Sunday, January 07, 2007
I only just noticed that Anne Wicking & Loman Austen left a message on the Dec 16th post about the length of time it took to publish my first book. Assuming you mean Fringe Fantastic (as it was my first in paperback), it took about a month to write the first draft, a further two months of redrafting, during which time I was doing cover shoots, learning about design and layout and managing the publication process more or less myself (with a little help from some good friends), it took about 4 months to complete. A third of a year.
My latest book has taken much longer despite me being supposedly more experienced and knowledgeable. This took a month to do the first draft, which was completed in mid-August. I'm STILL re-drafting this one and am STILL working on the cover and font designs though. I reckon it will be February before this one hits the shelves, so that would be a total time taken to about seven (7) months to complete.
I suppose it all comes down to how easy you find it to match your vision to the reality. Until I am happy with it though, I'm not releasing it, otherwise, what's the point? I do tend to write poetry very fast, as I feel it comes out more naturally that way; thought capturing rather than forced. Rather like eating a chocolate raisin, it's much better and easier to stick it in your mouth and melt the chocolate off, than try to bite away the edges to get you to the fruity part.
I also meant to mention that my short series of Nutty UK articles detailing the Glasgow and Newcastle Madness gigs, were picked up by the editors of MIS (Madness Information Service) and published in their final edition of 2006 (also the 400th). This goes out to over 1000 subscribers, of which hopefully some of them read poetry.
Finally, it was with much delight that I read of the saving of the Little Chef restaurant chain from closure. My life used to revolve around those small, badly serviced motorway stations, so I am delighted that I will be able to continue visiting them for my post-drinking breakfasts. Some things in life, just should NOT be touched.
Anyway, back to Saturday.
Me and Gail found ourselves way out in the sticks in the evening. Wallyford to be precise; a part of East Lothian I am none too familiar with. We were visiting friends who have recently fallen in love and bought a house together. Armed with wine, beer and whisky, we made our way east and were given a tour of their newly built home. Very nice it is, too.
As we reclined on their new leather sofa, we supped on our drinks and turned the music to a nice level so we could talk. Then - BANG!! No, it wasn't an orgy. All the lights went out, the sound disappeared and the house plunged into darkness.
We looked outside. Black as far as the eye could see. All that could be heard was the sound of dogs barking and alarms squealing far of into the distance. Our second blackout in six days - are we jinxed, or what?
The power was restored after a couple of hours of candlelit drinking, and it turned into a long night. 4.30am was the finishing time, and I suffered dreadfully for it today.
The hangover lasted longer then normal. Final punishment I reckon because last night was my last session for a few weeks after all the excesses of the Christmas holidays. I've had enough, quite honestly, and need a break for all the partying. I'm getting too old for this kind of thing.
I'll post my GDR Plans for 2007 shortly. I go into 2007 confident and in good spirits.
PS - I am aware some of my grammar and spelling may not be up to scratch on this blog, but I couldn't give a shit. That's not what this place is about. This is a place of imperfection, of voicing opinion and thoughts, some you might agree with, some you may not. I write this blog as fast as I think it, therefore all of it must make it onto the page post haste. I only give this text a quick once-over for obvious mistakes, for if I treated ever post like a manuscript, you would be reading about events six months ago in my life and that just wouldn't do now, would it? This blog is about getting to know the Writer Me. Nothing more or less. This is not a work of fiction. Mostly.