Christopher Peter's Blog

The Shell Keep: read the first chapter here for free

Have you heard of a place that’s full of stories
Breathing, growing, striving, shape-shifting?
A place of broken dreams and new beginnings
Of ideas and adventures and characters born?

People living, merging, dying
Becoming other, becoming real
Crying out to be made whole, but knowing
They may never make it out

But wait in a kind of purgatory
For a while or for an age
Waiting for their story to be told
And knowing it may never be.

It’s a mess, this place, hard work and a
Frustrating chaos of half-formed things
Confusion, cacophony
And plots that go nowhere

And unfinished pages
And unsatisfactory endings.
And lots and lots and lots
Of spelling mistakes.

Yet, out of this primordial swamp
Whole new stories will form and rise
Blinking in the light of day, and they will
Become something like magic.

And even among those left behind
The cry will rise, hopeful and brave:
“Surely it is better to have been thought of and forgotten
Than never to have been thought of at all?”

The underground station exit exhaled across the concourse, a humid fug of dust and cheap burgers. Seconds later it vomited a steady stream of humanity. People rushing, people shuffling, people’s faces lit blue by their phones.

Mark could feel sweat trickling down his back as he studied the departure board: twenty-two minutes until his train home. Time for a coffee; he needed a pick-me-up on this broiling city evening. He’d gulped down a large glass of cold water before leaving the office half an hour earlier, but already his mouth felt like sandpaper.

While queuing at Costa (why couldn’t people just hurry up and get out of the way?), his attention was caught by a lone pigeon dragging itself along the stained concrete outside, one wing cocked awkwardly. Probably injured. Poor thing. It paused at an oily puddle and alternated between pecking morosely at the fetid water and jerking its head upwards towards other pigeons fluttering far overhead, riding the thermals beneath the steel and glass station roof.

Mark found his coffee predictably molten hot (how do they get it that hot?), lips recoiling from the scalding muddy liquid. So he found a seat and, waiting for his drink to cool while staring vacantly at the cup, he didn’t at first notice the girl who sat down on the other side of the table.

A quick glance. She was pretty, but he couldn’t see too much blinking into the golden orange sunlight slanting through the heavy air, rendering her blonde hair a burning halo.

The girl smiled. ‘Phew. It’s sweltering today, isn’t it?’’

The conversation that followed was like plunging into cool, delicious water. Washing away the dirt and fatigue. Full of polite, British banalities, yes: the weather, of course the weather; and how was work today, and what have you got planned for the weekend (it’s going to rain then of course, typical!); and my manager’s driving me crazy. A glimpse of another world, something else beyond quiet desperation.

He drank it in, just for those few moments he managed somehow to pretend that she was talking to him, not the other man opposite her. But even Mark could only deceive himself for so long. It was soon time to get up and trudge towards his platform. Home, and the thin, fleeting relief it would bring.

He looked back only once. The girl was still there, but the pigeon outside Costa was gone.

I hit the ground running.

I’d only needed a moment – the unlocked door, the guard distracted by some disturbance further up the corridor.

I didn’t hesitate. In a moment I was outside, blinking into the low yellow sun, keen cold air in my face. Unbelievably, just to my right, a discarded filing cabinet – one broken drawer handing open – leant against the outer wall.

I didn’t hang around to wonder at my good fortune. I scrambled on top of the cabinet, hands scrabbling for purchase on damp metal. My foot slipped and knee flared with pain as it struck a sharp corner. But then I was up, and stretching to grasp the top of the wall. One huge pull, brief frantic battle against rough bricks, praying I didn’t lose my grip. Then up, over …

It looked a long way down the other side of the wall, but there were scrubby bushes at the bottom. Would it be enough to break my fall? Whatever, I couldn’t wait. I steadied myself, prayed a quick prayer to whoever might be listening, and jumped.

Landed. A stab of pain in one ankle (and the knee still hurt), a cut on my hand – but I didn’t stop to inspect the damage. If I was hurt badly, I wouldn’t be able to run, would I?

