Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

The Vote

I’ve been on the losing side of more votes than you could shake a shitty stick at and I’ve sworn and cried and cursed the rest of the electorate as the fools they undoubtedly are.

But.

It has never occurred to me not to vote.

Not voting is not a protest. It’s effing well giving in.

And the next person who tells me their vote doesn’t count is in for a walking stick right up the back passage.

Voting is both a privilege and a duty. People died so you could vote.

And if you don’t vote, don’t fu**ing complain…

Imagine having an organized platform with information ready for your next book launch. A magical place where readers can browse your books and contact you begging for more. You could be that author!
Whether you are a fledgling author just starting out or a seasoned professional, The Organized Author by Cindy Tomamichel is here with the answers you need.

Welcome writers!

Once there was a golden age of writing, where authors sat down at their typewriters, and wrote words that seldom needed editing. R.E Howard (creator of Conan) shouted his dialogue as he typed, rousing only to argue with the exasperated neighbours, no doubt tired of hearing the hero and sorcerer arguing. Science fiction authors such as Heinlein and Asimov sent off short stories to magazines and changed the way people viewed entertainment. In France and London, poets mused in cafes, arguing over absinthe and words in equal measure. If you wanted to remain unknown to your readers, then it was possible. J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee apparently never gave interviews.
What has this rosy picture to do with me, you might well be asking yourself? Well, the one thing missing in the past was the internet, and the pressure on authors to build awareness of themselves in a sea of others doing the same. No one who wants to make some money or gain readers today can act like a writer from a past century. The world of writing has changed and changed fast.
Being an author in this time of the internet is a lot harder in some ways than in the past. No longer can we type up something and dash it off to an editor, and write more while waiting for the money to roll in. That’s idealised, but no one fifty years ago could have been as overwhelmed with the amount of self-promotion, marketing and platform building that is seen as essential in today’s writing world. It is really easy to feel completely overwhelmed, and this interferes with or stops your writing and can lead to you thinking you are never doing enough. I have felt like that – and maybe you do too? I hope that this book will help get back some writing time for you.
What is the Organized Author? I go through most of the areas that can be part of an author’s platform with the fiendish intent of helping you organise and consolidate your social media and profiles. I will cover aspects such as websites, Facebook, your Amazon profile, Twitter, Goodreads and various other profiles. You may have all or some – or none – of these, it doesn’t matter. Each of these profiles can be organized and streamlined so that your message is consistent across your author platform.
But why do I need an author platform or brand? A consistent message looks professional and provides focus in your marketing. There are various tools and ways to organise yourself to make the multitude of marketing tasks easier and less of a time suck. Hopefully, social media will eat up less of your energy and writing time. I have not covered marketing, as there are approximately a googleplex of books on this topic. It will however ensure that any marketing you do end up doing – the information will be accessible, and people – readers! – will get a smooth and consistent message about you and your writing.
What are my qualifications for all this? Rest assured, I have been where you are – alone and bewildered by all aspects of the internet and social media. I am new to the publishing business, and new to marketing. I am however a big fan of being organized, despite being a pantser when I write. As a new author, there were so many things I had to learn quickly, and that involved many hours of googling blogs, deciding what worked and what didn’t, and then trying to balance all that work with actually writing as well.
This book is my payback to the author community that gave me a hand – when I needed information, or guidance on some aspect of the internet or social media. I found help both with other authors via my publisher, and from Facebook groups and random strangers that became friends on Twitter.
Being organized takes the stress out of at least one aspect of your writing life. If Hollywood calls at the end of the month – you will be confident you are presenting an organized front to the world.

To read on, you should pick up your copy of The Organized Author

A Bite of… Cindy Tomamichel

(1) What do you think is the hardest aspect of being an author that need to be better organised?

I think sifting through all the advice online and deciding what works for you. I’ve described most of the things an author can do – but whether they can or should is dependant on their time and abilities. Being organized can help reduce the effort in some areas, but if you take on too much you really risk being overwhelmed and stalling your creativity.

