In Another World...

Last week I put up a post about books and merchandising. I thought this week I might post a story I wrote a few years ago which pretty much summed up my feelings on the whole idea of books as multi-media merchandising phenomenons.

No prizes for guessing who the main subject of this story is...

In Another World...

Simon P. Bradshaw coughed as he descended the wide, stone stairway. Winter always did this to him. That and the musty air down on the lower levels of the castle. In years gone by he had tried to avoid being at home during the colder months, instead migrating like a bird to warmer locations. But all of the attention and publicity, the sheer bother of it all, had put paid to that many years ago. It was easier to just stay put and do your best to survive.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs at last, he strode across the cold flagstones of the sitting room, making directly for the bar on the far side. A drink was definitely now in order. He opened the cabinet and perused his collection of rare vintage sherries, eyes resting carefully upon each before making a decision. A Casa del Vaga, 1857. One of only twelve still in existence. That seemed to fit the bill.

He poured the light amber liquid, savouring the bouquet as it swept up into his nose. Then, after re-corking the bottle, he sought out the most comfortable of the plushly appointed chairs, each of which had originally graced the palaces of European royalty, and sat. As he raised the glass to his lips, his eyes fell upon the wide tapestry that covered the opposite wall. Meeting the eyes of the figure at the centre of the tapestry, he mouthed a silent toast and then took a sip. The figure before him did not move, did not return the toast, but that did not matter to Simon P.Bradshaw. That figure had already done more than enough for him.

Like most of the accoutrements that now filled the castle, the tapestry was not an original fitting. It had been woven by an old friend over twenty years ago, in order to commemorate his purchase of this 400 year old architectural masterpiece. It disturbed Simon a little that he could no longer remember what her name was, but then again so much had happened in the intervening years that it was really not so surprising. The tapestry depicted a young boy, probably around eleven or twelve. The detail in the design indicated that the boy was rather pale and thin, but he was dressed in robes that were rich in colour, a dazzling mixture of scarlets and violets and blues, and decorated with tiny stars, crescents and other intricate shapes.

Paul Mephiglio was the boy’s name, and Paul was the one Simon had cause to thank for everything. For the riches he had accumulated. For this majestic castle he was now privileged to call his home. And for all the other amazing events that had befallen him, the television appearances, the opportunities to meet famous and important people, even the dalliances with so many of the world’s most desirable women.

Simon downed the last of the sherry, coughing again as the final drop contrived to go down the wrong way. Then he stood and walked slowly across the room. The chilled air was playing havoc with his arthritis. He reflected with a grimace that there were some things beyond even his means. The ridiculous amounts of money he’d invested in numerous attempts to have a central heating system installed within the castle had made not the slightest impact on the damp and cold that infested these frigid chambers.

Arriving at his study at last, Simon took a seat before the broad, mahogany desk and reached down to turn on the small bar heater that sat by his feet. At least in this more confined space there was the opportunity to feel a bit of warmth. He stretched out first one leg and then the other, relishing the heat as it seeped into his bones. Then he flicked the switch on the computer and the screen slowly quivered into life.

This was a routine that Simon practiced regularly, regardless of the season. Maybe not every day, but he certainly began to feel restless if he did not go through the motions of following these steps for more than three days running. Unfortunately for the last couple of years this was as far as he got. Occasionally his fingers would begin to skim uncertainly over the keyboard and the words would begin to pile up on the screen. But even on those days, it wouldn’t be long before, with a grunt of frustration, he would hit the delete key, sending the screen back to its original state of pristine blankness.

This day was not proving to be any different. Though his fingers floated over the keyboard, not once did they slide down to the keys beneath. Simon tried to focus his mind on the matter at hand, tried to will the creativity out of himself, but to no avail. Bereft of any new ideas, his eyes roamed from the keyboard to the screen, and then to the shelves and walls that surrounded him. Here, as so often happened, his eyes remained. But the gaze that he sent out around the room was not unanswered.

From seemingly every corner, eyes stared back at him. They were the eyes of the same thin boy in the brightly coloured robes that adorned the tapestry in the sitting room. Here they were on a small action figure. There they were on a large plush toy. And there they were repeated again and again on posters that covered all of the walls. Posters for movies and video games. Posters from out of fan magazines. And posters that did not seem to serve any purpose at all, apart from just being posters.

