Johnny Nothing and A Writer's Life
Today I'm delighted to welcome author Ian Probert to my blog. His first children's book is Johnny Nothing, and he's here to share his experience of a Writer's Life -- what happens next when your heartbreaking work of staggering genius starts breaking your heart. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure this is quite what happened next -- hey, I've looked on Amazon and Ian Probert has lots of great reviews -- also lots of books. But hey, you can judge for yourselves; there's an excerpt from Johnny Nothing (with pictures) at the end of this post, and there's a contest too. So read on. Welcome to my blog Ian, and thank you for visiting me with your heartbreaking tale of well-staggered genius.
You’ve written your first book. You’ve sent it off to a dozen agents and one of them has liked it and decided to represent you. Said agent has suggested changes, which you wordlessly resent but grudgingly acquiesce to. Your rewritten m/s lands on a publisher’s desk and someone there reads it and likes it. Negotiations take place. Lunches are eaten. Alcohol is imbibed. Hands are shaken. Contracts are signed.
And then one day you’re sitting at home and the doorbell rings. A man in a crash helmet hands you a package and you breathlessly rip it open. Inside, are a dozen copies of your new book. YOUR book! YOURS! You hold them up to your face. You smell their impossibly new smell. You lick their covers. It is the happiest day of your life.
There are more lunches. There are meetings with people from marketing. There are readings in libraries, in pubs. In book shops. You’re reading to anyone who possesses a pair of ears. The launch date approaches. You’ve lost count of the hangovers. You’re dizzy. You can’t breathe. Behind your back people are muttering about how you’ve ‘changed’.
Launch day is here. Your whole life has been leading up to this moment. You remember those stories you wrote as a kid. How those teachers’ red ticks made your heart do a dance. You think back to all those articles you sent to newspapers and magazines. All those rejections. It’s all been worth it for this moment. The launch day. The day that YOUR book hits the shops.
Your fingers shake as you open a newspaper. You clumsily flip through the pages and find YOUR first review. YOUR book is being reviewed in a real newspaper! ‘Shit!’ says the reviewer.
Your face reddens. You’re gasping for breath but cannot find any. Another newspaper offers its opinion. ‘Crap!’ says this reviewer. ‘Can’t write!’ says another. ‘Is this a joke?’ proclaims yet another.
You tear the papers to shreds. You rip them up and throw them in the kitchen bin. Perhaps these are the only copies and nobody else will read them? Nobody else will experience your SHAME. Your absolute UTTER SHAME.
And then you move over to the computer. And you don’t know why but you head over to Amazon. You feel your eyes start to bleed. The reviews are unanimous: one star is too much for this writer chant the angry horde. ‘A child could have written this!’ says someone called Bookiekid. ‘I wasted my money on his horse manure!’ says a more literate observer. Ten reviews. All one-star. You pull the lead from the back of your computer and head for the gin.
And this, your discover far too late, is what reality is like. Achieving the almost impossible feat of getting somebody to put those words that you scribbled down into a real paper and cardboard book is the easy bit. Because now you have the critics to deal with and they’re the worst of all. And everyone is a critic. Everyone can write and everyone can read. You sit there alone in your room and wonder how this came to be. All you ever wanted was to write. That’s all your really wished for. And now that you’ve written you will never write again.
I do hope you will write again, Ian. meanwhile, thank you for a fun depiction of, ugh, those reviews... But here, for my readers, are some more realistic clips from reviews for Johnny Nothing.
“Great new kids book alert! My two are in hysterics reading Johnny Nothing by Ian Probert (and I am too).” Jane Bruton, Editor of Grazia
"Oh, Wow! Dark, sordid, grotesque and hilarious are only a few words I can conjure up to describe this hilarious book." Lizzie Baldwin, mylittlebookblog
Critics are comparing Ian Probert to Roald Dahl. And Johnny Nothing we have a modern successor to Charlie And The Chocolate Factory.
