Mad Friday, Squaddies, Septics and Keeping Customers Safe

Mad Friday, Squaddies, Septics and Keeping Customers Safe

As a writer I am open to appreciating perverse events and occurrences and my work in nightclubs as a Door Supervisor/Bouncer affords me plenty of real life experience to draw on as inspiration  for my stories.

The creative processes are sometimes sidetracked for proper work and I sent my editor an end of year note of thanks for his patience in my delaying sending the next batch of chapters for editing. I told him that if I wrote in my novel’s plot what actually happened on the front door he would have put a red line through for lack of credibility.

Christmas is always a strange time on the doors and the week before Mad Friday, as we call the last day of work for most people before their festive holiday, is often the worst night of the year for trouble. People, both men and women come out for sometimes the only night and there is mayhem around town. Some are just drunk and stupid, others are aggressive and nasty, for one night feuds are resurrected and new hatreds forged, all in celebration of the season of goodwill.

A mild mannered mechanic or office clerk becomes the cage fighter of his wildest dreams. Cocky young buck gets put down by an old-headed stag, or the old stag tries to relive his manly status of 20 years before and gets put on his backside by someone younger, fitter and less drunk. Alcohol and drugs play their part but self-discipline goes out of the window and there is little class and sophistication to start with. Many a family Christmas has been wrecked by a stay in the cells for the eejit who reckoned they could fight the world, including the nice policeman who asked him to calm down… or her, gender is not really a barrier to aggression.

All this is watched and dealt with by those of us who work in nightclubs and as I teased one of my younger colleagues who had a night off, if you don’t work a mad Friday you can’t call yourself a proper bouncer. I worked Mad Friday and went to bed at about 5 AM and then was up again at 7 to catch the ferry to Ireland for a holiday on the Wild West Atlantic Coast. As we made it further West I recounted the lesser incidents of the night before to my wife. She kept her peace but I know she wonders why I enjoy the job dealing with ‘pricks and princesses’. As the next couple of days progressed with a peaceful calm environment, plenty of sleep and maybe a Guinness or two, my aggression levels drop and my tolerance levels returned to my normal relaxed self.

Last mad Friday we had plenty of incidents to add to my trove of writing anecdotes, marked in my head ‘for later use’. On the front door the ferrety guy on his phone who was barred for previous incidents and told the caller on the other end of the line that he would meet him after he had “a fight with the 2 bouncers” in front of him. I’m not small and my oppo standing next to me has half a foot on me in height and shoulder width. We sort of looked at each other with raised eyebrows as he allowed himself to be dragged off by his brother as though that was a moral victory. Or the big 50 year old man wearing a santa hat and a reindeer jumper who tried to bully a young colleague but wouldn’t stand up to me.  

They go with the cherished memories. Like the one of the young girl who when refused for fake ID told me that she “would commit suicide if all she did in life was be a security guard,” then wondered why I wouldn’t let her in when she tried to join the end of the queue just 5 minutes later. Every Door Supervisor is on the receiving end of that attitude and as I have said before if you take a backwards step then you might as well give up the keys to the safe and the chastity of the barmaids. 

Do I enjoy the job? Enjoy is perhaps not the right word but the job gets under the skin and when I had a break last summer I missed the camaraderie and the craic with the lads and girls I work with. Not all customers are horrible and in fact the vast majority have great fun and go home happy. My boss’s ethos is ‘here to keep you safe’, it says so on the back of my hi-viz jacket and we are indeed there to protect customers and staff of the venue and to keep them safe. If that means I have grief for refusing a potential troublemaker then so be it. If they bite with me for a simple question then what will they do to an unsuspecting punter inside and a fight inside the venue is much worse to deal with. If 5 people being refused a night stops 25 being involved in trouble then it is a better night than allowing the trouble to walk through the door and I have done my job and kept people safer than if I was not there.    

So back into the New Year and last Saturday night the queue is building along the side of the venue. It’s midnight and I am working the street and ushering to the far end of the line as punters stroll down from the town’s pubs and bars. Taxis are pulling up and I direct all newcomers down the line… its not rocket science.

A tall scruffy guy comes up and enquires in an American accent “Where’s the veteran’s line?”

My reply is “sorry we don’t have one but the queue is moving quickly and it will only take 5 minutes”.

He growls and swears at me and stamps off to the back of the queue. He is part of a small group of English youngsters in their early 20s who are following just behind. I take the decision that with his poor attitude then he is borderline to not being allowed in for trouble he might cause inside.

