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Doug Sinclair, Writer.

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WTF just hit me?!?

So much for me trying to keep this wee blog of mine updated at least semi-regularly.

Since landing my publishing deal way back in July 2023, I can quite honestly say WTF? While my publisher, Storm, has done a fine job of baby-sitting me and guiding me through the various professional edit stages to actual, for-real, nae-kiddin’, publication, I vastly underestimated the impact this wee life event would have on me.

While I still have enough hours in most days to deal with writing and editing and self-marketing and soclial meedjaing and all the other nonsense that comes with becoming a – gulp – proper writerer, I’ve found my mental capacity has struggled. I promised myself I would write at least a few words into this blog thing most days, if only for the cathartic benefits, but the task seems to always slip down the back of my mental sofa, to be found, months later, covered in psychological lint and the dust of many emotional takeaways plastered to it. (Did I stretch that partocular metaphor a wee bit? I think I did.)

Anyway, with one book actually, for-real, nae-kiddin’, published, and a second on it’s way through the publishing machine and expected to emerge, blinking and whimpering, into the brilliant light of “out there” on 2nd May, and even a third book in the process of oozing from my diseased and troubled mind into my laptop and yet to fall under the brutal but transformational virtual red pen of my editor, the marvellous Kate Smith, I’ve come to realise one, fundamental and unavoidable truism – if one writes line after line of utterly purple and over-showy prose in a blog entry, one runs a serious risk of forgetting what the hell one was talking about.

Like the role model of my childhood, troubled and unfortunate genius Wil E Coyote. All I can do is keep chasing that pesky bird (I know, stretching the metaphor again).

 

Onwards and upwards, always.

xxx

 

 

I’ve only gone and done it!

 

*** Self-indulgence alert – apologies ***

** Sweary words, too. Sorry, I have to be me. ***

I suffered clinical depression (chemical imbalance in my brain) for the first fifty years of my life. Then my amazing wife, Maaike, made me get help. I got medicated and literally (and I mean literally “literally”) within days, I was transformed. Which was nice, because after 50+ years of absolute mental hell on earth, I finally got to understand that I have an illness. I’m not a worthless piece of shite, or a loathsome waste of oxygen, or an idiot always too stupid to understand what everybody else around me seems to “get” without effort.

I had, and have, a medical condition. A treatable medical condition. Like Diabetes. Or Migraines. Or any number of other conditions that other people live with but don’t interpret as cosmic evidence of being an ugly and unwelcome and embarrassing carbuncle on the arse of the universe.

During those same fifty years, I dreamed of writing and “being a writer”, but the aforementioned self-loathing and fundamental belief in my own worthlessness smothered any effort I managed to muster to realise that dream. After my amazing wife, Maaike, helped me to get help, I started the long process of rebuilding my self-confidence.

I took what even my heathen mind can call “a leap of faith”.

Crime fictiony events like Bloody Scotland and Bute Noir and Harrogate and the wonderful, cosy, Crime & Publishment, do far, far, more then just let people meet their idols or booze-and-schmooze. They offer people like me an environment where we are encouraged to believe in ourselves, to trust the opinions and judgement of people with massive amounts of *lived* experience and zero interest in false-flattery or ego-stroking. And when someone whom you admire and whose opinion you trust tells you you can write, how bloody idiotic is it to question their better judgement, and their objectivity, and their *lived* experiences and the wisdom that brings?

Hence, a leap of faith. When the wee bastard poison parrot is telling me I’m shit and I should know I’m shit, I tell it to fuck off because such-and-such seems to believe in me and her/his/their judgement is about a gazillion times more reliable than the PP’s nasty, snide, destructive, toxic, and never-ending campaign to sabotage what – I’m finally starting to believe – is something I actually might be pretty good at.

I’ve just signed a three book deal with the talented Kate Smith at Storm Publishing, brokered by my excellent agent, Kevin Pocklington of The North Literary Agency. And while my inner idiot still irrationally fears they’re all wrong or playing some huge Truman Show style trick on me, I have enough sense to choose to believe that these people – lovely and kind and supportive as they very much are – are ultimately business people, and if the product they’re hoping to sell (me and my writing) wasn’t damned good, they would not invest their time in me.

