How to Publish a Book - Rejection

 (Excerpt from How to Publish a Book by Timothy L. Marx, 1928)

I recently received a rejection from a notorious literary agent who I won't name because they are also very litigious. This is of course fine. Not everybody is going to love your book and there are many reasons for rejection beyond quality. It could be that they are about to publish something similar, or that they currently have as many clients as they can manage, or that they are a vindictive so-and-so who, unbeknownst to me, has been involved in a vicious feud with Cuthers' father since they were at Eton together.

Even so, it is important not to take rejection personally, even if it is entirely personal. I had intended to keep the news of this particular rejection from Cuthers, but somehow word reached him via the gossip vine that this tiresomely grudgeful agent has been going around saying the novel is the worst thing to happen to English literature since Thomas Chatterton visited the chemists. Cuthers became so enraged by this that Barrington had to advise him that such language was against club membership rules.

The rage has continued to burn all week, very literally in one instance which required me to form a one-man fire brigade. Dogger Davidson tipped me off that he had just seen Cuthers leave the club with a box of matches and arsonous intent. After quickly finding the intended victim's address from the telephone directory, I hailed a cab and made my way there post-haste. I had hoped to arrive before the dangerous fool, but on arrival I found Cuthers lighting strips of newspaper and attempting to push them through the letterbox. Fortunately he was as incompetent an arsonist as he was a writer, and he was doing more damage to himself than his critic's residence.

I gave him a royal dressing-down and sent him packing. He acquiesced with an indecent rapidity. I didn't want him to burn the house down, but if one feels that strongly about something one shouldn't just give up at the first obstacle. There was still a smell of burning in the air following his departure, possibly from the sheer amount of newspaper he had worked his way through. There was a nagging fear in the back of my mind that he may have been more successful before my arrival. That fear nagged its way to the front of my mind. I put my nose to the letterbox and smelled smoke. I couldn't risk walking away if there was a chance that something was burning within, so I rang the bell vigorously, but nobody came. It would have to be up to me to deal with the emergency.

The doorway was sheltered, and so with no ready alternative I unbuttoned my trousers and poked my chap through the letterbox. It was an unpleasant means of extinguishing a fire, but on the whole I thought it less of a problem than the whole house burning down. There were only two problems. The first was that nothing was immediately forthcoming. The second was that as soon as things had taken a turn for the productive, the butler answered the door. There we both stood, me with my chap hanging out like a Blackpool sunbather and him with wet trouser legs. 

"I can explain everything," I said, although I had no desire to explain any of it. He stared at me with the sort of benign malignance his class thrive on. I imagined how explaining everything would go, and so hoping that all my publicity work was as hopeless as my sales figures indicate, I turned and bolted away, with my tail literally between my legs.

Procrastination

Almost all writers spent an inordinate amount of time procrastinating. Any that don't are presumably too busy efficiently using their time by some magical process I cannot grasp. It can take the form of some mundane task that absolutely must be done right at that moment and is definitely more important than writing, like hoovering the flat, or cleaning the bathroom.

I'm no stranger to those options and my flat is never cleaner than when I'm supposed to be writing. However there's only so much time you can spend cleaning. My flat is tiny. For true commitment to avoiding serious time at the keyboard, you need a project. Ideally the project should be something just beyond your actual skillset. You could take this as an opportunity to learn something new. Alternatively it could become an endless source of despair as you repeatedly fail to complete it, adding deliciously to the guilt of having not written a single word during the process.

My latest project is fitting some blinds in my living room. I live in a new build flat with floor to ceiling windows that get the sun from dawn to dusk. It gets hot. Really, really hot. My previous solution was some thermal curtains and they were not up to the task. I have even resorted to attaching thermal insulation to the windows. The insulation is basically silver bubble wrap and applying it makes my flat look like a cannabis factory. Given how hot it gets, maybe I should just set up a cannabis factory.

In the interests of aesthetics I thought some blinds would be better. I have already bought some wooden blinds at some expense. They were hopelessly unsuited to the task and I sold them at a considerable loss. So far so good. The next plan is to try some cellular blinds. These concertina down to form a series of insulating cells of air. At least that is the theory. In practice I expect they will be rubbish. However before I can test them I need to make a wooden frame for them as I don't want to drill into the metal window frames. Who knows what would happen if I did that? In IT there's the notion of 'letting out the magic smoke.' I'm not sure what the architectural equivalent is, but I imagine it's horrifically expensive.

I am of course wondering what my plan is once I've wasted my time with the cellular blind. The nuclear option is to brick the fuckers up. In all seriousness I could perhaps block the lower sections. That would help perhaps? Or perhaps not. The worst of the heat is feeling it directly on my head while I'm trying to work, and that's not coming from below.

