Payment appears to be out of the question.

     On completion of my first novel I was over the moon. I was an author, soon I would have a  stipend to subsidise my  meagre pension in recognition of two years of dedicated hard work, and perhaps a few encouraging comments from grateful  readers to boost my  fragile ego.

Other authors informed me there was never a better time to be a writer. Traditionally authors needed to find an agent, or a publisher, no mean feat I can assure you, or to rely on what is commonly known as vanity press to see their labour of love in print, an arrangement whereby a handful of books is produced, at the author's expense, with no effort made to market the authors work.     I was informed that today's author can publish his, or her, masterpiece at minimal cost, and sell  online. The publishing advice was true. I spent £80 for unrestricted access to a great photograph, which I titled myself using Microsoft Word, along with a free download to convert my artwork into a JPEG format. I was advised, and I'm sure it's good advice, to pay for an editing service to make my books  as good as they can possibly be, or it would be good advice if it was possible to sell enough books to cover the huge expense of professional editing.  Publishing on Amazon is free, providing you agree to use the Amazon ISBN number, so job done for £80 .
     The next piece of advice was to build a platform for marketing. I wasn't quite sure what build a platform meant, but I suspect it was a platform from which to hang myself when the reality dawned that I was never going to sell more than a handful of books. The platform consists of social networking websites like Twitter, Goodreads, Google+, Linkedin, and Facebook. I now have followers on Twitter, a Facebook page, a Google+ account, a Linkedin account and thousands of  hits on this blog, but  with no significant improvement in sales. Nobody on the internet wants to buy a book, only to sell one, so authors try to market to other authors, who have little time to read because of their commitment to social networking, while trying to write that breakthrough novel. Even if they do find the time to read there are so many desperate people giving away free downloads that e-book readers are full to bursting with novels, good and bad, which may never be read due to time restraints. I have more books on my shelves, and in my e-reader, than I could possibly read in a lifetime, while authors constantly offer me their latest novels to read in exchange for a favourable review. In this climate of free downloads, how do authors ever expect to sell anything? Is their work so worthless that they are prepared to give it away? Would they work on the checkout at their local supermarket for free, or repair  cars from Monday to Sunday free of charge? I think not. They obviously feel that once read and enjoyed the reader will search out other examples of their work with a view to  purchase. With so many free downloads available I'm sceptical.

People go out and buy lottery tickets every week in the mistaken belief that this week they will win the lottery, most of them never will. The same principle applies to writers. One or two novels will inevitably come good; Fifty Shades of Grey is one example, although I am lead to believe that the subject matter and not the quality of writing made it go viral. Most novels, however good they are, never will. One thing is for certain, unless readers get behind their favourite Indie writers and  send their  message viral, writers will never be able to achieve even modest success in such an overcrowded marketplace.
     People have asked me when my third novel is due to be released, unless there is a drastic improvement in the sales of my other novels  my answer will remain the same, what third novel?

I'm an Author

What my mom thinks I do.

      Well my mom doesn't think anything as she is no longer with us. She would have been amazed that I could even string a sentence together as English was never my best subject at school. I was much better at breaking windows with my football.
      She would also have been shocked at what I have written in my novels. In fact I dare not have written them while she was alive.

What society thinks I do.

Well I'm not rolling in money that's for sure. I wear my clothes to destruction and travel everywhere on the bus using my bus pass, not very glamorous being an author is it? Some people may have the misguided impression that I know what I'm talking about, but to emulate my literary career  would be folly indeed.

What my partner thinks I do.

My wife thinks I hide in the spare bedroom and play on the computer all day rather than pulling my weight with the household chores. If only she knew the torture I put myself through in the name of art, while all she has to do it wash, iron, vacuum, and dust, cook and shop, and bring me coffee and cake to ease my torment.

What do I think I do?

In my world of self delusion I see a glittering literary career. I see bestsellers and film deals, Oscars and Bafta's. I also see myself playing football for Manchester United. It does no harm to dream.

What I really do.

 What I really do is spend all  day on facebook, Linkedin, Google+, and twitter, building a platform, on the advice of other authors. When I'm not doing that I'm in the process of never ending edits and rewrites, which gives me little  time for new projects.

What I want to do.

All any writer wants to do is write. When I first set out to write a novel I never envisage the rocky road on which I was embarking. Once upon a time, if you could bypass the guardians at the door, a publisher would relieve the author of the burden of editing and marketing.  Happy days. This situation has changed and if an author is unable to market he will never be successful no matter how good a writer he is.

Dear Aggie is it time to put my head in the gas oven?

Remember Remember the 5th November gunpowder, treason and plot

    On the 5th of November 1605 Guy Fawkes was arrested while guarding explosives placed beneath the House of Lords. This has made him infamous as a traitor to the crown. Had he attempted to blow up parliament today he may well have been given a medal for services to a grateful nation. His motives, however, were less political than religious, as his target was the protestant King James 1. People lit bonfires to celebrate the foiling of the plot, and a public day of thanksgiving was introduced under the Observation of the  5th November act.


