The Costa Shortlist

My phone rang when I was on a train. ‘I’m in a quiet carriage,’ I whispered, expecting heads all around to turn accusingly.

The caller was my wife Sue. ‘You need to phone Kirsty,’ she said, urgently. ‘She has exciting news.’ (Kirsty is my editor at Orion. Her news is always exciting. But what could this news be?)

‘What kind of ….?’ I began, but I barely had time for those three words before the train disobligingly plunged into a signal-free zone. There’s a stretch of the West Coast mainline up through the Lake District where you can normally guarantee blissful freedom from telephone disturbance for half an hour or more.  But could there be a less convenient stretch of the rail network, when you know there’s exciting news, but have no hint to suggest what that news might be?

I phoned Kirsty an age later when the train pulled into Carlisle. I had very few nerves left. ‘What’s the news?’ I asked.

‘Ahh well … it’s very exciting ….,’ she said. She was toying with me.

‘Please,’ I begged. ‘In twenty seconds, I’ll be on the long stretch of line to Beattock Summit and I don’t think cell phones have ever made it this far north.’

‘You’ve made the shortlist for The Costa.’

I have now discovered the reason why they have quiet carriages on trains. It was only the threat of opprobrium from my fellow passengers that prevented me from leaping onto the table and whooping.  Actually, of course, that last bit isn’t true. We British don’t go in for whooping much, do we? Especially not on trains. That would be an American response. So instead I said something very polite; ‘Oh gosh, how splendid,’ or words to that effect.

One week later and I’m still trying to come to terms with the news. It seemed (and still does seem) faintly unreal. Even sipping champagne with Kirsty and Sophie from Orion in Jamie’s Italian to celebrate, didn’t altogether dispel the feeling that I’m somehow occupying a dream that rightly belongs to someone else. I’m quite prepared for the letter that reads, ‘due to an unfortunate error your book was mistakenly placed in the wrong list, please accept our apologies…’ 

The truth is, I suppose, that book prizes do matter. They shouldn’t. But they do. I’ve recently emerged, scathed, from the ordeal that was the Guardian’s ‘Not the Booker Prize,’ from which contest Max Ponder managed to stumble home in third place. It’s a well-meaning attempt by the Guardian to democratise the book award circus, and to introduce a level of X-Factor voting into the mix. But it ended, this year, with a nasty squabble between the winner and the Guardian, and an unseemly email campaign for votes. So the news that Max Ponder had made the final four for the Costa First Novel Award was especially gratifying.

The other three books look impressive, and a little scary. I’m going to try to read them all before the announcement of the category winners on January 3^rd so that I can nod enthusiastically and say, ‘well deserved,’ when the decision is announced. The reviewer on ‘Front Row’ referred to us collectively as ‘young authors,’ which was kind.  The other three deserve the adjective, but I shall enjoy the association all the same. And I am looking forward to the announcement. That is true. It would be fantastic to win, but it’s great simply to be recognised. So I’m not thinking about winning. Well. I’m trying not to. I’ve got three more chapters of Book Three to finish, and a whole set of edits for The Coincidence Authority coming my way very soon, and a day job that actively consumes my time, and a Christmas calendar that is filling up fast, and those three novels to read, and a cryptic crossword to complete every day, and a five year old retriever that needs walking, and Christmas shopping to start thinking about, and a running machine that beckons from the conservatory every time I look out of the kitchen window. So let’s put all thought of the Costa aside – for the next six weeks at least. And if anyone confronts me, as they sometimes do, with, ‘OMG you made the Costa Shortlist!’ I shall smile like an Englishman and say, ‘yes, isn’t it splendid?’ Or words to that effect.

The Indonesia Blog Part 3: Borneo and Orangs

Orang

A village on the Sekonyer river

A Klotok 

Proboscis Monkeys

Enough of books and book prizes and the stresses and strains of publishing. It's time for another blog from Indonesia. This will be the final posting of our vacation blog. It's the story of Borneo and the Sekonyer River and Tanjung Puting, and orang utans. 