Ideally I would be able to apply a thermal film to the outside of the windows, but I've looked into that and it involves hiring a cherry picker and closing the road outside, so it's fair to say that's beyond my budget. Some sort of shutters would be good too, but the same applies there, with the added complication that the housing association probably won't allow them. There are safety implications, which I suppose is fair enough, but at this point I'm happy to sacrifice the occasional passer-by if it cools the place down a bit. I do have a portable air conditioner, and given the environmental consequences of its use I suppose I am already sacrificing strangers to keep the heat at bay.

How many strangers would I be willing to sacrifice for the sake of my own comfort? Is this a question the Pharaohs wrestled with as they considered their journey to the next world? Was a pyramid effectively the ancient equivalent of an Uber XL with the AC on full blast? I should reconsider bricking up my windows. I could be living in a modern pyramid. If location is everything, imagine the property prices in the next world.

How to Publish a Book - Self-Promotion

  (Excerpt from How to Publish a Book by Timothy L. Marx, 1928)

There are many despicable aspects of this grubby business and to my mind none are worse than the requirement to bare your existence to the world in the manner of a cockerel or post-prandial parliamentarian. Indeed it shares many aspects of the latter, and the hopeful author has to ingratiate themselves to their public like an eager candidate standing in an election. There are perhaps less babies to kiss, although that may depend on the age of your readership.

In my case the situation is made intolerably worse in that it isn't myself I am shouting from the treetops about, it is that infuriating dullard Cuthers. How on earth has he managed to write a book? I cannot wring any sense out of either the predicament or the book. It's quite extraordinary, and yet I find myself de-facto literary agent for this unliterary creature. He of course has no qualms about crowing his genius from whatever high perches present themselves. You might be tempted to ask what my problem is in this case? Why don't I just let the great clod get on with it while I salve my nerves with some French Rumbo's at Hubbard's? The problem is that too much confidence is off-putting. Also the more Cuthers voices his opinions, the greater the body of evidence against his wits amasses. My job has become that of a moderating presence, a notion that I'm sure would be greeted with much guffawing should I volunteer it at the club. Whenever he speaks, I must be ready to cut short any digressions into politics, race, or, God forbid, cricket with a furious wiggling of eyebrows or a well-timed fit of coughing. The confidence of the man is bafflingly boundless and I thank heavens that he is still a bachelor as the thought of him populating the world with similar offspring is enough to send me to my grave.

In order to sell your books you will need to sell yourself. I do not mean that in some vulgar Whitechapel way, but more that you should be prepared to be seen out and about and be entertaining while doing so. Public appearances are an essential chore. There is a good circuit of speaking arrangements at gentleman's clubs and societies that can put you on the right track, but be careful not to overdo it or your audience will tire and withdraw, or worse, throw over-ripened fruit at you. This has only happened once and jolly funny it was too, but professionally speaking it was something of a set-back.

One tactic that can be effective when used carefully is to align oneself with a controversial cause. This will garner much publicity, but caution should be applied lest you move from notable to notorious. I offered this advice to Cuthers, which was in retrospect a terrible blunder. Lacking any sound judgement, he immediately allied himself with a deeply unpleasant fascist brigade and at the time of writing is hiding in a bedsitting room in Waterloo while various interested parties from the police to rightfully incensed members of the public seek him out. If he were to be arrested or soundly beaten that might make my life easier. I wouldn't need to manage his public appearances and the scandal would be sure to shift a few copies. But alas that would then be the end of the matter and I have already run up considerable debts during this folly, particularly at the club. There is talk of my membership being revoked, and being associated with someone now believed to be a fascist really isn't helping my case, even if half the old duffers in that place would probably agree with some of the fascists' talking points given the claptrap they come out with before they slide out of their armchairs.

The only way I can see out of this mess is to announce that Cuthers was in fact infiltrating the fascist organisation in order to conduct research for a forthcoming book exposing their dastardly ways. Then I can get him to show support for Battersea Dogs Home or something similarly innocuous. With luck everyone will forget about the exposé because he certainly isn't capable of writing it and I'll be damned if I'm taking the task on.

In the meantime I am quite enjoying the brief period of peace that this episode has brought on. While Cuthers is in hiding I'm spared his constant wittering and whining. In fact in an effort to prolong this state of affairs I've taken to disguising myself with a hood and hammering on the door of his bedsit to dissuade him from any thoughts of leaving. So all in all perhaps things haven't worked out so badly.

