that Gerry Fegan's spectres are merely psychological manifestations of his own guilt, while others are positive they are supernatural. Even when the book shows their true nature in the closing pages, some readers will stick to their orginal assumption - in other words, they find what they want to see reflected in this mirror, regardless of what's really there.

About that caveat...

I did base a couple of minor characters on real people. They are blink-and-you'll-miss-them roles modelled on people I actually know, but as it turned out, the people in question didn't think it was the jolly jape I thought it was. In fact, they were pretty offended. There's a lesson there too, kids...

Twas the Night Before Publication...

Tomorrow, I will be officially published. I'm pretty sure I won't feel much different tomorrow than I do today; I've kind of had my epiphany moment when I first saw my book on the shelves of my local Eason's. I have no real observatiions to make, I'm afraid. Instead, here is an interview that was broadcast on BBC Radio Ulster earlier this evening:

Interview with Marie-Louise Muir on Arts Extra.

On an entirely unrelated note, I went to see Jeff Beck play at the Ulster Hall last night. It was one of the greatest concerts I have ever been to, despite the best efforts of a bouncer who interrupted Jeff's performance of, and the audience's pin-drop-silent attention to, Where Were You (an extremely difficult piece that I imagine requires Mr. Becks absolute concentration) by shouting at the audience members not to take photos. An arsehole, who deserves to be fired by the Ulster Hall's management.

Anyway, not only is Jeff Beck one of the greatest living electric guitarists, if not the best, he also has one the most extraordinary jazz-fusion bands behind him. Note the extraordinary Tal Wilkenfeld, who despite appearances is a little older than fifteen, and an incredible bassist:

Blog vs BBQ

I was intending on blogging properly about my launch night, honestly, but fate has intervened in the form of a surprise invite to a barbecue with some good friends, namely James and Louise, and their two little ones.

As an aside, the topic of my musical background came up in conversation with David Torrans of No Alibis the other night, so I thought I might share a piece here. It's an acoustic fingerstyle tune that I named after my friends' first born:

Baby Asa (mp3)

A Day in the Life

This post is inspired by a comment from Aerin Bender-Stone over at Facebook where she asked what a typical day is like for me as a writer.

Now, I'll preface this by saying I'm not really a full time writer. I've still got a web design and print business, but I've taken a leave of absence while I work on the sequel to THE TWELVE. Up to about two weeks ago, I had my days mostly free for writing, and one of those days would go like this:

Get up, ablutions, feed self.

Switch on computer, check emails.

Deal with any day job stuff that needs attention.

Check a few blogs etc.

Fire up iTunes, select some music.

Start writing.

Occasionally pause to research on the fly, for example, how to chamber a round on a Glock 17, what engine sizes do Audi A4s come in, check Belfast layout on Google Maps (the new Street View thing is fantastic...)

Also occasionally pause to answer email, or (if I'm procrastinating) check Twitter and Facebook for something desperately important I might have missed.

Also occasionally pause to play some guitar.

All that up to lunch time, at which point I have a healthy meal of salad and whole grain pulses with water - or possibly a big fat sandwich with a bag of crisps and a can of coke. Actually, more often the latter.

After lunch, back to the computer, indulge in some pointless web browsing, then back to some writing - though usually it's not that fruitful, and the best stuff was done before lunch.

And then finish up for the day and watch one of the late repeats of Deal or No Deal.

Exciting, eh?

I've been rather surprised to find my most productive writing time is indeed the morning, because I am most definitely not a morning person. The last novel was written almost entirely at night. I still find the time between 9:00pm and 1:00am good if I'm able to sit down and concentrate, but I'm also finding the three hours between 10:00am and 1:00pm very good for writing. In fact, as often as not, if things are flowing I'll wind up working on and having a late lunch.

Problem is, all of this is rather dependent on being able to maintain a routine. Since I began my sabbatical, I've still been going into the office one day a week to catch up with stuff, so that day's out. And since the publicity machine kicked in at the start of this month, any notion of a routine has evaporated. As I said in an earlier blog, publicity tends to come at you in fits and starts, and is almost always last minute. I'd say over the last two weeks, I've maybe had three or four days clear to write. But that goes with the territory, and I'm just going to have to figure out a way to adapt to that.

