It's been pointed out to me that I haven't updated this blog in a while. So here I am updating the blog. I had a birthday. I'm a year older. I feel ten years older but I suppose I'll never have to go back to being 40 again, the worst year of my life.
It was a quiet affair: I cooked Duck Montmorency for family and friends, and drank some wine. It was necessarily sedate. These people had jobs to go to in the morning. Spent the morning strolling around Stormount with Kelly's family and Maggie the dog, who took it upon herself to display a previously not hinted at death-wish, hurtling with a clang and a yelp into an electricity meter and, through successive bouts of self-harm, bleeding prodigiously from her drooling mouth. She looked as though she had just savaged a kindergarten group before limping off back to the lab like Zoltan: Hound of Dracula.
The other big news is, I suppose, the publication of my book. The "sort of" publication of my book. I finally released the damn thing through Jottify and the next day Jack, the Jottify boss, contacted me directly, asking me if I wanted to be the flag-ship publication for Jottify's first sortie into the world of direct sales. Or rather sales from somewhere people might have heard of.
I've sold twenty five books on Jottify. That may be the glass ceiling. I suspect I've sold many more on Amazon, as the book, briefly, went top ten. I was unable to maintain that position however. Which was fine. I have, at this point, no way of knowing how many books have been sold or how much money I've made. Who knows: I might be a hundredaire!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
An advert I endorse...
So it seems that I alone can see the adverts on here. Probably some sort of booze-related, itchy-skinned gremlin. That's okay then. I'm used to that. However, here is an advert...well...for me!
The Narwhal and other stories.
By guysmiley
Price: £2.99
This portmanteau of stories deals with the unknown, of the howling chaos that we insulate ourselves against, with our mortgages, our satellite television packages and our celebrity cellulite obsessions. John Patrick Higgins’ occultism is never hidden. His monsters are on the street where you live: doctors, business men and work colleagues; grey-faced invisibles and quotidian killers. These are paranoid tales where the ultimate fear is that of being found out, of being taken to task, of not getting away with it. There are no soft landings for his protagonists; the best that they can hope for is a stay of execution, a phone-call from the governor that never comes.
In “temp” the titular office worker discovers exactly how far his new company will go to stay ahead of the pack.
“The Narwhal” presents us with a city boy who pays a heavy price for both his vanity and his giant, robotic penis.
In “Something old, something blue” hapless club comedian, Jimmy Gemini finds that an accidental death propels him to the top of his profession.
“The Rum Barbers” sees a library book on sympathetic magic used in a turf war between two South London hairdressers.
All of these stories find people attempting to use a power that they don’t understand and suffering for that ignorance.
In “Ding, Dong, Dell” an interior designer discovers the bones of a child under the floor of a stately home that she is refurbishing.
And “A Cup of Cold Sick” remains a disturbingly literal title.
There is a morbid uncertainty at play, a notion that nothing is yours and that everything can be taken away from you at a moment’s notice. And you won’t know why because you don’t know the rules.
John Patrick Higgins makes every day feel like your first day at big school. He throws you in the swimming pool with your shoes on. Here’s to that sinking feeling.
- Guy Smiley, North Hampshire.
This ebook is compatible with almost all ereader devices including the Apple iPad, Amazon Kindle and Sony Ereader
Word count: 19,882
Download a free sample of this book
Click here to submit your review.
The Narwhal and other stories.
By guysmiley
Price: £2.99
This portmanteau of stories deals with the unknown, of the howling chaos that we insulate ourselves against, with our mortgages, our satellite television packages and our celebrity cellulite obsessions. John Patrick Higgins’ occultism is never hidden. His monsters are on the street where you live: doctors, business men and work colleagues; grey-faced invisibles and quotidian killers. These are paranoid tales where the ultimate fear is that of being found out, of being taken to task, of not getting away with it. There are no soft landings for his protagonists; the best that they can hope for is a stay of execution, a phone-call from the governor that never comes.
In “temp” the titular office worker discovers exactly how far his new company will go to stay ahead of the pack.
“The Narwhal” presents us with a city boy who pays a heavy price for both his vanity and his giant, robotic penis.
In “Something old, something blue” hapless club comedian, Jimmy Gemini finds that an accidental death propels him to the top of his profession.
“The Rum Barbers” sees a library book on sympathetic magic used in a turf war between two South London hairdressers.
