Last Roll of the Dice

It grieves me to have to write something so depressing at this time of year when the rest of the world is pissing it up and celebrating an imaginary old guy with a white beard and natty red suit when they should be remembering the birth of Christ. But Hey Ho, that’s the way humanity rolls these days.

I’ll cut quickly to the chase.

My 8^th novel is completed, well, first draft anyway. The problem is that I am tired and in pain and feeling utterly dejected as a writer. I made the classic mistake, when I first self-published of thinking that my work would sell in great numbers; how foolish and naïve I was.

Let me tell you the God’s honest truth – If anyone ever tells you it’s easy being a writer or an author they are clearly lying and they themselves are neither of those things. It’s a bloody hard slog to write a 90,000+ word book, a harder one to edit and perfect it and an even harder one still to try and sell the damn thing. And I just don’t have the wherewithal to carry on banging my head against the wall for no return.

So, here’s the deal.

Over the next couple of months, I’m going to finish editing and preparing that 8^th one for publication. It’s a cracking story and the cover, as I’ve mentioned before, is unfeasibly fantastic. I’ll then do my best to promote it for six months and if I still find myself in the situation where I am now, vis-à-vis not selling any books, then I’m knocking it all on the head. I can’t kid myself any longer and I don’t have the physical capability to do so either.

This book is the last roll of the dice.

Sorry to be such a killjoy at Christmas but I’m on my last legs here.

I Want to Shout it from the Rooftops!!!

Just a quick blog post today. I had a minor hospital procedure yesterday and I still feel a bit sluggish from the sedative (Fentanyl) so please forgive the shortness of this post.

But here we go!

I’ve never hidden the fact that my granddaughter, Erin, is utterly fabulous. You may think it’s an obvious thing for a grandad to say and you’d be right of course. But today she has once again showed her fabulousness, and how.

You may recall me saying that I’d asked Erin to create the cover art for the next novel as she is the most accomplished teenage artist you ever came across. Well, today she presented me with the artwork and I am completely bowled over by it.

I knew she’d do a great job but it’s even better than I could have ever hoped for. It is without doubt the best cover of one of my books yet. I’m not just blowing smoke when I say that; I believe it from my heart.

I feel as if I want to show it to everyone and shout from the rooftops (as the title of this post suggests) about how brilliant it is and honestly, you’d be the same. But to reveal it now would spoil the surprise. I haven’t quite finished the first draft yet and I don’t like giving too much away too soon.

But take it from me it is utterly wonderful and you’re going to love it. It’s a bit of a departure from the usual Blessham covers and I’m giving serious thought to asking Erin if she will help me redesign them all, with the exception of The Pheasants Revolt, which Erin’s mum created and which I love. But the others could certainly do with looking at from a fresh perspective and I don’t think there is anyone else but Erin who I would give the task to.

Erin gets me you see. We have always had such a laugh together and I consider her to be not only my granddaughter but also one of my very best friends. I always knew she had talent as she was always doodling away at an early age. One of my proudest possessions is a scribbly but lovingly done drawing in biro on a sheet of pink paper that she presented to me on my birthday when she was only five years old. Yes, I still have it and would never part with it.

Since those early forays into drawing she has progressed into a gifted illustrator and is now employed as a tattoo artist. That’s a job that takes a lot of skill and even more bottle to do. I’ve said before that I’d never have a tattoo but that if I ever change my mind then Erin gets the job without a qualm.

I gave Erin only the briefest outline of what I wanted for this book cover and she has produced something that any self-respecting author would be proud to have on the front of one of their tomes.

Damn it I wish I could show you it. But the time just isn’t right yet.

The Ingleby Problem

I’ve been scratching my head for some time now as to what to do about Ingleby, the fictitious town where 3 of my novels are based. Those novels, of course, being:

The Ghost of Lenton Wattingham

Mutch Wants Moor

Vole

If you haven’t read them yet then I would urge you to do so at the earliest possible convenience. They’re all full of dark humour and are thumping good reads that take an introspective look at the seedier side of life.

So why have I been scratching my head?

In short, I think the Ingleby novels have run out of steam. Or is it me that’s run out of steam for the Ingleby novels? May I beg a few moments of your time whilst I elaborate? Thank you.

