The Worried Writer

Happy Thursday!

I’m about to crawl into my writing cave for a ten-day Ultra NaNo type thing but before I do, I want to point you in the direction of The Worried Writer podcast. Specifically the latest episode, which features a long, giggly interview with me.


I really enjoyed chatting to host and fellow writer Sarah Painter about all things writing. Some of the topics we talked about include:

  • The name of my (fictional) self-help/productivity versus procrastination book, Don’t Start Until It’s Already Too Late.
  • The benefits of being traditionally published and why I think that ultimately, neither self-publishing nor getting published offers control (Oooh, controversial!)
  • Why I think I didn’t get a book deal until I deserved to – and what I was doing that made me feel like I finally did
  • How I pitched a winning idea for Book 2 to my editor… without actually having an idea for Book 2
  • Why if you claim that you only write for yourself but you’re also chasing publication, I’ll probably give you some side-eye…
  • The MASSIVE, PARALYZING, COLD-SWEAT FEAR that prevented me from submitting my work for ages – and how I pushed through it was dragged through it by writer friends (and why it doesn’t stop when you get the deal – sorry!)
  • Why luck can suck it
  • What you need to tell yourself when someone tells you won’t or can’t achieve your dreams.
You can listen to the episode here, or find it on iTunes.

NB: This was recorded a few weeks ago and so I refer to the publication date of Distress Signals being in June. But it’s May now. MAY!


If you have a listen, do let me (and Sarah) know what you think in the comments below…

Where The Crying Happens

I love seeing where other people work (My Writing Room is my favourite feature on Novelicious) so today I thought I’d share what mine looks like.

That thought had nothing to do with the fact that I’m knee-deep in Book 2 and don’t have time to write an actual blog post, of course.


I used to live in the most gorgeous apartment. It was lovely, and it was relatively big. Open spaces, full of light, a balcony perfect for coffee drinking and contemplating, and a whole wall just for my bookcases.

[gets teary-eyed just thinking about it]

Then, for some reason, I moved to Dublin, where the same rent was just about enough to cover a telephone box. I live in a studio apartment, essentially, although there is a door between the teensy kitchen and the main room. (Thank fudge – some of the places I went to see came with the added benefit of being able to reach the microwave from the bed. Hmm…) This means that everything has to be very organized, not take up much space and look nice, because I’m looking at it all the time.

So here it is, where the magic crying happens…


  1. Excellent writing advice from Hemingway (and a birthday present from my friend Iain that came all the way from the famed Powell’s Books!)
  2. My Erin Condren life planner, filled with stickers for added procrastination. You can get one here. I recommend that you calculate the price based on the daily cost, i.e. divide the price by 18 (months) x 31 (days, on average). There. That’s much better, isn’t it?
  3. I keep this photo of eight-year-old me two-finger typing on the typewriter Santa brought to remind me that this is all I’ve ever wanted. (See it here.) I stare at it a lot when I have a synopsis to write. In front of it is a small blue deckchair encased in an acrylic cube, that reminds me of one of my favourite places: Nice.
  4. A blanket. I am always freezing. (Plus it disguises the fact that the chair does not match. MY EYES.)
  5. Coffee. Obvs, as the kids say.
  6. My vision board. I’m into the law of attraction, but not because I believe that you can order what you want from a magical universe like a drive-thru window. Instead, it’s because I think focusing on your goals or dreams does just that: it focuses you on your goals and dreams. Bonus: it takes AGES to go through piles of old magazines and Pinterest looking for images that appeal to you, and longer again to cut them out and glue them to a sheet of cardboard, and as you know I’ve never met a procrastination activity I didn’t like. (I’ve blurred out some of my loftier goals and dreams because, you know, hashtag potentially mortifying.)
  7. The Dreaded Draft Calendar. Ideally I have to finish a vomit draft of Book 2 around mid to the end of November, in order to stay on track with its delivery date and get my college assignments done. This is a constant reminder of how terrifyingly little time I have left. Yeah. So I should probably go…

Where do you write?


