Six

Patrick McGoohan as Number 6. Image: Wikipeida

I'm using my blog site for a totally different purpose this time. Instead of another amusing,
thought-provoking article (settle down please) this time I'm presenting you with the first few pages of a potential novel.

The storyline is unashamedly inspired and driven by the cult British TV series The Prisoner from the late 1960s, starring Patrick McGoohan as an ex-intelligence officer who is captured and confined to 'The Village.' 

His wardens want to know why he resigned, and any other information he can give them. 

He resists, in every way possible. He will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered. He is, he insists, a free man. Those behind the scenes of his incarceration would beg to differ. This is their story.

Six

The Prisoner: Same time, Same Story, Different Angle

  © Mike Bodnar 2021

1967

Central London

The thunderclap came out of nowhere. It shook windows in office buildings; shoppers and tourists stopped in their tracks and looked to the sky. It was bright and hazy. Confusing, no sign of rain. A second equally-loud thunderclap shook the air, rolling on for a moment, which then – for those in Westminster – morphed into the thunderous roar of a small sports car speeding through the streets.

The car's driver didn't react to the thunder, didn't slow down, actually didn't care about the weather. He had more urgent things on his mind. He swung round a corner, chopped from second to third and put his foot down.

                                                                * * * *

Virgil Street, London

Charles wound down the last of the windows of the gleaming black vehicle half way, and began the almost-ceremonial wiping of the tops of each door glass with his chamois cloth. Not many people know to do this final thing after washing a motor car, he thought. It's the attention to detail that counts. Anyone sees these windows down won't see any dried droplets along the top, or streaks. It's what sets a professional driver apart, he smiled to himself.

'There Tommy,' he said to his mechanic who was at the workbench. 'That's how to properly clean a motor car. Spick and span, ready for inspection.'

Tommy turned and shook his head. He'd heard this many times before.

The phone at the back of the garage rang, and Charles wrung his chamois out as he headed for the office door. 'I'll get it,' he said.

It was the red phone, Charles noted. His heart rate increased, and he cleared his throat, picked up the receiver.

'Yes?'

'I understand you can supply a dozen red roses on the 27th,' a woman's voice said clearly, then paused.

'Two dozen for members of the family,' Charles replied.

'Right. Charles, job for you, priority one.' The caller, satisfied that the counter-response was correct, now talked hurriedly.

'No problem ma’am, where and when?'

'Now actually – we might already be too late. One male. He'll be leaving Abingdon Street any moment. Green and yellow Lotus sports car, Kilo Alpha Romeo 120 Charlie. He'll likely head home, One, Buckingham Place, SW1. Head there if you lose him. If he doesn't turn up immediately, wait. He'll arrive eventually. Be careful. He's angry, so make sure the subject is compliant before entry. You know where to take him.'

'Of course ma’am. Leave it to me.'

The anonymous caller cut the connection and Charles put the phone down.

'Tom! We're on!' he called. Tom wiped his hands on a cloth and pressed the control that opened the garage door, then climbed out of his overalls and grabbed his black suit coat. Charles peeled off his own overalls to reveal his formal clothing underneath. He grabbed his own black coat and two spotless top hats off the shelf and ran to the hearse, donning the coat as he went.

Tommy climbed in the passenger seat and the gleaming Austin Princess eased out into the street, the garage door closing automatically behind.

Charles picked up the radio handset from under the dashboard. 'Mobile Black, Mobile Black to Mobile Control, receiving, over?'

The radio speaker crackled and a male voice answered immediately. 'Mobile Control, Mobile Black, receiving. You have your instructions?'

'Yes sir, en route now. Traffic is good, ETA five minutes.'

'Make it three. Out.'

'What's the job?' asked Tommy, checking his tie in the vanity mirror on the sun shade. He combed his hair with his fingers.

'Extraction,' said Charles. 'Just the one. Male. We'll use the knockout gas, through the keyhole.'

'Then what?' asked Tommy.

'Then I drop you back at the garage and you go about your business, as usual. I'll take care of the funeral.'

* * * *

Century House, 100 Westminster Bridge Road, London

McKeown put the telephone handset back in the cradle and blew his cheeks out.

'What?' asked Symes, turning from the window and breaking his gaze from the river which he'd been watching between the office buildings and the hospital.

