“Only the shallow know themselves.” —from Oscar Wilde’s “Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young” (1882) 

You don’t know me.

You don’t see me.

You can’t find me.

You don’t know me.

And of this I am certain.

Being old is useful in these days of death and desperation. Death because of Covid and Brexit, stealing lives and lifestyles. Desperation because everyone is so obsessed with being noticed, with being included, recognised, acknowledged. It’s a curious thing this obsession. For those of us who’ve been around awhile, it looks like disease.

The online echo chamber amplifies and distorts, and social media platforms put you, and only you, you, you, you at the heart of every message. Seeing it is mostly boring, if compelling. Being seen is wonderful for those frantic to shine in gleaming limelight and get lost in virtual applause, acclaim. Except that the social media platforms must put all of us at the centre of attention regardless of our mediocrity, so we are none of us individuals just data sets. Yet if the platforms don’t prioritise everyone on some individualised basis, advertisers won’t be happy.

In this saturated and anonymous environment a defined identity is necessary to concepts of self, no matter how arbitrary and divisive. Individual identities must be categorised, celebrated and yelled about, to confirm that we know who we are, that we are entitled to recognition, that we exist at all. Without the platforms and classified identities, we are apparently nobodies. But coming to terms with one’s own ordinariness is part of growing up. Maybe you cannot see that until you’ve finished doing it and only then can recognise the curious paradox that we are all ordinary, and yet extraordinary too. The social media collective thrives on this paradox. Advertisers want maximum engagement and frequency in order to sell more stuff. Definitions and categories provide the platforms with data to help them do that. And we all participate.

But identity is a fragile thing, a thing in constant flux. It is not caged. Identity is vulnerable and frail and it should not be trivialised. Nor should those craving acknowledgement and recognition use identity to bully others into sharing their point of view. Identifying a target to blame for inequalities and unfairness, does not justify attack. Responsibility for being nasty about perceived slights does not go away just because you find someone to blame. The whingers share far more than being victims of generic, universal unfairness. They truly suffer cruelly. White male supremacy, imperialism, sexism, racism, accentism (it’s all the latest rage), genderism (coming to a paranoia near you soon), heightism, fatism, abilityism or some other -ism is the root of their undoing. How about I-don’t-care-ism?

We cannot thrive in a world where a group’s collective identity is considered to matter far more than anyone else’s. Such vanity combined with victimhood stifles interaction and debate. It’s toxic and poisons all chance of dialogue, discussion or inclusion. It excludes those beyond the group, those who challenge the party line, or who step unthinking onto tender toes. Blocking the transmissions we all send out and receive, leaves only static monotony on a single unrelenting channel.

Identity and knowing who and what you are is not about priviledge or advantage. Knowing who and what you are isn’t even a fact for hordes of people. Identity is often a latecomer to the character party. We could call it a very twenty-first century problem, this idea that we all have to be secure in our own identities and that everyone else has to recognise and celebrate those identities. Let’s instead strive for a little more humility, a little more kindness and greater breadth in our world views. Let’s have a little more appreciation of where and how the lines are drawn, so that they mark a point of connection and not of divergence. 

You don’t know me.

You don’t see me.

You can’t find me.

You don’t know me.

And of this I am certain.

https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Phrases_and_Philosophies_for_the_Use_of_the_Young

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde

Alternatives to ashes to ashes 

When a loved one pops their clogs and gets cremated it is generally assumed that someone will want to keep the ashes. They might take pride of place on the TV stand, or get lovingly stowed at the back of the airing cupboard, safe in a protected refuge. They might even be stuffed into a teddy bear and so remain close at hand through long and lonely nights.

But what do we do with the ashes we really don’t want to keep? Perhaps they are the remains of some detested Aunt or a wealthy relative who left their vast treasure to a cats’ home. Maybe the ashes were deliberately willed to someone much hated by the deceased. If any of this resonates, here are some ideas for what to do with those surplus assets.

Cat litter trays are always in need of a refresh and the dead one’s ashes could be just the ticket. If you’re going this route, it’s probably best to introduce the ashes a little at a time to avoid having too much soiled clinker tracked across the floor. 