What Could Happen If You Worked As Hard As You Possibly Could?

Fact: I’ve never worked as hard in my entire life as I did last year.

(Because I’m a student, I now think in academic years, so I mean the period between  September 2014 and the end of May.)

Here’s another fact you might not know, one you might be surprised to learn: I had never worked hard before that.


In the last few months I’ve given this revelation a soft launch, telling a few people who know me in real life that I never worked hard before this past (academic) year. They have reactions like scoffing, eye-rolling, etc. ‘Yeah, right,’ they say. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I admitted to one person that I’m the laziest person I know and she said, ‘Lazy? Lazy? That’s not a word I’d associate with you at all.’

Well… Surprise!

I find it odd that people think prior to September 2014 I was a hard worker, but I must acknowledge that I’ve had a hand in spreading the lies. I constantly tell self-publishing authors that they’re not going to get anywhere without a lot of hard work – and that’s true. It is true that I did a lot of hard work. All the social media stuff, the million little things that go into self-publishing a book (or three), the speaking engagements, the blogging, etc.

But that is not the same as working hard. It’s certainly not the same as working as hard as I possibly could. I know it’s not, because it didn’t involve any real sacrifice.

Between March 2010 and March 2014, the list of tasks above was my full-time job. I did it for a few lazy hours a day, usually starting mid-morning. During the day, I was usually free to drop whatever I was doing and go out for coffee, or to see a movie, or basically to do whatever I wanted. At night you could usually find me watching TV with my laptop balanced on my knees typing a blog post or an e-mail or whatever, but that was more a habit than a necessity. There were times when self-imposed deadlines had me at my desk before dawn or into the night, but these occasions were few and far between. I had no other responsibilities. I was living with my parents. I never missed anything I wanted to see on TV, and I wanted to see a lot of things. Sometimes I even made a big flask of coffee and brought it upstairs, into my bedroom, so I wouldn’t have to walk all the way downstairs to achieve a caffeine refueling. That’s how lazy I was.

Things were going well – my self-published titles were keeping me in coffee grounds and ink cartridges as planned, I’d established a sideline career as a public speaker and a major publishing house had invited me to do well-paid freelance work for them that tied in with what I was doing for myself already – but they weren’t going as well as I wanted them to go. No where near it.

I still hadn’t got a book deal and, crucially,  I still hadn’t finished the novel I hoped I’d get a book deal for.

Almost all of the writer friends I’ve made over the last few years are now published writer friends. For a while there it felt like every single person I knew had a book deal. (Except me.) But whenever good news broke, I had to acknowledge that the person it was about was a person who worked a lot harder than me. Maybe they’d been getting up at 4:30am for well over a year now, to write before work. Maybe they’d been staying up until 4:30am because they couldn’t write during the day in a house full of kids. Maybe none of us had seen them in forever because every spare minute was spent adding to their WIP’s word count. They got what they wanted because they deserved it. They’d worked as hard as they possibly could.

Ricky Gervais has said that The Office was the first thing in his life he ever really worked hard at. I often wondered what would happen if I worked as hard as I could. My brother acts, and often he and I would say it aloud to one another: what could happen if we worked as hard as we possibly could?

In the end, I forced my own hand. I applied to do a four-year BA in English as a mature student, a move that would require a move to Dublin from Cork. I didn’t expect to get in so when I did, it suddenly meant that my novel had to get finished now, before the luxury of spare time completely disappeared. I got an agent during my first mid-term break, so I had to do a rewrite during term-time alongside all my classes, getting through my reading list, keeping up my freelance work and sleeping and eating and all that. Even my beloved TV fell by the wayside, and I didn’t read anything for pleasure for almost nine months. Actual sacrifices were made as opposed to me just “being busy”.