When I independently published my first novel – Ah Boy! – in 2019 I had already got the plan for a full series of books starring the central character, Joe Wilkie. But at the time, I didn’t want to pigeonhole myself and just write in one particular style and felt it best to branch out into other literary worlds. That’s when the idea for Ingleby came about.

I saw my writing career going as thus – A Blessham/Joe Wilkie novel followed by an Ingleby novel and repeat the cycle.

The thing is, as time has progressed and with my development as a writer, I’m just not “feeling” the Ingleby thing anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as proud as a peacock with those three books and many people have told me how they think Mutch Wants Moor is the best book I’ve written to date and I’m somewhat inclined to agree.

However, I had begun work on another Ingleby novel over two years ago. It was the follow up to Mutch Wants Moor featuring the adorable Archie and Aggie Stone and their canal boat Orca. I had actually got 15 chapters into it and for some reason, which I can’t fully explain, I just stalled. Came to an abrupt halt. I didn’t know where to go with it. I’d driven it down a literary cul-de-sac and couldn’t turn around.

Here’s what I think happened.

Over the last 6 years of being an independent author, I’ve come to realise that Joe Wilkie and the village of Blessham is where I’m happiest writing about. I think Joe has really developed into such a well-rounded character and those stories are so much fun to write. To be honest with you, I wasn’t having very much fun with that abandoned Ingleby novel.

I’m firmly entrenched in that particular camp that says if you don’t enjoy writing then you shouldn’t really be doing it in the first place. And I wasn’t enjoying writing that one. It just didn’t have the same flair, pace and joie de vivre that its predecessor had and I was finding it hard to recapture all that.

Henceforth, I shelved it and turned my focus back onto Blessham. Note the word “shelved” in that sentence; I’m a firm believer in the phrase “Never say never.” It may come to fruition at some point in the future. But for now, it remains unfinished.

I’m now a mere 4 chapters from finishing the first draft of the new Blessham novel and I am having a mountain of fun in doing so. I swear I haven’t enjoyed writing this much since The Pheasants Revolt, back in 2020/21. My imagination is running more riotous than a large group of poll tax protesters and ideas are just tumbling out of me like last nights kebab. I’m having a blast.

Also, and I’m sorry if this sounds like bragging, but I’ve been gifted a new computer by my amazing and generous in-laws the Morgan Family. It’s an absolute beast of a machine which was formerly used for gaming so you can probably guess how powerful and fast it is. I love my old laptop and it served me well for 11 years but it’s starting to show it’s age a little (like all of us) and running rather slow and I think it’s time to retire the old girl.

This new machine though is so fast and efficient that I can write around 1300 words an hour or more. Something I couldn’t do on Propane Elaine (my laptop’s name, don’t ask).

So, here’s where I’m now at. The Ingleby novels will henceforth become the Ingleby Trilogy until such times as I return to them in the dim and distant future. I’m going to focus the bulk of my attention on getting some more Wilkie books written so that there is a lengthy series for readers to immerse themselves in and I desperately need to be so much more proactive and creative with the marketing of my books as well. I don’t invest anywhere near enough time in doing that.

And I think my books are well worth promoting.

I also have a couple of other irons in the fire, one of which is an anthology of my non-novel scribblings from this blog and Substack etc and there’s a new character I’ve been playing about with in my head which I’m slowly developing for when I eventually do need to take a break from Blessham, which is bound to happen at some point.

So sincere apologies if you prefer my Ingleby books. Like I said, I most likely will return to that townful of reprobates at some point in the future, but for my own career’s sake I need to focus on Mr Wilkie and Co for now.

September

Yes, it is a strange title for a blog post written in October. The thing is, there were no Blessham Hall blog posts at all in the ninth month of the year and here we are, a quarter of the way through the tenth. Call me Slacker!

Actually, I’ve not been that slack since the last post on August 28^th. I’ve worked on the next novel, getting it up to 12 chapters (or two thirds if you prefer) and its looking pretty good.

But for another thing, I took two weeks holiday in Ireland from September 15th to 29^th and if that sounds like slacking off then you’re wrong. I’m a great one for believing in investing in yourself and that’s what I did over there in the Emerald Isle.

