Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Monday, 27 February 2012
Officially published.
Friday, 24 February 2012
One line blurb
'Guaranteed to make you cry.'
Well, even my editor admitted that her eyes were prickling, so if you like weepies, this is one for you.
Well, even my editor admitted that her eyes were prickling, so if you like weepies, this is one for you.
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
Blurb!
I'm guessing every author hates blurbs. You spend months lovingly crafting 90,000+ words only to see your efforts reduced to a few paragraphs of blurb on the jacket. But I guess it's the blurb that sells the book - so here it is.
After his time in Borneo with James Brooke (The White Rajah), John Williamson has travelled to India. Working for the East India Company in Cawnpore, he struggles to fit in: a gay man in a straight society; a farm labourer's son in a world of gentleman's clubs and refined dinner parties; a European adrift in an alien land. But he finds he is good at his job, overseeing a colonial administration that has been running the country for a hundred years. He falls in love with the country and, in particular, with a young nobleman in the court of the local lord. Successful at work and happy with his lover, he thinks he can finally meet life on his own terms. Then the Indian troops rise in mutiny and the country is plunged into war. With the British Raj teetering on the edge of destruction and Cawnpore a byword for horror across the Empire, Williamson has to choose whose side he is really on.
In this sequel to The White Rajah, the fictional Williamson is caught up in real historical events which provide a thrilling background to his own story. Williamson meets some of the key figures at a crucial point in British history and witnesses events which shocked the world and shaped the future of British India.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Cover price
Amazon.com are charging $15.50 for the paperback of Cawnpore in the USA, though you may be able to buy it more cheaply through The Book Depository (there's a link from the Amazon page). In the UK the paperback will cost £9.80 from Amazon, though other online suppliers may be cheaper.
Friday, 17 February 2012
Pricing
I have friends who complain about the price of buying paperbacks from small presses. I have some sympathy. In fact, I have lots of sympathy. In the UK you can buy most paperbacks in bookshops for £7.99 but The White Rajah costs £9.10.
The first thing to say is that the £9.10 is just silly. JMS are a US publisher, pricing in dollars. Amazon seem to have just calculated the exact equivalent in sterling and charged that for it. That wretched 11p will have lost sales, but unfortunately I have no control over it.
Even at £8.99, though, The White Rajah is pricier than many popular paperbacks. And Cawnpore will be even more expensive. That's because we aren't going to sell thousands of copies of Cawnpore (we don't have the promotional support that best sellers need) so it's relatively expensive to print. Cawnpore is longer than Rajah and will sell for $15.50. Lightning Source (our printers) converts this to pounds automatically. In the UK it will sell for £9.80. Lowering the price isn't much of an option because there's a minimum price allowed depending upon the production costs. Books with more pages cost more to manufacture.
We could print the book more cheaply by producing it only in the US but then there'd be enormous shipping costs if you wanted to read it in the UK.
The £9.10 that you pay for The White Rajah has to cover the physical printing cost and Amazon's (substantial) costs and profits. What's left goes to JMS Books and me and really, it's not a lot. There are very, very few rich authors.
Sorry about that.
The first thing to say is that the £9.10 is just silly. JMS are a US publisher, pricing in dollars. Amazon seem to have just calculated the exact equivalent in sterling and charged that for it. That wretched 11p will have lost sales, but unfortunately I have no control over it.
Even at £8.99, though, The White Rajah is pricier than many popular paperbacks. And Cawnpore will be even more expensive. That's because we aren't going to sell thousands of copies of Cawnpore (we don't have the promotional support that best sellers need) so it's relatively expensive to print. Cawnpore is longer than Rajah and will sell for $15.50. Lightning Source (our printers) converts this to pounds automatically. In the UK it will sell for £9.80. Lowering the price isn't much of an option because there's a minimum price allowed depending upon the production costs. Books with more pages cost more to manufacture.
We could print the book more cheaply by producing it only in the US but then there'd be enormous shipping costs if you wanted to read it in the UK.
The £9.10 that you pay for The White Rajah has to cover the physical printing cost and Amazon's (substantial) costs and profits. What's left goes to JMS Books and me and really, it's not a lot. There are very, very few rich authors.