About the Book:
Johnny Nothing is best-selling author Ian Probert’s first ever children book – although adults are enjoying it too. The story of the poorest boy in the world and the nastiest mother in the universe, the book is earning rave reviews. Children and grown-ups are all laughing at this incredibly funny kids book.
Take a look for yourself:
http://geni.us/3oR8
EXCERPT
Bill had a shaven head and was wearing a blue tracksuit. He was almost seven feet tall and built like an outdoor toilet made of brick. Bill didn’t realise this but he was a distant descendent of Neanderthal Man. He had only one eyebrow – one long bushy eyebrow that reached right across his forehead. He looked like what you might get if you force fed a member of Oasis with a half-tonne black plastic sackful of steroids.
And if you were brave enough to be present when he took off his tracksuit you would discover that his back was so covered in hair that he was able part it with a comb. If Bill had had more of an interest in fashion, he might even have considered giving it a curly perm and perhaps a few extensions
On his right arm, Bill had a tattoo which simply read ‘Bill’. This was in case he woke up one morning and forgot who he was. This was actually less unlikely than you might imagine because standing next to him was his twin brother. His name was Ben and he was identical to Bill in every way except that the tattoo on his arm read ‘Bin’ (the tattooist was either South African or not a very good speller). He was wearing a red tracksuit.
Bill gave Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie the tiniest of smiles and managed to grunt ‘hello’. Ben gave the couple exactly the same tiniest of smiles and also managed to grunt ‘hello’.
The two men were standing protectively close to Johnny. They were so large that in the confines of Johnny’s bedroom they looked like giants, which they were. They were so enormous that each of them had their own postcode. They were so gigantic that they had their passport photos taken by satellite. They were so humungous that you could spend all day thinking up rubbishy jokes about how big they were and never adequately describe just how indescribably, earth-shatteringly ENORMOUS they were. By no stretch of the imagination could you call them small (unless, of course, you were a lot bigger than them).
The pair of Goliaths were having to stoop slightly so as to avoid head-butting the ceiling, which actually even looked a little scared itself. They were a terrifying sight. Even scarier than a school trip to a Weight-Watcher’s nudist camp.
There was a long, pregnant silence in the room like this:
This eventually gave birth to an even longer post-natal silence, which, in the interest of preserving the rain forests or the battery on your Kindle, I shan’t demonstrate.
The four grown-ups eyed each other nervously. Bill and Ben looked at the Mackenzies like they were looking at insects that could be squashed into pulpy insect juice any time they so desired.
The Mackenzies looked at Bill and Ben like they were looking at two giant skinhead Neanderthal bully boys who had just appeared from nowhere in their recently and unexpectedly decorated council flat.
Johnny looked a little scared.
Finally Billy Mackenzie managed to get his mouth working a little and spluttered: ‘Who are you?’ And then: ‘What do you want?’
There was another long silence – let’s call it a pause – while Bill and Ben looked at each other as if trying to decide who was going to answer. Finally Bill spoke: ‘You the boy’s parents?’ he demanded in a voice that sounded like an angry rhino with horn-ache. Although if he was clever enough he would have realised that this was a rhetorical question.
There was yet another long silence (you’ll be relieved to hear that this is the last silence you’re going to get in this chapter) before Billy Mackenzie mumbled ‘Yes’.
‘We’re Johnny’s bodyguards,’ continued Bill. ‘We’re here to make sure that everything’s hunky dory.’
‘Hunky dory?’ Mrs. Mackenzie suddenly found her voice. 'What do you mean ‘hunky dory”?’
Now Ben spoke: ‘What my brother means to say,’ he explained. ‘Is that we’ve been – how shall I say – contracted – to make sure that this young feller’s affairs are in order.’
‘Get out of my house!’ interrupted Mrs. Mackenzie, suddenly feeling a little braver, although she had no idea why.
