Authors Electric

Weird thing being a writer, I've always thought. Two things have happened in the last couple of days that made me think of synchronicity (among other things). Firstly, out of the blue, a comment popped into my inbox about Wild Wood, my comic subversion of Mr Grahame's mighty masterpiece. It was appended to a review in Awfully Big Blog Adventure from last April, by a man I don't know. Easiest thing to do is to reproduce it: BRIAN BERKE said... On January 1st, 2015 I decided to reread The Wind in the Willows sixty years after first having it read in class at school and then reading it myself. Later, and by chance I decided to see if any books with the work of William Rushton were available on ebay. What a joy to find Wild Wood. It compliments 'The Willows' wonderfully, and it was published to encourage children to read! 12 March 2015 at 05:54 That was good enough in itself, but the synchronicity comes in this wise: the same morning, I trundled down from ...

I suppose you could say that what I'm going to write about is vanity publishing gone mad. But there is reason behind it. Two issues set this latest crazed ambition going. The first is the ubiquity of artists' limited edition prints. The urge to possess a lovely giclee print not far off original with a number to prove it and so certainly pretty exclusive, especially if it's signed just for you, makes the limited edition print a worthwhile proposition for painters. Giclee prints on sale! The second is something I first heard about when the publishing director of a major but noticeably enterprising (in a good way) publisher spoke to Writers in Oxford about three years ago now and said what they were doing to come to terms with ebooks. First, to test the market, they took some of their genre novels and put them up as ebooks for silly prices. They were amazed at the take up so they put the prices up and were still amazed. Eventually they decided that the traditional...

     A few weeks ago I made a rather disturbing discovery.  I was at first horrified and completely at a loss about what to do about it.  Then it occurred to me that I needn't be horrified or at a loss because I'd stumbled on the true glory - and even justification for - Indie ebook publishing.  I'd been given an opportunity I'd longed for whenever I had a conventional book published, but which I knew I'd never get however many reprints it went through. It's still a pain in the bum though.      During the Edebook festival in August I'd spent some time launching my latest ebook, Out of the Mouths of Babes.  As I said in a previous blog, the book was originally published in 1997. I knew even then that the ending was rather arbitrary and posed many questions which only time and teasing the implications out of the plot could answer. Why didn't I try to follow them through there and then?  Only now, as I recalled the origina...

 Another in an occasional series, where our writers share their sources of inspiration. Dennis Hamley - visit website           Only once can I put my hand on my heart and say I’ve been truly inspired to write with the sudden mysterious lightning flash we all long for. That was for Hare’s Choice , when a multitude of impressions suddenly came together to give me sight of an idea which is the nearest to truly original writing that I have ever achieved,  owing nothing to any genre which I know of.           It's a moment I can’t forget and don’t want to but something which is, I fear, fairly unlikely to happen again. But I can dream.           I must be just about the only writer in the world who doesn’t keep a notebook handy. For me, inspiration, the getting of ideas, is usually quite a mundane affair. The lucky and unl...

(The following effusion is by Nicholas Fowler, eighteenth century poet, scientist, philosopher, wit and owner of Coswold, a splendid and renowned estate, who was miraculously reincarnated in June 2013 for the sole purpose of writing it.) The summons having woken me, I hied, Caring no whit for time or even tide, Toward the north, where Solway runs its course Through Scotia's windy plains where lies its source, Where Devil's Porridge boils, where fields are bleak And Burns the ploughman makes his rough verse speak. My spirits droop as further still I tread,  When suddenly, like Lazarus from his bed, They rise, as Gretna's   purlieus do me face. For here a miracle I see, a blessed place, A sanctuary, alive with tree and flower, With many a bubbling stream and bosky bower,  Colourful, lush, abundant, leafy, ferny,  Another Hidcote, Sissinghurst, Giverny.  Nature and man together made this scene. What beauty now? What barb'rousness has been? ...