Forgive me, but I'm about to name drop. And not just once.
First up, I have contributed to this book: How To Publish a Kindle Book. There are a load of great writers in there too, including someone I believe is a genius: screenwriter, John August. Pretty cool, I can tell you.
You might know John August for writing wonders such as this:
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And second. Last week a number of people got in touch to say that Not So Perfect had been reviewed in Flash Magazine. (The first was the lovely Vanessa Gebbie, who's in there too.)
The review was brilliant.
My stories explore "the tortuous joys of human relationships".
I like that.
And some of my endings "charm by their ambiguity".
I like that too.
I also like that one of my most interesting techniques "is the manipulation of the boundary between the literal and metaphoric."
Yep, I was thrilled by the review.
And you know what else thrilled me - that Margaret Atwood has stories in the same issue.
That's right. Me, Margaret Atwood and John August. Who'd have thought it, eh!
I'd strongly advise checking Flash Magazine out - that's a subscription I'll definitely be maintaining.
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So that's enough name dropping for today. Though, did I tell you that one of my stories was used on high school course along with one of Dave Eggers'...?
Well, it was inevitable, wasn't it? I simply had to recommend an Aimee Bender story, mostly, because she's my favourite short story writer. Ever. (You can read me interviewing her here.)
I think it's safe to say I could recommend any of her stories; they're all wonderful.
Today I'm sticking with an old and firm favourite. The Rememberer.
It begins...
My lover is experiencing reverse evolution. I tell no one. I don't know how it happened, only that one day he was my lover and the next he was some kind of ape. It's been a month and now he's a sea turtle.
I keep him on the counter, in a glass baking pan filled with salt water.
"Ben," I say to his small protruding head, "can you understand me?" and he stares with eyes like little droplets of tar and I drip tears into the pan, a sea of me.
He is shedding a million years a day. I am no scientist, but this is roughly what I figured out. I went to the old biology teacher at the community college and asked him for an approximate time line of our evolution.
'Nik Perring’s ‘Not So Perfect’ published by Roast Books is an addictive combination of simultaneously cuddly and uncomfortable stories which often hint at everyday familiarity and then, suddenly, completely upset that particular apple cart. There is a great warmth and humanity throughout even in the more unnerving stories and Mr Perring’s knack for ‘defamiliarizing’ the everyday, to use short story critic and academic Charles May’s term, is a wonder to behold.'
And speaking of my book, I still have some copies available for the £10 I'll write whatever you want in it for Christmas offer, as first mentioned here.
Today I'd like to point you in the direction of Neil Gaiman's 'Babycakes'. I've not been able to find a version you can read, but you can listen to the master reading it here or, if you'd rather, you can see it as a comic strip here.
Babycakes does one of the things I think all great stories need to do: it is EXACTLY the right length. And its shape is about perfect too.
And I love the sentiment. Enjoy. And let me know what you think.
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And I should add - Dan Powell is doing exactly the same thing over on his blog. Check him out. He knows his onions. AND his stories.
Day number 3 of my short story recommendations is upon us.
And what have got in store for you today? Well, it's an offering from perhaps the best writer of short fiction in the world today, the brilliant, Etgar Keret.
I love this story for so many reasons, but mostly, I think, for its echo. For what it leaves me with each time I read it. I've been that person. And, what a title!
For a minute, I got uptight. But she told me to take it easy, I had no reason. She’d marry me, and if it was important, because of our parents, it could even be in a hall. That wasn’t the point. The point was somewhere else altogether — three years ago, in Mombasa, when she and Lihi went there after the army. Just the two of them went, because the guy who was her boyfriend had just re-enlisted. In Mombasa, they lived in the same place the whole time, some kind of guesthouse where a whole bunch of people hung out, mostly from Europe. Lihi wouldn’t hear about leaving the place, because she’d just fallen in love with some German guy who lived in one of the cabins. She didn’t mind staying either, she was pretty much enjoying the quiet. And even though that guesthouse was exploding with drugs and hormones, no one hassled her. They could probably see that she wanted to be alone. No one — except for some Dutch guy who got there maybe a day after them and didn’t leave the place until she went back home. And he didn’t actually hassle her either, just looked at her a lot. That didn’t bother her. He seemed like an all right guy, a little sad, but one of those sad types who don’t complain. They were in Mombasa for three months, and she never heard him say a word. Except for once, a week before they left, and even then, there was something so gentle about the way he talked to her, something so weightless, that it was as if he hadn’t said anything at all. She explained to him that the timing was bad, told him about her boyfriend, who was some technical something in the air force, about how they’d known each other since high school. And he just smiled and nodded and moved back to his regular spot on the steps of the hut. He didn’t speak to her anymore, but kept on looking. Except that actually, now that she thought about it, he did speak to her one more time, on the day she flew back, and he said the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Something about how, between every two people in the world, there’s a kiss. What he was actually trying to tell her was that he’d already been looking at her for three months and thinking about their kiss, how it would taste, how long it would last, how it would feel. And now she was leaving, and she had a boyfriend and everything, he understood, but just that kiss, he wanted to know if she would agree. It was awfully funny, the way he spoke, kind of confused, maybe because he didn’t know English well, or he just wasn’t much of a talker. But she said okay. And they kissed. And after that, he really didn’t try anything, and she came back to Israelwith Lihi. Her boyfriend was at the airport in his uniform to pick her up in his army car. They also moved in together, and to spice up their sex life a little, they added some new things. They tied each other to the bed, dripped some wax; once they even tried to do it anally, which hurt like hell, and in the middle, shit came out. In the end, they split up, and when she started school, she met me. And now, we’re going to get married. She has no problem with that.