But I did. I hit the ground running.

I was committed now – there was no way to explain this, to be found on the other side of the wall. And every second counted. It could have been no more than fifteen or twenty seconds since I’d taken my chance with the open door, but already my absence might have been noticed, even with the anarchy inside. I was known as a quiet inmate who gave no trouble, and so I’d be looked for only after my more troublesome peers had been dealt with. That might only buy me – what? – thirty more seconds? A minute? Two? But that might just be enough.

I have never run so fast as I hurtled across the open ground between the wall and the trees ahead. My feet hammering the hard earth, pain jarring my joints; lungs on fire, heart hammering in my ears, eyes stinging with sweat.

And with every excruciating second: waiting for the siren to sound behind me, for the shouts. For the barking of foaming dogs straining on leashes, the pounding of other feet in pursuit.

I half sprinted, half stumbled into the line of trees and was swallowed in green shadows. I paused then, sinking down with my back against a towering oak, hidden from view. And listened. And heard nothing, apart from my own convulsing gasps.

Heard nothing from behind, but instead my head was all cacophony. What had I done? What had I done? What was I going to do now?

I knew only one thing: I had to keep moving, to put as much distance between me and the place I had run from as possible, before that inevitable siren sounded (I could hardly believe it hadn’t already). Before my throbbing ankle and sore knee seized up completely.

And so I half run, half hobbled onwards, deeper into the woods. Tripping once on a tree root, then again on a trailing bramble. But always picked myself up and barreled on. On, on: that was all I kept repeating in my head.

Until I emerged, sweating and shaking, onto a sunlit street. I slowed down then, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself. Before long I found a long, old coat, stained and damp, bundled behind a bench – the abandoned property of some street-dweller no doubt. Its musty, mildewy odour was not pleasant, but it hid my clothing. I turned my face away from every passing car, willing myself to be invisible.

As I walked into the suburbs of the nearest town, I saw her. I blinked – no? Yes! On her bicycle, hair streaming behind her. She saw me, gave a cry of delight. Swerved over, jumped off. Her arms around me. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of my coat, but laughing. Her cool hand in mine. How much I had to say, I hardly knew where to start. But we had time now, together. Free.

I opened my eyes reluctantly, raucous shouting echoing down the corridor outside. Clanging of metal on metal. Yawned, and studied the shadows on the ceiling. That was a good daydream. One of the better ones. Impossible of course. A conveniently open door? And just one door? A filing cabinet against a conveniently low wall? And only one wall, with no barbed wire on top?

And what were the chances of running into her, that quickly? To say nothing of the miniscule probability of me remaining free as we walked off together into that fantasy sunset. No, if that was a movie script, it would have been laughed out of the pitch meeting.

But no one else had to believe it. Only I had to, and then only for a few blissful minutes. If I let myself dwell on her, on what I had lost, for too long … but until then, I could be free in my mind at least. I could go anywhere when I closed my eyes. And maybe, just maybe every day I endured in here was one day closer to something better.

Once, I had glimpsed, through barred windows, a man who looked like me, walking along the street next to a girl who looked like her. Heads bent over identical phones, hunched silently against the cold rain. Close but not together, united only in tragic ignorance of what they had. I screamed in my head: you fool, you stupid fool.

And I wondered, as I sometimes do: why is freedom wasted on the free?

So, on New Year’s Eve I committed to a writing-related New Year’s Resolution: to write every day for at least 30 minutes. And blogging (like this) or writing-related time on social media would not count towards that total.

And I’m pleased to report that, so far, I’ve kept it up. For a whole nine days! At least half an hour, and often longer. (Look, don’t knock it; willpower and consistency are not my strongest personality traits, so keeping something like this up for very nearly one-third of the way through January is genuinely no mean feat.)

But how have I been using this time, I hear you cry? (What, I don’t hear you cry? Well I’m telling you anyway.) I’ve written two new short stories: Checkout, which I posted a few days ago, and another which I will post soon. But although I want to write a lot more short fiction, I do find it virtually impossible to come up with enough new ideas, every single day.