'He's resigned. As we expected. Seems he was very angry.'

'Oh Christ. What reason did he give? Do we know?'

McKeown picked up the phone again, pressed one of the buttons on the console, covered the mouthpiece and replied, 'No. He thumped his resignation letter on G's desk but there was nothing in the envelope but a blank piece of paper. Hello? Get me Alison, quickly,' he said into the phone.

Symes sat at his own desk and gripped the arms of his chair. 'And this was just now?'

'Just now, in the last ten min... ah, Alison? Have you heard? Yes resigned. Mmm, our top man, as you say.... I know... and, no clear explanation. He's furious apparently. Should we... you know.. take action? Really? The undertakers are on the job already? I say, that was quick. Yes I suppose so.'

Symes noted McKeown ran a finger under his collar as he listened. 'Of course. Of course Alison, top secret, state secret. See you there shortly.'

McKeown stood and grabbed his jacket from the coat stand. Symes rose too, the colour draining from his face. 'The funeral director's involved? So this is it?'

'Yes, this is it. Not a drill, not a rehearsal. Call the undertakers and keep tabs on the extraction. They're mobile now and tailing him, to his place we think. Keep me informed. I'll be in a meeting in Sub-3 for a while, but brief me when you can. Control's alerting the facility.'

He blew his cheeks out again and rubbed his face. 'I'm not sure this is a good idea. Not at all.'

* * * *

Sub-basement 3, Century House, London

The lift doors opened and McKeown stepped out, almost colliding with Alison Hedley.

'Ah, Alison.'

He fell in step with her and they headed quickly down the quiet dimly-lit corridor.

'McKeown.' Alison acknowledged him, with a nod, but kept walking purposefully.

'You know we haven't had anyone of his calibre in the facility before.'

'And your point is?'

'Well, he's our number one operative. And he is our number one because he's so very damn good at what he does.'

Alison Hedley suddenly stopped. 'Exactly. Which is why we absolutely cannot let him out of our sight. He's far too valuable to be on the loose, especially the mood he's in.' She set off, and McKeown hurried to keep up.

'Yes, I suppose you're right. But...'

'But nothing. Think about the knowledge he's got in his head.'

They reached the black door at the end of the corridor. Alison punched the access code into the buttons on the lock and the door swung open automatically with a hum. They entered a dark space, almost black, except for a large structure in the centre, raised about three feet off the floor. It was a windowless room, isolated from its surroundings and lit from beneath. It seemed to almost float in mid-air. Access steps led to a steel door in the front of the structure, with another punch-code lock beside it.

McKeown and Hedley stepped inside. Those already there, seated around a large oval table, turned to face them.

'Ah, Hedley, McKeown, please, take a seat,' said the balding man with glasses at the head of the table. He had a voice like syrup.

'I think you know everyone here,' said the man, known to everyone in the organisation as 'G'.

Hedley and McKeown took the only remaining seats and sat down, nodding to those present. The table was bare save for some water jugs and glasses. Nobody had any notebooks or jotters, or even pencils. No record-taking was ever allowed within this secure room.

G looked at each person in turn, as though summing up their qualifications to be present. He seemed satisfied.

'Right. Let's begin. The only person in this meeting you're not likely to know is Miss Wilson here.' G gesticulated to an unsmiling woman with a severe haircut to his right. 'Olivia, perhaps you'd like to introduce yourself.'

Olivia Wilson pushed her chair back and stood up with her legs slightly apart and her hands behind her back. She raised her chin before speaking. Most in the room immediately recognised that she came from a military background.

'Thank you sir. I am Olivia Wilson,' she said to the group. 'I'm a qualified psychiatrist as well as having qualifications and extensive experience in psychology. My skills are used in this organisation in the field of psychological strategy planning and operations, which, as you know, involves manipulating the thought processes, emotions and beliefs of a subject or subjects to our advantage.'

She sat down again, and G resumed. 'Thank you.' He turned to the group. 'Any questions?'

A man to G's left, older, in a pin-striped suit which probably first saw a hanger in 1950, cleared his throat. 'Er, excuse my asking, but what is Miss Wilson's clearance?'

G stared at him for a moment before replying. 'Adequate' he snapped. 'Or she wouldn't be here.'

