Ever since the 2012 release of my short story A Sincere Warning About The Entity In Your Home, I've made a special Paper Edition available.

I only ever expected to sell the odd one, here and there, but they've ended up selling by the hundreds.

A Sincere Warning... takes the form of a letter written to you, the reader, by the person who lived in your home prior to you moving in.  As a result, the story describes your home in a generic way.  However, the Paper Edition of the story gets very specific.  It's tailored to you, featuring details such as your name, your home address and a few places in your home town.

Funnily enough, this creeps people out rather a lot.  Especially when their friends buy the letter for them, without warning them beforehand.  (To guard against malicious use, I include an italicised line at the very end which explains how the letter was purchased for you by Person X.)

Needless to say, the Paper Edition is also printed on, well, paper. It's an actual paper letter hitting your mat. I don't always have time to create these things, but the run-up to Halloween is traditionally one of the times I make a concerted effort.  So if you'd like an unique ghost story snail-mailed to either you or a friend, you'd better get ordering.  The cut-off point for guaranteed Halloween delivery is October 18, 2015, so get to it and order!  And let me know if you'd like me to write 'DO NOT OPEN TILL HALLOWEEN' on the back-flap...

Here are just a few of the reactions from worldwide recipients of the Paper Edition of A Sincere Warning About The Entity In Your Home...

"I had a scary letter made for my fiancé Ian recently, for his birthday.  It was so personal and creepy.  A brilliant idea" –  Daisy Leverington, Derby

"The letter arrived on Christmas Eve!  Scared the bejeesus out of the wife on the long drive to family" –  Jonathan Crossfield, Sydney, Australia

"Masterfully creepy" – Sam Kurd, Leamington Spa

"Brilliant.  I cheated and read it in daylight and it's still made me uneasy to be at home" – Tiernan Douieb, London

"Thoroughly enjoyed it and the ending was excellent!  Best 'PS' ever" – Bianca, Lamberhurst

"Got a page-and-a-half in and lost the ability to continue.  Am now hiding in the bedroom.  Awesome!" – Lisa Gemino, British Columbia

"Highly original, chilling tale. I made the mistake of reading it alone, after dark, and couldn't sleep afterwards... Thoroughly and terrifyingly enjoyable" - Marjorie Taylor, Wiltshire

"Very creepy, very good story, I just hope I can sleep tonight now" - David M, UK

"Brilliant story - and weaving in a unique local element was the crowning glory" - Martyn Swain, York

"My wife just called me to congratulate me on freaking her out. She was waiting in line at the post office when she opened up the envelope, and she got 4 pages in before flipping through the rest of it to see the note at the end letting her in on the gag. She could tell the woman at the counter was concerned about what she was reading" – Scott Beggs, Homburg, Germany

Order your Paper Edition here!

Any questions?  Contact me here or check out this FAQ page.

Okay, so in Part One of this post, my agent Oli Munson offered his thoughts on determining whether an author is a safe pair of hands, when reading their work.  In this part, I’ll give you my own views.  What makes me shut a book on page two?  What makes me keep my eyeballs glued to the pages, all the way to the end? 

To sum it up: what makes me place my wholehearted confidence in a writer and commit to their book, despite life being short?  And how can we writers inspire that confidence in others?

For me, the number one thing when determining, consciously or otherwise, whether a writer is going to take me all the way (so to speak) is a strong sense of authority. 

Which is a fairly nebulous thing to pin down.  And yet I must. 

We can take as read, the fact that a writer needs to be able to string a sentence together – many thousands of them, in fact – and please you with their descriptive imagery, turns of phrase, ear for dialogue and general all-round linguistic competence.  These things are obviously a big deal, but in themselves they won’t convince us to sign up for the long-haul of a written story.  So let’s set them aside and dig deeper.

A writer’s authority shows in the way they choose to feed you the story, piece by piece.  They feed you each tasty morsel in a way which always leaves you hungry for the next.  This, they achieve by raising questions in your brain as quickly as possible – ideally during the book’s opening line or paragraph.

If you reach the end of the first page with no questions or curiosity in your head, your faith in the writer’s authority wanes.  Sure, they might have gone to great pains to describe the weather, not to mention the amazing landscape above which that weather is taking place, but who cares?  I’m all for a little scene-setting and a little mood, but questions are key.