She said I should pick the hall and the date and whatever I want, because it really doesn’t matter to her. That isn’t the point at all. Neither is that Dutch guy — I have nothing to be jealous of there. He’s probably dead already from an overdose or else he’s lying drunk on some sidewalk in Amsterdam, or he went and got a master’s degree in something, which sounds even worse. In any case, it’s not about him at all, it’s that time in Mombasa. For three months, a person sits and looks at you, imagining a kiss.
First off, I'd like to point you all in the direction of the Library of Lost Books - a wonderful idea by publisher, Scott Pack. Go see what it's all about yourselves, folks. I think you might like like what you find there.
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And, here's the second in my series of short story recommendations that I'm running on here for National Short Story Week.
The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.
Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come him from work.
I'm not actually doing any events for it (for a number of reasons, none of which I can be bothered going into on here) - my week will be spent judging the latest batch of entries in the Slinkink Scribbling Slam.
But, I am going to try to recommend a short story a day.
Starting with this old favourite, from my old favourite: Franz Kafka. I think it is wonderful.(It's here, courtesy of here.)
On The Tram
by Franz Kafka
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
I stand on the end platform of the tram and am completely unsure of my footing in this world, in this town, in my family. Not even casually could I indicate any claims that I might rightly advance in any direction. I have not even any defense to offer for standing on this platform, holding on to this strap, letting myself be carried along by this tram, nor for the people who give way to the tram or walk quietly along or stand gazing into shopwindows. Nobody asks me to put up a defense, indeed, but that is irrelevant.
The tram approaches a stopping place and a girl takes up her position near the step, ready to alight. She is as distinct to me as if I had run my hands over her. She is dressed in black, the pleats of her skirt hang almost still, her blouse is tight and has a collar of white fine-meshed lace, her left hand is braced flat against the side of the tram, the umbrella in her right hand rests on the second top step. Her face is brown, her nose, slightly pinched at the sides, has a broad round tip. She has a lot of brown hair and stray little tendrils on the right temple. Her small ear is close-set, but since I am near her I can see the whole ridge of the whorl of her right ear and the shadow at the root of it.
At that point I asked myself: How is it that she is not amazed at herself, that she keeps her lips closed and makes no such remark
Now, I'll begin by pointing out, clearly, that I have nothing against Mr Pratchett or his work. In fact, I believe it's supposed to be very good. Lots and lots of friends, writers and non, have recommended his stuff to me but I will never read it. And I shall tell you why.
When I was at school I had a love/hate relationship with English teachers. Some were wonderful and got me excited about literature and words and stories. I owe them an awful lot because, indirectly, they played a big part in me becoming a writer. Mr Wilson got me all excited about Heart of Darkness and Lord of the Flies and To Kill a Mockingbird and WW1 poetry. Mrs Grant, for Chaucer. Miss Mills for The Color Purple and Oscar Wilde. Mr Andrew even made reading Kes bearable. All magnificent - and they didn't make me feel stupid. In fact, you encouraged me, and I am hugely grateful for that.
But one almost ruined it for me. One was not encouraging. In fact, he made me feel like shit. He made me not like my favourite subject, and that's a bad thing. AND he told me I'd never amount to anything.
And this particular teacher loved Terry Pratchett. I remember what I thought when he told us. I remember thinking: I can't like something he likes; we're very different people.
So I've never read a Pratchett book and I honestly don't think I ever will, and all because of an experience when I was 14 or something.