I approach him and as I normally do checked that if I had got his attitude wrong on first impression I would give him a second chance. His attitude is still poor and he deliberately ignores me trying to speak to him. I inform him and his friends that this gentleman would not be coming in. I then received an uproar of entitlement from his friends explaining that he was a veteran from America and I should be giving him special leeway because he had served. A floppy haired blonde lad asked if I was a veteran myself, as though that would have made a difference. The lone female of the group became agitated and wanted to give me a piece of her mind but was dissuaded by a couple more sensible lads and they left. I told the duty manager why I had refused the American and we both shrugged our shoulders at yet another ex-soldier turned away for being aggressive outside rather than us waiting for him to go in and kick off inside.

Job done yet the incident left a sour taste in my mouth. My first novel Splinter is about an ex Royal Marine and how he deals with life after his service. No, I am not a ‘veteran’. Although my childhood focus was joining the Royal Navy I never served in any of the forces. At 18 I went to Hong Kong planning to come back for entry interview a few months late but stayed in the then British colony for 2 years working in bars and nightclubs doing the doors. I tell youngsters starting with me now that at that age you can take on the world. Now I have learned to shake the proffered hand for the quieter life and put an end to a quarrel rather than escalate the argument. As happened with the man in the santa hat and reindeer jumper who thought my young colleague was not giving him the proper respect. I told the older man to grow up and act his age, I can do that in my 40s but wouldn’t have at 20 but that shows life’s lessons have been learnt.

       

In Hong Kong I saw all sorts of trouble from expat stockbrokers and bankers to Tourists, Triads and plenty of Servicemen from all nationalities. In an agreement with the bar owners, police and military authorities the Lan Kwai Fong bar area where I worked was out of bounds to the British soldiers from the garrison regiment. The garrison all knew it and with their short hair cuts and regional accent then they were pretty easy to spot. It kept the supposed bad behaviour of the lowly British Squaddies away from the nice people who were visiting our bars and making them drink in the rougher areas of Wan Chai and Tsim Tsa Tsui. After a drunken altercation with an American expat, which was hushed up, then we kept their officers out too.

I worked with a couple of lads from the garrison who were good doormen, If anybody asked they said they had special dispensation to do so but probably not. No badges and cash in hand in the supposed good old days. In a world of slang then squaddies for soldiers, matelots (pronounced ‘mattlows’) for sailors or Bootnecks for the Royal Marines were the terms bandied about. We let the Bootnecks in because they were better behaved and the Navy lads based at Tamar knew the score and we were on first name terms with the Gurkha officers who fitted smoothly into the expat world.

Bars are a business unlike any other and when visiting ships came into port then we usually let them in too. The British ships crew on shore would be ok up to a point. I threw out one big matelot for being over boisterous, the next day I played rugby against his ships team and looked behind me in a lineout to see him standing behind me. I expected a kicking but he told me that his mates had said I threw him out nicely and he had deserved it, we had a few drinks together after the game. The Australians were worse for trouble and we banned them at all times. I was at the wrong end of a shoeing from a New Zealand Infantry platoon when I intervened in a tussle with a local on the dancefloor.

Drink too much, get drunk, try to meet women, can’t meet women, drink some more then get into a fight. Perhaps that is unfair but young men full of testosterone on a ship or in barracks under rigid discipline then the pressure builds up and needs to be released when on shore. I can understand that and know it goes back to the days before Nelson and Wellington. War is a bloody business and training for war is boring.

…And then there were the Americans. One of the barmen was a cockney and called them charmingly ‘Septics’ after the rhyming slang for Septic Tank/Yank. It is a derogatory term of course but after trouble with all sorts of British and Commonwealth forces the Americans of the Pacific Fleet were a pleasure to deal with. They had a few drinks, bought drinks for the staff and the expats girls in the bar. If they didn’t meet a woman then they still had a good night. When the US Fleet was in town the American Military policemen with their snowdrop helmets patrolled in Jeeps and went in hard with night stick batons so yes the ‘Septics’ usually behaved.

I had been in Hong Kong nearly 2 years having a blast, selling crisps by day and working doors by night when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. CNN showed the war building up and the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz with attendant warships sailed into town with Ten Thousand American Sailors and Marines convinced they were going into the biggest military action since D-Day and they were out to party hard. A long term resident, an old China hand told me it was like he remembered during the Vietnam War when Hong Kong was used as an R&R stopover from the front.

 Some of them thought they were going to die and I remember that weekend for the ‘Buzz’. There was a crush of men and women on the Dancefloor, I remember throwing out a drunken expat for complaining about the Americans talking to all the women. the beer pumps were on constant flow, the tills were ringing loudly and the good time girls I knew had a good time,

I have just written about the atmosphere of that time in a novella called “Dragon”, which I hope to publish shortly. That weekend was one of the formative experiences of my adult life. The Americans behaved, they spent a lot of money and they were almost all respectful of the job we did.