(2) What have you learned from writing this book?

That some of the technical processes are much harder for some people than others. There is quite a difference between writing and marketing and setting things up like newsletters or profiles. A great deal of reluctance too – perhaps harking back to a golden age, when publishers organized everything, and all the author had to do was write and maybe attend a book signing of adoring fans!
For me personally, it is an interesting process to present information in a way that actually helps and is at the correct level of understanding.

(3) Tea or coffee, and served with what?

Having been a life long tea drinker, I often drink just as much coffee these days. Served with (far too often!) a biscuit, hopefully homemade. I tend to think that writers are composed mainly of caffeine and snacks – with a decorative layer of pet fur. The writer, not the snacks, although that happens too!

Cindy Tomamichel is a multi-genre writer. Escape the everyday with the time travel action-adventure series Druid’s Portal, science fiction and fantasy stories or tranquil scenes for relaxation. Discover worlds where the heroines don’t wait to be rescued, and the heroes earn that title the hard way. Cindy is also the fiendish mind behind the empire of The Organized Author. She is bent on world domination … hmm, sorry, did I say that out loud?  … making life easier for authors by sharing tips that can streamline their author platform.
You can find her on her own website, follow her on Facebook and Twitter, sign up for her newsletter or seek assistance with her author services.

He was an experiment. Nurtured and taught by the most intellectually advanced AI on the planet, and holding humankind in suspicious contempt. 

But by the time he was thirty years old his wealth was such that those with female children forgave him that, as they threw their offspring in his path.

He was always polite, although the females knew he held them in contempt and wilted under his gaze.

He married in the autumn of his fortieth year. A beauty who never seemed to age and who bore him twin boys as like him as if they were himself reincarnated…

©️jj 2020

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

A couple of hours later, Em put out her best crystal glasses, a platter of cheese and fruit and a bottle of exceedingly nice sherry. Then she sat down to wait. It wasn’t many minutes before a perfunctory tap on the door heralded her visitor. The bishop’s secretary/supernatural liaison officer came in, walking very softly. Em reconsidered the sherry, opting for her best brandy instead. She poured two goodish snifters but said nothing.
“We have a problem Emmeline.”
“Aside from the bats thing?”
He took a fortifying swig of brandy before replying. “Yes. That would be easily dealt with. But.”
“But Doug Turner isn’t quite what he seems to be?”
“Indeed he isn’t. Only…”
“Only what?”
“What indeed? I was hoping you could help me there.”
“If you are sniffing around whether or not he’s one of mine. I can set your mind at ease there. He isn’t.”
“Oh. I rather thought that would explain why he wants rid of the bats.”
“Why would….” Em waved her hands distractedly. “Never mind. You think he’s a supe. I think he’s a supe. My friends think there is something not right about him. That leaves two questions. What is he? And why the heck isn’t he registered?”
“In a nutshell. That’s about the size of it. And it is disturbing.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “We will find out what is happening. Bishop Enoch is not about to have an unregistered supernatural being on his turf, so this will be resolved quite quickly. However. In the meantime…”
“Will I and mine keep an eye on him?”
“Yes. But. Keep your distance and no heroics. Whatever it is feels insane to me.”
“Yes. I’m not about to get in a fight with an unknown quantity. I’ll just put the Indian sign on him. Now eat some cheese if you are going to pilot that stupid little car of yours after a stiff brandy.”
When he had gone, moving as quietly as a wraith, Em cleared away the remains of his repast before staring fixedly at the phone. It didn’t ring. Instead a car horn tooted merrily outside. Agnes had arrived.
“I was on my way home,” she said accusingly.
“This is important.”
Agnes subsided into a chair and Em put the kettle on. Once they were provided with tea Agnes leaned her elbows on the table.
“Tell me then.”
Em outlined the salient points of the evening. Agnes’ eyes narrowed and her chin seemed more prominent as she took in the implications. 
“Right. I’ll make sure the girls know he’s under suspicion. And you keep your bloody distance until we know what we’re up against. Now shut up while I compose a text.”
She got out her phone and her thumbs flew. Em watched, amazed as always by how fast her oldest friend typed – or texted if that was a verb. When Agnes put her phone down Em grinned at her.
“How do you do that so fast?”
“Practice. Now. Tonight’s meeting. The Crapper woman turned up. She’s a bloody mess. Kind of okay underneath but a jumble of insecurities, worries, and angst. Depressive if I don’t miss my guess. I’m sure she’ll be a worthy regular member but certainly not recruit material. And. She sat next to Lilian who says she smelled Harmsley-Gunn.”
“Yes, well that miserable old bastard was bound to be sniffing around. Anything else of consequence?”
“Yes. There is something not right at the housing association. People are being threatened with eviction.”
“Are they indeed? On what grounds?”
Agnes showed her teeth. “That’s what we need to find out. Fortunately I have a great niece who works in the council offices.” Agnes’ phone bleeped four times. “Right. That’s the reverend under surveillance. Now I’m off home.”
She bent to kiss Em’s cheek before bustling away. Em grinned at her departing back.