Libraries

Libraries are of course wonderful institutions which we should treasure in this age of 1-click Amazon deliveries. They were there for me when I was young and skint and they should always be there for those who can't fritter their bank balances on brand new or even second-hand books. However for a writer they serve another purpose - they are somewhere that is not your home. Now don't get me wrong, I like my home. It is, to paraphrase The Tick, where I keep all my stuff. Unfortunately all that stuff calls to me while I'm trying to write. It's bad enough trying to write on a device that, via the internet, can serve up an endless amount of entertainment at the drop of hat. Or the click of a button. I don't own a hat-operated laptop but fully expect one to be demoed at the next CES. VR is literally old hat, the future is hat-based user interfaces.

You see? I don't even have a Hat UI device yet, but it's already massively distracted me from the task at hand. This problem is only multiplied when working in a place packed with a lifetime of cool stuff. Why yes, it has been a while since I looked at those 1964-65 New York World's Fair View-Master packets. No, I don't really need to look at them now but ten minutes won't hurt. Oh, but maybe I should tidy those CDs piled on the record deck instead. When was the last time I even played a record? I've got that Dry Cleaning one from last year just propped up in the Expedit. I should put it on, I definitely won't get distracted by the lyrics.

So yes, libraries are free from such distractions, provided you ignore the fact that they are almost made out of books. Do not read the books. In fact, here are my tips for productive writing in a library environment:

• Everyone likes their own table. Or is that just me? The more isolated tables are prized locations and if you want one you need to show up early. This is a problem if, like me, you're not really into mornings as a general concept or for that matter actual reality. This can be mitigated by trading comfort for isolation. For example many libraries have a spot where it gets intolerably hot in direct sunlight, so dress in linen and take your chance to write that novel about camel breeding in Somalia you never knew you had in you.
• For the avoidance of distractions, pick a section of the library with the least appealing subject to yourself. This is difficult because all sections become intriguing when particularly stuck. Even accountancy. BS Johnson got a whole book out of it, so maybe it all works out for the best anyway.
• The British Library has some much coveted seat/desk combos at the top of the stairs on the first floor. These are great but you either have to get there when it opens or invest some time slumming it on the benches opposite like a literary vulture. Also you should never sit at the haunted one. I see people sitting there all the time and wonder how they don't know! You will note that I'm not saying which seat it is because that in itself is to risk the ghost's curse.
• Some people like to write in cafés. This works if you can either tolerate enough coffee to make your heart beat in time to your typing, or are okay buying a single drink and hogging a table all afternoon. I can't manage either. I also get quite self-conscious in a café. Everyone in the library is generally there to do some form of work. What are you doing in a café with your laptop? Showing off, that's what you're doing. Writing is not a performance art, no matter how badly you want to tell everyone your current word count. Save it for your blog.
• Current day's word count: 511. Terrible. That's including an email I sent to my dentist.

How to Publish a Book - Synopsis

 (Excerpt from How to Publish a Book by Timothy L. Marx, 1928)

This book wheeze has proved to be more of a groan when looked at with perspective. And perspective is something I certainly had plenty of as I teetered on the fifth floor window ledge of a hotel far too reputable for me to name in this sorry report of recent events. You see, I had been to visit my uncle. After looking at me like an anthropologist presented with a particularly baffling skeleton, he guffawed and explained that he works in accounting at Penguin and therefore does not have the authority to publish Cuthers' novel. I thought this was pretty rich given how he was always high-horsing around me, but the situation left me with a stark dilemma. Either I lose face with Cuthers and the rest of the chaps, of I just jolly well pull my socks up and find a way to get the book published myself.

I realise this doesn't explain my precarious position on a window ledge overlooking some spiked railings. That was actually part of a brilliant plan to get the book printed by blackmailing a publisher. I had heard through the usual whispers that someone quite high up at Macmillan was having an affair, and by a further stroke of luck my old chum Dickie Ffield knew in which hotel they regularly held their liaisons. All I had to do was book the room next door, go onto the balcony and then hop over a small wall onto their balcony. There I could snap a photograph and be away before they realise what's happened.

I did not arrive at this plan lightly. Prior to its formulation I had sought advice as to how to get a novel published. I discovered that I would need to submit a short synopsis of the novel's plot to a literary agent. This was extremely disheartening as it meant I would have to read Cuthers' book. However I could see the point these agents were making vis-a-vis timewasting. I considered asking Cuthers whether he could find an agent for himself, but that would give the game away. Then I actually read the book and considered that perhaps he wasn't up to the task. The book was terrible. What had I taken on? I considered the form a synopsis might take. "Terribly written cove falls in love with what I can only assume is the author's unrequited love, who tragically falls beneath the wheels of a tram on Fleet Street." That was about the long and short of it. To add any more detail would only expose its fundamental shoddiness.

