Pirating is Theft - end of.

Dear Travis McCrea of Ebook Bike

It’s not often that I blog now as there never seem to be enough hours in the day when you earn an honest living but this particular post needs to get out my system before I self-combust.

Working as an Indie writer is an incredibly tough job and, in the past, was a worthwhile career.  The way that Amazon has changed how they pay us has made it increasingly difficult to earn a living and so I really don't need any spanners in the works.

So, with a constant battle on my hands to get my books seen, talked about, sold and reviewed, imagine my fury when it came to light that you are stealing my work and giving it away for free.  Your opening line on your FAQ page is:

Imagine a world where authors can make money by giving digital versions of their books away to their reader.

This makes NO SENSE TO ME!  HOW?!  How can the theft of my books be making me any money?  Do you have a stash of cash owing to me?  I don’t think so somehow.  I’ve asked you this many times on Twitter and you choose not to answer.  I wonder why.

The truth of the matter is, every book you give away is taking hard earned cash from my hands.  So all the years, months, weeks and hours of blood sweat and tears that I pour into my work are given away, without my permission, for nothing.

And how do you justify this?  Oh, it gets better and better!  You set yourself up as a Reverend of:

Missionary Church of Kopimism

The followers of the religion are called Kopimists from copy me. A "Kopimist" or "Kopimist intellectual" is a person who has the philosophical belief that all information should be freely distributed and unrestricted. This philosophy opposes the monopolization of knowledge in all its forms, such as copyright, and encourages file sharing of all types of media including music, movies, TV shows, and software.

So you are somehow trying to justify your act of theft.  Unbelievable!

It doesn’t end there though.  Your girlfriend @malkarii_ is a charity fundraiser for St Jude’s Hospital, Memphis.  No, no, no!  Sorry, but this doesn’t sit well with me.  You @travisvancouver boast about the plane that you’ve bought and the yacht trips that you’ve taken with MY money - because your ‘religion’ doesn’t believe in copyrighting and you’re under the misguided impression that it’s your right to share my work for your gain.  You can’t expect us to believe that your girlfriend doesn’t enjoy that illegal lifestyle to some extent.

I too raise funds for charity and I know that my reputation needs to be whiter than white.  I’ve watched her video on Twitch and I feel for her but she openly admits that what you are doing is ‘shady’ and has asked you to take the website down.  Any connection with you and your dodgy deals will not show @malkarii_ in a good light - she needs to be rethinking her life choices and who she keeps company with if you continue to ignore her requests and she wants to maintain her credibility and integrity.

And you need to own up to the fact that you are a thief and a liar.  On your interview with BBC Radio, you claimed that Ebook Bike was set up with and for writers.  I’d like just ONE writer to come forward and agree with this statement.  Who are these writers who helped to set it up and how do they gain financially from it?  The only writers I’ve heard voice an opinion, are those who are being ripped-off.

I thought long and hard before writing this.  There are two trains of thought.  Some authors are keeping quiet as they don’t want to give you oxygen to grow, others are livid and doing everything they can to bring you down.  Indies are the ones who are particularly disgruntled as we don’t get an advance to keep us going - but what the traditionally published authors need to realise is that, if their books continue to be given away without their permission, their publishers will see a fall in sales and may not re-sign them.  It affects us all.  I won’t be silenced, especially when I read that a sixth of ebooks that were downloaded in 2017 were pirated because of the likes of you.  Why should I keep quiet?  If you crept into my house while I was sleeping and stole all of my worldly goods I wouldn’t let you get away with it - this theft is no different.

I don’t have a plane or fancy yacht trips around the English Bay of Vancouver and you know why?  Because I’m helping to pay for you to enjoy those privileges.

Shame on you.  Enjoy the publicity while you can but I don’t think it will last for long.  Time to get your thinking cap on and come up with a new scam.

May you get your just desserts in heaven Reverend McCrea.

PS: To those authors and publishers who choose to keep quiet, I respect your opinion but I’m choosing to speak out for the underdog.  I don’t believe that by writing this I will encourage more people to pirate books - honest people don’t - but I do feel that it needs to be talked about.  This isn’t just affecting Indies.  It’s affecting traditionally published authors and will go on to affect the publishing world, just as it did with pirated music, unless people make a noise.  I don’t believe that this is a time for anyone to sit on their laurels, hope that it will go away and leave other people to do the dirty work and deal with it on their behalf.