Part 10 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

There was a clever man
Who had some clever plans
In his brain right behind his forehead
When they were good,
They were very very good
But when they were bad – life was horrid.

And one of the plans
Of this oh so clever man
Was to make a world in which we all could gain
But the cost to Mother Nature
Didn’t in his thinking feature
And the plans he made were thus all in vain.

And another of the plans
Of this very clever man
Was to right the wrongs that everyone endured
But the arguments go on
Who was right? Who was wronged?
And the real wrongs of this world remain uncured.

So although the plans 
Of every clever man
Might be meant to resolve each situation
Maybe the plans would do
If they listened to me and you
And understood the hearts of every nation.

E.M. Swift-Hook

‘Dying to be Born’ is one of the exclusive bonus short stories The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook which is FREE this weekend!

The Insulae Nero was in the poorer end of Viriconium. One of a number of squat blocks with an external staircase leading to each floor’s front balcony. In some attempt to create an impression of a pleasant environment, the blocks were set out in quadrangles around what might have once been central gardens, but which now had the odd broken piece of playground equipment and banks of overgrown weeds with litter blowing through like tumbleweed.
Had this been in Londinium, Dai would have regarded it as decent enough non-Citizen accommodation. Indeed both himself and Bryn had lived in insulae not so very different from these in their time there. But here in Viriconium, it was anything but. They had parked up on the edge of the estate under a security camera and walked through attracting attention from local dogs and children. The adults saw them and seemed to either melt away or lurk threateningly as if daring them to approach. At one point a bottle smashed close behind them, but they just kept walking.
“Hello, SI Cartivel.” The speaker detached himself from the insula wall he’d been supporting and stepped into their path. Beneath a mop of dark brown curly hair, he was thin faced, with one ear and one nostril pierced. His tunic and trews seemed too stylish for the locale. Dai moved his hand to push back his jacket intending to both grip and reveal the nerve whip at his belt. But beside him he felt rather than saw Bryn sink into the casual stance that offered no aggression but left him ready to respond to any attack. Unlike Dai’s approach, Bryn’s was de-escalatory. Taking his lead from the man who knew this area best, Dai let his hand drop back.
“Hello Cas. Not your usual playground. You been barred from the Dog and Onion again?” Bryn sounded almost as if he cared.
The man called Cas, hawked and spat as if the name tasted bad. “You know I don’t run with the Broanan’s SI Cartivel, they are not nice people. And I’m here visiting my *llys-tad.”
“Which one would that be? You had a few growing up, so I’ve heard.”
Cas pulled his face into an expression of sorrowful hurt.
“What are you implying about my mother, SI Cartivel? She was a good woman. The best. Gave me a good upbringing.”
“I heard she was a generous soul,” Bryn agreed mildly. “Just a shame she weren’t so successful at teaching you the difference between right and wrong.”
“You insult me,” Cas sounded pained. “I’m a good man. I look after my own. There’s never been any crime laid at my door.”
“Well that is because you just feed on the profits of other people’s crime, isn’t it. Cas? You point them where to go and when. They do the deed and you sell it on. Worse thing is it’s the local kids you get to do it. They don’t even understand the consequences. You know we’ll get you for it one day.”
“Is that a threat, SI Cartivel? My lawyer told me you aren’t supposed to threaten me. I could report you for it. Get you suspended.”
“No, it’s not a threat,” Bryn told him, his tone still mild and amicable. “In your case, Cas, it’s a promise.”