Cooking is always a good option for dispersal since so many dishes benefit from a little bit of bulking up. Ideas for where to use the ashes are many, but baking them into a cake is a reasonable start. You could also use them to thicken milkshakes, especially the slimming variety, or to add that tad of extra crunch to a chocolate mousse. When you’re short of flour, bread dough and pastry can benefit from the additional padding.  

Other options might be to use unwanted ashes to make filler go further when repairing cracks and holes. Or you could just sprinkle them on the floor when you want to practise your soft-shoe shuffle steps. Be sure to wear shoes though, as those bone fragments can make for nasty splinters. If you do get a splinter, use the ashes as a poultice on the wound. And mixed with the right ingredients they make an excellent face-mask.

Unwanted ashes can do wonders outside the home too. The not-so-loved one can be recycled as soil nutrients, although you might prefer not to put them in the vegetable patch. The unloved ashes can help absorb oil leaks in the garage and be used as grit to help make safe those icy winter surfaces. Unwanted ashes are a great way to add heft to concrete and to put on the floor of a stable or henhouse as an absorbant.

These options are just the start, so don’t fret if you’re left holding an unwanted urn or a dusty cardboard box. There are plenty of practical possibilities that leave your conscience clear and your life ash-free.

Grand National windows

The trainer. “Just keep him up there, don’t push him, just let him find his pace.” Michael nodded at the trainer, certain that this horse could do more, would do more. Implacable and inscrutable. Tightly wound. Joe Black legged him up into the saddle, nodded to the owners. Holding on tight as the horse pulled forwards he lead him and his jockey once around the paddock and out onto the course.

Joe Black can see that this young fellow is going places. The horse was truly something special, but so too was that young jockey. All wire and sinew and spots and attitude. A little tall perhaps, but discipline like you rarely see. And as for that seven year old, he had scope and ambition to spare, that open easy stride, that powerful backside you could see fighting for more as Michael worked to hold him, keeping the steady canter down to the first, sitting motionless, hands low, head bowed, silks bright. The youngest horse in the race. The youngest jockey in the race. A Grand National virgin. Joe watched as they hack cantered down to the first, noting the shined streaks of aluminium as the horse’s shoes cut into the turf. Good to firm. Perfect. They turned black dirt to the sky, slivers and divots arcing high, shining bright in the sun. Angels rising up in the chilly April air. Speed and power he thought, speed and power, and a young lad who will be more than the average jockey.

The jockey. I nod at the trainer as he’s telling me how to ride this race. It’s ok but I know what I should be doing, just as I know that this big beast of a seven year old can do much more than they reckon. I’m glad I can make the weight with room to spare. Although maybe it would be better if I were a bit heavier, then the weight would be working instead of dead and useless in the weight pad. Jesus this horse has some power. Lean back a tad, keep his mind on the job, calm, don’t just hang onto him. He’s taking a steady pull, but that’s as much excitement as anything else. Every stride is surging forwards against me, my hands, my weight. Barely contained, that half a tonne of muscle, bone and attitude pounding forwards. He’s still young but this horse knows the game. “Steady lad, steady… we’ll get there soon enough” and he hears me even though it’s barely a murmur. Those sleek birch grey ears swivel back momentarily, that steady snort of steamy breath matching an even stride. I just know how his eyes are shining, the bugger. Can’t help but smile and love that perfect rhythm.

The horse. Sunshine warm on my back; the scent of crushed grass rising. I am warm, blood and heart surging faster. My skin taut and strong over my frame, my muscles pressing hard. I know why I am here. I know what they want. I know the fear and the thrill and I set my head against the pull. We are slowing and the stink of muscle and sweat are in my nostrils and I am ready.

Beyond. Suddenly in slow motion and quiet, the two of them stop in shared silence between the greens below and the blues above. They stare momentarily at the four and a half foot obstacle, suspension, stillness, a time and motion hiatus. They turn back striding lean and sleek and fluid, towards the start. They are ready.

