Category: Life in General

My life in general, off topic.

Greetings from the South West!

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Long time no hear but there’s a good reason for that. We’ve moved… again! It’s been a disruptive few years, but we’re staying put for a long while this time. It’s said moving is one of the most stressful experiences. This time I was so stressed mainly owing to non-information and not knowing whether we were going to have to deal with the uncertainty of being homeless for a few weeks (therefore relying on the kindness of family and friends), I developed a rash ‘often caused by stress’. A joyless diagnosis when all one wants to do is scratch off at least several layers of skin. Yes, this move was hard, but the so was the last one. The actual cause was not the stress of a single move, but all the stress we’ve had for the last four years. I’d love to tell everyone that life has settled down and we’re now completely stress-free. Not the case, but things ‘are’ better. Much better. And during our journey in the evening we travelled to stay with friends for a single night we watched a marvellous sunset.

We’re slowly settling in and decorating as we furnish the rooms. I’ll be happy finally to have wardrobes, but having had one delivery already, I know that will include a significant amount of cardboard. This was just a fraction of our cardboard mountain to date. Not we’ll waste much of it. We’ve recycled most and some will go on the garden as it’s currently resembling more of a bog. On our first ‘expedition’ to a corner, I lost a shoe. We’ll need the cardboard just to walk on the soil and we can also use it as weed matting. It’s the smallest garden we’ve ever owned and I have plans to make it beautiful… eventually. Moving takes time even when you’re finally where you want to be.

On a better note, the first room we completed is my study. We unpacked all the books and shelved them. From today I’m trying to return to something of a routine. I have two books urgently to finish and more edits likely landing in my inbox come May, so now I’ve warmed up my fingers on the keyboard rather than a paintbrush I’d better get to work.

Good News

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First, this will be the last blog for at least two or three weeks. I’m afraid I missed last week owing to ill health and the days ahead are busier than usual… for an excellent reason. When I return, it will be from a new address.

Yes, I’m moving… again! Seems to be all I do in recent years, but after several stressful weeks/months/years even, I’m able to say we’re making a significant move, a life-changing relocation. Providing all goes well, I can even look forward to finally having a study. There’s much to arrange and so I’ll be taking a hoped-for ‘only short’ break, though I’m still trying to finish the Work in Progress, and edits for another release in the ‘Snow Angel’ planned trilogy.

In the meantime, I’m happy to announce that I have a novel accepted for the Lethbridge-Stewart series. No specifics as yet regarding title or release, though it will be later this year. And meanwhile I’ve a short story out in a few weeks–the ‘sleepless nights’ the write-up for Night to Dawn Issue 31 refers to. More news when I have it… and when I’m able to post.

Why ARe’s Closure Matters to All

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Some stopping by may have heard the shocking news of the closure of All Romance Ebooks, otherwise known as ARe. Others may not and that’s why I’m rehashing some details before moving on to explaining why situations like this and the outcome are important to all. The shock comes because of the way the owner, Lori James, dealt with the closure and treated the people who have supported this book distributor and publisher for so long.

Let’s be clear, this isn’t simply another case of a publisher letting down its writers — a situation that is always a blow resonating through and carrying consequences for the industry. This closure affected publishers, writers AND readers. The publishers and writers were incensed and disgusted to be ‘offered’ a fraction of all monies owed, but they were as much if not more concerned for the readers who had extensive libraries stored on ARe, libraries that short notice would never give them the chance to download.

Let’s deal with the closure first. Lawsuit documents reveal Lori James (and I quote from sources) ‘screwed’ her business partner, Barbara Perfetti, who sued James in early 2015, stating claims to which James never responded. In addition, there are only vague references to a decline in business and ‘poor financial forecasts’ to explain the closure, unsupported ‘mutterings’ from a company who reported sales running into the millions in recent years, worked with both publishers and writers, published its own titles, and who claimed more than a million books listed.