It is stubborn of me, I know. And probably very silly. But that's me.
Anyone else have any irrational and unfair literary prejudices?
And, talking of personalised signed copies of Not So Perfect - I'm doing a special xmas offer in which I will write pretty much anything you want me to on a copy of Not So Perfect and send it to you for £10. Cheap at half the price, as they say. If you'd like to take me up on the offer then drop me a line here.
Thanks to the brill Faye L Booth for drawing my attention to this - Why you should say if you're not religious on the Cencus. I actually happen to think that this is particularly important. While I believe, quite firmly, that people should be allowed to practice what they like, I also believe it's important that people have the option not to. So, if you're not a Christian, for instance - say so! The figures will be more accurate then, which is a good thing.
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What else? Hmm. Let's see. Well there's the student thing. And that's something I find really interesting. I don't condone violence - I really don't like it (if anyone's seen me they'll know I'm certainly not a fighter!) but I do wonder whether something significant has shifted and whether all this bad feeling is only to do with tuition fees. As I said on Twitter yesterday: happy people don't tend to riot. Not that whatever they've done will bother our PM and his government - they'll do whatever they want anyway, regardless of the opinions of those they represent. And that makes me sad and also fear that yesterday was only the beginning.
Hmm. Although it might not seem like it, this blogging break IS helping me. I think, mostly, that's because I'm not thinking about blogging or about what I'll write about. I'm sure I'll return with something interesting and purposeful very soon.
But, in the meantime...
A special offer.
An offer for crimbo. Well, from now until crimbo. Or something.
You can buy a signed copy of Not So Perfect for £10, including P&P in the UK. (If you're abroad I'll have to have a look into charges.) And by signed, I mean PERSONALISED. I mean I'll write (pretty much) whatever you want in it.
I know. I'm not really here. I'm still taking a break from blogging.
But I thought I'd mention that I've a guest post up on the Howpublishingreallyworks blog, talking about how I got published and giving a bit of advice. Click here to read.
364 Days of Tedium is one of the funniest books I've read this year. Actually, to be fair, it's probably one of the funniest books I've read EVER.
It's a comic, showing us what Santa gets up to on his days off.
It is hilarious.
And the best bit - I've been able to (after popping a request up my chimney, sellotaped to a four pack of Carling) get hold of the man, the myth, the legend - the lager quaffing, reindeer fancying, fatty himself - and I've interviewed him.
Enjoy.
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Welcome to the blog, Santa! Before we begin, what should I call you?
I go by many names: Father Christmas, Santa, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle and in some cases Pappa Big Sack (but that’s a completely different story). Probably best if you just call me Santa.
So, Santa, are you really a saint? Do you believe in all that jive?
That happened such a long time ago that it’s all a bit blurry. I remember my wife telling me I’d been canonized the night before but I just thought she was referring to the state I’d come back from the pub in. I think they just felt they had to give me something by way of thanks for delivering all those gifts. These were the days before Minimum Wage after all.
So. The reason you’re here is because Dave Cornmell has written and illustrated a book about you ‘364 Days of Tedium’ – how did the project come about? Were you aware that he was writing and drawing things based on how you spend your time between Christmases?
I don’t remember agreeing to the project, but then… I don’t remember much of what I did the previous evening, so I could have authorised it. There’s very little to do up here (in the North Pole) but watch TV, drink and, er, drink a bit more.
Are you happy with how you’ve been portrayed in the book?
I think it’s the most realistic and true-to-life portrayal of me to date. Which is why I’m so angry about it.
What’s the best part of your job?
People assume that it must be the satisfaction of bringing joy to all of the children of the world, but to be honest; that wears a bit thin after the first century or so. And let’s face it, once the wrapping paper has been ripped to shreds and the selection boxes have been swallowed, they’re back to the additive-fuelled, half-chimps they’ve been for the rest of the year. No, it’s nothing to do with the kids; the best thing about my job is the famous red suit. It’s basically an adult-sized baby grow. What could be better than that?
And the worst? (I’m assuming it must be the intolerable guilt when you find out that you’ve forgotten to deliver a present to someone...)
I don’t like minced pies. I mean I REALLY DON’T LIKE MINCED PIES. I’m gagging just thinking about them. I have no idea where this idea of leaving one out for me on Christmas Eve came from. It must have been a prank by the Elves. I used to just collect them in a bag and lob them over the back of the sleigh, but I had to have a rethink after causing a pile up on the M4 in 1995. Now I feed them to the reindeer or grind them up and dispose of them in your gardens like the prisoners of war in The Great Escape.
