Category Archives: Publishing

A FAN AND YOUNG PUBLISHER BRINGS OUT SCREAM OF THE WHITE BEAR

Well, people have enquired many times here, and it has taken eight or more years, but a fan here, supporter, young author himself and online US publisher, Jonathan Thurston, will publish SCREAM OF THE WHITE BEAR by David Clement-Davies, in 2018. Actually it is to be entitled CRY OF THE WHITE BEAR, in the spirit of a new adventure, and leaving behind the really terrible battle that was fought over it and other principals of art, law, truth and decency, with the major New York publisher Harry N. Abrams.  Which, because so much is about money over principle in the world today, has sky-rocketed to success with Young Adult books like A Diary Of A Wimpy Kind, that has sold over 180 Million copies.  The real story of its delay is probably as powerful as the book, but although David is sceptical about so much about the Internet world, or indeed how you really publish without the powers that be, or how much people are truly reading and connecting now, it is entirely appropriate that a young man of talent and passion like Jonathan tries to bring it to the world, with a quiet apology from the author for having disappointed his fans and readers for too long.

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THANKS TO YOU FIRE BRINGER IS BACK IN PRINT VERSION

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Thanks to the Crowd Funding team who have made Dragon In The Post possible too, which comes on apace, filled with strange mythical animals and the wild adventures of Garth Madfall, the classic fantasy Fire Bringer is now available for Christmas, in hard copy print once more, as well as in eBook format from Phoenix Ark Press. You can get a copy directly by CLICKING HERE. It is also available via Amazon US and in Germany, Italy and France.

But for the Dragon In The Post team who backed the project and David’s work at £25 or more, before the perk price was lowered during the campaign, there will of course also be a free copy of Fire Bringer winging its way to you soon. Thank you all again.

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WRITERS START TO FIGHT BACK WITH A BIT OF LITERARY FIRE?

Front CoverPart of the little victory of crowd funding the novel Dragon In The Post this year was also bringing a classic like Fire Bringer back into print availability. Here then is the new cover and back page. I have very serious reservations about Amazon’s Createspace though. Firstly the very carefully designed mechanisms to charge you more for each new ‘package’ and the lack of coordination from design teams too, having to communicate all the time through message centres, meaning errors easily creep in. Far more importantly, unlike any old fashioned publisher, Amazon take no financial risks whatsoever. Meaning that they charge you to publish your book, also taking large percentages if it succeeds, but involving no risk whatsoever if it disappears. They also set the minimum price, which I think should be challenged by monopoly commissions, not least because of Amazon so gloating, when I first contacted them, about putting bookshops like Borders into Chapter 11 bankruptcy. With the dawn of eBooks and the Internet the face of ‘publishing’ changed dramatically and of course if you can build and control the platforms, the mediums of publishing, you also control the methods, the prices and to an extent what is said and produced. To be fair to Amazon they did respond to my complaints and improved their ‘service’ but on the whole it seems to me the emperor’s new clothes of modern ‘democratic publishing’, which means as long as we are giving the execs our money, the cats get fatter and how much do they really care what’s out there? We will see what their distribution is now like but whatever happens it’s a proud moment to have a book that was taken out of print in the UK by Macmillan after 12 successful years available once again, to people now and to future generations too. In that sense all books can always be ‘in print’. Thanks again to friends and readers then who made it all happen, because that’s the dedication in the front of the book too! The paperback of Fire Bringer will be on sale in a few weeks, all ready for Christmas.

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WRESTLING DRAGONS ON CORFU AND QUESTIONING THE FISH!

photo (2) Hello, I haven’t run away with the cash, nor spent it celebrating the new United harmony of the British peoples, convinced the Welsh and the real Celts were always the warmest and the best, but flown off to live cheap on Corfu and write Dragon In The Post! Fire Bringer is coming too, thanks to you, although I have a lot to say about the packaged awfulness of Amazon and Createspace, while I’m pondering whether to try and Crowd Fund Light of The White Bear too, giving Phoenix Ark the USP (Unique Selling Point – eeeew) of being the only little publisher to be truly grass roots and completely Crowd Funded. Along with the tag line “The author they couldn’t kill!” I know it might strike terror in the hearts and wallets of backers, not to mention my own, but it would also make a grass roots publishing tale entirely real. Would it work though and how painful would it be?