But what raises the level of suspicion is the abruptness, the indifference and the blackmailing tactic of the company’s closing ‘offer’, and that, mere days before the closure, James distributed ARe’s advertising rates for 2017. Publishers and writers took out and paid for advertising for 2017, and James ‘accepted’ those payments, knowing full well the announcement to close was to follow. I know because I received the same offer and was one of the fortunate few who did not take out advertising… but my publishers did. To my knowledge, there has been no offer to repay any of those advertising spots. That screams of nothing less than fraud.

ARe wanted to pay 10 cents on the dollar to publishers, an actual blow to those owed thousands (yes, thousands) of dollars. Those publishers needed to pay their own salaries, pay their writers, pay their editors, pay their cover artists and more. It’s been documented and I can confirm, some publishers have contemplated trying to withstand the loss themselves to pay those they owe, but such decisions could put their own companies at risk. James proposed a payment in order to avoid filing for bankruptcy. Sorry to sound flippant, but boohoo. Even if the company is in as large a financial mess as it claims (though it really hasn’t stated specifics) the situation did not arise overnight. And as part of accepting the 10 cent payoff, James stipulated that those who accepted must waver their legal rights to take further action. In short, James stated that the payment may be the only one anyone would see, take it or risk receiving nothing, and in so doing, no one could chase her, no matter what happens to the rest of the takings.

Lori James also hurt the readers. Even after the announcement, books were still up for sale spurring publishers to remove their books from the sites as swiftly as possible. Some succeeded; some did not. James then blocked access so readers could download their libraries and then finally stopped selling more books (as far as I know only after complaints). Readers lost books removed by publishers, but it mattered not as they had insufficient time to download their libraries in just ‘four days’, and may not have even received their notice to do so in time, being that this took place over the Christmas period with the site shutting down on 31st December.

Four days. Everyone got ‘four days’ to download libraries, or to make informed and difficult decisions regarding payment, and this does not even address worthless gift vouchers unlikely ever to receive a refund. Readers should be angry, too.

To those who have contacted some authors saying it’s not a blow to the industry (yes, unbelievably, some have written to authors directly, which is my reason for writing this post as I feel incensed on behalf of others), how many times do writers have to say that what they do is work and it comes with a cost? What part of cover artists want paying does not compute? What part of editors want paying does not sink in? Why are writers not entitled to receive payment for every word they put on the page? The writer only gets a fraction of the cover cost and a fraction of a fraction is nothing. Why is a writer’s time worth nothing to so many?

Publishing at any level is an ‘industry’. It is BUSINESS. The same way the public purchases a cinema ticket, those who wish to read a story need to put down money at the door. And where do those blockbusters we love to sit in darkened cinemas spring from? It’s born from the imagination and talent of a writer and many people helping that spark along the way. There are many behind the scenes whose name and craft the viewer or reader will never know of. They all want and NEED their cut. So do not come out in defence of people like Lori James who treat those they owe with such disregard. Do not claim it doesn’t matter. It very much does. It’s why writers go it alone. It’s why the good works get entangled with the bad and why Indie publishing is a growing threat to traditional publishing. Writers often ‘go it alone’ simply because they feel safer doing so, believe they have more control. In a case like ARe even Indie writers got stung.

Lori James writes under a pen name and no doubt in the future will write under more. I’ll have to be on the lookout in the hope I never put another cent/penny into this woman’s hands. I can’t tell anyone who to read, but I hope their conscience will.

Reads of 2016

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I usually finish the year with a blog looking back over the books I’ve read during the last twelve months. Unfortunately, I didn’t blog last week because I was away without Internet access and so this blog is a few days later and, owing to a tight schedule during 2016, liable to be even more pitiful in the number of books read than the last couple of years. Still, I can’t let the year pass completely without mentioning a few titles.

I read a few light novels at the start of 2016 that aren’t worth listing. In May I opened up Sunfail, by Steven Saville, an espionage tale that’s decidedly plot-driven but which I enjoyed. I’ve seen one review calling it slick, and I agree. I also discovered Nigel Williams, my first read of his being R.I.P. I knew I was going to enjoy this the moment I read the opening line of the blurb: ‘Retired bank manager George Pearmain is, apparently, dead.’ This is a nicely humorous, sardonic read.

