Self Publishing: What I’ve Learned.

I always thought that the hard part of being an author was writing a book. Turns out that was the easy part. The hard part is getting people to read it.

Here’s my tale – maybe what I’ve learned can help you.

Part 1 – The Agent

When I finished the first draft of my first book, I had this idea that I would go the traditional route: find an agent, get a publisher, sit back and watch the royalties roll in. Easy.

So I made a spreadsheet of agents in Australia, and I sent my manuscript to the name at the top of the list. Incredibly, a couple of months later they got in touch – they loved the manuscript, and wanted to represent me. There followed a fair bit of back and forth, in which my agent gave me a lot of great advice and guidance, which led to significant rewriting. And then we were off to the publishers. For three years.Without success. The rejections were all very encouraging and apologetic – mostly they referred to the fact that the publishing industry is in crisis, and that publishers don’t like to take risks on unknown writers (see my thoughts on that here) – but they were rejections nonetheless.

Eventually my agent had exhausted all her ideas, and we parted company friends. I still owe her a lot for her time, patience and brilliant advice.

Part 2 – The Assisted Self Publisher

By this time I had another book finished, with a third on the way, but I had lost several years. I wanted to get to market ASAP. I didn’t have the confidence to leap straight into self-publishing myself, so I took the next best route – I found an Assisted Self Publishing company. This turned out to be a great idea.

Ben Hourigan, the owner of Hourigan & Co, turns out to be a very helpful, smart and encouraging person, and he put me on the road to self-publishing. I wanted to learn all about how it’s done by going through the process with my second book, which I really like but I must also admit is not my strongest work. I figured once I had the whole thing down pat, I would hit the market with my first book, which is, if I say so myself, a beauty.

So, working with Ben and his team we got a website designed and built by the talented Dannielle Espagne at Leap Creative, and a cover design created by Andrew Brown at Ardel Media.Working with both these people was an absolute pleasure, and Andrew’s comprehensive briefing process leads to a beautifully designed high impact cover.

Next came the edit. My first book to be published, The Reprint, was the second I wrote, and  by the time I started it I had learned a lot about writing, so the editing process was quite easy. But Ben and his editor, Justin Evans, put a fair amount of work into it and the result was unquestionably an improved book. It costs good money, but it’s worth it.

Part 3 – To Market

So then off we went to market. Ben arranged for artwork to be done, and ebook and Print on Demand copies were made available through Createspace, Amazon and several other online sales sources. In the meantime, Ben introduced me to Vellum, and using this, and InDesign, I was able to create the requisite files to design and create a couple of other books of short stories, which I put on the market quickly and easily. I made mistakes but I have been able to correct them, and the result is that I have three books of short stories and one novel available on my website to date.

Part 4 – What I’ve learned

Finding an assisted self-publisher you can trust is a terrific approach.I trust Ben and his team, but I have also gained the confidence to do a little of the design and artwork myself. However when it comes to cover design for serious works, and especially to editing, you simply must place yourself in the hands of a professional. For my money, Hourigan & Co, fit the bill, but you may want to seek out others.

The biggest thing I’ve learned, though, is just how hard it is to market yourself and your books, even with talented folks like Ben and his team behind you. It’s a tough slog, and I am finding it hard even to give books away, let alone sell any. I’ll persevere, because I believe in my writing and in myself, and because I am growing thicker skin every day.

If you choose to do the same, I wish you every success.


If you love it, I’m listening…

If you love it, I’m listening…

My Dad has always said to me, ‘don’t pay any more attention to the people that praise you than you would to the people that bring you down.’ Perhaps he is right. As writers, the best thing we can do is listen to our own hearts, and don’t let anyone else judge whether what we have created is worthy of existence.

But there’s a little problem in that, and it’s called human nature.

I don’t know about you, dear reader who’s a writer, but when someone acclaims me as a genius, or tells me that my creation is perhaps the most brilliant piece of art since Michelangelo chipped away at a marble block for three years (okay that’s never happened, but just go with it), my first reaction is to assess them as incredibly astute, insightful and honest.

Conversely, when someone offers even a mild criticism of my work – regardless of whether it’s carefully considered, constructively couched and apologetically delivered – I bristle. My hackles rise and the taste of bile fills my throat. How dare they presume to criticise my sublime creation? Why would a person take the time to try and destroy my fragile artist’s ego with such an insane, inappropriate and unwarranted attack?

A surplus, a surfeit or even an extravagance of adjectives? The unruly insertion of adverbs? ‘Overuse’ of punctuation?!? Pretentious? Fragments? My god, why don’t you just take me out the back and stab me! Why must you drag my name through the mud like that? Are you so jealous of my towering talent that you have to resort to this petty carping? And so on etcetera.

But am I being reasonable when I react in this way? Should I just take my Dad’s advice on board? The truth is, as always, somewhere in the middle.

Take compliments, and yes, allow that little glow of self-satisfaction to creep over you. You’ve earned it. But assess them properly. For instance, when someone tells me that one or other of my books or stories is ‘well written’, I ask myself, ‘does that mean the story is crap? Or is Mum just being nice?’