Sorry about that.
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Monday, 13 February 2012
Who is John Williamson?
The White Rajah is an account of James Brooke's life which is supposed to have been written by John Williamson. James Brooke really existed and most of the events in the book either happened as described or are based in historical reality. But John Williamson never existed.
Brooke did have an interpreter named John Willliamson. The man was the son of a Malay woman and a European man and died quite early on in the period covered in the book. I wanted to tell the story through the eyes of someone close to Brooke and his interpreter seemed to offer the chance to have someone by his side at all the important points in his story. So the fictional narrator took the real John Williamson's name and his job but otherwise I made him up.
Originally, John was just a narrative device but he grew more and more important. He has a full back-story that is only hinted at in the book. Originally, The White Rajah opened with a brief account of his early life but this was edited out later. Given that John's story is being continued in the next book, Cawnpore (to be published at the end of this month), I thought people might like to see the unpublished story of John's childhood. So here readers of this blog get a free extra never published before.
Enjoy!
The man I am today is the man that James Brooke made me.
My family were farm labourers who had never known anywhere but their own small village in Devon. Five generations, I know, had lived and worked on Mr Slattery’s farm, for each generation was recorded in the family Bible that was the only book I ever saw as a child. That book was honoured in our home and kept as a great treasure, though none of those who had scratched their mark in it could read what was written there.
My name was entered in May of 1819. I was the third child my mother bore but the only one to survive infancy and, after me, there were no others. Perhaps it was this that made me a solitary child. I suppose, when I was younger, I must have played with the village children. I have some vague memories of rolling in the mud with the other boys and of our parents scolding us for our dirty clothes. But from my earliest youth, I spent most of my time alone with the animals of the farm, growing up alongside the horses and the poultry and the pigs. As soon as I was old enough, I would make myself useful to my mother, feeding the pigs and collecting the eggs. By the time I was twelve, I was working in the stables. I was good with the horses and Mr Slattery seemed to like me. It seemed I was settled and would be there forever.
Then, in 1831, sickness came to our village. Some said it was a visitation from the Lord but I preferred to believe those who said it was some contagion of the wells. Whatever the cause, all of us on the farm were stricken down and I remember lying in a fever, between life and death.
By the time I recovered, both of my parents were dead. I was not even able to attend their funeral. Mr Slattery organised it and I am sure that he did all that was needful and proper.
I remember that when I was strong enough to leave my bed, I made my way to the churchyard and knelt for some time praying beside my parents’ grave. It was a warm day in early spring, quiet, save for the calling of the birds. I listened for a human voice but I heard none, for everyone was busy in the fields or the housewives about their work in the cottages.
I had no special friends among the boys and no sweetheart among the girls. I would pray together with my neighbours in the church that would now watch over my parents’ bones but I would never find true fellowship there. I saw my life stretching before me and ending where I stood beside this grave.
And so a restlessness seized me and, as I regained my strength, the restlessness grew until, one day in June, I made my farewells to the farm. I left the Bible – mine now, for there was no other family – with Mr Slattery for safekeeping. I packed my few other belongings into a stout canvas bag and set out to see what the world had to offer.
I moved first from village to village, seeking work as a farm-hand or ostler but, though I found employment enough to give me a roof for the night and food in my belly, nowhere I saw on my travels round the county offered me more than the life I was escaping. It seemed that Providence guided my footsteps ever closer to Plymouth and the sea. And then, as if by chance, I took up life as a sailor.
I will say nothing of my first experiences of a shipboard life. I voyaged mainly in coalers, plying the coastal waters on the East coast of England. The work was hard and, as a landlubber from the West Country I found myself alone on vessels crewed mainly by men who had grown up with the water of the North Sea running in their veins. After two years of moving from ship to ship, I was still an outsider and, when I was discharged in London, I had nothing better to do than find some dingy tavern by the Pool and set out to drink my pay away. I was in low spirits and wondering if I might not be wise to make my way back to Devon and reconcile myself to a life on the farm.
