Mark Jones's Blog

So what am I reading, now that the seven tomes of Potter are all back on the shelf for another year or two?

Well, my cousin Amanda has sent me her book to read … one author to another, you know. She has read part of my book (well, she may have read more if she has downloaded it, but I know I didn’t get very far sending her my unpublished work in instalments.) But now it’s my turn to return the favour.

It’s going really well. You know how sometimes you read something written by somebody you know, and you think “F*ck me, I’d never have thought they’d write something like this!” Well, that’s kind of how I feel about this particular piece of work.

I’ve always regarded Cousin A as rather a genteel creature but this novel is really earthy, full of everyday detail of the sort that would make your maiden aunt blush. There are descriptions that I know I shied away from making in my own work, and the brilliant thing is it’s showing me exactly what I may be missing by being too nervous.

So not only am I enjoying a gripping read (I’m only a little way in so lots more delicious misbehaviour to enjoy yet), but I’m also honing my own way of looking at prose. Which is just as well, as I start to flesh out the bones of my own next novel.

Thanks Julia!

Earlier today, “Single Minded” reached #81 on the Kindle Store’s Psychological Fiction chart. Rather like the music charts in the days when they actually contained music, “Single Minded” is evidently a slow-burner.

I’m thrilled to have seen that magical #81 on the page containing my novel, along with my first review – completely unsolicited I assure you! Nevertheless it was a humdinger … straight in with a 5 star review, and some fantastic comments:

“I greatly enjoyed this book – I felt the tone, language and style were spot on – and it was really interesting to see life from the male perspective! I am not aware of many books that explore the male view of relationships and life to this kind of depth, which I think makes this a very interesting read, particularly for us girlies! Lots of intriguing angles and really believable characters and I enjoyed the ‘look back’ storyline alongside the current…. It also made me wonder about the impact of the spirits and character of those who have lived / been in houses we then live in… do we all leave a little bit of our soul in the places we have been?? Would recommend this to you – its a good read and a good experience.”

I couldn’t have asked for better, and it’s a real spur to keep working at promoting “Single Minded” and working on my next …

That’s all!

Over and out )

… as a well known aspiring author is told whilst at a writers’ retreat in Sue Townsend’s “Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years.”

If only Adrian had had access, back in 1993, to the world of self-publishing via Amazon’s Kindle Store. But I wonder whether he, like myself, would doubt that this method of pushing one’s work into the public arena would provide the same sense of worth as having been accepted by a bona fide publisher.

Either way, I’ve now done just that, with my first completed novel, “Single Minded.”

I began “Single Minded” around ten years ago, when its working title was “Behind Closed Doors.” It originated with an image in my mind of a young man seeing a burning room in an ordinary house and the idea that the vision was somehow spectral. From that beginning, the story developed in my mind and I quickly decided that the young man, Hal, should be an estate agent and that he should be continually forced to visit this house which inspired such horror in him. (I was working as an estate agent myself at the time, although I can categorically say that Hal’s colleagues are all fictional creations, not direct representations of any of my colleagues from that time; with the possible exception of the character of Win, whose unorthodox opinions echo those of one of the most interesting people I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet, and who always encouraged me with my writing.)

The rest of the story gradually evolved, and over the next few years, snatching moments here and there, I completed it, edited it, left it alone, edited it some more, gave it to a few people to read, edited some more, and finally sent a sample to selected literary agents. Like the thousands of aspiring writers who hope that somebody will spot their genius within those sample chapters, I was disappointed to receive a full contingent of standard rejection letters, and I’m ashamed to confess that I let the matter drop. But I didn’t stop dreaming, and I didn’t stop thinking of new ideas and jotting down notes, characters and points for research.

Then, towards the end of 2011, I felt encouraged to give “Behind Closed Doors” another chance; encouraged by the feedback of those who had read it, I edited it once more, changed its name to the more evocative “Single Minded” and finally published it to the Kindle Store on 29th March. And there it lies, the first public airing of my fiction. Sales are slow but steady, and I’m learning to find my feet in the muddy waters of promoting one’s ebook.

But if I search my soul, I can’t help wondering whether this is really what I wanted. All authors must have self-belief and a conviction that they are worthy of being the next big name about to break onto the literary scene; all serious authors at least (disregarding those whose work contains more spelling mistakes than a five-year-old’s English exercise book). So where lies the difference between “indie publishing” and “vanity publishing”, which has always seemed to me to be a rather tacky and, to be frank, bolshy way of pushing one’s work into the public domain? I’m not sure anymore that there is much of a difference.

Ultimately, the vast majority of authors are not going to win that sought-after publishing deal. So where lies the harm in self-publishing after all? At no cost to the author, one’s work is formatted, presented and marketed to the visitors of one of the planet’s largest websites. And those visitors are presented with an enormous amount of potential reading material, chosen by them and not by a few agents or editors who are following market trends. And it’s possible for authors to make money by doing so. It’s win-win, as far as I can see. But for me, if I’m realistic, I know I won’t get rich by self-publishing; it’s more about the satisfaction of knowing that somebody somewhere thought my synopsis and/or book cover compelling enough to warrant handing over their cash. For me, that’s the joy. For all the glamour and potential that a publishing deal may offer, all I really care about is telling a story and hoping that others will read it and enjoy it.