Therefore, on some days I’ve been working on my next novel – or what might be. Provisionally entitled Earthbound, it will be the fourth book in the Danny Chaucer’s Flying Saucer series. And I started it in 2017! Prolific I am not. But already in 2025 I’ve made more progress than in the previous seven years, so … I am unstoppable! Well, fairly unstoppable.

Now, writing novels takes a long time and a lot of effort, and I’d decided a while ago not to attempt another one for a while. However, this one was already outlined and started, and if you do manage to do a bit every day, the word count soon mounts up. And at least with a novel, a single project, you don’t have to keep coming up with new ideas every day …

How is your 2025 writing journey going?

Happy New Year! Wishing you all the very best in your writing journey (and everything else) in 2025. This short story the first thing I’ve written since I adopted my 2025 goal of writing at least 30 minutes a day … though technically I wrote this at the end of 2024, so does it count!? Anyway, hope you enjoy it – and of course, any comments / feedback very welcome …

Thank you for shopping at Harrisons. Do you require any Other Services today?

The cheerfully generic voice from the self-checkout usually washed over her. But: Other Services? Her eyes were drawn to the nearest window. Late afternoon, one of those dank ash-grey winter days when it never got properly light. Already, blackness pressed on the cold glass. Did she really want to go out again into the dark drizzle? Dark drizzle, every day. Every day the same.

Often Simon would be waiting, hunched over tepid coffee in the supermarket cafe, ready to take her home. But today he had a hospital appointment. I won’t be too long Mum, he’d said, I can pick you up after if you wait a bit. No, I’ll get the bus, she’d said. She knew how long you could be stuck at that hospital. Even for a routine appointment like today’s, when they’d probably just give him more pills. More pills. Anyway (and she didn’t tell him this, of course), she wasn’t a burden, she was still independent. Up to a point anyway. She wasn’t daft. Not quite yet. He could think what he liked.

Other Services. She pressed the touch screen. Often the touch screen didn’t like being touched and she had to stab wearily at it two or three times, but today it seemed almost eager. This time a new display flashed up right away. Thank you for choosing Other Services today. Why not check out our Life Choices Special Offer?

What on earth did that mean? She hated gobbledegook. Just tell it how it is. But she’d heard that phrase somewhere before – Life Choices. It’s what Jo would probably call a euphemism. Jo. Little Luke, and another on the way. She’d been genuinely happy for her daughter when she’d met someone, and tried not to be too unhappy that he was Australian. Well, that was the Internet for you. That was technology for you. And now – so far away. So far away. 

She shook her head. Don’t dwell on it. It can’t be helped, that’s life. Isn’t it? How could she blame Jo for wanting a fresh start? Especially after her dad died. She’d always been so close to her dad. 

Andy. Seven years. How can it have been that long? He’d have been right behind her now, tutting. Come on, Em, he’d say, we haven’t got all day. Stop faffing about. She smiled to herself. What an old git he was. But no-one held her hand anymore.

She glanced behind her. No queue at the self-checkouts today, fortunately. No-one shuffling their feet, pretending to be engrossed with their phone, waiting for her to move on; not Andy, not anyone.

Oh, her brain was so foggy these days. Kept wandering. You’ve still got Simon, even if he does have problems of his own. Be fair, he’s a good lad, deep down, but it’s been a hard few years. Losing his job like that. The depression. Always something wrong with the car. You might have to go into a home soon, Mum. Funny how in that context, home really means anything but. He never mentioned the cost, bless him, but they both knew. If only Andy hadn’t remortgaged the house that time. If only his business hadn’t failed. If only … but this was stupid. What’s done is done, no sense moping about it.

Life Choices Special Offer. FREE when you spend over £50! In a single transaction, not including fuel. Well. That was a good offer, really, she had to admit. Today she’d spent £51.07. That was lucky. Was that a sign?