It was completely and utterly exhausting – after I delivered my rewrites I instantaneously developed a horrific flu and went to bed with Netflix for three days straight – but it was also exhilarating. Mostly because I knew it was going to lead somewhere, because I knew I was working as hard as I possibly could. I always thought I loved wasting time – Sweatpants & Sofa Time, to be specific – but it turns out I feel infinitely happier when I’m not wasting any time at all.

I also felt a seismic shift in how I approached my writing. Before, I’d have taken out my diary and looked for the blank spaces in which I could fit some writing time. Now, all time was writing time by default and everything else that I absolutely had to do – and only the things I absolutely had to do – would be squeezed in around it.

The most (pleasantly) surprising thing was the momentum that builds when you work like that. It got easier and easier to sit down at my desk and get going every day. I went from refusing to do anything unless I had a whole, clear afternoon, to scribbling sentences while the kettle boiled.

I have another crazy (academic) year ahead of me now: I have to deliver Book 2 by April, Book 1 comes out in June and I’m into the second year of my degree with its lecture schedule, reading list, essay assignments and, just after Book 2’s delivery date, exams. But now that I equate success with working as hard as I possibly can – and not a smidgen less – I don’t think I’d have it any other way.

What could happen if you worked as hard as you possibly could? What already has?

What do you think? Do you agree/disagree? How can you tell if you’re just doing hard work, or working hard? What’s the difference? Let me know in the comments below… 

(The featured image is of my Erin Condren Life Planner, which has changed my stationery-addict life. Find out more about her amazing products here.)


Something Nice from Nice

I’m in Nice.

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you’ll know that this isn’t my first time in Nice. For 6-8 weeks every Autumn for three years beginning in 2011 – I’ll give you a moment to catch your breath after that weird sentence construction – I came here, supposedly, to write. That sounds very decadent, I know, but I was living with my parents at the time and had no real financial responsibilities. (Now I have rent to pay in Dublin “The Rent On This Telephone Box Will Make Your Eyes Water” City and university fees to cover, so it all balances out.) Plus the work I was doing was freelance, so all I needed to do it was a laptop and an internet connection. 


In 2009, I’d rented a somewhat isolated holiday home near the sea in East Cork for a six week period that started in October. It rained most days. At night, high winds rattled the windows. I don’t drive – I never did get around to learning to drive on this side of the Atlantic – and so if I wanted to see other humans, it involved a walk of about 20 minutes to the nearest shop and back again. In the rain and wind. If I was feeling very energetic the beach was about 45 minutes away and, if I was suddenly gripped by the need to be social, there was a hotel at the other end of the strand where one could sit at a nice table by the window and have a proper coffee. While looking at out at the grey skies, grey sea, wind and rain.

There was no internet in the house, only three or four channels that weren’t Static TV. (That was the year I really got into Strictly. Those couple of hours on a Saturday evening were the only time the house felt alive.) By the end of the six weeks I had written a first draft of a novel from scratch, but I also was muttering to myself and hoarding plastic bags.

A couple of years passed and somehow in the box room of my parents’ house, a house filled with other adults and at times, children too, and with my sister’s music playing on the other side of the wall and the TV on downstairs and conversations going on everywhere – somehow – I hadn’t been able to recreate the productivity I’d had in the House Not Quite By the Sea. But there was no way I could survive another six weeks there; I’d definitely have stray cats clustered at my feet by the end of a second stint. So I started thinking: where else could I rent an off-season holiday home?

I’d never been to Nice but my family had been a few times. I knew it was sunny and by the sea and was a city but also had a gorgeous promenade and, hey, good coffee and France. I did some searching online and found an apartment that, when you did the sums, was not that much more per week than the House Not Quite By the Sea. I’d arrive in October and leave at the end of November; it’d be cold, but who cared. I’d spend as little as possible while I was there by walking wherever and whenever I could, limiting my cafe coffees to two per day and dining on meals of soup (less than a euro per packet) with fresh, crusty baguettes. Because I’d be there alone, I wouldn’t be going out at night either, spending my evenings reading instead.  It would be perfect.