Broken Funny Bone

I'm not blowing my own trumpet here but I know that I have many readers who eagerly await my June and December releases.  I thank them for their support and loyalty and I owe them my best.

At the moment I don't think I can deliver that.

Oh, I've been writing like a demon.  35,000 words of one novel and 13,000 of another but ... I'm just not feeling it.  I don't think they're good enough and I won't ever put something out there that I'm not proud of.

When my mum passed away, almost seven months ago, people kept telling me to be kind to myself.  At the time, I didn't understand what they meant.  Now I think I do.  I cared for my mum for almost nine years and now I don't know my life any more.  It's different, beyond different and that's going to take some getting used to.

If I had a regular job to return to where I had daily tasks, routine and a structure, it would obviously be another story.  But writing, especially light, fluffy chicklit, is a whole different kettle of fish.  I don't feel funny.  I don't feel quirky.  I feel grey, bleak and dull - my readers don't want that.  Every sentence is a struggle and the plots aren't allowing me to inject my usual sprinkle of humour.

In short, I'm going to start being kind to myself.  I'm going to stop beating myself up and hold my hands up and say. 'It's OK to cancel my December release.  It's better that way'.  I'm also going to congratulate myself for finding the resolve to get my June release out on time, against difficult odds.

I'm fortunate enough that, although I won't be physically working, I'll still be earning a living from my other books and I'll also have the time to actively promote them and maybe blog a bit more.

So, apologies to those I'm letting down.  Who knows, inspiration might strike and I might ease myself in gently with a Christmas novella but, for now, I'm just letting plots bubble in my head until I feel strong enough again.

As always, thanks to all those who have read my books and continue to support me - not only with my writing but also through a tough time.

"My name is Amanda and I'm a writer"

There was a time when I wouldn’t tell people that I was a writer.  When being introduced at parties or social gatherings, I’d keep it quiet.  What right did I have to give myself that title?  Maybe if I’d been traditionally published I wouldn’t have been quite so reticent but, as an Indie, a little voice in my head would always whisper ‘Don’t tell them.  You can imagine what questions will spring up.’

But things are different now.  I’m an Indie and am proud of what I’ve achieved.  I’m living the dream and my writing journey has allowed my husband to abandon his job search so that we can work together as a team - earning enough to pay the mortgage, the bills, feed and clothe ourselves and generally live.  OK, there are no round-the-world cruises on the horizon but if you’d told me four years ago that my writing would support us, I wouldn’t have believed you.  That cruise can’t be too far away!

These days I’m prepared for the questions that come after,‘What do you do, Amanda?’ and I reply, head held high, ‘I’m a writer.’

I should be prepared, I’ve heard them so many times!

‘Who are you published by?’

‘Me!’

‘So you couldn’t get a publisher then?’

‘Actually, after being let down at the final hurdle with my first novel, I lost faith and decided to stop approaching both agents and publishers.  The Indie route suits me just fine.’

‘But I bet if a publisher offered you a massive deal, you’d take it?’

‘If someone offered you a fortune to do what you love, I guess you would too!’

‘Does it pay then?’

‘If it didn’t I wouldn’t be working 5 (sometimes 7) days a week or chaining my husband to the desk to edit, format and promote my books.  I don’t dabble - it’s my job and both my husband and I get paid a wage.’

‘Where do you get your ideas from?’

‘Honestly, I can’t put it down to one thing.  A seed can be planted while I’m sleeping or from an overheard snippet of conversation, an advert or (in one case) a parked car that I used to see every day - from that car came a whole plot.’

‘I’ve got an idea for a book!  Do you want to write it for me?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Do you get writer’s block?’

‘I’ve learned to deal with it.  I walk away, make a coffee, talk to the cats, load the washing machine.  If a block hits really badly around the 30K word count mark and there’s nothing I can do to shift it, I accept that I’m writing the wrong book and shelve it.  If my books don’t write themselves, I turn my back on them - I don’t have time for lack of cooperation!

‘Why don’t you write a Harry Potter type book or erotica?  That’s where the money is, isn’t it?’

Would you ask a gynaecologist why he’s not a dentist?  We specialise in our choices for a reason.  And there’s actually pretty good money in chicklit too!’

