A word about 'Word'... and other words.

Note to self – Never ever publish tiny edits at midnight or thereafter – at least in the sample chapter that’ll appear on Amazon - for what was otherwise a typo free manuscript (yeah it was!) suddenly becomes glaringly obvious and potentially off-putting to anyone happening along.

Such was the case with one book this morning I noticed when I went into see what I’d done last night – somehow another 'me' coming into existence in the wee hours with a different opinion about everything – but the word ‘dated’ instead of ‘dared’ appearing very early on, which made absolutely no sense – and the kind of thing that makes my heart lurch.  (You can read about all the 'me's here, in this blog piece entitled Me, Me, Me.)

So, I mean, where the hell is the grammar check function on Word when you really need it.  But oh-no, its too busy insisting sometimes that you change what is an otherwise perfectly legible sentence to something utterly ridiculous  (which actually I find might mean the problem lies elsewhere; a missing comma or something and not the structure of words at all, but still…) for despite the fact I know the programme is there mainly as a helper, I still need to get rid of those red squiggly lines when they appear, always bowing to Word's high and mighty f**cking superiority.  Lol.

And is it just me… has twelve point text become more like eight?  I can barely see that anymore.  I’d been typing in fourteen for the longest time because of that and recently have had to increase that to eighteen, having to remember to change it back to the industry standard of twelve at the end – and once submitting a short story to a publisher without having done so – and of course they just happened to be one of those anal retentive types who insist that you format exactly the way they dictated or they'll bin you immediately.  Frikkin’ publishers!

I have to admit though, with my new version of Word, I hadn’t really explored it until recently; thinking, ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, they probably only moved things around a bit, nothing’s really changed’, only in the last few weeks discovering the ‘focus’ feature, which brings the document up my screen like an e-reader and the text larger looking and very reader and edit friendly.

There’s a writing mode and a reader mode – although I still prefer to use eighteen-point even in that mode as I can sit back and read and edit comfortably instead of giving myself constant headaches like I always have with my nose pressed up against my very bright 28inch iMac – and of which I only also just realised that it would be a good idea to adjust the glare of to deal with that.

What happened to me; I used to be so computer savvy – I was the ‘go to guy’ ‘chic geek’ in the days when we all connected to the Internet by phone?  What happened to my ability to write in twelve-point without squinting?  Huh?  Frikkin’ Word!  Frikkin’ deteriorating eyesight!

I find though that writing and reading my work back in Focus mode is most definitely a great way to catch all the little errors that most people will point out to you when they come to read it on an e-reader etc. - and, strangely enough, something I’ve long since noticed when I’ve uploaded a piece to a writing site or whatever; a more eye-friendly platform really changes the story, one can tell that the flow is different; makes what might be improved outside of typos or punctuation so much more obvious than just working in Word without the ‘focus’ feature on.  My only gripe with that mode is that it doesn’t have that ‘show/hide’ function available  – and I rely on that for formatting.

I don’t even want to know if all my previous versions of Word had this function, because if they did and I didn’t use them, I only brought my eyestrain and migraines upon myself all these years.  And as I type, I’m also searching for a bona-fide reason to blame Word for my tennis elbow – but if not caused by that, certainly sitting here with such an intimate relationship with the programme making my arm feel as if rigor mortis has set in, continues to exacerbate it.  Frikkin’ Word!  Thank god for jumbo-sized tins of soup my Chinese mom brings me – good for something at least (I use them as weights for my tennis elbow exercises, in case you didn’t get that, because the thought of meat in a tin swimming in what was no doubt a large vat of various other things in a factory somewhere appals me.  But then, I always was a picky eater.)

But I think my biggest gripe of the morning lies with Amazon Kindle, ‘cos, getting back to that sample chapter that is currently there for everyone to see with the word ‘dated’ instead of ‘dared’ in it as I wait anxiously to be able to upload a correction, why exactly does it take twenty-four hours (or so) for them to allow you access again after each and every submission?  Huh?  I mean… it’s not like anyone is physically checking them or anything.  It’s the same if you only upload a new cover image; you have to wait if you want to make any little changes to your manuscript.  Why?  Isn’t this all done by computers?

Smashwords is great that way; changes are instant.  So why not Kindle, I ask?  Why do we have to wait forty-eight frikkin'  hours for the initial manuscript to even appear, and then between twelve and twenty-four hours thereafter for any changes we might wanna make?  Huh?