So I booked it and off I went.

And then I did it again the following year, and again the year after that.


Now, I have to be honest. Did I crap out three first drafts – or three any kind of drafts – during those three Nice stints? Hell no. I have basically nothing to show for them word count-wise. The first year I pretty much spent my time exploring Nice and the other towns along the coast. The second year I dragged a second suitcase that was just full of books and worked my way through them at various spots on the beach. The third year – because I sensed it would be my last, having applied to university – I did a little bit of both, plus I discovered that all the TV show DVD box-sets in the Virgin Megastore on Jean Médecin had – of course – their original English audio in the options menu.

Also, no one wants to come visit when you are in a cold, weird house by the Irish Sea in autumn which in Ireland is no different to winter, really, but everyone wants to come visit when you are on the French Rivera. On top of that, the apartment was a dream. It was big and it was bright and in the morning the living room was filled with golden sun, and all I had to do was make my coffee – in the Nespresso machine – and open the French doors and take it out onto the balcony, which was planted with enough basil to open a pesto store, and sit there and sip and think about how lucky I was and wonder how did I swing a life like this, eh?

But despite the scant word count, it was so worth spending that time in Nice.


On a practical level, Nice features in Distress Signals because that’s one of the places where the Celebrate, my fictional cruise ship, stops, and a couple of my characters spend a day there. So it was research, okay? (Don’t answer that.) I also kept a little pink notebook with me at all times, writing down any ideas or snippets of ideas that came into my head while I was doing Nice-y things (sitting on the beach, walking the Prom, etc.) and when the time came to start writing my book in earnest, I found some gems in there. I came up with the book’s biggest twists while sitting on Nice’s famous pebble beach with Nice’s famous pebbles digging uncomfortably into the flesh of my arse.

But here’s where I really got my money’s worth: the alone time. When you are alone – when you away from all the voices in your life – you get into a zone where you can start to believe in yourself. Your daydreams start to look like achievable goals, because there’s no one around to argue with you, to contradict you. No one to say that maybe you should downsize and reach for treetops instead of the stars.

(I remember clearly having a moment of realizing this back when I lived in Florida. The ESA had advertised for volunteers to participate an experiment that would simulate an 18-month mission to Mars, and I thought it’d be a great idea to apply. What happened next was… Nothing. No one said anything. No one tried to deter me. No one laughed. It was like shouting into a deep cave and getting no echo. It was disconcerting until I realized what the feeling was: expecting someone or someones to start talking me out of it. In Florida, no one did.) 

And sometimes dreams need that kind of space to grow, a chance to set down roots and grow strong before you have to start defending them to everyone else.

Every year I came here to Nice, I was on a seriously limited budget. One of my favorite things to do was to walk through the Old Town early in the morning. The Cours Selaya has a famous flower market most mornings, and there was a cafe that would sell me a reasonably priced coffee that offered a great people-watching spot. Up a narrow little street from it was a shop called Transparency that sold tiny models of things set in acrylic cubes. (Never let me write auction house or art gallery catalogue descriptions, will you?)


I’d gazed adoringly in their window whenever I passed and tried to limit the times I went in because I’d only be a time-waster for the sales clerk on duty. My favorite piece was a small cube of acrylic, essentially a paperweight, in which a tiny model of one of NIce’s famous blue deck-chairs – the symbol of Nice – had been set. It was a beautiful piece. Depending on how you looked at it, there could be one chair or more than you could count. If I brought it home, it would be a gorgeous addition to my desk and a constant reminder of the sunny days I’d spent in Nice. Unfortunately it was €40, or as much as a week of baguettes and cafe coffees. My budget was so tight I couldn’t justify it. I whispered to myself that one day, when I got a book deal, I’d come back and buy it.

I could say “when” because there was no one around to correct me, no one to talk me down from the moon, no one to suggest that maybe saying “if” would be more appropriate.