Wasting your time again

In the chicken run three baby rats are playing. They duck and dive to hide under a log or a stone whenever a bird comes near. The bird doesn’t have to be a chicken, sparrows are just as effective. Magpies even more so. We tried hosing all the secret places in the run but we never see the baby rats or their parents fleeing from the water. They must live elsewhere. Or next door’s cat might have dealt with the parents, leaving the orphans to fend for themselves. The baby rats have worked out where the chicken food and water are, but they appear to be homeless. When the water flows through the holes and we lift the stones and logs to find the rats, they are nowhere to be seen nor any trace of a nest. They are living elsewhere, coming into the chicken run whenever they are hungry or thirsty and next door’s cat is busy doing something else. I watch the hens and wonder what they think of their boisterous visitors. The sparrows are keener to hurry them away and our lovely cockerel chases the sparrows in turn. Perhaps the cockerel wants to welcome his murine guests as part of his little tribe. Mustafa is a Peking bantam and he’s less than one foot high. He crows loud and often to remind the girls, the sparrows and the baby rats too, that he is much bigger than he appears. The baby rats are in awe of Mustapha, of his amazing colour scheme, the chaos of his long curved feathers and his fluffy ankles. He looks black but when the sun hits him his feathers shimmer iridescent green and purple. The lighter shades peep out to tease when the wind blows. His bright red wattles are beacons for his ladies, whatever the light and wind are doing. Mustapha is a gentlemen, dignified and with a quiet authority that none of his hens bother to notice. But the baby rats watch in awe as Mustapha approaches, his step heavy and ponderous, his feathered feet muddy and his stride small. They see him coming closer, they see him stop and they watch as he steps suddenly sideways and at right angles. Mustapha is on patrol and the baby rats run away to hide as a brace of sparrows skim overhead diving for the feeder. The baby rats only hide for a little while and as dusk comes on they do not appear at all. They are living elsewhere

 

UK returns to normal as Brexit is reversed

1st April, 2023

Prime Minister Rishi Sunak has announced reversal of UK’s Brexit, following revelations of massive referendum vote hacking. British intelligence working with counterparts in Estonia, Ukraine and Poland have uncovered evidence that votes in the 2016 Brexit referendum converted Remain votes to Leave votes. The hack, code named Project Tonsils, was discovered on the day of the vote. But the discovery came too late to halt a mass of false votes being cast and counted.

Project Deep Tonsils was allegedly managed by a network of spies and criminals operating at the behest of the North Korean government. The mastermind behind the project is Ryu Jun-seo. Ryu’s name is believed to have provided an unintended clue to the mass fraud which occurred in June 2016. Search engine optimisation is thought to have been suborned across the entire internet to access online voter accounts.

British citizens casting their referendum votes online made up a relatively small proportion of the overall voting numbers. However they were sufficient for North Korea’s international hacker network to turn the vote from a clear Remain majority to a marginal Leave one.

Following a joint session with King Charles III, the Houses of Parliament, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Worshipful Company of Wax Chandlers, Sunak released a brief statement. “Brexit’s reality is no longer valid and the United Kingdom is returning to its previous state of prosperity and growth. Institutions such as the NHS, our transportation systems, education and the civil service will once again be able to hire the professionals they need to function properly. The City of London will be once again a fully functioning financial centre.” He added that “We look forward to a return to working with the European Union to protect vulnerable migrants, so that they are no longer driven to take the horrific journey across the sea. The illusion that they can disappear into the UK’s unmonitored black economy will be dispelled once and for all.”

Efforts to track down mastermind Ryu Jun-seo are now underway, following his sighting in Burnham-on-Sea on Friday. Clutching his fish and chips (open) close to his chest Mr Ryu was  spotted sprinting along the seafront towards a busstop, before disappearing under the pier. Extensive searches failed to discover Ryu who is believed to be swimming to France. As an EU member, the UK is trusting the French authorites to nab the brain behind Project Tonsils. 