But is the question now, never go back? I say it because after a lovely few days, following 15 solid days of rain out here and now sharp, Greek sun across that sparking blue, things are not as they seemed or were. The charming waiter on the little island of Vidos, opposite Corfu town, has vanished, to be replaced by a sullen old timer slamming down ashtrays, while I found the beautiful groved restaurant overlooking the sea, at Aloniki Bay, where we had a lovely home cooked lunch when I first arrived too years ago. Yet only to be jipped a vast 14 Euros on the tiny, oily, boggle-eyed fish. Ah me, all is change and sometimes too fast. It seems embarrassing and petty to complain when everyone is going through it, and the nice owner made some amends when he said ‘come back and eat free next time – if you don’t have the fish!” yet it troubled the perfection of this magic isle. But the place is beautiful and rich as ever, Prospero’s Isle, work is being done and the answer is, ever forward, with stories and real life too.

The picture is DCD’s, of the fishy grove and a writer’s lunch table, where at least some postcards have been written!

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DRAGON IN THE POST TRIUMPHS – WE DID IT! 100% FUNDED

Fire_Cutter_-_Dragon_in_the_PostHUZZAH! THE DRAGON IS 100% CROWD FUNDED BUT CAN WE KEEP GOING, WITH 18 HOURS LEFT, CREATE A MODEL FOR FUTURE BOOKS IN THE POST AND ALSO HELP THE RNIB, AFTER MY 100 MILE WALK DOWN THAT GLORIOUS SOUTH DOWNS WAY?

Thank you all, you’re brilliant! We’ve done it, or we’ve achieved that first major goal. DRAGON IN THE POST will happen and FIRE BRINGER will turn to print availability in the UK too. Where the editors so close to home could not protect classic books, or key principles surrounding the writer’s craft, you could. Now can we set sights on that wider ambition for a whole little publisher too though, other books and projects, and the exploration of crowd funding too, by a last big push and word spreading, in these 18 critical hours?

Of course the entire project, which those who have backed are a key part of, will also stay up as a record at Indiegogo, and new links will be put up before it ends. So it can also become a platform for pre-ordering and other perks this year. The story and adventure continue!

You can still “Join the story, become part of the adventure” right now of course by going straight to BUY YOUR SIGNED COPY OF DRAGON IN THE POST AT INDIEGOGO.COM

There is one other thing that would be really wonderful though and that is telling friends about my walking the South Downs Way, now 41% funded for the RNIB, and trying to raise some more money for the blind by pressing JustGiving - Sponsor me now!

Thank you all so much again. Yippee!

David Clement-Davies

The painting is Yasmin Foster’s FireCutter done especially for Dragon In The Post during the campaign. Art work and films are up on the platform.

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THE ACHIEVEMENT OF DRAGON IN THE POST, ELTON JOHN AND THE FAITH OF READERS NOW!

Fire_Cutter_-_Dragon_in_the_Post12_001Do you know how frustrating it is being so close to a goal, small as it is at 4.5k, but 89% funded with under 40 hours to go, yet so many of the people who visit these pages not caring or doing anything. This has been a long fight, sometimes too much about a battle with mainstream publishing, than the life act of writing and storytelling itself. Seeing though, in the noise of the internet which is effecting us all, such little concern for the proper payment of a craft or protection of contracted authors. I’m referring to America but also a promotional campaign during the last crowd funding effort, that asked for support of future books, as it gave out free eBooks. Which saw no support at all, yet something like 8000 eBooks downloaded. What’s the point of saying it’s not good enough? Actually it’s tragic.

