On the cusp, doubts enter my mind.

So tomorrow I head up to Scarborough in Yorkshire where Fantasy Con 2016 is happening. It’s a fantasy convention (Duh) where books are launched, talks are held, and editors, writers and agents mingle and do business. I’m heading up there to hopefully find an agent to submit Frostfeld: Book 1 to who can potentially sell it to a publisher.
So, I’m down south in Croydon, London, packing, getting ready for a 4.30 am training (Its 9.43 pm the day before now. I’ll be hitting bed soon) and I’ve just….stopped. I’ve frozen.

Anxiety has taken hold and for the first time ever I’m giving serious consideration to the idea that I may have just wasted the last six years of my life writing something that noone will be interested in reading, much less be able to sell. That my book will never see the light of day. That this trip is a colossal waste of time and money that would be better spent on some more productive.

But what the hell else am I going to do with my life? I don’t want to do anything else. I am a man of very humble ambitions. All I want to do with my life is to wake up every morning and for my only thought to be “What cool shit am I going to write/draw/paint today?”

Nothing else is acceptable. Nothing else is tolerable.

I mean, the nightmare for me would be to abandon this, go out there and get a solid form of employment and have my stories be things that exist entirely in my head, with no output.

That’s hell. That’s my idea of madness.

So, I shake off the anxiety and continue packing.

Because what the fuck else am I supposed to do?

Old routines Old behaviours

I’m currently sitting in a loud and busy Starbucks in Wimbledon with the intension of burning through 2000 words or several chapters before they kick me out.  

There was a time when i had memorised all the opening times and locations of the all the libraries and coffeeshops that had internet access within a 10 mile radius.  Adopting that mentality allowed me to finish writing several drafts of my novel, one novella and several short stories.

Then, for better use of a word, I became lazy and spent more time at home and lost my focus. I’ve set myself a deadline of september to get this second-to-last draft of my novel finished and printed and sent off to friends for criticism and critiques so that by Autumn i’ll hopefully be able to spend the remaining months of the year reworking and editing the final draft in time for its uploading to the kindle platform ad well as other Epub formats.  And to be able to do that i have to re-adopt old behaviours.  

So, here I am.  Wish me luck.  I’m going to need it.

The joy of text: rewriting a manuscript

Writing is fun.  Writing at it best can be noble, empowering and life changing.

But it is hard work.  Make no mistake.

Currently I'm ploughing my way though the THIRD draft of my novel.  This is not unusual.  Novels, good novels, go through countless drafts until they’re readable.  Then, once put in the hands of an editor and copywriter, the process of writing and rewriting begins anew until the manuscript is the best, leanest, most coherent permutation of the writers voice possible.

Then the book arrives in the stores and has to duke it out with ever other schlubs books.

Hard work.  Filled with writing and rewriting.  Deletion. additions, subtractions, moving…ye gods.  Who would want to do this for a living, eh?

Ah yes.  That would be me.  


Actually I'm wrong.  The correct analogy would be hacking slashing my way though a forest.  Because that's exactly what it feels like I'm doing.

Its fun.  But its hard work.  Make no mistake. 

Don’t even get me started about the illustrations.  Yeesh!  I need a drink.  Think I’ve done enough re/writing for one day.