How Good A Writer Am I?

It’s a question every writer or would-be writer asks themselves, unless they are supremely confident in their abilities, in which case the answer is probably ‘not as good as you think you are’.

It’s a question that has been weighing heavily on my mind recently, for the reason that I am now well into the process of editing my first (completed) novel, which means that the day is coming when it will have to be sent out into the wild, to be read by the general public.

What reaction will it get? Will it get any at all? People who have read my work have sometimes been enthusiastic about it, but against that these have tended to be people who actually know me, and are therefore likely to be disposed to be kind.

Excerpts from the novel (and some other stories) have been posted up for some months on the Inkitt site, where they have garnered very little attention; just over a hundred reads, only one review, and no comments at all. I don’t know if this is just because not many people read things on Inkitt, or because my work isn’t suitable for the audience there or … because it’s isn’t very good.

If anybody wants to read some of them and express an opinion I would be very grateful, but you’d better hurry: the novel is in preparation, and the excerpts therefrom will fairly soon be taken down from public view.

Meanwhile the question of how good a writer I am remains moot. I daresay that I will find out one way or another. I’m not expecting Aiella to be a runaway best-seller or a word-of-mouth sensation. If some people like it, I am willing to call that a success. We’ll see.

Farewell My Oofy

It is not, perhaps, widely known that both P G Wodehouse and Raymond Chandler attended Dulwich College. They were not contemporaries, and never wrote together, but imagine if they had …

Farewell my Oofy          by P G Chandler

It was one of those days you get in London towards the end of February, when the fog rolls in from the Thames and the crack houses are hidden by even more noxious vapours than usual. It was cold; so cold that even the cheap streetwalkers were wearing woollen tights. I sat in my office huddled up in my greatcoat, wishing I had enough dough to pay the gas bill. Business was slow; after I’d fingered Sir Gregory Parsloe for the pig theft at Blandings I’d been hoping for more jobs from the aristocracy, but so far nothing had come through. Lord Emsworth had handed me a generous cheque, but it was pretty much all spent, and if a good job didn’t come through soon so was I.

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