Many years ago, he had actively sought out these souvenirs himself. They seemed, to him, to be physical expressions of the wonderful success he had achieved. But after a short time he no longer had to make the effort. Friends began to do it for him, thinking he would be amused to see the newest incarnation of his creation. And as time went on, it wasn’t even his friends. It was everybody in the whole damn world. Every man and his puppy who felt the need to mail in the latest manifestations of his boy wonder, no matter how grotesque. When he’d originally signed the contracts with the corporation men they had assured him that he would have right of veto over any product he did not approve of, but the horse had long since bolted in that regard. Now all he could do was gawp in horrified fascination at the abominations that had been manufactured in his name. Paul Mephiglio sugar-rich breakfast cereal. Paul Mephiglio toothpicks. Paul Mephiglio bin liners…

Simon forced himself to look away, to avert his eyes from their hypnotic gaze and return his attention to the computer screen. It hadn’t always been this difficult. There had been times when he’d even managed to cobble another book together, not that it mattered; the public had no interest in anything he produced if it didn’t have the words Paul Mephiglio in large type on the cover. But now there was nothing. He might still be here but inspiration had definitely flown south for the winter. And even as he struggled to keep his focus on the screen, still he could feel the eyes that peered out from the Paul Mephiglio commemorative beer steins, the Paul Mephiglio limited edition chess pieces and the Paul Mephiglio celebrity steak-knives, as they looked down at him, passing judgement.

Suddenly anger overwhelmed him; impotent fury at the permanent stasis that had overtaken his creative life.

“This is your fault?” he raged at all of those pale, freckled schoolboys. “You’ve taken everything from me. You’ve left me with nothing.”

There was a crash. As he shouted, he had lashed out with his feet, accidentally kicking over the heater. Groaning with the agony of it all he bent over, struggling to turn it over before it burnt a hole in the priceless Persian rug that lay underneath. But as he sank to his knees there was a knock on the door, and then it was thrown open. It was the cleaning lady.

“Mr Bradshaw please don’t strain yourself, I’ll get it.” She leant down beside him and carefully righted the heater. Then she helped him back into his chair where he sat, panting softly as he recovered his breath.

For a few moments there was silence. Gradually Simon became aware that the cleaning lady’s attention was no longer on him. Her gaze was instead travelling around the room, taking in all of the Paul Mephiglios in their many and marvellous guises.

“Quite a collection,” said Simon, feeling that he needed to break the silence. The rapt attention she was bestowing upon the assorted renderings of the character he had invented was somewhat unnerving.

Eventually her eyes completed their sweep of the room and returned to him.

“It must be wonderful,” she said.

“Oh it was at first,” he replied.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It was brilliant at the start. All the ideas flowed so easily. It was an absolute joy just to sit at the computer and write. And then, when the books started coming out, to be so popular, to win all of those awards. It was more than I could ever have imagined. But do you know what the best part was?”

“What?” She was staring at him and yet here eyes seemed somehow to be far away.

“When I started hearing from the readers. Getting letters and emails from kids telling me how much they loved the stories. How they’d never even considered that reading could be fun until they picked up a Paul Mephiglio book. Telling me which bits they liked best and who their favourite characters were. And always asking questions, wanting to know what was going to happen in the next book. It was the most amazing feeling. To think that my characters, the fruits of my imagination, could become so important to these children. It was as if just by reading my books, these kids had actually brought Paul Mephiglio and all his friends to life.”

He paused for a moment, savouring the memory. The cleaning lady continued to peer intently into his eyes, saying nothing.

“But it couldn’t last like that for long,” he went on. “Do you know, for the first couple of years, I made sure to reply to every single letter or email personally. But after a while, there was no way I could cope with the load. I started having to employ a whole bunch of secretaries just to reply to all my fans. And it kept on getting bigger and bigger. Every time a new Paul Mephiglio book came out it became such a big deal you’d think it was the second coming or something. Then the movies started coming out, and let me tell you those movie people never wanted to ask me questions about Paul Mephiglio. Oh no, they just came out and told me. ‘Paul would never do this; Paul would never say that.’ Like they knew my character, the one I’d created from the sweat of my brow, better than me. And then, before I even knew what was going on, Paul Mephiglio was everywhere. Paul Mephiglio dish-towels, Paul Mephiglio electric toothbrushes, Paul Mephiglio iron-on tattoos.

