It’s six weeks until publication date and there already seems to be a price war to try and snag pre-orders of The Mango Orchard.
Amazon are offering the book at £9.09 - a mere snip! And just announced, Rbooks are offering a 30% discount. Go via the Book Clubs page on my website and add the promotional code “mangoorchard”. If you order over 10 copies you get postage and packaging for free!
Friday, 22 January 2010
Monday, 11 January 2010
Pretentious Opening Lines
I have often thought that having obscure quotes on the opening pages of a book was the height of pretentiousness. Quotes in French, quotes in Latin, quotes from Chinese proverbs about how pebbles are really bigger than mountains or quotes attributed to mythical figures from the twelfth century about the wisdom of hairy-arsed shepherds. If you haven’t managed to communicate all you wanted to in the 90,000 words of the book, will an oracular pronouncement by someone long deceased really make up for it?
But then I wrote a book myself. To be honest, before I even wrote a word of The Mango Orchard, I already knew the quote I wanted on the opening page of the book:
It’s from Little Gidding by T S Eliot. I showed it to Trevor, my publisher. He loved it, we just need to get it cleared, he said. The TS Eliot estate, perhaps in an attempt to reduce pretentious quotes at the beginning of books, said no.
We asked again, nicely. They didn’t answer. Then they said no. Buggers.
So I don’t have this quote at the beginning of The Mango Orchard, but I have another. It’s unpretentious and apt. You’ll have to read the book to see what it is.
But then I wrote a book myself. To be honest, before I even wrote a word of The Mango Orchard, I already knew the quote I wanted on the opening page of the book:
We shall not cease from exploration
And in the end of our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
It’s from Little Gidding by T S Eliot. I showed it to Trevor, my publisher. He loved it, we just need to get it cleared, he said. The TS Eliot estate, perhaps in an attempt to reduce pretentious quotes at the beginning of books, said no.
We asked again, nicely. They didn’t answer. Then they said no. Buggers.
So I don’t have this quote at the beginning of The Mango Orchard, but I have another. It’s unpretentious and apt. You’ll have to read the book to see what it is.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Not a girl called Bill
After a third rush across town at the behest of my heavily pregnant sister, who has made several claims to be about to be in the throes of labour, she finally has given birth. Despite my niece telling me, most confidently, that the baby would be a girl called Fermalicia, or Bill, the baby turns out to be a boy, called Thomas.
That’s five children my brother and sister have produced in the time it’s taken me to turn out a book.
That’s five children my brother and sister have produced in the time it’s taken me to turn out a book.
Monday, 2 November 2009
Famous People
I get a call from Trevor, my publisher, this morning. He invites me into the office so I can pick up the proof copies and discuss to whom we should send them.
I’d imagined the proofs to be ring-bound A4 folders, like the ones I used to use in my past corporate life when I wanted to divert attention from the fact that there was no substance to a presentation I was making.
As Trevor guides me to a leather sofa in Preface’s schmoozing room, he hands me a paperback book, only this one has a familiar cover: The Mango Orchard. It’s not quite the finished article, a point conceded by the disclaimer at the bottom of the front cover: “Uncorrected proof. Not for resale.” The opening pages are blank, they have lines of text that say “Maps to come” and “dedication to come”. But that, and a few typographical errors aside, here it is. My book.
The purpose of having these proof copies is to ‘create a buzz’. We want to send them to notable people – writers, broadcasters and journalists – in the hope that they will read it and say how life-changingly brilliant the book is. Trevor already has a Who’s Who type list of people who I can’t help thinking will be far too busy to look at my book. I rack my brain for any famous people I could add to the list. I once met Paul McCartney at a party and asked for his autograph. Probably not. I used to live next door-but-three to Sebastian Coe (me and my friend Patrick Edwards used to spit in his drive – not because we didn’t like him, we had just learned how to spit and that’s kind of important when you’re three). No, not Seb either. Then I remember my neighbour Ian had given me the address of a friend of his, both a famous actress and author. Trevor claps his hands together “Perfect!” he says.
I arrive home and write her a letter. Because of the postal strikes, and because it is a nice day, I decide to deliver the proof copy to her house myself. I cycle across North London and manage to track down her house. I am disappointed. This beautiful, classy woman who has worked with the Hollywood elite lives in what looks like a squat. The house number is written on the gate post in magic marker, there are no curtains and the only furniture I can see is a guitar. The paint is peeling off the house walls and the garden fence has been completely covered by car hubcaps. I check the address I had written on the envelope. It’s right: No. 25. I force the envelope through the letter box and cycle home.
Back at my desk, I begin to write this blog. I look at the post-it note with the address of the famous actress and author written on it and I wonder how I’m going to tell my neighbour that his friend lives in a house that looks like the set for Withnail and I. No.23. No. 23??
I had delivered the proof to the famous actress and author’s neighbour. Funnily enough, as a cycled away, I remember thinking what a nice house No.23 was.
I’d imagined the proofs to be ring-bound A4 folders, like the ones I used to use in my past corporate life when I wanted to divert attention from the fact that there was no substance to a presentation I was making.
As Trevor guides me to a leather sofa in Preface’s schmoozing room, he hands me a paperback book, only this one has a familiar cover: The Mango Orchard. It’s not quite the finished article, a point conceded by the disclaimer at the bottom of the front cover: “Uncorrected proof. Not for resale.” The opening pages are blank, they have lines of text that say “Maps to come” and “dedication to come”. But that, and a few typographical errors aside, here it is. My book.