She blinked. Had she meant to press the button? But she must have, because the screen now displayed a gaudy orange sunset, and the equally orange light above was flashing. You didn’t see the flashing light at self-checkouts much anymore, not since the technology improved (Unexpected Item in Bagging Area – how long had it been since she’d heard that?); and AI facial recognition could normally now tell whether you were old enough to buy alcohol (certainly in her case!). But it was flashing now. Please Wait, Assistance Is On Its Way.

Can I help you, madam? A young woman. Natalie, Pharmacy Assistant. Did you want our Life Choices Special Offer? Good choice, madam. It’s very popular these days.

She let herself be guided towards the in-store pharmacy. Natalie was younger than Jo, she thought. Jo. What would she think? Jo and her church in Australia. Last Christmas, sunny Sydney, laughing Jo, little Luke. No dark drizzle there. It was glorious, but it had almost cleared out her savings. She knew she wouldn’t be able to afford it again. We’ll pay, Mum, Jo said. But their rent had gone up, Harry was working overtime to make ends meet. 

What would Jo think of this? All life is precious, Mum, it all has value. Yes of course, but Jo wasn’t around. Simon was, and Simon had his own problems. And she wasn’t daft, she could make her own decisions.

She walked slowly, but Natalie didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes she forgot for a while about the incontinence pad, but she could feel it now, heavy, sagging, dragging. Was there an odour? Could Natalie smell her? But Natalie kept smiling. Very professional. Nice girl. The self-checkout screen had mentioned dignity – oh, if only. Not much prospect of that any more.

In Consulting Room 2 the light inside was dimmer than the supermarket’s blazing neon. Off-white, mellow. Soft muzak. Nice comfy chair. Oh, that’s better. She didn’t want to get up again. 

A clipboard materialized on her lap. Just the paperwork, Mrs Palmer. Can I call you Emma? That’s great, Emma, just read this … and can you sign here please? And here?

Sorry about this, Emma. Safeguards – they’re important, aren’t they?. But we’ve improved the process a lot, you know, over time. Made it a lot more painless – if you know what I mean. People expect better service these days. They demand convenience. We have to innovate. Now, do you understand there has to be a doctor in attendance? 

Yes … yes, I do.

Another screen. Flickered, then a young man’s face. Younger than Simon. Can you confirm your name? Do you understand what this procedure involves? Stifled a yawn. Maybe a junior doctor; she’d heard they were doing extra gigs, make ends meet. 

Didn’t there need to be two doctors? Oh don’t worry, Emma, we’ve texted your GP and already got the thumbs-up. It’s a lot more efficient these days. 

Sorry, Mrs … Palmer … can I call you Emma? Can you repeat that please? I think I dropped out for a second there. The wifi here, it’s … OK, that’s great. Now – do you want anyone else with you? A family member perhaps?

Just Natalie here, smiling encouragingly. Natalie had only glanced once at her phone, when she’d thought no-one was looking – good girl. 

Jo couldn’t be there. She had her own life now. Would she ever see her again anyway? Simon … oh, Simon, love. Jo, my love. Precious Luke. Would they cry? Yes, she was sure they would. Except Luke – he was probably too young. Wouldn’t understand. Would he even remember his Grandma, when he grew up? And as for the little one on the way …

But she was so tired.

And she wasn’t daft. She could still make her own decisions. And Simon … he’d cope. Better off, really. He wouldn’t have to worry about the home now. Natalie had already explained how it would all be taken care of. Simon would hardly have to lift a finger, just sign a few things. So simple. Wasn’t it better this way? Who could say otherwise? And really, it was so impressively convenient. She’d have liked to say goodbye really but … well there were pros and cons, weren’t there? She really didn’t want a scene. 

So tired. 

Anyway, you had to hand it to Harrisons. All very professional. And such a good deal. Of course the government must be paying for it, really. She glanced at Natalie, ticking boxes on her clipboard. 

Then looked quickly away as the needle flashed in the light. Closed her eyes.

Sharp scratch.