“And that was really the end of it for me. That amazing relationship I had with my readers, that feeling that I was conducting an individual conversation with every one of them, was gone. Now there were all these other people involved. Producers and directors. Marketers and corporate executives. Suddenly it seemed like everybody in the world owned a piece of Paul Mephiglio except me. And that was the worst part of all. It was like losing a child. It was feeling as if the real Paul Mephiglio, the one that I had given birth to, was gone for good.”

It was only as Simon finished that he realised how much his voice had risen throughout his speech. The cleaning lady lowered her eyes and looked away. Suddenly Simon felt embarrassed. What right did he have to complain to this woman? Here he was, the resident of one of the finest castles in the British Isles, surrounded by wealth beyond even his imaginings. And here she was, a menial helper with no recourse to the good things he enjoyed. Obviously life had been far less kind to her than it had been to him. It was churlish, offensive even for him to carp about such issues in front of her.

He forced himself to grin. “But you know when it all comes down to it, I guess it’s been pretty good.”

She looked up again. “I thought it would have been.”

Simon laughed. “It’s a funny thing. I wrote that first book just to amuse the kids of a couple of mates. I had no aspiration to actually be a writer. Not that I was that happy with what I was doing at the time. Being an admin officer at a bank wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs. Still I only started sending it out to publishers because my mates insisted. I had no idea it would turn into such a big deal. An international cultural phenomenon, that’s what people called it. And they’ve been arguing about it ever since. Filling the columns in the book review pages. Churning out acres and acres of PhD theses. What was it that made Paul Mephiglio such an astonishing success? There’s probably a million times as much been written about my boy by other people then what I wrote in the original books. And none of them has ever been able to nail it. Not one of those experts and academics and reviewers has been able to provide a clear and rational reason why my Paul Mephiglio should have taken off the way he did. To be honest, I’m not even sure myself. Right time, right place maybe, I don’t know.”

He chuckled again, so lost in his reminiscences he was barely aware of the other presence in the room. “And it all grew out of such a simple idea. A little boy who discovers one day that he’s really a wizard. Who would have thought of that?”

“I did,” said the cleaning lady.

“You did?” Simon looked up with a start.

“I did,” she repeated. “Many years ago I had an idea for a story about a boy who discovers that he’s a wizard. I had it all planned out over a series of books. I even finished writing the first one.”

“And what happened?”

“Well I sent it to every publisher I could think of. For a year, all I got were rejection letters. But then, suddenly, I seemed to be getting somewhere. I found an agent who liked what he read. Said it had real potential. Said he’d do whatever he could to get it to the right publisher.”

“And he didn’t do it? He let you down?”

“Not exactly. What happened was about two weeks later the whole Paul Mephiglio thing started up.” She paused for a second, glancing quickly around the gallery that surrounded them. “Well that changed everything. My agent said there was no point trying to flog another book about a boy wizard. He told me not to give up, to try and write something else, but I just didn’t have the heart to. I’d already put so much into that first book.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Simon, looking at the cleaning lady as if he was seeing her for the first time. By what twist of fate had they reached their respective destinations, he as an extraordinarily wealthy writer of novels for children and she as a cleaning lady? After all, he too had received his fair share of rejections at the start. He had also damn near written it all off as a lost cause before that final joyous acceptance. How simple could it have been for their roles to have been reversed and for her to have been the one who received all the riches and acclaim?
She shrugged her shoulders. “It was hardly your fault. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. Anyway it’s getting late now. I think I’d better be heading home.”

Shaking his head to clear the image of the cleaning lady sitting in his seat in his study in his castle, he replied. “Yes of course. Thanks for all your help.”

“That’s okay. See you tomorrow Mr Bradshaw.”

Simon P. Bradshaw turned to watch his cleaning lady depart. “See you tomorrow Joanne.”

Selling your soul: Books and merchandising

One of our local papers has been running a big Harry Potter promo over the last few weeks, obviously in line with the new movie. I was watching the kids as they were sorting through all the various merchandising guff (mainly collector's cards but also other stuff like wands) and thinking about the relationship between books and merchandising.