You know the old phrase – “Feeling recharged?” Well I well and truly am. I was literally like a flat battery and Ireland was the charger. It’s done me an absolute power of good. My mind is much calmer, my outlook more philosophical, my body less achy and my imagination fired up. It was a great time of personal refreshing, based in the delightful West Cork coastal countryside with the gal I love.

I’ve put on a few pounds in weight but who doesn’t on holiday; unless they go to one of those hideous health spas. You couldn’t pay me to try one of those things. I can cover myself in mud, eat salad and abstain from alcohol at home so why pay for the pleasure?

And I can get an enema from the NHS.

But 5 pounds weight gain is a small price to pay for how that holiday has affected me. I wouldn’t go as far as to say something as crass as I feel like a new man but I’m certainly in a considerably better state than before I left.

I didn’t actually switch the old laptop on until this Monday, a full week after we returned. I used that time to unwind some more and just enjoy being at home here at Blessham Hall. I think that week was just as mentally restorative as the previous fortnight. Since Monday I’ve been writing for all I’m worth with zero self-criticism/loathing and no doubts about my direction as a writer/author.

I’ve been focussing on catching up with Substack this week but from Monday next it’s back to the novel with a vengeance as I shall be spending some of the weekend having a quick refresh read-through before plunging back into it. I feel rather excited at the prospect. And I’m not usually the excitable type.

I’ve got my granddaughter – Erin – signed up to design the cover for the novel as she has turned into the most accomplished tattoo artist you ever saw and her drawing is… what’s the word now…

Special! That’s it. Truly special. I’ve never seen a nineteen-year-old with that level of artistic skill and talent.

“Ah!” I hear you say, “You’re bound to say that being a proud grandad.” To which I would say, “Good point, well made.” But in this instance it’s much more than just grandfatherly benevolence. Just wait until you see the cover. I’ve always swore blind all my life that I’d never have a tattoo but if I ever change my mind then Erin gets the job.

So things are rather good here at BH and long may that continue. I need to pace myself better so that I don’t end up a burnt-out wreck again, but if that does happen then I know where to find relief.

And a damn good pint of Guinness.

It’s Been a While

Like the title says, it’s been a while. Quite a long while actually, between blog posts that is. The last one was on the 15^th of July. A shocking 5 weeks ago. So a blog post is well overdue, and here it is.

I’m not going to make any grovelling apologies, I’ve stopped doing that, we’re all busy these days so why should I beg for forgiveness? It’s my blog after all. Life often has a subtle knack of getting in the way of things.

So what has happened since last we convened on the Blessham Hall Blog?

Plenty.

I’d better let you know from the off that I have a hospital procedure on the horizon as I’ve been having a little internal trouble for some time now. Is it serious? Don’t know yet but fingers crossed it isn’t. Yes, I am a tad worried but what will be will be. Que sera sera, as they say Austria. Or is it Belgium? I can never remember.

So that’s looming large and is occupying my mind a great deal.

You’ll be pleased, though, to discover that the first draft of the next Blessham novel is now over half way written. Obviously I’m not going to give too much away but I want you to know that I haven’t had this much fun writing a novel since The Pheasants Revolt, which is my very favourite of all my books. I have to stop writing very often to allow myself some titter-time. If the author can laugh at his own work then it’s a good sign, I think.

Joe is slightly out of his depth at the part where I am in the writing process and the poor little chap is in a somewhat fearful state of mind. Incidentally, talking about Joe, I was in conversation with someone who is currently reading Ah Boy! and she described the character of Joe as ‘adorable.’ That made me very happy.

Anyway, work progresses. But I’m not setting any time constraints on myself for the following reason:

I’ve been abominably ill these last few weeks.

It’s true and whilst I’ve not been shy about documenting my health struggles on this here blog things have been pretty grim lately. Apart from my hospital issue the fibromyalgia has been an utter bastard to the point where even walking around Blessham Hall becomes a tearful effort. Good days, bad days and all that but I’m getting so pissed off with it.

I’m also seeing a mental health professional again for the first time in a good long while. I’m not losing my marbles but I am still struggling with the passing of my Mum earlier this year and there are several other external pressures affecting me and it’s left me in a bit of a vulnerable condition.