It was a quiet evening and the place matched my sombre mood but at about ten, the door opened and a group of young men stood for a moment caught in the tavern light against the darkness of the night outside. It was twenty years ago, yet I still remember that first glimpse I had of James Brooke.
Brooke did have an interpreter named John Willliamson. The man was the son of a Malay woman and a European man and died quite early on in the period covered in the book. I wanted to tell the story through the eyes of someone close to Brooke and his interpreter seemed to offer the chance to have someone by his side at all the important points in his story. So the fictional narrator took the real John Williamson's name and his job but otherwise I made him up.
Originally, John was just a narrative device but he grew more and more important. He has a full back-story that is only hinted at in the book. Originally, The White Rajah opened with a brief account of his early life but this was edited out later. Given that John's story is being continued in the next book, Cawnpore (to be published at the end of this month), I thought people might like to see the unpublished story of John's childhood. So here readers of this blog get a free extra never published before.
Enjoy!
The man I am today is the man that James Brooke made me.
My family were farm labourers who had never known anywhere but their own small village in Devon. Five generations, I know, had lived and worked on Mr Slattery’s farm, for each generation was recorded in the family Bible that was the only book I ever saw as a child. That book was honoured in our home and kept as a great treasure, though none of those who had scratched their mark in it could read what was written there.
My name was entered in May of 1819. I was the third child my mother bore but the only one to survive infancy and, after me, there were no others. Perhaps it was this that made me a solitary child. I suppose, when I was younger, I must have played with the village children. I have some vague memories of rolling in the mud with the other boys and of our parents scolding us for our dirty clothes. But from my earliest youth, I spent most of my time alone with the animals of the farm, growing up alongside the horses and the poultry and the pigs. As soon as I was old enough, I would make myself useful to my mother, feeding the pigs and collecting the eggs. By the time I was twelve, I was working in the stables. I was good with the horses and Mr Slattery seemed to like me. It seemed I was settled and would be there forever.
Then, in 1831, sickness came to our village. Some said it was a visitation from the Lord but I preferred to believe those who said it was some contagion of the wells. Whatever the cause, all of us on the farm were stricken down and I remember lying in a fever, between life and death.
By the time I recovered, both of my parents were dead. I was not even able to attend their funeral. Mr Slattery organised it and I am sure that he did all that was needful and proper.
I remember that when I was strong enough to leave my bed, I made my way to the churchyard and knelt for some time praying beside my parents’ grave. It was a warm day in early spring, quiet, save for the calling of the birds. I listened for a human voice but I heard none, for everyone was busy in the fields or the housewives about their work in the cottages.
I had no special friends among the boys and no sweetheart among the girls. I would pray together with my neighbours in the church that would now watch over my parents’ bones but I would never find true fellowship there. I saw my life stretching before me and ending where I stood beside this grave.
And so a restlessness seized me and, as I regained my strength, the restlessness grew until, one day in June, I made my farewells to the farm. I left the Bible – mine now, for there was no other family – with Mr Slattery for safekeeping. I packed my few other belongings into a stout canvas bag and set out to see what the world had to offer.
I moved first from village to village, seeking work as a farm-hand or ostler but, though I found employment enough to give me a roof for the night and food in my belly, nowhere I saw on my travels round the county offered me more than the life I was escaping. It seemed that Providence guided my footsteps ever closer to Plymouth and the sea. And then, as if by chance, I took up life as a sailor.
I will say nothing of my first experiences of a shipboard life. I voyaged mainly in coalers, plying the coastal waters on the East coast of England. The work was hard and, as a landlubber from the West Country I found myself alone on vessels crewed mainly by men who had grown up with the water of the North Sea running in their veins. After two years of moving from ship to ship, I was still an outsider and, when I was discharged in London, I had nothing better to do than find some dingy tavern by the Pool and set out to drink my pay away. I was in low spirits and wondering if I might not be wise to make my way back to Devon and reconcile myself to a life on the farm.
It was a quiet evening and the place matched my sombre mood but at about ten, the door opened and a group of young men stood for a moment caught in the tavern light against the darkness of the night outside. It was twenty years ago, yet I still remember that first glimpse I had of James Brooke.
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