The main thing I'm always wondering is - is the merchandising necessary? Can the book (or movie) stand by itself or does it need to have all of this other stuff associated with it, most of which truly is junk that will be tossed away pretty quickly. It's not a new thought - I actually wrote a story about it a couple of years ago (which I might just post up here). But it makes me wonder about whether any creative entity (book or otherwise) can be a viable financial product on its own or it needs the assistance of all these other revenue streams.

But then again, maybe I'm better off just stopping my wondering and going with the program. Maybe I need to start looking at merchandising opportunities for my books.

I have to admit it's not that easy. Doodling, my first self-published title is about a man who falls off the world and goes wandering through an asteroid field meeting a bunch of oddballs on the way. The merchandising ideas don't exactly spring to mind. Maybe I could have Doodling mobiles that hang from people's ceilings, complete with each of the asteroids in the story and a little Neville (my main character) floating around them. On one of the asteroids there's a group who worship toasters, so maybe I could sell "Toaster People" toasters. Or why stop at toasters (the Toaster People didn't). I could end up with a whole range of Doodling kitchen appliances.

I'm thinking I may be better off waiting for my next release, Flidderbugs - it's a kind-of political satire about a bunch of insects. Now that sounds much easier doesn't it. There's heaps of things I can think of. Flidderbugs fly-swatters. Flidderbugs bug-catchers. Flidderbugs insect repellant. Even a Flidderbugs version of that Beetle game that my kids love - the one where you spin a spinner and build a beetle.

So what do you reckon? Is merchandising an essential part of the marketing equation these days? As a reader, what sort of merchandising would make you want to buy a book? As a writer, what merchandising opportunities would work for you?

Summer Giveaway Hop

For all of the week starting August 1 will be participating in the I am a Reader, Not a Writer Summer Giveaway Hop. I will be giving away copies of my ebook Novella, Doodling.

Doodling is an absurd comic fantasy about a man who falls off the world (because it's moving too fast) and the strange adventures that then befall him. I like to describe it as Douglas Adams meets Lewis Carroll. And it's getting great reviews. Check out the links to independent blog reviews on the right hand column, or have a look at my Amazon page to see what readers are saying about it.

So what do you need to score yourself a copy? It's easy. All I'm asking is for you to place a comment underneath this post leaving your email details and I'll be happy to pass a copy on to you. Smashword coupons is my preferred model but if that's not convenient  let me know and I can forward you direct.

While you're here, please stay and look around. I've got lots of other samples of my writing, such as short stories and silly rhymes, on display here.

And hoping to see you back here in the future.

Revenge is Sweet

This is the story I referred to in my post last week that almost got me mistaken for a supermodel.

It was originally published in The Age newspaper in April 2001 (you'll see that some of the references are a bit dated). They ran a funny short story competition and published the three place-getters and mine - go figure.

Anyway - try to picture it with a photo of Claudia Schiffer alongside the title. I thought of adding one myself but didn't want to be pinged for copyright infringement.


Revenge is Sweet

Mavis ran into the house, slamming the door shut and then locking it behind her.

“They’re out there again,” she cried as she ran around the house, pulling down all the blinds.

“Who?” asked Kev, following slowly after his wife.  “The police?  The secret service?”

“The supermodels,” panted Mavis, only just beginning to get her breath back.

“Damn supermodels,” exclaimed Kev.

“I hadn’t even got past the front gate and there was Claudia, camera at the ready, crouching down behind the bougainvillea.”

“Bloody Claudia,” fumed Kev.  “Can’t she ever leave us alone?”

“That was barely the start of it,” continued Mavis.  “No sooner had I got out to the street when there they all were.  Elle hiding behind the big gum tree outside number 7.  Cindy ducking down behind the O’Donnells’ hedge.”

“What about Naomi?”

“Up in Tommy McGinty’s cubby house with Jerry and Linda.”  Mavis shook her head.  “It’s getting so as you can’t even walk down to the milk bar without having a supermodel or ten shove a camera in your face.”

“No respect for privacy,” muttered Kev.  “It’s as bad as what I just saw on the telly.”

“What?  Don’t tell me Tom and Nicole were on again.”

Kev nodded, a resigned expression on his face.

“And what were they saying this time?” demanded Mavis.

“Well Tom said that he thought our marital problems are due to me having a passionate affair with Madge from bingo, but Nicole just reckons we’re both living a lie and our whole marriage was a sham from the start.”

