Books, eh? So many published, so few read. Trying to get noticed is the name of the game (I should know, I’ve played it. Let’s call it a draw to date).
All will be explained shortly, but here’s a picture of my dad hard at work in our sitting room in 1986.
Long time no weblog.
Some reflections on entering the world of the published writer – by Saul Wordsworth of Wordsworth Writing Ink (geddit?)
I am Alan Stoob.
Perhaps you knew this already.
Perhaps you didn’t.
Perhaps you’ve no idea what I’m talking about.
Alan Stoob is a website, a Twitter account, a book and (if the planets align) a film.
I have kept my name hidden for three years but on the eve of publication and with Stoob’s cover already blown I’m officially outing myself.
Alan is Britain’s Premier Nazi Hunter™.
This is the story of Alan.
Recently I spent a week writing on the west coast of Ireland.
One evening I drove three miles to the nearest pub and ordered pint a Guinness.
What follows are the words I exchanged with a burly local in possession of a strong Irish brogue and an overpowering handshake.
This is a short piece about my dear friend Matt Richell, who died in a surfing accident two weeks ago.
Hello and good day. At least I trust it’s a good day wherever you are. This end it’s rather miz – drizzly, grey and overcast. Plus I must confess to being mildly hung-over. Still, that’s what you get for drinking in moderation.
Since this is my first ever blog, a spot of housekeeping. Would all of you please make a note of the emergency exits such that if things become too boring, repetitive, repetitive or self-indulgent, you can make a bolt for it. Also, you’ll have to provide your own tea bags. I’m looking into making teabags available as attachments but for now you’ll have to bring your own.