She shivered. No more dark drizzle now. Felt Natalie take her hand. Andy. Love.

Thank you for shopping at Harrisons.

Your next of kin have been notified. Have a nice day.

Have a

Been a while since I’ve posted here, but as it’s very nearly 2025 as I write this, it’s a good time to think of the year ahead. And I suspect I’m not alone in wanting the new year to be a fresh start in my writing endeavours.

So this is my goal for 2025: to write every day. Every. Single. Day. Is that achievable? Well, we’ll see. My track record on new year’s resolutions is … patchy, shall we say. Many people think such resolutions are a waste of time – what’s so special about the first day of January, anyway, isn’t it just a day like any other, and why should my willpower be any stronger then than at any other time? – and I do sympathize with that view.

However, a new year is significant in some ways, and it’s as good a time as any to make some changes. Why not the first of January?

What really defines a writer? Someone who writes! Also, for me, it’s the actual act of writing that gets my creative juices flowing, when I get most of my ideas or develop them fully. I don’t get very far by just around waiting to be struck by inspiration. The more I exercise my “writing muscle”, the better.

So, here goes. Here are my “rules” (which I’m kind of refining as I go along … possibly in light of what actually happens ) :

The aim is to write for at least 30 minutes a day. That’s an amount of time which, if I’m disciplined enough, I should be able to squeeze in most days, even if sometimes in a couple of separate chunks. Some days of course I’d be able to – and would want to – write more, but half an hour seems a sensible and reasonably achievable baseline.“Writing” means creative writing of any kind – prose (generally in my case), poetry (which I rarely attempt, having little discernible talent in that area), or sketches / plays (which I did write a few of in 2024). It can be a first draft or editing / revision of existing drafts. As I’ve discovered, the majority of the time taken to write a novel in particular is taken up with editing and revision.It may also include planning or research connected to writing, e.g. planning out a story or novel … but I do want to actually get words onto a page / screen as part of the daily output, most days at least.It does not, for me, include social media activity even if connected to or in support of my writing. In the past I’ve found social media to be a big time sink. Yes it can have value, and good connections can be made, but it’s just to easy to get distracted and not actually write. It also does not – usually, I’d say – include blog posts like this. Not the majority of days, anyway. Yes blogging is “writing”, but not really creative writing as such – although obviously it can have creative aspects. And I will be posting many of my efforts here – but it’s the actual writing of those pieces that counts towards my goal, not the posting per se.I won’t be committing to producing a completely new, complete piece of writing (e.g. short story) every single day. I’ve heard of some who’ve committed to that, but I don’t think I’d manage it very often. Maybe a very short flash fiction piece sometimes.
For instance, I wrote a new 1,400 approx. word short story yesterday, but that took me probably a couple of hours in total, and I can’t commit to that every single day. And I still haven’t finished editing it. Typically a short story would take me two or three days at least. But it would be great to produce say two new stories a week – that would be a very substantial increase on my past productivity.Finally, although I’m really going for this, I won’t beat myself up too much if I don’t achieve it every single day. Aim high but be realistic. Don’t let myself become discouraged.

Well, as I said I hope to post many of my finished pieces here, along with occasional thoughts and updates on my progress. Wish me luck!

Do you have any writing-related resolutions for 2025? It would be great if we could support each other. Happy New Year!

Part 1: LiamI

Lying is underrated. It gets a bad press, but really, what’s so very bad about it? I know lots of people, like teachers and the police and debt collectors, will tell you how the truth’s incredibly important. But then, that’s because they want something out of you, right? If you tell them the truth, you give them power over you – that’s the thing. You’ve given something of yourself away. Of course they want that; why wouldn’t they? It makes their lives easier, after all.

Hold on, you might be saying. Isn’t valuing the truth kind of foundational to ethics, to all the world’s major belief systems? God is truth – that’s what Pete said at Abby’s church last Sunday. But then again, he’s the pastor, so he has to say that, really. I mean, I guess he believes it too. I just smiled and nodded, like I always do. Mind you, another time, Pete said that God knows everything that’s in your head anyway, so you can’t lie to Him. Well, OK, maybe. I’d interpret that as meaning you can lie to Him, but it’s just pretty pointless and it doesn’t really matter. But other people? Why tell them things they don’t really need to know?