Bill and Ben looked at each again for a moment. They did this almost as much as your mum looks in the mirror. Or you dad looks at websites that he shouldn’t be looking at. ‘First of all,’ said Bill, ‘This isn’t a house – it’s a flat.’
‘And second of all,’ said his brother. ‘We ain’t going nowhere. And neither are you.’
‘Johnny who are these men?’ Mrs. MacKenzie asked her son, ignoring the two giants.
‘I’m sorry mum but…’ Johnny started to speak but Bill cut in like a pair of scissors that chops sentences into bits.
‘…What the young feller means to say is that the fun’s over.’
‘The fun’s over?’ repeated Felicity MacKenzie numbly.
‘That’s right,’ continued Ben. ‘You’ve had a right old time. You’ve been spending his money like it’s your own. You’ve been ripping the poor young feller off. And we’re here to put a stop to it. From now on things are gonna be different.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Mrs. MacKenzie. ‘Nobody speaks to me like this in my house…’
‘Flat,’ corrected Ben.
‘Nobody speaks to me like this in my flat. Billy, call the police!’
As usual Billy MacKenzie did as he was told. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. Before he had the chance to even turn it on the gigantic frame of Bill was towering over him.
‘That an iPhone?’ asked Ben.
‘Erm… Yes,’ said Billy, who could only watch as the huge man took it from him and with one hand crushed it into a chunk of buckled metal and shattered touch screen.
‘I think it’s broken,’ said Ben. ‘You ought to take it back to the Apple store. Tell ‘em that you’re not getting a decent signal.’
‘Right!’ cried Mrs. MacKenzie. ‘We’re leaving! You’ll be very sorry you did that. I’ll fetch the police myself!’
Now the giant frame of Bill was standing in front of her. He was holding something in his hand that looked a little like a child’s toy space gun.
‘Know what this is?’ he asked. Although once again he wasn’t clever enough to recognise that this was a rhetorical question.
Mrs. Mackenzie regarded the object for a moment. Then she shook her head. Whatever it was she guessed that it was not intended to provide pleasure, happiness or fulfilment. Anything that has a trigger and a barrel and goes ‘bang!’ seldom does.
‘Come on Billy!’ she said. ‘We’re leaving!’
Bill stood in front of her blocking the doorway. ‘Not so fast,’ he said, not so slowly. ‘It’s called a Taser. See this little trigger at the front? If I press this it’ll give you a small electric shock. It won’t hurt you…Well not too much anyway.’
Bill raised the object and gently touched Mrs. MacKenzie on the arm. There was a loudish bang and a flash of blue neon light and Mrs. MacKenzie collapsed groaning to the floor. She was conscious but wasn’t able to move her arms and legs
‘Oh my gawd!’ said Billy Mackenzie bravely charging out of the room in terror. He got as far as the stairs before there was a second flash. He, too, crumpled to the floor. Bill dragged him back into the bedroom by the scruff of his neck.
Johnny Nothing got to his feet and stood over his two parents. He looked anxious. ‘Are they… Are they… OK?’ he gasped.
‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ smiled Ben. ‘Give em a few minutes and they’ll be right as rain.’
‘But they’ll think twice before they try to run off again,’ said his brother.
A writer’s life – the reality
by Ian Probert
You’ve written your first book. You’ve sent it off to a dozen agents and one of them has liked it and decided to represent you. Said agent has suggested changes, which you wordlessly resent but grudgingly acquiesce to. Your rewritten m/s lands on a publisher’s desk and someone there reads it and likes it. Negotiations take place. Lunches are eaten. Alcohol is imbibed. Hands are shaken. Contracts are signed.