When the Septic “veteran” growled at me the other day then he didn’t show me the respect that I remembered from American servicemen nearly 25 years before. Perhaps I bridled at the insult to that memory. I sympathise with the “veteran” for his experiences of violence in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever he served and how that must have affected his life. I know many from the forces who have fought away and seen images I can only imagine. I’ve worked doors with them and maybe after a few drinks they might open up, they want to be respected for a job well done. To a man they are quiet of their achievements and their experiences. If we can we let them in quickly, without ado and with a nod and a wink of appreciation.

I have met some aggrieved at the way they are treated by civilians and 2 years ago I was punched in the face by a wild eyed squaddie out with his father and uncle to celebrate his return from Afghanistan. We didn’t get him arrested in good faith that his dad would sort him out. It wasn’t his fault “he was just back from Afghan”.  

But its the same with every other customer who I deem to be unfit for entry into the venue. I make a decision to keep the majority of customers safe. The majority are civilians and like me have little comprehension of the horrors of war. We might have watched the news and the documentaries but we were not there. It is a fact of life that most do not care but neither did the public after Trafalgar or Waterloo.

I’m sorry sir, if we did not have a veteran’s line and yes I am a civilian but you are still not coming in.

As an aside on the same night there was a customer from when I ran the pub. He was a young squaddie going back to the war and at the end of his leave I gave him a good malt whisky to savour then next time he was in a foxhole and to remember to keep his head down. He necked it like a shot of tequila and grimaced. He is out of the army now but when he saw me on the door he was pleased to see me and told me he now appreciates and savours a good whisky, a Glen Morangie.

I let him in! 

JR Sheridan

www.jrsheridan.com

In praise of Nant Gwrtheyrn Welsh language centre

My widowed grandmother lived on Anglesey so I have been coming to North Wales for holidays all my life. The Welsh language has always been on the fringes of my vision as an unreadable signpost or an uninviting experience in a local shop. I played rugby here and local friends who spoke their own language and translated for me when a spat word in a scrum was a put down, so not the greatest experience of the language for a "Sais" from Liverpool. 

  

Having experienced the world through travel on business I speak and understand a little (un peu, ein bischen, “tipyn bach”) of French, German and Cantonese and not much Welsh, although I always found myself missing the beautiful island of Anglesey. In Hong Kong I missed the trees, In America the sense of ancient history. “Call that the oldest house in Washington DC, my favourite pub is older than that.”  Fed up of travelling I was having a late night drink at a conference in Montreal. I was asked what I want to do in the future and I said that I wanted to live in North Wales, that train of thought was set and a few months later I resigned. 

There were no jobs and so when I did make a lifestyle choice to move here I had to make my own way. So in 2007 with my Irish wife we bought a hotel business in an “idyllic coastal location”. It was tough choice, six weeks of madness in the summer and long quiet weeks in the Winter with just enough custom to keep us open. Living in a Welsh community you are immersed in the Welsh language and I made a conscious effort to use Welsh language in marketing, for menus and in general use. The “Croeso gynnes Gymraeg” (now I understand the transmutation) to match the “Cead Mille Failte” of the Irish. For some it was too little, for others too much, an afternoon spent asking the welsh speaking drinkers and staff while trying to finalise a bilingual menu was particularly frustrating.

We came out of the hotel in 2010 after four wet summers, a full understanding of the credit crunch and a smattering of welsh words. Since then I have worked in pubs and nightclubs as a bouncer, with an eclectic mix of marketing and writing to make up the numbers. It has not been a great career choice but I’ve had a great time and picked up a few more words, “Iawn Boi” is of great value as a non committal nod on entrance. Feeling that I should I have investigated starting a Welsh learners community course on a number of occasions, each time never committing to the ten weeks duration. A holiday in the middle or a family event, meaning that I would miss an important slice of the course and therefore not catch up being an easy excuse not to go.

But I live in North Wales, I have many Welsh speaking friends and so I should go and learn. Right! Next time something comes up I will book.

I catch a bit of “Cariad a Iaiath” on S4C (is that really Neville Southall), which is at the Nant Gwrtheyrn Welsh language centre on the Llyn Pensinsula. I’ve been there after a walk up the Rivals (sorry Yr Eifl, the fork) good café there, nice lunch, amazing views, I even picked up a course brochure, but a bit pricey for the courses, perhaps in the future, when I’ve sold a load of books.