He turned to the rest of the group. 'Now, I've asked Olivia to join us today because, although we find ourselves in an expected situation, we didn't anticipate the timing of it. And it's a situation which, from today on, will demand all our initiative, intelligence and indeed cunning. We are dealing with what could be an unhinged mind.' G glanced briefly at Wilson. 'Not just any mind either. The mind of this man...'

G turned towards the wall behind him and pressed a remote control on the arm of his chair. The image of a good-looking man in his late 30s or early 40s appeared on the wall screen.

G turned back. 'As you can see, he has a half-smile on his face. He appears confident, at ease. As indeed he was when this photograph was taken just a year ago. Then he was at the top of his game, operating effectively in the field, and doing our bidding wherever we sent him, which was far and wide.

'He became, as you know, the best operative we have. Or at least had, until today. Now we need to ask, whose side is he on?' He turned once again to Olivia Wilson.

* * * *

Virgil Street Garage, London

Tommy watched the hearse drive regally down the short road and turn the corner, Charles using his indicator even though no vehicles were behind him. Perfectionist, he thought. Always the perfectionist. And then he recited the numbers to himself out loud: 'Four, two, seven, nine, six.' He repeated them, committing them to memory: 'Four, two, seven, nine, six.'

A train rumbled past over the bridge behind him as he unlocked the garage access door. He stepped inside, turned the lights on, headed for the office and stopped in the doorway. He removed his top hat and placed it on the shelf where it lived, then filled the kettle from the small sink in the corner and put it on the gas burner. He loosened his tie, thought about putting his overalls back on, but instead sat behind Charles's Desk.

He called it Charles's Desk (with a capital 'D') because he wasn't allowed to sit behind it. As with the rest of the garage, it was spotless, immaculate. Topped in green leather, it would have looked better in a gentleman's study than a garage office, but then Tommy didn't know much about Charles's background, nor was he supposed to.

The man carried himself with military bearing, always ramrod straight in his walk, thumbs to the front as his arms swung as though on parade. He was tall and lean, despite the cream buns Tommy had seen him devour for morning tea. He wondered how he stayed so slim, so... lanky.

The whistling kettle brought him out of his reverie and he made himself a mug of tea. His was the tin mug; Charles of course had a bone china one. Of course, thought Tommy. He would.

Not that he envied him in any way, well, not much. Charles was a good boss – not many blokes of my age have such interesting jobs, he thought. But then again, just what is my job, he wondered?

Tommy had not done well at school. Yes he was bright, always getting excellent marks for most subjects, but he was never a team player. His reports frequently said that, 'Tommy is a loner', 'Tommy doesn't seem to mix well with others,' and so forth, yet his English teacher – who doubled as the school's drama coach – adored him. 'Tommy could play Hamlet!' she wrote once. He was also good with his hands and did well in woodwork and especially metalwork.

He never did play the Prince of Denmark, though he'd joined an amateur repertory group and had some good roles. But his day job had been as an apprentice mechanic. He'd joined a large engineering firm and, after going through all the usual initiations – he was too clever to fall for the 'Go and ask stores for a long weight' ruse – worked hard and diligently. Until he was accused of stealing.

It still riled him of course. He hadn't stolen a thing, it was fit-up, that's what it was. He slurped his tea, and put his mug on the desk, then thought better of it and got a saucer to put it on in case the hot mug marked the leather. Before he swung his feet up onto the desk he placed a cloth on it to avoid scratching. He didn't want to lose this job, because now he worked for 'the government', even though he wasn't quite sure which part of it. Charles was his boss, and the only person he answered to.

He thought about this morning's job. It had gone smoothly. They'd arrived at the underground car park just in time, then trailed the subject to his flat. He hadn't once looked back to check if they were there, which made it easy. Very easy. Inside, knockout gas cylinder and hose ready, into the keyhole, then after a few minutes bring in the casket and off we go. But where, he wondered? Where do they go, the departed?

Thomas Alex Deighton finished his tea, lifted his legs off the desk and wiped it to make sure Charles wouldn't know he'd sat there. He washed and dried his mug and turned to leave the office but then stopped and took his top hat off the shelf and placed it on his head. He looked in the mirror on the wall beside the door, tilted the hat to a jaunty angle and tapped it on top to ensure it stayed in place.