Sunak concluded his announcement with the news that EU rules protecting coastlines, scientific endeavour and investment in declining regions throughout the UK could now be implemented, along with coordinated and realistic support for Ukrainian refugees and defence. He added that cancelling Brexit also means that there is no further need for the Northern Ireland Protocol nor the Windsor one. The Democratic Unionist Party welcomed the announcement and is returning to government in Northern Ireland following many years of skiving at taxpayers’ expense. And all will be well. As if.

Say what you will, but be brave about it.

It is never appropriate to limit freedom of speech or imagination, especially for creative people. We deal with the development and communication of ideas and new forms of expression. But freedom to speak out must always be balanced with willingness to accept the risk of challenge, willingness to engage in confrontation. Courage and a strong voice are part of our commitment to upholding and defending freedom of speech. Timid compromise and hesitance sets a dubious precedent as does coercive intimidation. They undermine rather than safeguard independence. Undermining individual voices weakens everyone’s freedom.

I am old and probably just don’t get it. But I do not understand why we are all being so spineless when it comes to freedom of speech. Since when is it okay to shut down peoples’ opinions? Since when is it okay to censor ideas and imagination? It seems to me that it’s since the likes of Twitter and Facebook became platforms for discussion. Except that there is not much discussion, just lots of aggressive posturing, whining and moral outrage. Platforming. This is not progressive: it represses expression, ideas. And ideas should strive to be dangerous and disruptive. 

The trouble with many of the exchanges I have seen online is that when it comes to getting answered back, there is no courage for the fight. There is an assumption of conflict and victimhood. In place of reasoned response there’s hysterical woundedness and hiding behind being offended or emotionally crushed. There is the threat of cancelling people who challenge a position, like you’d want to be friends with a canceller. Bizarre taboos block any reasoned counter or confrontation that disputes what aspires to be the received view. 

But surely that is the whole point? Talking back and forth across a known divide is necessarily fraught with dangers people might prefer to avoid. Micro aggressions they call them. Isn’t that it, when someone belittles you or bullies you but in a jokey way, or disagrees with you using proscribed language. I have a friend who has never been subjected to such things, although it is possible she hasn’t noticed. She is very tall and fierce and people are scared of her. She identifies as a man or woman depending on her mood and the weather. It’s very funny. On the other hand, I am 4’11” and blonde and have been subject to all manner of crap all my life. Fortunately I recognise it as such. 

My latest favourite is being referred to as eye-candy by a writerly colleague who really should know better. But ‘knowing better’ assumes that someone has been engaged in some navel-gazing about not hurting other peoples’ feelings and what it’s okay to say (or write) and what not. Why should we assume they have this internal debate, especially if they identify as a tosser? It’s not an obligation to be self-aware. If I am offended it is my problem and if I am upset I will resolve it with a conversation. That is what happened with the tosser. We’ve kissed and made up. But it still pisses me off and I doubt there’ll be any change to his perspective; at least I tried and I’m fine with being pissed off. It’s probably good for my mental health.

I strongly believe that everyone is free to express personal opinions, but they must take responsibility for what they say and respect the positions of those who disagree with them. Discussion and resolution is dynamic, alive. We must all understand the risk of disagreement, be willing to embrace it and to handle the consequences. Discussion should stay energised and vibrant, not be snapped off at the neck. Reducing disagreement to superficial cliché and tropes is convenient and likely to provoke lots of clicks. But it’s hardly helpful. Taking responsibility means being willing to engage in a debate and not merely platforming for the sake of one’s ego and vanity. It means taking into account the limitations of oneself and of others, not categorising and labelling them. No matter how sincere, posturing without considering the other point of view blocks discussion, expansion of understanding and appreciating mutualities.

Expressed opinions encourage consideration of diverse facts and points of view, known and unknown. They are part of discovery and the foundations of progress.

More on Freedom of Speech here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freedom_of_speech

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/joanne-harris-jk-rowling-free-speech-trans-rights-k6g7gpxbn

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-53330105

Wasting your time

Watching our hens is one of my favourite time-wasters. I call it thinking about stuff, but really it’s just mindless voyeurism. Seeing them peck and scratch about takes the mind into another realm, a much simpler one where the range of decisions to be made is limited. It’s like watching television where you are basically watching other people work, so it’s restful.