That aside, I haven’t complained this time at the pain and impotence of trying to push through, as you watch a clock tick down. Instead I’ve tried to share, encourage, find a way and tell a real life story in blogs. A team of elves have supported and kept pushing, and we really have gone amazingly far, considering how hard it is, to a wonderful £3900 and 73 backers! Is that really going to fail in the last few hours though, or are you going to support something that is quite unique? If it is just a commercial equation there are very good perks up at Indiegogo; the chance of a unique signed copy of Dragon In The Post, a copy of Clare Bell’s Ratha’s Creature, many others and the sense if we could prove this model we could do many other things. In once sense it is upside down, because it’s the story that matters. Yet this has happened because of the breaches of faith in New York and London, such a terrible battle, so filled with hypocrisy, then being swallowed like so many now by the Emperor’s New Clothes of the Internet. So this involves some leap of faith by readers that, with your belief, I can again write a wonderful story, a bit like Elton John saying he could turn anything to music. I need that energy, even if you only like the gem of an eggbox and the dragon idea or believe individual stories and writers should be applauded. Perhaps we all need to see art can be crowd funded to open spirits and make it happen some more.

So with hours to go now, flap some dragon wings please, find some fire in the belly, the passion that make authors risk the life of writing and talk a leap of faith by BACKING DRAGON IN THE POST TOO

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THE SOUTH DOWNS WAY’S HAPPY END, CROWD CAPITALISM AND A DRAGON HAS UNDER 65 HOURS TO GO!

horse (5)This photo of the chalk horse is for Steph, DCD walked as hard as Les Miserables for Kelly, he went with gentle irony for Justin, he spread his wings for Yasmin, he watched kites for Sol, he told stories for Jonathan, he quoted Stevenson for Di, he kept talking and trying for Sheila and he applauded the Ice Bucket challenge for Laura, all of whom have kept standing up for him, when others didn’t. You’ve really made the Street Team and those needed thanks to others too is yet to come.

You can make a difference now too to Dragon In The Post, in these racy last hours, by BACKING DRAGON IN THE POST AND PHOENIX ARK PRESS

You can help the blind by taking the £50 Perk or just sponsor a completed 100 mile walk for the RNIB by pressing JustGiving - Sponsor me now!

DAY SIX

Hooray! It’s a really glorious feeling crossing those great white hunchbacks that edge the bleached blue sea at Eastbourne, those rightly named Seven Sisters, that end at the steadily eroding Burling Gap, to stop at last on Beachy Head and look back on another brilliantly clear blue day. It seemed as if I could really see back across all those hundred miles traversed and straight to Winchester, in the West, once a capital town of ancient Wessex and the Treasury of England. Now I should study the maps, fill out the blogs (with so much missed), put up three little films I made to Facebook and The Indiegogo Gallery too and leave some kind of useful or perhaps inspiring record for anyone wanting to walk the South Downs Way themselves. I think I’ll try to ‘publish it’ and keep on trying to raise money for the Royal National Institute for the Blind. Meanwhile, on the way I came up with a new term for what crowd funding might be about, in the future and an age of such impossible capital differentials. Not America’s hated socialism, not just a shop front window on the internet for the same as ever, but some new idea for a way forward where money is an inevitable part of the scenery but where some new spirit and awareness needs to develop alongside- Crowd Capitalism. What do you think?

But I did it, pack on back, hazel staff in hand, trying to have a go with Dragon In The Post too and I’m chuffed. I blogged it all as I went, even if few were reading, which you can read now by scrolling down or clicking on the page above – “The Winchester Chronicles”. Of course the lack of a ticker-tape parade at the end, or any thronging, cheering supporters, dressed in Dragon costumes, (I call it the James and The Giant Peach Syndrome) can lead to a little deflation. Or perhaps it’s a lack of contributions from folk I encountered on the walk, for a book or charity, who I told my story to. Or that’s mostly coming back into the dizzy, preoccupied world, that really started after winding out from Dean’s Place hotel, after a super-powered, fuller-than-English breakfast, meaning I ate everything. Along the little river Cuckmere, passed that mysterious chalk horse no one knows the name of, through aptly named Litlington and down to the estuary where the Seven Sisters National Park begins and the green fields suddenly exploded with bank holiday trippers, chasing dogs, children, kayakers and of course the cars and buses rattling noisesomely between Eastbourne and Brighton – nyawwwwwgn!