After the S4C programme I spot a competition in the Mail to go on a course to Nant Gwrtheyrn. A 3 day beginners course in July. I sent an email and forgot about it. Then came a phone call that I had won a place, “Da Iawn, Diolch yn fawr rhiawn (er Did I just say great, Thanks?)”. The prize was non-residential and after some thought I paid for two nights accommodation for full immersion.

Then last Tuesday I drove down the windy valley road to the centre. I drove with trepidation partly to avoid the steep cliff sides just off the road but also I was nervous. I had been to a café the Saturday before and made the mistake of saying about the Welsh language that “I understood a bit”, the woman replied “So does a dog!”

Perhaps I was expecting a pat on the head for being a good boy and making an effort. I left the café wondering why the hell I should bother. But I went on my course and I am very glad I did.

Plenty of Coffee, lovely people, great weather, the aforesaid amazing views and a peaceful environment in which to learn and be inspired. The teacher, Elwen Owen was calm and encouraging. She didn’t once hit me across the head with a ruler for disrespecting her language with my dodgy pronunciation.

At the end of three intense days my head was frazzled and I had enjoyed it immensely, made new friends, played some games, sung some songs (badly) and had a great time. Most importantly I had broken through a dam of misunderstanding. I didn’t know the alphabet, the pronunciation, the greetings, the colours, the days of the week, the emotions, but I do now and want to learn more, the verbs and the grammar, a bit more than the basics.

Whenever the next course may be I have already used my new knowledge in shops and with friends. Bendegedig! 

For details of courses and iaccommodation - http://www.nantgwrtheyrn.org/

Hwyl Fawr

JR Sheridan

www.jrsheridan.com 

On Gatekeeper Validation

In the first year of my writing career I have learnt tonnes about the writing world. I have met some fantastic people on both sides of the publishing divide. I self published 'Splinter' in July on my 42nd birthday. To date sales have been steady with positive feedback and good reviews. My plan is now to finish writing my second novel ‘Personal Space’ and publish it in the New Year. Sales of Book 2 will increase interest for Book 1 and Book 3 will be huge and if it isn't then I am still learning my craft in the process.

"Head down, write, edit, design, publish, rinse and repeat." is my mantra. Well at least that is the idea with reference with those writer good enough to share their knowledge and experience.  

The writing part has been fantastic. I love immersing myself in the writing process and I buzz with energy as I lose myself in developing the story and the characters. I have even had conversations with readers about my characters and their motivation. How fantastic is that?

There have been some negative aspects in dealing with the literary world and the worst is that after 20 years of experience in building businesses I am in a strange new world and I don't know the rules of "Gatekeeper Validation".


The Rules puzzle me. In a recurring dream I imagine there is an exclusive members-only club for writers and I want to join.  

Standing outside I can see through the windows and watch as the in-crowd quaffs cocktails and champagne. They laugh at jokes while being served canapés by deferential servants. The men wear silk cravats, tweed jackets with leather elbow patches and the women wear pearl necklaces and pashmina shawls.

To gain entry you follow a red carpet that leads up the marble stairs to the big wooden door. At the top, hung between chrome posts, there is a plush velvet rope blocking the way. The Door Supervisor in a crombie overcoat and bow tie stands behind the rope. He shows me the palm of his hand in flat refusal.

"If you don't know the rules you can't come in.Son!"  

The brass plate on the door says “The Traditional Publishing Club”

In my dream I continue to walk along until I come upon the next venue, a brightly coloured 'festival marquee' with a handmade sign saying "The Self Publishing Pavillion". 

Not as posh or permanent as the clean brickwork of the traditional club and at times a cold wind blows through the sides of the tent.

More of a scrumpy cider and organic burger type of place than champagne and canapés. 

There were no bouncers keeping me out so I put on extra thermals and went in. As I went into the crowded Self Publishing marquee I walked past the different groups of dancing writers all dressed up in the different costumes of their genre. PC Plod (Crime), Halloween (Horror), Grease (YA), Tarts and Vicars (erotica) and almost everybody was friendly. 

They waved and asked me to join their groups. I thanked them saying "perhaps later" and kept walking on. At the centre of the tent a group were coming together to have a serious conversation about making the marquee stronger for the future and they were friendly too. Some said they had been inside the traditional club and told me that the champagne was warm and flat and the canapés were stale or soggy. They said they now preferred to buy their own Prosecco and pigs in blankets. But I still wanted to see for myself. 

Then I woke up. In the half light between sleep and consciousness my mind raced.

"What were the rules. Why don't I know the rules."

In my daytime/nighttime job as a nightclub bouncer I know a thing or two about the rules of “Gatekeeper Validation”. On the front door of a real life club or pub there are many reasons for turning a punter away. Too drunk, too wired, too aggressive, dodgy id, even the wrong clothes.

