| Out on the soggy trails near my home a couple of days ago, I fell into conversation with a man walking his dogs. Discovering he was a visitor to the area, I wished him better weather before he left. When he replied that there’s no life without rain, I was ready to play my part in a climate-change script. So I was surprised, and somewhat disappointed, when he said he’d tell me something that had been kept from people since the beginning of time. |  |
While you might have been curious, if not for the content of the message then for the character delivering it, but my bullshit-detector was beeping and flashing like mad. Nevertheless, unwilling to be so rude as to walk away immediately, I gave him a moment more of my time. What came next surprised me, as if he’d been perched on my shoulder for the last couple of weeks.
“Who or what are you?” he asked. Of course, I told him I was a writer. All those lovely people who hosted my recent guest posts on the writer’s identity would have me drummed from the blogosphere had I let fear hold me back. “Sell me a thousand copies of all three titles!” the man did not say. Instead he promised his secret would make me a better writer and asked me to answer his question again in a different way.
Like a character murdered at the end of the first chapter, the man exits my story at this point, and I his. Much as I like to learn, I’m through with being taught, unless I’ve signed up for the course. Besides, I prefer to be alone with my thoughts when out walking, so I thanked him and moved on.
“Who or what are you?” he asked. Of course, I told him I was a writer. All those lovely people who hosted my recent guest posts on the writer’s identity would have me drummed from the blogosphere had I let fear hold me back. “Sell me a thousand copies of all three titles!” the man did not say. Instead he promised his secret would make me a better writer and asked me to answer his question again in a different way.
Like a character murdered at the end of the first chapter, the man exits my story at this point, and I his. Much as I like to learn, I’m through with being taught, unless I’ve signed up for the course. Besides, I prefer to be alone with my thoughts when out walking, so I thanked him and moved on.
 | But his question, and my answer, hit a note I’d heard humming beneath last week’s crescendoing promo up to launch day and hasn’t gone away. While I can now say “I’m a writer” without mumbling or blushing, my virtual representation has been somewhat jaded and forlorn. |
You don’t need to know why the image accompanying my posts for the blog tour was a bit shabby, but it involves Mr A’s sciatica, a point-and-click camera that drains the batteries before I’ve set the timer and an all-singing-all-dancing Olympus with an instruction manual over 100 pages long. You don’t need to know that the solution involved a tripod and untangling a dozen different cables, amid the manic panic of launch-day eve. But I’m pleased to have retired last year’s book-in-each-hand mugshot (which I’m sure was intended as temporary from the start) even if I’m still taking stills with the timer on because I haven’t figured how to switch it off. And pleased not only because I now have three books to my name. I’m not vain, but who would trust an author with dinner plates for hands?
Along with updating my images on social media, I’ve been rejigging my website, especially the Home and About pages. Although as a small-press published author I’m reconciled to being an inbetweenie, my shop window’s too much of a hodgepodge, as if I’m trading in anything from surgical scissors to flutes. Although an evolving brand and bio might not indicate author multi-identity disorder, a clearer focus wouldn’t go amiss.
When I set up my website, I was a published and prize-winning short story writer. A few years later, I was a blogger too. I also began hosting Q&As with debut novelists and, soon after, a book blogger, and then novelist added another layer. I’d be the last to suggest we can’t have more than one identity, but some roles and characteristics define us more than others.
When I set up my website, I was a published and prize-winning short story writer. A few years later, I was a blogger too. I also began hosting Q&As with debut novelists and, soon after, a book blogger, and then novelist added another layer. I’d be the last to suggest we can’t have more than one identity, but some roles and characteristics define us more than others.
So, while I can’t expunge the clutter and I’ll never manage minimalism, I’m giving my landing page a makeover so that visitors approaching the front door will see immediately that I’m touting my books. Now that I have more published books than hands, I’ve added an About my books webpage (in addition to separate pages for each of the books) with purchase links. (Ironically, the moment I manage to do this, Amazon goes coy on us and won’t show the e-book of Becoming Someone, although it is available in this format from the publisher. A week after publication, they tell us this is resolved, but I still can’t see it.) Your feedback on my makeover, if you have any, would be welcome.
| Thanks to everyone who supported my online launch last week; although exhausting, I had a fabulous time partying from breakfast-time to dinner. I’ve sent £50 to Book Aid International and have transferred the videos to YouTube so that you can view them without selling your soul to Facebook. |  |
 | The end of the month usually means a post on reading, but November’s been different and I’m piggybacking on Shiny New Books’ Christmas Special, where I make a couple of recommendations in advance of my Books of the Year post (which I’m holding in drafts to give December’s reads a fair chance). But I can give you a resume of the reviews I’ve posted this month, featuring changing zeitgeists; cloistered Christian communities; bridging; where we came from and where we are now; and the aftermath of war. |
How have I done in relation to the reading targets I set myself earlier this year? Amazingly, I’ve met or exceeded all targets: independent publishers (90% – 9 books – against a 50% target), female authors (70% – 7 books – against a 50% target), translations (20% – 2 books – against a 20% target), and BME authors (30% – 3 – compared with a target of 25%). I even managed to mention one non-fiction book, although didn’t feel up to actually reviewing the venerable Margaret Atwood. I’ve also picked out two potential favourites of 2018 (Old Baggage and Land of the Living).
| Carrot Ranch took a break from flash fiction last week which, although for Thanksgiving rather than my launch, chimed well with my own commitments. Now I’m itching to leave promo behind and lose myself in fiction, yet this week’s prompt didn’t initially appeal. Ordinarily, I don’t need much encouragement to explore the darkness, but, right now, I’m grateful for the light. |  |
 | Then I recalled the walk with which I introduced this post, and the photo I took on that grey morning that didn’t have an obvious home. I remembered the story that concludes my anthology, partly inspired by the former coalfields near where I live. Below, you can watch me read the opening of “The Witch’s Funeral”, while my flash retells part of that story from a new point of view. |
His final descent
When wood meets soil, only Barry’s left holding the rope. Even the undertaker scowls, throws him that look reserved for outsiders and lily-livered pansies with clean hands.
As a boy, Barry feared the cage that delivered working men into the dark. When they arose, skin stained with sweat and coal dust, it seemed a temporary reprieve.
Of course he’s glad his mother pushed him away, to a safer job on the surface of things. But it severed the tie to his dad, to the community that raised him. Now, his father crated forever in his coffin, it’s too late.
When wood meets soil, only Barry’s left holding the rope. Even the undertaker scowls, throws him that look reserved for outsiders and lily-livered pansies with clean hands.
As a boy, Barry feared the cage that delivered working men into the dark. When they arose, skin stained with sweat and coal dust, it seemed a temporary reprieve.
Of course he’s glad his mother pushed him away, to a safer job on the surface of things. But it severed the tie to his dad, to the community that raised him. Now, his father crated forever in his coffin, it’s too late.
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