All of these stories find people attempting to use a power that they don’t understand and suffering for that ignorance.
In “Ding, Dong, Dell” an interior designer discovers the bones of a child under the floor of a stately home that she is refurbishing.
And “A Cup of Cold Sick” remains a disturbingly literal title.
There is a morbid uncertainty at play, a notion that nothing is yours and that everything can be taken away from you at a moment’s notice. And you won’t know why because you don’t know the rules.
John Patrick Higgins makes every day feel like your first day at big school. He throws you in the swimming pool with your shoes on. Here’s to that sinking feeling.
- Guy Smiley, North Hampshire.
This ebook is compatible with almost all ereader devices including the Apple iPad, Amazon Kindle and Sony Ereader
Word count: 19,882
Download a free sample of this book
Click here to submit your review.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Writer, writing
Am off out to review a play tonight. "Cooking with Elvis" by Lee Hall, famous writer of "Billy Elliot" but this appears to be a very different kettle of cheese, routinely being compared to Joe Orton's work. I'm doing it for Culture N.I. and, oddly, it's at the end of its run rather than the beginning meaning that my opinion won't sway anybody in any direction.
Which is fine.
The Postman rang my doorbell this morning and in my eagerness to open the door I snapped the key in the lock. It fell apart between my powerful fingers with ridiculous ease. Two boozeless weeks of careful eating have turned me into a superhero. A superhero locked in his house. I had to ring a crabby and hungover Dee Mullan to come and let me out. If I hadn't given her the spare I would be stuck in here still, starving to death, and admiring my slender figure.
The postman was delivering a DVD of "Stewart Lee : 90s Comedian" as my desperate man-crush continues to the extent that I'm currently writing a piece slagging him off in a fair imitation of his pedantic stage manner. It's a twisted love letter really. He is basically my avatar in an immersive* video game called "Look at what you could've won".
Which is fine.
The Postman rang my doorbell this morning and in my eagerness to open the door I snapped the key in the lock. It fell apart between my powerful fingers with ridiculous ease. Two boozeless weeks of careful eating have turned me into a superhero. A superhero locked in his house. I had to ring a crabby and hungover Dee Mullan to come and let me out. If I hadn't given her the spare I would be stuck in here still, starving to death, and admiring my slender figure.
The postman was delivering a DVD of "Stewart Lee : 90s Comedian" as my desperate man-crush continues to the extent that I'm currently writing a piece slagging him off in a fair imitation of his pedantic stage manner. It's a twisted love letter really. He is basically my avatar in an immersive* video game called "Look at what you could've won".
Monday, 16 May 2011
"Ah what have I written? Thoughts suitable to a sanitorium"
After being bullied by friends I am now trying to write a proper "Short Story". I have the idea and about two hundred words. And then I hit a wall. It's very hard to write "properly". Most of the things I write as pastiche or at least from a recognisable pool of references. That's the clay that I shape and breathe life into. I used to think there was an extra value in being able to make something vibrant and valid out of genre cliches. And also it was a handy way into making sure everybody was happy: that guy's wearing a trenchcoat and hat, smoking branded cigarettes and carrying an old service revolver. Ah, it's that kind of story!
But this, this new thing I'm trying, well it's more difficult than that. At first you have to write bad poetry and then you dismantle the bad poetry, while keeping the sense of the bad poetry. You take a toffee-hammer to the words, then a flat-iron, then super-heat them and try and stretch them out, pulling them taut over the gaffes and gaps between what you're saying and what you're trying to say. It rips and tears and exposes whole new areas of incompetence that you thought had patched over years ago. Eventually the whole thing unravels in your hands like an ill-advised pet. And you're left with a sort of word gumbo. Poke at it, with a stick. It just sits there, congealing.
Like being laughed at by a plate of sick.
But this, this new thing I'm trying, well it's more difficult than that. At first you have to write bad poetry and then you dismantle the bad poetry, while keeping the sense of the bad poetry. You take a toffee-hammer to the words, then a flat-iron, then super-heat them and try and stretch them out, pulling them taut over the gaffes and gaps between what you're saying and what you're trying to say. It rips and tears and exposes whole new areas of incompetence that you thought had patched over years ago. Eventually the whole thing unravels in your hands like an ill-advised pet. And you're left with a sort of word gumbo. Poke at it, with a stick. It just sits there, congealing.