About five and a half years ago I started this blog, in which I declared that my goal was to get published. I remember wondering what would happen if that never happened – the sting of public humiliation, the internet record of my failing. How long would I keep up the blog, if self-publishing didn’t work and I couldn’t even finish my novel? 

Well, yesterday, I bought my little blue chair cube. I don’t want to get all Jimmy MacElroy but… 

Picture 2

What do you think about aiming high? Do you dream of reaching the moon, or do you temper your goals with reality? Which do you think is the best approach? Let me know in the comments below! 


How Many Drafts Did You Do Of Your Book?

“How many drafts did you do of your book?”

In between getting a book deal and being able to tell people I got a book deal, I went to an event at Dun Laoghaire’s Mountains to Sea festival where an audience member asked Paula Hawkins, superstar author of The Girl on the Train, this very question. On hearing it, I rolled my eyes and groaned about it to my company for the evening (who rolled her eyes at my groaning), even though it wasn’t that long ago that I sat in the audience at writerly events and asked the very same thing of published authors myself.

Why the eye-rolling? Because I don’t believe the guy who asked wanted to know how many drafts Hawkins had done of her book. What he really wanted to know was how many drafts of his book he’d have to do – minimum – before his publication dreams came true, before his debut hit 2 million copies sold in the space of a few months (selling at a rate of one every 18 seconds, apparently), became the “recommended” book in the Audible sponsor message on Serial and started being tweeted and Instagrammed about by the likes of Reese Witherspoon, Jennifer Aniston and Mindy Kahling.

What he really should’ve asked was “How many drafts did you have to do of your book?”

I know this because that’s what I wanted to know when I asked – or silently hoped someone else would ask – questions like  “How many drafts did you do of your book?” (See also: “Was your book finished when you submitted to an agent?” and “Do publishers make offers on partials?” and “How many words do you write a day?”) In his memoir We Can’t All Be Astronauts, Tim Clare despairs when a pair of friends emerge from a day spent at the London Book Fair with a deal for an idea they sketched out on a single sheet of A4 paper. We’ve all heard of ten-way auctions culminating in six-figure deals for three chapters and an outline, and I know of at least one publishing story that actually involves scribbles on a cocktail napkin. Sometimes the folklore of publishing edges very close to fabled Hollywood pitches, like the one where James Cameron says “Romeo and Juliet on the Titanic” to studio execs and gets a green light on the spot.

As a writer whose ratio of writing a novel to daydreaming about having a novel published was about 1:10, these stories were music to my ears. I collected them. Fixated on them. Turned to them for encouragement. Because I wanted the spoils, but I wasn’t prepared to do the hard work first. Not if I didn’t absolutely have to.

But boy, is it hard work. Distress Signals is almost ready for copy-editing and it’s taken a lot of work to get to this point. Here is a very long blog post to tell you just how much.

Beginnings (Autumn 2012-Spring 2013)

So you have an idea for a novel…

I don’t actually know how many times I wrote the start of the book that at this stage was called Dark Waters. Four or five times, at least. When I say “the start” I mean the opening chapters; I think the furthest I ever got was 10,000 words. I was trying to figure out how to write the book. Who would be the narrator? At what point would the story start? I have a folder on my computer full of these fragments, and very little of them – almost none of them, I’d say – made it into the final version. But I wouldn’t have got to the final version if I didn’t mess around with these aborted beginnings so much first.


Vomit Draft (Summer 2013)

The next major step in the process was a discovery draft. At least, that’s the professional-sounding name for it. In reality, it’s a vomit draft. You sit down and upchuck everything you know about the novel, filling in ideas for the bits you don’t know in between. By the time I sat down to do this, I’d spent the best part of two years kicking the idea around inside my head.