I was in deep. I considered rewriting it and telling Cuthers it had been edited, but frankly it was beyond the pale. Ghastlier than my Great Aunt Cordelia and she can stop a horse from a full furlong. There was no doubt that getting this absurd literary effort into print would require duplicity. Such a method has a further advantage in that I wouldn't have to deal with literary agents and what I had recently learned were their wildly varying demands. A synopsis detailing all aspects of the plot should be supplied. It should be no longer than three paragraphs. It should be two pages. It should be one page. It should be written in iambic pentameter. In cuniform. Clay tablets will not be returned.

None of this was of any solace as I pressed my back against the window and tried not to look down at my certain death below. I pontificated on recent events to determine where my plan had gone wrong. Could it have been the numerous liquid biscuits I'd imbibed to provide some Dutch courage? I couldn't rule them out. They certainly could have contributed to me mixing up the Grosvenor Hotel on Devonshire Street with the Devonshire Hotel in Grosvenor Square. I first suspected the blunder when I was astonished to learn how narrow the balcony was. It was so narrow that I was nearly over its edge before I knew what was happening, and grabbed onto the nearest available object to arrest my doom. This was the top section of the sash window, which had the unfortunate effect of jarring loose the hoisted bottom section, which swiftly fell closed with a loud bang. Well, I thought to myself, this is a pickle and a half.

GTA: Imber

Imber is a village in Wiltshire that is almost as imaginary as the virtual city of Los Santos in GTA V. Evacuated for use as a training ground for the forthcoming Normandy invasion in WWII, it was never returned to its population, and now remains the property of the MOD and is strictly off-limits to civilians. Once a year though, it returns like a haunted village through the quite strange yet wonderful event that is Imber Bus. The central idea of Imber Bus is this: once a year, a special bus service runs from nearby Warminster, shuttling passengers to and from Imber, taking in other villages on the way. The latter part is important, as the MOD has pretty much blown all the village up at this point. Only the church remains. The only other buildings are specially constructed shells of modern houses, presumably in preparation for the invasion of Milton Keynes. The other villages are picturesque and the buses are mostly an ad-hoc fleet of vintage buses from around the company, and herein lies the charm of the day. There's something quite astonishing about a line of red routemasters winding their way along a country lane on a summer's day. Like the village at the centre of the event, there is a sense of things being out of place that would be a stretch to call thrilling, but I'm going to call it that nonetheless. It's wholesome fun.

Wholesome fun is where my brain yanks at the handbrake and makes a violent left turn. Naturally. I mean, there are only so many cream teas I can enjoy before mind starts to wander. What if there were a game in the Grand Theft Auto series set in Imber? The concept is simple enough. We know what the map looks like because you get handed one when you get your ticket. And we know what the vehicles are, they're a variety of vintage buses that you can steal and create general mayhem with. In fact filling in the details is so mundane that I got an AI to do it.

To start with, here's a screenshot according to Bing Image Creator:

Here's a list of features as generated by ChatGPT:

1. Explore a vast open-world environment set in the picturesque English countryside, featuring rolling hills, winding roads, quaint villages, and bustling market towns.
2. Take on the role of a vintage bus driver, operating a variety of classic buses from the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, each with its unique handling, speed, and capacity.
3. Complete a range of missions and tasks that test your driving skills, such as transporting passengers to their destinations, participating in racing events, delivering goods and supplies, and more.
4. Customize and upgrade your buses with a range of parts and accessories, such as engines, transmissions, brakes, tires, and paint jobs, to enhance their performance and appearance.
5. Build and manage your own vintage bus company, hiring drivers, purchasing new buses, and expanding your business across the countryside.
6. Interact with a cast of characters, including fellow bus drivers, passengers, shopkeepers, and other residents of the countryside, each with their unique personalities, backstories, and motivations.
7. Engage in both legal and illegal activities, such as smuggling contraband, evading the police, and engaging in high-speed chases with rival bus companies.
8. Earn money, reputation, and other rewards for completing missions, winning races, and building your business, which can be used to purchase new buses, upgrade your facilities, and unlock new areas of the countryside.
9. Experience a dynamic, living world that changes over time, with weather effects, day-night cycles, and seasonal changes that affect both gameplay and the environment.
10. Enjoy a rich and immersive soundtrack, featuring classic rock and roll, folk, and country music from the 1950s and 60s, as well as original compositions inspired by the English countryside.

