The Path To Publication? It's Written in the Stars, Sadly

Once upon a time fame was something that came after you published a fabulous book. Or at least, that was the plan. 

It was certainly the dream and desire of thousands of aspiring authors who sought fame not for its fan mail or feted awards as such (although those were not unwelcome, let's face it) but for its ability to enable them to keep on doing what they loved doing best—writing.

Well, not anymore folks. At least, not always.

"Did you hear about the great lineup in the kids' tent at the Byron Writers' Festival this year?" gushed one mum on the soccer sidelines the other day.
"Oh?" I replied, my pulse quickening at the thought of my son's favourite authors, past and present, littering the stage; people like Andy Griffiths, Mem Fox, and, dare I think it?— J.K. O. My God. Rowling?!
The woman nodded her head, deliriously. "Yes! They've got Richard Roxburgh and Peter Helliar!"
Huh?
Last time I looked, Richard was a famous actor better known for playing a philandering drunk and Pete a stand-up comedian with a TV news show for adults.
"In the kids' tent? Really? At the writers festival?"
"Oh yes," she squealed. "They've written books. I love those guys. Isn't it exciting!"
Like ordinary writers are so very dull. I didn't dare ask her if she'd read their books, I knew it was irrelevant. Who cares? They're famous!!!"

Now, at risk of sounding like a disgruntled and very unfamous author, let me just say, WTF?! How has it come to this?! How has infamy become the drawcard, not output? How do those bozos get a chair on the podium instead of so many kids' authors I've read whose books are probably just as worthy? Because, and here's the disclaimer, I haven't read Richard or Pete's books either and they're probably absolutely wonderful, but let's be honest here, that's not the point. Those blokes are in the much-sought-after program because of who they are not what they've written, and I defy anyone to argue otherwise.

The changing face of books

Today, it seems, fame is the precursor to scoring yourself a book deal. A prerequisite in fact. No name, no contract, no writing deal. And, I'm sorry, but it breaks my heart.

I don't write children's books, couldn't do it if I tried (and I did once, it was not pretty), but I can't help thinking of all the budding children's authors who attend my self-publishing classes with stars in their eyes not on their director's chairs. They've worked so long and so hard on their stories and, from what they've shown me, their material is often wonderful, their stories delightful, their illustrations exquisite.

But they will probably never see the light of day, let alone the inside of a book shop or the podium at a national book festival because they're missing that one vital factor—fame.

But maybe I'm just unkind. Maybe it's sour grapes. It's definitely not novel.
This move to celebrity started a long time ago, back when magazines stopped featuring 'ordinary' women on their covers and started plastering brushed up Hollywood stars. And it's not just kids books or my local writers festival that is enamoured of celebrity. Just ask any sports journalist whose job has been replaced by a thuggish looking ex-footy star who can barely read the words being fed to him like mashed banana from a teleprompter.

Today, fame comes first and the craft—the pure and utter devotion to words—well, that's an irrelevant second. A sidenote to a glittering resume. And that, my friends, is the real tragedy.

A forgotten calling

Call me old-fashioned, and many do, but I long for the days when writing was still considered a calling, a career that was respected and admired, albeit poorly paid, and that poor bastards devoted themselves to for decades upon decades, struggling to pay the bills, maintain relationships and retain their sanity—all in the name of art. Not something that's whipped together as a PR exercise between takes on a flood-lit sound stage.

Do I sound harsh? I have a right to be. I wrote my first 'novel' at the age of 13. It was tripe but it didn't matter. I couldn't help but write. I'd been telling stories to anyone who'd listen since I could talk. I had no choice. Writing was what woke me up in the morning and kept me awake long into the night. And it still does.

Did Richard Roxburgh conjure up adventure stories as a boy? Did Peter Helliar dream of publishing the Great Australian Novel? Maybe, maybe not. I suspect that came later. I suspect that came after a nudge from an antsy agent or after a brainstorming session in a publisher's office:

"Who can we get to write a kids' book? Who's hot at the moment? Oh, I know! Let's ask that chubby guy from that top-rating TV show! He seems like fun. Kids'll love him!"

I have no qualms with anyone wanting to tell their stories and everyone's entitled to do so—the famous, the infamous and the great unknown. But please don't expect me to drag my son to watch you chat about your book when the real reason you're sitting there, the main reason your book ever saw the light of day, is two simple words that you never even came up with yourself.

Your name.

What do you think? Am I being unfair? Please drop a comment below or get in touch via my email or twitter.

And happy reading everyone, even of the unknown!
xo Christina

The one that got away

Several years ago I was having dinner with a criminal lawyer friend who suggested a non-fiction book idea to me which I promptly ignored, and am now kicking myself about.