And finally, my favourite question from a dear friend who asks me every time I see him:

‘When are you going to write about a suave accountant with a huge willy?  I can give you lots of background information.’

Who knows, but I’ll pass on checking out his credentials!

Sowing the Seeds of Love

England, we are led to believe, has four seasons - although sometimes it can feel like one long, wet, grey never-ending winter.  As my Aussie husband loves to say of our weather, 'Summer is my favourite day of the year!'

I'm a great fan of winter.  I love the dark, cosy nights, the rain, hail, snow and cloud. Yes, I really do!  But I do get to a point, when we change the clocks, that I start to yearn for a bit of sun, a cool breeze and long evenings enjoying our garden.  We have a very small, typical townhouse garden but we utilise the space well and take full advantage of it whenever we can.  Dinners seem longer, chat seems less distracted and life feels better during an alfresco meal or drink.

So yesterday when we found ourselves with an unseasonably warm day for London, we set to work on preparing the garden for our long-awaited summer.  Tubs were emptied, borders cleared, leaves swept, plants chopped and seeds planted.

As I dug my fingers into the earth, covering seeds and pulling out weeds, I could almost smell the approach of warmer days.  Oh, I know we have a lot more of the grey stuff to get through before we can have that first drink outside but ... it's coming!  It's on its way!

My garden looks a bit like an empty stage awaiting its actors at the moment but it's exciting and I love the thrill of watching new shoots pop up or new life pushing its way through the soil.

I then got to thinking how much tending a garden is like writing.  It all starts with that first seed.  You plant it and give it time, love and patience.  Lots and lots of patience!  As it grows you trim it, prune it and tame it.  Sometimes it gives you a scare and you think you may lose it but then it suddenly bounces back with a surprise.  Within time, that tiny dot of nothingness has a mind of its own with strong roots and it's ready to face the world.

The only difference is, I can choose when I want to plant in my garden.  Sadly (or maybe, happily) I can't with writing.  I wasn't looking for a new plot but the germ of an idea popped into my head yesterday and I think it's already settling itself in the soil of my brain and preparing to sprout.

Ah well!  At least I'll have a lovely scented garden to work in.  Now pass me that notebook and a box of fertiliser!

NEW RELEASE - 'The All or Nothing Girl'

A date for your diaries, faithful readers ... THURSDAY 26th JUNE sees the release of my latest novel - 'THE ALL OR NOTHING GIRL'.

Here's my delicious new cover - what do you think?

And here's the blurb:

What happens when your comfortable life
is suddenly denied you?
When the Chanel make up’s dried up,
the designer gear’s been flogged on eBay
and the Persian rug has been well and truly
pulled out from under you?

Meet Francesca Milton-Harris

as she realises that one ‘little mistake’
is going to change her life in ways she
could never have imagined. 

THE ALL OR NOTHING GIRL …

because sometimes you have to lose it all
to see how much more you can gain.

 * * * * *

Want a little taster? 

 

Chapter One

My name is Francesca and I am a recovering spoilt brat.

Hah!  And of course I’m well aware that makes me sound as if I’m at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting where instead of owning up to a booze problem, I’m admitting to being a filthy rich little madam without a care in the world but I don’t care.  See, the nasty side of me still pops up on the odd occasion.

But, I have to say,  as I stood waiting for the lift at my local hospital, with barely a penny to my name and a bellyful of arms and legs waiting to rip me asunder, I couldn’t have felt less like the privileged little diva I’d spent the best part of twenty-eight years perfecting.

I was alone, truly alone.  Well, that was if you didn’t count the embryo I’d been incubating (read: living off me like a greedy little non rent-paying parasite) for the past nine months.  The free-loading human I was about to meet, with absolutely no idea about what that entailed.

I remembered thinking, ‘Shit, this is it!  Me and a baby!  In a National Health hospital, of all places!  Who’d have thought it?’  But as the pains built in their intensity, I breathed a little deeper and prayed that the lift would arrive swiftly and deliver me to the comfort of the maternity ward - albeit one where poor people squeezed out their ugly babies.

Francesca Milton-Harris giving birth in an NHS hospital?  Not while I’ve got breath in me and they’re still serving cocktails at the Ritz - as my deceased mother used to say.

Yeah, and a fat lot of good that mantra did her too.

