All posts in Uncategorized

I started writing a new book the other day, whilst sat at Gatwick Airport. I won’t bore you with what it’s about, but the prologue is below. It’s a first stab, obviously, but take a look if you’re interested…..cheers.

There’s a roar as the crowd surges over the barriers, scattering the players to the four corners of the pitch and the safety of the dressing rooms.

“Right, that’s it. We’re off lads.”

We groan quietly, know better than to argue with the big man. He’s not our dad, but he rules us anyway. For this week at least.

We scamper down the aisle behind him, and feed into the well at the bottom of the stand. The exit is thirty paces ahead.

There’s another roar and I presume they’ve reached the away fans, goading them onto the pitch to dance. But the roar is so loud that I turn to look and see them being driven back towards us by police on horses. They are close, too close.

Hooves and feet churn up the pitch, and the big man tells us to get a wriggle on.

He doesn’t look back as he says it, his eyes on the terraced streets beyond the ground.

My feet forget to move. I’m entranced by the noise, anger and chaos of the wave surging at me.

It doesn’t hurt when it swallows me up, but I’m scared all the same, as instead of carrying me with them, they force me ground-wards, towards work-boots and scuffed adidas trainers. They make contact with my body. Now it hurts.

The away fans are following the police. I know this because I hear the missiles cut through the air, feel the shards of glass shower me like deadly confetti.

I shout for the big man but he doesn’t hear me. It wouldn’t make any difference if he did. His local is by the stadium and he won’t break stride when he’s so close. I feel boots on top of me now, have no option but to curl up on the floor and hope the tide passes quickly.

They don’t know what they’re walking on, or I hope they don’t. Some of them must have kids too, at home watching the final scores roll in. I can’t help but wish I was there too.

I’m giving up as they drive me further into the tarmac. I’ve no air left in my lungs, no room to scrabble to safety.

As my eyes close I hear a different noise. A single voice straining against them, moving them aside. The voice is struggling to be heard, but it’s getting louder, more determined. Its language is coarse, threatening, and somehow it’s working.

It’s been dark on the floor, but I glimpse a shaft of light, two arms reaching down and sweeping me skywards.

At first I think it’s game over, that I’m in the arms of an angel, but then the angel swears and swings his free arm, parting the crowd as we stumble to it’s edges.

The relief is huge, too big, and I black out, opening my eyes only when the crowd has thinned and the stadium a mile behind us.

I wrap my arms around the angel and begin to cry. He tells me to stop it, that everything’s fine. That’ll he buy me a choc-ice if I give over. I stifle the tears and he strokes my back as our road veers into view.

My name is Sonny McGann. I’m nine years old on this day. Old enough to stop crying, but young enough to put my head on my brothers shoulder and let him carry me home.

Siobhan Dowd was an incredible writer.

Selling her books during my previous life at Random House was a real highlight.

Seeing her lauded by Waterstones as one of their 25 authors for the future was a real honour, despite the irony of the accolade. She had been fighting cancer for some time, and it wasn’t a battle she would win.

In the space of a couple of years she published four brilliant novels;

A Swift Pure Cry, The London Eye Mystery, Bog Child and Solace of the Road.

All of them were wonderful, all of them inspired me to write.

I remember her telling me about her idea for a sequel to The London Eye Mystery, set in New York’s Guggenheim Museum. It always devastated me that she never got to tell this story, or the others that would follow.

Last year though, there was news of a final Siobhan book. Well kind of.

Walker had commissioned Patrick Ness to write a novel based on one of her untold stories.

It was exciting news, although you had to wonder just what kind of book it would be. Would Mr Ness try and ape her writing style? Was this some weird take on what adult publishers were doing with the Bond franchise?

I wasn’t sure, but I knew I wanted to read it.

Yesterday I got the chance to, and I’m incredibly glad I did.

“A Monster Calls” is many things.

It’s wonderful for starters, as well as being important, lyrical, challenging, moving….I could go on and risk sycophancy, and for once it would be worth it.

The storyline mirrors an element of Siobhan’s life, in that it deals with a battle against cancer, but its central character isn’t mum, who fights throughout against the disease. Its hero is her son Conor, who has to witness her decline, as well as fend off bullies at school, and re-build relationships with an estranged father and a strict grandmother.

Oh, and there’s the monster who comes calling too. The monster in the shape of a yew tree, who will tell Conor stories, but expects to hear his truth in return.