This was the most conventional episode of our trip. Way Kambas park had been curiously empty of tourists. There were two bird watchers, and there were the two of us (and in a future blog I'll relate the strange coincidence that attends this story - but not right now.) In Ujung Kulon there was us and a researcher. That's all. But in Tanjung Puting there were dozens of tourists - well twenty at least. Possibly thirty. It felt like the Masai Mara.

You fly to a little town called Pangkalan Bun. Your tour guide meets you and takes you to your boat, and within an hour of landing you're on the river. You're on your own on a Klotok - a traditional wooden boat - with your own crew - a captain, his mate, a guide and a cook. It's really quite surreal. You sail down the mile-wide Kumai river and up the Sekonyer, and already it's wild. This is Tanjung Puting, a sprawling jungle wilderness, and you're on a three day / two night voyage. It's the African Queen (except, of course, that it's Borneo.) When night falls, the crew make up your bed on the deck - a thin mattress and a mozzie net - and you lie under the stars, listening to the noises of the forest. The call of gibbons The distant cry of an orang utan. Unfamiliar, exotic noises. And it's wonderful.

You do encounter the other tourists though. That happens when you stop at a range of field stations and you trek out to see the orangs. But it's okay. There is a jolly cameraderie. The orangs are semi wild. Some of them are domesticated apes that have been returned to the wild. Others are the offspring of the rehabilitated orangs. And others still, are truly wild. It doesn't seem to matter. Once a day each field station puts out food (bananas and sugar cane). Some orangs come and feed. Others don't. But it's still an experience. A good one.

At dusk you're on your own again on the boat. We played cards and ate well. There's no alcohol - of course. Our cook was excellent, and our guide, Hani, was good company. She's one of only four female guides in the park. There are fifty six men. Sue and Hani talked about feminism and Islam and marriage and divorce. These aren't the conversations you usually have with a guide.

At dusk proboscis monkeys climb into the trees overhanging the river. This is the safest place for them. If a clouded leopard should prowl, the monkeys can drop into the river to escape. There are thousands of proboscis monkeys, but they're endlessly fascinating.  

And that's it really. If ever you're looking for a relaxing encounter with wildlife, I would recommend a Klotok trip up the Sekonyer river. It's wild. 
  

My 'Not the Booker Prize' Blog

I hadn’t even heard of the Guardian’s ‘Not The Booker Prize’ before the email arrived from my editor.  I was still getting over the disappointment of failing to make the Man Booker Prize last month, so any email with ‘Booker’ in the title line looked promising.  And so the whole thing started.

The idea is pretty simple. The Man Booker Prize (so the argument goes) is a sclerotic institution with its head up its own fundament and prizes like this should be put back into the hands of the people. Democracy should reign. (This overlooks the unfortunate point that democracy has plenty of say in book sales, and if it were to be equitably applied, then Shades of Grey would win every prize going. But moving swiftly on … ).  First someone has to go online to nominate your book. That’s easy enough (actually it was fiendishly complex – but the principle is easy). Then the great reading public are invited to vote. But here’s the twist; they have to accompany their vote with a 100 word review of the book. This will prove that the voting is honest, and weed out all but the most determined sock puppets. This process resulted in a couple of hundred titles, many much more likely to attract widespread public attention than Max Ponder could hope to do. And now a serious flaw in the democratic process became apparent. With only a few dozen votes separating the winners from the also-rans, the winner wasn’t really going to be selected by public vote at all. There would be some genuine votes cast, but the balance that would swing the day would be determined by the friends and family of the authors, their facebook contacts, and the employees of the publishing house. Oh dear.

My confession, dear reader, is that I willing and complicity engaged in this scam. I whipped up my friends, I tweeted, I posted on LinkedIn, and through the enormous generosity of a whole set of friends, I earned myself a third place. Which I’m happy with. But in the process I learned some things. First I learned not to do this again. If I enter another book prize I’ll be more than happy to leave it to judges to tell me how good or how bad my book is. But I also learned what a great set of friends I have. The 100 word reviews they posted were so full of warmth, I was genuinely touched. I didn’t know everyone who voted – of the fifty or so votes that got me on the shortlist, I think I know around half of the people. Finishing in third place makes me feel that I let them down. But I still feel very blessed that I know so many wonderful people, and that so many of them liked my book.