Joyland and a few of the Gunslinger Graphic novels were a visit by me to a longstanding writer, Stephen King, followed by a Heart-Shaped Box by his son, Joe Hill. The title caught my attention and mostly I enjoyed the book, but not as much as my 2014 read of Horns. To me, a Heart-Shaped Box started out well but didn’t go dark enough. What started out as a promising scare didn’t quite hold its momentum or its thrills, but it still earns a place on my bookshelves.

I started The Enchantment Emporium, by Tanya Huff while on holiday and was immediately captivated and added this writer to my list, purchasing the following two books to add to my to-be-read mountain. The stories are definitely aimed at women but contain enough various elements to hold my interest — a blend of family issues, romance, and magic. The series had me at ‘Dragons’, of course.

Winter Tales is an anthology I had to check out because it features several writers, including me. I found I was more taken with the stories in the beginning of the book and, therefore, exceedingly happy where they placed mine, but like with every anthology, each reader will have their own preferences. I still like a short story and a selection is always a good way to check out new talent.

The Unquiet was my latest read by John Connolly. Unfortunately, I am behind on his books simply because of that mountain awaiting my attention. I readily admit that. I’ve the next two in said pile.

The Wine of Angels was my first foray into the world of Phil Rickman and his character of Merrily Watkins. I liked the concept of a female priest thrown into small village intrigue and investigation and thoroughly enjoyed this book, the characters in the village and the writing. Alas, I didn’t take to Merrily. I will read more of these titles, but it’s a bit like watching an episode of a favourite show where the supporting cast is stronger and more interesting than the lead. I hope this improves as the series continues.

Bleu/Blaque by Belinda McBride is worth mentioning for anyone looking for a m/m romance title. I’m ashamed to say I’ve had this one lingering for far too long, but going on the better late than never concept it’s one I’m happy to recommend. Bleu and Blaque prove to be interesting contrasts and not solely owing to their being vampire and werewolf. They are two characters I would happily revisit.

An American friend has been reading Notes from a Small Island, and The Road to Little Dribbling, by Bill Bryson. Again, the first has been sitting in ‘the pile’ for far too long, so I’ve read one and have just purchased and started the second. My American friend’s take is that it was that, though enjoyable, it was difficult sometimes to decipher between the humour and straightforward complaining, and there were a few moments when I took this point on board. I was surprised by how far Bill Bryson walked, and have to admit his way of touring wouldn’t be my preference having read even a portion of these books. I’m sure I’d want to spend longer in some areas, less in others, and some I wouldn’t want to visit at all, and while ‘wandering at will’ seems enticing, I’d do more research into my intended stops. The books, though, remain a delightful look into the British way of life, particularly for those who don’t know the UK so well… with one word of warning. The politeness and attitudes Bryson encountered in the first book have flagged somewhat. I’ve only just begun the second book and it will be interesting to see if Bryson has also noted any such changes since he first perambulated the UK.

Overall, the year has been pretty disappointing reading-wise so I’m happy to finish with two highlights both picked up for intended Christmas reading. My first is The Martian, by Andy Weir. Having seen the film three times, I was interested in reading the book and would recommend anyone who liked the film to do the same. I’ve seen both have had their usual share of mixed reviews, but I’m amazed how anyone cannot appreciate the research and science-made-interesting portions of the book — the added details of which exceed those in the film — is beyond me. Sure, the ending in both the books but especially the film is far-fetched. It’s FICTION. I’m one of many who does not understand this current inclination to dismiss fiction that is implausible. Many occurrences in life are implausible and fiction can achieve the impossible. I’m quite happy to suspend belief and to be entertained and maybe even learn a little, or, if not, that’s good, too. There is nothing wrong with sheer entertainment. For the writer that I am, it’s interesting to note that I learned Andy Weir first published the book as snippets on the web. To get the total story without waiting, people had to buy the book… and then a publisher took it up, and there’s been a film and one hell of a success story about a man stranded on Mars — the very definition of good fiction. The film… it’s a good adaptation of a book given a Hollywood treatment that’s not at all painful. Mild spoiler: It has a more exciting and implausible ending, but this is only to be expected when they adapt a book to film, as is the trimmed-down science behind the writing.