It’s kind of like banking though; any money coming out of your account vanishing instantly when you make a payment, but takes five working days when you want to transfer it from your higher interest savings account or if an authority of some description needs to refund you.  Why?  But that’s another gripe, another day.

The good thing is that The Moon Doesn't Shine has been doing very nicely in the UK and the US (or at least dotcom) and that's great; but its particularly gratifying to see Prickly Scots Pt II selling well too after me having made Pt I free* for a number of months as a marketing strategy, because that was the book I wrote before learning how to write professionally and subsequently tried to change accordingly as I went through my writing journey before finally deciding to let it fly free because it was like painting the Golden Gate frikkin' Bridge; never ending.  But most of all because it is my baby, my first born, and for people to want to get Pt II is one of my favourite things to see.  

I do actually drop in there on occasion to visit my earlier writing self and because I miss the characters ; always uplifting even if I do say so myself; but it's like going home.  I have started a Prickly Scots Pt III - at the request of some readers... but that might take a while.... ooh, I just got emailed from Amazon; I can upload my edited manuscript... it'll only take a few hours for the changes to reflect in the sample.  Frikkin' Amazon Kindle.  Lol.

Anyhoo... just felt like rambling on a little this morning... have a good day yourself.


*Free only at Amazon dotcom, I believe, and even if it doesn't look like it is, it is, you won't be charged, but for the rest of the world you can get it at Smashwords, Kobo, Nook, Barnes & Noble or iTunes etc. Promotion ends October 2013, and ps: If you have an older copy, some changes have been made recently, I'd suggest you get the newer one).

What makes me wanna write?

I was invited to be interviewed about being a writer (to be publicized soon) and was asked a number of questions, one of them about what inspires/motivates me to write, and when I got into it, I realized I'd gone on a bit and my answer to that one question, in its entirety, couldn't possibly be used owing to it's length - 1454 words, and so I'm depositing it here instead to add to my other posts about my writing journey - and perhaps as an appendix, should anyone reading the actual interview be a glutton for punishment - and also because I've been very busy lately, and haven't done a post in a while.  Enjoy.

***

First and foremost I write for myself, and I’m being quite serious when I say I quantum leap into the (fabricated) worlds I create when I do.

‘Whaaa…?’

You heard.

But easy to do when you know how; understand our planet’s indentation upon the fabric of space and therefore the gravitational pull of the various dimensions ensnared by it that enables a creative mind to traverse with a hop, skip and a… well… quantum leap… into the elementary; the ability to connect everything in the universe between A and B let alone all the way to Z making for interesting inventions indeed.  How could they not be told?

“Is this guy for real?”

I’m afraid so, but only in the literal sense, otherwise I’m largely considered a weirdo anomaly, so much so that when I enter a room I cause it to become lopsided.  But I like to think of myself as a wonderful eccentric, even though I’m not; better than my artistic sensibility becoming mistranslated.  But that’s what a black hole where the unknown dwells in infinite state will do for a writer such as me; one who strives to try and be unique; shock a little here and there; simply futile to even try and resist the gravitational pull because somewhere therein, for such a person as I, lies home, and everyone needs a place to relax?  Right?

“Huh?’

Please keep up.  In other words, the need to express the gift of an unusual imagination in storytelling is inherent; affords an escapism that can’t, at least for me, be found on our four-dimensional plane.  Such a mind is so fully integrated in alternate existence that the impossible is the only place where a lone-wolf might feel they belong – and wolves can do that these days, can’t they; space travel?  Or at least, werewolves do - even though I’ve never seen any of those particular creatures when I’m flying around up there - but an irresistible pastime; writing; the den of the universe calling me to mine its abyss of ingenuity, where, what hopefully emerges on paper upon my return, is new life, new worlds and a story that no man has written before.  Enterprising indeed.  Yes, I like to think of myself as Ashtar, spreading stardust wherever I go.

Who?

Oh… nobody; just some alien from the 50s, I'm sorry if you expected Picard.

But trekking through the stars and cheap metaphors about a popular TV franchise and an entity that people channel on New Years Eve aside, I’m an introvert, a true lone wolf, a little bit strange, and writing allows my soul to bare its teeth fully in a way that’s just not acceptable in person – but then that might be my propensity for dressing up as Mediaeval French royalty, I don’t know.  But as a fairly complex person, apparently, I couldn’t possibly go into the ins and outs of who I am fully here, but I did write a very heartfelt piece about what makes me me, entitled ‘Precipice of an Alternate Plane’, a few months ago, that attempts to explain away the strangeness of me as well as anything ever could I guess; inspired to write something from my heart by the late Nora Ephron’s piece on death, which really touched me in that how honest it was.   But it’s a piece, if you were to look closely enough, that might explain just how I, and no doubt, many other inspired anomalies, see the world differently from most; literally not taken in by it, not feeling embraced, possessing a kind of x-ray vision, allowing us to see it being played out very differently, insisting on keeping us at arm’s length despite our best efforts of, as the song goes, putting the right one in in the first place, followed by an awkward left leg; everything, seemingly basic at every turn, with alternate essence, simply begging to be reinvented by the art of storytelling.