Today my favourite hen to ponder is Dahlia Lamé, so named because of her long neck and heavy fringe which makes her look like a llama. She is golden, silky and might be related to the Dalai Lama (not really). In the world of Dahlia Lamé, food is the top priority. She’s usually first out of the chicken coop in the morning, as long as she manages to elbow (do chickens have elbows)? her way past Marlena, who’s about twice her size and black with copper overtones. Dahlia Lamé makes straight for the feeder and pecks aggressively and noisily at the food for much longer than the other hens or our feisty little Peking Bantam cockerel. That might be because the cockerel usually has sex on his mind first thing in the morning. But he struggles to get out of bed, is sleepy and prone to laziness and as he is too small to reach Marlena, he soon gives up. He’s usually distracted by Dahlia Lamé’s urgent peck, peck, pecking so he joins her for breakfast. The cockerel is called Mustapha and his plumage looks at first glance to be black, but it is far from black. It ranges from iridescent greens and purples to white when the wind blows up beneath his underskirts. Mustapha’s really quite a magnificent little fellow.

The rest of the girls are distracted by the corn we throw out for them every morning, so Dahlia Lamé has no competition at the feeder and can eat and eat. Mustapha is a gentleman, so whilst he joins Dahlia Lamé, he does not crowd her. She eats consistently but never seems to get any bigger, unlike her sister Lavender who’s the bravest chicken I have ever met. Plump, pale purple and very round this little bantam hen waits every morning until all the other chickens are out of the coop. She sits patiently on the perch a metre or so up from the floor of the henhouse. She waits for the perfect moment. She checks wind speed and direction, she checks possible destination points and has an eye out for any obstructions. She seems to wait for confirmation that all preflight checks are complete and satisfactory. When she has it, plus a comforting little tickle under her little chicken chin she’s suddenly and noisily aloft. Lavender mostly lands with a bump about three metres from her perch, following a relentlessly downwards trajectory. Lavender gives herself a little huffle before scampering on her feathery feet to some distant corner of the enclosure. She remembers breakfast and then scampers back to the others. By tomorrow her failure is forgotten.

Why am I telling you this? It’s because today I have to waste time, abuse it and slap it about a bit. I have to let time dissipate, melting and dribbling away, gone forever. I don’t know why, but some days are like that, some days need that. And if you are reading this, you probably understand and I am not alone after all.

Losing one’s app-etite

Living life via apps is not ideal, even if you’re young and trendy which I am definitely not. But I do think of myself as technically adroit, having made a reasonable living writing about technology for the last thirty years or so. So when I get confused and stressed because I cannot work out how to pay for parking or log onto an online bank account or buy concert tickets on my phone I get quite dejected. When I can’t find ferry tickets, order books, check in for a flight, join a Zoom call or whatever, I am increasingly inclined to put it down to age. Clearly I am too old for the appilytic life.

But then I see young people also getting frustrated, also swearing and huffing and puffing and having minor hissy fits. “Let’s just leave it.” “Oh, this app is crap” “I can’t be bothered to take care of this now,” and such like is not just a common response amongst old people. Young people get pissed of with apps too!

And this started me wondering why it is that old people accept that because they are old they can no longer learn new stuff. This suggests that it is ok to stop thinking for oneself, to stop learning. Yes thinking is harder when your brain is loaded to the gills with a lifetime’s experience and knowledge. All those people, books, places, movies and songs. All those memories of amazing conversations, lovers, food and drinks. Having overstuffed brains may be why old people tend to go with the cliché, because the excuse of age for losing the plot is convenient even if it isn’t always true. If you are in good health, do not accept that as every part of you decays with age, your imagination and curiosity inevitably go with it. Yes it is much easier just to believe what newspapers, television and websites say is true. After all, questioning the party line is just so tiresome. No! This is not the way to go. Informed critical thinking never has to stop and nor does your imagination.

