How to publish your first novel — Love, Loss & the view from my window

Last week, I heard a stat I’ve been regurgitating ever since. If you make $100–300 per month from your writing, you belong in the top 1% of writers. Now that’s a sad thought if you have big aspirations of getting rich. Over the weekend, I released my first novel (self-published), Love, Loss & the view from my window. From notebook to novel, it took me around three years to write.

But how did I get my story from notebook to novel?

1. No expectations. One of the most daunting things I can imagine is having someone breathing down your neck about finishing a book. Whilst deadlines can be effective, and I set myself some, the lack of time pressure helped me create the story I wanted.
2. When you’ve got a good thing going, keep at it. My novel started with a few scrappy pages in my notebook. I started with a scene, a short story focusing on a theme. Shame. Then, with momentum behind me, I kept going, and before I knew it, I was introducing new characters, themes, and scenes. Nowadays, you have to switch to a laptop for efficiency’s sake, but I think that will change soon with emerging tech. I would love to write my 1st drafts with pen and paper.
3. Take long breaks when editing. For some people, editing comes naturally. For me, it was dull and tedious. But once I figured out I was in no rush, I slowed down and started enjoying it. Look at it as a game. How can you make every line better?
4. Get some help. If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a handful of professionals to finish a book. I relied on favours when and where I could. But for the big things, cover photography and line-by-line editing, I called in some help. For transparency, I paid £750 (BluePencilAgency) for editing and .60c per copy sold for my cover photography. I also spent €400 (ish) on 10 ISBNs (the barcodes).
5. Take a minute to figure out your options. When everything is done, and your cover and manuscript are looking good, it’s time for publishing. I used Kindle Direct Publishing and Amazon Direct Publishing, which offer a print-on-demand service. This will cost you more in royalties but takes away the risk of printing and not selling. On average, I’ll make €4.40 per paperback and €3 per Kindle edition.
6. Get the word out there. It’s a little cringy to ask, or it may feel that way. Utilise your contacts, particularly with those people who love you and will go above and beyond just because. And those who have good connections and can amplify your book to the most people. So far, I haven’t spent a penny on ‘advertising’, but maybe that was a bad idea. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

Anyway, this was a short run-through. If you’d like to know more, leave a comment. If enough people want a thorough run down, I’ll give it to you. But for now, enjoy the first two chapters of my debut novel (below).

Click here for my author’s page, where you can find both editions.

1 — The Boy

My parents are the forgetful type. Shedding the title and expectations of parenthood and reverting to a younger version of themselves, one without responsibilities: playing pranks, forgetting appointments, crossing lines and a host of other peculiarities. Not to say they are malicious in any way; the truth lies far from that, sunbathing on another tropical island. What prompted them to act like that is beyond me. But when I was very young, I thought I knew why: they saw it as a way to connect with me. After all, they never gave me a sibling, so perhaps they took it upon themselves to fill the void. But if that is the truth of it, they would have only turned into children in my presence. Again the truth lies at a distance, over the horizon and out of sight. Sometimes I’d catch them: through the crack in the door, or out of a window, they didn’t know I was looking through. One time, they were wrestling each other in the garden, and another, they were launching peas in the kitchen.

But for all their mischief and playfulness, they always fall flat and dull on the last day of our holidays. I’ve always found it rather odd that, during these times, I’m the one who wears the hat of the parent. Okay, maybe not completely, after all, it wouldn’t fit.

Once our final night comes around, they wallow in a pool of reluctance. Our suitcases sit empty on the spare bed until the very last moment, as if packing anytime earlier might abruptly and prematurely end our holiday.

Of course, I didn’t want it to end either, but I could never bring myself to join them in their pool of despair. They made it look so depressing; besides, there’s nothing a seventeen-year-old wants to do less than copy their parents.

But then, suddenly, like psychotic patients, their personalities change overnight. I’m not sure what happens in their sleep, but the next morning they return to their semi-normal selves.

“Morning, sleepy head.” It’s mum. I’m stumbling out of the bedroom and into the living space and as soon as I’m close enough, her floral perfume hits me; a mixture of iris and lavender. She always sprays too much in the mornings. There’s coffee and croissants keeping dad company where he sits shuffling through an old newspaper ignoring the idyllic seascape in front of him.

“We need to go soon,” he says, covering himself in flakes of pastry. Our cases are leaning against the door.

“Have you had a good time?” Mum asks, it’s her usual question. She’s always in need of confirmation. As if nothing counts unless it’s signed, sealed, and delivered. I want to ask her if she never saw me smile or heard me laugh, but it’s not worth the rebuttal. She’s asking for a simple confirmation, that’s all, and by now, I know how to keep her happy.

“Of course.” I say and she smiles. Dad’s finished with last week’s news and his eyes find mine over the rim of his glasses.

“Did you get that girl’s number?” He asks.

“No…” He’s been asking me that every morning.

“You know…” I do.

“When you first saw mum it took you weeks to persuade yourself to ask her out.”