Anyway, in keeping with the title of this post, here's the great Jeff Beck performing his version of the Beatles' A Day in the Life. I'll be going to see Mr. Beck in Belfast just a day or two before THE TWELVE is published, meaning I'll fulfil two lifelong dreams in one week. Which is nice.

The Politics of THE TWELVE

In recent days I have been answering questions about the politics of THE TWELVE. I suppose that was inevitable, given the nature of the story, its setting, and its characters. As I stated in an earlier post, I never intended THE TWELVE as a polemic. It was just a thriller that happened to be set against Northern Ireland's peace process. But everything in Northern Ireland is political, so there's no escaping the issues that have dogged this country since its inception.

I won't go into the background of the novel's setting; there's plenty of material out there on the Troubles. A lot of the information online is inaccurate, substituting fact for opinion, speculation and omitted truth. One only need read a few pages on Wikipedia to see how distorted some of the truth is, but if you read enough, you should get an idea. Revisionism is something we'll have to live with here, as people on all sides cherry pick history to present the version best suited to their own agendas.

Many will use these narrow windows on the past to justify the actions of certain individuals and organisations, whether they are politicians, security force personnel or paramilitaries. If there's a political thrust to THE TWELVE, it's this: the violence was never justifiable. Republicans may argue that armed struggle was the only way to achieve change in an unjust society. I would argue that the use of violence held back societal reform by decades, while the republican leadership used the blood of this country to grease its way to power. Loyalists may argue that their actions were necessary to protect their people from the aggression of insurgents and a hostile neighbour state. I would argue that the greatest threat to ordinary loyalist people is those same loyalist paramilitaries who to this day continue to leech off their own communities.

What I fear history will overlook is that whatever social conditions provided the kindling for the Troubles, it was the personal agendas of individuals on both sides of the divide that made the spark to ignite the conflict. Those individuals created and perpetuated a war to satisfy their greed for power, status and wealth, and when the war became untenable, they reaped the rewards of the peace process that followed. I don't think that's news to anybody here in Northern Ireland, yet we go out and vote for them election after election anyway.

A point that was raised by two of my beta readers when they reviewed early drafts of the novel was this: why did the ghosts (if they are indeed ghosts, rather than figments of the protagonist's guilt-driven imagination) have no names? The reason for this was simple. The victims of the Troubles, mostly civilians despite what paramilitary apologists would have you believe, are by and large nameless. I'm sure most of us can recall some names, perhaps from particularly notorious cases, or maybe people we actually knew who were caught up in the conflict. I would struggle to name more than a handful of people who lost their lives here. The rest have been washed away by time to become just numbers, lost among more than 3500 such people, now remembered only by those who loved them. Sadly, that number continues to grow in our supposedly peaceful utopia.

A line from John Hewitt's The Bloody Brae is quoted by one of THE TWELVE's characters: God forgives all soldiers. Perhaps that's true. This society certainly seems to have done so, but more out of political expediency than compassion for those who were manipulated into committing terrible sins by the politicians of all hues now dividing up the cake at Stormont. And I, like everybody else, can live with that. It seems a price worth paying if it means my children, should I ever have any, can grow up in a happier place than I did. It doesn't mean it's without pain, though.

Like I said, THE TWELVE was not written to make any political point. It was written as an entertainment, a thriller that will hopefully keep you turning pages into the small hours. If it achieves that simple purpose, then I will be very happy. But all fiction has themes, whether overtly expressed or not. And whether I like it or not, these themes are present in the novel. You can make of them what you will, because really, I just want to scare the crap out of you.

The Best Thing About Being A Writer Is...

On Wednesday, Betsy Dornbusch (aka Sex Scenes at Starbucks) made her 1000th blog post. I'm very flattered that it featured a review of THE TWELVE (which incidentally got its first Amazon review today - five stars, thanks for asking). I was going to use a link to Betsy's piece yesterday to fulfil my once-a-day obligation, but that was waylaid by the arrival of the actual finished book in the mail.

