The Opposite of Publishing's Billy Big Bollocks...

Pst... you. Yes, you. Can you see me? Am I visible? You caught me prepping what I like to call my 'professional marketing campaign'. Even though I have zero knowledge of marketing or the professionalism within it, that's what you've stumbled upon me doing. Guilty as charged. I'm blagging it once again.

The idea is, that in a month or so, I'll start bombarding my socials with pictures, links, and excerpts. If I do it as a planned campaign over the course of a few weeks, there's every chance people will simply give in. They'll pre-order my book as a means to making me go away. It's how I ended up subscribing to The Guardian. There's only so many times you can see the '...we have a small favour to ask' message at the end of an article before the guilt kicks in about reading free journalism. Next thing you know, you're setting up a direct debit and smugly ignoring the begging bowl every time you've read the news. I'm going for a similar vibe/guilt trip here. 

Assembling on tour!

It's all about pre-orders you see. Pre-orders don't count as sales until the week the book is released. (October 7th in this case.) So the more pre-orders I can gather in the build up to October, the more sales I'll have on Week One. Billy Big Bollocks authors would hope to have a continued gush of sales for the weeks and possibly months that followed. For the likes of little indie outfits like myself, the gush of the first week is definitely a trickle by the second. So the more pre-orders I can gather, the better the sales of the book are. And, even though I still don't know how all this works, the more pre-orders/sales on Week One, the more the algorithm gods get involved (providing they've stopped titting around in space by then) and the more likely my book will be promoted and pushed to the top of search engines. Or something. Look, I never claimed to know what I was talking about. I just know I need those pre-orders.

It's hard to write a bio without making
yourself sound like a knob.

It's an interesting task, working out what images and bits of information might tempt the discerning reading public into pre-ordering a book. For me, it's usually down to the cover and blurb. No big science behind it, I just have to be intrigued enough to want more. Others may need something different. I recently took my proof copy to Aberystwyth - where all the action takes place - and photographed it around the town. I've no idea if this will interest people, but fans of the Aber seafront might be up for reading a romp that has that as a backdrop. Or fans of chips. Either way.

Two new family members have 
rocked up since the last book.

So while you've caught me planning the promotional material I'm going to use, I might as well share it with you here. That way I can see how it all looks together. I can see if my blagged campaign of shoving various bits of my book into everyone's nose is likely to pay off. See what you think. Does it make you want to pre-order? Have I guilt-tripped you into clicking the multitude of links to the sales page? Will it make you share the link with everyone you've ever met in your life? I can only hope so. 

Chippy chips feature regularly in  
Assembling. Luckily Aber is the home of
the best fish and chips in all the land.
So that worked out well. Pre-order here!

Have a lovely week, folks.

If You Wannabe a Writer...

The plan, ten years ago!

I was having a root around some old laptop files recently, when I stumbled across an interesting bit of info. Ready? Nice one. This week it'll be ten years since I became a writer.  Yep. Ten. At the time I didn't consider myself an actual writer. I saw myself as a wannabe. In fact my first stab at blogging had the word wannabe in the title. I soon gave up that blog, as well as using such a belittling word to describe something I'd started to take pretty seriously. But taking it seriously and being a writer were not quite the same thing. Not back then. That took a while.

The folder I stumbled across was entitled Plans For September 2011. That was when I was going to start my first novel. I knew this because in July 2011 - ten years ago on Thursday, in fact - I left my last proper job. And because I'd planned to do that for the year before, there was time to give it some proper thought. So much so, the assortment of planning documents got its own folder, saved inside another folder, inside another, deep in the bowels of my laptop. Finding it again recently was - and I believe this is the technical term - piss funny.

A real life excerpt of a To-Do List.
Archive material from 2011.
(Not sure what Vitamin Water even is.)

I had such good ideas back then. Not in terms of narrative structure or plot ideas. Not detailed character studies or opening paragraphs to grab the reader by the throat and make them read. Oh no, my plans were much less literary. I was going to wake at 7am every day and drink green tea. (Not sure why. I don't really like it.) I was going to go swimming on Wednesday afternoons (never done that once) and I was going to read one book a week about the art of writing. (I had a lengthy reading list ready to go. In the past ten years, I've read two of the eleven titles on it.) I'd even planned the things I needed on my desk. I'm not even joking when I say that list includes desk tidy for pens and pencils. Not. Even. Joking.

It seems back in the summer of 2011, I had no real clue about what writing entailed. No real idea what I'd need, practically or personally, in order to crack on with the dream. Perhaps if I'd known, I'd have run a mile. Because despite having thought of lots of peripheral, superficial stuff, the reality was very different. Much less wannabe. Once reality hit, I found none of that stuff mattered. None of it was necessary to write stories. I just had to write. That was all. Newsflash: Writers have to write. Their Paperchase-stocked desks and green tea morning rituals don't mean a thing if nothing gets written. And that's the part that's really tricky. The bit writers have to power through when they can't think of any ideas. When they want to give up. They have to keep going and just do it. I had to keep going and just do it.