Look for the hidden meaning (or the hidden agenda) in any praise – especially if it’s high praise. And if it’s truly justified, take it, but don’t dwell on it: it won’t make you a better writer.

And when people, particularly those not related to you, offer genuine criticism of your work, try not to take it personally, but do try and see what they’re saying from their perspective. Even if it seems harsh or unjustified when you first read it, there are more than likely a few large grains of truth in there. Use it to improve your work, but don’t let it ruin your day.

All authors have egos, and we’re all in this business because we like to have them stroked. But dealing with both good and bad feedback is a part of the business, so try and do it with equanimity. Then teach me how.

Pace and the need for Instant Gratification.

Pace and the need for Instant Gratification.

I’ve just finished reading Emile Zola’s ‘Doctor Pascal’. It’s too bad for Emile that he didn’t have beta readers who could have helped him make this into much more of a story.

‘Emile,’ they would have said to him, ‘there’s not enough action in this book. Sometimes you go on for pages and pages about one little thing, examining the same thought or feeling from a hundred different angles. Your readers won’t stand for it.’

And Emile would, perhaps, have obliged by removing all that unnecessary atmosphere, all that superfluous guff about what was in Doctor Pascal’s heart, and Clotilde’s, and Martine’s, and upped the biffo quotient, or added a few spicy love scenes. Perhaps a body could be found under the rough stones of the threshing area. Or perhaps not. Maybe he would have said, ‘thanks for your input, but the story is what it is, and I don’t think it really requires jazzing up with more gratuitous activity.’

That’s the nub of my problem as a writer, dear reader. I understand that today, everything moves much more quickly than it did before. Generations of people brought up on 30 minute sitcoms and 60 minute crime shows don’t have time to sit around delving into the thoughts and feelings of the characters in the books they read.

God forbid that the author actually burdens them with lengthy descriptions of places, people, sunsets, non-pivotal actions and subtle observations. Hell no! What readers ‘need’ is a short, sharp progression from problem to solution. Preferably with a pile of killings, conflict, chases and sex, and maybe, just maybe, the odd wry aside that doesn’t get in the way of more action, action, action.

The more things happen in a book, the less the poor reader has to work to understand the characters’ motivations, or tax their imaginations by really trying to see what the author has created. It takes away the hard work of thinking, leaving the reader, much like the TV viewer, just watching. Breathlessly, with any luck.

Alas, my work may never achieve the success I had hoped to attain when I started writing novels. My unseemly attachment to wanting to immerse the reader in the story to the point where they don’t care so much if there isn’t some sort of massive eructation of physical activity every page or two, will be my undoing. I don’t have it in me to pander to the instant gratification requirements of today’s readers. Shame.

So rather than pursue my career as an author, maybe I should spend my time more profitably pretending to have been a beta reader for some of the greats.

‘Dear Fyodor,’ I would write. ‘I like the story, but why on earth does it take so long before Raskolnikov bops Altona and Lizaveta on the head? And what is with all that maudlin reflection? Good lord man, there needs to be at least one lengthy chase.’

‘Franz,’ I would also write. ‘People just won’t buy that your man Josef K doesn’t know what he’s being arrested for. They’re still trying to get their heads around the fact that his last name is a single letter. It would be much easier for the reader if you just had him go out and strangle a prostitute at the start.’

A Confederacy of Dunces indeed.

A Confederacy of Dunces indeed.


Publishers are a funny lot. They are all looking for the next big thing. All desperate to sign the next JK Rowling or George R R Martin, make their fortunes, and be noted as the ones who found ‘the one’. But that’s not what’s funny about them. What’s funny is that although they are all dead keen to find that major talent, they are mostly so lily-livered that if it came up and slapped them in the face with a manuscript, they would quiver with fear and reject it. Unless of course the author could satisfactorily respond to the great Qualifying Question, “ah, but what is it like? Of which current bestseller is it a clone?”

Until you admit, or even proudly boast, that you’ve basically copied someone else’s idea, appropriated their style, or have jumped on the latest bandwagon with both feet, you’re on your own mate. Publishers will run a mile before they’ll take a punt on you.

History is littered with examples of genius that has been shunned, ignored and even swatted away like an annoying fly by the great powers of publishing. Richard Bach’s Jonathon Livingston Seagull, L Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz, and George Orwell’s Animal Farm are all works that were too different to be picked up by the wise ones at major publishing houses, at least initially.

Frank Herbert collected something like 20 rejections for his epic Dune – although nowadays he might have uttered the magic word, “serial”, and been given a crack. John Kennedy Toole committed suicide at 31, in part because he couldn’t find a publisher for his work, A Confederacy of Dunces. It was later awarded the Pulitzer Prize. Presumably Toole couldn’t answer the crucial question, “yes, but what other books is it like?”

It’s a question that could easily have stopped the authors of many a bestseller, from Ms Rowling to Mark Haddon, author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, to Brett Easton Ellis.