My job as the door supervisor/gatekeeper is to ensure that nobody I let in will disrupt the smooth and safe running of the venue’s business. My main rule of thumb in deciding to allow entry in the few seconds that I have a customer in front of me is their attitude and demeanour.

If they can’t stand up straight it leads to a refusal. 

If they approach in an agitated manner, their pupils are dilated and there is white powder dangling from the hairs of their nostrils then they are refused. 

If they bite when I ask them a simple question then they are refused. If they are going to be nasty with me on the door then they will be nasty inside. The nightclub holds a thousand people and some nights I might turn five to ten people away, often to cursing and threats.

It is a busy nightclub and there will still always be some grief inside but on the whole the night is calmer without the erratic, bad or dangerous behaviour of those I refuse.

So I am conscious of my own attitude with others in all aspects of my life. 

Away from the doors I am a nice guy. So when I first took up my pencil to offer my unfinished novel to the literary gatekeepers of the publishing world I did so with a positive and friendly attitude. I also have 20 years of sales and marketing experience and I thought that by being professional and writing a good story I would attract interest. 

Alas the entry policy was not clear and I was not too sure of dress code. Despite my research I did not know the rules. 

I was definitely not famous so did not qualify for the Celebrity ‘Access All Areas’ VIP pass. 

Did I need the special Creative Writing MA secret pass? 

Did I need to know the DJ? 

Or should I just bung the Doorman twenty quid?   

Sending out submissions is a nervous and confusing time for any newbie writer. I know there is a crowded market and to date that door has remained closed. Rejection letters arrived on my doormat.  A friendly response leaving me with hope that if I come back later there could be access in the future.

The equivalent of ‘Not tonight sir, you are wearing trainers’.

I had read about the slush pile mountains of hopeful's manuscripts so I was happy enough with that response.

When I accepted that I was on my own I resolved to complete my novel and entered the world of Self Publishing. Book 1 is published and selling and Book 2 is on the way. But I am easily distracted and knowing that I need to build my own author platform I derail my attention onto Facebook and Twitter and this monthly blog post. As an independent author I have nobody but myself to guide me so I raise my head above the parapet and look around. 

In the physical world I went to a local writing group and was hit the next day with the snide comments of the resident literary “guru” denigrating self publishing in her next blog post.

On the door it would have been a sly dig when I was looking another way.  

A couple of months later still hoping for goodwill and introducing myself as an independent author I approached a literary organisation asking for technical support. I was treated with cold derision and a sneer.

I couldn't understand why? Was I wearing beach shorts and flip flops to a black tie event?

Still being positive later I introduced myself to a publicly funded book distributor. I was even ready to accept their terms and conditions without a quibble. On hearing I was independent I was fobbed off with cursory answers to my precise but innocent questions. When confused at the response I eventually contacted by phone to speak in person I was met with a full on aggressive attitude ending with the memorably dismissive words, “We know what sells!”

It was the equivalent of a doorman’s hand in the chest pushing me backwards down the steps.  

I was tempted to reply, "I've seen the figures. Do you really want to go there?" But being  a good lad I didn't bite back.  

My last attempt to contact a literary organisation was an email to a highly paid manager again asking for technical support. This time there was zero response, not even the courtesy of a reply.

Even though I could hear the bang of the music inside and see the protectionist eye peering back out through the peep hole in the closed door.

Did I expect to be welcomed with open arms to the literary fold? No, I am more hard bitten than that.

Yet I did expect to be treated with the same courtesy as I would treat a decent customer who approaches my venue's front door standing up straight and smiling. I was neither aggressive nor agitated in my approach and I did not expect to be ignored and rebuffed. All because of my decision to embrace modern technology, to take control and not to wait for the professed validation of the literary gatekeepers.

Perhaps I turned up after a nasty row, adrenalin was up  and tolerance levels were low. To be fair it happens to me after a hassled night. 

Oh well, in time there will be another door to approach. Perhaps I don’t know the rules or the secret handshake. Perhaps when I do I will not want to go in anyway. I am more a Real Ale sort of chap, more at home in dodgy disco dives with sticky carpets and a kebab on the walk home than the exclusive members only club. By this time in my life I should know my place and learn to doff the cap.

I have now given up putting my head above the literary papapet and am concentrating on finishing book 2 and my life is much simpler.

I am still hugely enjoying my writing adventure. I have found a warm welcome in the support network of the Alliance of Independent Authors and am inspired by the professional efforts and self publishing successes of ALLi members and other indie authors that I have encountered.