“Oh… I see…,”said the blind man.

No you don't.  But anyhoo, we simply can’t help it; and even though it can often be to our detriment; becoming even more ostracised; obsessed to the point where we allow it to affect our health and listen to its insistence that we forego other perhaps more financially promising careers, an artist does what an artist does because it’s truly a calling – unlike the cameo character, Sister Betty in Prickly Scots, who, for the want of anything else to do, only became a nun after her husband left her penniless and nowhere else to go, but still she manages to find a way to buy cigarettes, crafty bitch.

But there’s an honesty that we can get away with in fiction that’s perhaps by-the-wayside in real life; society, and very much so in art, inclined to be automaton, and so recreating it somewhat satiates my need for humour, which even my more literary works are filled with, and a perfect way to not get into trouble with my ‘say it as is’, ‘no nonsense’ attitude that I’ve needed to learn to curtail somewhat.  The small hope is that, should they become successful enough, they might influence others into thinking along new lines.  In writing, people tend to find rudeness amusing, a tad outrageous, admirable even, and that's great, I think that we should laugh at ourselves more; our current climate far too politically correct sometimes.

In fact, total honesty is a prerequisite for every aspect of my life, sometimes to my detriment; a tad obsessive compulsive about it, I know; intolerant of anything that doesn’t ring true, even in fiction, for I cannot read, and certainly not write that if I can’t see it being played out authentically in my mind’s eye despite the fabricated nature of it.

I think my approach affords my characters an interesting angle though, regardless of whether they’re aliens or monsters, a nasty old lady or a precocious child, whatever, nothing and nobody as perfect as a lot of writers seem to want to make their worlds and their protagonists because, in general, that’s how its always been.  And so I feel, with my sometimes completely annoying ability for omniscience, ‘seeing’ people the way I do, that this translates into believable eccentrics that the reader can, on some level, identify with better while still maintaining a degree of awe for fictional characters, and it also affords abundant opportunity for me to develop them in a way perhaps readers might secretly relate to outside of our largely sugar-coated world.

“Did he just digress to the point where I have no idea what he’s talking about anymore?”  Probably, I do that; makes you read pieces like this more than once; get over it. ”But most people might just say they write because they love to, for fuc…  I mean… Heaven’s sake.”

Yes well, I’m not most people; please pay attention… and there’s absolutely no need for expletives or blasphemy… thank you very much.

But I guess my point is, I see inspiration everywhere, and I mean absolutely everywhere; cursed, it feels like sometimes, but it all builds up into what I call ‘FBI’ profiles for my characters/stories, and so I hope that those who dip their toes into the extra-terrestrial tides of the oceans I swim, that it will ultimately entertain them too.

“Whaaa…?”

Yeah, you heard, get over it; I’m a writer; I’m allowed to get like, all fancy… and shit.

Hardly mainstream though, and I won’t compromise, but that’s another matter; whether people like my writing or not, is, quite frankly, largely irrelevant to me; and even though I’d really like them to, again first and foremost I do write for me, myself and I.  It is always a pleasure though, when I see readers gain some unexpected delight from my unusual style, and I really appreciate that.  Discerning types, obviously.

I believe writers are therapists, psychologists and comedians, gatekeepers to Escapasia, inventors (obviously, ‘cos I just made that last word up lest you couldn’t tell) books, simply portals to other dimensions where anything is possible.  They’re educators, motivators and inspirers.  Who knows what a good story teller arouses in others, what dreams they elicit, the wings of imagination that they set in flight.

“Okay, puke... enough already; I get it.”

Yeah… I agree.

But what really motivated me in the first instance, was the worlds I became lost in in my childhood; reading every Enid Blyton book I could lay my hands on; a writer that transported me into her exciting worlds in the same way, I guess, that JK did for a whole new generation.  And despite writing first and foremost because I love to do it, I would also love to think that someone, somewhere, got the same experience as that from something I’ve written.

“Aww… I actually understood that bit.“

Uh huh.