Thankfully, I’m married to the most wonderful human being and she is as supportive as they come. I reckon I’d be lost without her. I know I would.

I also suffered an insect attack a few weeks ago and was bitten a good many times on my legs and ankles. Now, mozzy bites are nothing new to me, I get them every year, but these were something else. They all went purple in colour to the point where it looked like I was covered in Ribena stains. Horribly painful but the most shocking part was that I honestly believe that some of them were spider bites, which is quite horrific when you think about it.

But, by slathering hydrocortisone cream all over myself and ingesting antihistamines by the handful I have, mercifully, seen a huge reduction in the discomfort and swelling brought on by those multi-legged gits. It’s not been a fun time I can tell you.

On to happier things though.

Substack for example.

I have my first paid subscriber and I am elated. That someone believes in my work to the point of wanting to pay me for doing it is one of the best compliments I ever had. I’ve never claimed, personally, to be a good (or even average) writer and there have been a few unkind folks who have pointed this out and derided my output, but now I feel a sense of affirmation that I must be either improving in my craft or at least in some way entertaining. And I can’t ask for more than that really.

I am one of those authors who reads other people’s work and then say to myself, “I wish I could write like that.” But then again, I’m not Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adams or Tom Sharpe or anyone else. I’m Alan Stevenson and I write bawdy slapstick comedies and, yeah, I’m content with that. So I’ll just say “nuts” to the naysayers. Come and tell me how bad I am when you’ve written seven full length novels yourself.

Also, while we’re talking about Substack, I have been pretty consistent with my output there. Tuesday and Thursday are my Substack days and there’s some pretty decent literary fayre on there for everyone to enjoy. I’ve been on that platform for a year and a half now and there are over 140 posts to read including poems, short stories, essays and a serialised novel. Go take a look HERE.

What else has happened?

Well, for one thing, Ange and I have realised we aren’t getting any younger and have started to make the most of the rest of our lives as best we can. That means having day trips, small holidays and some serious quality time together. We had a run over to Heysham in the car earlier this month and it was gorgeous. Ok, yes, I struggled to walk and was in tremendous pain but I was also in the company of the woman I love and I was as happy as a lark for a day. We ended the day with sausage and chips on Morecambe sea front. Ok, so it wasn’t a Michelin starred restaurant overlooking the bay of Naples but to us it was truly delightful.

Other than all of that life goes on. Some days I write and some days I don’t. I did, for a few weeks, go through quite a dark patch where I considered throwing the towel in but then I got that paid subscriber and suddenly things became a lot brighter.

I’ll endeavour to leave a shorter gap between blogs posts next time but please do understand that life gets in the way sometimes and we all have our limitations.

See you soon x

Re-Appraisal

I’m disappointed gentle reader, disappointed to say the very least. I find myself floundering somewhat at the moment. Things just aren’t going my way right now.

Substack, as much as I love it, is pissing me right off. I see so many contributors on there with hundreds of followers and subscribers just for basically posting fluff and nonsense whilst I have the princely total of 22 subscribers. And I’m not blowing my own trumpet but I think I produce some pretty good copy that’s worth reading.

For example, I wrote a 3500-word humorous murder mystery short story over the weekend for my 22 subscribers, called Death by Bunting. It took hours to do and it’s a clever little thing too. Compare my humble effort with the average Substack post, which goes something along the lines of – Hi, I’m Samantha. I like Taylor Swift, Tik Tok and writing poetry although I haven’t posted any yet. If you like my page I’ll like yours too. Let’s all get to know each other.

Honestly, some of them are quite literally as vacuous and as lacking in substance as that and then you look at their stats and they’ve got something like 1.3k subscribers and the post itself has 538 likes.

If that sounds like I’m jealous you’d be completely wrong. I’m not jealous, I’m bloody furious!!! I’ve written almost 100 well-worded, and, at times lengthy, posts so far and the biggest audience I ever garnered was about 90 views for my first short story called Jessie.

Nobody wants to put any effort in any more, whether it be writing or reading. Everyone just wants instant gratification through having a vast multitude of friends and followers on every internet platform they use. It’s doing my head in, it really is.