I spent the first year pretending. I looked the part. I jotted notes in a pad now and then. I even got the odd chapter written. It wasn't for real. It was all wannabe. I was playing a role. Eventually I managed to finish the first draft of a novel. I still have it somewhere, but I know without looking, it's shit. Necessary to get out during the wannabe phase, absolutely, but not something to worry about now. Because once I'd done the writing cosplay, it was time to get serious.

Ten years have passed and I've no idea what happened to the tidy, organised desk. I mostly write in the kitchen. I never got round to going swimming on a Wednesday, or starting the day with a green tea. My morning begins with a pint of builders. But - and I write this with enormous pride and happiness - I have three books with my name on the cover. It got real once I ditched the playing and put in some proper effort. Writing even when I thought it was crap. Writing even when I knew I'd delete those 2000 words at a later date. Writing even when I wasn't sure I'd ever get to the end.

Snuggled next to E.M
Forster. Just how I like it.

I'm in the sweet spot right now. Book Number Three (Assembling the Wingpeople, pre-orderable from all good bookshops) is out in three months. I'm feeling the glow of completion, the satisfaction of creation. It's the upside to the downsides of actually getting it done. But when I look back over the past ten years, every part of it was essential. The novelist cosplay and the plans that turned out to be irrelevant. They were an essential stage along the way. The wannabe phase had to be worked through because it led to the real thing. And now? I'm so happy my random gamble paid off. (Not literally, obvs. The money's terrible!) Working at something even when it's tricky and gruelling wasn't something I could put up with in my last job. But now I've learnt how to do that. Personal growth AND three books. It's been a great ten years. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

Only a Game...

Yes, here's another outpouring on why Gareth Southgate would make the best husband/Prime Minister/God of all things. Not content with this sort of content being strewn all over the official media for weeks, I'm adding my own 10p's worth. Can the world cope with one more appreciation about all things Southgate? Who knows, but buckle up. We're going in.

Before we crack on, though, let's get real. There have been some grim downsides to the Euros 2020 tournament, most recent of which has been waking up to news of racist abuse directed at players on social media. But cast your mind back to the start. Last month, Danish midfielder Christian Eriksen, suffered a cardiac arrest on the pitch of Denmark's opening game. Few that were watching will forget the scenes, and it was with great relief that he recovered. As did the momentum of the tournament, that would have presumably been disbanded or played against the will of many had the outcome been different. But sadly there was more negativity to come in the shape of some 'fans'. The seemingly English trait of booing the opposing team's national anthem was particularly embarrassing. It was possibly only a small contingent but it sounded awful. As if the worst people in the country had managed to get a ticket and decided to show themselves up on the national stage. Grow up, FFS. The same goes for whoever shone the laser pen in Kasper Schmeichel's eyes before he saved Harry Kane's initial penalty kick. Get a grip and stop making us all look bad. And then there were the rampagers in Leicester Square and outside Wembley yesterday. You behaved like twats. It was horrible to see, on an evening that should have been full of support and enjoyment. Elsewhere, there's been the usual overblown nonsense filling the front pages over the past few weeks. What, you like talented young players now? I remember when you criticised them for having the audacity to be videoed in a nice house. I can't keep up.

But let's move on. We must. Because the upsides really outshine the negativity by a gazillion. A bajillion. Want to feel good about the future of civilisation? Pull up a chair and read on.

The Kids Are Alright

Gareth Southgate is committed to bringing in new talent and giving space for players to grow and develop. Saka is nineteen. Sancho and Foden are twenty-one. The average age of this squad is only twenty-four. The good news about that can be seen in Jordan Pickford. He was a great goalie for England in 2018 but he always looked like he was up for a scrap. Fast-forward three years and look at him now. An amazing player, who didn't concede a goal until the semi-final stage of the tournament, saved two penalties in the final, and had a much calmer head on the pitch. He grew up and got better, supported by an ethos that prioritised that. How brilliant to be given the time and space to improve, knowing your place is secure while you do. The other good thing about this young team is that I don't fancy any of them. I know! You see, I'm not fifteen anymore. Rather than get distracted by how cute and sexy they appear in interviews, I feel proud like a Nanna, and am assured that the generations coming after me and my peers are doing good things with their lives. I have no doubt these young men are imperfect at times. But as a team - as a group of lads given a platform - they rise to the occasion more often than not. It's so reassuring as I knit in my rocking chair and sip my Horlicks. Or something. 