I work for the government, he thought. As 'an undertaker's assistant.' Sure. Of course that's what I am. But at least my so-called criminal record has been wiped. Now all I've got to do is keep my nose clean and deal with the 'funerals.' His reflection smiled a lop-sided smile back at him and he started singing softly to himself.

'Dem bones, dem bones, dem... dry bones, dem bones, dem bones, dem... dry bones...'

To be continued...

I am looking for feedback on these first few pages, but more on the concept in general, so please feel 'free' to contribute a comment, file, brief, index or number (score out of ten). Thanks for reading. 

Be seeing you :-)

Helicopters on Mars and other Flights of Fancy

 As NASA's latest Mars rover, Perseverance, touches down on the red planet, Mike Bodnar looks to the skies...

The closest I'll get to Mars: a two-week stay at the
Mars Desert Research Station in Utah, 2012

I blame a madman with a monocle for making me want to go to Mars. You know the sort – what we used to call a 'boffin', a mad scientist type. Unruly hair, exaggerated gesticulations, rapid-talking, one eyebrow raised perpetually in alarm or astonishment – all the clichés of the nutty professor.

Except in this case he wasn't mad, just extremely knowledgeable and enthusiastic about space and astronomy, and he wanted to pass that enthusiasm on to others, especially youngsters. Cue Sir Patrick Moore's entrance, stage right. Or preferably, lowered from above per deus ex machina.

Patrick Moore, as he simply was when I first watched him on the BBC's monthly Sky at Night programme – he later became Sir Patrick – was already a legend when I discovered him in the early 1960s. Not only was he the host of the Sky at Night, but also author of many books, mostly illustrated texts on astronomy, but also – crucially for me – some science fiction.

Sir Patrick Moore, author, astronomer, motivator
Image: The Royal Society

Even at the age of seven or so I was mad keen on all things space, and from there on I made it my mission to boldly go and read everything I could on the universe and space exploration. I devoured every single sci-fi book Huyton Library and nearby branches had on their shelves.

Thus it was that I discovered that Patrick Moore had written a series of Mars novels, set in a future when the red planet had been (sparsely) colonised on an international basis, with various habitat domes dotted here and there for research and exploration. Spacecraft travelled back and forth between Mars and Earth on a regular basis, but as the red planet's atmosphere was unbreathably thin and toxic, with freezing cold temperatures and unknown perils, there was always danger lurking in the wings. (Or even with wings!)

I was enthralled. What I didn't know at the time was that some of the things that Moore was writing about would come true, although I hoped in my heart of hearts that they all would, and within my lifetime. I wanted to go to Mars.

Blue Origin's New Shepherd vehicle
Image: Blue Origin

Elon Musk hadn't been born then of course, and Jeff Bezos was just a twinkle in his
mother's eye, although Richard Branson beat me to the nursery by four years. But Patrick Moore didn't reckon on space exploration becoming the domain of billionaires and private enterprise; his vision was one of international cooperation by government space agencies (which of course we have with the International Space Station), with Mars being explored by scientists of all nations working together. If robotic probes had earlier been sent to scout Mars, Moore didn't mention them, but he did predict something that even I thought unlikely at the time: helicopters.

Moore's Mars envisaged helicopters being used for exploration of the planet's surface, and as transport between key locations. And as NASA's latest rover Perseverance lands on Mars it carries with it the first ever Martian helicopter. Moore will be looking down with approval from wherever he is now, perhaps he's somewhere on Mars.

Ingenuity. Image: NASA

The helicopter about to help explore the red planet is called Ingenuity. Its mission is to scout a pathway for its parent Perseverance, finding places of interest to investigate, and areas of risk to avoid.

It is however more like the sort of model remote control helicopter that you might buy from an electronics shop or online. It is about the size of a toaster, and its twin counter-rotating rotors (four feet across) have to spin at a staggering 2,400rpm to be able to fly in Mars's thin atmosphere. Terrestrial helicopter rotors spin at only about 400rpm. But importantly, it is equipped with a camera, so maybe we'll get to see some exciting close-quarter aerial views of Mars, while the possibilities for Instagrammable pics of Perseverance traversing the landscape are endless.

Vintage choppers on Mars

Patrick Moore's Martian choppers very much reflected the state of helicopter technology of the late 1950s, and the book cover of Peril on Mars looks comical today, not helped by the astronauts all looking like Bender from Futurama. But then, 60 or 70 years from now, what will people be saying about our present-day visions of the future? They'll likely be falling off their hover stools.