In the end I’m not really critical of the format of NTBP. It is what it is. If you enter, you have to recognise the way it works. I don’t think it is a prize that suits a debut novelist … because the more established writers have a loyal readership that they can mine for votes. But I’m not sorry that I entered. Sam Jordison wrote a very moving Guardian review (I happen to think that his review of Max Ponder was the best review of any of the seven shortlisted books). And the exposure was helpful. All exposure is.

As I write this I’m still not sure who won. It was either Ewan Morrison (Tales from the Mall) or Ben Myers (Pig Iron). Well done guys. And well done mobilising your vote. I will read the winning book. I hope you read mine. The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder will be out in Paperback on 3^rd January. That’s a plug. Thank you.

Indonesia Blog Part Two: Krakatoa (1st October 2012)

Lava flowing into the sea

I really should have consulted a map. But I'll blame the guidebooks all the same. They all say that Krakatoa Island lies just off the Western coast of Java. They give the impression that it is really very close. You can easily charter a boat, they say. Some guidebooks imply that you can see Krakatoa from the holiday town of Carita. Well, let me correct them. You can't. Krakatoa is thirty five miles from the coast of Java which is almost like crossing the English Channel twice. You need to hire a power-boat with a deafeningly noisy engine, and you have to pound remorselessly for two hours across rough seas to reach it.

But when you get there ... it's amazing.

Here are the facts. Krakatoa Island blew itself apart on 27th August 1883 in a volcanic explosion that was thirteen thousand times more powerful than the bomb at Hiroshima. The explosion threw more than five cubic miles of rock and ash into the atmosphere, and it made a bang that was heard five thousand miles away. Most of the island was destroyed. But in 1927 a new island volcano appeared above the waterline. They called it 'Anakrakatoa' - or 'the son of Krakatoa.' And since the 1950s this island has been growing in height by nearly 20 feet a year. It is already half a mile high.

Heavy fall of ash on the slopes 

A lava bomb

A lava bomb

A lava flow 1 week old

We left Carita in our power-boat at 5am. The waves are calmer at this time of day. So we saw the sunrise over Java. The first sight of Krakatoa was a distant plume of smoke and steam and a menacing cone emerging from the sea mists like a grey cloaked demon. There had been a massive eruption just a week before our visit. As we drew closer we could see its impact. The slopes of the volcano were burning with a thousand fires - the remnants of bushes and trees that had been consumed. Huge new lava flows ran all the way down the mountain to the sea. This was a very active volcano indeed. 

One small coastal strip of the island survives. It has been colonised by trees and shrubs, and there is now a permanent ranger station there. We waded ashore and gave our details to the ranger. 'If you feel any activity,' he told us, 'run like mad back to your boat.' He pointed to his own boat. 'We'll already be gone,' he said.

It was a very hot day. As we walked clear of the woodland and started up the slope it was clear that we could never climb this mountain - even if it was only eighty years old. A deep layer of new, soft, ash made every footstep tortuously difficult - like trying to climb a mound of icing sugar. Our guide pointed out a debris field of lava bombs. None of these had been here a week ago. They had rained down along with the ash and a grainy layer of pumice just days before. We came across a lava bomb as big as a washing machine. It was still hot to the touch.

We tried to climb, but not only was the terrain impossible, the smell of sulphur was starting to choke us. Sue's eyes were streaming. We turned back and had a surreal breakfast back at the ranger station. Then we walked a mile or so along the black beach to a fresh lava-flow. It felt like standing close to a smouldering bonfire.

I've noticed that they don't use the name 'Anakrakatoa' quite so much any more. I can see why. This isn't the son of Krakatoa. This is Krakatoa. It is back from the dead and planning its next big number. We may not be around when that happens, but it will happen, and nothing we can do will ever stop it. You can sense the volcano summoning up all its subterranean energies, and those energies are colossal. And when it comes you might even hear it where you are.

what3words /// The simplest way to talk about location

The Indonesia Blog: Part One - Looking for Rhinos September 2012

Up river in Ujung Kulon looking for Javan Rhinos ...