And I keep getting emails by the dozen from other Substack authors offering to tell me how I can get more subscribers and then when I open the missive there’s just more fluff and little or no substance. I’m heartily sick of it.

So, I’ve decided that the only way for me to reach more subscribers and get people to read my stuff is to sit down one day and go through Substack’s tools and options with a fine-tooth comb and learn as much about it as I can. How hard can it be???

So that’s Substack.

Then there’s the whole novel writing thing…

Honestly, it’s a slog right now. It’s like pulling teeth trying to make a sale on any of my books and when I do make a sale it’s even harder trying to get a review out of people. And yes, I am acutely aware that I’m working in a crowded market place and people are very busy these days and don’t always have time or they have other things on their minds than to write me a review. I get that. But then I see other indies and they’re getting reviews left, right and centre.

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

And, I hasten to add, due to feeling extremely despondent about it I haven’t even attempted novel writing for about a year now. I made a good start on the next Ingleby book, featuring the adorable Archie and Aggie Stone, and then I just seemed to tail off. All I seem to do at the moment is Substack and this here blog.

Ergo…

…It’s time for a full re-appraisal of everything I’m doing. I don’t want to quit. I’m one of the “Winners never quit and quitters never win” brigade and have always had a good work ethic so there has to be another way. But I do know when I’m banging my head against a brick wall and it feels rather like that at the moment. Something has to change.

My head is absolutely buzzing with all sorts of exciting ideas right now, inspiration isn’t the problem, the problem is this – I’m a really good writer (I am) but I’m piss poor at marketing, promoting and selling my products. I’m far too reticent for one thing. Whenever anyone buys one of my books I feel I should just timidly give it away instead. And that’s not a great place to be.

I’m also getting a bit pissed with Amazon, through whom all my books are published. They take a huge (and I mean HUGE) mark up on your books leaving you with very little and they have pulled the rug out from under many a self-published author that I know by talking their books off sale without either warning or reason. I don’t trust them anymore.

And, might I just add, that the only way anyone is going to find Medicine Show on there is if they go directly to my Author Page as it doesn’t show up in the search results for Alan Stevenson. The other six are there on full public display but not my most recent one and that irks me like a splinter in the bum. I’ve never had a splinter in the bum to be perfectly honest but I have had plenty of them in other body parts (mainly hands) and so I can imagine how irksome one in the bum would be.

I am now seriously considering other outlets for my books.

And so, it truly is time for a big re-appraisal of everything that I do. I’m giving serious thought to a social media hiatus for a month or even longer to help me focus on things as my physical health is so bad that at times I spend far too long scrolling through rubbish instead of being productive. I think I’m going to get some decent voice recording technology downloaded to my phone so I can dictate to it on those occasions when I simply have to rest. I will keep putting up my Substack and blog posts on Facebook, Instagram and Threads but I need to step away from idly scrolling on them and damn well concentrate on infinitely more important things for a while.

To tell you the truth, I think I’m going to shelve the Ingleby novel I’d started and work on the next Joe Wilkie/Blessham one instead. I’ve got such a great plot and story for that one and am rather excited at the prospect of writing it. I believe it may well invigorate me as an artist somewhat, and that’s exactly what I need.

So watch this space. I’m not chucking the towel in; I’m just having a massive re-think.

Death By Teapot – The Answer

Ok, so a few months ago I wrote my first ever comedy murder mystery story and it was well received actually. I was chuffed with it at any rate. But what I didn’t reveal in the story was the identity of the culprit. I mentioned that the police arrested the wrong person but left it for you, the reader, to work out who really bludgeoned Mrs Baggley to death with a heavy earthenware teapot.

So here is the answer to the mystery…

If you recall, the bulk of the story took place at the PCC meeting in the church. There were five people at the meeting – the vicar, Mrs Baggley herself, Mrs Windebank, Mrs Wenlock and Mrs Dunwoody.

Well, barring the deceased (it wasn’t suicide: one does not commit suicide by bashing one’s own head in with a teapot) that leaves four people who all had a motive.

The Vicar – Mrs Baggley had threatened to report the vicar to the bishop over things that were said at the meeting.
Mrs Windebank had a motive after Mrs Baggley bluntly insulted her French ancestry.
Mrs Wenlock was accused by Mrs Baggley of being a sex maniac; not something that a PCC member would want bandied about.
Mrs Dunwoody’s mother was exposed as a drunk by Mrs Baggley. She was most upset about this.

