Blog

Or perhaps this should be entitled, Where to find a Writer when they’re not at their desk.

Like most Pensmiths, I enjoy solitude.  The top of a mountain provides an alternative sort of yawning silence that brings a deeper contemplation, and I’m always happy to don a pair of skis to get there.

Having been overseas for most of the ski season this year, I’m lucky that the cold weather has prevailed, enabling me to get to Lake Mountain Alpine Resort before the big melt.  With the promise of SNOW and an opportunity to watch the sun come up, I don’t mind the 5.30am alarm if it means I can have a whole day of cross-country skiing.

It’s only a 120km (two hour) drive through the sleepy stillness of early morning, and there’s rarely much traffic about if you leave early.  The last bit of the drive is wonderful, from Marysville, and has you scooping along a meandering road, through rainforest gullies and towering Mountain Ash forest.  It’s a breathtaking ascent on a single lane of horseshoe bends and tight curves – and it makes me glad I have a manual car as I negotiate the hairpin turns.

The sun is out at 8:30am when I arrive at Gerraty’s car park, lighting my steady climb up SnowGum Trail, and it keeps me warm as I follow Woollybutt to The Gap.  The Panorama loop reveals a glorious view that I capture at the Lookout, and at Jubilee I nestle on the sun warmed strips of bark and debris in the crook of a tree to eat my lunch.   The only sound is the gentle creaking of the silvery branches of snow gum as they sway in the wind.

At times I see large Huntsman spiders on the snow, stark against the white, doing a daring, spindly dash across the paths – how do they survive the cold?   Plus I see a wallaby at the roadside at dusk;  but I doubt I’ve passed more than a handful of  skiers all day.  It’s the place to go if you want to get away from the crowds.

It’s such a beautiful and peaceful spot – I never want the day to end – but of course the changeable Alpine weather will always decide our fate.  It brings a foggy drizzle in the afternoon and means an earlier finish to the day.  I still manage 5hrs of skiing on the various trails – I’d guess it’s about 19-20 kilometres in the end. 

There are certain traditions that have to be maintained, and one of those is the apres-ski hat. It tends to change each year, but my friend, Jacinta is responsible for this one.  I absolutely have to wear it. I mean, it has ‘paws’.  How could I not?

Chetham’s library is a hidden gem in the heart of city centre Manchester.  It’s the oldest free public reference library in the UK, circa 1650’s, and it has more than 100,000 books, some of which are really, really old. You can tell can’t you? I mean, it’s a mini Hogwarts isn’t it?

You can even request any of their titles in print, and then sit in their reading room on a rainy day to peruse your selection.  The place has all the dark, dusty appeal of a Harry Potter filmset – I can almost hear the ‘accio Firebolt’.

An innovative way to avoid theft is shown in the picture of  the chained books, but this is just an example of an ancient tradition and not something they employ as a strategy now.

When I was wandering around the local woodland, and cycling the lanes of my home village in the north of England, I found this sign.  In my book James and Carolyn have the nicknames, Rood and Roods, so of course I had to take a picture.

I can’t imagine the derivation for ‘Roods Lane’, but it was a nice coincidence, and another link to the book. Again.

It was an exciting prospect, an interview on BBC Radio Manchester.

In student days, I’d moonlighted on Manchester’s Piccadilly Radio, volunteering my time on a Sunday evening show (The Last Radio Programme – with Tony the Greek) that played fantastic indie music and had musicians dropping into the studio to play a few songs.  I remember making coffee for Pete Shelley (The Buzzcocks), but my personal favourite was The Daintees. Must’ve been those lovely Geordie accents.

It was a windy Monday afternoon, July 31st and I was at Media City, on the site of the old docklands, in Salford Quays, and a short walk from my college stamping ground.  I was there to meet the host, Becky Want, to talk about my Australian story and my year of writing.

She generously gave me a full ten minutes of air time, and after we’d chatted she played the track, Left, by The Fish John West Reject, a single that brings back memories of those thrashabilly days on the dancefloor. Yee-ha!   It was amazing to finally hear those Tasmanian boys on British radio. It’s only taken a couple of decades.  (When I’ve converted the audio, I’ll add a link here, for anyone that wants to listen to it.)

There have been some incredible coincidences and serendipitous moments while I’ve been writing this story; and I know I keep using that phrase, but really.  This one happened a few days before my interview with Becky, when I phoned the BBC studios.  A random person picked up the phone – a guy called Ewan. He just happened to be there.  It turned out that he’d been in Australia in the 90’s, and well, yes, he’d even been to a few Fish gigs in Melbourne, and actually, yes, he knew the band too.  He’s still in touch with Graham, the drummer.

