Orwell Nailed It

#PrideAndPerjury #JAFF #HistoricalFiction #SelfPublishing

 “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness.” 

George Orwell 

First, please note what Orwell did not say. Writing is often intensely enjoyable – even non-fiction. It’s when your enjoyable project turns into a judgeable, sellable, editable book that the illness kicks in…

My latest (Marianne: A Sense and Sensibility Sequel) reminded me of this, big-time. First, the plotting was harder than usual. Because I have 100%, National-Health-Serviced-diagnosed, ADHD, I wrote all the scenes out of order. This is normal, for me – but because this plot was far more complicated than my usual, my husband – my only editor – spent the summer amusing our London neighbours on either side. He’d be editing on the lounger, and I’d poke my head out to see if he wanted a coffee. He’d be: “Yes, please, but you messed up in Chapter 4. You forgot entirely that Henry Crawford doesn’t yet know, does he?” followed by a screech of  “Not AGAIN!!!!” from the doorway. 

And then, the editing. It is an unwritten rule that every writer must learn to hate, loathe and despise every sentence in the book, through having gone through it 95 million times, in quest – not of the Lost Chord – but of the Surplus Comma. 

Thirdly, one ARC reader brilliantly spotted that I’d messed up Mrs Dashwood’s family tree (!!!!!!!) And then, the marketing has been a disaster because I always forget – you’d think I’d have learned – this is my eighth book, though the first three were trad-published – to make a note of exactly what promos I’d already signed up for. I excelled myself by signing up for two identical book release promos, not once but twice – an indoor record – and tested the friendship of my buddy Jeffrey (the real-life Fussy Librarian) for forgetting to mark a different book as free-on-the-day. 

Marianne’s formatting was complicated by my quoting from Cowper – not a great poet, imho, but hey, neither am I and Austen adored him. This drove the fonts crazy. At two other points the formatting simply went mad making the words two sizes bigger, and causing Si annoyance he really didn’t need a few days before his operation. 

As for IngramSparks they do a great job and their books look glorious – but their website needs a serious overhaul. The only less cooperative website is the Library of Congress’s, where I copyright my books. Before I attack the Library of Congress I need, not one black coffee, but two, and it needs to be morning, and very early morning, at that.

Never mind!!!! – the “long bout of painful illness” is over. 😊 

Marianne will be on pre-order on October 20^th and will be released on Oct. 27^th. It’s just been longlisted for Chanticleer’s Goethe Award and been given five stars by both Readers Favorite and Readers Views. The BookLife Prizereviewer absolutely loved it: “Marianne captures the essence of  Austen… McVeigh throws together favorite characters, that readers love, or love to hate, to see how they gel. The result is funny, heartwarming, and everything lovers of Austen’s universe could hope for.” 

Here’s an excerpt:

(from Marianne’s journal)

…Suddenly nervous, I began to calculate the number of minutes before I might reach the house I still thought of as Brandon’s. Twenty minutes, perhaps – perhaps a trifle more, for my shoes were so delicate, and so ill-suited to my purpose. Had only I worn my ankle-boots! – even if I would have been disdained by the ton for ever! Perhaps I had been a fool, to set off so impulsively in the very heart of London – a fool to imagine that walking alone in town – and the throbbing heart of town, at that – might be as safe as it would have been in the country!

           Suddenly a limping, heavy-set fellow pushed past, jostling me. Breathing faster, and hearing more footsteps close behind, I pretended to stop, in order to check something in my pocket. A mistake – as I was then passed by a heavy sailor, reeking of drink, and his slighter acquaintance, a sardonic smile on his filthy, part-shaven face. They stopped before me, blocking my path, and obliging me either to remain or else to attempt to push past them (which must have been impossible). Panicking, I thought – impatiently – ‘Oh, why am I always so impatient? Why could I not have waited for a chair?’ 

            The fat fellow leaned towards me, leering, ‘Eh, pretty missus! And why might you be out and about at such an hour, and in such fetching earbobs, besides?’ 

           Obeying my first instinct, I plucked up my skirts and fled. However, I had no chance in such a gown – or in any gown. The heavy fellow had caught me up within a yard or two, and crushed me towards him, while his friend’s filthy fingers scrabbled about my ears… I screamed, thinking, ‘There are still plenty of people about! Surely someone will help me?’

Someone did. A young man on the opposite side was across the street in an instant. In a shocked melee of seconds, to my own bewilderment, I found myself released and my assailant groaning on the pavement, clutching his lower abdomen, while his accomplice slipped like an eel down a side alley. My arm was then clasped by – in the ecstasy of my relief, I was almost too distraught to recognise him – but then I cried, ‘Mr Crawford!’ He was tucking my arm within his own and turning me around while saying, in an urgent undertone, ‘Are you uninjured, Mrs Brandon?’