Have another screenshot, this time with explosions:

I asked ChatGPT to write a positive review of the game:

GTA: Imber is a thrilling and immersive open-world game that offers a unique and refreshing take on the GTA-style genre. Set in the idyllic English countryside and featuring a range of classic buses from the 1950s to the 1970s, this game delivers a compelling and engaging experience that will keep players hooked for hours.

The game's graphics are stunning, capturing the beauty and charm of the English countryside with remarkable attention to detail. The different seasons and weather effects add a level of realism and immersion that is rare in open-world games, and the soundtrack is equally impressive, featuring a range of classic rock and roll, folk, and country music that perfectly complements the game's setting.

One of the game's strongest points is its gameplay, which offers a perfect balance of challenge and fun. The driving mechanics are realistic and responsive, requiring skill and precision to master, while the missions and tasks are varied and engaging, offering a range of challenges that keep the game fresh and exciting.

Another standout feature is the game's customization and upgrade system, which allows players to customize and enhance their buses in a variety of ways, from upgrading their engines and transmissions to changing their paint jobs and accessories. This adds a level of personalization and creativity to the game that is rare in the genre.

The game's open-world environment is vast and filled with a range of characters and activities, from fellow bus drivers and passengers to shopkeepers and police officers. The game's story is engaging and well-written, offering a range of interesting and memorable characters that players will grow to care about.

Overall, GTA: Imber is a must-play game for fans of open-world games, driving games, and fans of the GTA-style genre. Its unique setting, engaging gameplay, and immersive world make it a standout game that is sure to entertain and delight players for hours on end. While there are a few minor issues with the game's controls and AI, these are easily overlooked in light of the game's many strengths. I highly recommend this game to anyone looking for a fun and engaging gaming experience.

Next I thought it could supply a sample soundtrack:

1. "A Hard Day's Night" by The Beatles
2. "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac
3. "Lola" by The Kinks
4. "Dreams" by The Cranberries
5. "I Fought the Law" by The Clash
6. "Parklife" by Blur
7. "Waterloo Sunset" by The Kinks
8. "London Calling" by The Clash
9. "Wonderwall" by Oasis
10. "Don't Look Back in Anger" by Oasis
11. "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen
12. "Alright" by Supergrass
13. "Going Underground" by The Jam
14. "Common People" by Pulp
15. "Angels" by Robbie Williams

This tracklisting features a mix of classic and contemporary British bands and captures the spirit of the game's setting and theme. The tracks are designed to evoke a sense of nostalgia and adventure, while also providing an upbeat and energetic soundtrack to accompany the player's journeys through the English countryside.

Too much Oasis but otherwise not a bad stab.

I asked it for a box quote In the style of Charlie Brooker:

"Vintage Bus Driver: It's like taking a slow ride through the English countryside, except you get to smash things up and curse like a sailor. All the fun of road rage without the pesky legal consequences." 

- Charlie Brooker, TV critic and master of dark humour.

Robo-Charlie is definitely phoning it in there.

Finally, no GTA game release is complete without some moral outrage, so I asked it to write a Daily Mail article expressing their disapproval:

"Outrageous! Video game celebrates violence, crime and debauchery"

The release of the controversial video game, Vintage Bus Driver, has sparked widespread outrage among parents and concerned citizens alike. The game's depictions of violence, crime and immoral behaviour have been deemed unacceptable by many, who argue that it glamorizes a dangerous and harmful lifestyle.

Players assume the role of a vintage bus driver, but instead of focusing on driving and adhering to the rules of the road, the game encourages players to commit violent crimes, engage in illicit activities and use foul language. This game is a menace to society and a danger to our youth.

As if that wasn't enough, the game also features sexualized content and drug use, sending a terrible message to young and impressionable minds. It is disgraceful that a game like this is even allowed to exist in our society.

Parents, teachers, and concerned citizens alike are calling for an immediate ban on this sick filth. We cannot allow our children to be exposed to such immoral behaviour and values. It is time for action, and it is time for the government to step in and put an end to this madness.

We urge all responsible adults to boycott this game and join us in our fight to protect our children from this harmful and immoral content. Together, we can make a difference and ensure that our society remains a safe and positive environment for our children to grow up in.

Imber Bus is on Saturday the 19th of August 2023. You can find more details here: https://imberbus.org/ 

Please do not attempt to steal the buses.

Characters

Some time ago I was sitting in a pub, waiting for friends to arrive, and scribbling notes in a Moleskine book. I often do this, it's surprising what you can work on in those little pieces of downtime.

"What are you writing?" asked the first friend to arrive. He loomed over the table, trying to see my notes but my handwriting is barely decipherable by myself.