And then one day you’re sitting at home and the doorbell rings. A man in a crash helmet hands you a package and you breathlessly rip it open. Inside, are a dozen copies of your new book. YOUR book! YOURS! You hold them up to your face. You smell their impossibly new smell. You lick their covers. It is the happiest day of your life.There are more lunches. There are meetings with people from marketing. There are readings in libraries, in pubs. In book shops. You’re reading to anyone who possesses a pair of ears. The launch date approaches. You’ve lost count of the hangovers. You’re dizzy. You can’t breathe. Behind your back people are muttering about how you’ve ‘changed’.
Launch day is here. Your whole life has been leading up to this moment. You remember those stories you wrote as a kid. How those teachers’ red ticks made your heart do a dance. You think back to all those articles you sent to newspapers and magazines. All those rejections. It’s all been worth it for this moment. The launch day. The day that YOUR book hits the shops.
Your fingers shake as you open a newspaper. You clumsily flip through the pages and find YOUR first review. YOUR book is being reviewed in a real newspaper! ‘Shit!’ says the reviewer.
Your face reddens. You’re gasping for breath but cannot find any. Another newspaper offers its opinion. ‘Crap!’ says this reviewer. ‘Can’t write!’ says another. ‘Is this a joke?’ proclaims yet another.
You tear the papers to shreds. You rip them up and throw them in the kitchen bin. Perhaps these are the only copies and nobody else will read them? Nobody else will experience your SHAME. Your absolute UTTER SHAME.
And then you move over to the computer. And you don’t know why but you head over to Amazon. You feel your eyes start to bleed. The reviews are unanimous: one star is too much for this writer chant the angry horde. ‘A child could have written this!’ says someone called Bookiekid. ‘I wasted my money on his horse manure!’ says a more literate observer. Ten reviews. All one-star. You pull the lead from the back of your computer and head for the gin.
And this, your discover far too late, is what reality is like. Achieving the almost impossible feat of getting somebody to put those words that you scribbled down into a real paper and cardboard book is the easy bit. Because now you have the critics to deal with and they’re the worst of all. And everyone is a critic. Everyone can write and everyone can read. You sit there alone in your room and wonder how this came to be. All you ever wanted was to write. That’s all your really wished for. And now that you’ve written you will never write again.
I do hope you will write again, Ian. meanwhile, thank you for a fun depiction of, ugh, those reviews... But here, for my readers, are some more realistic clips from reviews for Johnny Nothing.
“Great new kids book alert! My two are in hysterics reading Johnny Nothing by Ian Probert (and I am too).” Jane Bruton, Editor of Grazia
"Oh, Wow! Dark, sordid, grotesque and hilarious are only a few words I can conjure up to describe this hilarious book." Lizzie Baldwin, mylittlebookblog
Critics are comparing Ian Probert to Roald Dahl. And Johnny Nothing we have a modern successor to Charlie And The Chocolate Factory.
About the Book:
Johnny Nothing is best-selling author Ian Probert’s first ever children book – although adults are enjoying it too. The story of the poorest boy in the world and the nastiest mother in the universe, the book is earning rave reviews. Children and grown-ups are all laughing at this incredibly funny kids book.
Take a look for yourself:
http://geni.us/3oR8
About the Contest:
To celebrate the paperback launch of Johnny Nothing we are offering a free Kindle copy of the book to the first 100 people who Tweet the following message:
@truth42 I’m reading Johnny Nothing by Ian Probert. http://geni.us/3oR8 #YA #Kindle #kidsbooks
The first ten readers who answer the following question will also receive a signed print of one of the book’s illustrations.
Q: What is the tattoo on Ben’s arm?
Send your answers to truth42@icloud.com
Where to find Answers:
Amazon http://geni.us/3oR8
iBooks https://itunes.apple.com/gb/
Book promo http://youtu.be/xaWO4tR4oj0?
Wordpress http://ianprobertbooks.
Website http://ianprobert.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/
Twitter @truth42
To celebrate the paperback launch of Johnny Nothing we are offering a free Kindle copy of the book to the first 100 people who Tweet the following message:
@truth42 I’m reading Johnny Nothing by Ian Probert. http://geni.us/3oR8 #YA #Kindle #kidsbooks
The first ten readers who answer the following question will also receive a signed print of one of the book’s illustrations.
