Chapter One

Jon Lymon toyed with an extra long hair in his eyebrow, one of the joys of being the wrong side of forty. He was troubled by the question he’d just been asked. ‘Tell us about yourself.’ What was there to tell? What order to tell it in? What did his audience need to know right now? What kind of information did he need to keep from them in order to maintain interest and suspense for as long as possible?

He figured it was OK to tell them he was from south London in England. And that he had two young daughters. He figured revealing that he’d written three novels was none too controversial either. That was why he was here, right, to tell people about his books, so maybe, just maybe, one or maybe even three of them clicked download on Amazon.

So yeah, three books, all thrillers, the last two a little more horrifying than the first.

Being British, he was a little reluctant to namecheck the books here. Seemed a bit salesy, a bit too in your face for him, surely.

The Diamond Rush. Last Night At The Stairways. The Wronged.

He clearly wasn’t as British as he thought.

Now Lymon began to worry that his answer to the question was getting a bit too long. He’d lose his audience. He had to do something, and fast. Before it was too late.

Two

Lymon’s latest book, The Wronged, was a horror thriller that he’d originally written as a screenplay in the early Noughties. The screenplay had picked up some positive reviews, but he knew there were faults with it. He fixed those faults and repackaged it as a novel.

A lot of the new stuff in it was inspired by him being a father and how that was changing him as a person, but how he knew he couldn’t let those changes take over his life. He had to retain some of the free will, the passion and the danger that had been in his life up until then. But what if someone totally changed and completely denied the person they were for the sake of their child. Surely, there’d be a backlash. Surely, the animal inside would want to get out…

Three

Lymon thought about skipping this chapter. There was nothing strange about how he wrote. It usually happened at night on a Mac laptop that wasn’t his. Sometimes he wore sunglasses to deflect a little of the screen glare away from a retina he damaged way back when playing football. Worried that this chapter might be a little dull, he ended it sooner rather than la

Four

Catch 22. Catch 22. Catch 22. Lymon always struggled to understand people who didn’t regard this as the best novel ever written. So utterly brilliant in every way, Lymon wished he could scoop just 1% of Heller’s talent and dollop it in his own work. He felt honour-bound to mention Martin Amis here too, as London Fields had made a big impact on him, and he admired novelists who were prepared to get out there and say, ‘Yes, I can write, I can weave a turn of phrase or a magical sentence, why shouldn’t I show off to the world?’ Lymon couldn’t understand authors who subscribed to the ethos ‘if it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.’ Lymon was a writer who expected his writing to sound like writing. Because that's what it is. Writing.

Five

Lymon wondered whether to mention the two children’s books he’d recently written under a different name, but decided against it. There was another novel on the horizon, the planning for which he’d already done. All that was left to do was write it. It was another thriller with an outlandish twist. But that was all Lymon was prepared to say about it. Other than the working title was A Dead Chick And Some Nasty Tricks, which he kinda liked even though it was kinda sexist.

Six

Twitter had proved a fairly effective medium for Lymon to spread the word about his work. He’d tried advertising on GoodReads and Google with limited success. He knew he had to play a waiting game until his budgets were big enough to ‘go large’.

Seven

Lymon had been expecting this question and was prepared with an answer that detailed how important it was to not expect to get it right first time. To write rubbish if necessary as that rubbish could be sifted through to find gems.

He also thought it worth mentioning that he always thought you had to be a little deluded to think you could become a successful author. With so many people out there trying to do the same thing, and only a certain number of pairs of eyes ready to read, the chances of success were slimmer than a gnat on a crash diet.

Eight

Lymon was getting jaded now and knew he had to keep this short. ‘Writing is rewriting.’

Nine

Lymon knew he had at least another novel in him. And an idea for one after that. But after that? He didn’t know. He wanted to write more short stories, but they kept developing into novels.

Ten

Lymon figured that those who had been paying attention earlier would already know the answer to that.