Fuck the parrot. To hell with Imposter Syndrome. Attend events. Make friends. Not “contacts” you “networked with”. Friends. Write. Then ask (nicely, of course) for feedback from people whose opinions you trust. Then write some more. Then some more. And never, ever, EVER, give up.

Never.

Onwards and upwards, always.

xxx

 

 

Harrogate, here I come.

July is nigh. I like July. July means the next major writering gathering I regularly attend each year.

Crime & Publishment in February, Harrogate in July. Bute Noir in August. Bloody Scotland in September.

Last year’s Harrogate was, for me, a little subdued because of some deeply hurtful personal stuff that happened shortly before July. Took the shine off a lot of my life, and rather tarnished my excitement at attending what was my first Harrogate.

But this year, I’m past the nastiness of 2022, and can’t wait to spend a couple of days mingling and jawing and hugging (and possibly imbibing a few refreshments) with My Tribe. I know Harrogate is seen as a great networking opportunity, and I’d be a big, fat, fibber if I tried to claim I wanted none of that cynical nonsense, but there *are* some people I’d dearly love to bump into, for various reasons.

There are people I feel a need to apologise to, like the lovely lady who took the trouble to hand-write some excellent notes on my then Pile-Of-Tripe, but which then I lost and possibly left lying on a chair in a hotel in Gretna. I then compounded my sins by failing to pluck up the courage to approach said person to apologise for said transgression when I saw said person at last year’s Harrogate.

Then there are people I want to thank (guchingly, I fear) for all the patience and support and bottom-bootings with which they’ve blessed me in my long, painful, embarrasingly needy, journey where I am today – actually believing my scribblings might actually be worthy of publication.

Finally, there are the people who just make my heart swell when I see them. Good, kind, generous, loving people. Typical crime writerers. My Tribe.

I’ve missed you all. xxx

 

 

 

Coo tickets bagged, at last.

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I have finally managed to book myself a couple of tickets for Crime At The Coo on the Saturday evening of Bloody Scotland 2023.

Every year previously, I’ve been too slow, and by too slow I mean taking more than three minutes to book them. Usually, they’re all gone within minutes of going on sale.

One previous year I managed to blag my way in by sucking up shamelessly to one of the amazing and fabulous and triffic writerers who help organise it, and another year I failed to book because of a glitch on the BS web site so the even more amazing and fabulous and triffic organisers of BS put me on the returns list and I got one that way.

But this year, I was off my work-from-home nonsense like shite off a hot shovel and over to the booking page as soon as I saw the email announcing the programme had been released.

I’m giddy with both excitement and a sense of achievement. The feeling of finishing a complete, polished, perfect, novel is one thing, but  it pales into paltry insignificance next to the warm, smug, feeling of knowing my Coo tickets are bagged (and not blagged, this year, #SeeWotIDidThere?).

Life is good. For now.

xxx

Waiting, waiting, waiting…

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I HATE WAITING!!!

I’m rubbish at it. Psychologically unequipped (Inequipped? Ill-equipped? Crap?) at it.

Currently waiting for some possible progress with my debut novel. And it’s killing me. I feel it safe to say that getting a publishing deal if (when, dammit…) it ever happens will be a life-changing event. For the better, although the idea of being under contract to finish a book by a contractually-agreed date rather than “enjoying” the luxury of stumbling from creative crisis to creative crisis and curling up in a corner with thumb inserted firmly into mouth when the muse doesn’t feel like playing with me.

It’s the impotence that kills me. Nowt I can do but wait. And then wait some more. And then carry on waiting. My writing career in someone else’s hands. Self-publishing is calling to me like a siren luring me to crash and drown on the rocks of literary hubris. (Yes, I know, I disappeared up my own literary arse for a second, there.) But the prospect of having an agent to look after my interests (that part already done, at least) and a publisher to help me make my books the bestest they can be, is too tempting to really consider going it alone.

But the waiting… (Sobs, wails, blows nose noisily into handy curtain.)

Patience is said to be a virtue. And a card game, obviously. It’s a life-skill I may never learn to master.

xxx

Onwards and sideways, I mean upwards.

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So much for blogging regularly.

I foolishly allowed some personal stuff that really hurt me through the second half of last year, to drag on into this year. Tried to pick myself up, dust myself down, and do the “Onwards and upwards!” thing, but ended up going more sideways than upwards. Things got done, progress was made, words were written, but I was on autopilot.

