My friend, Mari Biella always writes interesting posts on her blog. Recently, she drew my attention to a writing site called ‘Cut’. It’s short for ‘Cut a Long Story’ (for me, this name evokes uncomfortable memories of Spandex Ballet…). To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what this site is. It says that it carries out an editorial process determining the suitability of submissions for publication. But I don’t know if they just say that to all the writers. The team there converts the Word document of your concise masterpiece into e-book format, though, you don’t seem to be able to view your work without paying for it! I may be wrong, of course, given the legendary limitations of my technical prowess. The site takes half of the proceeds from anything it publishes (another reason, presumably, why it’s called ‘Cut’). I’ve been looking at several of these sites over the last few months. Which brings us to another problem that Mari recently posted about… The more time a writer spends investigating ways of marketing his or her work on the Internet, the less time he or she can actually devote to writing anything. Perhaps it’s a sinister plot. If I spend enough time ‘developing my online presence’ on Twitter, my intellect will be totally eroded and I won’t be able to bother publishers with my manuscripts as I’ll have become incapable of writing anything more than 140 characters long. I’ll have committed haiku-kiri.
Anyway, if you’re interested, I put my short story, ‘Horror Story’ up on the site for a king’s ransom (99p). You can find it here. As you might expect from my writing, it’s not in fact a horror story at all. It’s a little exercise, written as a pastiche of Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’. Here’s the cover image and underneath a short extract from it.
The Horror Story is set here…
And so we set off on our voyage. Quagdyke is about twelve miles out of town and lies in the middle of a salt marsh. Kitts had supplied Harkness with some rudimentary directions. Take the road to Chapel-le-Marsh. Turn right by the chapel. Keep the dyke on your left and keep going. Quagdyke is the last village.
“Don’t tell the old girl where she’s taking us,” he whispered. “She might not like it.”
We chugged out of town in the direction that we’d been advised. Fifteen minutes later we arrived in Chapel-le-Marsh. The building that gave the village its name had been turned into a garage. Each former arch of stained glass had become a servicing bay. The graveyard was now a forecourt with a row of dilapidated cars lined up on it. ‘Remoulds and Salvage’ read the sign outside it. We didn’t allow ourselves to be fooled by this piece of subterfuge. We took the right hand turn, signposted for Quagdyke. It seemed that Kitts’s directions weren’t so bad after all. The road was one of those dead straight ones that used to be built across the marshes. It soon joined up with the dyke. Harkness was happy. Forgetting his previous counsel, he began to wonder aloud about his new acquisition. And sure enough, about four miles short of Quagdyke the old girl proved that she’d been listening after all, and that she’d taken umbrage. The lights faded on her dashboard, her engine cut out and she glided to a standstill.
“Shit!” remarked Harkness. “We’ll never make it by eight now.”
“What do you think’s wrong with her?” I asked him.
“How the hell should I know?”
“Well, aren’t you going to look under the bonnet or something?”
“Whatever for? I don’t know what’s in there, do I?”
I tried a different tack.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got breakdown cover?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm.”
“Are you sure you want another one of these?” Stimpson asked.
Harkness didn’t answer. He appeared to be thinking. There was something of the England rugby captain about him, in his day job as an infantry officer (the blubber aside).
“We’ll just have to continue on foot,” he said at last. “Shackleton’s pony or whatever.”
“Surely it was a penguin?”
Harkness didn’t dispute it.
All text and images © PSR 2015
Tags: Approaching Publishers, Joseph Conrad, Mari Biella, Self-publishing