"Some notes," I replied, and we entered into a tedious exchange wherein he slowly coaxed out of me that I was writing a novel. I'm always embarrassed by this. It feels confessional, as though I'm doing something really weird. Which is probably reasonable as writing a novel is a pretty weird thing to do. Most people don't do it, and of those of us who do, few get many people to actually read them.

My friend takes in this revelation easily. "So," he says, "you're busy making notes on all your friends and putting them in the book with different names, right?"

Wrong. There seems to be a popular misconception that all writers do this. This is probably because a lot of writers do in fact do it for their first novel, but by the time they get to their second they realise it's a bit hack, and besides, they've already done the best ones and nobody wants to read a novel about Dave.* 

The actual process of creating characters happens in a number of different ways:

• Main characters are usually devised along with the plot. They are who they are by necessity and it is the plot that provides their development. 
• Some characters exist to provide conflict with the main characters. These can start as faceless obstacles, but the more you play with their conversation the more individual they become. Sometimes it takes a few goes at them for them to shine.
• Sometimes I start with a name. I like inventing names and am particularly taken with the David Cronenberg school of naming. Videodrome has a character called Barry Convex. What a name! The name often suggests a personality to me, but again the development often takes place during the writing.

Whichever route was taken to arrive at the character, I like to work out little bios for them all. Basic stuff, like personal foibles, and key events in their life. Much of this detail isn't directly used in the writing, but it helps give me a firm grip on who they are and how they got to be where they are. Sometimes I take it a little further, like finding a photo I think looks like them, which makes for a good tether for descriptions for me.

It is even possible to go method with the characters. Why stop with a photo? Apply for a passport for the character and use it to go to where your novel is set. You may have to exercise your imagination more if the novel isn't contemporary, but the exercise is still good. Try not to let the part where your application is rejected put you off. Simply alter your own passport with Tippex and glue. This ruse is especially effective if your novel entails the character being arrested for fraud at Heathrow. The technique can be used for characters involved in other plots of course. Modifying your passport a second time can gain you direct experience of the legal system, and, if things really work out, the prison system. The advantage of the latter is that you will have lots of time to really get that first draft together.

I don't go that far myself, but you may like it as a more exciting alternative to mindlessly scrolling through lists of names.

* Not Dave's real name

How to Publish a Book - Introduction

My father used to run a photography shop. It was the family business and when the time came to close it down there were boxes full of ancient miscellany to sort through. At the time I had been unwilling to go through them and simply put them in storage. This move appealled to both my innate laziness and my tendency to hoard. Now however, faced with rising storage costs and lack of alternative space, I've started the slow process and in doing so discovered this tome. Apparently written by one Timothy L. Marx, it dates to the 1920s and is an attempt at a guide to entering the world of publishing. It is hard to say who the actual author was. Neither my father nor grandfather have ever mentioned it, and there is no Timothy L. Marx on my family tree. Regardless of its origins, I'll scan some of the more interesting parts as and when I have time. Here's the introduction to start with.

Late last year I was knocking back some twisty twos with my chums at the club when during a lull in the chit-chat old Cuthers announced that he had written a book. He did this with no signposting of his intent and just blurted it out, as though the silence was so unbearable he would say anything to fill it. Dangerous disposition that, the man must avoid libraries like I avoid my relatives. Naturally we all laughed at this news, not so much as it was ridiculous, but because of the manner in which it had been delivered. Although it was slightly ridiculous. We were all at Eton together, but some of us were more there than others and frankly I could never understand how his parents had afforded the fees.

Poor old Cuthers seemed rather put out by this hilarity, so since it was nearly Christmas I took pity on him and told him I could get it published. Should be a doddle, I said. My Uncle Piers works for Penguin and I was sure he would be happy to publish Cuthers' opus magnum. I did have an ulterior motive. With Christmas approaching, I would soon have to make the dreadful rounds of visiting relatives in the regions, and having to submit to their demands to know what I was doing with my life, besides frittering it away in some West End establishments. A venture into publishing should shut the old bores up. So, winners all round, lets's have a tall glass of Green Imp to celebrate!

The gesture was well received and with Cuthers' ego restored, we ordered some champers and tiny toots and were well and truly on our way to Christmas. I was uncategorically a genius of the first water. What could possibly go wrong?