I started a blog to help me organise my thoughts and feelings about shitshows like what happened in the middle of last year, to help me develop some thicker skin, some resilience, but it’s been hard work. Those of you who know me well (you have my sympathies) will know I can be just a wee bit guilty of suffering from a small modicum of what some might call not quite complete self confidence. And those of you who know me well (again, my sympathies) will also know that I may not be brimming over and awash with that positive self-image stuff which I’m sure every other bugger who ever wrote a book has in abundance.

Last year was damaging, but I think I’ve come out of it a bit harder, a tad less over-sensitive, and with some much-needed self-protectionist bloody-mindedness.

My debut is out on submission, and I – of course – am fully expecting the world and its dog to reject my amateurish scribblings with scorn and disdain and – if I’m lucky – a few pointers as to just why I continue to receive further rejections to add to my zealously-protected long list of reasons to pummel and flagellate* myself on a regular basis.

But here’s the thing. I rambled previously about a kind of atheistic leap-of-faith I learned I could make. Enough people have told me, with staggering reserves of patience, that I can write, and that I can invent compelling characters who I put through engaging and gripping ordeals. And I’m not talking about well-intentioned friends who would find something good to say about a rancid turd in a box, if told them I was proud of it, or the woman who claims to be my mother and is delusional to a ridiculous extent about the wondrous brilliance of the fruit of her loins. I’m talking about other writers (I nearly wrote *fellow* writers, just then) and editors and agents and publishers and bloggers who have told me that Yes, I can bloody write.

So, I’m hanging on to that. The fact that I have agent who sees enough value in my writing buy me dinner a couple of times (vegan burritos – what were you thinking, Kevin?) and put some professional time into trying to pimp me out, should tell me I have some talent. As lovely a guy as Kevin is, he wouldn’t be trying to sell me if there wasn’t (weren’t?) potential earnings in it for him, right?

Today’s lesson – when all personal reserves of self-belief and self-respect have drained away or been blasted into sub-atomic sentiment particles by “life events”, bloody well listen to others.

Most of them mean well.

xxx

* Today’s blog was brought to you by the word “flagellate”, which is not used nearly often enough in normal conversation, if you ask me.

“POLR”

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POLR. Path Of Least Resistance. Laziness. Convenience.

I’d like to thank several sterling examplars of POLR who have vividly demonstrated to me the damage that POLR-thinking is doing to us all. Or maybe it’s just me.

Two gobby girls on a train to Glasgow who vaped next to me inside the train, then hurled abuse and ridicule for asking them to stop, then carried on vaping because it was easier for them to abuse me than to engage with me and try to see my point of view.

The staff at a local Starbucks who interrupted their “aren’t customers a nuisance” chat to serve me with the minimum necessary communication to tick their “job description” (take order, take money, give coffee, next) without wasting time on trivialities like politeness or personal engagement or silly old-fashioned things like “please” and “thank you”.

The Scotrail staff member at a train station who answered my polite enquiry about where to pay an excess fare by loudly reciting a pat response, learned through regular tired overuse, over his shoulder at me while continuing to efficiently multitask (i.e. continue his chat with his similarly dismissive colleague about the footie).

The van driver who thought it wiser to thunder through a zebra crossing and make me jump backwards onto the kerb rather than waste perfectly good brake pads and tyre rubber to brake from the 50% over the speed limit he was doing in order to minimise wasted time in his working day by wastefully stopping for ten seconds.

A new friend of mine, a publishing industry professional, lovely, lovely, person, recently remarked to me that the world could be so much nicer if more people made even a modicum of effort to be nicer to each other. She looked as miserable saying that as I felt agreeing with her.

Anyone else regularly feel like saying “Stop the world. I want to get off”?

Worst thing about being a writer?

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Possibly the second-most-asked question writer get asked after “Where do you get your ideas?” or “Have you made any money yet *snigger*?” is “What’s the hardest thing about being a writer?”

OK, so maybe there are loads more questions that get asked before that one, but it makes a good post intro, so I’m not changing it.

For me, it’s not the initial writing, although the Poison Parrot does it sneaky damndest to stop that phase of writing a book from progressing, or even starting, very often.