“So tell us, Brett, where do you see American Psycho in the bookshop? What would it be next to?”

As a writer, it’s irritating and degrading to have to face such a question, knowing that unless you can answer it with, “well, it’s Game of Thrones meets Harry Potter with vampires and bondage,” you’re screwed. You’re untouchable, and the very powerful implication is that your work must be crap because it isn’t ‘like’ somebody else’s.

So my advice to you, dear reader who is a writer and who has created something so utterly unique it will shatter all records and create a genre all of its own (until publishers find someone who can say, “it’s like that one – you know, that one that everybody loves right now”), is to self publish. That way, no one can reject you simply because you’ve chosen to tell a different story.

And my advice to publishers* is to stop being such bloody cowards and take a risk on a new author once in a while.

*I joke of course. As if a publisher would deign to read my blog. Unless someone tells them it’s like Jeff Goins’ blog.

Read it again (sigh).

Read it again (sigh).

‘Art is never finished, only abandoned.’

– Leonardo da Vinci

As a writer, you lovingly crafted your characters, endowing them with the kind of sympathetic actions and alluring traits that readers adore, and then those darling creations of yours took over. They shaped their own novelistic futures, took on their own sometimes surprising agency, and shaped the way your story grew.

When you finally finished the first draft, you eagerly went back to the beginning to read the whole thing for the first time. Okay, there were a few bits that needed work, but there were also some parts that struck you with their sheer genius and delightful hilarity. You were quietly thrilled.

Back you went for the second draft, working slowly through the whole thing from front to back, still amused and enthralled by turns at the quality of your writing, and happy to tighten up a phrase here or add, remove, then add a comma there. Really, it was such a pleasure.

Having finished that, you might have sought some feedback from friends and family, and while they were busy being besotted by your brilliance, you went through it again, just to share what they were experiencing, and to remove that comma.

Feedback – overwhelmingly positive but with just a few minor niggles – provided, you set to work on the next draft. Some of the dialogue looks a bit wooden this time. Those witticisms that made you laugh out loud on the first couple of reads barely raise a smile now. And did you really write that? How disappointing.

Teeth gritted, eyes smarting, you finally finish this crucial third draft, and you reckon you’re now ready. Your novel can be set free, whether you’re self-publishing or going cap in hand to publishers because you secretly love the ritual humiliation of rejection.

But wait! There’s one more thing to do: read it again.

Yes, read it again. From the very start, carefully and critically. This time around, be ruthless. If it grates on you, remove it, rewrite it or at the very least put a comma in it somewhere. Scrutinise the dialogue, question the punctuation, analyse the mechanics of every action. Excise where necessary, expand where required, explicate where incomplete. You’re beginning to hate those bastard characters now, aren’t you? They seem so terribly commonplace now, yet so poorly confected, and their actions are oh, so predictable.

You’ve lost all objectivity, you now officially have no idea as to whether the thing is even readable let alone laudable, but still you grind through this read. It’s become a marathon, a challenge, and because you’re bloody-minded, you vow to see it through to the bitter end.

At last, it’s done. You’ve now been through it so many times, there couldn’t possibly be any value in reading it again, could there?

Actually, there could. Just give yourself a few weeks. Go do something else, get it out of your mind, let it escape your consciousness. Then go back and read it again. You might just fall in love again.

The Gentle Art of Procrast… meh, I’ll finish this later.

The Gentle Art of Procrast… meh, I’ll finish this later.

We’ve all been there. Found a range of increasingly thin excuses to avoid sitting down to do what we claim we love doing, and write. The house has never looked better, your fitness has peaked thanks to those spontaneous forty-five minute walks taken twice a day, the dog just wants to be left alone, and you have a new found respect for Dr Phil – and still the keyboard gathers dust.

Fear not, dear reader who is a writer. Your problem is most likely not laziness or incapacity to write, but a lack of readiness. All the while that you’re buffing spoons, wiping windows, rearranging libraries and guffawing at the gullibility of people who appear before Judge Judy, your mind is ticking away, turning raw ideas into finely crafted sentences, deeply rewarding paragraphs and surprisingly immersive chapters. It takes time, and greatness will not be rushed.

So let those distractions do what they are designed to do: occupy your conscious mind while your subconscious beavers away with feverish activity, producing your next literary gem without you having to think about it at all. Then, when they are good and ready, the words will come – often whether you want them to or not.

A word of caution, however, dear reader who is a writer. Nipping down to the pub to knock off half a dozen pints of brew, slipping out to the back shed to spark up a couple of blunts or popping out to see your local ice dealer, are not generally the kind of distractions in which you should indulge. Anything that interferes with the operation of your subconscious, especially if it leaves you comatose on the couch, unable to process the intellectual import of even an episode of The Flintstones, is not going to help your writing.

And if/when you get to the end of your lengthy To Do list you still are not ready to write, then just sit down and bloody well start. You’re not still mulling, you’re lazy.