Okay, you mention your reindeer there. Time to go a little deeper. Can I ask you about your relationship with them? There are parts in the book that seem to suggest you’re – how to put it? – closer to them than the average man is to his pets.
That ‘thing’ has been blown out of all proportion. This kind of thing happens all over the world at any office party. It was a simple case of having one too many drinks on New Year’s Eve and getting into an embarrassing situation with a member of staff. It’s just that in my case the member of staff was a reindeer. And I might have had sex with it. But most probably didn’t. But might have. Anyway, I digress – next question?
Talk to us about your drinking. Do you think you have a problem? Does your wife?
Those rumours are callous and nasty. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that my wife does not have a drink problem. I, on the other hand… well, it’s a fine line isn’t it? People expect Santa to be jolly. Let’s face it; nobody wants a dull Santa do they? Admittedly, nobody wants a shouty, sweary, punchy Santa either, but that’s just the way it has to be.
It would appear that you don’t only struggle with alcohol, but with the bottles it comes in. Could you tell us about that mishap? Was it an isolated incident?
It’s nothing really. It’s just that it appeared on YouTube. You know how it is: you’re bored, you’ve drunk a bottle of wine, you stick something inside the bottle you can’t get out again – we’ve all done it.
Was working one day a year always your ambition?
I thought it sounded like a great job to begin with – I liked the idea of being my own boss and travelling the world, but once you’ve seen one chimney you’ve seen them all. It’s like with most jobs – you think you’ll stay there for a couple of years but end up hanging around for centuries. Nowadays I’ve just got to keep doing it because my pension’s so rubbish.
If you didn’t have this job, what would you do?
I’d do any job that means I don’t have to leave my armchair or actually have to meet people. Which, I guess knocks out everything other than TV Critic and Gay Sex Chat Line Operator. I’m probably best where I am I think.
Do you have a message for Dave Cornmell, or for the people who are publishing 364 Days Of Tedium, or indeed for its readers?
All I’d say is that “I know where you live and I’ll be leaving my own, personal Christmas log on your carpet this year.”
And finally, could you recommend a book to my readers?
The Argos Catalogue. I’m not being funny, but if people would put the page number and code thing next to what they’re asking for it doesn’t half make the elves’ job a lot easier.
And how will you be spending the next 364 days?
I’ll probably do some travelling. Maybe decorate a bit. Learn a language perhaps? But later in the year, like. You know; when I’ve had a chance to put my feet up and fully recover from another day at work.
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364 Days of Tedium is published by The Friday Project and is available in all good book stores. I think it's rude, wrong and utterly hilarious. Go see.
This blog is over four years old and, in all that time, I don't think I've had a break from updating it. And it's starting to feel like I need one.
We've been through a lot, me and the ol' blog. The publications of two of my books. Events I've organised and done. We've raised money for charity. There have been loads of interviews with authors and musicians and things. We've helped to promote countless books and their authors, most who've been lovely and appreciative, some who haven't. We've been through the supposed good times of a relationship and its subsequent breakdown. We've seen friends come and go. We've met some brilliant and lovely people. We've been through scandals and we've been bullied. We've even, when I've thought better of posting something, shared secrets.
We've done an awful lot besides too. And, mostly, it's been great.
But, as I say, I think I need a little break. I need a bit of time for me, to remind myself who I am and what I do and why I do it. This year, as amazing as it's been, has been pretty challenging at times and the bad stuff's starting to take its toll.
So things may be a little quiet here for a while.
Not that you should stop reading, of course. I've a few brilliant interviews lined up - including a rather special one with Father Christmas. Oh yes indeed.
And, to all who've read over the past four years: a sincere and heart felt thank you. From me and the blog. But, mostly, from me.
Thrilled to welcome Neil Ayres to the blog today, to talk to us about his novel (also an iPhone app!) 'The New Goodbye', digital publishing, writing tips and much other interesting and useful stuff...
Welcome to the blog, Neil. It’s a pleasure to have you here. So, first, I’d like to ask you to talk to us about The New Goodbye. It’s a novel and yet I have it as an app on my iPhone. What’s that all about?
Thanks, Nik.
The New Goodbye is a novel, but it’s also an app that the novel forms a part of. As well my book and a couple of short stories, the app includes Cervantes’ great novelette, The Dialogue of the Dogs, as well as a music video, some excellent photography, behind-the-scenes footage and illustrations by the rather wonderful Johanna Basford. The whole thing was developed by Russell Quinn, who also created McSweeney’s hugely successful Small Chair app.
Was it always the plan to go down this route? Or did you decide on it after you’d finished the novel?