I'd be the first to admit that Indonesia isn't exactly a top destination on most people's 'must-visit' lists. Unless you want to go to Bali of course (which we didn't). So I'm going to have to explain why we went there ... and it's really very simple: we went to look for rhinos. There! Does that sound crazy?

Well it would sound a little crazy if you know about the rhinos of Indonesia. You see, nobody actually sees them. Nobody. To be clear ... NO ONE EVER SEES RHINOS IN INDONESIA. EVER. Which partly explains why we were so keen to go. After all, we thought, what if we did?

I need to flash back just a little. My lovely and adorable wife Sue likes rhinos. She once sat up all night nursing a sick rhino at Chester Zoo, and well, she has a thing about them. She loves the African rhinos (the black rhino and the white rhino) and she loves the Indian rhino (we once saw Indian rhinos from elephant-back in Nepal). But there are two rhinos that she really, especially wants to see: the Sumatran and Javan rhinos of Indonesia. So what is a husband to do? 

We flew into Jakarta, and onward to Sumatra, and then we drove to Way Kambas national park. There are twenty Sumatran rhinos here (they know this from camera traps, footprints, and dung) but it is a large park and each rhino has around sixty five square kilometers to hide in. The Dutch researcher Nico van Strien spent more than twenty years studying Sumatran rhinos in Indonesia, and he famously never saw one. A Swiss researcher, Marcus Borner, spent five weeks, day and night, in a tree-hide where rhinos were known to roam, but he never saw one. No one ever sees them. They are secretive, small, and well-camouflaged.  Way Kambas is a heavily forested park with just one road through it. We saw siamang, and agile gibbons, and a whole array of wildlife. But no rhinos. 'Have you ever seen a rhino?' we asked our mahouts at the elephant school in the park. 'Never,' they told us. We explored on bikes, we explored on foot, and we went down the Way Kanan river in a noisy boat. There we had what may have been our closest encounter. Sue smelled the familiar pong of rhino scent-marking. We stopped the boat and waited in silence, watching the bank. But nothing. 'Have you ever seen a rhino?' we asked the boatman. 'Just once,' he told us, and he pointed at the bank. 'Right there.'

So from Sumatra we took a ferry to Java - but without much optimism. The Javan rhino makes its Sumatran cousin look positively gregarious. There are possibly 150 Sumatran rhinos still in existence ... but only 35 Javan rhinos. Sightings are incredibly rare. Still it's a larger rhino, and we did have a glimmer of hope. All Javan rhinos are in a single park - the Ujung Kulon National Park on the south west coast of Java. It's a tough place to get to. You have to drive for seven hard hours from Jakarta, and then you have to charter a boat to take you for a two hour trip to one of the islands off the coast of the park where you can camp out in an empty lodge. So you need a boat, a crew, a guide, and a cook. There are no roads at all in Ujung Kulon; it is a dense jungle, normally far too swampy to explore by foot. So the only way into the park is to pay a park ranger to take you up one of the rivers in a dugout canoe. And this is what we did. On Handeuleum Island we met a researcher from the International Rhino Foundation, a charming man called Inov. He told us that he'd been studying rhinos in the park for fourteen years. Had he ever seen a rhino? No. Silly question. Of course not. 

Still we had hope. We had come at the tail-end of a long dry season, and we hoped that this would bring rhinos to the riverbank for water. To increase our chances we arranged with a ranger and his canoe to spend nine hours on the river over three separate visits. After that we were relying on luck. 