Jeffrey Archer Biscuit Story

The other day I was catching the train to Leeds and managed to miss it. This I blame on delays on the Piccadilly Line, but truthfully I was already running late by the time I reached the underground. This was due to an inability to get ready until the absolute last minute. It's a form of micro-procrastination. Why get ready five minutes early when I could cycle through my social media a couple of times instead? Inevitably this takes longer than expected, and so I'm amazed to find myself leaving the flat ten minutes later than I'd intended, all impotent haste and ready to shift my guilt onto the blameless Piccadilly Line. The Piccadilly Line can't help being slow from time-to-time. Its trains are 50-years-old now. Imagine how tired they must be, trundling between Cockfosters and Heathrow, day-in, day-out. Some of them even have to go to Uxbridge.

With time to kill until the next train to Leeds, I bought a packet of chocolate digestives (plain) and a flat white. Since it was a nice day I sat outside the station, amongst the skateboarders, pigeons and resting tourists. I deliberately chose a spot on the end of a bench with an empty seat next to it, so that I could selfishly block it with my bag, preventing anyone else from sitting there. All good practice for the train, I considered, as I carefully opened the biscuits and pushed a few loose so they protruded from the packet, ready to eat. A nearby pigeon eyed this motion beadily, but pigeons are genetically disposed to beadiness and it's quite hard to tell what they're looking at from one moment to the next. I ate one of the digestives and watched the pigeon, daring it to approach.

The pigeon was of course oblivious to me. I ate another biscuit and thought a bit about a plot hole I was trying fill, but only crumbs and feathers loomed in my imagination. Neither were adequate plot fillers. I reached for a third biscuit and was surprised that there were no more protruding from the packet. I was sure I'd loosened three or four of them, but maybe I was mistaken. Clearly I was mistaken, how else could there only have been two of them? I looked around warily for a ninja pigeon making off with a digestive but saw none. There was however an elderly gentleman next to me eating a biscuit. I stared at him incredulously. It was indeed a chocolate digestive. He seemed no more aware of me than the pigeons were and looked remarkably like Jeffrey Archer. He finished the biscuit, and with barely a pause shook another one from the packet.

I was speechless. What kind of a man so brazenly eats another man's biscuits? Aggrieved but unwilling to confront, I made a great theatrical display of taking another biscuit from the packet. I then crammed the whole thing into my mouth and snorted involuntarily as I struggled to chew it. This caught his attention. He recoiled at my grotesque performance, snatched up the packet of biscuits and walked briskly towards the Euston Road tube entrance. I watched his retreating figure in disbelief. Even the pigeon appeared taken aback by this development, and tilted its head to one side momentarily before continuing to peck amongst the fag ends. 

I snapped to my senses and headed after the biscuit thief, who by now I was fairly certain was in fact Jeffrey Archer. I followed him down into the underground foyer, where  saw his back disappear down the escalator to the Victoria Line while I attempted to touch in at the gate line. The barrier flashed red at me. Panicking, I tried again but to no avail. I slipped across the next barrier, cutting up a young man who tutted loudly. The barrier flashed green and let me through. I raced down the escalator as fast as my knees allowed and ran towards the platforms. I saw him make a left onto the southbound platform. Immediately after that I heard the beeping of the closing doors. My heart sank as I reached the train, its doors closed and ready to depart. But then the doors sprang open again. Something must have jammed one of them. Seizing my chance, I leapt onboard before the doors closed again, which they did as soon as I was in. I grabbed a pole as the train lurched into motion and scanned the carriage for the man who was at that moment in time definitely Jeffrey Archer. He wasn't anywhere in sight. Could he have boarded a different carriage? I made my way to the door at the end and peered through his window. There he was, sitting in a priority seat and eating my biscuits. Incensed, I pulled the door open. At this point heads turned and faces frowned. Moving between carriages is the province of beggars, unruly youth and the just plain crazy. I could feel them judging me, no doubt as fitting the latter category. No matter, I was on a mission. A somewhat alarming mission, as now the door was open I realised opening the door on the other carriage involved a leap of faith. I flung it open and stumbled into a carriageful of more strangers who were making the same determination. Nothing good ever appears through the carriage doors.

I ignored their stares and made my way to the biscuit thief. He regarded me with idle curiosity while stuffing his face with another chocolate digestive.

"Those are my biscuits," I said, a little hysterically if I'm honest, but I was surging with adrenaline after the chase. "Give them back to me please."

The man looked at me curiously. "I sorry," he said in a thick Eastern European accent, "my English not too good."

At this point I had to concede he wasn't Jeffrey Archer, and thinking about it he looked like I remember Jeffrey Archer looking something like thirty years ago. Nonetheless, he still had my biscuits. Now fully vexed, I grabbed at the packet but the man who was definitely not Jeffrey Archer pulled it away and hissed at me.

"Look," I said as reasonably as I could muster in the circumstances, "just give me the biscuits and that'll be the end of the matter."

