Book reviews

Socking it to the Puppets of Reviewerland is the title of The Age article.
And I thought I knew most things shonky in this world but horrified- and saddened is the only comment I'll make.

http://www.theage.com.au/entertainment/books/socking-it-to-the-puppets-of-reviewerland-20120905-25dsq.html

It seems that not only do you post rave reviews about your own work on Amazon and other outlets, not only do rubbish your rivals i.e. fellow authors, you can also go on to buy great reviews at $90 a pop.

I know how hard it is to compete with established authors, and as a new author to build up your readership but this...no. Never. Otherwise how can you derive any satisfaction in the sales you make? 

On that subject, here below is a genuine review of my new book from the notoriously choosy Publishers Weekly. I take great satisfaction in knowing that a) I didn't write it, b) I didn't pay for it, and c) the positive review is most gratifying given how hard I struggled with this book, all the time trying to improve my work, to make it better than the one before.

Aa' the best.

Beneath the Abbey Wall
A.D. Scott. Atria, $15 trade paper (352p) ISBN 978-1-4516-6577-2

In Scott’s appealing third novel set in the 1950s Scottish Highlands (after 2011’s A Double Death on the Black Isle), the arrest of Donal McLeod, the Highland Gazette’s deputy editor, for fatally stabbing the newspaper’s business manager, Mrs. Smart, throws the newsroom into chaos. None of the staff can believe Donal is capable of cold-blooded murder, least of all editor McAllister and reporter Joanne Ross, who set out to find the real killer. The police, on the other hand, think Donal had ample motive as a major beneficiary of Mrs. Smart’s will. Scott vividly evokes Scotland of the period, where tweed skirts are de rigueur for women, and separation from a spouse is almost unheard of. The well-drawn characters, who come from a range of backgrounds, give a broad view of the social milieu—especially Glaswegian McAllister, a relative newcomer to the Highlands. Agent: Peter McGuigan, Foundry Literary + Media. (Nov.)

Reviewed on: 08/31/2012

Permalink: http://www.publishersweekly.com/978-1-4516-6577-2 (978-1-4516-6577-2)

13/ 13th/ Thirteenth

The latest book in the Highland Gazette series comes out on 13th November 2012

13 / 13th / thirteenth

Superstitious? Me? Never. Well, almost never. But I know someone - a close family member, born on the thirteenth who changed his birthdate. How, I don't know, but he never admits to being born on the thirteenth.

I decided a long time ago  not to be superstitious. As I have moved countries, and continents, and read and heard of other cultures' superstitions, and heard so many weird and conflicting superstitions, I've decided to give them up.
BUT
I don't walk under ladders because that seems plain sensible.
I don't count chickens etc, because that seems sensible also.
But I still throw salt over my left shoulder should I spill some.

But the thirteenth? Friday the thirteenth even? I find it a good day to get things done as many people avoid trains and boats and planes.

So, Tuesday the 13th of November it is ---and I will be in New York. Hmmm, what did I say about not counting chickens? But I've booked a flight, and a hotel, for Tuesday the 13th in New York. So, we shall see.

PS ...and I took the picture of the actual place where the actual (fictitious) deed was done.

Aa' the best.

Just do it

First time I heard that phrase was from Frank Zappa of The Mothers of Invention, addressing students at the LSE at the time of the London student riots (1968). He was talking about getting an education and infiltrating the system from within.
He could have been talking about writing.

Google "Writing" or "Habits of Writers" and nearly every writer mentions the habit of writing, daily, (a bit like exercise or sports training). Published writers write about the necessity of turning out words no matter their merit, and the days when you hate writing and it is all dross, to the days when the muse visits you and it all works as it by magic. But, BUT... there ain't no magic, same as there ain't no "sanity clause" -- thank you Groucho for shattering my illusions.

Dennis Lehane, Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, Maeve Binchy and all spectrums in between say, write write write. Make your daily words as necessary as brushing your teeth.

Well, I'm trying. I'm at 1500 words a day - aiming for 2,000 and it is not because I have a contract for this book but because, when you are writing, no matter how crap you think it is ...you feel marvellous.

There. I've said it. I've revealed why writers write. Because it feels marvellous.

And if you need a far better explanation than the above, Google, Colin Nissan - THE ULTIMATE GUIDE TO WRITING BETTER THAN YOU NORMALLY DO.

Tell it like it is Colin.

Aa' the best.