My book is being showcased today

Today 'Indies Unlimited' are featuring my new and improved Prickly Scots book on their wonderful site dedicated to showcasing indie writers.  So I would truly appreciate your support to help spread the word by coming and clicking on any or all of the social media buttons on its page, and even if you could leave a word or two, that would be amazing.  My writer friends, I'm relying on you especially, and If you haven't heard of Indies Unlimited, it offers many different ways for quality indie authors to get noticed; sneak peeks like this, which also includes getting listed in their library for a year, guest posts, competitions, and all manners of other interesting ways.  you should check it out.  Please don't make me look like a 'Billy-no-mates now, will ya?'

Thanks for your help and support.  Click here to take a look at the sneak peek and hopefully you will click on the social media buttons below it - just pretend its one of those meme cartoon thingies or a cat picture.

My writing journey over the Alps

As I wandered through those Alps; arduous, never-ending, I encountered many an obstacle along the journey; reached icy plateaus demanding I go back the way I came, to re-tread paths that I thought I'd conquered, and becoming stuck there, sometimes, exhausted, to simply hibernate in a cave, a lone wolf, naïve, hungry, no oasis to quench my thirst.

And I wonder why, for sometimes I'd thought it was pointless, sometimes still, as well.  And besides, there was a road that I could've driven, as others do, a more direct route, smooth and simple, undemanding, crossing boundaries with ease, apparently, and all that should be an obstacle.

But what would I know of the mountain at all, the intimacy of its spiritual essence, its disposition, for those would've eluded my grasp, the magnitude of pride and honour that commands to be scaled?  But my passion intrinsic, my sensibilities committed to the nature of the beast within, like no other I know.  I'd soar that mountainous terrain, sprout wings, learn how to fly, yes, and pass that old road by.

And when I did start out on that venture, blind at first, nocturnal, skulking in the dark of night, eyes eager, flashing; green, then red, so green, and then so red, a young wolf, arrogant, treading ahead without observing the lay of the land, those very rules dictated by the head of the pack from which I chose to stray to charter new territory with maverick way, and where sense was the only thing to be found on sheer cliff faces that scoffed and told me to turn around.

And I did, discovered trails to at least pinnacles low, and clambered upon them, scrambled, my body, exhausted, starved, depleted, resting there till dawn when I could survey my domain, all that I would claim to know.  But when daylight broke, my imaginary reward; that vista, hazy, still, an early morning mist lingering on a precipice, a gaping mouth to swallow me whole, still, daring me to find a foothold to climb to the limit of the sky where an abyss of imagination waited to be soared, or to plummet me to a bottomless pit of no substance.

And catching sight of higher peaks off in the distance, my name whistling between them, I reached a treacherous terrain of which I knew better now, jagged, unwelcoming, infinite, detrimental to body and mind, but inviting all the same, challenging, goading me all the while, in that I did not have strength, dared me to continue that quest at my will, at my peril, threatened that it'd eaten stronger than I.  Yes, easy to hitch a lift, that road right there, beckoning.  But what of respect; of staking my flag?  No, that road has no end, no honour, no destination where I would go.

Forward, the only way, the hard way, and as it should be, lest I lay down and died, lest I relinquished all that I could prove myself to be.   And so I ate but a berry or two along the way, to sustain the body that feeds my mind, as I dragged it across a rocky terrain of high and low, my latent madness to accompany me, hearing it whisper all the while, encouraging, but mocking me all at once, confusing me, as I inched forward, for I could only inch, to reach out and grab that, which came into my sight.

Yes, I summoned that strength instilled in me from another terrain, another madness never mine to claim, but of which I suffered, conquered against the odds to return me strong, that brought me to my battle here today, where, at last, I may reach, on hands and knees, dizzying heights of a pinnacle of which I may breathe thin air to leave me breathless, for through my blindness, the very pain of my vision, I see vistas, laid out before me in pastures bright, and a mossy hill to roll down upon that will stop me at the feet of a couple of Sherpa's waiting at the foot of the Himalayas.  But I don't need them now.  Do I?

"Fuck off Sherpas," I said.

**Important Note**

The above post started out as a blog post about my writer's journey, it was only meant to notify my readers that an end of an era is here; in that I have actually been able to put the words, 'Final Edition' on my Prickly Scots titles.   Many will know that I have written many other stories since, but Prickly Scots has seen me through the years of my training, was the first book I wrote as an adult, initially, without any kind of training, and has been rewritten and rewritten time and again the more my skill evolved with the necessary training and by gaining experience as a writer - my Golden Gate Bridge, if you like.