In yesterday's post I may have given the impression that finally reaching the milestone of clutching my own published novel in my sweaty hands was somehow anticlimactic. That wasn't what I meant to say; it was such a big moment for me that I took the book straight to my mum's house where she and my sister and I all sat around and adored it. Since yesterday, the book has rarely been more than two feet away from me as I carry it from room to room. In fact, I think the only room it hasn't entered is the bathroom.

What I meant to put across is that this wonderful event has been preceded by a string of wonderful events. There was the thrill of finishing the novel's first draft, then the thrill of finding my beta readers actually liked it, then the thrill of realising I could make it better, then the thrill of my beta readers liking it even more, then the huge thrill of being approached by a top agent, then the even more huge thrill of said agent offering representation, then... you see where I'm going with this? Everything that happened between first deciding to write this novel and finally holding it in my hands has been a series of intensifying wonderments. It was not a stark transition, a flip, between being an aspiring writer with an idea, and a published writer with a physical book. It was a two year marathon, with the occasional stumble along the way.

It doesn't make this singular event in my life any less of a landmark - it's just that it's in the context of a string of landmarks that got me here.

Which brings me back to the start of this post, and indeed its title. I thought a little bit about what the best thing about being a published writer is. Fame and fortune are, alas, still distant dreams, so they're out to start with. The sense of achievement is one highlight, certainly, and that comes at all stages, from having a particularly good writing session to signing the contract. Receiving compliments from readers is wonderful, and my vanity will most likely ensure I never tire of it. The sheer joy of bringing the strands of a plot together to form something you hadn't anticipated is another great part of it.

The biggest thing, though, is very personal. And it's going to sound mawkish and sentimental. The best thing about being a writer is all the friends I've made, from the earliest days of sending stuff out for critique, up to being published and the other writers I've met as a result, some of them big names, who have turned out to be very nice people. I suppose I use the term 'friend' loosely, in that some are really no more than friendly acquaintances, and some are people I've only exchanged emails or blog comments with. But as a whole, the number and variety of people I've come to know over the last two years in the greatest reward for the work I've put into this.

I won't go into naming names - you all know who you are. But I will single out Betsy as being my earliest and best writer friend, because she symbolises the whole experience for me.

You may now all call be a great big wuss.

The Dream We All Dream Of: My book is here!

Today I had planned to post a link to a wonderful review on a dear friend's blog, but that has been postponed for one day due to...

A FINISHED COPY OF THE TWELVE!

I was out on an errand this morning, and came home to find a padded envelope stuffed into my letterbox. It had a Harvill Secker address label attached. It was quite bulky. It was approximately the size and shape of a trade paperback book. I tore it open, and this was inside:



Isn't it pretty? And just in case that angle doesn't suit you, here's another:



The design of the whole book is wonderful, including the dual texture laminate (my name and the title are glossy, while the rest is matte) and the colour inside covers. At the front are a few of the great quotes I've been blessed with:



And in the back, there's my ugly mug, floating menacing in space over my bio. One omission is that they neglected to credit the photo to my business partner, Greg Haire. Anyway, it looks like this:



So this is it. The summit to which we all aspire. My own published novel, in my hands. And how does that feel?

Strange. And cool. But mostly strange.

I hope another recently published author, Cindy Pon, might chip in on the following point. I'm curious to know if her experience is similar to mine. Anyway, the point is: Holding the book in my hand wasn't the earth-shattering, life-altering, choirs-of-angels-sing-while-the-world-is-bathed-in-white-light moment I thought it might have been two years ago. Don't get me wrong, it's a truly wonderful feeling, but ever since bagging my agent, the journey to this stage has been a long series of victories, and the occasional defeat. There wasn't one definable moment where I crossed the threshold between hope and actuality. Rather it has been a steady climb to this place where I can call myself an honest-to-God published author.

It's still bloody good, though.

Friday Night in Belfast: Good Times at No Alibis

Friday night past was one of the best evenings I've had for a very long time. Due to a string of coincidences and a special alignment of the planets, my agent Nat Sobel and his lovely wife Judith Weber happened to be in Belfast on the same day that Colin Bateman launched his latest novel, MYSTERY MAN, at No Alibis on Botanic Avenue. Nat and Judith had been touring Ireland for most of the previous two weeks, driving almost the entirety of its coastline from Dublin to the south, then up the west coast to the north. Unfortunately it rained constantly, but again due to sheer blind luck, the skies cleared for their visit to Belfast.