Despite the lack of literary gatekeeper validation I am positive about my future as a writer and I do know that proper writers don't all wear tweeds, pearls and quaff champagne.  

Merry Christmas one and all. Even to the scrooges of the literary world.

Now there was a writer's writer who made up his own rules. . 

Nadolig Llawen from North Wales 

JRS    

www.jrsheridan.com

Oxbow Lakes, a publishing analogy

Oxbow lakes – A publishing analogy.

Last week on holiday in Scotland I watched salmon jumping up rapids on the beautiful and fast flowing river Dee. My wife and I had rented a cottage and visited the area to see old friends. The friend standing next to me on the riverside is a Doctor of Geology and works in the oil industry and I am vicariously proud of his achievements. I listened in admiration as he pointed out the different rock types to his young sons.  While my friend went on to great academic heights, for reasons of teenage rebellion and inattention as much as inability I failed my Geography exams.

The experience of standing by the river and walking the wild country glens rekindled my dormant memories of school geography lessons. We were close to the River Esk and I recalled the term “Eskers” with affection. As we walked along glaciated landscapes scoured into U's by the ice we stepped across a “Moraine” on the map and I recognised “Truncated Spurs” and “Hanging Valleys”.

It is funny what comes back to you from school. As we walked on another forgotten lesson came into my mind about “Oxbow Lakes”. Later recovering from our exertions in an old Aberdeen pub over a ‘round the regions’ whisky tasting platter I developed my concept about meandering rivers and their relevance to the modern age of publishing. 

In a definition pulled from the recesses of my memory, Oxbow lakes are formed over time when a river meanders around its valley and forms a loop. The slow flowing river deposits silt and debris and faster flowing winter flood water erodes away at banks making the meandering loop more pronounced. Eventually the entrance to the loop becomes tighter and as the silt and debris builds up the river becomes backed up and forces through a new channel. This leaves the former meander cut off from the main river current and forms a lake looking like the loop of a ribbon bow or an ox’s hoof. The straighter river then rushes past at a faster pace on its way to the sea. The Oxbow lake forms its own ecosystem separate to the river. It either finds a new water source or it dries up and disappears.

As we savoured the whisky fumes I hypothesised about the state of the popular publishing industry.

The source in the mountains was the ancient history of Caxton’s printing press and the novels such as Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders became a babbling brook. Heading down as the water of the upper stages of the river were the works of Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Mark Twain and down to the broader waters of Agatha Christie and John Buchan. As we reach the mature river further downstream the flow becomes ponderous with slow loops making navigation difficult.

Then the internet comes along and with each modern book published traditionally or by independents the raindrops build up at the head of the river and insist on finding their way down to the sea of readers at the rivers estuary. The skies darken and the weight of new content makes its way down to the meandering loops.    

As in nature, pressure builds up behind a constriction or blockage in the flow and the waters/words find their way down to the sea by the easiest route.  It pushes through the neck of the loop on its way to the readers. The loop becomes an oxbow lake of silted up ideas, viewpoints and traditions.

Riverside dwellers are now faced with stagnant water and insist that their waterfront views should stay the same. They stamp their feet in anger at the clever engineers who insist that they can not re-route the flow as the river of words has moved on. The canny ones have planned for this. They are prepared when they need to move and are ready to take advantage of their new location on the revitalised publishing landscape.

My Geologist friend took another sip of his whisky and concurred that is indeed how oxbow lakes are formed although he was not sure about the world of publishing and we laughed about our Geography teachers. After the hangover cleared I carried on with my writing hoping to add another raindrop of content to the flow of published work.

As the content flows by there will be oxbow lakes created from entrenched positions on all sides of the future of publishing debate but the content of words being added to the flow will not cease to find their way to the readers. The distribution channels might change but books are here to stay. Slainte!

www.jrsheridan.com

The Psychology of the "Put Down"

Freshers week is upon us at my local town’s University. Tonight as a Door Supervisor (the new term for bouncer) I start a week long stretch of late nights on the Door at the local nightclub I work in. Lots of young new students away from their parents will be making lifelong friendships and probably drinking too much.

Freshers Week

By the end of tonight my colleagues and I will be moaning that we are babysitting these kids barely out of nappies. They will be throwing up their pre-loaded cider and we will watch as they go off to make their first sexual mistakes as students. What they will not realise is that we will also be keeping them safe in our venue.There will be predators who look at these wide eyed and naïve young adults as fair game or fresh meat. Outside the club we watch them losing their new found sophistication and pairing up. As a father I hope against experience that they will be safe, although it is heartening that many do look after each other as they weave their way home. 