Whether that story is validated by an agent or publisher is immaterial; one is still a writer.

In my experience, running can present all manner of difficulties and decisions.

When to fit it in. How far to run. Where to run. Alone or in a group. And what can be carried along the way (iPhones and running shorts don’t mix, I find.)

I can’t stand gyms. Each to their own, but I don’t find it fun to run for several miles whilst staring at the same dull view of other gym equipment and generally fitter, sleeker members, whose limitless energy saps your own motivation.

I like to feel that I’m actually travelling somewhere, that there’s some kind of purpose to the distance that I’m travelling. When I lived in Hereford, I used to walk five minutes to the racecourse, the perimeter of which forms a 1.5 mile circle, ideal for running on. And within the racecourse is an athletics circuit. Twice around the racecourse (on a good day), followed by four circuits of the athletics track. (I never said I was a long distance runner – four miles is about my limit!)

Now that I’m in Cornwall, there’s a conspicuous lack of racecourses. And flat routes. But no matter. I’ve found a perfect place to run, which is level, easy to get to, quiet, and forms a there-and-back-again four-mile run. And what’s more, it’s a beautiful route and full of wildlife.

Years ago, Kings Wood, south of St Austell, was somewhere we’d go for a Sunday afternoon walk. Then, after I moved upcountry, someone had the idea of widening the riverside path into a cycle route. These days, the Pentewan Valley is a hugely popular cycling route, leading to The Lost Gardens of Heligan at one end, and into the heart of St Austell at the other, linking eventually with the various Clay Country trails.

An evening run between London Apprentice and Pentewan (and back) is a four-mile thing of joy. The route itself switches from track to woodland to riverside to woodland to village, providing some variety in itself. The St Austell River (or the White River as it was known then, due to the china clay deposits that would turn the water milky white) trickles contentedly between the trail and the Mevagissey road, its banks lined at present with red campions and buttercups and so many wild plants that I can’t name. Mallards are usually spotted about halfway down. On one occasion, about four weeks ago as dusk was falling, my footsteps disturbed a grey heron, which I otherwise would have passed, oblivious. It flew off, further ahead of me, but I saw enough to marvel again at the size and utter silence of the creature.

Further along, where the trail re-enters woodland, the feeling is very different. In the evening time, when I run, the trees are ringing with the calls of countless small birds, and blackbirds rippling through complex melodies. And all the while, a different type of watercourse lies to the right hand side. Much more still, than the “babbling brook”, this water is more reminiscent of a swamp. Tangles of trees and shrubs fight for space amongst the water and you really feel that any kind of creature could be lurking just out of sight, and that if you strayed too far into the undergrowth you could get an unpleasant surprise. So you glance ahead again, or to the left, and smile at the ordinariness of the robins and woodpigeons, which don’t seem to care whether you’re there or not.

And the last time I went for a run, well, I pulled a muscle. But that’s not the important part. As I ran through the woodland at the Pentewan end, I saw, up ahead, a small mammal run across the path. It looked dark in colour. It was no bigger than a cat or small dog, but this was no domestic animal. It was stocky but with no tail that I could discern. A stubbyish head. And I’ve no idea what it could be. Admittedly, I don’t wear my glasses when running, but I’m quite sure I’d recognise a picture.

I’m resting up at the moment – repairing the damage caused on my last run – but I do wonder what the subtly changing valley will look like next time.

(Any ideas on my mysterious mammal, very welcome. Comments here or at twitter.com/jonesy_boy as I’d love to know what it could have been!)

In my case, it was an eight-year-itch.

In April 2002 or thereabouts I decided to leave Cornwall in order to seek new adventures and to “find myself”, so to speak. But rather than inflict myself on the viewers of reality TV I took the less public step of moving to Herefordshire, a home from home, it being my parents’ home county.

In Herefordshire (another beautiful rural county) I met lots of people. Some good, some bad; some respectable, some not so. And I got up to many things, some worthwhile and many downright ridiculous. And I did find myself.

And having done so, I felt the itch.

Too many visits to Cornwall to remember finally reawakened my love of the coast and particularly of St Austell Bay, my home territory.

That was a year ago.

And now I’m home. Older, wiser, a little slimmer and hopefully secure in the knowledge of what I’m good at, and what I want to do with my time.

So, what’s this blogsite all about then?

Well, I thought that the “return of the native”, as it were, might produce some interesting reflections, so why not share them with anybody who thinks it worth their time to read them.

I’ve been two weeks at my new job (which I won’t go into much for fear of confusing some very specific marketing messages) and I’m looking into RYA training centres for one which will teach me to sail a dinghy. I’ve found myself a brilliant place to run, and when the elder trees are in flower I’ll be getting well and truly stuck in to an old favourite hobby of mine – making country beverages.

I realise now that when I was growing up I took Cornwall completely for granted. Now, having waited a year to find suitable employment before relocating, I know how lucky I am to be able to say once more, “I’m back home – in Cornwall.”