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that the truth isn’t real or doesn’t matter or anything like that. I’m not spouting some clever-clever stuff about there being no such thing as objective reality. I mean, maybe there is, and maybe there isn’t – who knows? That’s the kind of pointless argument Charity will snare you with if you’re not careful, like last Friday after an inadvisable third pint of cider, and before I knew it, she was banging on about atheism again. “Not flirting with the sky fairy, are you, Liam?” she’d said with that irritating little smirk. That’s my lovely sister for you, never wasting any opportunity to tell you what she thinks. Well, not so much telling you as bashing you over the head with a bloody big spanner. Or a brick. It’s a defence mechanism if you ask me: attack before you’re attacked. Me, I’d rather keep my opinions to myself, more often than not. Safer that way. I suppose you could say it’s just a different kind of defence mechanism. Sometimes silence works just as well as a lie.

No, I’m not saying there aren’t things that are obviously true and false. I’m just saying you don’t always have to tell the truth yourself. Lies are useful, like tools in a box, ready to deploy when the need arises. And anyone who says they’ve never lied or would never do so under any circumstances – well, that’s an outright whopper right there, surely? To give a boringly obvious example, show me the man who’s never told a tiny fib to his wife or girlfriend about her new hairstyle or whether her bum looks big in this, and I’ll show you a single man. I supposed you’d call them “white lies”; well, OK, if that makes you feel better.

Or, what if someone knocks on the door and asks to see your business partner, and if you don’t know exactly why – or you do know exactly why and it ain’t good – do you really tell them they’re hiding under the desk in the back office? No, mate, you do not.

I think there was a movie a few years ago about someone who always told the truth for some reason, with hilarious consequences, presumably. I say presumably because I never saw it. It sounds too painful to me, too much like hell on Earth. Only a masochist would want to live in a world like that. Makes me feel all cold inside just thinking about it.

Anyway, as I said, lying is a useful tool. It can get you out of trouble. It can smooth over arguments or awkward situations. It keeps the peace, and what’s so wrong with that? No, Charity, I don’t think your husband is a tedious pain in the butt, and of course I like playing Risk with him. And yes, Abby, I really like your church (and, actually, I do a bit, so that’s half true anyway – and they can be the best of all, the sort-of-lies, because they’re easier to believe, for you and everyone else).

I could get all philosophical here and say that lies only make sense in the context of objective truth, but that sounds too much like an evening at the Royal Oak with Abby, Charity, a bottle of white wine, and a bloke (yours truly) longing with every fibre of his being to be absolutely anywhere else in the cosmos instead of where his girlfriend and his sister are bickering on about God and Richard bloody Dawkins for three whole hours of his life.

So I lie selectively. It’s like a tool to be used when it’s most needed. You don’t use a sledgehammer when you need a screwdriver. And I do try not to lie to Abby; she is my girlfriend, after all. I’m not going to cheat on her and then lie about it – but then, even if I did, it would be the cheating that’s the actual wrong thing, not the lying, surely? (You see, lying gets such a bad rap, but it’s rarely the true villain, the real sin.) Charity has accused me of lying to Abby about believing in God, telling her I do when I don’t, not like Abby does anyway. But that’s not a lie, not really; it’s true enough for me, her and everyone who matters, so how can it be a lie?

I’ll admit, I’ve been known to tell Doug I’ve only got a tenner to spare when he’s asked for thirty. I know he often needs the money, but I don’t feel so guilty about that, even if he is my friend and ex-business partner. It’s not like he never lied to me, is it? Nor to Kelly even. I mean, they’ve been an item since school, off and on, but the porkies he’s told her you wouldn’t believe. That’s probably why they’ve been as off-and-on as they have, to be honest.