You start to dissolve back into the unremittingly ordinary, dare I say humdrum, the doplar shift of time and life and death. Which every traveller knows the sigh of on their return, like that Stevenson inscription on the Toby Stone on Stanes ‘Street’ – “home is the sailor home from the sea and the hunter home from the hill”. Yet especially from real walkers, there’s a knowing smile or greeting if you are carrying a pack and walking stick and look a little foot sore and many “well done’s” from folk I told, with a real glint of admiration in their eyes. No time for laughing, trendy Japanese tourists then finding the sight of windswept me very griggly – which means a bit of raughing at a weary sigh. “I’m not weary,” I cried indignantly “I just came 100 bloody miles!” No time for the irritating scruff of the traveller at Eastbourne Station either, as I asked about the absurdly long Sunday service, (over three hours, with two changes, although partly because I refused to go back more expensively to London to get to Winchester) and who quipped “Walk it the mate, will only take a week.” “I’m not your mate, mate, and I just did, in six days.” But that put me back in the world too, as did the genteel Eastbourne ticket lady objecting to my cussing. “Oh please, I wasn’t bloody swearing at you and don’t be so bloody provincial.” Still, it was good to stop half an hour in Brighton, since I’ve never been and to touch the still fizzy, saucy picture postcard, Quadrophenia feel of the merry place.

But people’s approval at coming a 100 milles reminded me of that wunderlust back in Tich, something very deep in the blood, from friends who suddenly wished they were coming too, or were out there having their own adventure, an instinct as old and primitive as being free, or wanting to conquer the world. Before you do such a thing, a kind of imagined map in the head develops of possibilities, dangers, ‘anything could happens‘, needed kit or warning notes, but the best is gaining the experience and knowledge of it all and sharing it too. Which is why I was annoyed with myself for moments of un-self-reliance, when I stopped thinking and looking and asked others instead. It seemed to lead to two big mistakes. First the day before yesterday when I went storming off too far south towards the sea, after a cracking and perhaps over confident morning. It had brought me back up to Black Cap, then to the sharp turn south ,above Ashcombe Bottom, to the campsite and weird blue-tied security guards sitting reading The Sun in their unmarked car, outside Housedean Farm. Were they spotting for drugs, protecting the Telscombe’s judge’s family out for a night’s wild camping or trying to cheer up the lonely looking fellow humping his solitary tent back to Brighton. The truth is you can sense a lot of loneliness in people too in their travels and wrestles with the wild. I saw my first seagulls tipping down that hill, and several often sullen looking young camping groups, as well as a pure white cow, not quite as noble as Shadowfax or the deer in Fire Bringer. That farm lies on the thundering A27, where I took a photo of the South Downs Way sign for Facebook, backed by the nasty motorway, then crossed the bridge. So up and out again onto the escarpment, blustery now with a more threatening breath of the sea, and massing clouds, un-wondering whether or not there was any ominous meaning in cows half standing up, half lying down. It’s sitting back in doors in the remorselsy damp of Winchester’s chilly, pre-autumn drizzle that I realise how incredibly lucky I was last week with the weather, and how miserable those downs could very quickly become, caught in a storm, or blown into over emotional shapes on the way, like the trees on the down-tops sculpted into wave forms by the wind. That’s how they grow and how we grow sometimes too, since all exists in its element.

