Gonzo publishing IV: On writing
Any attention-seeking approval whore will tell you that the greatest profession to stoke the ego is; writer. As soon as you have one book in print, you’ve made it, because if it sells a gazillion copies you can revel in your fame and wealth and, more importantly, really stick it to anyone you felt ever crossed you. Or even better, pretend not to be happy and want to be taken ‘seriously’, thereby driving anyone who every actually crossed you into a foaming peak of rage by having fame and wealth but not enjoying it while they have no fame, no wealth and are made miserable not just by your success but by your apparent ingratitude.
If your copy sells one to a dozen copies, (depending upon the size of your family), then you can develop a shell of bitterness that it would take a tactical nuke to crack and sit inside it, stewing in your own misery but knowing, though never actually telling anyone, that you will be hugely popular after you are dead. Then who’ll be laughing? Probably whoever handles your estate.
Anyone who has ever put pen to paper wants to be published. Now, you can be. If you can have photographs printed into hardback albums then presumably you can have text printed up too. It’s the ultimate form of vanity publishing, but there’s no moment when you have to face the fact that nobody is ever going to want to publish your seven volume history of the trans-Pennine cycling club because of ‘lack of interest’. (Fuck them, these are the books that make Britain great, with passages like ‘as he shifted down a gear, Chunky Stevenson didn’t see the sheep in front of him and swerved to late to avoid it. The sickening ‘bahhhhhhhh-thunk’ was the very herald of doom for Chunky. As I came upon the scene of blood, guts, derailer parts, torn cagoul, wool and 3 in 1, I knew this was going to be grim).
Why stop at photo albums? It’s time to take back the shelves of our bookstores. For instance, I fail to see how paying three quid for a little book is going to make me, in any way, shape or form, calm, unless it contains the addresses of all the doctors in my area who are relaxed about prescribing tranquilisers. So why not slip a ‘little book of serenity for the soul’ onto the shelves with helpful passages like ‘feeling stressed? Tried lager?’
Better still, target your audience. Inside the glossy, pink, sexy hardback cover of the ‘ultimate sex and the city companion’ are chapters like ‘why does Daisy (or whatever their f**king names are) have so many boyfriends? Well, it’s unlikely that she spends her weekends watching DVD box-sets and eating ice cream).
Best of all, what’s the one book you expect to see in hardback? That’s right, text books. Now, I’m a fairly easygoing bloke, but when I hear somebody expounding the myth of Creationism, I get a twitch above my left eye. This is followed by a stabbing pain, usually in the speaker’s throat but the chest will do if he’s tall and I can’t get the knife up above the shoulders in time. Chapter 1; ‘unicorns’, how they are real and how having people laugh at you in public makes you a better person.
The trick is, of course, to get somebody to pay you for your thoughts. This is insanely difficult, as so many people give their thoughts away for free, usually after two large gins. Even less people know how to structure their thoughts in such a way that, on the printed page they make a) sense and b) the reader have an emotional reaction. The people who can achieve this are called poets. The worthy poets try to put into words what seeing the sunlight reflected on the rippling lake water on a winter’s day while they suddenly realise that they always have and always will love their ex more than the lover currently holding their hand, feels like. The others work for Hallmark, go home at five and eat well. They can also rhyme 275 words with ‘birthday’.
If your copy sells one to a dozen copies, (depending upon the size of your family), then you can develop a shell of bitterness that it would take a tactical nuke to crack and sit inside it, stewing in your own misery but knowing, though never actually telling anyone, that you will be hugely popular after you are dead. Then who’ll be laughing? Probably whoever handles your estate.
Anyone who has ever put pen to paper wants to be published. Now, you can be. If you can have photographs printed into hardback albums then presumably you can have text printed up too. It’s the ultimate form of vanity publishing, but there’s no moment when you have to face the fact that nobody is ever going to want to publish your seven volume history of the trans-Pennine cycling club because of ‘lack of interest’. (Fuck them, these are the books that make Britain great, with passages like ‘as he shifted down a gear, Chunky Stevenson didn’t see the sheep in front of him and swerved to late to avoid it. The sickening ‘bahhhhhhhh-thunk’ was the very herald of doom for Chunky. As I came upon the scene of blood, guts, derailer parts, torn cagoul, wool and 3 in 1, I knew this was going to be grim).
Why stop at photo albums? It’s time to take back the shelves of our bookstores. For instance, I fail to see how paying three quid for a little book is going to make me, in any way, shape or form, calm, unless it contains the addresses of all the doctors in my area who are relaxed about prescribing tranquilisers. So why not slip a ‘little book of serenity for the soul’ onto the shelves with helpful passages like ‘feeling stressed? Tried lager?’
Better still, target your audience. Inside the glossy, pink, sexy hardback cover of the ‘ultimate sex and the city companion’ are chapters like ‘why does Daisy (or whatever their f**king names are) have so many boyfriends? Well, it’s unlikely that she spends her weekends watching DVD box-sets and eating ice cream).
Best of all, what’s the one book you expect to see in hardback? That’s right, text books. Now, I’m a fairly easygoing bloke, but when I hear somebody expounding the myth of Creationism, I get a twitch above my left eye. This is followed by a stabbing pain, usually in the speaker’s throat but the chest will do if he’s tall and I can’t get the knife up above the shoulders in time. Chapter 1; ‘unicorns’, how they are real and how having people laugh at you in public makes you a better person.
The trick is, of course, to get somebody to pay you for your thoughts. This is insanely difficult, as so many people give their thoughts away for free, usually after two large gins. Even less people know how to structure their thoughts in such a way that, on the printed page they make a) sense and b) the reader have an emotional reaction. The people who can achieve this are called poets. The worthy poets try to put into words what seeing the sunlight reflected on the rippling lake water on a winter’s day while they suddenly realise that they always have and always will love their ex more than the lover currently holding their hand, feels like. The others work for Hallmark, go home at five and eat well. They can also rhyme 275 words with ‘birthday’.
Labels: Books, Publishing, Writing
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