Generally, I love self-publishing my book. There is definitely something to be said for being in control of your own destiny.
But over the last fortnight, I will admit that there have been times when I frankly yearned for some great white knight corporation to come and take over the whole bloody process.
Firstly, I have had website issues. www.benadamsauthor.com looks pretty good now, with my bio, some good imagery, my book blurb, links to this blog and a contact form. But for ages the website was misbehaving. At one point it somehow ate this blog site. Hence the gap between my last post and this post.
And then there’s Facebook. I couldn’t join groups or really interact with people when I was logged on as my author page, so I now have a facebook profile too. And then there’s Goodreads. I now have a Goodreads author page, from which you can already add my book to your ‘to read’ list, even though it isn’t out until the new year.
I should now be posting witty and original content on my ‘author platform’ but all I feel like doing is pulling all the plugs out, turning off the wifi and crawling under my duvet for a rest.
In fact, that’s exactly what I am going to do. Instead of ranting, I am going to give you another taster excerpt from ‘Six Months to Get a Life’. I haven’t published an extract for a while so allow me to be lazy (a sort of ‘here’s something I prepared earlier’ post) just this once! I hope you like it.
For those of you who have joined this blog late, you should know that the basic premise of this book is that Graham Hope is trying to rebuild his life after his divorce…
‘So, do you really want to know what happened last night? Can I just tell you I made a fool of myself and leave it at that? No, I thought not.
OK, we went for a few beers in the Raynes Park Tavern. I was fine with this bit of the evening. I held my own in the banter stakes and even managed to have a few quick conversations with women (‘four pints of lager please.’ ‘OK, coming right up’). Things went downhill rapidly though when we moved on to Wimbledon for part two of our evening’s entertainment.
I hadn’t been to a night club in years so I hadn’t even given a thought to dress codes. I had a row with the bouncer who told me I couldn’t come in wearing trainers.
‘They aren’t any old trainers, they’re f****** expensive trainers,’ I protested. Actually I would have been quite happy if the bouncer had sent me home but Dave slipped him a tenner and he let me in.
The club was as bad as I had feared it would be. The music was thump, thump, thump; the average age of the clientele was about fifteen (even with us there) and the strobe lighting did my head in. I know this is making me sound old but it is just the truth. Night clubs and I just do not mix.
I did my best to stay at the bar with Andy but even Andy ended up dancing. The traitor seriously let me down. Eventually Dave physically manhandled me on to the dance floor. Dave, Ray and Andy had managed to infiltrate a group of mature women out for a good night. I use the word infiltrate deliberately. To me the dance floor felt a bit like a war zone, with people parading their weapons, ready to engage the enemy at the slightest opportunity and eventually move in for the kill. I just worried I would be caught in the crossfire.
I did my best to wobble from foot to foot in time to the beat and once I had mastered that bit I even threw in the odd hip jerk or two.
Drinks came and went. Women came and went. Until eventually I looked around and realised to my horror that my mates were nowhere to be seen. They had deserted me. They should be shot. The woman dancing closest to me was looking at me with intense but slightly unfocussed eyes. To my untrained eye, her dancing was no better than mine. This bolstered my confidence further, to the extent that my dance moves became a bit more exaggerated. Suddenly I thought I was Michael Jackson.
I was concentrating so much on my ‘moves’ and on the woman opposite me, who by this point looked like she was about to topple over, that I didn’t notice the ring of people encircling us. I was just about to move in for some hand to hand combat with the lovely drunk woman when Dave tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Mate, what the hell are you doing?’ he asked.
‘P*** off mate, I am in here,’ I replied, somewhat irritated at being thrown of my stride.
‘You’re twerking. Men don’t twerk, especially fat blokes.’
It was at that point that I noticed the ring of on-lookers laughing hysterically and pointing at me. It was also at that point that my dance partner threw up all over my shoes. I got my coat and exited the battlefield with my white flag raised.
Where did last night get me? It reminded me how easy being married is. It got me poorer, it got me embarrassed and it got me a hangover. And it got me in trouble with my parents because for some reason I left my sick-encrusted shoes on the kitchen table.