More of my inane ramblings on writing…
Unless you’re tapping into that trust-fund set up by your dearly departed maiden aunt (the one everyone knew was a lesbian but no one mentioned it) or have a partner who doesn’t mind indulging you (that’ll be me, then), don’t give up the day job just yet.
More pearls of foolishness from yours truly. This time about book PR. What do I know?
Exhausted? You will be. This PR lark takes a lot of graft. I know. I’ve never worked so hard. The good news is that once you’ve set the wheels in motion, you just need to keep a light touch on the tiller. Then before you know it, you’ll start getting that exposure you’ve always dreamed of and, who knows, the agents and distributors knocking at your door instead of the pretty postman. More…
To continue my amateurish witterings on writing a memoir, Displaced Nation asked me:
Is it easier to turn expat stories or travel adventures into a memoir or a novel, and how does one decide?
Here’s the trick. Just because a memoir can’t be a novel, it doesn’t mean it can’t be written as if it were. The greatest challenge is to give memoir a plot that readers will find convincing and engaging enough to make them turn the page.
For me, that meant very little fat. One of the first tips I picked up from my publisher was to dump storylines and characters that weren’t key to the main event or didn’t add interesting flavour. I tackled this by creating a story board, much like they do in the movies. This meant I could identify gaps in the narrative, ensure continuity and shoot down the flights of fancy.
Does this mean it’s not true?
You might also like Displaced Jack
The fine people at Displaced Nation have asked to me to write for them. My new gig is a monthly column about writing. God knows why they think I have anything particularly useful or original to say about this subject (or any other) but I’ll give it a go and hope I don’t run out of things to say. So, ladies and gents, I give you my inaugural piece…
When Liam and I first flogged off the family silver, jumped the good ship Blighty and waded ashore to Turkey, we planned to put our feet up and watch the pansies grow. Twelve months into the dream, we began to feel, well, a little bored. It was a benign type of boredom — not the terminal kind that leads to low self-esteem, heavy drinking, chocolate binges and serial infidelity. More…
Perking the Pansies 