I met Nat and Judith at the Crown Liquor Saloon, opposite the Europa Hotel (Europe's most bombed hotel, fact fans) on Great Victoria Street. The Crown is a Belfast landmark and a must-see for anyone visiting the city, and after a quick drink there we strolled towards Botanic Avenue and No Alibis while we talked about the city and its recent history.

We were welcomed at No Alibis by its excellent proprietor, David Torrans, and the man himself, Colin Bateman. This was the first time Colin and I had met in person, and I'm happy to report he's a thoroughly nice chap, even if he has an irrational aversion to jazz. The reading was a resounding success with the shop filled to bursting. And who says humour doesn't travel? Nat and Judith, both native New Yorkers, just about bust a gut laughing with the rest of us at Colin's unique brand of Ulster comedy. Comedy is, of course, one of the hardest things to pull off in a novel, but Mr. Bateman showed us all how it was done, and his delivery in front of an audience is something to behold if you ever get the chance. Although Colin Bateman is easily Northern Ireland's most successful novelist, and he's a big name throughout Europe, his profile in the USA isn't high. With MYSTERY MAN being picked up by Richard & Judy for the summer season, I think that could be about to change; my American friends, keep your eye out for this book.

Another coincidence is that Mystery Man is in fact set in a crime bookshop on Botanic Avenue called No Alibis. David Torrans is absolutely insistent that the novel's narrator is not him. Regardless, I know David and his fantastic independent bookshop left a big impression on Nat and Judith, especially the great success he'd made of the reading. Nat was truly delighted to see not only an independent bookshop thriving in such turbulent times, but also the great support of the people of Belfast. He positively marveled at the turnout, and the queues of fans waiting for Mr. Bateman to sign their books. So well done to David Torrans and all at No Alibis - it takes some doing to wow a hardened publishing veteran like Nat Sobel, but you certainly did it. Roll on the 15th of May when American thriller scribe Michael Connelly comes to town, which will be another triumph for David.

After the event, Nat and Judith departed for their hotel. I stayed on at No Alibis to get a pint and a catch-up with the man behind Crime Scene NI, Gerard Brennan. To my delight it turned out that John Connolly also happened to be in the audience, so the evening wound up with John, Colin, Gerard, David and I heading out for dinner and drinks. Good food, good beer and good company; our conversation was polite and wholesome and involved absolutely no dirty jokes or swearing. Honest. *cough*

And finally...

I'm just a couple of entries away from my 200th blog post and I'd like to make it a special occasion. As I've previously posted, I have in my possession an advance copy of James Ellroy's latest, BLOOD'S A ROVER. So for my 200th post, I'm going to write a special essay about the new book (over and above a straight review, which I hope to supply to the aforementioned Gerard Brennan when I've finished reading it). What I will say for now is that Blood's a Rover is a most surprising novel. I had wondered if it would be closer in style to AMERICAN TABLOID or THE COLD SIX THOUSAND, and on first impression it was the former. But as I sink deeper into Ellroy's intoxicating murk, I'm beginning to realise it's like neither. It marks a departure for Ellroy in many ways, but the greatest is its tenderness; don't worry, Ellroy hasn't gone soppy on us, but where I am now in the book, it's exhibiting something his previous works could be described as lacking: a human heart.

Oh, and here's little tidbit for Ellroy fans: after the upcoming memoir focusing on Ellroy's relationships with women (apparently turned in hot on the heels of BLOOD'S A ROVER), his next work of fiction will travel back in time to 1948 Los Angeles and feature a certain Irish cop who loomed large over THE BIG NOWHERE, LA CONFIDENTIAL and WHITE JAZZ...

The Twelve Now On Sale - sort of

I was surprised to find a proof copy of The Twelve for sale on eBay today. These are so thin on the ground my agent wasn't even able to get a hold of copies to send to the translators for the foreign editions. I can't even get hold of one to send to a blogging friend for review. The one copy I have, I had to steal that back off my mum just so I could do a reading.

I think I'll bid on it myself. I'm not kidding.