There are other factors to consider as well.

Mrs Baggley was killed by a violent blow to the head from a heavy earthenware teapot. During the meeting Mrs Windebank had spoken of such a teapot as the ideal replacement for the current one and had passionately exclaimed that she would “buy the bloody thing myself.”
Mrs Dunwoody and Mrs Wenlock both expressed their dislike for Mrs Baggley. Mrs Wenlock said she would “swing for her myself” and Mrs Dunwoody went as far as saying she wished Mrs Baggley were dead.
The vicar had said he would reimburse Mrs Windebank himself for the teapot. Could it have been that he did so the night before the murder and taken the pot with him?

So what do you think? Have you worked out which of them committed this dastardly deed?

Which of the four was responsible for Mrs Baggley’s untimely demise?

…

Well actually none of them were.

…

If you recall there was a sixth person in the church at the time – Eric the organist.

Think back now:

Eric was a devoted follower of not just the church but the vicar also and was prepared to do anything for the good of both.
He’d recently had a new hearing aid, which whilst not helping his organ playing any, did mean that he overhead every part of the PCC conversation and Mrs Baggley’s threat to the vicar.
He also heard Mrs Windebank mention the earthenware teapot and her impassioned declaration of buying it.
When the vicar left the church, Eric was playing the hymn Nearer My God To Thee. A clear portent of what was about to befall Mrs Baggley who was soon to be a lot nearer to God.
Finally, Eric was known as a kind and gentle individual. Who would suspect him of doing it?

So there you have it.

Eric the organist finished his practice session in the church, he then went into town, purchased an earthenware teapot, hid in the bushes in the churchyard on Sunday morning and when Mrs Baggley went to unlock the church he crept up behind her and brained her with the pot thus speeding up her entry into the next world.

Did you get it right? Did the detective in you suss out that it was Eric? If not, who did you suspect and why?

…

I’m currently working on another comedy murder mystery short story where you will have another chance to play Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple.

Watch this space.

New Year, New Whatever…

Happy New Year one and all!

Can it really be a full year ago since the blog post – Good Intentions? It blooming well is you know. So here’s a quick review of the good intentions and what I achieved (and didn’t) in 2024.

Well, on a personal level I managed to lose the pitiful amount of 8 pounds in weight. Piss poor even if I do say so myself. At one point I’d actually lost over a whole stone but then Christmas came along and buggered all that up. So I’m more or less back to the beginning with that.

I have almost stuck to one of my goals that I set myself of going outside every day and getting some fresh air, rather than moping in the flat on bad days. And I came so close to achieving a full 366 days but for one when I was enjoying time with some visiting friends so much that I actually forgot to go out. I could kick myself for that one.

But in other ways I have been better. For instance, dry January ran into dry February, dry March and almost dry April. I broke my duck on April 28^th whilst out for a meal with the family and sank two pints of delicious, cold Guinness. And I’m trying it again this year. Going dry for a month I mean, not drinking two pints of Guinness, although I probably will drink a lot more than two pints of it before the year is out.

I’ve taken much better care of myself in many ways but my health has deteriorated with the arrival of cervical spondylosis, which is quite literally a pain in the neck. Fibromyalgia has run rampant like wildfire through my entire body and I had a cist the size of Bournemouth on my back at one point that required some pretty intense meds to shift.

So health wise it’s not been too great.

As for the old writing lark, well, that’s been an odd one. This is the first year that I haven’t published a book since 2019, when the wonderful Ah Boy! made its debut. Mind you, I did publish a weekly serialisation of a novel called Take a Hike that I wrote almost twenty years ago, which wasn’t very good to be honest, and doesn’t actually count as canon even though it does reference Ingleby but is set mainly in Whitby and therefore is something of an anomaly. It’s a bit like when Sean Connery made Never Say Never Again. Yes, it kind of was a Bond film with many of the usual elements in it but it just wasn’t officially part of the series. That’s how I look at Take a Hike.

This ‘ere blog has suffered a bit; I have to hold my hands up and admit to that. You see I got distracted by the glamorous lure of Substack. I envisaged that when I started posting in May of last year that I would be in three or four figures of subscribers by now.

