For most authors, it would not even be an issue - whether to publish in paperback. Before I had said paperback, I remember telling my father that I wasn't going down that route, that there are enough trees destroyed every year just to make books. That the future was e-reading. Then I got asked 'When is the paperback coming out?' In fact, for most of my friends (my age), surprisingly the paperback, or physical book is the norm. So, yet another hypocritical u-turn (my life is littered, believe me), and here I am.
If you think 'Oh, she's making such a fuss about nothing', just note that approximately thirty million trees are cut down every year just to satisfy the U.S. book industry, let alone the global. Read HERE
So I have done it. I don't feel as good about it as I should. Especially as my book isn't short (so more pages, more trees). But I can blame no one but myself. I have chosen to do it. I can only hope that it gets away with it in the name of art. That if there are any excuses for using paper these days, printing out agendas for meetings, printing out endless copies of reports etc...
Perhaps one day books will be used in some clever way in recycling, like old car tyres in playgrounds, or bottles in clothing. Let's hope
In the meantime, it was nice to meet Mike Ripley of Shots Magazine, a crime magazine he runs, back in the summer. Check him out HERE (he kindly gave me a mention too!)
Now it is winter I am increasingly feeling like a hedgehog, or some other hibernating animal, hidden under two blankets, and can be usually found on the sofa. Sometimes my pulse lowers to extraordinary low levels. I know this, because in winter there is bugger all else to do – well that I like doing – than being cosy inside, and well, taking my heart rate (it is easy and involves not much energy to do).
I have tried outdoor pursuits. I love the idea of getting up early and going to watch the murmurations. Yes, I’m all talk. The reality is that I am not an outdoor person in less than clement weather. Perhaps in the ‘old days’, whenever they were, had I been born into a wealthier family, I may have gone south for the winter. Sat in some café in Malta, or even further afield, perhaps Morocco, to take in the warm air and avoid the incessant darkness that descents on us all in good ole’ England at this time of year.
But although I love my father dearly, wealthy he’s not, so here I am, inside, just at four fifteen in the afternoon, with a single light on. Alone (I like my own company, don’t feel sorry for me), writing. Sometimes I think I get more done in the winter, writing that is. Because of the limited opportunities for a scaredy-cat like me – not out kite surfing, I take advantage and sit at my computer.
It makes me wonder how many other writers are more productive at this time of year. I suspect the answer is most. So I should thank the bleak days and the long nights for one thing. For giving me more time to scribble and scratch in my brain for ideas to translate onto the page. Of course, there is always more time for sleep too, my second favourite pastime.