Like being laughed at by a plate of sick.
Friday, 28 January 2011
The lonliness of the long distance writer
Here's a piece wot I wrote for Belfast arts pamphlet "The Vacuum"** for their children's edition. No idea if they ever used it as they didn't see fit to furnish me with a copy, but they said they would use it and frankly I can't imagine that they'd have had anything better to use in its place. There were some drawings that went with it too but I'm far too stupid to work out how to post those on here:
The lonliness of the long distance writer
I am a writer of children’s fiction and as such I crave rejection. I’m lucky in this respect because rejection, and its boon companions: “futile endeavour” and “time not spent in the pub” are the natural and super- abundant reward for the unpublished children’s author.
A novel can take years to write, can frustrate, torture and embarrass. The sending of a novel out into the world is not unlike sending a child off to school for the very first time. The book is nurtured and shaped according to your values and aesthetics; polished and neatened for its first interaction with the outside world and then sent blithely off, in squeaky new shoes and without a backward glance, while you bawl inconsolably at the school gates. This is where the metaphor breaks down however, as unless something has gone disastrously wrong, you should have your child back that same evening, more or less in one piece and none too traumatised by the event.
With your manuscript (solicited or otherwise) you can wait up to six months for any kind of a response. (Though most publishers and agents pride themselves on a three month turnaround) And when that response arrives it will be two or three lines of blandly discouraging guff on letter-headed paper with a looping signature in blue biro.
It may sound tired and jaded, and indeed it is, but my advice to any aspiring writer is: know someone. A friend of the family, a college mate; a de-frocked priest who owes you – anyone who can help you stick your head above the paper parapet. You may not rise to the top of somebody’s teetering slush pile but you will leap like a ticklish salmon over those manuscripts that come without a recommendation.
And there are going to be a lot of manuscripts in a children’s publisher’s slush-pile. This is because everybody thinks they can write a children’s book. Children are idiots, they can barely read! They’ll settle for any old rubbish: a bee with non-stick legs,* a giraffe with whip-lash; a bulimic cow. Stick it in a moralist framework with loads of faux- naïve illustrations and you can herniate your postman with massive royalty cheques.
It’s at this point at I become sickeningly idealistic, so readers of a cynical disposition may wish to look away now. I believe that the best books are children’s books. The best children’s books are full of uncertainties and subversion; little upsets and tiny revolutions. They should be about assessing preconceived values and puncturing facile assumptions. Good children’s fiction is about ideas in a way that almost all adult fiction isn’t. Most adult books are about women shopping and men blowing things up. No books are more beloved, more stark and strange than those you read as a child. None are as closely scrutinised, as learnt, as those you read in your teens. As an adult you don’t have the time and you don’t have the focus – you’re too busy worrying about weight-gain, downsizing and the accumulation of tattoos. A child is a perfect reading machine and to be a children’s author is a privilege, not a right or a fore-gone conclusion. Unless you’re Geri Halliwell.
But unless you get out of that in-tray and not into the recycling it’s never going to happen. Now I’m not saying that publishers are going to throw your manuscript into the recycling. They won’t. And that’s not because publishers are massive eco-squanderers (though they DO get through a lot of trees!) It’s because most publishers won’t accept unsolicited submissions at all. The first defence of the publishing industry, and most people’s only point of contact, is the Literary Agent.
These are the men and women with the address books; literary hustlers who know what sells and who to sell it to. They also have a lot of advice, much of it contradictory and all of it involving a lot of rewriting.
My own book “The Improving Parents”, an everyday story parental oppression and childish revenge, caught the eye of several agencies when I sent out the standard submissions package (three chapters, a letter of introduction, a synopsis and an embarrassingly brief description of my publishing history) and they each asked to see the complete manuscript. None of them have subsequently seen “The Improving Parents” as the 100% solid kid-nip it clearly is or offered me piles of cash. But a few were interested enough to give me notes, advice and actual constructive criticism. The criticism would have me construct the narrative in completely different ways: if one liked the “knowingness” of the dialogue, another asked me to tone it down. If one thought the chapters were rambling and unfocussed another thought them gnomic and tight-lipped. If one was a fan of Eric the protagonist another would prefer his friend Freya. It was all wildly inconsistent and I was wildly grateful!