As I began writing the book before the iPhone had been invented, no, it wasn’t always the plan. Actually, I started working on The New Goodbye around about the first time I saw a camera phone, so quite a while ago.
Unfortunately I completed the book just as the credit crunch bit,so expecting a publisher to take a risk on a genre-hopping novella while rejecting lots of other good writers already attached to their lists would have been hugely optimistic.
I realised there was an opportunity to be one of the first to produce something like this, and was also investigating rich media apps for work, so one thing led to another.
What benefits do you think readers gain from something being published on the iPhone (and/or similar devices)?
It depends on the type of reader. For instance, the Kindle is great for annotating, so for students and academic that’s really valuable in comparison to a traditional book. And as a commuter, they’re certainly a lot more convenient. Products like the iPad and iPhone offer a different experience though; a touch of fun and interactivity to a book. Great for kids and young adults, as well as for more art-led work.
And writers?
For those going down a self-publishing route, mainly the freedom to handle everything yourself, and if you’re looking for readers rather than cash, the means to reach them without the need for a middle-man.
For those with a publisher, well, if you’re lucky enough to be a hugely successful author, particularly if you’re dead, publishers will be throwing money at you to emulate the success of products like Atomic Antelope’s Alice in Wonderland and Loud Crow Interactive’s Pop-up Peter Rabbit (http://mashable.com/2010/10/27/peter-rabbit-ipad/)
Personally I’m rather excited that Russell, the guy who developed The New Goodbye, is now working full-time for McSweeney’s. I think this is what publishers need to do, get in-house developers and give them lots of freedom, rather than spending ridiculous amounts of money commissioning creative agencies. I just don’t feel publishing can sustain these sort of projects if it’s going to continue to invest in new and mid-list talent, rather than focusing on the bestsellers. Tie-ins with other media companies is also a great option; for instance, with games companies.
So, the techno bits out of the way, let’s get down to something more traditional: the actual process of writing. How do you do it? What’s your process?
Generally I have two processes. Usually, especially for the more literary work I’ll work in longhand for the first draft, before typing everything up. Generally, and I have no idea why I’ve ended up with this distinction, but perhaps it’s to do with pace, for genre work I’ll start with the initial writing on paper, and then type up the first batch of writing and then just keep going on the computer, editing as I go along.
What do you think a story (any length – novels are stories too!) needs to have for it to be great?
Any advice you’d give to any aspiring writers who might be reading?
If you’re going to be a writer, you don’t need my advice. You’ll just keep reading and writing regardless. If you’re not sure if writing’s for you, then it’s probably not. It’s an urge; a horrible itch, that sometimes gives a strange degree of pleasure if you scratch it. If you don’t feel like that about it, try something else.
What’s next for you?
Well, immediate future wise, I’ve a couple of short stories appearing over on Run Riot (one went up for Hallowe’en, with the next appearing for Bonfire Night). Longer term, I’m very close to finishing my first science fiction novel, which I have an agent interested in representing. Once this is complete (I’ve the rest of this month left on it), I’m changing down a gear to revisit an old project: a future-set musical for three players and a rock band that fuses the stories of Frankenstein and Doctor Faustus.
Nik Perring is a writer, occasional teacher of writing, and sometimes editor, from the UK. His short stories have been widely published.
NOT SO PERFECT, his collection of short, short stories is published by Roast Books and out now.
Freaks!, a collection co-written with Caroline Smailes and illustrated by Darren Craske, will be published in spring 2012 by The Friday Project (HarperCollins).
"Playful, subversive, poetic and smart, Nik Perring’s stories are gems. Every one of them."- 3 :AM Magazine
What They've Said
Nik Perring’s moving and imaginative flash fictions capture whole lives in just a glimpse, a character, a snatch of dialogue, and a few perfectly chosen details. These short, short stories are so full of life.-Michael Kimball, author of Dear Everybody
An unforgettable assortment of wonky connections that glitter with truthfulness, that spill out ache, that make me nod my head and whisper,yes. -Caroline Smailes, author of Like Bees to Honey
'I was reminded of Rhodes and Hempel while reading these stories, which are easily their equal, as well as occasional glimpses of Murakami, but I mostly kept thinking back to Sarah Salway. Salway is probably the best short story writer in the UK at the moment and she had better watch out because Perring is (albeit very politely, I am sure) on her tail.' - Scott Pack, publisher with The Friday Project (HarperCollins).
Perring is a writer whose talent expands beyond his word count in this intriguing debut. -Michael Czyzniejewski, author of Elephants in Our Bedroom.
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