As I waited and jiggled (I’m never quite sure why I do it but it seems to work for all nervy situations - and for your information, it’s a kind of hop from one foot to the other with a little bouncy head sway thrown in for good measure) I saw (actually smelt first) the most stunningly attractive man I’d seen in months. No surprises there, considering where I’d been forced to live.  You don’t get many Armani models or multi millionaires wandering around my run down council estate in Shepherd’s Bush - but more of that later.  Anyway, he looked at his watch (expensive, I instantly noted) and then joined me in my wait for the lift.  He was my type of man - he oozed money, opulence and the finer things in life.  He would have been my ideal date, pre my baby-growing months and being relegated to the mould-ridden flat where I’d been forced to take up residence.

And there was I, with hair that hadn’t seen a stylist in months and a midriff the size of Vesuvius.  I won’t go into details about the stirrings in my nether regions but sadly they had nothing to do with the sight of this yummy man.  Talk about wrong time, wrong place.

I had no idea that things could only get worse …

  

*****

The lift doors finally opened and Rich Guy smiled and stood back, gesturing for me to go ahead of him.  Hmm, a gentleman too, I thought as the pains subsided for long enough for me to appreciate his chivalry.

Once inside, he turned to me and smiled.  ‘I take it you’re going to the same floor as me.  Maternity?’

I nodded, suddenly feeling shy - most unlike me - and I instantly made a mental note to pull myself together.  Francesca Milton-Harris didn’t do cowering wallflower or helpless little lady.  Or rather the ‘Franny M-H’ of old didn’t - that one had balls and knew how to use them, so to speak.

But where had those balls gone?  Had they packed their Louis Vuitton cases - oh, how I missed my designer luggage - and hotfooted it out of town?

No, I wouldn’t have it.  I might have been on my uppers but that was through no fault of my own and if I could still entertain the idea of flirting with a tasty looking chappy whilst in the throes of labour, I could convince myself I still had my allure.  Sex appeal didn’t rely on cash or fancy labels, did it?  Although, thinking about it, I’d be hard pushed to list any of my revolting neighbours with an ounce of charisma or even one that I might consider romantically if he were the last man on earth.  Maybe money did make you sexy.

As I leaned back against the rail around the lift, I could see that it wasn’t just money that made Rich Guy so enticing.  Oh yes, he had all the right gear - beautifully cut suit, handmade shoes and the subtle odour of wealth - but there was a whole lot more going on.  He had the hair, the cheekbones and the complexion of someone who worked hard and played hard - the sort of look that came from a combination of various therapies and a good healthy dose of sun and sea.  As I said before, in another life, I knew his type.

I could almost hear my best friend Tiggy having a jolly good giggle at me and saying, ‘Atta girl, Frannypoops!  Still checking out what’s on offer even though your lady bits are well and truly closed for business.  You poor, past-your-sell-by-date little fatty.’

Yes, the pregnancy and my change in living conditions hadn’t gone down too well with Tiggy and whenever I’d been looking for sympathy or a shoulder to cry on, she hadn’t been my first port of call.

Would I have been the same if the situation had been reversed?  In all honesty, probably, yes.  It’s what we were, what we were made of - and that wasn’t sugar and spice and all things nice.  Oh no, not by any means.

Thrown together at boarding school, we’d lived the lives of those with little parental love - although we were compensated by being showered with everything that money could buy.  We asked for it, we got it - and boy, did we ask.  The only difference now was that Tiggy continued to demand, and indeed receive, yet I’d been totally cut off.

Well, that and the fact that I was about to become a single parent living in a one bed flat on the kind of estate I’d only ever seen in documentaries on the 52 inch plasma flat screen which used to pop seamlessly out from the foot of my queen sized bed.

Yep, things had certainly changed.

Rich Guy looked at me and smiled again.  I smiled back - nobody could rob me of the twenty-five grand’s worth of dental work I’d had done over the years, so I made the most of it.  Men had told me I had a smile that could light up a room, so I could surely add a sparkle to the six foot square metal box we were currently sharing - even if I was heavy with child.

‘Baby due soon?’ he asked.

I nodded.  ‘Any minute now actually,’ I told him as another contraction reached monstrous proportions.  My smile may have turned into a grimace but I was sure it still displayed my snow white veneers to their best advantage.