A Breakthrough, and a Lesson Learned

After last week's angst over the difficult sophomore novel, I have hopefully made a breakthrough. Just airing the problem seems to have helped a great deal, as tends to be the way. Unusually for me, taking the more structured approach of mapping out the plot on index cards made all the difference. And a couple big twists presented themselves in the process, so a win all round.

And a lesson learned...

Be very careful about basing minor characters on people you know. They might not find it as cool as you do. In fact, they might find it upsetting and offensive. Let's chalk that one up to experience, shall we?

A Thank You

A quick post to say thank you to everyone who rallied around after my last post and gave me a series of pep talks. There were some very kind things said, and I'm grateful.

Meeting the problem face-to-face seems to have helped, as it always does. I've always been a seat-of-the-pants writer, so sitting down and mapping things out on index cards goes against my nature, but I gave it a go. And what do you know, it threw up some new plot twists that just shifted this whole thing into a whole new gear. And that includes one twist I didn't see coming that's going to be a real gut-wrench, and have implications for at least one more book to come, and possibly more.

So, back to the coalface.

Thanks again.

The Difficult Second Album

I've been threatening to blog about this for a while now, so here it is: I have the Second Book Blues.

Where The Twelve/The Ghosts of Belfast was written incredibly quickly, Book Two is proving a struggle. Seriously, it's like pulling teeth trying to write this thing. And why is that?

There are lots of reasons. Some are practicalities, such as the story being much more complex and less linear, with a larger cast of characters. Another is the problem of having less available time in which to write (and that situation is only getting worse).

But I think the greater obstacles are psychological. For one, there is now a deadline, a date on the calendar for which I am contractually obliged to have this book written for. A while ago, it seemed a lifetime away. Now it feels like it's right around the corner, a problem that's exacerbated by the first book's publication and the attendant hoopla standing between me and there. This means a new ingredient that has never been in the writing process for me before: pressure.

Another aspect to this is the knowledge that this book will be published. The first book was written purely on hope, with nothing to lose but time. It didn't matter if it was any good or not at the time it was being written, so out it came, unhindered. Not so book two. Every single word I write, I know seasoned publishing professionals are going to scrutinise. My agent, my UK and US publishers. This leads to deepening of the already niggling insecurities. What if they find out the first book was a fluke? What if they discover I'm a fraud, that I was never any good in the first place? So now I'm constantly second-guessing myself as I write. And what does that make? More pressure.

Then on top of all that, there's the anxiety of Book One's looming publication. I've had more than one sleepless night about that already. What if it doesn't sell? What if it gets panned? What will my friends and family think if it all fizzles out, dies a death just as it enters the world? And yet more pressure.

I take comfort from knowing that I am not alone in this. A couple of the seasoned professionals mentioned above have told me it's not uncommon to have a hard time with book two. As one told me, I had all my life to write Book One. Now I've got to write Book Two in just a few months. That makes me feel a little better.

And before anyone else raises the point, I know this sounds like whining. I know many writers would give just about anything to have the opportunities I've had. I don't take any of them for granted. But still, it's tough.

Recent Events in Northern Ireland

I've just returned from a fantastic trip to New York, a city so far removed from where I grew up in every conceivable way that it seemed like some make-believe place when I was a kid. I met some wonderful people, ate food whose names I can't remember, and felt like Jimmy the Biscuit because I gave a pretty waitress a stupidly generous tip (there was drink taken, you understand, and she flirted very well).

In all this splendour, I checked the news from home. Two soldiers shot dead over the weekend as they took delivery of pizza, and the Polish immigrant workers who delivered the pizza were injured (the Real IRA, who carried out the attack, claim justification because the delivery men were servicing agents of the British state - you couldn't make it up). On arriving back in my home town I heard further news that a police officer had been murdered last night as he attended an emergency call from a distressed woman.

Quite a come down.

Gerard Brennan expressed it very well here. And that feeling is shared by the vast majority of people here. But the vast majority isn't enough. There has been much debate over whether or not the actions of paramilitaries in Northern Ireland, republican or loyalist, could be understood (or even condoned) given the social, political and historical context of the times. I won't go into that other than to say I know where I stand, and anyone who reads THE TWELVE/THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST will be left in little doubt of my feelings on the issue.