“Typical,” grumbled Mavis.  “We have one little tiff down at the fish and chip shop and next minute the whole world knows about it.”  She looked at Kev plaintively.  “I can’t take any more of this.  I have to get away.  I need a holiday.”

Kev sighed.  “If only it were so easy.  But wherever we go, the Royal Family are sure to track us down.  Just like last year, at the caravan park in Merimbula.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Mavis, rolling her eyes.  “I’ll never forgive the Queen for saying she thought my dresses were dowdy.”

“And what about when Prince Charles made all those jokes about my nose.”

“But the worst was that Fergie, always following me into the shower block, teasing me about my weight.”  Mavis shuddered at the recollection.  “It was so humiliating.”

Kev held out a hand to his wife.  “Sorry honey, I guess we’ll just have to stay put.  But let’s try to see the bright side.  Think of all the things we’ve got.  A house in the suburbs.  A crippling mortgage.  A couple of dead end jobs.  While all they’ve got is fame, wealth and celebrity.  When you look at it that way, it’s no wonder they all want a piece of our lives.”

The day I nearly got mistaken for a supermodel: a whinge about branding

I just want to start by saying that my post last week was the most successful one I’ve done, and to thank everyone who took the time to post comments back to me or respond via Facebook.

Today I’m going to go the opposite way completely and have a bit of a whinge (for my friends across the Pacific, read whine, moan, complain, rant, etc…).

Anyone who read my post last week may wonder why I’m contradicting myself and going all negative. My response is that I’m not contradicting myself at all. Last week I said that I planned to try to make my book marketing a fun experience. And to be honest, there’s nothing quite as enjoyable as a good old whinge. It helps to let out the stress and leaves you feeling energised and refreshed (well it does for me).

The subject of my whinge today is supermodels. Honestly, whose idea was supermodels? The idea that a group could somehow be elevated into the super domain just for walking around wearing expensive clothes with blank expressions on their faces seems utterly ridiculous to me. Surely there are far more worthy candidates that merit a prefix of super; superteachers or superdoctors or maybe supercharityworkers. But I’m starting to get off topic here – I think this is turning into a possible subject for a future post.

Anyway, the thing that really gives me the proverbial about supermodels is when you see that one of them has released a new fragrance, or a new fashion range. All of a sudden, they’re not just a supermodel. They’re a successful businesswoman as well. And the media gushes about how amazing it is that they’re not only utterly gorgeous but they also have a great head for business.

Give me a break. Let’s not get into the squillions of dollars they’ve already earned on the catwalk which they can use for starting up a new business.  There’s something even more important than that which they’re taking advantage of.  They already have a brand. When you see their names splashed up all over magazines, the first thing you think of is fashion and beauty. It’s no great stretch for them to spin off another product associated with that brand. And let’s face it, the products with their names on them are always things like perfume or underwear or other fashion related stuff. The sort of things the public already associates them with. I’d like to see one of them try to market something completely different, like hardware or automotive parts or artificial limbs. Then we’d really know whether they had a head for business or not.

This whole supermodel situation encapsulates for me the difficulties for us indie authors. If you don’t have the brand recognition, it doesn’t matter how good your product (and for me, read book) is. Supermodels already have that brand. What can we as authors with no public profile do to create our own brands and generate that recognition for our name in the minds of the general public? To be honest, I’m not really sure. But there’s one thing I’m hoping that will help me out. My stories are pretty true reflections on my view of the world. And my main marketing strategy is to just try to be me and have fun doing it. Hopefully that will start to tie things together.

Which leads me back to the title of this post, ie the funny bit:

The very first thing I ever had published was as a result of a funny short story competition run by The Age, the major Melbourne broadsheet newspaper. It was about an ordinary suburban couple being stalked by a bunch of camera-wielding supermodels. But what was really funny was that next to my name, in the spot where they usually have a photo of the writer of the article, they had a picture of Claudia Schiffer instead. Not the truest reflection of me or my writing. To be honest, I’m not sure that it did my brand any favours. But then again, if it gets people to read my stuff, maybe I should have a supermodel on all of my book covers.