Gesture Politics

Priti Patel does not support gesture politics. Apparently. Luckily she seemed to get over that before England's semi-final win where her Twitter account showed her cheering madly whilst wearing a team shirt. Perhaps she only supports gestures where she gets to wear stuff. Like a personalised police jacket as she is photographed at an arrest. Not sure. But even without her hypocrisy, she's wrong. A gesture to show support for a cause is powerful. I assume that's why she wore the police jacket to the arrest. She wanted to make a clear statement. I much prefer the statements of the England team. Kane's rainbow armband for Pride. The non-negotiable taking of the knee to show solidarity with Black Lives Matter. And just as with the Home Secretary's policies, we can see what happens when gestures grow. While she's busy with her new plan for immigration, the England team are busy with kinder politics. Marcus Rashford MBE campaigns against child hunger. Raheem Sterling MBE works to improve racial equality in sport. Jordan Henderson MBE is supportive of LGBTQIA+ rights and recently replied to a fan who described relief at their positive experience at Wembley. Representing your country, whether in Government or a national team, is a privilege. Some people use their platform better than others.

The Gaffer

Look, what can I write about Gareth Southgate that hasn't been covered elsewhere. Not much really. His calm intellect, and the fact he's done the job consistently well since he was appointed, all add up to a very likeable public figure. He's got balls of steel for being able to tune out and ignore the fans and journalists over starting lineups and formations. He also brought on and then subbed boy-wonder Jack Grealish in the semi-final - for all the right reasons - and secured the win. And equally wonderfully, Grealish seemed fine with it. Teamwork makes the dream work... there's no I in team... and all that jazz. For Southgate to keep a calm head that can think under that level of pressure, is impressive. It comes down to what I've known for years. Anyone with a good grasp of psychology is already winning at life. If you can recognise behaviour patterns, spot triggers, and pre-empt your own instincts when they try and work against you, you've got the most powerful tool in the world. And not only for yourself, but to manage that professional journey in others is quite the skill. The excellent sportspeople that Southgate leads, aren't there by accident. He created them. Spotting a big talent is only the start. Nurturing it, managing it, and enabling it to flourish alongside the big talents of others is something that has eluded previous Men's managers for years. This feels new. Or at least it did when Southgate came along. Now it's simply the way it is, and it's lovely to see.

It's Only a Game

OK, let's be clear. There's so many more important things than football right now. I could list some of them but it would only bring me down. So just imagine them for me, yeah? Go through the world's problems one by one. And while you work yourself into a decline, remember that even in peaceful, happy times, football's only a game. It's only one of several games that people play. The fact England's Men got further in a tournament than they have for fifty-five years still doesn't end wars or stop people starving. Agreed? Have we got our perspective in check? Good. Let's get to the matter in hand. Football. Last night the England Men's team played in the final of the European Championships. Take a moment. Read it again. It's historic. In my forty-three years on the planet, I've never experienced such a thing. And even though it's just a game, and even though the world still burns, and even though there are so many more important things to worry about, the past week has taken me away from all of that. Back to the summer of 1990. It was boiling. The patio doors were open nightly. Nessun Dorma blared out. Des Lynam's voice calmly narrated as I sat on the pink velour armchair in the lounge. The summer of my first kiss, my first period (different days) and my first tournament getting fully behind the team. And then the years of support that followed. The '96 Euros in the pub. The '98 World Cup at Uni. The 2002 World Cup while I was at work and the time difference meant there were early-morning matches. The following decade or so when I fell out of love with the team and its players. When egos dominated and I couldn't be arsed. Then the return of my patriotism with Southgate's lads in 2018. And now this. Over the past few days, I've flash-backed over it all. Watching the scenes on the pitch after the semi-final transported me to another time. To other times. To the people I've watched matches with and the places where I've watched them. To the jobs I've had, and the disappointments I've shared, as well as the euphoria I've felt at specific goals, and the pride I've experienced when we've won essential matches. It's more than a game when you look at it like that. It's a lifetime. I imagine for those around in 1966, it must be even sweeter

Congrats, Italy. Until the next time. 

So now we've got this far, what next? We have to go further. We have to win next time. We have to deal with the racist element of fans that show up the rest of us. We have to continue to encourage and support a manager and team that show politics is part of everything. That a public profile is a starting point for change and that inclusivity is the root of all success. It's been a pleasure to witness it this summer. And there's always a chance that other leaders, the ones that create division and stress - whether they be the in the office or the government - see what success looks like and take note. Harmony, teamwork, support, and inclusivity. We can but dream.

Have a lovely week, folks.

I Love a Wedding, I do...

This week we're talking about one of the biggest COVID relaxations we've had so far. Not the cinema, not the pub on a table of six, not even getting to hug (do I have to?) friends and family. Nope, none of the above. Today we're looking at weddings. Hurrah, congratulatons, and many future happinesses to us all!