But my recommendation this year also is my last read. A Man Called Ove by Fredrick Backman breaks the rule of ‘show don’t tell’ yet is an easy read that is thoroughly entertaining, truthful, poignant, funny, moving, uplifting, and sad. It’s painful and beautiful, which is the best type of storytelling.

The Art of Compassion

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We’ve forgotten the art of compassion.

When considering what to write for this week’s blog, the subject of compassion seemed appropriate for this time of year. To begin, I want to transport you to an incident that, to me, remains vibrant.

This took place in 2008. We were off on holiday and making our way to East Anglia. It was a beautiful day in May. The sky was blue; a breeze was blowing into the car’s open windows; the birds were singing. We were relaxed and happy. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say I felt blessed and even the traffic crawling to a stop wasn’t enough to upset my good mood. The hold-up was short-lived… as was my happy feeling.

A small black shape landed on the road in front, exhibiting every sign of happiness, hopping about excitedly and fluttering its wings. Before I could even gasp, the car ahead rolled forward over the bird’s wing, squashing the bones, feathers and flesh into the tarmac, leaving the bird both damaged and trapped.

Put yourself in this bird’s place. You’re going about your day-to-day business and something mashes a limb into the road so that you’re pinned, in pain, and cannot break free. The best you can hope for is another car to roll over you, bringing about a quick death.

I flinched, left feeling helpless and sick at heart. I could do nothing to help this creature. The only way to release it from the tarmac would have been to amputate its wing, something I was not capable of doing, and even then the poor thing was likely to die of shock.

All this because it landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. That could happen to anyone and anything.

The husband patted my arm as though I was six years old, and while I didn’t need the comfort, I didn’t complain.

My reaction, my feelings for another creature, even though its pain and demise had no impact on me or my life, is the very definition of compassion.

The dictionary definition is sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others. Why are we not taught this in schools? Is it something parents no longer discuss? One of my favourite books as a child was The Water Babies because I loved the concepts of Mrsdoasyouwouldbedoneby and Mrsbedonebyasyoudid. Why is all this so absent from the world?

The driver of the car that ran over that bird could not have known the creature was on the road. The driver was not at fault. It was a mere accident. No one was to blame. These facts made what happened no less painful to witness, but here’s the thing. I can’t quote statistics, but it would be eye-opening to know how many drivers would have run over the bird had they known it was under their wheels. I’ve also been witness to other instances where I’ve been directly involved; beeped because we’ve stopped for a rabbit in the road; seen a woman who had to turn her car to stop cars driving over a dog who had run out and been injured (in that incident we and one other driver ended up taking the dog to a vet even though we were no part of the accident). We see road-kill all the time, but when did we decide it’s okay to run over things even if we can avoid them? Indeed, why are there people in this world who would gladly aim the car and shout ‘score’ for a hit? Who is raising these despicable souls?

Of course, I’m not only talking about animals here or creatures on the road. We treat each other the same way. What kind of being does it take knowingly to run over a living creature when they don’t have to? To abuse a dog, a cat, a horse, or anything that breathes? When did society start thinking it doesn’t matter and so many to believe we can all do what we like without considering the impact on our friends, our families, our neighbours, society itself? Or to think it’s acceptable to walk by a woman on the road when she’s pleading for help, a car having hit her, because ‘someone else will call the ambulance’ so there’s no reason to get involved (an actual story a temp apparently once confessed to a colleague in an office I worked in many years ago).

When I was growing up, everyone taught me not to cause harm, to do unto others only as I wanted them to do unto me. That’s not to say be a pushover and accept abuse, but why be the cause? Why are so many so oblivious to the pain of others, and why do so many behave as if it’s perfectly acceptable for behaviour to be so reprehensible that we even have a modern reference to it, that of ‘Troll’?

Compassion: sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others.

Take it on board.