The purpose of having these proof copies is to ‘create a buzz’. We want to send them to notable people – writers, broadcasters and journalists – in the hope that they will read it and say how life-changingly brilliant the book is. Trevor already has a Who’s Who type list of people who I can’t help thinking will be far too busy to look at my book. I rack my brain for any famous people I could add to the list. I once met Paul McCartney at a party and asked for his autograph. Probably not. I used to live next door-but-three to Sebastian Coe (me and my friend Patrick Edwards used to spit in his drive – not because we didn’t like him, we had just learned how to spit and that’s kind of important when you’re three). No, not Seb either. Then I remember my neighbour Ian had given me the address of a friend of his, both a famous actress and author. Trevor claps his hands together “Perfect!” he says.
I arrive home and write her a letter. Because of the postal strikes, and because it is a nice day, I decide to deliver the proof copy to her house myself. I cycle across North London and manage to track down her house. I am disappointed. This beautiful, classy woman who has worked with the Hollywood elite lives in what looks like a squat. The house number is written on the gate post in magic marker, there are no curtains and the only furniture I can see is a guitar. The paint is peeling off the house walls and the garden fence has been completely covered by car hubcaps. I check the address I had written on the envelope. It’s right: No. 25. I force the envelope through the letter box and cycle home.
Back at my desk, I begin to write this blog. I look at the post-it note with the address of the famous actress and author written on it and I wonder how I’m going to tell my neighbour that his friend lives in a house that looks like the set for Withnail and I. No.23. No. 23??
I had delivered the proof to the famous actress and author’s neighbour. Funnily enough, as a cycled away, I remember thinking what a nice house No.23 was.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
God Bless Waterstones
I arrive home this morning feeling a bit crumpled.
I had been out with my friend Om last night, and were making good in-roads into a bottle of wine, when I was called by Emma, my sister. Emma is what you might term VERY pregnant and consequently, I have been on standby to go and look after her daughter when she goes into hospital to have the baby.
“I think I’m in labour,” she said.
I rushed across town and got to her house just in time for her contractions to stop. Just in case they started again, I slept on the sofa.
Hence me arriving home this morning feeling a bit crumpled.
I flick on my computer and see a mail from Trevor, my publisher. Good news, he says, “March 2010: The Mango Orchard to be promoted front of store in all Waterstones stores with a 3 for 2 offer.”
I’ve always liked those Waterstones people!
I had been out with my friend Om last night, and were making good in-roads into a bottle of wine, when I was called by Emma, my sister. Emma is what you might term VERY pregnant and consequently, I have been on standby to go and look after her daughter when she goes into hospital to have the baby.
“I think I’m in labour,” she said.
I rushed across town and got to her house just in time for her contractions to stop. Just in case they started again, I slept on the sofa.
Hence me arriving home this morning feeling a bit crumpled.
I flick on my computer and see a mail from Trevor, my publisher. Good news, he says, “March 2010: The Mango Orchard to be promoted front of store in all Waterstones stores with a 3 for 2 offer.”
I’ve always liked those Waterstones people!
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
My Pride and Joy
It’s the crack of morning, barely gone ten, when the intercom buzzer sounds. I walk the four yards from my bedroom to answer it, but whoever it was has gone. I forget about it until later that day when I find a card from the Post Office on my doormat. “Sorry you weren’t in!” it says cheerily. It should of course read, “We couldn’t be arsed to wait five seconds for you to answer your door and so we have taken your package away again. Just to annoy you.”
I wander down to the sorting office. It has scribbled notes pinned to the wall, warning customers that threatening behaviour to staff will not be tolerated. After I have been waiting for half an hour, and begun to wonder if the sorting office had considered why customers got so aggrieved that they felt the need to make threats, I reach the front of the queue.
I slide my ID across the counter and, without undue haste, am handed a thick, brown envelope. I recognise the handwriting as my publisher, Trevor's and realise what the envelope contains.
I rush home to open it: the manuscript proof of The Mango Orchard, all 273 pages of it. I feel like a father, handed his newly born child for the first time. I flick through the pages, checking its fingers and toes are all there. They are. It’s beautiful.
I wander down to the sorting office. It has scribbled notes pinned to the wall, warning customers that threatening behaviour to staff will not be tolerated. After I have been waiting for half an hour, and begun to wonder if the sorting office had considered why customers got so aggrieved that they felt the need to make threats, I reach the front of the queue.
I slide my ID across the counter and, without undue haste, am handed a thick, brown envelope. I recognise the handwriting as my publisher, Trevor's and realise what the envelope contains.
I rush home to open it: the manuscript proof of The Mango Orchard, all 273 pages of it. I feel like a father, handed his newly born child for the first time. I flick through the pages, checking its fingers and toes are all there. They are. It’s beautiful.
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Grammar Nazi
Editing, I discovered a long time ago, is, as the cliché goes, a bit like painting the Forth Bridge. It’s a process that is never done. One of the chapters in the book went through over 50 drafts. And even after I have been through all of Trevor’s comments, there are still several more to go.
I receive a mail from Trevor telling me that the copy editor will get in touch. The copy editor is the person who checks for inconsistencies, and poor sentence construction. A friend in my writing group has always referred to copy editors as ‘Grammar Nazis’. I again brace myself for trench warfare, fighting to keep the book as it is, paragraph by paragraph.
The Grammar Nazi turns out to be a charming chap called Hugh. He asks me some very reasonable questions and makes very few changes. He even tells me how much he enjoyed the book.
I receive a mail from Trevor telling me that the copy editor will get in touch. The copy editor is the person who checks for inconsistencies, and poor sentence construction. A friend in my writing group has always referred to copy editors as ‘Grammar Nazis’. I again brace myself for trench warfare, fighting to keep the book as it is, paragraph by paragraph.
The Grammar Nazi turns out to be a charming chap called Hugh. He asks me some very reasonable questions and makes very few changes. He even tells me how much he enjoyed the book.
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