My mother, who my
cousins assure me does some work on the side as an auntie, admonished
me this week. Once again she reminded me that at no point in the
pages of my novel (Weekend
Rockstars – still
very much available
from Amazon kids, don't forget to buy it) did I thank my
wonderful auntie who did an awful lot of work on it for nothing. I
pointed out to her that I had thanked her in this
blog and on my facebook
author page. She gave me a proper mum look indicating that this
was not good enough – I had not written my thank you letters. If
you know me well enough, then you know exactly who my auntie Jenny
is, and why I might be slightly reticent to recklessly attach her
name to a self-published book that I only wrote as an experiment to
see if I could get to the end and which was turned down by no less
than thirteen literary agents.
Almira
Gulch, just because you own half the county doesn't mean that you
have the power to run the rest of us.
For twenty-three years, I've
been dying to tell you what I thought of you!
And now... well, being
a Christian woman, I can't say it!
In fact, due to my
own insecurities over self-publishing, I did not include any
acknowledgements at all. This was not because I am not grateful to
all those who helped me get from vague idea to finished book, but
because I read a lot of self-published crap* (it is most likely to be
free to read on a kindle when I am bored, skint and have nothing to
read). The worst part of all of them is the self-indulgent
ego-trippery of the author's note and acknowledgements. I cannot stop
myself reading the endless wankery of how they wrote their mediocre
tale of an obvious stereotype (or thinly veiled version of the
author) enjoying a standard plot twist (or blatant wish-fulfilment
fantasy) and the infinite listing of all their relatives and friends
who didn't try to stop them even though they really should have –
all underneath a massive gurning black-and-white selfie of the author
looking 'thoughtful'. In the interests of fairness I must point out
that a lot of this stuff is produced by 'reputable' publishing houses
as well.
It never fails to
remind me of someone delivering an
imaginary award
acceptance speech in the bath, like
Jimmy Rabbitte in The Commitments.
I felt egotistical enough including a dedication to my three sadly
deceased friends (who could not object to their inclusion) and my
wife (who was surprisingly pleased by it). I have never read an
author's note or list of acknowledgements in any works by Orwell,
Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky or Dickens, and J.R.R. Tolkien never added such
a thing until his publishers asked him to for the collected edition
of Lord of the Rings. I have this blog to indulge
myself in the mistaken belief that anybody actually gives a shit
about anything I might have to say, so why sully my book with
it?
This
pair of bastards are nothing like my aunts
I think I tried to
explain this to Auntie Jenny herself at her daughter's wedding in
September, and I'm sure she said it was fine to attach her to it –
despite my rewriting loads of it after her brilliant editing and
probably undoing all her fine work. But I am British, and am utterly
convinced that people are just being polite and no praise is real. So
I didn't. Also I was fairly drunk and may have imagined the entire
conversation – in which case I can never bring it up again.
I was lucky enough
to grow up with two awesome aunties – along with matching excellent
uncles – to forget to write my thank you letters to. While I did
not, at the time, fully appreciate all the books they gave me enough
to want to write thank you letters (what six year old actually wants
to write thank you letters?). I did, eventually, realise that Robert
Louis Stevenson, C.S. Lewis and – more importantly – The Wind in
the Willows and Tales of Robin Hood were completely pivotal to my
development as a human being. Their indulgence of their nephew and
combined literary bent has undoubtedly influenced me. I would also
like to clear up the scurrilous suggestion that it was either of them
that showed me the best places to hide cigarette ends in my mother's
garden. That kind of information was – and indeed still is – of
no use to either me or them.
When
she's not accidentally killing you, Aunt May is the epitome of the
aunt you want on your side
Aunts aren't
gentlemen, as P.G. Wodehouse so neatly observed, and neither are they
mothers. Which is why they are fucking brilliant. There were times,
as a wee lad, when I thought it would be better to be one of my
cousins as their mums were so much more indulgent than mine, I
realise now that my cousins were almost certainly thinking exactly
the same thing about my mum. Because when they're not your own kids
you don't have to worry about spoiling them. I've seen my friends and
family doing exactly the same thing now we are all parents – giving
the nephews sweets while taking their own children's sweets away from
them. Your kids aren't supposed to be your friends until they're
grown up, but your siblings' kids can be – this is why aunts (and
uncles) have more fun.
Was
she even really an aunt? Was she Worzel's aunt? What the hell was
going on there?
I have just received
my latest manuscript back from my aunt. As always I have to temper my
feelings about her cutting out so many words that I have
over-invested myself in, accept the criticism of my excessive
wordiness (good job she doesn't edit this rambling, sesquipedalian
orgy of a blog isn't it?) and grudgingly admit that she is right, as
always, and I can never adequately express my thanks towards her for
it. My mum is right as well (mums generally are, so's your mum and
everyone else's) I should have written a few lines of thanks in that
book, it's not ego-driven madness, it's just polite. The next one
will have more manners – and should be available quite soon.
*Not
all self-published fiction is dreadful, I've read some really great
stuff, and I'm not just saying that in defence of my own work. I
really liked this one I found on amazon. There's
good stuff if you hunt for it.