‘Better get you to the safety of the ward quickly then, hadn’t we?’ he comforted at the exact moment that the lights flickered off and then back on and the lift ground to a halt with a shuddering thud.

 

*****

Not ideal, huh?  Certainly not for a pathetic specimen who needed a double whisky before her twice monthly bikini wax and had written ‘Knock me out’ on her birth plan.

I wasn’t sure if I was grateful for the fact that the lights had flashed back on or not.  If Rich Guy was about to find himself delivering my sprog, did I really want him seeing my untrimmed lady garden?  (Hair removal had been one of the first luxuries to bite the dust and I’d learned very quickly that those areas were too delicate to attack with a blunt Bic - let’s not go there.)  Oh my!  Tiggy would lunch out on this debacle for months.

‘Damn!’ my travelling companion uttered.  Then he turned to me and added, ‘Don’t panic.  We’ll be fine.  All we need to do is press the alarm and they’ll have us out in a flash.’

By this time I’d slipped to the floor and was panting and sweating quite a bit - Mummy would have insisted that I was doing no such thing as ladies merely ‘lightly glowed’, but trust me on this, it was pouring off me.

I’d suddenly become aware that I was sitting in a rather larger puddle than I could possibly have perspired and I stupidly wondered if I’d peed myself - C minus for failing to attend any ante-natal classes or making it past the ‘Conception’ chapter in my ‘What You Need to Know About Having a Baby’ book.

Rich Guy’s voice seemed to be floating in and out of my consciousness like a badly tuned radio.  It was most disconcerting and I tried desperately to make myself concentrate on what he was saying.  From my prone position on the floor, I became aware that he was talking into the speaker on the wall of the lift and frantically running his hand through his previously immaculate hair.

‘Yes!’  His Gucci feathers were well and truly ruffled by now.  ‘In lift A and we’re stuck - a lady here about to give birth.  We need help and quickly!’

‘Agggggh!’  The sound was primal and terrifying and I was amazed to discover that it had come from me.  Who’d have thought I could make such a vulgar and earthy noise?  Oooh, but it helped.  It helped quite a lot, actually, so I did another one for good measure.  ‘Agggghhh!’

Rich Guy jumped and I could see that he was now whispering into the speaker.  I strained my ears to listen but it was fruitless so I went for another guttural moan.

‘I really think the baby might be coming NOW!’ I heard him say.  Gosh, he was tuned in.  Perhaps he was a doctor, maybe even a top notch private one, and I’d be OK after all.

‘No.  No experience whatsoever, I’m afraid,’ he said, continuing his conversation with the wall.  ‘I’m a business consultant - you don’t get to witness too many births in my profession.’

Well, that was just great - not a doctor after all and I was well and truly stuffed.  Images of a cosy private ward at the exclusive Portland hospital floated through my mind as I felt an overwhelming need to start pushing.  Would my child’s future be determined by its undignified entry into this world?  If that were the case, he was doomed and he’d have an ASBO before nursery and be doing his first stint in a youth offenders’ prison before his Eleven Plus.

‘Unnnnggggh.’  My vocal repertoire had taken on a whole new tone and I was mortified to discover that I was actually removing my underwear - La Perla, of course, but sadly last season and a little past their best.  OK, so I hadn’t done the classes or prepped myself about what would happen to my body when the little shi… darling … made its appearance but thankfully my body seemed to have taken over and knew what it should be doing all by itself.

Which was just as well, as I shortly found myself with a furry little head poking its way out of my frou-frou.  Oh yes, my body knew what it was doing alright!

‘No.  I don’t think she’s got anything with her.’  I could still hear him talking to whoever was at the other end of the stupid speaker and clearly being of no help to us whatsoever.

‘Do you have a bag with you?’  He was in my face now and the sight of his calming eyes flanked by sweeping lashes took my mind off the pain for long enough for me to take a normal breath.

‘A bag?’  What did he mean?  A Chanel?  A Birken?  No - I’d flogged off all but one of mine long ago on eBay - how was a girl meant to live?

‘Your overnight holdall.  You know?  Nappies, a blanket, clothes.’ 

Ah!  No.  I didn’t.  And I must admit I felt pretty stupid but, as another gut-wrenching pain tore through me, I simply shook my head and emitted another farmyard noise.