This was not a draft for anyone else’s eyes but mine, because it wasn’t a readable book. If I knew what was going to happen in a chapter, I simply wrote a summary of a sentence or two and then moved onto the next. The idea was to figure out what I didn’t know, so I skipped over the scenes I already had set in my mind. At the end of this I had about 50,000 words – but what I really had was the skeleton of the novel, the framework on which I’d build the book itself.


First Draft 1.0 (AUTUMN 2013 – SPRING 2014)

By spring of last year I was up to about 30,000 words of my first, proper, readable-by-other-people draft and, egged on by writing friends (Sheena and Hazel, I’m looking at you), I submitted the first three chapters and a synopsis to an agent. Now in my heart I knew that neither I nor the book was ready to be doing this, but at the same time I needed to do it, because I needed to take the plunge. I was trying to scale a mountain of fear and for months – years – I’d been standing at the base of it, looking up, paralyzed. I wasn’t ready to leave the world where I might possibly get everything I wanted and move to the land of reality checks just yet.

I got a rejection, which was devastating, but it was a very detailed and generous one that pointed out what I now realized was a glaring flaw in my main character’s story, a development that just didn’t ring true. I scrapped most of what I’d written and went back to the start again.

You may wonder about the logic of taking one person’s subjective opinion and changing your entire book because of it. Well, I knew she was right. I simply knew it. It caught in my gut. I knew the best thing to do was to change that element of the book.

First Draft 2.0 (Summer 2014)

So I re-started my first proper draft and this time got up to around about 50,000 words. Then I stalled. Not because I didn’t know what was to come next, but because life got in the way. I’d applied to go back to university as a mature student and in May, I found out I’d got in. This meant packing up my apartment in Cork, moving back in with my parents for a couple of months while I house-hunted in Dublin (a full-time job in itself) and then, hopefully, moving myself to Dublin once I found a place. Writing fell by the wayside.

In an effort to kick myself up the arse, I submitted to another agent. My thinking was once I pressed “SEND” I’d be gripped by a fear that she’d come back and request the full manuscript I didn’t yet have, and would therefore get it finished immediately. But of course that’s not what happened – life was still in the way, fear or no fear – and when she did request the full manuscript  nearly three months later, I still didn’t have it.

Imagine getting that e-mail.

I decided to pull the old “Sorry, I Was on Hols” trick, which was plausible considering that we were now into August. I cancelled everything and spent three weeks in a caffeine-fuelled haze, finishing the last 30,000 or so words of the book. Thankfully I was working from a detailed outline so I knew exactly what to write, but still, it was tough going. After a few days of re-reading, re-jigging and revising, I sent it off to the agent…

… who swiftly rejected it. But this time I didn’t listen to the criticisms that came with the (very nice) e-mail. Why? Because they didn’t catch in my gut. They didn’t stick. I didn’t think she was right. I thought that this was simply a case of this novel not being for her.

When I read over the novel again – this was a month after I’d finished it by now – I remember thinking, “Hmm. This is actually okay!” So now I still didn’t have an agent, but I did have a finished book I was happy with.

This being the first time in the process I had a full manuscript I felt confident about, I decided to go all in on the agent thing and do a simultaneous submission to my ultimate agent wish list. Two of them offered representation and at the very end of October I signed with Jane Gregory – who I almost hadn’t bothered submitting to, because I thought the odds were so fantastical.

photo 2-7

Second Draft (Winter 2015)

Gregory and Company can spend up to two years working with a debut author before their novel goes out to publishers, so I knew that now the real work would start. It was time to do a re-write of the Novel Formerly Known as Dark Waters Now Known as Adrift with Stephanie, Jane’s in-house editor extraordinaire.

I think this was the most enjoyable part of the writing experience for me, because enough time had passed – we were into the New Year now – for me to be able to look at the novel afresh and, with Stephanie’s input, make it much better. There were no structural changes to do (plotting is my strong point, I think) but there was plenty to be done about my characterization (my weakest link). This was also an opportunity to layer in more complexity and to tighten all the nuts and bolts. I spent about 6-8 weeks on it, and then there was another week where I worked on the changes Stephanie suggested after I sent her back the draft, and then another couple of days for typos and addressing my favourite hobby, missing words. The manuscript grew to about 105,000 words in the process (up from 85,000).

