Well, faithful readers who keep coming back here even though I haven’t posted anything for weeks.  I must be doing something right; though God alone knows what.  It’s been so long since I was able to make any sense of the way the world operates that I think this may be what dementia feels like.  Either that or this is still the seventies and I’m on the mother of all acid trips.

Take the other day, for instance:  I thought I was reading a newspaper article that was telling me that, as a promotional wheeze, Waterstone’s are commissioning authors to write an extra chapter in their books.  This final denouement will be available only to readers who buy those books in the store.  Anyone buying the book elsewhere will discover that they have bought, in effect, an unfinished novel.

I know!  That’s what I thought too! 

It seems some bright spark at Waterstone’s had noticed that certain music outlets offer bonus tracks on downloads and CDs so why couldn’t the same thing apply to novels?  Naturally, this set me thinking, just as it’s done to you, of all those books that could have benefitted from that extra chapter. 

Then I recalled the paperback version of Anthony Burgess’s “A Clockwork Orange”, which had the last chapter of the original version omitted in order (I’ve always believed) to comply with the film’s rather bleak and less nuanced approach towards mindless violence.  Burgess wanted to say that the violence of Alex and his droogs was a result of social conditioning, whereas Kubrick wanted us to believe that violence is an innate and immutable part of the human condition.

Violence may or may not be an immutable part of the human condition but sure as sunrise, the desire to sell books at any cost most certainly is; even if that cost involves bolting on a bogus ending in order to appease the paymasters.

Surely a book is only finished when it’s finished?  If it isn’t finished, then it’s not finished and it needs more words in order to finish it; and then THAT is the book the author wishes the reader to read.  Either the book that Waterstone’s customers buy is going to be one that has a superfluous chapter, (and if so, what’s the point) and the one that the non-Waterstone’s customer buys is unfinished.  I really don’t understand promotion. 

Anyway, I’m off to buy a shirt from Marks & Spencer.  Apparently, as a promotion, they’re doing them with three sleeves instead of the two you get everywhere else.

Ever had a little cut on a little finger?  You think it won't matter but throughout the day you catch it over and over again and it's only then that you realise how much you actually use it.  Having not internet is a bit like that.  Even when you think you don't use it that much - I don't watch movies, I don't download bucketloads of stuff, I don't do a great deal of online shopping and I certainly don't read e-mails unless I have to - you still feel bereft when it isn't there.  The last couple of weeks have seen my broadband service stagger, cough, collapse and resurrect itself over and over again but at such irregular intervals that one is never sure when its going to be on.  Its particularly irritating at the moment because, against all reason, the Rothko Room is complete to my satisfaction and will be proof-read by my wife and daughter over the next week or two.
Then I'll want to publish it.  I have no intention of hawking it around agents and publishers because I know they'll hate it and I might just have a change from Lulu this time and go with CreateSpace.  And then I'll set about promoting it in various places.  I'm sure you realise where this is going....
How can self-publishers operate without a reliable internet connection?  The answer, I'm certain is, "They can't".  Without the web, the whole process is utterly impossible and so I am hoping that when the engineer turns up on Thursday, he or she will be able to sort me out.
No doubt I'll have to submit myself to the humiliation of trying to explain why my phone lines still use hardware dating back to the 1950s and why one of the cables runs down from a bedroom window and into my study and probably get charged as though by a wounded rhino for the privilege but what choice do I have?
Anyway, I begin my promo here by asking my loyal readers to comment on the covers I've been working on. Below is a selection in chronological order.  The cartoon drawings are to give it the sense that it is a dark comic spy caper but I much prefer the simple ones myself.  Any ideas how I can stress the comedy but keep the darkness?
Do let me know what you think.

As many of you know, I have a thing about copyright.  So many new writers ignore it at their peril.  I just wrote this exchange into my latest story:
‘Thank you so much, Mr. Beasley,’ she said to him.  I hope you got what you wanted.’
‘We seldom get what we want,’ he told her. ‘But I think, as a friend of mine once said, we may have got what we need.’
This is, of course, a reference to a song by the Rolling Stones.  Now, Keith and Mick have not survived in the music industry by being free and easy with their lyrics.  Being "The Greatest Rock Band in the World", it is not unreasonable to expect The Rolling Stones to employ, if not the greatest, then certainly some of the most effective lawyers in the world. Anyone who is foolish enough to think they can get away with wholesale quotations from popular songs is deluding themselves into a very very damaging lawsuit.  As my usage is not a direct quote, I think I should get away with it but don't be surprised if when you read my wonderful new, exciting and darkly comic spy caper, "The Rothko Room", you do not come across even the above passing reference to "You Can't Always Get What You Want' (Copyright Jagger/Richards. 1969. All rights reserved).
The same goes for covers. The covers of both my published books comprise nothing but images created by my own fair hand. If anyone's interested, this is how I did it.  

This is the cover as it now appears (click to enlarge if need be) but since I possess only limited charm and modest funds, It was unlikely that I would be able to persuade someone to stand on the side of a mountain in the middle of the night whilst, a mile away, another willing volunteer skis away, leaving neat tracks in the pristine slopes.So how was it done? Well, the first thing to do was to raid my holiday snaps.