On the edge

The edge of a typhoon hit last night, and it rained. It rained and rained. Then this morning, the clouds lifted and the mountain tops played hide and seek.

And down the valley the roadside trickles became streaming waterfalls, sweeping across the road, making driving somewhat hazardous as on the other side is a sheer drop to the paddy fields thirty metres below.

But the best thing, the marvellous, the thrilling thing about the rain - or the aftermath of rain - is that I am writing - real writing, writing my novel. And it feels good.

Must be the Scottish in me, I need cool weather and rain to write.

Aa' the best.

The day of reckoning

15th August 2012

It's my birthday. For me a day of reckoning, a day when I allow myself to look back, to look forward, to yes, be present as well, but to count blessings, and to state where I would like to journey. And today, I allow myself to be lonely, to be glad, I allow the tears held back for so long, and today, I count the many many blessings of being me. 

The past is past. And private. Sacred even. The future -- I want to write a book for me.

I want to write a book where the words will fly out of the ends of my fingertips, where the heart and the soul and the body and the room and the house or cabin or loft or shed or a mansion or meadow or glen or forest will be filled with the light of the inspiration of this book – the book I write for me.

I know this "zone" of inspired detachment but don't like the word zone - too metallic. I prefer enchantment. I have been there before, been blessed with fleeting visits to that elusive, provocative, enchanted realm, granted to artists as though gifted by the faeries.

It does not matter if anyone reads this yet to be written book.

And if anyone should read it, it should be Hugh. But he is dead.

So I will write it for me.

                                                      Birthday Breakfast. Yummm.

                                                                  Aa' the best.

Someone has stolen my rock

I won't describe putting the bike on the train in torrential tropical rain.
I won't describe arriving at 5.20am in a crush of tourists and a swarm of bus drivers and bike drivers and tour operators and tea ladies and coffee ladies and the plain hopeful trying to sell knickknacks and trinkets and playing cards with modestly naked worn on the reverse side.



I won't describe in detail the joyous trip up the mountain in the fresh morning, to the scent of damp earth and pine trees and water dripping over mossy rock, to the sight of my beloved rice terraces and waterfalls and mountain tops playing hide and seek behind morning mist and cloud.











And the Yao woman I gave a lift to, who kept me warm on the final twelve or so kilometres when it becomes decidedly chilly on a bike, she was lovely and so grateful not to have to walk all that way uphill, on a visit to her sisters in Sa Pa.



But the trip up the road to the top of the valley cut short because I was so bereft - that I will describe. See, there is - was - this spot, the one particular spot where I would stop, the same stop where, on and off over for nearly 14 years, where I would go to sit, look at the mountain, listen to the distant echo of the river far below, and just sit, staring at the mountain, doing nothing but sitting.

And now, ten months since I last saw my spreading comfortable, about the size of a baby elephant rock, is this.






Someone stole my rock and I am bereft.

High anxiety

When the writing gets tough - or stuck - or non-existent ...

Plus ...

And I'm ready to head up the mountain. But first, an overnight train journey with the added drama of putting the bike on the train, (paperwork in Vietnamese, draining the fuel, making sure my beauty is not damaged by the loaders) then a 35 kilometre ride from sea level to 1700 metres on winding twisting roads shared by maniacal bike riders and death defying truck driver and the occasional goat and small groups of minority people laden down with produce, walking to market.

This is not just any mountain, but the mountain where I wrote A Small Death in the Great Glen and A  Double Death on the Black Isle. Aim - two thousand words a day to crack the first draft. So, fingers crossed, boots on, backpack packed, camera ready, books (the new John Banville awaits, Alan de Botton on philosophy, and my trusty I Ching) Also some Fortnum&Mason's English breakfast tea, plus a real teapot and I am off. Off to beautiful Sa Pa. Off to my "Triggering Town". Off to a view of the mountain from the room where I write (the outline of which is on the blog heading above)

To write a first draft, to really truly immerse yourself in the place, the characters, and to let the story unfold, needs space for total immersion and little or no distractions. And the funny thing is, if I surround myself with people speaking in another language (Vietnamese or Mong or Yao) it is like birdsong rising and falling in the background. Never distracting, always good company, always fascinating, the rhythm of the town and the purity of air works - has worked for me in the past I should say. Because with that Muse of mine (definitely a woman, in a dress, in a Scottish voice saying "who do you think you are?") must be obeyed or at least placated, and she likes Sa Pa.

And so do I

Aa' the best.