That hasn’t been the case.

I’m still in the low double figures.

Then, on October the 18^th, my mum was hospitalised after a fall at home. The next two and half months saw Ange and I travel almost 3500 miles up and down the motorway to go and visit her every Friday to Monday. We slept on an air bed on my mum’s living room floor and I’ll leave you to guess how that has affected me physically.

And I’ll let you in to a little secret…

At one point I nearly quit!

I did. I nearly quit writing altogether. I just didn’t have the heart for it anymore. The horrible truth about being an independent author is that it’s frightfully hard to get people to take a chance on you. You see, if my name were David Walliams or Richard Osman or even Jamie Oliver (shudder) then publishers would be fighting each other to get a six-book contract into my sweaty little palms. But I’m not a celebrity, I’m a nobody, and nobody wants to read a nobody. If that makes sense?

But, I didn’t quit. Thanks to good advice from close family and true friends and the wonderful support of my amazing wife I feel a renewed determination at the start of this year. For one thing, Ange has retired now and I have to re-double my efforts at selling my books. Blessham Hall doesn’t get many tourists you see, and what with all the renovations to the front terrace and the owls nesting in the west wing, I really need to get myself paid for what I do.

Anyway, here’s the thing. I’m not setting myself any goals or resolutions for this year. I’m going to write when I write and not stress out on the days when I don’t. I’ve got plans for an anthology of my non-novel writing and I do hope to get the next Archie and Aggie Stone novel finished. It would be nice to start on the next Blessham book as well, which has a storyline I’m really excited about.

But if it don’t happen it won’t happen, and I need to keep a philosophical outlook.

I’d like to be sat here in 365 days’ time and tell you that I’m many stones lighter and several jeans sizes thinner but I’ll be happy with whatever I lose and if I can answer the front door without getting out of breath and breaking into a sweat by then, then I shall feel like a winner.

2025 – Bring It On!

Getting Passionate (Oooh Matron!)

I was watching the local news recently and a certain story caught my attention. Of course, when I say local I mean in the wider sense. Despite living in North Yorkshire we get North West Tonight news on the Beeb and so we hear all about what’s going on in Manchester, Liverpool, Cumbria and the surrounding areas. Even the Isle of Man. But that’s not the point.

The particular article I was watching was about Stockport County Football Club gaining promotion to League 1 from League 2. Now, far from it being the dizzy heights of the Etihad Stadium, Old Trafford or Anfield, nonetheless the cameras were pitch side at Edgeley Park to record this event and to interview players, staff and supporters of the club.

I follow Derby County (someone has to, may as well be me) and am not really all that fanatical about them although I do like to see them do well (which is rare these days). Contrast my nonchalant feelings towards my club then to the young man in a Stockport shirt who was interviewed by the news team.

He was an ordinary looking guy, mid-twenties I should say, and there was nothing particularly distinguishing about him other than the fact that he had tears running down his face and was sobbing with unadulterated joy at what had just happened on the pitch.

I was moved gentle reader, I honestly was. Here was a young fellow who was so passionate about his club that he was crying like a four-year-old that has just fell off its tricycle and needed mummy to kiss its boo-boo better. And I thought to myself, wow, to have that much fervour and passion over something like football. I know, I know, Bill Shankly said it was more important than a matter of life or death but to me it really is just a game that comes with highs and lows and disappointments and victories in much the same way as any facet of human life.

However, for some reason, even after the news had finished and I was watching Great Canal Journeys with Tim and Pru, I couldn’t get this young mans tearful response to his club’s promotion out of my mind. I mean, it wasn’t as if Stockport had just won the European Cup or the Premier League, but to him it was every bit as special. And as I pondered this I began to think to myself, Oh to be that passionate about something – anything!!!

That thought stuck with me for a few days until the Wednesday when my wife and I and one of our neighbours went to Sedbergh for the day. And then I realised, I am passionate about things.

Many things actually.

Not in a sordid, sexual way. No, more of a kind of can’t shut me up when I start talking about them kind of way.