"Leave him alone," said a voice behind me. I turned and was met with a fierce stare from a heavily-built man in an Arsenal shirt.

Further along the carriage, I saw a suited young man take out his phone and start filming me. The train began its screeching deceleration into Euston and I considered my position. They were my biscuits, that fact is indisputable. However I didn't want to end up being the next TikTok sensation and branded the Victoria Line Biscuit Mugger or whatever the low courts of the internet decide on. The biscuits weren't expensive. I could just buy some more. Also, crucially, I had cast myself into the role of biscuit mugger the moment I entered the stage via the crazy door.

The train stopped at Euston. I waved goodbye to the camera and stepped off. As I departed, a pigeon swooped down and hopped into the carriage. How on earth had it made it all the way down there? Just before the doors closed it turned and looked at me, and for a moment I was convinced it was the same one that had stalked me at Kings Cross. Maybe I was going crazy after all.

As the train departed I realised that it would be the pigeon enjoying all that TikTok fame. I felt a pang of jealousy. Maybe being the Victoria Line Biscuit Mugger wouldn't be that bad if it sold a few books.

A Visit to the Zoo

Whenever I'm stuck with my writing, like many other writers I find doing something else for a while can really clear the creative juices. They'd certainly lift the fog enough to come up with a better turn of phrase than 'clear the creative juices', which aside from being lazy is also slightly revolting, as though creativity is a slaughtered animal being cooked to serve hungry readers. This does provide a handy segue to my recent trip to London Zoo though, where the animals are generally not dead, and any that do unfortunately hammer angrily on the reinforced glass for the last time are certainly not cooked and eaten. I'm not sure how they actually dispose of dead animals at London Zoo, but most zoos cremate the carcasses at a licensed facility and I imagine similar arrangements are in place there. Rumours that they dump them all in an undocumented shaft connected to the Northern Line are untrue, despite the persistent reports of ghostly animals at Chalk Farm following the Great Penguin Electrocution Disaster of 1927.

But I digress. On this occasion I was struggling with the resolution of a plot element. Nothing was satisfactory, or at least if a solution was satisfactory, it lacked any real spark. So while I waited for that spark to come, I took myself for a wander around London Zoo. There are of course ethical questions about the continued existence of zoos. On the one hand, they are holding animals in captivity and this can be seen as cruel. However on the other hand modern zoos do a lot of conservation work, and in some cases this is essential as the animals' natural habitat is destroyed. I tend towards the latter argument, partly because I can't handle the moral guilt of completely accepting the first argument, but mostly because look at their little faces!

While there I thought I would take notes in the hope that they may help other writers mired in their work. So without further preamble, here are a selection of the animals at London Zoo, rated for their inspiration.

• Giraffes. Their sheer height does force you to see things from a new perspective, which can be useful. They also gave me a crick in my neck, which distracted me from formulating anything of use. 5/10
• Lemurs. Here's a bit of trivia - renowned recording engineer and reformed edgelord Steve Albini was nutty about lemurs. If they were doing something for him then they must be doing something right because that man never stopped working. Unfortunately their eyes really creeped me out and I had to go for a mint Magnum. 2/10 unless you're Steve Albini, in which case 10/10
• Lions. A Swiss friend once remarked that it's funny that the UK passport has a lion and a unicorn on its cover, neither of those creatures being found within our borders. Well, we do have some lions here and if unicorns existed you bet we would have captured some and put them in a cage. It's the British way. Are lions inspirational though? That they have been used as a potent symbol of the empire for so long suggests so, and they are very striking as they prowl next the glass walls of their enclosure. However I do think they could have livened them up with a giant laser pointer or something. They are cats after all. 6/10
• Parrots. I don't know why I bothered with the parrots. You can see them almost anywhere. But I went to see them and one of them called me a c**t. It made me quite furious but no ideas were forthcoming. 2/10
• Penguins. Now happily relocated to an electricity-free environment, the penguins transition from hobbling little strivers to highly motivated torpedoes once they hop into the water. This is a terrific metaphor for the creative unblocking I'm seeking, and watching them streak through their tank is pretty mesmerising. If nothing else it's a very relaxing experience. 7/10
• Pigeons. Technically there aren't any pigeons at the zoo. They are like day visitors for the inmates, flying in and out whenever the mood takes them. I watched a flock of them converge on a small child who was leaking crisps from a poorly held packet. The child's mother was unconcerned although the pigeon numbers approached that which I imagine is enough to carry the kid away. How many pigeons would that take, I wonder? And where would they take the airlifted children? 9/10, but should have saved my money and gone to Trafalgar Square instead.