I interviewed Dr. Moore (as he was then) in the mid-1980s and when I asked if he would sign my copies of his Mars novels he agreed without hesitation, although he seemed embarrassed to have authored them at all. When I told him his books had inspired me, he muttered, 'Oh dear.'

In Patrick's defence, no science fiction writer – or indeed any of us – can accurately predict the future, mainly because we just don't know what unexpected influences will come to bear on the progress of spaceflight, space technology, society, or human endeavour. I did read one sci-fi novel where space exploration faced real challenges from the 'New Morality' government of Earth, a scenario not light years away from the Earth/Mars/Asteroid Belt conflicts of Netflix's The Expanse. And who knows? We only need a major religious movement to take control and next thing you know in God's name all space exploration could be cancelled in the beat of an angel's wings.

But that's the fun of science fiction; it takes imaginative leaps into all possibilities, so in the end, some scenarios which we read or watch today will actually come to pass.

A Starship test launch. Image: MIT Technology Review

Some already have; when I was reading sci-fi from the 60s and 70s, space rockets were usually long, pointy and had fins. They would launch off their tail fins and land on their tail fins, and they all looked basically like Hitler's V2 rockets.

In the intervening decades, rockets have indeed looked similar to that and have launched the same way; not a lot has changed. In fact, the principle of a rocket being a tube full of combustible fuel which, once ignited, spews flame and energy from the base thereby pushing the rocket upwards and into orbit is exactly the same today as it was in 1969 when Apollo 11 headed for the moon. Or when Hitler was trying to destroy London in 1944 and '45. Or indeed when the Chinese were using rockets for warlike purposes in 1232 AD.

Sure, some of the fuels and engine technology have changed, but the principle is still the same. However, as Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos have both amply demonstrated, bringing a rocket booster back to Earth and landing it safely on its tail can actually work. So we now have reusable rockets, which have been a mainstay of science fiction novels, movies and television programmes since, well, forever.

Novels about robotic landers such as Spirit, Opportunity and Curiosity going to Mars and being operated from Earth very slowly and carefully don't make for gripping story lines, especially since they haven't yet photographed any Martians, so we can perhaps forgive sci-fi novelists for not concentrating on them quite as much.

But we do live in an age of increasing excitement in space exploration. Patrick Moore was ahead of his time when, in his Mars novels, he predicted terraforming, where humankind attempts to turn Mars into a more Earth-like planet, with an oxygen-enriched atmosphere and plant life. (Spoiler alert: it all goes horribly wrong in a Jurassic Park-type way). And today there are plenty of people who believe that over time – many thousands of years – Mars could become a second Earth. Which is fine as long as a climate colder than Antarctica is what you like. Or your name is Elon Musk.

Perseverance. Image: NASA 

Meanwhile, we are on the doorstep of the final frontier, and there's plenty happening this year. Three spacecraft have just arrived at Mars, including NASA's Perseverance, so there will be more analysis of the red planet than ever before. Richard Branson is poised – still – to take tourists to space and back via Virgin Galactic, while Jeff Bezos's Blue Origin could make some more breakthroughs this year. We don't know much about Blue Origin's plans as Bezos plays his cards close to his chest.

Elon Musk's Starship enterprise (no pun intended, but you're welcome) continues to advance at – what is for space technology development – breakneck speed. His ongoing Falcon launch schedule looks like being its busiest this year, while the Starship tests stand to wow us with ever-increasing altitudes and – hopefully – smooth landings. In the end, Mars is Starship's destination, but for the moment we'll have to be satisfied with the existing rover programmes.

And I haven't even touched on the space programmes in India, the UAE, Russia, China, Europe and other places.

Virgin Galactic. Image: British GQ Magazine

I'm most unlikely to ever make it to the red planet, or even off the Earth. When he wrote them in the late 1950s, Patrick Moore envisaged his Mars novels being set around 1968, but as we know, Neil and Buzz didn't even set foot on the moon till a year later, so to make predictions as to when the first humans will walk on Mars is inviting ridicule. I don't like to be ridiculed so I'm not even going to try.

Instead I'll be happy to watch The Mars Show courtesy of Perseverance and Ingenuity. Bring it on.