It’s not even editing. I enjoy editing. Seeing my book come together both structurally and stylistically, making it “sing”.

And it’s not putting it “out there” and asking beta readers to read it.

It’s not even getting pages of recommendations (take up landscape painting instead…) back from said beta readers.

It’s not even the patronising and pitying looks I get from so many people when I tell them I’m writing a book. Or even another book. I try to let those looks motivate me, remind myself I have something they don’t have and will never have – my stories and my character and all their loves and hates and joys and heart-breaks.

No. The worst thing about being a writer for me is …

…

…

…

Waiting (see what I did there?).

I think one of the kindest things agents and publishers and editors and bloggers can do is to add an auto-reply to their submissions inbox. At least let us know our submission has landed, arrived in their inbox and not got lost somewhere in the aether along the way.

Every time I send something to one of the aforementioned kinds of people, I spend the next days/weeks/months worrying I’m waiting to hear back about something I may or may not later find out never even bloody made it to them.

I’m not a patient man, at the best of times, so please, book publishing industry, for the sake of all of us little people trying to get our big break – let us know you got our email?

That, alone, would reduce my/our stress levels hugely.

xxx

 

Crime & Publishment – begone, damned Parrot!!!

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What a weekend.

I’ve always loved Crime & Publishment. Cosy, intimate (in a nice, wholesome, way). A meeting of like-minded souls who share a common, and wonderful, dream. To write. To take what burns inside of us and give it voice. To share it and celebrate it. To help ourselves and others understand what makes us tick, and what makes our poor, mis-guided and fallible, species do the things we do, both wonderful and awful.

I needed it, this year. Personal stuff around mid-2022 set me back a bit, had me doubting my writing ability and my faith in people and my staying power, my ability to rise above my own insecurities and achieve my lifelong dream of taking what rattled around in my knackered old head and make sense of it, learn to live with it, own it. It’s a well known feeling that most writers struggle with. A nasty little bastard called “The Poison Parrot” (as the lovely, lovely, Caro Ramsay calls it). Also known as “Imposter Syndrome” but calling it “The Poison Parrot” makes it so much easier to hate the wee shite and send it packing.

The Poison Parrot sits on our shoulder and whispers to us. Every time someone kindly compliments our writing it whispers to us that they’re lying, or misguided, or falsely-flattering us. When even seasoned and experienced industry professionals read our scribbling and tell us we’ve “got the juice” (thanks, Mr Broadfoot – still love you for that one), the Parrot whispers to us that these people just want something from us, or they want us to piss off and stop bothering them.

And the Parrot has all the time in the day to work it’s nasty little beak on us. Even the loveliest and most inspiring comment from a good friend or a fellow C&P attendee or fellow scribbler stays fresh in our ears for only so long, but the Parrot has all day and all night to “put us straight”.

Worse, the Parrot’s best mate and co-conspirator, Confirmation Bias, is always on hand to magnify our belief in what the Parrot tells us.

I’ve had to learn a new meaning to the word “faith”. I’m not religious, but I’ve learned that a “leap of faith” can not only be a good thing, but a necessary thing, sometimes. When I believe my writing is shit, I try to remember when so-and-so said they loved my writing (so-and-so being someone who knows what the hell she or he is talking about). When The Parrot tells me I’m kidding myself and that I wouldn’t recognise good writing of mine if it smacked me in the face, I try to remember when some wiser and more experienced and better informed so-and-so told me to stop flogging myself and listen to her/him instead of that damned bird.

The Parrot is a wee bastard. The Parrot wants me to fail, so it can spend the rest of my life reminding me it always knew I’d fail. Bastard Parrot.

Good news? I’ve found that the Parrot is terrified of the sound of fingers banging away on a keyboard. It pisses off sharpish when it hears that. So, the solution to the wee bastard Parrot is easy – arse in chair, fingers on keyboard, mind in our stories and with our wild and wonderful characters.

My own damned Parrot got blasted off my shoulder at C&P (and is hopefully still lost somewhere between Kirkpatrick and West Lothian) by the love and inspiration and belief I got, and always get, from any time I spend with my tribe, the very best of people, Crime Fiction Writers.

I think that’s a leap of faith I can, er, have faith in.

xxx