These people don’t have to do this; I’ve had enough tersely polite notes describing “a lack of enthusiasm” (this is publishing speak for “it stinks like ripe brie in the toe of a work boot”) for my work to really appreciate time spent actually discussing it. They aren’t paid for it; they don’t necessarily stand to gain by it: it really is because they see something in the work. And any advice is good advice; if you have a clear-eyed notion of the value of your work and there is a good idea at the centre of it, then you can bend and stretch it in all sorts of directions. One passing remark from an agent allowed me to re-imagine the entire story, adding narrative twists, layers of meaning, new characters and literally doubling the length of the book! This extra work has made the story a much more viable commercial proposition and made me more confident about sending it out into the world.
So in conclusion: it’s a shitty business, don’t even try and don’t queer my pitch!
*Actually this one’s pretty good – I’m using it.
**I actually had to learn how to spell vacuum before I sent it in. They don't see the human cost.
The lonliness of the long distance writer
I am a writer of children’s fiction and as such I crave rejection. I’m lucky in this respect because rejection, and its boon companions: “futile endeavour” and “time not spent in the pub” are the natural and super- abundant reward for the unpublished children’s author.
A novel can take years to write, can frustrate, torture and embarrass. The sending of a novel out into the world is not unlike sending a child off to school for the very first time. The book is nurtured and shaped according to your values and aesthetics; polished and neatened for its first interaction with the outside world and then sent blithely off, in squeaky new shoes and without a backward glance, while you bawl inconsolably at the school gates. This is where the metaphor breaks down however, as unless something has gone disastrously wrong, you should have your child back that same evening, more or less in one piece and none too traumatised by the event.
With your manuscript (solicited or otherwise) you can wait up to six months for any kind of a response. (Though most publishers and agents pride themselves on a three month turnaround) And when that response arrives it will be two or three lines of blandly discouraging guff on letter-headed paper with a looping signature in blue biro.
It may sound tired and jaded, and indeed it is, but my advice to any aspiring writer is: know someone. A friend of the family, a college mate; a de-frocked priest who owes you – anyone who can help you stick your head above the paper parapet. You may not rise to the top of somebody’s teetering slush pile but you will leap like a ticklish salmon over those manuscripts that come without a recommendation.
And there are going to be a lot of manuscripts in a children’s publisher’s slush-pile. This is because everybody thinks they can write a children’s book. Children are idiots, they can barely read! They’ll settle for any old rubbish: a bee with non-stick legs,* a giraffe with whip-lash; a bulimic cow. Stick it in a moralist framework with loads of faux- naïve illustrations and you can herniate your postman with massive royalty cheques.
It’s at this point at I become sickeningly idealistic, so readers of a cynical disposition may wish to look away now. I believe that the best books are children’s books. The best children’s books are full of uncertainties and subversion; little upsets and tiny revolutions. They should be about assessing preconceived values and puncturing facile assumptions. Good children’s fiction is about ideas in a way that almost all adult fiction isn’t. Most adult books are about women shopping and men blowing things up. No books are more beloved, more stark and strange than those you read as a child. None are as closely scrutinised, as learnt, as those you read in your teens. As an adult you don’t have the time and you don’t have the focus – you’re too busy worrying about weight-gain, downsizing and the accumulation of tattoos. A child is a perfect reading machine and to be a children’s author is a privilege, not a right or a fore-gone conclusion. Unless you’re Geri Halliwell.
But unless you get out of that in-tray and not into the recycling it’s never going to happen. Now I’m not saying that publishers are going to throw your manuscript into the recycling. They won’t. And that’s not because publishers are massive eco-squanderers (though they DO get through a lot of trees!) It’s because most publishers won’t accept unsolicited submissions at all. The first defence of the publishing industry, and most people’s only point of contact, is the Literary Agent.
These are the men and women with the address books; literary hustlers who know what sells and who to sell it to. They also have a lot of advice, much of it contradictory and all of it involving a lot of rewriting.
