I’ve uploaded a short story called ‘The One True Religion’ to www.storywar.com. The site has an interesting concept in that you join a league table controlled by online readers.

I would encourage you to check it out – not necessary to view my work – more to marvel at how corrupt the voting system is. One writer has published a story called ’this website sucks’ in which they slag off the blatant nepotism. Though finding the whole thing fairly amusing / innocuous, I tend to agree with their sentiment…

…having said that, if you do read my story, make sure you vote at least 30 times.

…Joke…I’m gonna see how it does without cheating!!!

…Quick rant about flash fiction:

For those of you not up with the kids flash fiction is the term used for very short-short stories – usually less than 100 words. Several websites extol their virtues and claim them to be the perfect medium for today’s high-pressure, constantly on the go, credit crunch world.

I disagree, believing instead that there has never been more need to stop, take a deep breath, sit down and get lost within the pages of a good book.  To put it in context ‘now’ is the 100th word in this blog – barely enough to establish my annoyance, let alone character and plot.

www.txtlit.co.uk/ has further exacerbated me by encouraging people to submit their prose in text-speak!

 The reason for all of the above is that, having lovingly honed 8 short stories of 2-5000 words, I now find that half of submissions are for flash-fiction writers.

Now, I’m not one to stand in the way of innovation. Indeed, I love seeing old ideas using new formats. For example – a few years back someone published a Cockney version of the Bible which I particularly enjoyed (‘Jesus got into a right ole bother wiv the Romans’ and ’some numpty’s only gone and got himself possessed by the devil’ etc), but flash-fiction strikes me as marketing without the product – ‘Couldn’t be bothered to write a book – here’s a pamphlet.’

As I typed this blog I had in mind the image of a retired sergeant major with oiled hair and a monstrous moustache, sitting by a roaring hearth, nursing a sherry against his portly stomach and bellowing his disgust at the decline of the empire whilst reading a broadsheet. Perhaps my rant will meet with equal obscurity given enough time (Note: In a flash fiction story that last paragraph would’ve read ‘old bloke complains by fire.’

That’s better…

My self-imposed exile and creative drought has finally been broken by the strangest of stimuli…Internet dating.

Recently a number of close friends have been thoughtlessly getting married and leaving me in an ever diminishing singles pool. Up until 32 everything was lovely and laid back, but now there seems to be a mad dash to pair me off with my soul mate before I die (no doubt gloriously happy in a bachelor pad surrounded by scaletrix and empty champagne bottles).

So many people (mainly unscrupulous females) are trying to ’save me from myself’ that I now regular hear the phrase ‘what do you think of this one?’ and look down to see a polaroid placed under my nose. In a way it’s flattering, but in another it’s plain ridiculous…

…Anyway, partly through curiosity and partly to quell the harassment I joined a website.

Just like all the other tens of thousands of people who partake I never thought that I would, wasn’t sure what I hoped to get out of it and am even less sure now, but an old friend met his wife online a few years back and it seemed like an interesting thing to try…

…Not that I’ve had any success you understand – Quite the opposite in fact. I was initially contacted by several interested parties (which was gratifying to the ego), before finding out that they were somewhat unhinged (should’ve smelled a rat when they were mailing me at 4 in the morning). To quantify the word ‘unhinged’

• ‘You sound nice. My biological clock is ticking. Only reply to this correspondence if you would seriously consider getting married within the next three months.’ My non-reply was met at first with ‘Why haven’t you replied?’ before finally ‘ANSWER ME!’
• Another woman (genuinely) described herself as ‘not as fat as I used to be’ and ‘almost over my ex-boyfriend,’ to which I replied ‘Own teeth, though sadly no longer in my mouth.’

Aware that I wasn’t taking the pursuit of a partner very seriously I drifted into lazy people watching (not to be confused with stalking) and this is what I learned…

…It is truly staggering what people will send out into the ether for complete strangers to read – From soul-baring statements such ‘my life is empty – where are you, my prince’ to ‘bald and / or Chinese men need not apply’  (being a balding man I considered responded with ‘I’m looking for a shallow racist. You sound amazing.’) 

…Bringing this back to vaguely writing based…there are times when creating a story where I’ll think this character is too far-fetched or that scenario would never happen in reality. Recent experience seems to fly in the face of that. As a result I’ve come up with a large number of fantastical plots that I’m going to flesh out over the next few weeks… 

…None of which has anything to do with dating!

Back on the dating thread – If anyone is seriously considering it – my advice would be not to put ‘great sense of humour,’ but instead write something stupid. I considered starting with either ‘Follicly-challenged waffler seeks tangential temptress’ or ‘Recently released sex-pest seeks similar,’ before settling on ‘Unfeasibly short man seek giant woman.’