     When I was young, health and safety had little meaning. The world was a dangerous place and people accepted that. Hell the war had only just ended and we'd spent most of our nights in a bomb shelter while our cities were being bombed, what danger could there possibly be from a bonfire and a few  fireworks?

     People lit communal fires in the back alleyways, which separated the rows  of terraced houses and allowed refuse collections, while paint bubbled on back yard gates because of their close proximity to the flames. Mothers made treacle toffee, potato pie, and parkin, a kind of gingerbread made from oats and treacle, while senior citizens sat in front of the fire, as it was warmer outside than  their   own homes. It's a wonder that the elderly survived bonfire night at all, as we often threw cracker-jacks under their chairs and frightened the old dears half to death, before  receiving a clip around the ear for our misdemeanour's.

     My father always purchased a box of  fireworks, as did the neighbours to enhance the experience. There was always a pin-wheel in each box and my father would nail it to the backyard door. With a great fanfare he would light it when everyone was suitably positioned to watch it, but  it either flew off the door and nearly took someone's eye out, or it failed to spin at all and extracted even more paint from the backyard gate until it meekly  fizzled out.

     We'd been collecting firewood for many weeks in the advent to bonfire night, old settees and back yard gates, rotten fencing, branches blown down in the October storms, and all manner of inflammables.  Gangs roamed the area stealing firewood from other people's bonfires, or setting woodpiles alight just for the sheer hell of it. This meant  that armed guards had to be stationed at woodpiles, and skirmishes often ensued.

   

  Those days are long gone, health and safety has seen to that, but it had to come as people often ended up in hospital, property was damaged, sometimes irrevocably, and some people had their lives changed forever due to burns or the loss of fingers or an eye. Bonfires are mostly of the organised variety these days, and so they should be.  For many years I stood ankle deep in mud with my children, buying hot-dogs, roasted potatoes, and treacle toffee,  from stalls run by  scouting groups to boost their coffers, but bonfires of the organised variety will never be quite so much fun as the bonfires of my youth.

Man Flu

    My definition, a derogatory term, invented by a woman, for a virus when caught by a man. Back in October I received my flu injection, but there is no avoiding, or a cure for, man-flu.  If a man catches a virus it will be regarded as man-flu, a much degraded version of the real thing, something which has been dreamt up by a man   to gain sympathy, and not something worthy of serious consideration.
    Now why would a man invent a virus  to gain sympathy, when every husband knows that sympathy ended at the altar. 

   This is how a typical week of man-flu  pans out.
     On Monday your week of hell begins with a sore throat. "Have we any sore throat lozenges?" you ask.
     "We ran out of mint humbugs so I ate them all while  watching TV, you will have to wait until I go shopping on Friday."
     Tuesday the headaches begin. " Have we any Paracetamol dear?" you ask, but even the mentioning the word Paracetamol sets off an angry  reaction.
     "You should try having a baby then you would know what real pain is like."
     Now this is the answer to a  question never contemplated, and so you keep searching for something which doesn't exist until you are chastised for messing up the kitchen cupboards.
     Wednesday you begin to sneeze but your handkerchief is wedged at the bottom of your pocket and trapped under your house keys and some small change.
     "Do you have to sneeze all over everyone," she challenges. "Don't be so inconsiderate and cover your face." 
     Thursday you develop a hacking cough. You dare not ask if there is any cough medicine in the house and so you pay £4.50 for a cough bottle at the local chemist, which barely lasts for two days and has no effect whatsoever.
     You cough all through Thursday night until your chest is sore. You get very little sleep but do you get any sympathy. Well what do you think?
     "Do you have to cough all night?" she asks irritably at 3 o'clock in the morning. "I'm sure you're only doing it to keep me awake, why don't you sleep in the spare room?"
     Friday you should be going out with friends but you are too unwell to go. You hear your darling wife on the telephone cancelling the arrangements.
     "Yes he's got man-flu. He'll do anything to spoil my evening."
     By Saturday you are going through ten handkerchiefs a day but she still hasn't noticed  that you are genuinely unwell.
     "I wish you would stop using so many handkerchiefs." she complains. "Do you really think that I have nothing else to do all day other than washing your dirty handkerchiefs?"
     You could contract leprosy and you would still here her talking on the phone, "He's  got man-leprosy, he's such a baby."
     On Sunday she complains of having a sore throat, and retires to bed with the packet of throat lozenges which she failed to purchased until your sore  throat had all but gone away. She tells her friend on the telephone  that she's got the flu, but she has no idea where she could possibly have caught it. It couldn't possibly have been caught from you because after all you only had man-flu.

Spatial awareness

 While taking my daily constitutional I was overtaken by a female driver. I accept that I'm walking down country lanes, but I have regularly seen large four by fours pass huge tractors, which always seem to come out in force on bank holidays to tow cow manure across three counties. Coming in the opposite direction was another lady driver. Although the road was wide enough to get a bus through sideways, neither of these women were prepared to take the risk of  passing  and a standoff ensued. As far as I'm aware no angry words were exchanged, just looks of helplessness, until one of the women  reversed  all the way back to the main road. I hope she didn't encounter another car on her second attempt to negotiate the lane as she could have been there all day.