And luck is what we had. On our first visit up river we saw fresh rhino footprints. It was a good omen. The water was the colour of smoky jade, the river was overhung with palm fronds and vines, there were crocodiles in the reeds and snakes above in the trees, and paddling was hazardous - we had to duck uncomfortably low to squeeze beneath fallen trees, and the canoe would get entangled in floating islands of branches and bamboo. But we were loving it. Sue was loving it. We trekked for a short distance and the ranger showed us footprints of a rhino and a calf. They were old prints, but it meant we were in the right vicinity at least. On the second trip we stuck close to the area where we'd seen the footprints on the shore. We drifted in near silence. But the hours went past, and we didn't see rhinos. It was starting to get dark. 'We must go,' the ranger whispered and reluctantly we started to paddle downstream towards our boat. We abandoned our silence now. We were paddling, the ranger was bailing water (did I mention that the canoe leaked?) and now we were talking and laughing. And that was when we came upon the rhinos. 

We knew it was something big. Very big. Something was thrashing and splashing behing the curtain of palm fronds that shielded the river. We sat frozen in silence. The whole undergrowth seemed to be waving. 'Rhino,' whispered the ranger, and there it was - the huge brown backside of a Javan rhino just a meter or so away on the bank. Something else was crashing towards us. I saw the fleeting shape of a smaller rhino and Sue caught a clear sight of them both - a mother rhino and her calf framed in the palm fronds. And then they were gone. 

We had seen Javan rhinos. Only a brief glimpse, but it was a clear sighting all the same. We have no photograph to prove it, only our own memories and the account of a Javan park ranger called Dedi Hidayat who told it all to the park staff when we got back. We paddled hard to get back to our boat, but we had lost a lot of time. Darkness fell and we were canoeing in pitch blackness. I thought I could spot the light of our boat and I pointed it out. 'It's a firefly,' Dedi told us. Every paddle-stroke shimmered with the light from bioluminescent creatures. Sue nearly clouted a crocodile with her paddle. But our elation was high. 'I can't believe it,' Sue kept saying. You may not understand this, but she was in tears. We had seen Javan rhinos! I think we may be the only living westerners who have seen a Javan rhino and her calf. That is how rare this sighting was. 

There are reasons to be positive about the Javan rhinos. There are only thirteen adult females left, but they do seem to be breeding. The park is as inaccessible to poachers as it is to tourists. If we leave them to it, then I do believe the population will thrive. One day it might be as easy to see a Javan rhino as it is to see a white rhino. But for the time being, we have the bragging rights. Thank you very much. 

Peace and Quiet on Handeuleum Island

Still looking for Javan Rhinos ...

Krakatoa ... still smoking after an eruption five days before

Sue exploring Way Kambas ... Sumatra

Dispatches from the Swamp ... July 2012

 Well -  unless you've been lucky enough to have spent the summer in any country other than the UK, you won't need me to tell you what a washout our summer has been. Here in Shropshire we've had about two dry days since the beginning of May. Still we bear up. It's been good writing weather. All the same I'm hoping the sun shines for the Olympics. We have tickets to see .. da da .. the women's modern pentathlon. In which (I'm reliably informed) we have a gold medal hope. So there. 

I'm working out my notice for the company where I've worked for the past eight and a half years. I'll be sorry to leave. But then again I won't. It's like that thing with the shark ... you have to keep swimming or else you drown; and right now I'm taking on water. When you're not enjoying a job, then it's time to leave. That's true isn't it? Besides, life is about new experiences, and new people, and I'm ready for a little of both.

Some covers to share with you. First the paperback suggestions for Max Ponder. I've tweeted these and the overwhelming response seems to favour the cover on the left. The 'comedy' cover I call it. But I'm not so sure. I really like the darker cover. It makes Max a real person not just a cartoon; and it shows some blood. What do you think? 

The other cover design is the visual for the Coincidence Authority. Now this one I love. There's a pivotal scene in the story when Azalea's future is determined by a seagull. Now here's the gull on the book cover. It's as close to perfect as I can imagine.

After Publication - a month on ..

So a month has passed since Maximilian Ponder emerged blinking into the light of day. I'm learning that being a published author is one part exhilaration to two parts frustration... but on the whole the balance is positive, and I'm enjoying it very much. It's a great feeling to wander past a Waterstones and to see your book in the window. People say amazingly kind things. I've had so many generous messages from friends who have read the book - and I'm just in awe of the people who tell me they've bought copies for all their friends. The launch party at Book Shrop in Whitchurch was lovely (we need many more bookshops like this) - and the crowd that came to see Paul Torday in Hexham but had to put up with me instead were simply wonderful. Thank you too, to everyone (not all of them friends) who posted reviews on Amazon. Seven five star review to date ... I feel spoiled. Please keep them coming.  