Q: What is the tattoo on Ben’s arm?
Send your answers to truth42@icloud.com
Where to find Answers:
Amazon http://geni.us/3oR8
iBooks https://itunes.apple.com/gb/
Book promo http://youtu.be/xaWO4tR4oj0?
Wordpress http://ianprobertbooks.
Website http://ianprobert.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/
Twitter @truth42
About the Author:
Ian Probert has been scribbling down words ever since he learned to spell the phrase: 'Once upon a time...'. He is the author of Internet Spy, Rope Burns and a bunch of other titles. Internet Spy was a bestseller in the US and made into a TV film. Rope Burns is a book about why books shouldn't be written about boxing. Ian has also written things for a shed load of newspapers and magazines. When Ian was a student he used to write lots of letters to the bank manager.
And now, as a special treat, here's a book trailer and an excerpt:
Ian Probert has been scribbling down words ever since he learned to spell the phrase: 'Once upon a time...'. He is the author of Internet Spy, Rope Burns and a bunch of other titles. Internet Spy was a bestseller in the US and made into a TV film. Rope Burns is a book about why books shouldn't be written about boxing. Ian has also written things for a shed load of newspapers and magazines. When Ian was a student he used to write lots of letters to the bank manager.
And now, as a special treat, here's a book trailer and an excerpt:
EXCERPT
And if you were brave enough to be present when he took off his tracksuit you would discover that his back was so covered in hair that he was able part it with a comb. If Bill had had more of an interest in fashion, he might even have considered giving it a curly perm and perhaps a few extensions
On his right arm, Bill had a tattoo which simply read ‘Bill’. This was in case he woke up one morning and forgot who he was. This was actually less unlikely than you might imagine because standing next to him was his twin brother. His name was Ben and he was identical to Bill in every way except that the tattoo on his arm read ‘Bin’ (the tattooist was either South African or not a very good speller). He was wearing a red tracksuit.
Bill gave Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie the tiniest of smiles and managed to grunt ‘hello’. Ben gave the couple exactly the same tiniest of smiles and also managed to grunt ‘hello’.
The two men were standing protectively close to Johnny. They were so large that in the confines of Johnny’s bedroom they looked like giants, which they were. They were so enormous that each of them had their own postcode. They were so gigantic that they had their passport photos taken by satellite. They were so humungous that you could spend all day thinking up rubbishy jokes about how big they were and never adequately describe just how indescribably, earth-shatteringly ENORMOUS they were. By no stretch of the imagination could you call them small (unless, of course, you were a lot bigger than them).
The pair of Goliaths were having to stoop slightly so as to avoid head-butting the ceiling, which actually even looked a little scared itself. They were a terrifying sight. Even scarier than a school trip to a Weight-Watcher’s nudist camp.
There was a long, pregnant silence in the room like this:
This eventually gave birth to an even longer post-natal silence, which, in the interest of preserving the rain forests or the battery on your Kindle, I shan’t demonstrate.
The four grown-ups eyed each other nervously. Bill and Ben looked at the Mackenzies like they were looking at insects that could be squashed into pulpy insect juice any time they so desired.
The Mackenzies looked at Bill and Ben like they were looking at two giant skinhead Neanderthal bully boys who had just appeared from nowhere in their recently and unexpectedly decorated council flat.
Johnny looked a little scared.
Finally Billy Mackenzie managed to get his mouth working a little and spluttered: ‘Who are you?’ And then: ‘What do you want?’
There was another long silence – let’s call it a pause – while Bill and Ben looked at each other as if trying to decide who was going to answer. Finally Bill spoke: ‘You the boy’s parents?’ he demanded in a voice that sounded like an angry rhino with horn-ache. Although if he was clever enough he would have realised that this was a rhetorical question.