“And overcoming my fear is the best thing I did,” he says, brushing off the crumbs that fall on his chest with each bite.

“I’m Seventeen, you were in your thirties. You think I’m gonna marry some girl I meet at some random resort?”

“You never know. I didn’t even know your mum’s name before our second date,” he says, rising to his feet. I’ve never been sure if that’s true. How can someone go on a date with someone when they don’t even know their name?

“We should get going. Check-out is at ten. You can ask her if we see her on the way out.” I knew we wouldn’t. She’d left last night; her family was catching a red-eye back home. And although I never got her number, we kissed before I rejoined my parents for dinner. I wasn’t about to tell him that, though. ​

None of us likes airports. They bleed the energy out of you like a hungry leech. There are lots of queues to waste time standing in and terrible food to eat. And we have different ways of coping with the hours spent in terminals. Dad would practise his Spanish, Greek, Italian or whatever language they spoke in the place we were about to leave. He never tried before we left, but that was his method, although none of it would last long enough to be useful the next time we came. Mum, with all her energy, would check out once we’d passed security. I’m not sure what she used, but a Tic-Tac sized pill came out of her purse and landed on her tongue. I, on the other hand, took a different approach; wandering the duty-free aisles until I saw our gate number pop up on the departures screen. It was just another occasion to assume the adult role, collecting my parents on the way. Until then, I’d have an enormous amount of fun wandering in and out of different shops, pretending I was someone who might take out a gold credit card and buy everything. If I was lucky enough, I would actually have one in my pocket to flash if anyone asked me. Dad always left his wallet in a vulnerable place. One time, not so long ago, I stole his identity. It turned out the golden card also gave him access to the lounges dotted around some airports. In Istanbul, I even treated myself to a massage while they sat somewhere among the hard plastic seats. Not this time; island airports are usually small and basic, and this was no exception. There were hardly any duty-free shops around, let alone a masseuse. Usually, I’d find mum in a half-comatose state dribbling stains on dad’s shoulder.

“Eínai óra?”

“Yes.”He always asked the same question. Is it time? By the time we’ve touched down and wormed our way through the crowds to the exit, mum’s all but being carried. She’d eaten another couple of Tic-Tacs as soon as the nose pitched up into the air. There’s a cluster of dribble marks on Dad’s black jacket and he’s cursing at her in Greek. Or a mixture of the curses he’d remembered over the years. I’d always find his outbursts amusing; he never swore in anything she might understand. Or perhaps it was a case of him not understanding. Whatever it was, it never felt aggressive when he popped off a ‘Kulva’ as he dragged her limp body to the parking lot. And it never seemed like an insult when he muttered ‘skatá’ under his breath every time he had to pin her head back to the seat while she slept on the way home. Come to think of it, he used it when she isn’t around too. When someone cut in front of him in line, or when the cyclist he put a bet on is being caught by an energetic peloton.

“When I was your age, my dad would play classical music whenever we were alone.” He hadn’t spoken since we left the car park. Mum was asleep beside him, her head leaning against the passenger window. We weren’t alone, but he switched on the radio and turned it to something classical. It was livelier than Chopin’s work but less bouncy than Mozart’s.

“I never really got into it as he did. But sometimes, especially at night, I turn it on.” He looks over at mum and I see the edges of his lip curl.

“I don’t hate it.” I was used to this sort of stuff. Back at school, a few of the boys wanted to be concert pianists. Not that I went to listen to them. But when they got the chance, they’d stick something on and we would all listen for a while. I like Mozart, but apparently, that doesn’t count. Everyone likes Mozart.

“Do you know who it is?” I asked.

“Not a clue.” ​

For as long as I can remember, the time between slipping into bed and falling asleep hasn’t been easy. It’s one of the few moments in my day when I’m separated from stimulation. My phone rests on my bedside table or under my pillow, face down, switched to silent. I’ve never had a television in my room, not in my family. Back when I was in school and attended things like summer sleepovers, amid the tall tales being told, there were times when I’d pretend to be asleep just to live in those moments of nothingness. I lost an eyebrow one night because I refused to admit I was still awake and thinking. It’s an unusual thing, lying there while those around you suspect you’re asleep. Perhaps it’s as close as you can get to attending your own funeral.

The earliest memories I have of these in-between moments come from early childhood. I slept in the attic; it wasn’t as moody as it sounds. I was fortunate, I am fortunate that my parents made a fortune. Their little nest egg is a suitable alternative to a job waiting tables or foaming milk. The attic was large and secluded at the top of the house with a draught dripping through one corner and cobwebs in another. Around the age of ten, I think we all become more engaged with the world and particularly with its injustices. Kids call things as they see them. The notion that some people own three Ferrari’s while others can’t afford a beat up Toyota strikes a ten-year-old as absurd. Or that some people have to run around all day waiting on people who’ve done nothing to deserve it. But for me, one particular injustice knocked on my door each night: death. How is it possible that, no matter how good you are, death awaits you? What was this cruel end to life, and what was after it? My parents made an eloquent attempt at answering the first line of questioning. We are, they said, no different from a tree. We’re seeds, we grow into saplings, then as trees do, we fruit, and then years later, we die. After death, the fruit that we made continues our story, growing another tree in our place with the seeds buried in its sweet flesh.