(Unless of course I win big on the lottery, in which case I'll be buying a ticket on a Virgin Galactic trip to space. That would suit me.)

Rock and a Hard Place

Rich at last! Image: NBC News

I am pleased to announce that I am retiring. This will be my last blog ever, because I am now filthy rich and privileged. So you can all sod off.

Not that I've ever been able to monetise my blogs – they command audiences in the tens, occasionally the low hundreds. 'Wow! We must take out advertising around these!' said no business ever.

No, I am now able to put my feet up in the literal sense – no need to work, to save, to scrounge – because all my financial problems are solved, but it's nothing to do with my blogging.

It's entirely thanks to email acquaintances of mine – very generous acquaintances – who keep showering me with gifts, windfalls, and who insist on putting vast amounts of money in my bank and/or PayPal accounts. I am also a cryptocurrency millionaire (if not billionaire) due to some anonymous but very welcome Bitcoin donors.

It keeps coming too. Today I received £208,450.76p (thank you ONPID:JZ) with a further US$36,984.39 waiting in the wings and which I can access as soon as I confirm my account details. I have also just won an iPhone 11, I'm into the exciting second round of a draw to win a £100 KFC voucher, and I'm a 'possible' winner of a £1000 Primark Gift Card. I can hardly contain myself.

I have inherited China's economy...

My only concern is that my computer is, apparently, infected (which will be fixed as soon as I share my bank details with the correspondent), and I have a 'very-urgent' message (see pic).

This takes the tarnish off my cash windfalls and surprise vouchers somewhat, as I now don't know whether I've just inherited China's economy or not, although looking further down the text I notice a pumpkin emoji, so maybe I have to wait till 31 October to access my windfall from the Ka-Ching Dynasty.

But still. It's good to know that the bastards at New Zealand's Government – and the Inland Revenue Department in particular – who refuse to give me my pension, can now take a hike. In fact, I will soon be able to buy the whole of New Zealand anyway, and one of my first tasks will be to fire everyone in the IRD and eliminate the department altogether.

Why? Because – and this is a cautionary tale for any ex-pat Brits living in New Zealand and thinking of retiring back to dear old Blighty or anywhere else outside of Aotearoa – New Zealand does not give you your pension if you move overseas. Let me rant for a moment.

I paid my taxes fair and square for over 40 years as a worker in New Zealand. I always did my best to cough up what I owed, even engaging tax accountants to ensure I paid what was due in full. Always. Let me reiterate: I did this for 40-plus years. And now, because I've moved back to Britain I get nothing. Zip. Nada. Kahore he mea.

So long Brit suckers. Image: NZ Customs

Whereas those Brits who retired to New Zealand – or are about to – receive their British pensions without question. They do pass Go and they do collect £200. Or more. Unfortunately, for people like me it's a non-reciprocal arrangement.

Worse – but this is my fault – I have been able to work in the UK only since returning full-time in 2014; For me to be eligible for a UK pension I need to have worked here and paid taxes for at least ten years. So here I am caught between a rock and a hard place. No pension from NZ, no pension from the UK. (I use the term 'UK' loosely, as there is little evidence that it's united about anything. And don't get me started on 'GB'...)

Image: Civil Service World

I am of course allowed to work here, except that ageism is rampant, just as much as racism, genderism, and any other -isms you care to mention. There is no way I can get a job now at the age of 66, unless it's voluntary, and that would mean no pay-as-you-earn taxation, so it wouldn't contribute towards a pension anyway. However, in a way that's not the point; I am entitled to retire, but can't afford to. I am entitled to work, but nobody wants me. (Did I hear sobbing?)

Thank God then for my online benefactors. I've just checked my emails for updates and am pleased to announce that to add to my Bitcoin gazillionaire status I've just won a gift from supermarket chain Aldi, while New Zealand's star rugby player Sonny Bill Williams apparently has some investment advice for me, advice that – I'm assured – has 'experts in awe and big banks terrified.'

Trolls in New Zealand will, of course, say it serves me right for changing countries in the first place. Trolls in the dis-United Kingdom will say the same. Okay, maybe I was wrong. But if you're reading this and you're young enough to be considering a life-changing move somewhere overseas, do your retirement homework first.

Either that or I can put you in touch with my online financial benefactors. All I need are your bank details, PIN number and password.