There was yet another long silence (you’ll be relieved to hear that this is the last silence you’re going to get in this chapter) before Billy Mackenzie mumbled ‘Yes’.
‘We’re Johnny’s bodyguards,’ continued Bill. ‘We’re here to make sure that everything’s hunky dory.’
‘Hunky dory?’ Mrs. Mackenzie suddenly found her voice. 'What do you mean ‘hunky dory”?’
Now Ben spoke: ‘What my brother means to say,’ he explained. ‘Is that we’ve been – how shall I say – contracted – to make sure that this young feller’s affairs are in order.’
‘Get out of my house!’ interrupted Mrs. Mackenzie, suddenly feeling a little braver, although she had no idea why.
Bill and Ben looked at each again for a moment. They did this almost as much as your mum looks in the mirror. Or you dad looks at websites that he shouldn’t be looking at. ‘First of all,’ said Bill, ‘This isn’t a house – it’s a flat.’
‘And second of all,’ said his brother. ‘We ain’t going nowhere. And neither are you.’
‘Johnny who are these men?’ Mrs. MacKenzie asked her son, ignoring the two giants.
‘I’m sorry mum but…’ Johnny started to speak but Bill cut in like a pair of scissors that chops sentences into bits.
‘…What the young feller means to say is that the fun’s over.’
‘The fun’s over?’ repeated Felicity MacKenzie numbly.
‘That’s right,’ continued Ben. ‘You’ve had a right old time. You’ve been spending his money like it’s your own. You’ve been ripping the poor young feller off. And we’re here to put a stop to it. From now on things are gonna be different.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Mrs. MacKenzie. ‘Nobody speaks to me like this in my house…’
‘Flat,’ corrected Ben.
‘Nobody speaks to me like this in my flat. Billy, call the police!’
As usual Billy MacKenzie did as he was told. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. Before he had the chance to even turn it on the gigantic frame of Bill was towering over him.
‘That an iPhone?’ asked Ben.
‘Erm… Yes,’ said Billy, who could only watch as the huge man took it from him and with one hand crushed it into a chunk of buckled metal and shattered touch screen.
‘I think it’s broken,’ said Ben. ‘You ought to take it back to the Apple store. Tell ‘em that you’re not getting a decent signal.’
‘Right!’ cried Mrs. MacKenzie. ‘We’re leaving! You’ll be very sorry you did that. I’ll fetch the police myself!’
Now the giant frame of Bill was standing in front of her. He was holding something in his hand that looked a little like a child’s toy space gun.
‘Know what this is?’ he asked. Although once again he wasn’t clever enough to recognise that this was a rhetorical question.
Mrs. Mackenzie regarded the object for a moment. Then she shook her head. Whatever it was she guessed that it was not intended to provide pleasure, happiness or fulfilment. Anything that has a trigger and a barrel and goes ‘bang!’ seldom does.
‘Come on Billy!’ she said. ‘We’re leaving!’
Bill stood in front of her blocking the doorway. ‘Not so fast,’ he said, not so slowly. ‘It’s called a Taser. See this little trigger at the front? If I press this it’ll give you a small electric shock. It won’t hurt you…Well not too much anyway.’
Bill raised the object and gently touched Mrs. MacKenzie on the arm. There was a loudish bang and a flash of blue neon light and Mrs. MacKenzie collapsed groaning to the floor. She was conscious but wasn’t able to move her arms and legs
‘Oh my gawd!’ said Billy Mackenzie bravely charging out of the room in terror. He got as far as the stairs before there was a second flash. He, too, crumpled to the floor. Bill dragged him back into the bedroom by the scruff of his neck.
Johnny Nothing got to his feet and stood over his two parents. He looked anxious. ‘Are they… Are they… OK?’ he gasped.
‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ smiled Ben. ‘Give em a few minutes and they’ll be right as rain.’
‘But they’ll think twice before they try to run off again,’ said his brother.
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