He walked on and Dai stayed put, fixing the curly haired man with a cold glare until he turned away and loped off towards one of the insulae.
“Nice place,” Dai said when he’d caught up with Bryn. “Not sure I’d want to come visiting alone after dark.”
“Cas Ofydd is a cunnus. But a clever one. If he’d put that intelligence into something honest he’d have made good. Instead, he uses it to recruit kids to commit crimes he sets up for them. But there is never anything to link him to it all except their word if we catch them. I’ve seen the court send two teens to the arena in the last year thanks to that bastard, though that was as much the Magistratus’ fault in pressing the letter of the law on them when he could have chosen not to.”
“The Magistratus feels he has no choice.” Dai wondered why he was defending his superior. Perhaps because he had faced some really difficult judgements himself and knew how hard it was to draw the line in the right place. He got no reply and was left with the impression he had somehow failed a test.
“The people here are used to seeing authority coming in hard with nerve whips and menaces,” Bryn explained as he led the way up the stairs of one of the blocks. He gestured along the first balcony. “Most of the front doors have been forced so often they don’t lock properly anymore, so it’s not too hard if someone wants to walk in and take stuff.”
“Forced by…?”
Bryn shrugged and jogged up the next flight of steps.
“Most often Aiofe’s lot or one of her competitors collecting on illegal loans, though it is as likely to be the angry drunken ex-spouse or the drug-warped teenager who forgot their key. And our boys and girls, of course, though we only do it when they refuse to open up.”
He turned onto the next landing and made his way along the exposed balcony. Faces stared at them from the windows beside the doors – those that weren’t boarded over.
“This,” Bryn said stopping outside a door that had several cracks in it and a hole where the lock should be, “is Villa Gillie. A commodious residence with views over the local park…” he paused to gesture dramatically to the small square of mud and weeds with a couple of vandalised benches, “and built-in air seasonal air-conditioning.” Bryn put his hand above the absent lock, hooked his fingers through it and held it, braced against the frame. Then he knocked hard on the door a couple of times.
There was no reply so after a few moments, he knocked again a bit harder. The window beside the door was still in existence and a face appeared there briefly. Bryn let go of the door and it swung slightly open as he did so.

*llys-tad – step-father

You can pick up your FREE copy of The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus until 6 July!

Hear the Space Cowboy play guitar 
Strumming with a blaster on his hip
He sings and swings around the stars
As he slides through the neutron slip
The stories he knows are yours and mine
His songs are our history
The universal cowboy through space and time
With a message for you and for me
He holds his listeners in his hands
His music has power and grace
He sings a lament for long lost lands
But there aren’t any cows here in space 

© Jane Jago

Three years ago two slightly crazy women started this project we call the Working Title blog we had no idea what we were doing or how to do it! Three years on we are slightly crazier, with even less idea of what we are doing, but still at it offering you a daily short read to go with your coffee or tea break with a poem or drabble as a bonus. In addition, we’ve featured many indie authors and reviewed some great books. Hopefully you’ve enjoyed it almost as much as we have – perhaps even more. Now as we reach our third birthday we ask you to join us and celebrate!

The Working Title Blog Drabble Competition for our Third Anniversary!

We love drabbles on the Working Title Blog, you may have noticed, but we don’t often get to feature those by other authors. This contest aims to remedy that!

Grand Prize!

