THE DARLING DUDS OF MAY

The title of this blog has nothing to do with its content, I hope, or maybe it has. It's May and it just popped into my mind. In fact it's meaningless. As I write I also ramble to myself. I ramble to myself even when I'm not writing. My wife often asks me who I'm talking to as I mouth my thoughts. I sometimes wonder how many people see me doing this and dismiss me as a silly old sod who talks to himself. Could be they're not wrong.

Occasionally, when I'm sitting in front of the computer screen with nothing coming to the forefront of my mind that's worth putting in whatever book I'm writing I tend to compose what I think at the time are brilliant letters about my various gripes.  Mostly I do nothing with them, having got the gripe off my chest and onto the computer but, with the advent of the email, it's just too easy to wing them to a newspaper's letters page. My computer seems to do this without my knowledge at least  two or three times a year.
     I did one a couple of days ago about the cause of the rise in house prices which I blamed on the banks and building societies. I know a bit about it having been a house builder in the past and I told the computer exactly what the solution is. Once again, the computer, without my express permission sent the letter to the Yorkshire Evening Post who published it as the headline letter on their letters page today. I'm now expecting letters of rebuke appearing in said newspaper, telling me what an idiot I am; letters which I should ignore but I won't because I'm argumentative by nature and I will compose  replies which will verbally demolish these adversaries and no doubt annoy the hell out of them, that's if the computer decides to send them to the paper.  Mostly the people who write to the papers are pretend intellectuals who talk rubbish and I'm lumping myself in with them. Or it could be that I talk rubbish as well?

Right now I'm between books. Almost A Hero was published on May 1st, my next book, Nearly Always, is finished at 105,000 words and I'm 25,000 words into another called Say It Isn't True. So I'm taking time off book writing to do a screenplay of one of my books that was only ever published in hardback.  My regular publisher wouldn't take it as their editor said it was so dark that she read 50 pages and felt like slitting her throat. I took another look at it and realised it probably has great potential as a noir TV drama so this is what I'm doing. So far I've never had any success with screenplays but this is a great story and I know I do good dialogue. I also know a couple of production companies who are interested in my work, plus I find writing screenplays to be enjoyable work, so what the hell? Get on with it McCoy.

The book is called Free As A Bird. It's only available in hardback or on Kindle and as far as sales are concerned it's probably my least successful book, but sales aren't always a reflection of a book's quality. Sales are all about marketing. A poor book with good marketing will easily outsell a great book with no marketing and Free As A Bird had zero marketing.

I played golf today. I love the game. It keeps me fit and mobile, I just wish I was any good at it. I love the challenge and the camaraderie and the dozens of good friends it brings me. See, I'm rambling again. My lips weren't moving though. At least I don't think they were. Oh heck! How can I possibly know?