How can that not blow your mind?

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I grew up near Rochdale, a Lancashire town that produced singing greats like Gracie Fields (for those of you in your eighties) and Lisa Stansfield, for those of you listening to pop music in the 80’s.

If you travel a mere 14 miles from Rochdale, you’ll arrive at the market town of Hebden Bridge.  Quirky, arty, bohemian.  It’s a place of cobbled streets, artisan shops and independent galleries.  It has artistic graffiti, dog friendly cafes, a very cool music store and even politically correct non-gender bread persons (at the soap shop.)

The current BBC 1 crime drama series, ‘Happy Valley’ is filmed and set in-and-around the town, and stars the appropriately named, Sarah Lancashire – although HB is actually in the Yorkshire Pennines.  (I just wish I could claim it for Lancashire.)

They have a Happy Valley Pride week in August, to celebrate LGBTQ life in Hebden Bridge and the surrounding areas.  I just wish I’d got to Sylvia Plath’s grave in the nearby Heptonstall, and Ted Hughes’ neighbouring village of Mytholmroyd. (Go on, try and pronounce that one.)

Wikipedia refers to Hebden Bridge as ‘the lesbian capital of the UK.’   Could you get more groovy than that?

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Whilst in the north of England in July, I came across a vintage store, Elegant Era, on a rainy afternoon in Harrogate.  Inside, there was a lovely red felt jacket, and imagine my surprise when I saw that it had two Mexicans dancing on the back of it.

Hmm.  Sounds like a good title for a book, I thought.  (But don’t let me mislead you.  My book is called, Like Two Mexicans Dancing.  It has nothing to do with Mexicans, dancing or otherwise.  What is my book about?  Well, I could tell you… but maybe you should read it, and find out for yourself.)

Another nice moment of happenstance. Although, I didn’t end up buying it. Red isn’t really my colour.

I went to England in July.

Firstly, I’ve never been a fan of flying. If I could be anaesthetised and transported through the entire journey in a state of oblivion, or at least reduced consciousness, I’d be much happier.  Some people might think it’s why they offer you alcohol on board; but that can have other unwanted repercussions, and I don’t want to be the next person getting twelve thousand hits on YouTube for running down the aisle with my knickers on my head.

So, how else to cover 10,000 miles, other than by air?  (When-oh-when will they get that Star Trek beam-me-up-Scotty transporter finished so we can be energised across the globe?)

Let me just point out, when you live half way between the Equator and the Antarctic Circle, basically south of everything, then everywhere is a long way from home.  A trip to the mother country (UK) is always going to be arduous, because it involves 20 hours on a plane. Which takes me right back to my original point.  Flying. Ugh.

The second issue is that, having done the flight, you know you’ll have to do it all over again, and soon.  Yes, it’s the only way to get back, unless you want to pack yourself into a shipping container, and mail yourself home.  (I’m tempted.)

Anyway, I went to England in July.  And let’s just say I flew because it was more sensible than trying to dodge across every sea and ocean between the two continents, all the while being pursued by boats of pirates with rocket launchers – what happened to cutlasses and swords?  Plus it was slightly better than enduring eight metre swells, and trying not to yodel and heave-ho everything I’d ever eaten for lunch.

So, I went, I saw, I returned. That was just the travelling bit.  Wait until I tell you what I did there.

After the book launch in February I’d expected to spend a few months on marketing tasks before I could resume writing.  I knew it would be time consuming, but I wanted to forge connections and develop some useful relationships.   Those were the early weeks of running around, making phone calls, dropping-off books to Readings and Rocksteady Records in the city, contacting radio stations and writing lots of emails.  However, in the midst of all that activity I received some surprising and very unwelcome news.  My weekend job would be winding-up at the end of June.  It was the last thing I’d expected to hear.  The loss of my only paid work would have a huge impact on the lifestyle I’d constructed, effectively curtailing my writing ambitions.  I was devastated.

The weeks that followed were uncertain times.  I now had to add job seeking to my list of things to do.  Besides the requisite resume preparation and letter writing there’s the added stress of attending job interviews, and then dealing with rejection.  All of that chipped into my writing and marketing time, which I didn’t resent if it meant I’d get another job at the end of it all.  But I hadn’t realised how much stress I was internalising.

It began to manifest in dramatic skin problems – visible evidence of the impact it was all having on me.  Yet there was no let-up.  My foundations were at risk, and I couldn’t plan ahead until I knew if I’d have some income.  Time was ticking along.  Only a fortnight to go. Could I continue to live as a Writer or not?