Being Busy, the art of Tinkering, and Screaming

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I came across this post from 2012 and repeat it here now almost word for word as I wrote it then. This year is different. I am writing. Have been doing lots of editing and I’ve more of both ahead of me. I’ve not done anywhere near enough promotion and those ‘life’ annoyances are different, but still very prevalent, maybe more so. Part of me wants to sum up the entire post into a single sentence: I’m a writer and I’m forever busy:

A friend sent me a text last night: “I hope the writing is going well.” I had to reply that I’m not writing. I haven’t been for… well, I’m not sure. Several days, maybe three or four weeks, and it’s annoying me. I’ve found a moment here and there to ‘tinker’ but not to write, although that’s not entirely true either.

I’ve ‘tinkered’ with a bit of story, but not had time to sit down and truly write, so I’ve hardly written a word. On the other hand, I’ve written plenty. Had edits. I’ve written long-overdue emails. I’ve three works out in December so have written blurbs and promo, and typed my book details everywhere I can think of, and written blog posts for places I’m hoping to show up at pontificating about my books or the writing process that created them for anyone who has asked me, or cares to read them. And sometimes just to say hi — to connect with other writers and readers and thank them for their support, understanding, and lovely words and messages.

This is another side of ‘writing’ and I’ve had lots of that to be going on with, but I’ve also spent some time out to attend to daily ‘life’. Much as I’d like to claim otherwise, we all have them, these daily lives, and maybe that’s a good thing to keep a person grounded. I’ve a relative in the hospital, the extension roof sprung a leak, and I’ve done some shopping, some of which I can’t avoid as we head towards Christmas. There’s the Christmas run of presents to attend to, and I have parcels to pack up, post off, or deliver. I have cards to write, and a yearly letter to put together for those I have and haven’t neglected equally — either way, it will be a chance for them to catch up on what is happening at ‘our house’.

I’m — deep breath — busy, but in that, I can’t say this time is all that different from any other time. I’m always busy, because when I’ve ticked off all the things on my current to-do list, there will be another one to attend to, and another one, and another after that. It doesn’t stop. It’s part of writing, living this double life, and sure, sometimes it’s part of any normal life, too, but having all this going on occasionally means I procrastinate and tinker a bit with something trivial because it stops me from screaming aloud, which will only earn me strange looks and speculative whispers. And if there ever should be a time when I’m not busy — as if that’s going to happen — I’ll still be occupied because what writers do when they’re not busy is get busy writing. See how that works?

Still, I’m getting antsy and I’m longing for the moment — and it will arrive this week — when I sit down and begin work on something. It may be something that needs editing — it may be old or new, may require a complete re-write, or may be ticking over quietly in a dormant brain cell for now, but I’ve reached a point where if I don’t write ‘story’ it’s quite possible you’ll hear me screaming.

Tired of Adulting

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As children, we often feel put upon because the adults are the ones who make ‘our’ decisions. This is not helped by the (many) times these restrictions come without an explanation. Children feel victimised, unfairly treated. Other children bullied them, and in worse cases, so do parents and teachers. We hear, or imagine, how great it is to be an adult. Being ‘adult’ represents freedom. Being told, “Well, when you’re an adult, you’ll be able to make your own decisions,” strengthens this.

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Adults are liars. People are born into a world where they are never free. They are born into a world with expectations. That’s not entirely a bad thing — I believe in a certain standard of social and ethical responsibility, but it’s why money can be the root of all evil. Money represents a kind of freedom most of us will never obtain, never appreciate. It’s not so much about what we can buy, or what we can own. Not even about not having to do as we’re told. It’s about not having to do as we’re told, unjustly.

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Children and adults bully children. Adults and children bully adults. Children look at adults and see them as having all the power when most adults will never have the power at all. Adults remain children. It’s just that some are better at hiding it. Some ooze confidence, but in their darkness hours, they are still children. Sometimes we all need a cuddle. We all wish someone else could be the adult for a day. All just keep plodding along, doing the best we can. We learn our parents were ‘winging it’, faking it, ‘putting on a brave face’… and maybe that’s the accurate definition. Maybe in that regard I excel at being ‘adult’. I’m still tired some days. And it is on those days where creativity is many a person’s survival mechanism.

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‘Adults’ everywhere, I hug you.

Images from memepile. If aware of any copyright breaches, please advise.