So out passed Loose Bottom, down Jugg’s Road, by Slump Bottom, with posh Lewes to the East, reminding me of the nice bloke in the George and Dragon that lovely sunny lunchtime in Houghton and thoughts of Black Tie picnics at Glyndebourne too, to Swanborough Hill by Home and Long Bottom. That made me think of a children’s series years back about War Time refugee kids in long grey shorts meeting a Mrs Gotobed, in a place called Granny’s Bottom – so coming up with the laughing cry “Go to bed, in Granny’s bottom!” Tee hee. That made me ponder my flatmate Norm’s puns back home though and hurry on to Beachy head. I am almost sure now it was at Swanborough Hill I must have missed the sign and tipped off too far south, after some guy on his Mobile Ap said Southease was 2.8 miles away, but all down hill from here. The truth is I was really trying to tell him about Dragon In the Post, but I took the wrong Down, down the wrong hill! That extended bit of the Way was repaired by Roger and Hazel though, elder walkers as tough as ferrets, who marched me back passed the young stud horses, through the charming village of Telscombe, where that important security guarded judge lives, according to Roger, though centred for big cases in Lewes, and where there is also a neglected Youth Hostel. They kindly pointed out the road again at the motor cross circuit on the hill. Looking at the map now it is 2 miles, so my total detour must have been six. Yet any irritation I’d got it wrong so close to the end, or that long metalled roads just hurt more, was eased by eating wild apples o, and the fact that the sun seemed to blaze again and the weather clear as soon as I got back on The South Downs Way. It felt like magic. It snaked me towards the River Ouse in the valley and so to really charming Southease, with its little railway line beyond, worthy of the Watercress Line back in Arlesford. It wasn’t the newness of the hostel there that appealed, although it was built last year, but the pleasant farm barn style and its busy energy; the original way it’s done too, for adults and children. Like the giant Connect Four set in the garden or the interesting information about nearby Ramdeen, haunt of Virginia Wolf and that Bloomsbury Set we are clearly failing (though not entirely) to re-start back home in Tichborne. So, after the sweet girl in the cafe extended her hours to make me a delicious toasted ham and cheese banquette, with a bottle of larger, irritating her grumpy, plump table wiping colleague and my continued struggles with my draining mobile phone, trying to contact a friend, at 5pm came the momentous decision whether to stay here, or march on over the top for the six and a half miles to Alfriston.

I’m glad I did, if it was quite a hike, because the girl’s remark that “I wouldn’t get the satisfaction” if I cheated a little with a cab was absolutely right. Besides, I wouldn’t have met a young man in a Macmillan Cancer t-shirt who had just run 48 Miles in a day from Woking, training for real charity raising, nor a sweet girl with her black mongrel about to walk up Beddingham Hill. Either youth, hope or memory stepped in there, because she was quite wrong that it was only twenty minutes over Firle Beacon to Alfriston – the long evening journey down Bostal Hill took a good forty minutes. But so to private recitations of Gray’s Elegy In A Country Churchyard about drowsing tinklings lulling the too-distant, bloody folds, among the fish eyed sheep, a warm, golden evening, that stealthy fox and the growing shadows of over Alfriston, long before the sun set on the hill, nestled as it is into the darkling folds of the valley. It is an odd place, surrounded with wealthy modern homes, several with Solar Panelled rooves, pompously named driveways and sleek, rich cars, but with a very old centre. So it was a delight to pass The George Inn and see a sign saying its beer licence had been granted back in 1597. That year Shakespeare bought New Place in Stratford, six months after his 11 year old son Hamnet’s death, his brother Edmund was just seventeen, and in the beery, bear-baiting, brothelly reaches of semi-outlaw Southwark, the Rose theatre was still working hard by Winchester Palace in London. While the Swan theatre in Paris Gardens was closed for the summer for staging that lewd and seditious Ben Jonson Play “The Isle of Dogges“. Shakespeare’s troupe had triumphed North of the river in Shoreditch though, their new patron Lord Carey had been enrolled in The Order of the Garter, to become Lord Chamberlain too and for which Will probably wrote The Merry Wives of Windsor, set with Falstaff at the Garter Inn. Two years later The Globe would go up in 1599, after the troupe dismantled the wood from The Theatre and took it south of the river. If the bod at Deans Place is right about the super rich Record Producer’s raves in his mansion nearby though, or the steamy inter marital goings on in the finest hotels, then England is as thankfully as lewd as ever, to be gently reprimanded by Shakespeare’s pricking Fairies. In Shakespeare lust is not the crime, betrayal is.

