Authors Electric

  There was another burst of indignant publicity this month about how little authors are paid. The figure of £7,000 a year has been put forward as our median annual earnings, following a survey by ALCS, a brilliant organisation that collects money on behalf of writers.   I fear that the figure, however, while useful for giving the story a media-friendly hook, doesn’t really mean much. In the age of self-publishing, I would posit that a large percentage of the books earn their authors nothing. Just like the vast majority of paintings and the vast majority of music.   That is not a reflection on self-publishing, which I genuinely believe to be a giant leap forward for civilisation, because I would suggest that a similarly large percentage of traditionally published books have also earned their authors virtually nothing, despite having taken many hours, months or even years to write. I have certainly had first-hand experience of writing books that earn nothing, as well as others that

Monet: The Magpie : Wikipedia   A lonely, peaceful magpie... Best kind. Earlier this month, a gang of rowdy magpies had a right old ruckus with some crows in my garden. I was reading in a back room, but the noise was so loud and so persistent, I went into the garden to find out what on earth was going on. Magpies and crows, chasing each other round the trees and chimney-pots. Screeching. Cawing. Croaking. Flying at each other. You never heard such a racket. Not much Peace and Good Will there. And just yesterday, in a supermarket carpark, I saw two magpies chivvying a rat. You can't live for 'em. Let's change to quieter and more contemplative creatures... c   THE OXEN   Thomas Hardy   Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. “Now they are all on their knees,” An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease.   We pictured the mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen. Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kne