The Success of Self-Publishing

 Mike Bodnar looks at what opportunities the Covid pandemic has created for aspiring authors...

The impacts of Covid-19 on the mainstream book market are many, with closed bookshops, cancelled book launches and publishers' strategies in disarray. However, none of this seems to have stopped writers. If anything it's given them a new lease on life.

With more time stuck at home due to the pandemic, an increasing number of people are using the opportunity to write that novel, memoir or history book, and submit it in the hope of publication, fame and fortune. You've probably got an idea for a best-selling book tucked away in the back of your mind somewhere too, haven't you? Go on, you know you have.

However, all this time for creativity has ironically increased the workload of publishers and literary agents, even if their sector is in chaos. In a recent Guardian article, one publisher said that their normal workload of four or five manuscripts a day had increased since Covid to as many as 16 a day, while a literary agent complained that her quotidian in-tray now included as many as 27 manuscripts. Yes, you read that correctly: per day!

So competition for publishers' and agents' attention is intense, but you can bypass mainstream publishing altogether by self-publishing, which an increasing number of indie authors are doing – and not necessarily due to a fear of rejection.

Self-published books are finally breaking through the decades-old stigma they've suffered, namely that if it's self-published then by definition it's inferior. (And yes, it has to be said that some self-published books are sadly wanting, if not dire.) On the upside, self-publishing has become the method of choice for many successful writers because it generates a bigger share of sales revenue, while offering more control over the work.

Out of this world success

Waving the flag for independence are fêted titles such asThe Martian, Fifty Shades of Grey, Still Alice, and The Shack – all successful self-published works. But what 'success' looks like is important, and not always to do with how many copies an author sells or how rich and famous they become, as we'll see.

Then there are self-publishing companies, providing everything from proofreading and editing through to cover design, printing, marketing and sales management. You choose how much of a package you want, or can afford. The main difference between these companies and the big established publishers is that you pay them to publish your work, not the other way round.

Self-publishing options today are many, largely thanks to the internet and digital publishing opportunities; on-demand printing, eBooks, and audio books can be achieved easily, with no publisher involved and with potentially much greater profits than traditional publishing.

But before you start you need to ask, 'How will I define success?' In the examples of sell-out self-published books above, success is in sales numbers, rave reviews, publishing contracts and film deals. But success can be a lot more modest and diverse than that.

For example, let's say you wish to write your family history. Your 'market' is likely

Rave reviews...

 your immediate and extended family. So, they get to own a professionally-published record of the family chronicle, while you have the satisfaction of being the originator of the work. 

There's no financial reward and no film deal, but your market – small and intimate as it is – will be delighted with what you've created (and they'll give you all the rave reviews you want).

Or you might write a travel memoir, based on your adventures riding a motorbike halfway round the world. Here you want to entertain and inspire others, so your target market is the armchair traveller and would-be adventurer. Success therefore might be readers saying they enjoyed your book so much that they're now planning their own adventure.

Avoid clichés like the plague

Then of course there's the novel, that edge-of-the-seat thriller, sci-fi drama or fantasy battle between the forces of good and evil etc. and so on. Self-publishing allows you to indulge in all the clichés that mainstream publishers would reject out of hand. Just be aware that your target market might do the same! 

Success here could be that despite all the science-fiction that's been written in the last 200 years, you come up with something unique that grabs the imagination of the public and nets you sales in the millions. Or maybe you'll just win an award of some sort. Clear space on the mantelpiece now.

But success could also simply be the extremely practical result that your publishing and promotional costs have been covered by sales, to the point where the book doesn't owe you anything. Any subsequent sales are a bonus, (maybe enabling you to create an audio book version!).

This, as a matter of interest, is the situation I find myself in; I sold all 500 copies of my self-published travel book Against The Current (a modest but practical number to print) and although now out of print, the eBook version is still selling, plus I've made enough from sales to not only cover the costs of publishing but also to fund the audio book version (which so far has sold around 200 copies and is still going). I call that success, even though I'm still waiting for someone to buy the film rights off me.

Sold out, sorry...

So success in self-publishing is what you make it, and not just about rave reviews, getting on a best-seller list, or striking a movie deal.

If you've been thinking of using lockdown to finally turn that book idea into reality, go for it. But decide upfront what your success is going to look like. That way you won't be disappointed.

Now, get on that keyboard!