So to that astonishing purple-blue misty morning yesterday, on walking day six – allowing time out to return to Southampton, and the last push. Not exactly a push, because from Alfriston it all seems to hurry towards you instead and sweep you back into the tide – that was the river, this is the sea. The second irritation at asking the way though was the irritating nasal bloke who stopped with his mates and went on and on and on about what you might see or miss, as the South Downs Way seemed to split into many little tracks here, like its own estuary, then who came out with clunking guide-book phrases like “very historic Alfriston“, or the vital importance of the Long Man of Wilmington too. Which you can only do if you take the eastern track around the Seven Sisters Reserve. The choice of seeing that is balanced against that un-named chalk horse though and the beauty of meandering along the Cuckmere instead at the valley bottom. I confess to a mile’s cheat too by hopping a lift with a Swedish redhead, but even in times of yore they wanted an adventure and I like testing the hitch hiker spirit. So to the sea and up, up, onto those roller-coastal Downs again. As you look along of course, at the Dove- white edges and back along the snaking Down tops to Winchester too, with true pride, you again remember that’s what the Downs you have just crossed are – billions of years of steadily accreting crushed sea shells, chalk, eroded and sculpted by wave and then wind, and given a thin and so very recent layer of earth and grass, farm and housing, forms and passing meanings. Who can remember it all? All being eroded too, as everything is really moving and changing, like the houses at Burling Gap, below the little light House where they shot The Lives and Loves of a She Devil, that are year by year falling into the sea. No wonder the South Downs Way is so clearly marked with wooden signs, to give even more poignancy to those mournful wooden crosses and flowers memorialising sadder endings at Beachy Head, saying CLIFF EDGE. But there, it’s done and it was great.

David Clement-Davies set out on Monday last and reached the absurdly busy Beachy Head Pub on Sunday August 24th, 2014, around 4pm.

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DCD HUMS AND DRUMS ABOUT HIS HAMPSHIRE CHRONICLES!

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Dear reader,

Perhaps I’ve been a bit remiss lately, since I blogged about a walk into Winchester, or that fun visit to Jane Austen’s house, where the care taker had read my novels. Remiss in not writing more about my wildest adventures living in ravishing Hampshire, while trying to crowd fund a story too at Indiegogo, Dragon In The Post. Which have included some highly colourful and vaguely drunken beer festivals, although I of course abstain, a caste of sometimes enchanting or very eccentric characters, the most astonishing electric storm I’ve seen in years, with lighting rippling through the leaden Hampshire skies like veins in a Norse God’s angry biceps, or a brief taste of the ancient Winchester Hat festival, haunt of largely disenfranchised artists and musicians.

Picaresque joys that henceforth will be retitled “My Hampshire Chronicles. Not least because of a little spat today with the esteemed members of the Fourth Estate, journalists on that very local paper, that reached up to the editor himself! The reason for my own chagrin, or sheer disappointment and frustration, was that after having been interviewed and photographed for The Hampshire Chronicle near three weeks back and hoping a piece might give us a shot at some real hearing, a hope shared by backers too, I was ticked off for my impertinence in even ringing to enquire, and on a hectic news day too, if the article might come out tomorrow. Only to be told again that it wasn’t and that ‘I was doing my cause no good’. What cause, I cry, if fairly mainstream media does not even listen, which is the very paradox or point of the project too? A not-so-impertinent call then, made with some reason, I still insist, since a piece had been written, time spent, hopes raised and if I hadn’t extended a deadline recently the whole thing would have come to an end this Saturday anyway, un-regarded, at least in literate Hampshire circles. I had also appealed just rather honestly, I hope, to fellow wordsmith’s obvious love of reading and writing, yet underlining that, like journalists, crowd funding authors have deadlines as well. Perhaps they did not know, though I certainly told them. Then I transgressed most mightily though when I followed my putting-of-the-phone-down with cross emailed thoughts on the grave matter, which produced a very curt editorial response from the man at the top – Leave our journalists alone!

Evidently the real transgression though was to suggest, from clearly worthless common report, I add, that this attempt to break back through into wider publishing, or at least say something frank about the difficulties for modern writers of platforms and publishing, agents and things, these mass-phenomena days, or to share news of a skilful novel itself, might actually be as interesting to real readers on some human level as other articles in the paper that were perhaps a little ‘humdrum‘. A swift dismissal at my rabid persecution of his poor journalists, nonetheless, effectively telling me to take a hike worthy of walking The South Downs Way, and then “Furthermore, I take issue with your claim of the ‘humdrum fair’ published in the Hampshire Chronicle. It’s puzzling, then, that the paper has twice been short listed for weekly newspaper of the year in the past eight months!” He should read Dr Johnson’s letter to the Earl of Chesterfield! I’m afraid I have not done due journalistic diligence, being only an ordinary member of the reading and writing public, in inquiring if the worthy organ had actually won – once or twice.