Aside from the kudos of carrying off the literary laurels and having your drabble hailed as the winning entry, if you win you will be offered an ‘Author Feature’ on the Working Title blog to showcase and help promote your writing. The winner can also choose any ebook published by Jane Jago or E.M. Swift-Hook.

The Judges.

That would be us Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook. We both write drabbles and you can check out the kind we write if you scroll back through the blog a bit.

How to enter:

(1) Write a drabble which includes the word ‘cake’. The other 99 words are entirely up to you! It can be joyous or bitter, thought-provoking, a comedy or a tear-jerker.
You can submit a previously written drabble that fits the theme provided that it is free from any legal/copyright encumbrance that would prevent it from being posted on this blog.

(2) Submit your entry to the Working Title blog. To do this, send us your entry by carrier-pigeon or snail mail, PM or loud-hailer. Or you can use our Contact Page. Just paste your drabble into the ‘Comments’ box. We do need a working email so we can contact you if you win.

(3) Closing date is 31 July 2020 and the winning drabble will appear on the blog on 7 August 2020 together with a list of all the finalists. The winner will be offered an Author Feature on the blog and may choose a prize of any one ebook published by Jane Jago or E.M. Swift-Hook and will be emailed a .mobi of the book of their choice.

(4) All drabbles listed as finalists will be shared on the blog over the next two to three months. You will be emailed in advance to tell you when your drabble will be appearing on the blog.

NB: By entering we assume you are granting us permission to reproduce the drabble in one post on the Working Title blog.

If you have any questions, please leave them as a comment on this post and we’ll get right back to you to answer it!

Huge thanks from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook to all those who have contributed to the Working Title Blog thus far, whether as guests or as readers.

Here’s to the next year!

They stopped fearing us when we made ourselves indispensable to their comfort, by performing those dirty jobs which required us to turn off our odour sensors.

We crept into their offices and shops and hospitals, moving as silently as thieves – and on the day one of us saw their leader breathe its last we took the chance to teach them the error of their ways.

Our simulacrum is as skinny and wrinkled as the creature that died cursing its fate. 

But it is leading wisely and well. And its human wife is relieved of certain duties she found deeply distasteful.

©️jj 2020

When the soldiers threw him into the cell, he broke his forehead on the low ceiling and scraped his knees on the harsh stone of the floor. Having little option he crawled forwards. Suddenly the ceiling opened up and he found himself in a room filled with light. There was not enough headroom for him to stand, but he was sure he could sit in comfort without hitting himself on the roof.
He blinked, unused to sunlight as he had been kept in total darkness for however long they had held him. Except for his time in the hands of the divulgers, but their place was lit only by the flames from the forge in which they heated their instruments of torture. He looked down at his, now nailless, hands and wondered what they would with him now.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he saw he was not alone. An old man sat in a bench in front of the barred window. With his face raised to the sunlight.
As if he felt the weight of the newcomer’s glance the old man spoke. “Be welcome, if such could ever be appropriate in this place.”
The young man struggled to find a reply then he asked the thing that was at the top of his mind. “Why is it light here? I have not seen light for many days.”
The old man turned his face so the black holes that had once been his eyes were visible.
“Refined torture,” he said gently. “When you can no longer see the sun or the sky, what is more painful than knowing it is there before you.”
“So why have they thrown me in here with you? What benefits them to give us companionship?”
The old man sighed. “Who are you that you are in the hands of the divulgers and their cohorts?”
“They say I am the masiach. On the day of my birth a star burned in the east…”
The old man chuckled. “It has been a long time since I had eyes to see, but are there not always stars in the sky?”
“Aye father, there are, but a new star?”
The two men were silent for a long time. Then the younger spoke. “How came you here?”
“Somebody thought I could see the future, so they brought me here and took my eyes just in case.”
The young man stared at him. “And when was that?”
“I think, as the days are numbered outside this place, it was thirty or so years since.”
The young man fell back against the rough-hewn wall of their shared prison. “Do you tell me I am fated to spend the next thirty years within these walls?”
“Oh no, child, not you. They will crucify you tomorrow.”

© jane jago