Some writers don’t like being edited and although this will sound harsh, I’m not sure if those writers really know what writing is about. Being edited is absolutely wonderful. It’s like one-on-one tutoring in how to make your book better – and not just this book, but every future book you’ll ever write. A good editor doesn’t tell you what to do – they’ll just point you in the direction of where the potential problems lie. It’s up to you to figure out how to fix them. But amazing things happen along the way. New ideas. Better ideas. A better book, by far.

It was difficult time-wise because I was in university by now and re-writing when I should’ve been writing my last two essay assignments and starting to study for my exams, and the moment I finished it I spontaneously developed the world’s worst flu. You can read more about what happened next here.

Third Draft (Summer 2015)

Now for the scary bit: the first edit with Sara, my editor at Corvus (Atlantic). The novel was now called Distress Signals. When I first met her in London we talked about some of the things she thought needed reworking, and again, I agreed with them all. I knew she was right. But when the marked-up manuscript arrived in the door with lines through some of my favourite sections, my palms started to sweat.

It was soon obvious that the entire third quarter of the book needed to be rewritten. I’d given my readers a breather half-way through, much like the moment in a horror movie when the sun comes up after a horrific night of terror. But what I’d actually done is bring the narrative drive to a halt, to slow the pace to a crawl after spending 50,000 words working to crank it up. Elsewhere I needed to dump a few research dumps, and there was more work to be done on characterization.

But, again, I really enjoyed the process. Who wouldn’t enjoy making their book better? It’s like the first draft is the cupcakes and editing is the icing and decorating bit. It’s the fun bit. The hardest part is done. Now you get to make things look pretty. (This analogy doesn’t go the distance, does it? But you know what I mean.) By the end of it I was really, really proud of my book – and still in love with it, crucially.

If I can give you one piece of advice it’s to write a book you are madly in love with, because that love is going to need to last a long, loooooong time. It’s going to have to be stronger than your desire to start a bonfire when you’re reading it for the 53rd time.

Last week I heard that my editor loves the changes and the rewriting is over. We just have some line editing to do on the new sections and then Distress Signals will be off to the copyeditor.

That’s how many drafts I had to do of my book.

What next? Oh, just the little matter of doing this all over again with Book 2.

More coffee, please.

 * * * * *



Since I got a book deal, the most common question I’ve been asked is why the book isn’t coming out for a year. The next most common question is how in the name of the fudge I’m going to squeeze the writing of a whole book into the time between now and next April, when – as evidenced by this thesis of a blog post – it took me approximately five times that to write the one I’ve just finished. (Darling, let me tell you: we’re both dying to know the answer to that). So between now and next summer, I’m going to do a monthly series called Book One/Two, where I update you on the publishing process and my attempts at doing this all over again. Consider this the prologue. I’ll hope you’ll stick around for the rest! 

UPDATE 17th August: Oh my, Freshly Pressed! Thank you so much, Freshly Pressed Elves. This is, somehow, the third time I’ve been FP’d. (Whaa…?) If you’d like to read the other two, they were Why, For Me, Print Will Never Be Extinct and Self-Publishing? Read This First.

A Short Story About Scarpetta

I’m heading to the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival in Harrogate tomorrow morning (for the first time ever and feeling a bit like the new girl who switches schools half way through term and has to walk into a class where she doesn’t know anyone!) so this evening, while I procrastinate instead of pack, I thought I’d share with you a story about my introduction to crime (writing): Kay Scarpetta and the woman who invented her, Patricia Cornwell.