Sadly around the town some locals look at students as a menace to their self esteem and react accordingly. There will be threats of violence and intimidation will occur. The psychology of a certain type of local youth is that the students are parasites on their town and so they will be abusive and nasty. The university is a big employer in the area and generates thousands of jobs that spread to all areas of the local infrastructure but the locals will not see it like that.

Last year a talented male music student was attacked on the high street. His hand was badly damaged and his promising career threatened. Despite CCTV the attacker was not found. The student was not a threat but for his own reasons the local yob wanted to put that student down so that the student would be made to feel inferior to the yob. Note that the attack took place away from the police and bouncers like myself and that the attacker did not try to threaten me but the student. For months afterwards the student was scared to come out and we made a special effort to look after him and invite him into our club.    

Not every put down leads to violence so I wanted to look at the psychology behind the personality of the put down.  I'm a big guy and in a previous sales job the only people who have ever commented that I had put on weight were competitors that I had recently taken sales contracts from and I knew they were trying to put me down for their own self esteem. I smiled sweetly. 

On the door I receive a lot of threats when I, for whatever reason, won't let somebody into the nightclub. No matter what they say they still can't come in. I take the grief, don't bite back and smile sweetly. The outcome is that the night is calmer inside the venue and I've done a good job.

As a new writer I am enjoying the journey of writing and converting my thoughts into a readable story. After publishing my first novel “Splinter” 7 weeks ago I am waiting for my follow-up novella “Dragon” to go through the editing process.

I am hoping that the editor will not be too harsh with me but I know that whatever he comes back with will be constructive and worthwhile. It should be constructive because I am paying for his professional opinion. Whatever he says I will mull over and have a big warm glow at the compliments and a little sulk at his criticism. I found my editor when he was interviewed about editing on a podcast and I liked the cut of his jib. He was the first professional literary person that I had ever spoken to and he had the same accent as me so I thought he would understand my writing voice better than somebody from the Home Counties. 

When I summoned up the courage to contact the editor then all my years as a successful businessman were forgotten. I was just a very nervous new author who knew nothing about writing apart from I had written a story and I wanted others to read it. After several discussions I entrusted my manuscript to his electronic red pen and had no choice but to sit back and wait. I wasn’t sure if the promised timescale for completion would include weekends or just weekdays. I couldn’t ask because this person held my future in his hands and I wanted him to like my work and not rush through, angrily crossing out as he went.

   

In the end the manuscript came back, I took a deep breath, digested the criticism I had paid for, tucked away the compliments and started working towards publication. I submitted 95 thousand words for editing and the final book that I published is 75 thousand words, (which is 400 pages long but with a biggish font and easy to read layout).  That loss of 20,000 words is not the whole story because there was reworking, rewriting and pruning of tangents. I learnt a huge amount and the finished book is better for his input, as will be my future work, because of the lessons I learnt.

I respected that input because I was paying for it and he wasn't try to put me down for his own ulterior motive.

Feedback has been good and I have worried about all aspects of the book but have been pleased with the good reviews and the constructive comments. It is not a “perfect novel” but in the debate to say there is a perfect novel we start to see battle lines drawn and the debate becomes subjective and bloody as each side tries to put the other down.   

This week somebody has tried to put me down. Not about the content of my book, or the story, or my characterisation. They tried to put me down because I didn’t wait to find an agent or publisher. They say that my book should not have been published. I find this view protectionist and at least 5 years out of date. Having recently spoken to a traditionally published author who has hit the best selling lists and then found he has been shafted by his publisher then I am glad I have taken control to publish myself. 

After posting the bones of the story in a friendly author’s group I have since heard of similar comebacks from the world of academia. It seems many creative writing tutors for whatever their own reasons do not like self published books and give grief accordingly. I started a creative writing course 12 years ago and gave up halfway through. This was not because the tutor was rubbish but more that I felt that I would be better to spend the time sitting talking about writing actually sitting down to write.

In my mind writing is like rugby or soccer, I was taught the basics at school and the only way I will learn is while playing the game. I need boots and a ball in the same way a writer needs a pencil and a blank piece of paper to be filled. I no longer need to be told by a teacher what I can or can’t write about or to be put down for handing my homework in late. Some literary professionals seem to disagree and there is an emerging law of "inverse snobbery" that the more commercially successful an independent author is then the higher the level of animosity and the level of trying to put the other side down.

As far as I know there are no keys to the secret treasure of literary success and in this digital age then the Agents and Publishers are no longer the gatekeepers to the promised land. So what is the motivation behind the protectionism?  What is the psychology behind the put downs?  An image comes into my mind of the Wizard of Oz hiding behind his booming voice and the green curtain.

