And we’re off…

Well, that’s it for a little bit, as far as the blog’s concerned. The great thing about having gone part time is that I get to take it all in one lump, so every four weeks I get to spend one and a half of them at home – fighting a war of attrition with the cat and bashing away at the new book (60% under the old belt and aiming for a Christmas finish). The bad bit is that as I’m a home hermit (second class) I’m devoid of this internet thing, so no access to the blog for me. Unless I wangle something with Fiona.

It’s that or I actually have to get around to having broadband, or some other thing like that, installed. Not that easy a task as we live out in the back of beyond.

So until then: try to be good and don’t pick at your scabs. They’ll never heal otherwise.

The First Signing Frenzy

Which has to be the second most surreal even of the year - the first being getting a publish deal. This was one of those spontaneous things sparked off by Damon, who I honestly thought was taking the p*** to begin with. You want me to sign a proof of the book? You’re joking right – you do know that this is just me? Not some big fancy writer bloke? But no, he was being totally sincere. And then so was a whole slew of people – Marketing, International Sales, Editorial… Unless of course they were just humouring me. Which is possible as they are very nice and probably thought it would be good for my self-esteem.

So there I am, nicely relaxed following Damon’s generous pouring of the old fizzy, suddenly confronted with this pile of bound proofs to read… But the worst one of all was suddenly trying to come up with something to put in a copy for Jane – my HC editor, the person who decided I’d be worth taking a three-book-deal chance on, who’s basically giving me the opportunity to go write for a living and thus completely change the life of me and my family (for the better) – and I’m b*****ed if I could come up with something. So instead I scribble down some sort of self-conscious dribble that probably doesn’t come across right and is all poo… Somehow, when I was twelve and actually believed that it would be a good idea to practice a fancy signature, rather than pay attention in physics one afternoon, for when I became rich and famous, I didn’t think there would be actual thinking required.

The Agenda of Secrecy

This is one of those odd ones top be posting about, but Kelly Ragland (the lovely lady who edits the US version of Cold Granite for St. Martin’s Press) has been lurking – anonymously reading this blog safe in the knowledge that nobody know (till now) – and wanted to know how the whole secrecy thing is going.

You see, I’ve been kinda circumspect about the whole three book deal thing. In fact, I’ve not told anyone about it. Not a soul. Well, three souls: the good lady wife (Fiona), my line manager (and I had to tell him so I could arrange to go part time for the writing of book II) and my best friend James. Other than that – no one. Not even my family know about this. Which is a bit odd, considering that you’re currently reading this on the internet, where any old sausage can dial up and take a browse around. So basically you could say that I’m only not telling the people who I know and might actually be interested. Sounds a bit odd now I come to think about it, but hey-ho.

The problem was that I signed up with HC back in March this year – 14 months before the thing was due to be published in the UK. This I felt was WAY too long to have people pestering me about when it was coming out and could they read it and blah, blah, blah… This did not fit with my hermit-like image. So I came to the decision that I wasn’t going to tell anyone at all until the end of Feb 2005 (at some sort of birthday party). This was as long as Fiona would agree to keep the secret. Any longer, she said, and she’d explode, splattering the landscape with tattered bits of her head. And mine if I didn’t get out of the way fast enough. To be honest, I’d be happier just not telling any of the family / workmates / people until after the fact. You know, drop; it into casual conversation like. “What? Oh, no sorry: I can’t come to tea on the twelfth, I’ve got to go to this launch party thing for my internationally published novel.” Very smooth, no?

I often wonder what other writers do with the news: scream it from the rooftops, or bury it under a rock?

It’s not really that weird, is it?

Eat, drink and be merry…

For tomorrow you go back to Aberdeen. Well, it was a great night last night. After a pretty iffy start – due to public transport from Guildford into the centre of London being an absolute disaster. By the time delays on the underground came into play there wasn’t even time to drop off the suitcase and laptop at the hotel – straight to the HarperCollins offices for me, wedged between some fat man’s armpit and someone who had eaten WAY too much garlic. Maybe they were some sort of balding vampire hunter? And I’m pretty certain someone was practising frottage against my suitcase by the time I got to Hammersmith. And then, when I got there, someone had stolen the HC reception and stuck it way round the back, for maximum tromping through the rain when you’re already a sweaty lump from the game of mobile sardines that is the London underground.