Frustration, of course, is all pretty selfish. I haven't had a review yet in any newspaper (apart from the great one that the Press Association did for the local press). What can be keeping them? But part of me whispers, 'be careful what you wish for.' Oh well. 

It has been a busy month - and not just because of the book. We had a great day in Liverpool watching the giants... and we couldn't have been prouder of our daughter Zoe for all the work she put into managing the event. I'm just back from a trip to Istanbul and another to Malta. Sue's chicken business is booming despite all the rain (check out www.colehurstlayinghens.co.uk ), and today is her birthday. I think we shall celebrate with a glass of wine and Britain's Got Talent. 

Publication Day

Well the day has come ... 29th March 2012 ... and I hope you will allow me a warm glow of satisfaction mingled with the terror. It is publication day. I've emailed about 400 of my LinkedIn contacts - (some are people that I really don't know that well) - and I have been overwhelmed by the kind comments and messages of support that I've had. Email, LinkedIn, Facebook, and Twitter have all brought me an avalanche of messages - I even had a card through the mail from our friends in Bangor. So this is just to say, 'Thank You' to everyone. 


Thank you to Sue for putting up with me while I write. I know that writing can be a grumpy business. Thanks too for being my first reader. I really value your insights. I love you. You are the best.


Thank you to Jon for being my most constructive and critical reader (and also my most supportive). You are a better writer than I am Son. I couldn't do this without your help and encouragement. Thank you Zoe for being so supportive. It really means a lot. More than I can say. 


Thank you to Stan for discovering my manuscript among a pile on your desk that grows by fifty unsolicited manuscripts a day. If you hadn't spotted me I'd still be scribbling away - but no one would be reading. 

Thank you to Kirsty for being the best editor in Britain. Your edits are so brilliant they are scary. Your insights are profound. And you are so fiercely diligent (I mean that in a nice way). You've been so supportive - I owe you so much.


Thanks to Rebecca and Sophie and Claire and Jon Small and all the team at Orion Books. What an amazingly professional and likeable team of people. You guys totally rock. 


Thank you to Dimi and to everyone who has spammed the Internet with news about the book. You've been fantastic.


Thank you to you for reading my blog. I do hope you like the book. If you don't, I will crawl away somewhere and hide until the whole business is forgotten. If you do like it, please post a review on Amazon and please drop me a note to tell me. Invite me to your book group. We writers need that encouragement. 


Thank you to Maximilian Ponder. You may be fictional, but you were pretty real to me for the years when I was writing. I'm sorry you had to die. 


So thank you all. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Please hang around for Book Two ...


(BTW: I thought I needed more pictures. This is our dog Poppy. I sort out plot tangles in my head while I'm walking her. Thank you Poppy).

Nine Days to Go!

DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME

There’s a scene right at the end of ‘Back to the Future’ when Marty McFly arrives home in Hill Valley 1985 (courtesy of the DeLorean, of course) and finds nothing is quite as it was. It seems the tinkering he and Doc Emmet Brown did in 1955 has subtly altered his world. His couch-potato parents (George and Lorraine) are bantering about their tennis game, Biff, the town bully, is waxing a new car that appears to belong to Marty, and, get this ... George is opening a box of books.

‘Ah Honey,’ says Lorraine, ‘your first novel.’

‘Like I always told you,’ George says, ‘if you put your mind to it you can accomplish anything.’

Now, if you don’t happen to be a writer, you might not have noticed this scene. But I’ll bet that most aspiring novelists spotted it. It isn’t just the folksy throwaway line that promises that we too can do this (although, heaven knows, we need this kind of encouragement.) It is the symbolism that matters here. The filmmakers needed to demonstrate the transformation of George McFly. So what did they do? They made him a writer. And they gave him his first box of books.