Time for a new plan

I read something interesting the other day. Apparently most independent authors sell on average 4 books a month. Did you get that? 4 books a month. And when you consider that most of these books are priced between $2.99 and a meagre 99 cents, that’s not a lot of royalties to be earned. Doesn’t look like too many writers are going to be quitting their day jobs any time soon.

The good news for me is that I’m actually managing to do better than that. The bad news is, not by a lot. At this stage, any plans for instant stardom are most definitely on hold.

So what is an indie author to do faced with such a distressing statistic? Especially one with barely any knowledge about marketing and a pretty minuscule social network to this point. Do I go off into a corner, put my head in my hands and wail inconsolably at the hopelessness of it all? Or do I put my nose to the grindstone and dedicate every waking hour to the single-minded pursuit of publishing glory, to the exclusion of all else?

I’ve decided that the answer is going to be neither of the above. I’ve come up with a novel marketing strategy:

I’m going to have fun!

I’m not going to tear my hair out and whine and whinge about how hard it is. And I’m also not going to drive myself to the edge of exhaustion over it. I’m going to try and enjoy myself.

When I go out on social networks, I’m going to have a laugh with people. See if I can make them smile, and see if I can make myself smile as well. Whatever promotional activities I hold, I’ll try to add in some sort of fun element to make them as appealing as I can. Whatever space I’m in I hope to make an enjoyable space, whether it’s Twitter, Facebook or this blog. Enjoyable for other people, but most especially enjoyable for me.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try my best. And it also doesn’t mean I’m not going to be smart and organised. But if I’m not enjoying myself as I go, I’m either going to collapse into a miserable heap or turn into a manic head-case.

Maybe I’ll be successful. Maybe I won’t.  From now I’m suspending all my expectations. I know my book is good (I've had enough wonderfully positive feedback from readers to tell me that) so I want to give it every chance it deserves. And if that's going to be a long haul, I need to make sure I can maintain my motivation without going crazy.

Because ultimately, the reason I chose to write was because I really enjoy it. If I don’t extend that fun into my marketing, then I might as well not bother.

Would you let them make a movie out of your book?

I know it's probably not something I'm ever likely to have to worry about, but I do occasionally wonder about what I'd do if someone came up and offered me lots of money for the film rights for one of my books.

You'd think that working out the answer would be pretty easy. Why wouldn't I just say yes on the spot? After all, it would likely offer a far more lucrative stream of income than the books on there own. And besides, heaps of people who've read my book have commented on how they thought it would work really well as an animation.

But I'm still not convinced that it's exactly what I want, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, I'd be concerned about doing justice to my story. I know that sounds like a terribly arrogant thing to say. But so often, I've gone to see movies based on books I love and been terribly disappointed. Even highly regarded adaptations, such as the Lord of the Rings movies, failed to me to capture the spirit and complexity that make the books so wonderful.

The second reason is more personal. Partly it's a reflection on how much of myself I put into my writing. I have a strong sense of ownership of my storylines and my characters. But I love the way that as I start to pick up readers, I can share that ownership with them. It's been an amazing thing to hear from readers about how they've embraced my characters, even finding new dimensions to them I hadn't thought of. It's real bond, directly between myself and the readers.

But a movie would change that. I'm fully aware of how many different people it takes to make a movie. Directors and producers and actors, plus probably a bunch of other writers to adapt the prose into a screenplay. Maybe it's just the control freak in me but I hate the idea of losing control of my characters to all these people, and having them come between me and my readers. And I can speak a little bit from experience here. I've done quite a bit of writing for theatre (comedy sketches) and have also studied scriptwriting for both film and television, so I have some idea of what can happen to an idea from its original form to the final work.

The final reason is to do with the idea of imagination. To me, books are the most imaginative medium there is. Readers are free to conjure up visions of the worlds of the novel and its characters. Each might have a different idea of how a character looks or sounds, or exactly how a location appears. But once it's made into a film, imagination goes out the window. You have someone else's vision imposed on you, and it may be hard to replace that in the future.

So these are the reasons I made a pact with myself quite a while ago. My stories are mine and mine alone to share with my readers. If ever a film producer came to me offering big money for the rights, I'd thank them kindly, say how flattered I am and then show them the door.

At least that's what I tell myself. Sometimes, when I think of what I could do with the money and how it could enable me to live the writing life I've dreamed of, I have a feeling that I might be prepared to be a little bit flexible.