All of this tension culminated in a dramatic and conspicuous outbreak.  I got shingles.  On my face, of all places.  I was finally confronted with what I’d been doing to myself.  Was it worth all this angst?

In the final week of June, at the eleventh hour, I had respite.  It was just as surprising as the original news.  Within 24 hours I was interviewed and re-hired for the weekend job that I loved. My world wouldn’t have to be deconstructed, and my life as a Writer wasn’t over.

I took a breath, and then another.  All of this stress, and all the weeks of worrying – but had it actually affected the outcome?  Sometimes that crystal ball would really come in handy.

I try to adopt some self-talk for these things now, and I focus on that age-old phrase, In the end, everything will be alright.  Because, if we could fast forward into the future we’d see that our effort ultimately pays-off, and the outcome is rarely as terrible as we imagine.

May and June were memorable. They were crazy months that I wouldn’t want to re-live; and I have the scars to prove it.  Shingles scars.  They sit quite prominantly on my forehead, hidden by a shaggy fringe at the moment.  I hope that they’ll fade in time, but in many ways I feel I’ve earned those marks.  They’re a reminder of how fiercely I fought to retain this life, of how much it all matters to me.

I’m sure it was Mothers who coined some of the best well-worn phrases, like, ‘never leave ’til tomorrow what you can do today.’  Or perhaps, ‘if you want it doing right, do it yourself.’

Both of these basic premisses would be apt for me this month, having endured a rather arduous May, during which I achieved four fifths of nine tenths of naff-all.  Zilch.   Having been struck down by all manner of seasonal microbes – surely a valid excuse for being unproductive – I was languishing in the knowledge that subsequent to my book launch in February, at least my newly formatted e-book was sitting nicely online at various sites.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered that it wasn’t.

Now, I’m very happy with my US based publisher, let it be known.  But I have heard it described as The Titanic…. because it really is vast…. and it churns out impressive quantities of books at a tree endangering speed.  But there had been no mention of any outstanding paperwork, and I had been going about my business thinking everything had been signed and dotted.  (Perhaps it’s so big that things like this can get missed, although to be fair, this is a self-publishing venture, so the onus is on me. )

Ultimately I didn’t know that there were two contracts yet to be reviewed for the big players – Apple, and Kindle (Amazon) – and not only had I made little progress in May due to the beastly bugs, but I’d also (unwittingly) lost March and April as a result of incomplete paperwork.

Just back tracking here for a minute.  When I’d completed my book at the end of 2016, after 12 months of writing,  I’d had some difficulty with the right sort of pdf required by the US publisher during the hard copy upload process.  I’d persevered.  I’d made multiple attempts.  All of them failed.  Six weeks of rejections, and a small nervous breakdown later, I engaged the services of Pickawoowoo Pty Ltd in Nannup, WA.  Although every part of that sounds made up, it isn’t, and they saved my sanity, particularly Julie-Ann.  It didn’t matter that there was 3,500km between us, and a three hour time difference.  They got it all sorted, and I could finally upload my file.  Within weeks I had my first batch of 50 books.  Success.

I love the hard copy book.  The colour reproduction is excellent, and the quality of the paper is high.  But with so many colour images it’s costly to produce it, and I’ve always known that an online version is more affordable for many readers.   I had reservations about trying to tackle the e-book upload myself after the above experiences.  But I decided to have a go at the KDP site myself so I could retain more control of the details, and aim for better royalties.  Pickawoowoo helped me again, for a small fee, ensuring I had the correct MOBI file for the upload.

It takes a bit of time to write a good, attention-grabbing book description – harder than it looks –  and to complete all the sections, such as the details about the Author.  It’s not difficult, but it’s time consuming.  After a couple of intensive days, it was all done, and I’m now happily looking at my Kindle version, as well as the book.

So, where am I now?  Well, over the last 16 months, having decided to write and publish my own book, I’ve found that every situation has provided an opportunity for learning.  I’ve been impressed with the resources you can find on-line, and the number of people/sites willing to offer useful advice.  I knew very little about the process when I began, but I managed to piece it all together.  Would I do it all again?  Definitely.

When things go wrong you find out about your inner resolve.  You also find out how to do something differently, and chalk it up to experience.

I need to spend a bit more time marketing, a big part of the self-publishing journey; but then I intend to go back to writing.  After-all, I can’t let all this valuable learning go to waste can I?

This is the article, as it appeared in the Sunday edition of the Tasmanian newspaper.  It’s great to see it on the page versus on screen, so to speak.  Plus, I now have a keepsake to add to my collection.