I thought about this scene last week when, guess what, I was opening my first box of books.  ‘Ah Honey,’ my wife Sue said, ‘your first novel.’ And I was lost for words.

Now is this just me? I swell with pride at the sight and touch and smell of this wonderful new book. Of course, I do. Everyone at Orion has done such a fantastic job. My editor, Kirsty Dunseath, has been unbelievably brilliant. The cover is amazing. Everyone who reads it tells me how much they love it. Yet it’s filling me with an unfamiliar feeling of terror. There are now only nine days before it hits the bookshops. Nine days! Total strangers might idly pick a copy up, turn it over, read the cover, and maybe, they might even buy it. Something in me yearns for those comfortable months when Maximilian Ponder was nothing more than a manuscript on my computer. When I flicked the ‘off’ switch, he would disappear. But in nine days Max Ponder won’t be my secret creation anymore. He’ll be loose in a world of readers. And that, for a first time novelist, is scary.

Still, terror and excitement are sibling emotions I suppose. One morphs very easily into the other. I’ve enjoyed a year of excitement since signing with Orion. Perhaps I deserve a dose of terror. At any rate the waiting will soon be over. Nine days.

Maximilian Ponder never had this problem. He was a writer too, but no one ever read his work (except, occasionally, for his best friend, Adam). Max would spend every day writing. This was his project. He exhausted his waking life, closed away in his study, scrawling out, in longhand, the contents of his brain. What started as a casual project, a brief exercise in student vanity, became, for Max, an endless obsession.  Quarantined and imprisoned from the world outside, Max became a slave to his catalogue. The three year project became thirty years of tribulation. It cost Max his life.

Perhaps my trepidation would be less if Max Ponder’s story wasn’t such a personal one for me. Max and I share memories of growing up in Africa, of brutal treatment at school, of a traumatic encounter with victims of leprosy, of rough treatment by Idi Amin’s henchmen in Uganda.  These memories, and others, form the patchwork tapestry of the life Max is trying to record.  I can’t read these chapters from Max’s life without finding myself back in Africa with him.

In truth, I can’t wait for Max Ponder to find his way onto the bookshelves. I’ll find a way to handle the terror. I will diligently immerse myself in Book Number Two. The nine days will pass. And Max will be free. And so, perhaps, will I. Like I always told you; if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything; except, perhaps, writing a catalogue of your brain. Please don’t try this at home.

Rewrites

I'm rewriting 'The Coincidence Authority'. This is a good thing by the way. I've decided that the first-person voice that I used wasn't the best perspective to tell the story. So I'm going back through and rewriting in the third person, through the eyes of an all-seeing narrator.


It wasn't an easy decision. I know that John Irving did the same thing for 'Until I Find You' (one of my favourite books, as it happens), and it took him the best part of a year. (And he's a full time writer to boot). My target is more like two months, snatching time between work and leisure. I'm planning a week off work to wrap it all up. Anyway I've had fantastic support from my editor, so that's good. But if I'm grumpy and disagreeable over the next few weeks, then this will help explain it. And it means that work on 'Forgetting the Whale' is on ice for a while. But that's quite a good thing for a novel I think. Sometimes you spend so long with a novel, that it's only when you've had a break that you can see the things that need fixing. You could say that this is what happened with The Coincidence Authority.


Only six weeks until the launch of Maximilian. I'm really rather nervous. It's a very personal book, and I'm starting to wonder if I'll cope with all my friends and family and colleagues poring over some of my most tender memories.


I'm doing an article for the Guardian on one of those memories. This was the idea of my brilliant publicist at Orion. I've written eight hundred words on an incident from my teens when Lorraine and I were held on a train at gunpoint by a drunken detatchment of Idi Amin's army. Let's hope the Guardian uses it. Although, apparently, I won't be able to mention Maximilian Ponder. So I guess the publicity will be limited.


I've been back and forward to Riyadh and Dubai in January and I'm off to Istanbul next week, and then back again to Saudi in March. I spend too much of my life in airport departure lounges and squashed onto planes. But I really should never complain. I'm lucky to do what I do, and to be a writer as well.