I do have to be much more careful with my dear sister, though. Charity knows more than the others. Sometimes, she looks at me with those narrowed eyes, that small scornful frown, even when I’m telling the truth. But then, it doesn’t matter if she catches me out occasionally. She’s not going to tell anyone else. She knows I’m sometimes economical with the truth, and I’m quite sure she knows why, even if I’ve never told her in so many words. But I still lie to her anyway, on occasion. She’s a good test: if I can fool her, then almost anyone else is a piece of cake.

The thing is, you see, if you can lie about the small things, then when that time comes when you have to tell a real whopper, when it really matters – you can do it. It comes naturally then, without blushing or sweating or stammering or over-elaborating or giving too little eye contact or too much, or any of the other giveaways that everyone thinks they know how to spot. When you’ve practised enough so that it comes naturally, you don’t even think about it; so that some part of you doesn’t even think you’re actually lying or might have even forgotten what the precise truth was in the first place. That’s the ideal. That’s something to aspire to. And if you’re happy and so is everyone else, where’s the harm?

The key thing is: practice makes perfect. It’s like a superpower. OK, that sounds a bit lame, but I’m being serious. And it really can be like a force for good, you know? I don’t lie for bad reasons – well, not often. I’m not actually proud of it either, not exactly. But it can make people happy, and sometimes it’s just necessary. Life has taught me that much. It’s the most fantastic armour, the best protection you can have. You never know when you might need it, really need to use it. When someone trusts you. When your big chance comes or when the chips are down. It might even save a life.

And if I hadn’t told the truth, all those years ago, Joe might still be here.

Buy the whole book – links here

Having now written several novels, after all that hard work it’s pretty scary waiting to see people’s reactions. Something you’ve worked on for months, pouring hours and hours of time into … I mean, obviously, I think my work’s pretty good – if I truly thought it was rubbish I wouldn’t let it see the light of day – but, well, what about everyone else?

So, a couple of weeks ago The Shell Keep was published. It’s my first novel for adults – my previous forays being into children’s and YA fiction – so it’s something of a new venture for me. As with my previous books, I had the manuscript critiqued by an experienced editor, and implemented most of their recommendations, but at the end of the day that’s just one person’s opinions, albeit someone who certainly knows what they’re talking about. Once your baby’s out in the big wide world, anything can happen. After all, appreciation (or not) of books, as with any art form, is so subjective.

I know, I know. I should develop a thick skin. Try to take any constructive criticism in the spirit in which it’s intended, strive to ignore anything negative that’s not helpful or useful to your development as a writer – after all, you can’t please everyone all the time. And remember, the customer is always right (even when they’re not, in your humble opinion!) – you put your work out there, inviting people to buy and read it, then they are fully entitled to their views on it. What do you expect?

I’m pleased to say that the reviews of The Shell Keep has been very positive so far. People have written some lovely things, and I’m grateful. But I’m not getting carried away – partly because I know I can always improve, but also because not that many people have bought it so far – and the more that do, the more chance that someone is not going to like it quite so much. Or maybe not at all. You notice that with the real big-selling books with hundreds or thousands of reviews – it’s inevitable that, among all those people, they’re going to get at least a few bad ones. Some along the likes of, “I bought this because everyone says it’s brilliant, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about …”

Anyway. That’s not a problem I have right now – my books don’t sell in those quantities! I mean, it would be a nice problem to have, I suppose.

The problem I do have is that I’ve become kind of addicted to checking The Shell Keep on Amazon for new reviews. Seeking that ego-boost (if I’m honest) of another good review, whilst also dreading a not-so-good one. If I was one of those mega-selling authors I probably wouldn’t bother so much – there wouldn’t be enough time in the day. But I bet everyone keeps track of their reviews at least to some extent, even if they pretend they don’t. Because we all care what other people think of our work, don’t we? Sometimes, possibly, a bit too much.

Fascinating article about the history of books, how they’ve always evolved, and why print and e-books can live happily ever after …