Islay's Scotland

Lochgilphead
Photograph by Islay McLeod

 

Let me introduce you

to the internet version

of the pub bore

 

Catherine Czerkawska

 

I
Having recently taken the decision to go Indie with my writing, I find that my working day generally begins with checking emails, Facebook and Twitter. I already struggle to balance the hours spent writing, with the hours spent on promotion. It's known as 'building a platform', and it isn't just Indies who are expected to do it. Even as conventionally published authors, there was a time when most of us didn't quite know what we were expected to do. We were wary of treading on our publicists' toes, but soon realised that if we didn't market our books, nobody else would.
     Now, platforms are where it's at, but you can have too much of a good thing. Writing can be a lonely business, especially when you live in the country. Facebook fulfils the functions of the office water cooler. You can gossip with old friends and new, have the occasional good laugh at some daft video or intriguing photograph, and keep up-to-date with professional news. It's a reasonably efficient promotional tool and it's always interesting to hear about new publications and events, but it has to be used with a certain amount of restraint. The people who only ever post on these social networking sites about their own work without ever contributing to anyone else's posts become the online equivalent of the pub bore, and equally tedious.
     I write my own blogs and post a monthly contribution to a group of like-minded and mutually supportive writers called Authors Electric. But it's time-consuming and you have to manage that time as far as possible so that you don't neglect the essential core of your work – the actual writing, whether that involves novels, stories or plays, all three in my case. This week, I've been reading a set of eye-opening blogs by a group of successful Indie publishers in the USA and they advocate curbing self-promotion in favour of simply getting lots of work out there and letting it take its chances.
     We are all finding new ways of doing things. New publishing wisdom challenges our old assumptions: that we should space out our publications over a number of years and make sure our covers are co-ordinated. The truth is that most people over a certain age have trouble getting their heads round the notion of unlimited shelf space and niche markets. EBook publishing favours those writers who have what a Canadian friend of mine calls a 'big inventory', or who can fill a particular niche. Work can sit online without costing you anything while you orchestrate a slow build. You can take it down and revise it if you want. You can change the price, as I'm about to do. And if one of your books or collections of stories suddenly takes off, the knock-on effect will be sales of everything else. It's a bewildering new world – but exciting and liberating too.

II
My other way of earning a living involves buying antique textiles and selling them online. This business has been a financial lifeline for me and has also supplied me with not a little inspiration for my historical fiction. I buy most of my stock from our local saleroom, with occasional forays to Great Western Auctions (presided over by Anita Manning of 'Bargain Hunt' fame) in Glasgow. In my local saleroom, where I'm a regular customer, Wednesday is viewing day and Thursday is sale day so I try to keep both those mornings free for browsing and buying. I buy boxes of old linens, lace, vintage clothes, many of them sadly neglected and grubby. I've been laundering a batch this morning.      I photograph them and sell them worldwide. And as with online publishing and the need for volume, listing 20 items for sale generally ensures more sales than listing a single piece, unless it’s something very rare and wonderful. One of the most rewarding aspects of all this is the sense of bringing something precious back to life.
     So much work has gone into these things, most of it women's work, and they are seriously undervalued. 'Nobody wants this stuff now,' I'll hear people saying. Well, not many Scots want it, that’s true, but it never ceases to amaze me how much people love antique lace in the USA or embroidered tablecloths in South Korea, or how the Japanese seem to have a passion for doilies and those linen teacosy covers your granny used to make.

III
I'm interested (but not at all displeased) to see that my game designer son, who has written and published an eBook called 'Breaking Into Video Game Design, A Beginner's Guide', seems to have more sales than I do. His book is consistently up there in the Amazon rankings, perhaps because it sits comfortably in a popular niche.
     He's always telling me that, as a writer, I really ought to 'get into' playing video games, and I suspect he's right. The only thing that's stopping me is lack of time. If I introduce a video game addiction to my already busy working day, I’ll be done for. I know this because he showed me a game called 'Flower', designed by one Jenova Chen, and I was instantly hooked. Charlie has taken his Playstation away now and I still hanker after it. In fact, I wouldn't call 'Flower' a game at all, but I'm not sure what I would call it – an artistic experience, poetry in motion, a long meditation? All of these things and more.      'Flower' is probably the single most life-affirming and absorbing pastime I've indulged in for a very long time. I find myself referring to it when attempting the somewhat thankless task of explaining to people of my own age that games have not only moved on a bit from 'Pac Man' and 'Pong', but are no longer just endless beat-em-ups aimed at testosterone-fuelled adolescent boys. Not that there isn't still a market for these things. Just that there's so much more out there now. Lots of it is grown-up in the best possible sense – and magical.

 

Catherine Czerkawska is a playwright and author