My own book “The Improving Parents”, an everyday story parental oppression and childish revenge, caught the eye of several agencies when I sent out the standard submissions package (three chapters, a letter of introduction, a synopsis and an embarrassingly brief description of my publishing history) and they each asked to see the complete manuscript. None of them have subsequently seen “The Improving Parents” as the 100% solid kid-nip it clearly is or offered me piles of cash. But a few were interested enough to give me notes, advice and actual constructive criticism. The criticism would have me construct the narrative in completely different ways: if one liked the “knowingness” of the dialogue, another asked me to tone it down. If one thought the chapters were rambling and unfocussed another thought them gnomic and tight-lipped. If one was a fan of Eric the protagonist another would prefer his friend Freya. It was all wildly inconsistent and I was wildly grateful!
These people don’t have to do this; I’ve had enough tersely polite notes describing “a lack of enthusiasm” (this is publishing speak for “it stinks like ripe brie in the toe of a work boot”) for my work to really appreciate time spent actually discussing it. They aren’t paid for it; they don’t necessarily stand to gain by it: it really is because they see something in the work. And any advice is good advice; if you have a clear-eyed notion of the value of your work and there is a good idea at the centre of it, then you can bend and stretch it in all sorts of directions. One passing remark from an agent allowed me to re-imagine the entire story, adding narrative twists, layers of meaning, new characters and literally doubling the length of the book! This extra work has made the story a much more viable commercial proposition and made me more confident about sending it out into the world.
So in conclusion: it’s a shitty business, don’t even try and don’t queer my pitch!
*Actually this one’s pretty good – I’m using it.
**I actually had to learn how to spell vacuum before I sent it in. They don't see the human cost.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Am thinking of writing a new book
That's right - another one. I don't know when i'll get the time to write it but I have had the ideas and preliminary notes have proved very useful and workable. I'm not sure if I'll be revealing details on here for a while but it's good to keep an iron in the fire. Especially if you like hot iron.
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Do the Hustle!
Sent off The Improving Parents as an unsolicited submission to two more agencies today - uber hustler that I am. If recent events have taught me anything, and that's debatable, it's that tempus is a fugitive and I need to be a fat ray-banned Southern Sheriff with two snarling dogs called Killer and Zeke. Like Tom Petty or Halle Berry I'm running down a dream.
Time to flex those hustle muscles: lift, seperate and hyper-extend! feel the books burn!
Time to flex those hustle muscles: lift, seperate and hyper-extend! feel the books burn!
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Back on the 210 again.
So I'm finally in a position to start sending chapters out again. I was doing this with my last novel "The Rain of Terror" only 6 months ago and with what became this book, back when I thought it was a book of short-stories, only three months ago. I dont half crank 'em out me! Sheer panic.
This book is better though, potentially the best thing I've done. It's certainly better than it was as six strange, vaguely related stories about poor parenting skills! Now at least they have a motivation for acting as they do. They fall back into a much larger narrative as the protagonist has new friends and a proper goal. There is an identifiable baddie, satire, parody, sci-fi and poo jokes. It's a lot of slightly subversive fun. It's also the best thing I've done in terms of sureness of tone and appropriateness of language. It's just over 30,000 words, which is short and therefore manageable and above all editable.
I've actually enjoyed editing for the first time and that's a real achievement for me.
And amusing story from Kent.
Last night the police surrounded my brother's house in Broadstairs as a fugitive of some stripe was clambering around on his roof. The hapless suspect was called Aaron. There was a lengthy standoff at the rooftop vigil during which Aaron shouted down "You can't arrest me! You haven't got a warrant!" To which the police replied "You're right Aaron. But we don't need one see cos you're on top of your neighbours roof!"
This book is better though, potentially the best thing I've done. It's certainly better than it was as six strange, vaguely related stories about poor parenting skills! Now at least they have a motivation for acting as they do. They fall back into a much larger narrative as the protagonist has new friends and a proper goal. There is an identifiable baddie, satire, parody, sci-fi and poo jokes. It's a lot of slightly subversive fun. It's also the best thing I've done in terms of sureness of tone and appropriateness of language. It's just over 30,000 words, which is short and therefore manageable and above all editable.
I've actually enjoyed editing for the first time and that's a real achievement for me.
And amusing story from Kent.
Last night the police surrounded my brother's house in Broadstairs as a fugitive of some stripe was clambering around on his roof. The hapless suspect was called Aaron. There was a lengthy standoff at the rooftop vigil during which Aaron shouted down "You can't arrest me! You haven't got a warrant!" To which the police replied "You're right Aaron. But we don't need one see cos you're on top of your neighbours roof!"
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