The sardine thing came into play again, when I got to Jane’s office: packed full of smiling people drinking fiz. The smiling may well have been down to the vast quantities of booze doing the rounds, but everyone was extremely nice. Which I’m only slowly getting used to. Being a Project Manager I’m used to people grumping and moaning and wandering about with faces like skelpt arses. So a whole room of nice people being nice and smiling and saying nice things, is like stepping into some bizarre horror movie. And for some reason Damon, from international sales and a dab hand at pouring the old bubbly, always introduces himself like I won’t have a clue who he is. I think the whole team was there and it was pretty damn great. And I got to drink heaps of fiz! Hurrah!

The restaurant was pretty damn good as well: just me and five lovely ladies (don’t tell Fiona!) ;}# All in all, a really nice night. I can thoroughly recommend landing a three book deal with a top-notch publishing company!

Now all I have to figure out is what to do in London all day while I wait for my flight…

Things that go ‘yaaaaaaaaar, ssssfffg’ in the night

Unnnnngh… I’ve never liked staying in hotels. Being one of those picky sods who needs complete silence and darkness to get any sort of sleep at all – even in my own bed – the whole experience just doesn’t work for me. Last night’s non-slumber comes courtesy of a bed like marshmallow, sheets like starched sandpaper and what wounded like an entire rock band, presumably out of their faces on various chemicals, determined to make as much noise as possible at completely random intervals. I swear they were having sex with reticent camels... that's what it sounded like anyway. And they seemed to be staying in every single room adjacent to mine. Including the diagonals on up and downstairs. Not a good start to the day, especially as I’m due to have drinks at HarperCollins tonight, followed by a meal out on the town with my lovely publishing team – all very nice ladies. Will they be terribly disappointed if I fall asleep in the soup and start making little snoring bubbles of pea and ham?

The trouble with being a daytime blogger

You’re always ahead and behind the curve. At the same time. I do most of mine during lunch, or maybe a little bit after work. Or if there’s b****r all else I can do, because I’m waiting for someone to do something before I can get on with something else. Unfortunately, everyone else seems to do theirs in the evening – or the ones I read anyway (such as John Rickards [who appears to be nocturnal and doesn’t read British crime anyway: twit])– or are US based (like the ever-loquacious Madame Weinman [who’s on holiday, but you know what I mean]) and have an excuse for not publishing their blog at a reasonable UK time.

So, I’m always reading yesterday’s postings. I’m a beard out of time.

Val McDermid Rocks

(by which I don’t mean that she is unstable in any way: this is purely an expression of admiration) The lovely Val, one of the biggest guns in UK crime fiction has been kind enough to say nice things about the book and provided a lovely blurb. This will no doubt get plastered all over the book jacket for all to see, enticing them to part with their well earned dosh in exchange for THE BOOK. I really like her work as well, so I’m pretty stoked about it.

Ahem, drum roll please…

“Ferocious and funny, this is Tartan Noir at its best.”

Got to admit, when I started down this road, I had thought it’d be great just to be published. A little deal with a nice little publisher, who’d put the book onto bookshop shelves. Maybe some people would buy them. Nothing big – you know? I certainly didn’t think I’d ever actually end up published in six languages and get nice quotes from famous people! Kinda worked out a little bit better than I had planned, don’t you think?

;}#

Guildford-a-go-go…

Well, here we are again (or, I am at any rate), sat in a little office in Guildford for the project that forms my delightful day job. At least the flight down this time was a nice surprise: there was some sort of mistake with the electronic check-in thing and I ended up flying business class, instead of being strapped to the undercarriage like usual. Ahhh… Hot, moist towelettes and “would you care for something else to drink, sir?” OK, so it’s half nine in the morning and the only real options are orange juice and tea, but it’s the thought that counts.