Sometimes I wish they’d been religious. I think something with a bit more magic might have set my mind at rest. Religious people always have an answer up their long scratchy sleeves, no matter your question; they’re like fortune cookies or horoscopes, spitting out something satisfying whenever you need it. But unfortunately, they weren’t that type of people. Instead, they deflected religious rhetoric whenever it attempted to enter my world. Some parents cover their children’s eyes when something a little raunchy comes on TV. Mine covered my ears when a missionary stopped us in the street.

They died the year before I finished school, Thursday, 31st of March. A car crash. Nothing prepares you for that conversation; not even their elegantly curated story about the fruiting trees. In truth, it made it worse. Now all I think about when I look in the mirror is them. I’ve my mother’s eyes and my father’s build. Wide shoulders, high cheekbones and a chin waiting to be punched. I’m the fruit, so it falls on me to continue what they achieved. But high cheekbones and deep sea eyes is where the similarities end. Our personalities couldn’t be further apart. They were full of drive, ambition, and optimism; from my earliest memory to my last, they oozed life. They were early birds and night owls rolled into one. What do people say? Burning the candle at both ends. They worked too hard, that was the long and short of it. I might have resented them if they’d crashed on the way back from work, but they didn’t; we didn’t. They often come to mind when I’m here in the in-between place, waiting to fall asleep. They meet me here as if they’re waiting for a bus that’s been decommissioned; or perhaps they know where I’ll be and enjoy haunting me. There wasn’t a holiday that went past when I wasn’t subject to a practical joke. I wonder how many parents play practical jokes on their children? My guess: not many. I shake my head a little to feel the blood pulse against my temples. It’s a relief, or a reset. I’m wiping the chalkboard clean, turning straight lines into faint clouds. Thinking about them is tiring, so I flip my pillow around. My grandma taught me this trick. “The cold side is a blank slate,” she would say in her turn-of-the-century voice, “You can dream about whatever you want now.”

Outside my window, a tree sways in a passing breeze, pulling me back to reality. It’s swaying like someone nervously waiting, rocking back and forth, swept up by anticipation. It reminds me of my mother. Perhaps it’s her handiwork. The winds must have travelled far this evening because they have a lot to say. I wonder if I listen close enough, will I understand a line or two? I sit up and concentrate, straining to keep up with their pace. The tree taps the window. Is it a tap of encouragement, or one to remind me of my manners? I suppose the tree knows it doesn’t have to worry; its words aren’t for my ears. No matter how hard I try, their syllables hang under a thick veil, it’s like listening to Gaulish, Welsh or some other language left behind in history. I’m a guest visiting from abroad, sitting silently at a family dinner table trying to read the context in the air. I wonder how many of us take the time to listen to each other, not least the breeze. Or perhaps it’s not our fault. Our world is obscure, withholding and untrusting. There must have been a time when the wind, trees and everything else that makes up our world didn’t have to concern itself with us. They spoke to each other freely then. A time before lines were drawn in the soil and swords were forged, from whatever element swords are made of. My tyres pop and I’m spun off the road. I look up at the sky; it’s overcast. I kick my legs into the air, rearranging myself within the smothering linen. Another rush of comfort falls over me as I roll over, finding a new position. It feels less warm than the first time, but nonetheless, it’s comfortable. Before trying to drift off again, I check the time. The bright screen on my phone insults me. Ten fifty-seven. Twenty-four minutes after I first crawled into bed. Tonight, time is moving forward. Then once more, tap, tap.

“Sorry.”

2 — The Wind

We are strong and growing stronger; high pressures blow hard at our backs, pushing us into the inevitable. Others surround us, tightly packed, yet with all the space in the world. Up here above the clouds, there is nothing to obstruct. There is only movement and power; we swirl, twist and bend our way north. We know the route as a tree knows the earth anchoring it to the ground. We have done this trip a thousand times. Even so; every turn, rise and fall feels as emphatic as our first. Below us, our presence pulls the clouds apart; some hitch a ride on our momentum. Others miss their chance, and are left hanging motionless waiting for the sun to burn them away. Patches of green, blue and grey come into view as the crowd thins, but the picture below remains abstract. We have seen each passing frame before, but no view is exactly the same. Over the land, new trees grow and die, buildings rise and then are erased, and seasons change in perpetuity. A city looks, to us, like a thousand hues of grey scratched with thin lines of colour, reds, blues and greens. Mountain ranges look different, a mismatch of greys, browns, greens and specks of white.

We push onwards before we can take stock of the details, now gaining more speed. We are over land; the lack of moisture is deafening. The air is warm, dry, and intense. Such an updraft means one thing: a desert.

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