Sometimes Being Grumpy Works …
In the time it has taken me to write this, J.K. Rowling, Ian McEwan and Stephen King have probably sold another 500 books between them, but that’s only a modest estimate. It’s the kind of scenario most writers dream about, yet very few ever reach.
However, I have sold 12 books in the past 24 hours. Yet the only way I achieved this was by initially giving four books away for free, which fortunately spread the word and brought the enquiries in. No net profit; just breaking even. But that’ll do for now.
As a self-employed freelance scribe I’m obviously much happier to be working on projects with bona fide national publishing houses where you do, at least, get an advance to keep you financially afloat whilst completing the work. During the past 12 months the noble house of Messrs. Constable & Robinson of London have kept the wolf from our door, and they will continue to do so when my Mammoth Book of Unexplained Phenomena is in the shops come January 2013. The struggle now is to find a new and accepted book proposal to get us through the coming year.
However, being creative is never, ever about making money. Most of us in this game learned that lesson very early in our career. An artist has a blank canvas. He has an idea. He gets up every day, he paints. He has no idea whether or not his finished work has any financial value, unless of course, it was specially commissioned by a patron. It’s the same with writing, and music. We do it because that’s what we’re supposed to do. If the public see the work, like it and want it, it’s bonus time.
Every Friday night, when my wife Wendy and I return from the weekly strain of shopping at Tesco, once everything’s off-loaded and bunged into the cupboards and fridge, I open a bottle of good beer, light a cigar, and sit at a table in the back garden, where I write what’s become known as ‘the Friday poems’. (The only thing which prevents this routine is rain or snow). The subject of these verses revolves around getting old, plus the frustrations of living in a changing world. They are a lexicon of grumpiness and geriatric misunderstanding, a rancorous blend of nostalgia, love and dismay. Once there are enough poems to make up a book, I have a choice. I can leave them to fester on my hard drive, to be discovered by friends or relatives after I’ve shuffled off, or, not being a recognised, bona fide poet, I can have them knocked up between covers and printed. No doubt, should some erudite critic of poetry get his hands on such a work, he would rip it to literary shreds. But the latest offering, OVER THE HILL, POEMS ON A PENSION, seems to have gone down well. The local press are interested, and just yesterday a prominent local politician bought 5 copies. So, my grumpiness has some appeal after all. If you’re interested, here’s a sample:
Wassup, Old Man?
Spare us the reality,
Over-cooked Come Dine With Me
Stupid Wife-Swap, Alan Carr
Ross, Gervaise both in your face
And Michael MacIntyre
Peter Andre Katie Price
Bereft of talent, parasites
Ann Robinson, whose manners stink
Without a doubt the weakest link
Self-centred, brash Davina
Loud-mouthed Ms McCall
Big Brother and Piers Morgan
Morons one and all.
Spare us the reality,
Over-cooked Come Dine With Me
Stupid Wife-Swap, Alan Carr
Ross, Gervaise both in your face
And Michael MacIntyre
Peter Andre Katie Price
Bereft of talent, parasites
Ann Robinson, whose manners stink
Without a doubt the weakest link
Self-centred, brash Davina
Loud-mouthed Ms McCall
Big Brother and Piers Morgan
Morons one and all.
Mobile phones and baseball caps
Hoodies, texting, techno crap
Grazia, Hello, OK, Heat,
Gordon Ramsey’s un-cooked meat
Titchmarsh and his crooked grin
ITV with news so grim
Golf and Tennis, infantile Top Gear
England flags, Budweiser beer
Barclay’s Bank, Lloyd’s TSB
Post Office queues and KFC
Big Macs, football, all conspire
To make an old man’s life so dire.
Hoodies, texting, techno crap
Grazia, Hello, OK, Heat,
Gordon Ramsey’s un-cooked meat
Titchmarsh and his crooked grin
ITV with news so grim
Golf and Tennis, infantile Top Gear
England flags, Budweiser beer
Barclay’s Bank, Lloyd’s TSB
Post Office queues and KFC
Big Macs, football, all conspire
To make an old man’s life so dire.
It’s £5.99 post paid. If you want a copy, e-mail roybainton@hotmail.com and we’ll do a deal. I think it’s on Amazon – but who knows…