But the real benefit of being down here is that I get to access my hotmail directly (which is normally banned at work) and can catch up on all the things I’ve supposed to have done for my lovely publishers and their publicity departments. One of these days I’m probably going to have to join the rest of the world and get some of that internet stuff installed on my computer at home. BUT, as I’ve been working on the damn thing for nearly ten years now (designing web sites, programming web sites, managing other people who do web sites, applications and all thazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz… ‘snork’? Hmm? Where was I?) I’ve never really seen the point before. Ah, ‘tis the end of an era. Next thing you know I’ll be getting a mobile phone and learning how to text – Aye, right. That’ll be shining!

Maybe I should just eat more greens instead.

The cat! The damn cat!

OK, I must confess that I was kinda anti-getting-a-cat for a long time. OK, they’re cute, but they’re also all hairy and they shed fluff everywhere and I sneeze and make with the pink-golf-balls eyes. But, after years of ‘reminding’ I finally caved in and we bought a tiny, wee Maine Coon kitten, called Grendel (who’s destined to grow up to be the size of a Ford Escort by all accounts). So far so good. I rationalised this decision by reasoning that ‘Madam la Peep’ could keep me company on those long days at the keyboard, maybe curled up beside the monitor, sleeping peacefully and radiating waves of unbridled affection.

Anyone who has ever had a cat, and tried to type, will spot the obvious mistake. Me? Never had a cat before – sounds like a good plan, what could go wrong?

Keyboard + cat = dialogue with words like ‘awefawdwx’ and ‘6kiu8989;////////’ suddenly appearing out of nowhere. And **** help you if you’ve just gone ‘Ctr A’ ‘cos you’re about to lose EVERYTHING! Good job I have a compulsive twitch that slaps ‘save’ every thirty seconds. Then there’s the ‘play with me’ period, which involves leaping at legs, knees, fingers and any other bit of exposed flesh (not that I write with exposed knees: I’m not that sort of boy) with jaws agape and claws at the ready. I’ll be lucky if I get through this d***d book with all my appendages attached.

Scary things happening on the couch...

Well, it’s happened at last: ‘She Who Must Be Indulged’ has finally read one of my books. FYI: I’ve been writing for YEARS and years now (Cold Granite being the fifth book to ooze from the old steam-powered subconscious), and never has my good lady wife risked reading my stuff. Just in case she didn’t like it. Which I can understand, not an easy thing to read through a loved one’s book, turn around with a smile, maybe place a soft hand on the cheek and say, “What a heap of old p**p!” Or worse yet – lie about it and then be doomed to read book after book of unmitigated p***le.

But… apparently she liked the book, even the ‘icky’ bits. Or at least says she did. Which may well doom her to a life of the old p***le. Very loyal.

I have to wonder: does everyone go through this with their spouse? Or is it just me? Is everyone else writing their book(s) while being attacked by a slavering partner desperate for a glimpse of the finished manuscript (other than the cat – about which more later).

Norway pips UK to the post!

In a bizarre twist of things that didn’t look all that straight in the first place, Cold granite is actually going to be hitting the bookshelves in Oslo two months earlier than it will in Aberdeen – or anywhere else in the world come to that. Which is odd. I was getting so used to the idea that we’d be holding out here until May. But them good folks at Tiden Norsk Forlag won’t be restrained!

And they’re even going to have me across to Oslow to do the publicity thing. Which is very nice of them, in a personally terrifying way. So much for the life of a reclusive hermit. Or any other kind of hermit, come to that.

Kjøp mye groovy bøker, De skjønt folk av Norge!

The Blurbs, they is a pouring in...

Well, not exactly pouring, but dribbling perhaps. The lovely people at St Martin’s Press have been chucking out proofs of Cold Granite to all and sundry and someone has already come back with a blurb so glowing I’m too embarrassed to quote it here. A nice lady called Deborah Crombie seems to think it’s not that bad ;}#

Bit of a freaky coincidence considering the discussion going on at Sarah Weinman’s blog this weekend.

All I need now are about another hundred or so rave pre-reviews and I might actually start believing I’ve got a shot at doing this for a living. Eek!