‘The head’s right out now.’  He was back speaking to the useless person in the wall again.  ‘I can see it quite clearly … OK … yes … I’ll take my jacket off and get it ready for … oh shit … I can see shoulders now … really quite broad ones …’

‘BOLLLLLLOCCCCKKKKS’  Yep, those shoulders were pretty broad!  I huffed, puffed, panted and wondered if I’d ever walk again after the pain I’d just experienced.

But there was that beautiful face again - right in mine - and I could smell luxury and toothpaste.  I could trust that face - and let’s consider the facts here, I had no choice.

‘Listen to me,’ the face said.  ‘They say you’re doing really well.  We can do this.  OK?  Apparently, the shoulders are the worst bit.  A couple more big, big breaths and I think we’re there.’

We?  Where did this ‘we’ business keep coming from?  I didn’t see him writhing in agony and hyperventilating.

‘It’s pretty ouchy,’ I told him pathetically, and those delicious eyes crinkled and smiled into my own.

‘You’re being so brave … sorry, I don’t even know your name!  But I’m going to call you Ms. Plucky.  Come on - push that little plucker out!’

I would have laughed but I’d found that I needed every last ounce of energy for one final humongous grunt.

‘Oh, wow!’  Rich Guy was sitting on the floor between my legs, with a bucket load of guts and gore on his approximately two grand jacket and a screaming new baby blinking up at him.

I couldn’t ever remember seeing a man looking quite so happy in the whole of my life.

SO that's THURSDAY 26th JUNE - at Amazon for Kindle and in paperback at Lulu.  

FUNKY FRIDAY - With writer Geoffrey West

Hands together please for Indie author Geoffrey West as we chat about what makes him tick as a writer.

So Geoffrey, what are the best and worst things about writing for you? 

Best – getting a story finished, feeling that it’s come together properly.  It’s rather like building a house: you can’t envisage the end of the job until it’s actually done, you can only do it in sections. I also enjoy doing anything I can to help other writers sell their books, via RTing or doing reviews of books I like.

Worst – trying to sell books, or any kind of marketing (unless it’s for other people). 

You’ve been invited on Big Brother – Writers Special!  Do you accept? 

Depends on the other guests.  I imagine successful writers can be like successful actors, behaving like ‘luvvies’ and showing off and being precious.  But it would be great to chat to Julian Barnes or Rose Tremain or Sarah Waters, or Dick Francis’s son Felix, so yes, maybe it would be fun. 

You’re going on a chat show to discuss your books.  Whose is it and why? 

Afraid I don’t watch many chat shows, so can’t think of anyone. 

If you were offered a squillion pounds to never write again would you take it? 

Well, er, er. . . Gulp. Maybe I should give the legal answer: I refuse to answer on the grounds it would incriminate me. 

It’s your dream week as a writer, anything’s possible.  Tell us about it. 

Travelling around Europe and maybe even Asia.  Doing all kinds of research into the history, and intricacies of cities all over the world, to use in future novels. 

QUICK FIRE ROUND 

Planner or Winger? 

Neither.  I don’t wing, but my planning’s pretty hopeless on the whole. 

Night or morning? 

Night night night every time.  In the mornings I am dead. 

Doer or procrastinator? 

Doer.  But a doer that does it slowly. 

Writing, first draft or editing? 

Like it best when I’ve got an idea going, and doing a second or third draft, altering, chucking out ideas and making changes.  My best ideas have come as a result of scrapping an original idea and going on with the second.  But I’d never have got the second idea without doing the first.  Does that make any sense? 

Tea or coffee? 

Coffee every time.  And I’ve grown to hate instant.

* * * *

Geoffrey blogs both as himself and the hero featured in his books, Jack Lockwood.

You can also visit his Website or follow him on Twitter.

Here are the links to his books: Doppelganger and Rock'n'Roll Suicide.

 

 * * * NEWSFLASH * * *

The solo edit has been completed by hubbie and we are about to set sail on the joint edit.  Eeek! Hissy-fits at the ready.

Fellow Indie, Kathryn Brown is currently selling Kindle copies of her novels for a mere £1.02.  I can highly recommend 'Nightingale Woods' - a right good giggle!

FUNKY FRIDAY - with writer Gilli Allan

Here we go again with a fab FUNKY FRIDAY.  Drum roll please for fellow author and Twitter buddy, Gilli Allan.