Weddings are great, aren't they? I mean, I'm pretty cynical about love in general but I generally love weddings. The news on 14th of June, that wedding numbers could now be bigger, was brilliant for me. I'm not getting married, but I was due to be a wedding guest. Slightly less important in the great scheme of things, for sure, but being able to attend the wedding of a good mate of mine was the best news I'd had in ages. And a couple of weekends ago, the wedding happened. It was fabulous. 

Because I keep reliving the day in my mind, and feeling all chuffed and at one with the world, I thought I'd address the topic in blog form. Not specifically the one I attended this time, but weddings in general. Now I'm no longer in the late twenties to early thirties zone, there aren't so many of them in my diary these days. And as much as I took them for granted a couple of decades ago, I miss them now they're rarer. So, in no particular order, here are the top things that are fab about weddings. Apart from the main reason, of course - that someone you know has entered into a legal contract with someone else they met at some point. (Look, I never claimed to be a romantic.)

The Night Before...

Sometimes everyone's in the same hotel. Sometimes the half of the couple you know, arranges a small gathering in a parental house. Sometimes you've just ended up in the pub. But the night before the wedding, where guests who have travelled meet up with old friends, is always the best. A few quiet drinks ends up creeping towards the danger zone of pissed as a fart, but it's the loveliest way to start the proceedings.

This was 2016.
Post hoc ergo
propter hoc, anybody?

Dressing Up...

You know this already, but I'm much more comfortable in scruffs than I am in proper clothes. I'm still waiting for a wedding invitation to use the phrase 'We're going for a Causal Friday vibe tbh'. But forget all that. Now and then, on a special occasion, it's really nice to make an effort. And of course, as someone at odds with the summer, I'm never going to find myself wearing anything flowery, flowing, or seasonally appropriate. I'm often in black, and I make sure to conceal most of my flesh. But forget about all that, too. Slapping on a face, feeling constrained by a zip, and being out of pyjama bottoms is fun. Consider it a novelty. It's someone's special day after all.

Chel-owwww*

Live Music...

When the opera singer began, during last week's ceremony, I remembered how life-affirming live performance can be. Opera's not high up on my list of leisure pursuits but it was utterly beautiful. I had a string quartet at my own shindig a hundred years ago; other mates of mine had the band from the pub who played ALL the good tunes. Live music is never not fabulous. It only ever enhances proceedings. Throw in the fact no one's seen or heard anything performed live for months, and it can be simply breathtaking. 

Strangers on a Table...

You're looking fantastic, you've had just enough champagne to be at your witty, sparkling best, and then you make your way to the seating plan to see what lovely new friends you're about to make. I LOVE a good natter on a wedding table. Everyone's there for the same reason, even if your paths have never crossed. Bonhomie is in abundance. Goodwill is flowing. Everyone's dial is set to peak charming. It's such good fun.**

Nostalgia on the Dance Floor***...

During the table chat with my new besties last week, the question was posed, 'What's the song that will always get on the dance floor?' And I knew the two-part answer immediately. Mr. Brightside by the Killers and A Little Respect by Erasure. But when it came down to it, it was another song that made me want to get up and bop. Wonderwall by Oasis. As I swayed away, ala Liam and Noel, I remembered it was the big hit of the year my peers and I turned eighteen. I spent most of 1995/96 swaying on dance floors in a similar manner. It's always going to be there, isn't it. Wonderwall. On dance floors for the rest of my life. When I'm seventy. Eighty. When coffins are carried in. I wouldn't have thought to cite it as one of my faves, but if it's going to soundtrack my life, I'm not going to argue.

Thank you for indulging me. In a few short paragraphs,  I've relived the marvellous memories of last week, as well as the welcome ghosts of weddings past. I do wonder whether the 'current climate' - aka 'all this', and 'the past eighteen months' - has made me more appreciative of any type of social event. The joy of sharing a special day with lovely people should never become commonplace, but this one felt particularly special. Perhaps the lesson is that it shouldn't need a wedding to get together with old mates. We can do that for real now. Tables of six, socially distanced, masks at the ready and all that. But we can do it whilst wearing comfy clothes too. Bring it on! 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Yes, I know it's spelt cello, but you have to read it in Jack Black's voice from School of Rock. You know? When he turned a double base on it's side  to make a bass guitar. Remember? Anyone? Oh well.

**Fun fact: After attending a wedding in 2011 and sitting next to a lovely man called Jonathan, I used his name and some aspects of how I perceived his personality to be, to create the character of - wait for it - Jonathan, in Carry the Beautiful. He makes a return in Assembling the Wingpeople too. All that from the randomness of a seating plan.

***A sides-up marquee on private land meant small bursts of spaced-out dancing were allowed.