This got me to thinking about spatial awareness. Two men would have passed without difficulty; no I'm not a chauvinist just a realist, but  a lot of women seem unable to judge the width of their vehicle. Now don't get me wrong my wife and both of my daughters are very good drivers, as many women are,  and I have to take some credit for that, or blame as the case may be, as I'm the one who taught them all to drive. In the wintertime however, when the car has  been parked in the garage due to inclement weather, I am the one designated to reverse the car out of the garage  in my carpet slippers and pyjamas, as my wife doesn't trust herself even though it was put in straight the night before and only needs to be reversed out in exactly the same way.

     A neighbour  recently went to the doctors and parked on the surgery car park. While she was in the process of receiving  medical consultation, cars parked on either side of her car and although she only had to reverse backwards, but after half an hour  the car was wedged diagonally across the parking space and she was forced to telephone her husband and ask him to catch the bus to the doctors to reverse the car.

     Spatial awareness is not the only problem women have, indecision is yet another. I hate going to the supermarket  when the car park is quiet, yes you heard me correctly, quiet. My wife will find a parking space and once in it she will see another one which she thinks is a  better one.  Four or five space changes later I am thinking park the bloody car, although I daren't actually say anything. If my wife reads this I will be sleeping in the spare room for a week, but she is not usually interested in anything  I have to say so I should be safe.

Wedding Anniversaries

   When a man gets married he is told that this is his wedding day, although I am of the opinion that the bridegroom is little more than an accoutrement to the proceedings and ranked somewhere between the wedding cake, the flowers, the taxi's, and the bridesmaids.

     The bride dresses like a princess in an expensive gown with a veil, a train, and a tiara. The bridegroom dresses in a black rented suit. Everyone kisses the bride and tells her how beautiful she looks, while everyone shakes hands with the bridegroom and tells him how lucky he is. It should be obvious, even to the most optimistic of bridegrooms that this is her wedding day, along with all of the wedding anniversaries yet to come.

     In the early years of a marriage, recognition by way of a sentimental card and a bunch of daffodils from a galvanised bucket outside of the petrol station will be rewarded by a night of passion. As the years roll by daffodils will no longer cut the mustard and a delivery of the most out of season and expensive blooms from the local florist shop is required. This gesture alone is not enough and must be accompanied by a romantic evening at a nice restaurant with a decent bottle of wine.

After 15 years she would like something made from crystal, and after 25 years the husband has become so difficult to live with that he must cross her palm with silver. After 30 years of marriage only pearl earrings and a drop pearl necklace will compensate for his inadequacies, and the nights of passion have long since dried up, while 35 years requires that she be presented with something made from coral.

On the 40th wedding anniversary rubies are the order of the day, oh and wouldn't a five star holiday in the Mediterranean be nice? So the lady of the house gets a holiday and rubies and the long suffering husband receives an overdraft. Who decided that 40 years was a milestone in a marriage? I can understand the thought behind a quarter of a century together. I can understand why you might celebrate half a century together, but 40 years! What's all that about?

By the time you retire and are struggling to live on a pension things really begin to gather pace. Every five years more precious stones are required. First it’s sapphires and after that gold, followed by emeralds and diamonds if you are not in the poor house by then. Why on earth does a pensioner require all this expensive jewellery?

What I would like to know is in which year do I receive my gold watch and my long service medal? 

Odd Socks

Have you ever wondered why when you put a pair of socks in the washing basket only one sock returns? Do they have a disagreement about the brand of washing powder in the washing machine and become divorced? Perhaps one flattens itself against the side of the dryer to remain undiscovered, before hopping away unnoticed once my back is turned?

I used to buy socks in many colours and designs, but I've made a decision to purchase only black socks. This enables me to form new couplings after the separation of others. It does mean that sometimes I wear one sock which climbs half way up my calf, while the other barely covers my ankle, but at least they are both the same colour.

At Christmas time I always received the ubiquitous four-pack of black socks, not that I am complaining you understand, as I do need these annual replacements to subsidise my ever dwindling stock, but although black they had a patterned band around the top. One pair had a yellow band while another had a blue band. One pair had a red band and the other a green. Needless to say I have only two pairs of these socks left, one with a red band on one leg and a yellow band on the other, and a second pair with a blue band on one leg and a green ban on the other.

Have you ever noticed that old socks never go missing? That one with the darned heal, and the other one with the toe sown up where a toenail made a hole, remnants of what was once a thriving community of black socks. This elderly couple have chosen to stay together forever and a day, maybe because more attractive offers fail to come along once old and decrepit, while all of the young and vibrant socks split up at the earliest opportunity, sometimes in their very first wash.

If anyone has had similar experiences please contact me. The mystery of the missing socks is something we must urgently get to the bottom of.