So, Percy Jackson it isn’t….

It’s unlike anything I’ve read in a while. It’s hugely brave, and that’s another thing I love about it.

I read an advance proof copy, which only included a handful of Jim Kay’s illustrations, so when the HB arrives fully integrated with these wonderful pictures?

Well it’s going to be special. A book you look at long after reading it.

Walker books are great at that. They proved it with Jandy Nelson’s “Sky is Everywhere” last year.

“A Monster Calls” isn’t an easy read. How could it be given its subject matter?

But despite this I couldn’t put it down. I read it in one day, in airports, on planes, and as the inevitable, crashing ending loomed, on a bus towards home.

I had to feign several yawns, pretending that the tears were just my eyes watering from tiredness.

It’s not a long book, 200 pages or so, but there isn’t a wasted word. It’s like reading David Almond at his very best.

There isn’t a lot else to say. Well, there is, but I reckon I’ve bigged it up enough. There’s a danger to over-hyping books, making other people expect too much.

I just think it deserves to be read by a huge audience.

It’s Siobhan’s story, at least its starting point is, and I’m sure knowing her added to the poignancy.

But make no mistake, this is Patrick Ness’s book. And what a book it is.

It deserves to win every award out there. I hope it does.

It’s up there with “Skellig”, “The Outsiders” and “The Book Thief”, and that’s where it will stay for me. I can’t give it higher praise than that.

People who work in publishing should be banned from having books released.

Especially idiots who work in sales….  Well, me basically.

It makes you cynical you see, stops you enjoying the process of being published.

Knowledge means power?

Not in this case, it’s just made me worry and navel gaze.

I’ve been trying hard not to think about the sales of the book, not to start poring over Bookscan figures every Tuesday, or even worse, systematically checking Amazon rankings on an hourly (well, half-hourly basis), but it’s a hard habit to break. I’ve been doing it for years, about books I’ve loved and worked on, but had no creative input into.

So to step back when it’s something I wrote? Well, it’s proving a challenge.

What’s important is picking the many positives out of the last few months. The reviews on Amazon (especially the ones not written by relatives or mates…), being reviewed by the Sunday Times for goodness sake, interviews in The Big Issue and The Sun. The good folks at Puffin have got more PR for ‘Billy’ than I would’ve thought possible, and for that I’m really grateful.

The other upside has been the events. I’ve absolutely LOVED them. Doesn’t matter if it’s talking to 30 or 300 students, years 7,8,9 or 10, every one of them has been an absolute buzz. Alright, it’s been limited to a couple a month, but I should think myself lucky that work have freed me up to do them in the first place.

The other thing that’s stopped me being so maudlin and self-absorbed are the messages I’ve had from people who’ve read the book. Teachers who work with kids like Billy, but more importantly from kids themselves. After all, I did write it for a young adult audience. Bizarrely, it’s easy to forget that.

Bertie got in touch and told me;

‘I am 13 and have just finished reading Being Billy. I though it was amazing! You are a really good writer. Like Jaqueline Wilson says you write starkly but sensitivly. True there is a balance of both, it’s perfect.’

I can’t begin to tell you how much it meant to get Bertie’s note, my first!

It was bizarre, but great to send him a note back, answering his questions.

His email certainly pulled me up a bit lively, and put things into perspective.

Alright the sales could be better, but I know better than most how difficult it is to make a book stick, to get the sales that the tiny majority of novels enjoy. What’s the point of being published if you’re not going to wring every drop of enjoyment out of it?

So I’m going to do exactly that. Or I’m going to try. Starting with the Amazon rankings. I haven’t checked this morning, and I haven’t got the shakes yet……

If you fancy having a read of ‘Being Billy’, or have a friend who might, then this is the post to read…

I’m giving away 3 signed copies (dedicated if you like). All you have to do is drop me an email at phil@philearle.com – no catch, I promise. Although if you like it, you might be so kind as to spread the word…and if you think it’s crap, well…ssssshhhhh!

I’m happy to post anywhere in the UK, so get in touch if you’re interested…

cheers, Phil

I know, I know, this is old news, but I’m just rubbish at this blogging thing. I do mean to do it more, but I’m struggling to keep up with work and writing, oh and sleeping a the mo…but anyway, here they are, some photos from my launch party.

100 people, 1 room, two speeches, 20 bottles of white, 80 beers and 12 bottles of red…oh and 90 book sales…bloomin marvellous from start to finish…thank-you.