Fair play though, forget the weary exposure of this long-fighting author, wrestling with something so difficult and sometimes demoralising too as trying to speak through Social Media, indeed something often so highly anti-social as Facebook, in my opinion. Which in such hugely wealthy country circles as Hampshire seems immediately associated with a kind of begging too, as my local publican remarked, or only worthy of pennies tossed into a hat, fair or foul, down Winchester High Street. (Not a monstrous £25 for a real, signed, First edition, or other ‘perk’ levels too.) My efforts to explain that writing a novel is not the same as busking, romantic as it is, largely fell on puzzled, cloth cap ears, down the pub. But then remember the enormous strain on belaboured working journalists too, as the chimes of ancient Winchester Cathedral ring out their nightly Angelus, hurrying us all towards every future’s inevitable deadline. Faintly heard echoes down there in the hectic Hampshire news rooms, thrumming to the constant tap of ticker-tape and coping with the daily hurricane of emotional threats and demands in trying to solve the Gaza Crisis, exposing nests of nasty foreign terrorists, challenging the appalling Capital gaps at Davos, which crowd funding might one day help to remodel a little, or dealing with the ever running issue of the local art bypass. What place indeed for a little fairy tale about a Dragon delivered to a boy in an eggbox, to take you to a better world?!

I think all I have ever asked is a fair crack of the whip though and did from The Chronicle too, but never annoy a journalist or editor, they’re especially unforgiving, or un-impartial, nor try to do something a little differently. Then I’ve just changed my mind on everything, even aspiring Dragon Warriors – be a lover not a fighter! My final, endlessly witty reposte to this tearing off a Gaza strip though was that “perhaps you would like to publish a letter of complaint to the editor!” Complaining no more works though than gloom, or insisting anyone should ever do anything in life, so smile, laugh, take what media pennies you may with a hum of musical gratitude and march on. As I must start training again for that 100 miles walk to an August finishing line (I hope no dead line), and these pages will just return more humbly, Sir, to enjoying writing itself. If even writing about being largely ignored, or unread, in sunny Hampshire! Ah me. No wonder several promises made have not been stuck to, like posters promised up in Waterstones, or certain meetings unreliably unmet. Then clearly“In Hertford, Hereford or Hampshire Crowd Funding is hardly ever heard of, or happens.” Apologies though to disappointed backers for letting the good song down.

David Clement-Davies – August 2014

You can still help find a constituency and crowd fund a story, that you can read part of on Wattpad and hear on audio too, perhaps support an organic little publisher as well, Phoenix Ark Press, by clicking here AND BACKING DRAGON IN THE POST. The project closes on August 27th. Many thanks. The photo is a still from the animation up at Indiegogo showing an as yet unopened egg box!

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A NEW EXCERPT FROM DRAGON IN THE POST

At 69% funded and over £3,100 DCD publishes another except from Dragon In The Post you can read on WATTPAD or listen to the audios in blogs below.

You can join the adventure and contribute too by going to DRAGON IN THE POST IN INDIEGOGO

PA PRESS

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A MEMORIAL, STEPHANIE JACKSON AND THE DRAGON STREET TEAM

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You know crowd funding feels a bit like fighting the first war, at times, and with Dragon In The Post a little stuck at 69% funded is sometimes like wading through mud, and perhaps just as futile trying to make a key breakthrough! But when you heart is at its lowest there come the Street Team again to inspire and surprise and, for yesterday’s Memorial for the opening of the First War, commemorated so extraordinarily beautifully in a river of poppies outside The Tower of London, 20 year old Stephanie Jackson’s lovely poem:

Upon the bloodied fields of red,
Above the canon roar,
Among the gathered soldier men,
‘Up and over’
Comes the call
‘Those who turn back you shall shoot’
No cowards will survive,
And into no man’s land
They fled
Upon the battle cry.
And now the fields are green again,
Where bodies fell and lay,
Oh so many years ago,
Upon this fateful day.

Stephanie Jackson August 2014

Whether we win or lose this fight I am so proud, so why not come and share your own work too, your ideas, passions, photos and paintings? Most especially we need a great push now and your interest and contributions by SUPPORTING DRAGON IN THE POST HERE

The photos are of the WWI river of poppies flowing around the walls of The Tower of London. The memorial remains there until November 5th.

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