It cannot be true that getting older means not having any more wild ideas. It cannot be true that the challenge of thinking for oneself is no longer worth  it. For most of us, getting older means that one can more or less make a choice and trust that it won’t matter if it is the wrong one. Someone else can sort out the consequences. Such arrogance. Laziness, tiredness, ill-health, complacency, fear, are all good reasons not to be bold with your thinking. But surely if none of the above apply, it has to be better to keep a young head, especially as everything else slides slowly into decrepitude.

There is an uglier side to this. Lots of old people look back on their lives, taking a certain smug satisfaction that they are still here, that they’ve made it to the final stretch. They are pleased to be old, because being old is some sort of a license to stop taking responsibility for thinking, doing, creating. But imagination mustn’t be allowed to run dry. Exciting ideas are not the preserve of youth, although the energy to implement them might be.

Young or old if you are feeling overwhelmed by an appilytic life, get out of your dusty corner and recapture yourself, starting with your imagination. Think three wild things a day and tell some bright young spark to turn them into apps. Step away from the grey shadows and face the light to reclaim the you you were in your prime. (Maybe have a little nap first to prepare yourself.) If your prime is now, make sure you do all you can to keep challenging the clichés as you age. Banish the mean and pinching clutches of decline and stretch towards the open and ever-expanding dimensions of your imagination. If that seems a push or you’re not sure how, don’t worry there’s probably an app for it. 

Opportunities for authors and their ilk

The Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society (ALCS) recently published details of research into authors’ earnings. The study was conducted by the CREATe Centre at the University of Glasgow which found that the future of writing as a profession is under threat. But authoring isn’t under threat any more today than it ever was. People will always want to read and writers, whose imagination is their trade, are very good at reinvention. The ALCS figures, particularly the reduction in fulltime authors’ median earnings from £12,330 in 2006 to £7,000 in 2022, are alarming. But they do not tell a complete story.

Rapidly evolving digital technology has provided an environment for new commercial models within publishing. Technology has spawned a world of new opportunities throughout authors’ supply chains, primarily in online services and tools to support writers. Unfortunately this has helped to drive down average earnings.

The online publishing eco-system is a dynamic adjunct to the traditional publishing industry. It is one that publishers readily exploit without much investment. Hordes of online service providers from authors and copy writers to reviewers, filter and sift new talent at their own risk and to the benefit of publishers. These new players offer fee-based publishing opportunities and fee-based prizes in every imaginable category. New writers can today self-publish without much difficulty, because the technology and the people are there to grease the wheels. These business models did not exist in the same abundance in 2006.

There is a mutual dependency between the digital environment and those who inhabit it. And this is where publishers feed, either directly or via the agent community. That they can exploit the vanity of potential authors is a given. We are all keen for the attention of a commercial publishing contract that might take our careers in a new direction. And today there are so many more of us offering raw material: supply outstrips demand.

The online eco-system hosts all manner of writerly services from software and online courses, to review sites, editorial services, printing and publishing services, marketing, blog tours and publicity. The enormity of this opportunistic system, enhanced and amplified with a host of social media channels, means that anyone who fancies their chances as an author can present themselves as such. Authors are the raw material, rather than their work. Those who are good at the online gig (and patient enough to get good at it) are rewarded by traditional publishing in the end. Top selling titles based on blogging and websites with huge followings are massive successes. Publishers put money into these writers, knowing that their risk is mitigated.

The fall in authors’ average earnings between 2006 and 2022 reflects the brutal facts of supply and demand. Today’s economic landscape is much less favourable, as the ALCS data shows. There are so many more active authors and agents in our industry now and most will work for much less money than was likely in 2006. Back then there were far fewer writers actively pursuing success, and publishers were far hungrier.

Mainstream publishers today can and do focus on what are likely to be successful products, usually from credentialled writers. Mostly publishers are very good at doing this, as the astonishing turnover and profit figures confirm. The writer’s profession is about opportunity and yes luck. But luck has nothing to do with the inclination of mainstream publishers to turn away from reduced risk investments. That is never going to happen. Luck plays a part at all points in the publishing supply chain, from the writing and commercial attractions of a work, through to whether or not the paper costs for printing it on is within budget. The reliability or not of ‘luck’ is precisely what makes it luck. And there is nothing lucky in the success of top selling titles. They succeed because publishers put the money behind them to make sure that they succeed. As with celebrity tomes, the publishers of work that started life as a high profile blog already have a defined market.