So, Gilli, describe yourself as a writer in five words.

Unconventional, unpredictable, truthful, compassionate, romantic.

You've been invited on Big Brother - Writers Special!  Do you accept?

No! I am painfully aware of the need to promote myself, to raise my head above the gazillions of other Indie writers out there and grab every opportunity that comes my way to communicate with the reading public, but Big Brother (even a special writers’ edition) is a step too far.

It's your dream week as a writer - anything is possible!  Tell us what happens.

On Monday I’m phoned up by a top flight literary agent.  On Tuesday said agent has set up a bidding war between several multinational publishers.  On Wednesday my book is number one in all the bestseller lists and the film deal is confirmed.  On Thursday I win a prestigious literary prize (the Orange perhaps - this is a daydream, right?) and I’m interviewed on The Culture Show on BBC2, and by Mark Lawson on Front Row on BBC radio 4.  On Friday I’m invited to take part in the filming of my book, and to be an adviser on the script and casting.  On Saturday I’m taken out to a posh London Restaurant by my leading man.  On Sunday (after a spending spree) my husband and I fly off to some exotic holiday location.

Shallow?  Moi?

Sounds heavenly to me!  What's the best and worst thing about writing, for you?

I wish I was one of those writers who are bubbling geysers of ideas and plot.  Sadly I’m not. So starting a new book is the worst part of writing for me.  I don’t know what I'm going to say, how I'm going to say it, or where a story is going until I (metaphorically) put pen to paper.

Being a writer like me, sometimes described as ‘into the trees’, is tough.  It’s not just a wander in poetic solitude into a misty copse.  It’s a frustrating stumble through impenetrable fog-cloaked forest, barking shins, stubbing toes, becoming entwined in a tangle of bramble and then veering off-course into a quagmire.  The easiest way to cope with this problem is simply to avoid starting a new book.

But, after the lows, the high.  I know that if I persist there will come a point when the fog clears and I suddenly emerge into the light.  Then the ideas start popping up and the plot unravels in front of me, sometimes so fast I feel I need to run to catch up.  This is the best part of writing the first draft and ‘discovering the story’.  It’s like having an affair - all the breathless bliss of falling in love, but none of the guilt.

If you had to take one book to a desert island, which would it be and why?

This is a hard one.  To take the question seriously, perhaps I should take Swiss Family Robinson, by Johann Wyss, or Robinson Crusoe, by Daniel Defoe, for tips on how to build a shelter and find food. Or even better, a Bear Grylls book on survival.

On the other hand, perhaps you want me to name an all time favourite book, which I could read and reread to while away the time.  I always say that my favourite book is Dostoevsky’s Crime & Punishment, but I’m well aware that this sounds incredibly pretentious.  In all honesty, I read it five times between the ages of sixteen and twenty, but not since.  If it was the only book I had with me on the island, I would soon discover if it still retains at its number one status or whether I’d now find it grim, dark and heavy going!  My next favourite is the Gormenghast trilogy, first discovered in my early twenties.  At least it would offer escapism into the wonderfully eccentric and fantastical world that Mervyn Peake created.  Other than those two, which made an enormous impression on me when I first discovered them, I can’t pick a single favourite book from the thousands I’ve read since.

So, perhaps I’ll go for something long and improving, in the hope that it will keep my mind occupied for the duration of my stay, and I’ll be wiser, more literate and better educated when my rescuers arrive.  In keeping with my “pretentious” reputation, how about Proust’s - A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu?

I read Crime & Punishment at about the same age and loved it.  I dabbled in Proust in my teens when I wanted to look intelligent!  SO  ... if you were offered a squillion pounds to never write again, would you take it?

Yes, I’d take the money.  To begin with it would be a relief (see my fourth answer). I’d never have to put myself through that agony again.  I could just concentrate on art.  But I’m so contrary I guess that once I’d signed a contract NOT to write, that is when the ideas for a new story would inevitably start to bubble up irresistibly, crying out to be written.  So I’d probably cheat.

Nice answer, Gilli!

QUICK FIRE ROUND

Planner or Winger?

I think I’ve already answered this.  I am definitely a winger .  All I have, when I start a new book, is an out-of-focus scenario and a few character sketches.

Night or Morning?