Back in 2005, a German backpacker had been found murdered, her body left under palm fronds near a Lismore caravan park, and her case has gone largely unsolved, despite several good leads and at least three suspects. My lawyer friend, Tracey, who also happens to live near Lismore, knew about the case and thought it would make a fascinating book.

But did I listen to her? No I did not!

Then, last weekend, while planted in the packed audience at a true crime session of the Byron Bay Writers Festival—a popular annual event that I NEVER miss out on—I had the great good fortune of hearing three writers speak about their work.

One of them was about a German backpacker who had been found murdered, her body left under palm fronds near a Lismore caravan park. What? No! Not only was the tragic story of Simone Strobel fascinating, the author, Virginia Peters, had such an incredible tale to tell of researching and writing the book, and the audience was captivated by the excerpt she read out.

After the session I rushed out to buy the book.

While I'm yet to finish Have You Seen Simone? (Penguin, 2014)—freelance work, why do you plague me so?—I am enjoying it thoroughly. And I can not help wondering, what if ...

What if I had listened to my lawyer friend and written the book myself?

One step removed

I recall at the time Tracey suggested it, I was intrigued. I've always had a macabre interest in true crime, devouring Who/People magazines' crime articles weekly and reading real crime stories in daily papers with the same gusto that my heroine Roxy Parker does. (Although, unlike Roxy I do not cut and paste them in a Book of Death. I'm sick, but not that sick!)

Yet I made a deliberate attempt to ignore my friend's advice. I like reading about true crime, I love writing crime fiction, but both things afford me a distance that writing true crime would not. Mine are one step removed. Safe and cosy. To do this book I would need to do as Virginia does, and not only immerse myself in the real crime, decaying flesh and all, but I would have to meet and interview the suspects. I would have to look a potential murderer in the eye.

It felt like a step too far. Did I really want to invite that kind of vermin into my life? Back then, I decided, not.

Living brave
Now, flicking through this book and remembering the wide-eyed audience who clung to the author's every word at the Writers Fest, I wish I had been braver. I wish I had taken a risk. And I wish I had written about an important story that needed to be told. Maybe if I had, it would be me sitting up on that podium, keeping an audience entranced with a story that breaks your heart.

Oh well, Tracey, you tried. Next time I'll heed your advice!

Happy reading everyone and kudos to you, Ms Peters.
xo Christina

POSTCRIPT: Despite not pointing the finger directly at any one suspect, author Virginia Peters is currently being sued for defamation. For me, this only underscores the importance of this story and the author's utter bravery.

A nice name for a bad guy

So there I sat, bated breath, waiting for inspiring words from one of Australia's best-selling novelists, Bryce Courtenay (right, may he rest in peace). The popular and aging author of The Power of One, Tandia et al was part of a seminar at the Byron Bay Writers Festival several years ago. I had my ticket, a near-front row seat and a bucketful of expectations.

Then he let me down. Badly. 

It was just one line, a few words of 'advice' but I felt cheated and demoralised and bitterly disappointed. On the subject of characters, Mr Courtenay offered something like this (and I paraphrase as I did not write it down, although it stuck indelibly in my brain so you can take my word for it):

"When naming your characters, always try and use a name that sounds like the character. So, say, Mr Black for the bad guy, and Hope for the heroine."

I wanted to throw up. I considered walking out. I wished I had taken him to task on it.

"Surely not, Mr Courtenay!?" Isn't that the height of predictability, a classic cliche? Isn't that just too bloody obvious? I mean, take my crime fiction for instance. You wanna give away the ending, go right ahead and call your murderer Johnny Devious all you like. Me, I prefer to surprise my readers, keep 'em guessing, not treat them like a pack of idiots.

Isn't the name Helen Gooding a better moniker for a murderer?

I'm sorry to speak ill of the dead but, on this at least, I believe Bryce Courtenary was wrong, dead wrong. Sure, he has had the success (and sales) I can only dream of so maybe it works, maybe I should just shut up now and defer to the expert. Yet something inside me says no, no, NO! I refuse to chase success/sales on the back of such sorrowful stereotyping. Better to be original than oldhat.

Can't we do better than that?!

I'm currently concocting names for the characters of my 6th Ghostwriter Mystery, hence the reason Courtenay's words have come flooding back. I am trying very hard not to make them too obvious, too much the murder mystery stereotype. And it's a lot more fun to go for trickery than predictability, that's for sure.

What do you think? Can't authors be a bit more surreptitious, readers a little smarter? Shouldn't we at least treat our audience with a tad more respect?

I'd love to hear from you. Jot me a comment below.

And happy reading! (May the characters you encounter be strong and surprising.)
xo Christina