One Christmas, back when I was (I think) either 12 or 13 (ish), a friend of mine lent me her older brother’s Patricia Cornwell paperbacks. Now, I’m not sure if she leant me one and then I bought the others, or if she lent me the whole lot and I just never gave any of them back – in fact, the more I think about this entire incident, the fewer tangible details I can recall – but I do know that several nights in a row, over the school holidays,  I stayed up reading until three or four in the morning because I couldn’t sleep until I got to THE END.

Now I’m sure I’d read other crime novels before that but there was something about Cornwell and her central character, Kay Scarpetta, that moved me from mild interest to totally obsessed. The feisty women, the high-octane plots, the autopsies (ewwww), the pristine house (I STILL want my own mud room and totally OTT home security system) and the detours into highly descriptive Italian cooking sessions (???) – I loved it all. (I never quite understood why a medical examiner would be out in the field investigating crimes, but anyway…) They would be my gateway drug into Harlan Coben, Michael Connelly, Karin Slaughter, Gillian Flynn (I was reading her long before Gone Girl was a blinking cursor on her computer screen HASHTAG SMUG), and all the other amazing crime/thriller fiction writers whose books I devour today.

Last August I finished my own thriller and when it came time to write the all important cover letter, I mentioned that Cornwell was my introduction to the genre:

Crime/thriller novels have been my reading passion ever since a friend’s older brother irresponsibly let me borrow his collection of Patricia Cornwell paperbacks when I was 12 and, if my apartment spontaneously burst into flames right now, my ‘grab’ item would be my limited-to-200-edition, numbered, gold-edged, slip-cased, red leather-bound copy of Nine Dragons that Michael Connelly personally inscribed to me as a competition prize. (Safe in the knowledge that my MS has been saved to Dropbox, mind you.)

Flash-forward now to the beginning of April this year. My superagent, Jane Gregory, has got me a 2-book deal with Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books, and although I’m not allowed tell everyone yet, I have told a few someones: my writing friends. A gang of us go out to dinner to celebrate in Jamie’s Italian in Dundrum. There’s five of us setting at the table – all either published or about to be – and three of us write crime while a fourth says she doesn’t but there’s a dead body in her book. (Although I’ve stopped saying she’s written crime because it’s starting to really annoy her, I think.)

(But it IS.)


So the waiter arrives at our table to take our drink order, and we decide to order a bottle of wine. (Good decision.) Everyone elects me to choose which one. (Bad decision. I only started drinking wine in the last year – I actually started drinking it at the Irish Book Awards when I turned to Hazel Gaynor and uttered the immortal line, “How winey is that wine?” – and all I know about it is whether it’s white or red.) The waiter eventually steps in and says he’ll pick a wine for us, tells us nothing about his decision and then disappears to go get it.

This is what he brought back:


Naturally, the table erupted. I couldn’t believe it, and I still can’t believe it now. (And no, the waiter knew nothing about who we were, what we did, why we were there or what we were celebrating.) Isn’t that amazing? I mean, what are the chances?

(And it was quite nice, by the way. If anyone knows where outside of Jamie’s Italian you can buy it, do let me know.)

I’m hoping it’s a good omen for the adventures ahead…

I finally caved and joined Instagram. Follow me there and on Twitter for updates from Harrogate and if you’re in Harrogate too, come and say hi! 

Side note: reading this back, you can tell that I’ve had a LOT of coffee today and that I cleaned out my talent for writing words more good getting the latest draft of Distress Signals done last week, can’t you?

Let’s Talk About Self-Publishing. In Dublin. Next Weekend.

(I know, I know – a blog post that’s not about The News. Surprise!)


Next weekend, the Books Go Social Writers Conference takes place in Dublin. It promises to be an action-packed weekend with multiple “streams” or options for attendees to choose from, with topics ranging from how to get published to exploring in depth how to write a story that other people will want to read in the first place. There’s also a dinner for all speakers and attendees on the Saturday night, and the weekend will also offer some time to explore the city of Dublin.

I’ll be there on the Saturday afternoon talking about The Business of Self-Publishing.

You can find out more about the conference here.