Sedbergh is generally known as the book town of the North. It’s only a small town, barely more than a large village, but there are lots of little independent book shops. I was like the proverbial kid in the candy store from the moment we arrived. So much so that I made myself sick with over-indulging. I reached a point of starry-eyed bewilderment and if left unsupervised and unchecked I would have spent a lot of money on books. A silly amount probably.

I love books! I always have ever since I was a young lad and I could talk for hours with anybody about literature. I love to discover authors I haven’t heard of (the wonderful David Nobbs recently) and delve into any book that piques my interest. I tend to judge a book by the title and the blurb, not by the cover.

In the end I had to be taken for a sit down with a restorative latte and a posh but criminally over-priced cheese and chutney sandwich at a converted woollen mill to calm my over-stimulated little mind.

And I’m deeply passionate about my own books and the worlds of Blessham and Ingleby that I have created. I’ve populated them with great characters; heroes and villains both loveable and loathe-able, and I seize upon every opportunity to tell people about them, usually with a swiftly brandished business card pressed into their unsuspecting hands.

And, do you know what, when I sell one of my books or get a review online then I begin to feel a little of what that young Stockport supporter was feeling. Maybe not tearful to the point of looking rather silly on television, but certainly elated and filled with the urge to do a little jig of joy. I don’t do a jig though because I would probably end up in A&E or whatever its called now, but the urge to is there.

The more I thought about being passionate the more I began to realise that there are many things that I am passionate about. So here’s a bulleted list of the other things that I, Alan Leonard Stevenson, have a passion for:

My marriage/wife
My faith and beliefs
My dear friends and family
My home
TV Quiz shows
The Yorkshire Dales
Carry On films
1970’s Progressive Rock
Tomatoes (seriously, I’m addicted to them)
Weight loss
Self-improvement

The list could go on but I don’t want to water it down. Needless to say that for all of us, there are many things that we all get passionate about. And for me, it took the sight of a supporter of a small football club weeping like a freshly lanced boil on North West Tonight to make me realise what it is for me.

Let me know what your passions are in the comments section, but keep it clean.

Medicine Show

There was something I was going to tell you. Oh, what was it now? Hang on it’ll come to me. Something or other about a book…

Ah! That’s it, yes, my new novel is now published and it’s called:

MEDICINE SHOW

Yee to the hah! It’s finally out there after 9 months of hard work, blood, sweat and tears. Well, ok, there was no blood. But there were plenty of tears.

Anyway, it’s done now and I’m cock-a-hoop over it.

It’s a Joe Wilkie novel; his fourth can you believe, and it’s a corker of a laughter-fest. As any good Joe Wilkie novel should be.

This time we find our erstwhile slow-learner hero in hot water due to the unfortunate side effects of a certain potion he’s made. He also has to lock horns with a mysterious new antagonist who seems to have the whole village enthralled with his fake psychic act.

Will Joe win out in the end?

Of course he bloody well will, what do you expect? But there are plenty of twists and turns along the way and an angry mob (naturally) for him to deal with.

All your favourite Blessham characters are there including Lady Stark-Raven who is as irate and intolerant as ever, and of course dear old, calamitous Joe himself who comes in for a liberal dose or two of her temper tantrums. You can’t help but love him.

Toilet humour abounds and there are more flatulence jokes than you could possibly count. Well, it wouldn’t be a Joe Wilkie novel without them now, would it?

So yeah, here it is, the long-awaited new novel from yours truly. It’s available, as ever, as a Kindle download (£2.99) or as a paperback (£8.99) and you can get your copy from my Amazon page here.

This would make the ideal Christmas present/stocking filler for the reader in your life. You don’t need to read the other 3 Joe novels to enjoy it either; it helps if you do but it’s not absolutely essential.

But what I will say is that if you have enjoyed Ah Boy! The Pheasants Revolt and Hot Eire then you’re going to love Medicine Show. Expect more of the same Wilkie induced chaos in this one.

I’m going to take the rest of December off from novel writing (although there will be weekly blog posts) and focus on promoting Medicine Show. Then, in the new year, it’s back to Ingleby for the next instalment from everyone’s favourite canal boaters – Archie and Aggie Stone.

So don’t delay and get yourself on over to Amazon to secure your copy of Medicine Show today and have a damn good laugh at Mr Wilkie.