Month: December 2006


Back in the room

Here we go again. The final countdown.

I’m back at my computer, merging together the words of both Pond and me. 40,000 of the little buggers in total, although God only knows how many there’ll be after the edit. I’m making the first stab at an edit as I go, hopefully to safe the copy editors a little bit of work. But mainly so we don’t embarrass ourselves.

Oh, by the by, a few people have assumed that the book is for TFP. It isn’t, it’s for Pan Macmillan. Being on the other side of the fence again is an odd experience, but a good one.

I’ve got food on the way too. From Deliverance so no fear of disappointment. A chicken wrap of some sort, a side a potato things and some green beans. Oh, and a prawn thing to start. Rhodri emailed to suggest I eat lots of fish to keep my brain going. And so I’m making a start on that.

Incidentally, I’ve been amused, and delighted, at the coverage of the Friday Online buyout. Over on Scott’s blog, the consensus amongst publishing types is that it’s a good thing, although I do detect a hint of technophobia amongst the commenters (perhaps for good reason). Meanwhile both the Bookseller and Publishing News ran nice news stories on it, as did Media Bistro and some bloggers too. The Publishing News one was both my most and least favourite piece – the former because it was the biggest, and the latter because they used that launch party photo again. At least they kept the leopard out this time.

Anyhow, big week next week – launching a company and all, so I’d better get this bugger to bed. I hope my prawn thing arrives soon.


Twenty seven

Thank you for the emails. No, I am not dead. Almost, but not quite.

I didn’t have much chance to blog yesterday. It was my birthday, you see, and the day I officially resigned from TFP to do this buy-out malarkey.

I absolutely detest birthdays. They embarrass me. I’m a terrible attention-seeking egotist – this much we know – but still there’s something about the undeserved gestures of special treatment one gets on the anniversary of one’s birth that makes me uneasy. “Do you want some cake?” No thanks. “But it’s your birthday.” Ok, I’ll have some cake. “Have some more cake…” “Let’s go to Disneyland…” Stop it.

But please don’t think I’m ungrateful. I had a lovely day today, given how much work I had to fit in. I had this damn book to finish for one thing. Savannah and I spent the day at Pond’s East Dulwich pied du terre at a little after noon. Savannah had very kindly agreed to read my hacked draft and to turn some of the lesser sentences into something resembling gold. Pond had been up all night writing and was breakfasting on a Bloody Mary when we arrived. A hive of industry soon developed interrupted only for a birthday fondant fancy and a bottle or two of excellent wine.

The upshot of all this, after a day of writing, a spot of dinner and then a night of more writing? Tell us Paul. What’s the wordcount? Tell us the damn wordcount. All we care about is the wordcount.

Well have it your way…

20,000 words.

Twenty thousand words.

The first draft in the bag. Done, dusted and ready to be merged with Pond’s chapters.

I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. A weight of panic. A weight of sleepy eyelids and caffeinated blood.

The quality of this post is testament – as is the fact that it’s just taken me three attempts to spell testament – to how much has been taken out of me, word-wise. It’s been reel.

Now all I have to do is write something funny about Rummy for tomorrow’s thing and I’m good to go to bed.

A weekend of loose end tidying and copy editing.

And then from Monday, things get really interesting.


Worst blogger ever

Almost forgot to update before bed.

1. Last night’s word target smashed by 21 words – 5521. 6000ish to go.
2. Bank visited the very moment it opened to pay an important cheque.
3. Press release sent.
4. Couple of hours sleep before starting the whole thing again.

If anyone phones me in the next 120 minutes – regardless of whether it’s Jesus Christ himself – they will be receiving the sharp end of my tongue.

Night night.


The hole in my shoe is a metaphor for my soul

As if preparations for the formal launch of the new project weren’t enough, I’m trying an experiment. Writing half a book in a week. And it’s an experiment borne of the adventures of the last few weeks leaving me no time to get on with outside commitments.

The Second Life book is due on Friday, and Pond and I are writing half each. I’ve done a ton of research – don’t get me wrong – but so far, as regards writing the mother, I’ve not quite broken the back of it.

So, here I am, sitting in front of my computer – denying myself sleep until I’ve written at least 3000 words. I’ve been here since 7. I have coffee. I have music. I have fingers. I’ve writen nearly 1000 and I’m motoring along. And then, if I can finish about 6ish, I can stroll down the road to McDonald’s to get myself a Big Breakfast meal – the trans-fat light at the end of the allnighter tunnel.

I’ll probably blog a few times between now and then. Just to stop my brain from going mad. As I’m writing this, Pond is in the second life ‘Penis and Pussy Store’ buying himself some virtual genitals. ‘Penis and pussy’. Somewhere a twelve year old boy is making a shit load of extra pocket money.

Now he’s attached his new purchase to his head and is running about. I fear that twelve year old boy might actually be Pond.

Onwards!


Booka

5:10am and 3000 words – a whole chapter – in the bag as Golden Brown plays on the radio. Just got to edit the sucker now; make sure I haven’t missed anything enormous and it’s breakfast time. After that I reckon I’m good for another could of thousand words before bed. I’m on a roll.

Ooh – Bohemian Rhapsody.

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