You’d be surprised how many gargantuan ladies are looking for dwarfs…

I started this blog to document my various exploits in attempting to market a self-published novel. A little over six months ago I gave up – finding the effort, however amusing, just too time-consuming and ultimately fruitless to justify the endeavour. I didn’t ensnare the attentions of a literary agent, and the reviews, whilst generally great, did not result in widespread appeal.

And so I set about breaking my ribs in Italy, climbing Kilimanjaro, throwing myself into work and generally forgetting about this silly writing business…

…But then, last week, the project I was running finished, my mind cleared and I had the idea for another book. I realised that writing is a private act of creation (a stupid revelation really considering how obvious) and that getting a break is more luck than judgement.

I also realised that charting a journey of this type is as much about the troughs as it is the peaks…

…So, back to it

What’s the most annoying entity known to man?

Salesmen? Shell-suits? Haemorrhoids? (In that order).

No – It’s British Rails automated tannoy stammering ‘The eight oh one will neh-ver ah-rive. I am eggs-tree-mlee soh-ree for this delay.’

Nothing screams insincerity like a robot apologising…

…Especially when, as was the case this morning, four trains worth of people were trying to get onto one. The potential bloodbath of acrimony was counteracted by our all being British. The best we could muster were scowls and grumbled comments that we were ‘really quite put out.’ I myself had a good mind to invest in a bowler hat, march staunchly up to the controller’s office to give him an ‘ear-bashing’ – calling him the ‘cad and bounder’ he so clearly was.

But then – oh joys of joys – I spotted an empty seat. Why, given our inhuman stances, was it free? The answer – because we were in first class and none of us had the right ticket.

‘Sod this’ I thought breaking my stiff, starchy upbringing and fought my way though to a barrage of scornful glares from pinstripe toffs (I was wearing trainers – the shame). The inspector spotted my leap across the social-divide. I responded with the ‘Ask for my ticket and you will die,’ look that every commuter perfects within weeks of travel.

So, with a defiant act of truly middle-class proportions I was rewarded with a big leather armchair, a nice view of the passing countryside and the satisfaction of having not paid for the privilege.

The annoyance that I’d felt subsided and the disgruntled complaint that I’d intended to write instead morphed into a cathartic venting of surrealism.

Firstly, I suggested that if they really wanted to sound sincere that should replace the robot with a (neurotic) real person sobbing uncontrollably – ‘Oh my Gohhhhhd I’ve ruined your day. These are precious seconds you’ll never get back. Why do I keep doing this to you? Whhhyyyyyyyyyyeeeee? What the hell is wrong with me? Please help me…I’m sick…’

An alternative suggestion was that they pep up the announcements with a little fiction. For example:

‘We apologise for the delay. The driver found his wife in bed with another man and was forced to beat them both to death. Apparently it had been going on for years, but he’d never come home on time.’ (b-rum tsss).

Or, ‘You’ll never guess what – We’re giving away free lap-dances to all you frustrated red-blooded males freezing your asses off on the platform…not really – the trains been cancelled.’

Or ‘Jeez, I’ve never seen so many ugly people in one place…and you’re late…man you’re a loser.’ 

I have a mate who writes under the pseudonym of Geraldine Flask. ‘He’ sends deliberately pointless letters to organisations e.g. Suggesting to the government that they remove ‘X’ from the alphabet as it doesn’t deserve to be associated with such mighty members as ‘A’ and ‘T’*

I used to think it was silly, but now consider it both admirable and something to be encouraged. The alternatives are either continued English stuffiness or else out and out violence…

* He also collects sick-bags which is just ridiculous…

My job brings me into contact with a lot of salesmen – mostly trying to flog more contractors to the project I’m running. This last week it has gone into hyper drive – seeming as though everyone around me is running some sort of scam. Various examples include:

• Several home phone calls from women with Eastern European accents who informed me that me and my wife (!) had won an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris for a Feng-Shui convention, and that all we had to do was come to a two hour presentation on time-share properties.
• Two men spent four days standing in the middle of Waterloo station dressed in yellow and pink spandex costumes and capes – all claiming to be ‘DHL man’ and advertising their express postage service.
• However, the best by far was executed by a tramp who walked up to the check-out in Sainsburys, fished some sausages out of a plastic bag and said ‘My wife came in earlier and bought these by mistake. She meant to buy a bottle of whisky. Can I swap them?’

An independent author’s quest

Does spreading the literary word ever justify law-breaking?

The scenario: You’ve written a book, lovingly given a year of your life to honing narrative and plot, subsequently been unable to get an agent for love or money and lounged in dejection for a while before finally deciding to finance it yourself. Shelling out seemingly endless cash you’ve overseen design, hired an editor and typesetter, met with printers, chosen paper quality, cover finish, filled your tiny house with thousands of paperbacks and proudly mailed all your friends to brag about your achievement.