However, over the last few weeks, the entire book got yet another overhaul, each chapter lovingly edited three times each, to try and implement something of the writer I am today - a very hard task when you have to deal with all the errors and rookie mistakes of your previously amateur self; I could've written a whole new book in this last month.  And I found while doing it this time, that I knew it would be the last, I didn't actually need, or want to change it much at all - a first.  That of course, as easy as the edit was this time, brought me to a realisation, of how far I've come these last seven years; from the early days of joining an amateur writing site, where I started to understand more of the formulaic aspects, onto becoming top writer there, to the writer I am today, who has garnered the attention of some pretty important people, including, recently, a highly respected international best selling author who sent me a lovely message based on something else I wrote, and told me that she had purchased one of my books.  Humph.  Now, if that doesn't mean that I've scaled a mountain or two, then I don't know what would.  I can only hope that it might hold up to her expectation.

Again, Prickly Scots Pts I & II are finally complete, if you have either of these, or the collective volume, please update your copy on both Amazon and Smashwords (especially if it’s a really old one, my God please do that!) and make sure that the copy you have says 'Final Edition' under the title on the first page.

Finally, not only did I complete Prickly Scots', but also earlier this year, I revisited my entire body of work, and brought it all up to scratch too, so, if you own any of my other books, they all may be updated (even if they don't say Final Edition) for they are all far more sophisticated than their early editions were - and beautifully formatted and indexed too.

I have no choice now to get on with all my new stuff now that my babies have finally left home.  I might even go out in the sun, and... oh yes... I found a little puppy under my desk.... his name is MacGregor, apparently.

Save a buck and get the two books for one here at Amazon or Smashwords

When is a cliché not a cliché?

When you put it together with another one.

With the complete rewrite of both Prickly Scots Pt's I and II nearing completion (go get the latest free update if you already have the book; Pt I contains many, many changes; fifteen additional chapters you'll want to read before Pt II is released, and the beginning of the book completely rewritten) I decided that perhaps the otherwise serious covers might throw people off as to the true nature of this book -  largely a comedy.  After reading recently about the importance of book covers, I decided to have fun with it instead.  However, the picture is not without merit... rather appropriate, actually, considering some of the irascible characters to be found in the story... namely a sentient flower race that take on the traits of whichever country the mysterious Blue Phenomenon has sent them to.  

I wonder which country that could be?

Note:  5 August 2012 - This book is temporarily unavailable.

Publisher, friend or foe?

It's been a while since I dipped into my diatribe bag, and so today, having seem a number of comments on self publishing and agents, I decided it was high time.

***

I write with courage, passion and professionalism (Thank you Julie Gray) but having entered into the world of self-publishing, still, I find myself adrift; lost amid a sea of rising mediocrity and much of what I’m seeing from the opinion of the reader, slamming indie work because of it.

The writing world is changing indeed; publishers going the way of video stores.  And it’s not just technology, no, there’s a revolution; authors and readers alike increasingly demanding something completely different.  And why not, it’s happening in every other world? Publishers aren’t to be trusted, they say, failed in doing their jobs, that much increasingly evident.  No, not for much longer will they arrogantly scan a short paragraph that merely blends into their so-called talent scouting brains with the many other author’s paragraphs that came before it; not: seeing the woods for the trees; recognising individual worth; true talent, tossing it aside in all their professional conceitedness before they’ve even given it a fighting chance if so much as a comma is misplaced.

But it doesn’t matter; for is this publishing revolution not tantamount to the same deal?  Yes, we may sail a different ship in these digital times, on a deck from where at least we can send up a flare despite an ever-ending journey of blogging and slogging and flogging to create our perfect storms, to impede us, perhaps making complete twits of ourselves; inadequately trained to come through them in the hope that we can finally reach our destination by the stroke of our own oar or perhaps that search & rescue will swoop down and scoop us up long before we drown?

But that rock congested too now, barnacles clinging in their masses, a pea soup of digital weakness closed in fast to obscure stunning marine life of those that breathe through the fins of creativity.  Yes, ego-stroking oars paddled with a whip to the backs all set on a predictable synchronised course, most thinking that they can make a quick buck in Hollywood simply because they happened to put down 50,000 strokes during their entire lifetimes, and told along the way what a great job they’ve been doing by those who love them.  And why?  Because that’s all they ever see out there.  ‘I can do that’, they say, and who can blame them?  They probably can.  And so they set sail and poison the waters grey, thicken the soup, most without actually having studied the art of writing at all, I’ve noticed, ignorant to the fact that it has to be different from their otherwise everyday eloquence that just any-old-body can tell and not show and without actually possessing an imagination outside of the subliminal sub-consciousness of a pond life who can’t even be told, apparently, that there’s anything else other than boy meets girl, husband leaves wife for younger woman, and don’t even get me started on vampires and werewolves, for that horror show speaks for itself; that is what sucked the blood from true creativity - but therein, methinks, my own downfall, for I will not be assimilated.

