A CURE FOR LOVE

So, I’ve taken a plunge. A mild one, of course. Hardly the stuff of an Acapulco cliff dive or even a New Year’s Day dip at Eastbourne, but a plunge nonetheless.

Emboldened by the example of the brilliant Bobbie (@cherryaimless), I decided to venture into the previously taboo-to-me arena of self-publishing.

Indie films and indie music have always had a cool cachet, but writing and publishing your own book traditionally brings a sneer to the lips, mine included. Bobbie, a Bridport Prize-winning author amongst other things, just decided to forego all the usual channels and take control. Starting her own imprint Typewriter Press, her debut novella Hollie’s Dream of Consciousness reclaims the teenage working class girl voice from the Vicky Pollard screech and thumps it vibrantly and AUTHENTICALLY into the here and now.

The book’s done well and deservedly so. It’s not troubled the charts, it couldn’t. But it’s sold out its small run and another run after that. So, Bobbie says to me, halfway through our fishcake and chips, why don’t you give it a go?

The reasons I didn’t want to.

1 – FEAR. I used to do stand up. I wasn’t terribly accomplished at it but I did it. And I enjoyed doing it. But the only reason I could do it at all was A HUGE DRUNKEN SHIELD. Being arseholed on stage gave me the confidence of another persona. I couldn’t be held accountable. It didn’t matter. You can’t do that with a book though. It’s there, forever. And, whilst this has been the only ambition I’ve ever come close to realising, it still terrifies me. What if people think its shit? Jesus, I’ve spent all this time doing this and it’s shit. That’s what’s kept me from sleeping. Fear. But Fear becomes something bigger, a lie.

2 – VANITY. I did a creative writing degree and I did well. I just thought I’ll write a novel now and I’ll get published and that’s it. I honestly thought I could just sit down and smash one out (Steady – ed) and that would be me, another impoverished scrivener on the shelf at Big Book. It didn’t happen and I watched as friends and peers not only wrote books but got them published. People mentioned just going it alone. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. It reeked of defeat. Vanity publishing, I spat through my beer-flecked lips, is for talentless losers. And I wanted no part of it. But Typewriter Press feels different, an exercise in giving people control of their work, of how it’s released and how it pays for itself.

3 – A LIST OF EXCUSES DRESSED UP AS A MIDLIFE RUT. Too old, too silly, not good enough, too poor, too tired, kids, depressed, pandemic. Etc.

So many writers out there, so many good writers god damn it, it’s hard to get spotted. I’ve had the occasional bit of notice but nothing to make enough people go HEY WHO’S THIS GUY etc. I like short stories so I write them. Short stories don’t sell. And there are loads of short story competitions you can enter but who can afford that? If I entered all the ones I wanted to, I’d be 3 years behind on my rent. So it prices a lot of people out.

Anyway, I’ve talked myself into it. Bobbie’s the real brave one, she did it first. And she’s allowed me to share her imprint with my own book. You can order it by emailing typewriterpress@gmail.com or DMing me at @fourfoot on Twitter.

I’ve overcome my fear by hiding behind my real name. I’ve called myself JENKINS for three reasons.

1 – There’s already at least two authors with my full name.

2 – I wanted to reclaim the surname from its traditional place of being a name of a minor character (usually some minor jobsworth clerk) in a sitcom episode or a butler. Why should Morrissey have this forename-free world to himself, the burger-dodging racist twat.

3 – I thought it would be funny to be honest. (“THIS SENSE OF HUMOUR OF MINE, IT ISNT FUNNY AT ALL “– Kate Bush)

So, to summarise. I’ve written a book. If you've ordered a copy then THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR PLACING YOUR TRUST IN ME AND THIS BOOK. I can't wait for people to tell me they liked it. Because anything other than that response would make me cry.

 I just wanted to see what it felt like to say I’d written one. I hope people like it. Oh God. Oh fucking God. [PULLS EDWARD WOODWARD SEEING WICKER MAN FACE]