    Six months on you’ve picked up some great reviews (as well as one that’s truly abysmal), and blagged your way onto local radio, but only shifted a few hundred copies. You still can’t get into the spare bedroom for fear of being killed in an avalanche of your own creation, and you’ve been rumbled by every online forum in the western world for shamelessly touting your own wares.

    What to do?

    Surely fortune will shine on you and reward your gutsy bravado?

    It’s at this point that the protagonist (in this case – me) asks ‘OK. You’ve come this far. Now, what are you prepared to do?’

    It’s classic character-arc – like the cop on the edge throwing down his badge and going after the psychopath alone, the bank-robber lured by one final job, or the poet going after a forbidden love no matter the consequences – only with books and spare bedrooms.

    Growing up in the 80’s there was an anti-smoking campaign featuring a villain called Nick-O-Teen. His tag-line was ‘Go on…just one…one won’t hurt.’

    I hear his voice the night I illegally fly-poster the London Underground.

    Back at home feeling excited about this minor infraction as only the middle-class can, I tell myself ‘No real harm done. It was actually a good thing if you think about…being daring and going after the prize.’

    A few days later I am discovered Blue-jacking mobile phones in Piccadilly Waterstones with messages suggesting that people go up to the first floor and check out my novel. I hide in the toilet until the heat is off before making my getaway.

    Go on…just one…one won’t hurt.

    I inhale. It feels so good.

    But do the ends justify the means?

    Imagine the scales of justice. On one side there’s the belief in my own work and the positive feedback from readers who have submersed themselves in The Melting Pot. On the other hand you have swift, metered, unflinching punishment.

    Not to be overly-dramatic – this is hardly the stuff of adrenaline junkies. To date my punishment has been restricted to chastisement by Daily Telegraph readers for corrupting their blog with blatant marketing, and the worst of my crimes would only ever result in a fine of some description. On a guerrilla marketing scale I doubt Che Guevara would give me the time of day.

    But then comes ‘Bus-tagging’ – zig-zagging through traffic and slapping posters on mobile billboards, and ‘Brandalism’ – unabashed copyright infringement. Where will it end? Hostage-taking? (‘Buy my book or the pretty blond gets it.’)

    And here’s the nub of it. I could make the statement, ‘It’s not as if I’ve murdered anyone,’ and justify my actions by saying that in the grand scheme of things my actions are pitifully small. But if this is the case then where am I on the moral-sliding scale? ‘Fathers-For-Justice’ recently ran a publicity campaign by dressing up as super-heroes and breaking into heavily guarded buildings such as Buckingham Palace. As far as they were concerned the law-breaking justified the message they were trying to get across. If I dress up in a gorilla costume, wander over to Westminster and ambush the culture minister can I claim the same?

    Do you see my dilemma? If guerrilla marketing isn’t as bad as murder, then what is it equal to – a mugging, mild sexual harassment, giving someone a Chinese burn? It’s a moral conundrum in which I’m flying blind.

    Or am I merely looking into this too deeply?

    Or is this in itself a form of marketing?

    Are there no depths to which I won’t stoop?

Ways you could help me…

1. By not ringing Ronald the burger clown*

2. Facebookers – By adding the applications i-Read, looking me up under international books (it’s an American app) and ‘chucking’ it at your friends like so:

 *Having said that – he may sue and, in the ensuing bankruptcy, I’ll gain huge notoriety…

Googling oneself…marvellous.

Yesterday’s query threw up the following from ‘The Birth Club’ at babycentre.co.uk:  

 Now I know my target demographic (alcoholic mothers) this should make marketing a whole lot easier…

A friend of mine had an idea to walk from London to Rome over a six month period – sauntering through the wine regions, taking in the culture, losing some weight and writing a book about his experiences. On a whiteboard behind our desks we are currently counting down to the birth of his first child – a fantastical event, but one that also effectively puts his Rome idea on ice for at least a decade.

A number of people have commented recently that they envy me for my freedom to up-sticks and move about without dependants. Meanwhile I’m planning to go off on an adventure at the end of the year, but am keen to settle down.

Everyone wants what the other has…

That’s not to say we all miserable – far from it – but restlessness is a curious human condition – seemingly nothing to do with flight-fight / hunter-gatherer and everything to do with matters of the soul.

I for one write my best prose when angst-ridden, and yet am striving at all times to be happy!

I’ll be climbing Kilimanjaro in July. One of the people doing it with me is in Tanzania tagging turtles(!). This morning she sent one of those ‘follow your dreams’ type e-mails. Whilst she herself recognised the sentiment as cheesy I found myself annoyed at my own cynicism.

Joni Mitchell once wrote ‘We’ve got to get our way back to the Garden’ (of Eden). I need to get there via some beaches, a few sunsets over the Pacific and a stack of manuscript paper…