I’m not a morning person.  I’m far better in the afternoon/evening.

Doer or procrastinator?

Procrastinator

Writing/first draft or editing?

I love the editing process.  I could go on editing forever.

Tea or coffee?

I like both but the one I choose depends on the time of day.

You can find Gilli's books on Amazon (take a 'Look Inside' while you're there!) or visit her Blog, Facebook or Twitter pages.

* * * NEWSFLASH * * *

In case you missed it, this week I posted a guide to The Essential Mummy Misfit.  If you're new to my books or blog, it highlights lots about me and some defining posts.

I had a little dig at the Paltrow/Martin lunacy and my blog hits went wild!  'Conscious uncoupling'?  My bottom! 

The current work in progress is SO close to the end of the first draft.  Blood, sweat and a few tears have been shed but I'm getting there.  Next week should see me jumping for joy and ready to start the next phase.

I met a lovely young man on Twitter in the week when he offered to share the Blue-Tac he uses to glue his bum to the seat for ensuring a lengthy stay at the laptop.  What a weird and wacky place the Twitsville is!  I'd like to introduce you to him and to his work as he starts on his journey and builds his name.  He writes poetry, which you can read here and you can also follow him on Twitter @Kela:LewisMoran.  I particularly liked this poem.   Go on!  He'd love you to read his work and give him some feedback.

FUNKY FRIDAY - with Travel writer Jo Carroll

This week I'd like to introduce you to travel writer Jo Carroll, fresh back from Havana and hopefully full of ideas for her next book.  Don your fedora, strike up a Cuban cigar and stick a straw in your rum cocktail as I welcome her to share her passion.

"Thank you for inviting me onto your blog, Amanda – what a privilege it is to be here, among such wonderful people!"

'Bombs and Butterflies' is set in Laos - how much of this is based on personal experience and how long did it take you to research?

Bombs and Butterflies is an account of my travels in Laos – so the whole thing is based on personal experience. I talk about the wonderful people I met, and the courage of Laotians who are still struggling to recover from years of bombing. While the west had its back turned Laos became the most bombed country in the world. I spent much of my time there in awe of them and their capacity to put that behind them and embrace the future.

Dream time. What's your ultimate goal as a writer?

I simply want to carry on enjoying both writing and travelling. When it becomes a chore, then I’ll give up. But I can’t imagine a day when I give away my guidebooks and settle back with the telly.

Tell us about your ideal writing day. It can be as wild and far-fetched as you like!

Writing days at home are very different from writing days when I’m away.

When I’m travelling, I write whenever I stop – so in cafes, hotel rooms, bus stations, on trains – everywhere. It’s the only way to get down all the glorious details of where I am.

At home, I like to think I sit down and concentrate for hours – and sometimes I do.

Other days I potter with friends or read and tell myself I’m thinking about writing.

Describe yourself as a writer in five words.

Eclectic, versatile, … um … not sure I can think of more. Maybe ask my readers?

How do you deal with a bad review? Are you a sulker or a shrugger?

I’ve had only one ‘bad review’ - from someone who read Hidden Tiger Raging Mountain and didn’t like my discussion of social conditions in Nepal. After an initial huff I was fine with it, because he’d pointed to the aspect of the book that many had praised. He simply wasn’t into social observations.

What's next for you?

I have heap of notes on Cuba. Give me a month or two and I’ll tell all in another ebook!

QUICK FIRE ROUND

Planner or Winger?

I don’t fall neatly into either camp.

Night or Morning?

Middle of the day!

Doer or procrastinator?

It depends how you define procrastinate. Sometimes when I’m pottering the writing is swimming around my head anyway.

Writing/first draft or editing?

Both - if you want books to be the best they can possibly be, I think you have to enjoy both.

Tea or coffee?

Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon, wine in the evening!

Thanks, Jo, it's been a pleasure having you drop in!

You can buy Bombs and Butterflies and Jo's other travel books by visiting her website and following the links.

* * * NEWSFLASH * * *

Thanks to all of you who shared or promoted last week's free promotion of 'Lottie's Luck'.  It achieved unprecedented rankings and I've been delighted that it's popularity has continued with new readers putting their hands in their pockets and buying it ever since.  I've hit new sales records in each of the last three days, despite having had the lurgy - perhaps I should be ill more often!