Behind the Wizard's green curtain 

These are exciting times for all authors and by the time the blood has dried on the bar room floor we will look back with derision at the protectionists who sneered at the lesser mortals who tried to write and self publish their book. Good writers will find readers, bad writers will not. 

If a reader doesn't like your creative work then that is one thing. But if somebody puts you down its always worth taking a bit of time to look at the psychology of why. As a fellow writer nicely suggested to me perhaps the creative writing "guru", who blogged against me self publishing was jealous that I held a physical book in my hand. I did joke that I had bought fish and chips for my wife with my first payment from Amazon and was therefore a paid author. Perhaps I should have been more sensitive to their feelings.  

For the next week on the nightclub door I will have people who I won’t let into the club and they will try to put me down. Locals and students together. Locals will threaten me violence and Students will tell me their father is a lawyer. If they offer me physical violence and if necessary I will (literally) put them down to the floor to protect myself, my colleagues and my customers. If they try to put me down verbally because I am old, bald, fat or all three then I will smile sweetly, which will annoy them even more. For their own reasons they are trying to steal my energy and I don’t care.

If a reader doesn’t like my book and gives me a bad review based on their thoughts then I will be sad. But if somebody who has not even read my book tries to put me down because I have self published then I will smile sweetly and carry on writing Book 2 and Book 3. 

James Sheridan

www.jrsheridan.com

'Facts of Life' - What's in a title?

As sales are ticking along nicely for 'Splinter' I am being asked why I have called the Dan Richards adventures the "Facts of Life" series. 

When I started writing the novel I needed a working title. As described in a previous blog I had the name 'Dan Richards' rattling around my head for 20 years and I had started 3 or 4 first chapters without a book name. With each attempt the creative juices dried up due to life's imperatives at the time rather than lack of a title. 

Last year I realised the non fiction book about hard lessons learnt at the hotel wasn't going anywhere and when I put it aside I was working on a pub door in a University Town. The more I dealt with young customers  both locals and students the more I thought how naive and innocent they were and that they still had a lot to learn about the 'Facts of Life'. As the story developed and Dan Richards dealt with local idiots in the plot he came across 'Facts of Life' issues. A main theme in the book is that a local thug who has seen nothing of the world is not a threat to a combat veteran however tough the young scrote thinks he is. However that doesn't mean that the young thug's arrogance and stupidity is not a threat. Again Facts of Life for young and old. 

After writing the first few chapters I thought I was happy with my work and sent away a synopsis under the title of "Facts of Life" to various literary agents who (fast or slow) universally rejected the story. This was a bit of a blow but spurred me on to finish the book and then to allow the story to settle. During the settling and review period the idea of the psychological 'splinter' seemed to dominate the book and I came round to the idea of "Splinter" as a title. 

I also realised that I had learnt my own 'Facts of Life' during the agent submission and rejection process. I still liked the title but thought it was a bigger theme than jut one book. There are too many books published for any single word title to be totally unique. So "Splinter: Book 1 of the Facts of Life Series" ticked lots of boxes for marketing the novel and promising for a series of future exciting adventures for readers to buy into emotionally.    

In terms of 'Facts of Life' lessons being learnt. I worked at a nightclub last week for the night of the A'Level results partying. The queue was long, the club was full and the atmosphere was good. There were lots of young people enjoying themselves excited at their results and the prospects of their bright futures. I wished them well and was pleased that they could still be innocent, naive and stupid in this age of online damnation and I felt old. There is a lot more grey in my newly grown literary beard these days and I must have looked ancient to the youngsters on their exciting night out. 

Drink was taken and with some from the dilated pupils of their eyes I am sure recreational drugs were too. We checked IDs all night and turned those away whose faces didn't match the photos. The attitude of most was fantastic but there were enough spoilt little princesses and arrogant hard man wannabe boys to keep us on our toes. I was confronted with a temper tantrum where the girl literally stamped her feet and screamed at me when I simply said "no" to her. A young lad tried to eyeball me to show how tough he was, so I didn't let him in. "Facts of life pal!" 

In a nightclub queue anywhere in the world, checking IDs is not just about age it is also about attitude. There are always excuses for the 'management to reserve right to refuse entry' even when faced with threats, especially when faced with threats. If the queue outside is run properly then the positive attitude of punters we do let in allows for a good night inside.  

There are plenty of 'Facts of Life' for my characters to learn and Dan Richards has plenty of more adventures ahead of him. 

Any examples of Facts of Life lessons learnt gratefully received. 

JRS  

PS. I now have a list of over 50 titles ready to use. The words behind them will come when I let them.