Today I received an invitation to submit a romance story to an anthology. If accepted, I would have to pay $597 (£364) to have my story edited, formatted and printed and I would also receive ten "free" print copies. That means each copy would cost me $59.70. For an additional $297 (£185) I could attend a weekend party to launch the book.
Compare this rapacious exercise in vanity publishing with the work of genuine publishers, which bear the full financial risk when they back little known authors. I know from working with the great team at The Wild Rose Press how much work is done behind the scenes.
Bridge House Publishing in England will soon publish its annual anthology. It also plans a launch party in December, to be held in a London pub. I and my fellow contributors will each pay a modest £15 ($24) for lunch, followed by readings and the chance to get to know each other. Not a money-making scam but a nice gesture from an author-friendly publisher.
Writing is a long, lonely slog. If only there was some way of warning would-be authors that success costs time and effort, not money.
My spy in Switzerland today told me The Rescued Heart (set in Basel and Scotland) is on sale at Bider and Tanner, a bookshop in Basel.that carries works in English. A bit of a mystery how a book published in America found its way there. However, I hope any Swiss readers agree that I have written about their city with enduring affection. Basel remains one of my favourite places: small enough to walk everywhere, large enough to have theatres and art galleries. Having France and Germany on the doorstep adds a touch of zest to Swiss reliability and efficiency. If only I could wave a magic wand and be on the spot to sign copies.
A week ago the wind dropped and the sun came out, for three
days only. In this part of the world, the sun means we shed our cares, shed our
clothes and shed our inhibitions. Bare legs in sandals, sunburnt shoulders poking
out of vests and, best of all, smiles in the street. No-one glared at children
and strangers made cheerful comments to each other while waiting for the bus. The
queue of cars taking bags of garden clippings to the tip backed up into the road.
Instead of impatience, smiles and waves all round.
It was too good to last. This weekend, the east coat is back
to normal: wind and driving rain.
Image courtesy of Idea Go at freedigitalphotos.net
Just back from my son’s wedding, a joyful mix of English,
Canadian and Filipino traditions. It was
moving to see them overcome by their own good fortune and to hear them
promising to love and cherish each other in sickness and in health.
Forsaking all others is a choice and a pledge. However grand
or simple the ceremony, at its heart lies the promise of lifetime commitment.
It lifts the spirit to see the next generation making that pledge.
We homed in on it from fifty yards away. A small chest of drawers, dumped on the pavement beside the rubbish bins. Ugly handles and battered feet, but, hey, the wood was sound and the drawers still slid in and out with ease. Oblivious to the stares of passers-by, we circled the object of our covetousness, before common sense came to the rescue.
Twenty years ago, it would have come home with us, to be stripped down and restored to useful life. Twenty years ago, the hours we spent in the back garden, doing up battered finds with a cup of tea to hand, were therapeutic. But now? We have accumulated too much stuff: the house is full; the loft is full; the garage is slowly filling up.
Scrubbing, sanding, repainting and revarnishing now belong to the land of lost content. Time to let the younger generation carry off the plunder.
In my innocence, I volunteered to
create a blog for a community group. A short statement of our aims plus a few
photos. Easy-peasy, you might think. Think again. Working from my laptop, it proved
impossible to erase my own Google+ profile from the new community blog. Using
an alternative email address did not prevent Google’s myriad, invasive
tentacles identifying me. Somewhere, somehow, there must be an escape option,
but non-technical dinosaurs are slow-witted, helpless prey and our privacy has gone forever.
However, we dinosaurs still remember
the old ways. I walked to the local library on my own two feet and created a
Blogger account using their computer. Mission accomplished, with the bonus of fresh
air and a couple of “wee blethers” along the way.