But today, this week, this month, this year, this decade, this century, there can be no case argued for this kind of mindless killing. And if somehow you can make a case for it, then you are a sad, twisted individual, and you have my pity.

Annus Mirabilis: 2008 in Review

This New Year’s Eve I find myself incapacitated by strained metatarsal tissue in my left foot (my resolution to get fit for 2009 kind of backfired on me), so before I embark on an experiment to record the combined effects of painkillers, beer and cider on the human body, I thought I’d take a look back over the most extraordinary year of my life so far.

2008 started well for me as a writer. My flash fiction piece OPENING TIME appeared in the January 3rd edition of Every Day Fiction. In a case of serendipity, that story was inspired by injuring my right foot in exactly the same way my left foot is right now. I parked outside my local off-licence and waited for them to open so I could buy a bag of ice to apply to said foot. While I sat there, a small huddle of men in shabby clothes gathered to buy their day’s alcohol. Read the story and you’ll see what I’m on about.

A few days ago, I happened upon my horoscope for 2008. It said January 25th, my birthday, would bring good news that would have extraordinary consequences for the rest of the year and beyond. I’m a hardened sceptic when it comes to such matters, but it just so happens that January 25th was the day I received word my story THE LAST DANCE had been selected for the February edition of ThugLit. Naturally, I was delighted, but I had no clue as to the series of events that would follow.

I won’t go into it all again. Anyone who reads this blog, or knows me at all, has already heard the story. All I can say is I have been blessed with the most incredible luck this year as far as my writing goes, and I still struggle to believe it myself. It’s the kind of scenario every writer fantasises about, but no one thinks can actually happen. Not in the real world. I made an offhad quip to a journalist just before Christmas that when I was a kid learning guitar, I daydreamed that David Coverdale would somehow hear me play and be so impressed he’d ask me to join Whitesnake, and that was kind of what happened when my agent came across THE LAST DANCE online. I regretted saying it a few days later when the newspaper led with that angle, and so did a radio interviewer, but it is a fair analogy as much as it made me blush when I read back my own words. I really got that lucky.

One point came up in my recent round of interviews: with one exception, I never told my friends or family I was writing. I was too embarrassed. Given the massive odds against success, even if you have any talent, it seems such a ridiculous thing to spend your time on. Even when circumstances forced me to come out as a writer, I did so with a red face. I still cringe when someone I know asks me about this whole book business. But there’s a lesson for all my writing friends who are still chipping away, hoping for their break: It’s not a stupid thing to do, it’s not a waste of time, it’s not a fool’s errand. Keep plugging. 2009 could be your year.

One of 2008’s highlights for me was the Dun Laoghaire crime writers’ weekend at the start of September. This was the first time I’d ever gone anywhere and introduced myself to others as a writer. The nearest equivalent I’d experienced was more than ten years before when I attended a film festival at which a low budget feature I’d written the score for was having its premiere. That was a bad weekend. I found the attendees to be rude and hostile, even those involved in the same production as me. One director ripped up my business card in my face (it said “Stuart Neville, Composer”), and the whole event was defined by cliques and the worst kind of snide jealousy and rivalry. So, when I went to Dun Laoghaire in September, I was braced for a rough ride.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I found the writers in attendance, even though they included some of the biggest names in the business, all welcomed me with the greatest warmth and openness. I had the pleasure of meeting and spending time with John Connolly, Arlene Hunt, Brian McGilloway, Declan Burke and more, and I was delighted to find every single person I encountered friendly and down to earth. Throughout 2008 I have been constantly impressed by how supportive the writing community is, both within Ireland, and internationally. That goes from those just starting their climb to those who have reached the summit, and all those publishing professionals who give so freely of their time to help steer us on our ascent. While writing and the publishing industry is a tough place to be from a business point of view, on a personal level it is the best creative industry I’ve ever been involved in. The coming years will see massive changes in the publishing world, I think everyone accepts that as inevitable now, but I desperately hope the human aspect remains intact.

Since I started blogging in 2006, I’ve made more friends than I can possibly list here. There are many of you to whom I am deeply indebted, and you know who you are. I hope 2009 will be as good for you as 2008 was for me.

Happy New Year!