Earning a living as an author has never been easy. Oscar Wilde wrote in a letter to one Mr Morgan that ‘the best work in literature is always done by those who do not depend upon it for their daily bread’. That was in 1885 and today’s publishing economics keep it that way.

The relationship between authors and publishers is changed. Publishers no longer want to recognise that support for authors is their responsibility. And why should it be when raw materials for new products are so readily available, the risk so much less and the profits so much more? The traditional contract between authors and publishers is broken. Authors need a new more compelling and sustainable model, one that authors themselves should dictate. This ought to mean opportunities for ambitious publishers keen to disrupt and reinvent their industry. Let’s hope it does.

The randomness of book publishing

This is a quick summary of how my first book got published in 1997. It’s a story of great success and it’s a story of why I cannot get anywhere today.

It began in 1996 at a time when I believed unwaveringly in my life, my marriage and my ability to achieve just about anything. Red ribbons all round. My then husband had gone up to town for a meeting about websites or some such. He came home with the information that some guy would be sending me a letter about a book. “He asked us to write it as well as doing the website. We said you might be a better choice, because you write about technology.” “Oh” says I, “thanks” says I, adding that “I can’t do anything at the moment because I’ve got too much on.” Over supper then-husband said the Icon Books guys were interesting and that he enjoyed dealing with bright people. He said that they were pleased to hear that I was a journalist.

Two days later an envelope came in the post. It contained a compliment slip that said “further to our chat with Todd …”. There was also a cheque for £1500 and a contract for a book tentatively called The Internet for Beginners. The text was to be delivered in six months time. I think it was six months. There was a lot of words in the contract and stuff about royalties and translation rights and territories and so on. I read it carefully and it seemed reasonable enough. It really had no special meaning for me, it was just another commission. My biggest concern was delivering however many thousands of words they wanted within their deadline. It would mean real research, lots more reading than I usually bothered with and much time devoted to a single project. That was far from my usual habit of writing short articles following a loose brief and to a deadline. This internet project had serious potential to get very dull.

Deadlines are the only way that stuff gets done, so needless to say I didn’t start writing Introducing the Internet until about a month before the text was due, and that was only because I had nothing else to write that was more distracting. The book’s editor was Richard Appignanesi and the illustrator was Zoran Jevtic. Fortunately all the reading paid off and the manuscript was delivered on time. 10,000 copies were printed and immediately another 10,000 flew off the press. Impressive I thought, that so many people wanted to know about the internet and the Worldwide Web. Embroiled in the miseries of the end of what had once been such happiness, I gave the book no further thought. But then royalty statements and cheques started coming it. Translation rights and sales, all that. Still, wallowing in cold sorrow and an uncertain reality, none of it meant much to me. I did press interviews acknowledged reviews, spoke on the BBC, all in a dark sad haze distinguished only by its depth and persistence.

It is only in the last couple of years that I have come to appreciate just how unique my experience with Icon was. They did offer to publish whatever else I fancied but the person making the offer was such a serious sleazeball I didn’t bother. The book spent time in the Sunday Times nonfiction chart and was translated into various languages, so it was undoubtedly a success. I forgot about the book altogether until recently. Looking at it again, given how old it is, it surprisingly still works. 

More recently, after slogging away with the odious crowdfunding process, Unbound published my first novel in 2019. Thank you Unbound for that and all the fish. Unbound’s marketing and author engagement can best be described as derisory, so it is unsurprising that The Draftsman has sunk without a trace. What a contrast to the internet book. Now I look back in amazement at my experience with Icon and their …for Beginners series and wonder how it happened. But I know how: as a jobbing writer at a time when publishers sought out authors, I was lucky. And so were Icon. That is how these things work. Today the world of authoring is a much more crowded one and the serendipity that brought together Icon Books and Laurel Brunner is infinitely more random. Maybe that’s why life as a writer has these days become so weird. But weird is good. It’s how we spot the normal, at least what might be.