Authors Electric

  There's been a ton of hype about Yellowface by Rebecca F Kuang, a novel about today's publishing world, and every ounce of it is well deserved.  I can't imagine that anyone who has any connection to writing or publishing wouldn't love every moment of it - even the uncomfortable ones. It portrays exactly what it is like to be a struggling writer, exactly what it is like when you do find a publisher and end up disappointed with the results, and exactly what it is like when you finally hit the jackpot and become a bestseller, and a media sensation.  It is paced like a thriller, with the characters chasing one another through the moral maze of cancel culture, social media hate campaigns, and the thorny diversity issues of who has the right to write about what? There are moments when the reader wonders if it is ever right to write about anything, but Rebecca F. Kuang forges fearlessly ahead, kicking every sensitivity and taboo into touch. This is a fantastic, thoughtful, ...

  It’s been an interesting month to be a ghostwriter. The weekend before Prince Harry’s book was officially published, as the leaks and “exclusive” interviews piled up on both sides of the Atlantic, the media suddenly became interested in the idea of who actually did the writing and how the whole relationship with the subject works.   I had been looking forward to reading the book from the moment I heard that J.R. Moehringer was going to be writing it, already being an admirer of his previous work, particularly the ghosting job he did for Andre Agassi. But the eventual book that he and Harry produced surpassed all expectations, providing a brilliant example of just how well a ghostwriting partnership can work if the story is strong, the subject is wanting to be open and honest, and the writer is skillful . On the day Spare came out it broke all records for sales of non-fiction, shifting something like 1.4 million copies in English alone, not to mention the sixteen other l...

  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 a...

  So, confession time; I'm rather fond of Twitter. On the whole I only follow people I like or am interested in, so I have seldom been troubled by trolls or hate speech, and whenever it has managed to infiltrate, I can mentally filter it out, in the same way I do with the horrors that pop up on the television news or the front pages of newspapers, concentrating my thoughts on things that I can do something about myself – of which there are shockingly few. I enjoy the distraction of the gossip on the Twittersphere, and the feel-good videos that go viral, and I learn more about what is happening in the publishing and writing worlds than from any other source. The last few books that I have read have come to my attention from tweeted recommendations. I can see that social media has handed a megaphone to people with some pretty nasty opinions, but these people have always been there, sounding off in the pub, or berating their partners and families with their unsavory  views ...

  This is the seventh, and ultimate, monthly chapter in the saga of an ex-prime minister - unless, of course, something else interesting happens ... “Dancing?” Teddy looked entirely non-plussed by the word. “Are you sure I’m the right man for the job?” “It’s the most popular programme in the country at the moment,” Ding pointed out. “You put on some pretty spectacular shows on dance floors in your youth,” Puppy reminded him. “Did I?” Teddy squinted hard, as if trying to conjure up a picture of his past. “I don’t remember that.” “No, well,” Ding shrugged, “you were usually pretty loaded.” “But you had a pretty good natural rhythm,” Puppy interjected. “The girls always seemed pretty impressed.” “Ah, yes,” Teddy’s eyes misted over. “The girls. They all like a chap with a few natty moves.” “Indeed,” Ding said, “so you are booked to be on the next series. Rehearsals start next week.” The producers at Strictly had a number of heated meetings around the subject of which of...

This is the sixth episode in our monthly saga of power and incompetence   Becky had been watching the convoy of Land Rovers return from the bedroom window. The shooting party was deposited back at the house and made their way in to change for dinner. “They’re back,” she said, without turning. “Really? Crikey!” Teddy sprang out of bed, yanking his loudly striped pajamas back up as he stumbled his way out of the room. There would have been a time when the sheer slapstick of his exit would have made her laugh, but today it merely made her sigh. The joke had grown so old. She sat down at her dressing table and took a long look at herself in the mirror. Her phone buzzed on the glass surface beside her elbow. “Hi Darling,” she said once she had ascertained it was who she hoped. “Thanks for calling back.” “I gather you’ve got Teddy and his latest squeeze down for the weekend,” Phillipa said. Becky allowed a throaty chuckle to escape her. If anyone understood her predicament, i...

 The fifth instalment of the on-going saga of the ex-prime minister   “Good God!” Phillipa could hardly bear to watch the screen. The headlines in the morning’s papers had warned her of some of what was coming, but the reality was even more confusing than she had expected. Felicity had explained the concept of First Dates to her, but she was still having trouble getting her head round the idea that anyone would want to undergo such an excruciating rite of passage in public, let alone someone with as many skeletons in their cupboard as Teddy. She was having trouble imagining what Teddy would be like on a date. She was pretty sure they had never experienced anything which could be described in those terms during their relationship. “This is going to be broadcast tonight?” “Unless we can find a legal way to block it,” Felicity confirmed. “But if we try anything like that, we run the risk of drawing even more attention to it, and fueling speculation as to what it is we are so ...

  Our fourth monthly episode in the saga of an ex-prime minister. Chapter Four     The first Teddy knew of Phillipa’s Cabinet reshuffle was when a delegation of grey-faced grandees turned up in Puppy’s library to have a “serious discussion” about what they described as “the escalating situation”. It was the same bunch of grandees who, a few weeks earlier, had gravely informed Teddy that the party had “lost confidence” in him, and that he was going to have to step aside. He was surprised to see them back so soon and had a feeling they were looking a bit shifty, perhaps even a little shame-faced. “This reshuffle,” one of them started the ball rolling. “What reshuffle?” Teddy asked. “Teddy’s been very busy working on his diaries,” Puppy explained to the room, “I haven’t wanted to bother him with political tittle tattle.” “Tittle-tattle?” Someone let off a controlled explosion of frustration from the back of the group. “It’s the biggest balls up since …” He failed t...