And then there are those who have studied writing, but a choice, for some anyway, not a calling, like a slutty girl forced into the sisterhood, technically correct, getting the formula right, but reading a recipe that anyone with half a brain can follow.  What about those who experiment in the kitchen, mix up new worlds?  What about me?

I used to be much more modest, but I believe now that I might be one of those, innovative chefs I mean, for my readers, those I have managed to magnetise, consistently say so; they always have done, even when I first started this journey with no writing experience at all.  People who don’t know me, for I don’t know anyone; have no family to stroke my own ego, nobody owing me nuttin’ except perhaps a little admiration, appreciation even, for the effort I put in to the detriment of my real life business not to mention my health; lost in and preferring my imaginary worlds as I am and I do, the migraines I work through to bring something new to the table.  Yes, readers consistently saying that my novels should be movies, over and over again telling me how original I am, again even from when I was a complete amateur with starry eyes, strangers who’ve started forums about my work saying how it should be on the big screen.  And why?  Because they actually read it.  And readers, who all but harangue me, thank God, to get Pt II of one of my novels out.  ‘Where the hell is it?’ they’re shouting.  And so yes, I’m grateful for this digital sea for at least I can cling to a buoy where they can find me.  But still, it’s not enough; I am a writer, not a marketer; I suck at self-promotion, maybe even at pitching my books, even writing their synopses probably, but nonetheless, in 2012, I must try harder.

But how do you get noticed when you’re not the child of someone famous or when there is no panel of judges to give an unknown a chance, how can you convince the arrogant those who think they know what will sell, all demanding originality but failing their own rubric to actually embrace it when presented, positively shoved down the back of their effing throats?  How the hell can I get on with my writing when I’m trying to sell myself?  Happy enough to blog, tweet even, if ever I can get around to that too, but the effort of getting noticed, gaining followers, soaking up all my time in these unfriendly seas where everyone else is trying to do the same effing thing.  Kudos to those who can manage that, but perhaps they have more time than that which I can afford or even want to dedicate to this kind of self promotion in the hope that they would share my work on their Facebook page or something so someone more important might chance across it.  Isn’t this one of the reasons I wanted an agent for?

I invent cliché, I make up words, I utilise the natural resource I was given, have turned that burden of imagination that always boiled my blood more so than it stews even now when I think of the writing talent out there that may never come to shore.  Yes, that something that makes people view a strange fellow like me as being completely removed from normal society but are intrigued by nonetheless, people who love to compare me to countless authors living and dead, Joyce, Salinger, King, Dali to name but a few, all greats and all of whom I’ve never read for I am a writer, not a reader, despite the fact my professor said a writer needs to be one.  ‘Crap’, I say to that, for I am armed with my own voice, if only I could have it heard.  But how then, if I am a combination of these by my own volition am I not considered a superpower... a writing god?  Because I write with courage, passion and professionalism – and that, evidently is scary; too much to handle for an agent or a publisher. 

For any agent reading this though, hah!  I invite you to my book, “Prickly Scots’, not for a professional perspective, but to sit back and enjoy, for that’s only how this work can be appreciated, digested; rich, nuanced and intelligent as it is, not a book you can read in one or two sittings, but one that, by the time you read it in its entirety, the second part will be available so that you won’t have to beg me to publish it like the odd person is doing online currently; a few only, perhaps, given my lacklustre efforts at doing your job for you, but making it all worthwhile; appreciated by at least someone at last.  And don’t worry about not getting back to me; that’s a given from agents and publishers even when the old fashioned sase’s were sent, let alone an automated courtesy email that at least tells me you’re in receipt of my manuscript (and how hard is that to implement into your email programme?)  No, I don’t need you anymore, apparently, but a review to help me along my digital sea journey would be most appreciated if you do find an island a thousand miles from anywhere to actually sit and enjoy something genuinely different and dare to recognise new talent in its entirety for a change. 

What I need is someone who is going to tell the rest of us what we are going to like next.  But apparently, your boat has sailed, so what does it matter?

Anyhoo....