The thrill of seeing a book for the first time

 I've done it.

Typed THE END.

I think I speak for all in this room when I say, "Phew!"

The last time you and I were together, dear reader, I talked of climbing the mountain of words to reach the summit. That was simply to finish the first complete draft. To be clear, I had already revised much of it but hadn't written the final confrontation between my protagonist, Jonas Flynt, and the bad guy. That is now done, I have revised the entire thing, on screen and on paper, a step I find is vital because I spot more on the printed page than I do on a screen. Curious, I know, but a fact nonetheless.

And I have added those two simple words above. 

I can now lie down in a darkened room and decompress to soothing music. John Barry is my composer of choice for such moments. In fact, he is playing right now, the CD 'Endless Echoes' if you're interested.

I can do that, right?

Eh, no.

I can listen to the mellifluous music of Mr Barry but the lying down bit will have to wait.

I have a busy year. I've already completed two books but I must have another written by the end of December. 

Add to that household chores, pulling together my income and expenditure for the benefit of what is now His Majesty's Revenue and Customs (our Internal Revenue), plus festival appearances, interviews to conduct, research, a comedy play to revise and, let me see, oh yes - eat, sleep, walk the dog and be a servant to the cat.

I'm not complaining. Okay, maybe about the household chores. And the tax thing, because nobody likes that. But the writing? Hell, no - because that's what I do and although the physical act of stringing words together often makes me groan, I do enjoy (as Dorothy Parker once noted) having written.

But here's the nub of today's lesson, dear reader.

Writers write. 

Yes, I will moan about it, about deadlines, about editors not understanding my brilliance (although generally they are right), I don't sell enough, I don't make enough, not enough people praise my work etc., etc.

But would I stop writing?

You might as well ask a bird not to fly.

It's something that's in me and sure, maybe one day I'll win the lottery, become filthy rich and stop. For a while. But then that familiar sensation would return and I'd want to write something, perhaps how hard life is for the filthy rich. Mind you, we have entire governments telling us that.

And to stop writing, to stop being published traditionally, would deprive me of another pleasure.

The thrill of holding the first copy of that book you sweated over for months never gets old.

This week I received my author copies of my new book 'An Honourable Thief.' Opening that box is always filled with anticipation because it's the first time I get to see the actual fruit of my labours (as well as the hard work of the editor, cover designer and the myriad of folk who beaver away under cover of an author's by-line).

Will it not look as good as it did on the screen? Will I feel a sense of anti-climax?

In the end, as I took out the first copy, the response to those questions were - it did and I didn't.

It's a hardback, so it's got heft. I like a book with heft. I'm from Glasgow so we're always on the lookout for a weapon. (I'm kidding, don't @me).

 

(Pic courtesy off my agent Jo Bell because I'm too lazy to take my own 

and, anyway, I didn't get a bookmark with mine!)

The one I have completed will today wing its way to my agent. I'll take this week to do as many of the other tasks as I can before I head off to Stirling for Bloody Scotland on Thursday. After that it's nose to the grindstone again.

But that, dear reader, will be another story...