Yes, the writer may well have devoted considerable effort to vividly describing their lead character waking up in the morning, yawning, brushing their teeth and then going about their normal daily routine.  But then my only question is, “When’s the story going to kick in?”

Here’s a useful exercise: imagine reading the first few pages of your story to a group of story lovers, then asking, “Any questions?”  Would those queries come thick and fast, or would you just see a whole bunch of blank faces, mentally searching for something to ask, apart from, “When will STUFF HAPPEN?”?

Often, a writer will demonstrate their safe hands by throwing you directly into the middle or even the end of the story, right at the start.  It’s dizzying and thrilling, but never confusing in a bad way.  You immediately get the sense of something crucial happening here.  Of depth waiting to be plundered.  As if this whole story already exists, like Stephen King’s On Writing analogy of a huge half-buried fossil, and you’re being flung against a small portion of it like some bamboozled lab rat.  You know there are multiple holes in your understanding and, by Christ, you want them filled.  You also know, by the teasing way the writer feeds you stuff, that they will be filled.  All you have to do is read on.

A writer demonstrates their safe hands by leaving gaps in your knowledge, while slyly conveying that those gaps are supposed to be there.  It’s a complicit nudge-nudge, wink-wink situation, as the writer effectively tells you, “You know how I just casually mentioned Mr Richter’s vast collection of terrible things, along with his unfortunate death?  That’s the first time I’ve mentioned him, but you’ll find out more later, oh yes.  Here, let me sink this big iron hook into your soft grey brain meats and gently tug…”

(Yes, I too now quite want to know more about the late Mr Richter’s vast collection of terrible things.  *Makes note*)

The writer’s authority also manifests itself in their ability to create characters which you believe actually exist.  The writer sheds light on these characters overwhelmingly through their actions.  While one of prose fiction’s unique selling points is being able to spend time squarely inside characters’ heads, we don’t want to loiter in there unduly.  Otherwise, we might find ourselves floating in an infinite expanse of nothingness, while listening to a disembodied voice express thoughts.  So a safe pair of hands introduces people doing things which are motivated by who they are.  These things get the story rolling, dovetailing as invisibly as possible with the grinding machinations of plot.

Right now, I’m reading and loving Claire North’s latest novel Touch (Orbit), which asserts its authority from Page One.  Crediting you with intelligence, it plonks you at the scene of a shooting in a train station, then feeds you the story, piece by tiny piece.  As the narrator tries to distance themselves from a gunman, we’re forced to work out what’s going on, often by trying to decipher things which don’t make immediate sense. 

In the fast-paced pages of Touch which follow, it becomes apparent that this character has a unique power, but this is not laid out for us on a boring old silver platter.  We have to work for that information by reading on.  And read on we do, because we immediately want to know so much more about this character.  How long they’ve had this power, for instance.  How they discovered they had it.  What they’ve been through to get here.  The events which led up to the train station shooting.  Are they an alien?  The questions tumble out and fall over each other, from Page One onwards.  Even if I hadn’t already read Claire’s masterfully mind-boggling debut The Fifteen Lives Of Harry August (Orbit), I would have known I was in very safe hands.

For me, it all boils down to a writer’s choices, in those first pages especially.  Those choices speak volumes about a writer and how much faith you should place in them.

Safe hands will almost nonchalantly handing you pieces of something much larger and utterly compelling.  The author will often talk to you as if assuming you already have the big picture, while slyly and knowingly neglecting to offer more than tantalising glimpses of it.

It’s very much about a narrator striding confidently ahead while you scurry in their wake, desperate to catch up.  Hungrily devouring the pieces of narrative they sporadically toss back over their shoulder.

So how you achieve that, as a writer?  How do you become that safe pair of hands and convince the reader, up front, that everything’s going to be great? 

For starters, you work hard on your big picture, regardless of whether that work takes place mainly up front during endless outlines, or you wing it from the very beginning and up retro-fitting like crazy, rewriting that first chapter over and over to reflect where the story ended up going. 

You examine that big picture of yours, then you think hard about which piece to break off first and hand to the reader. 

You think about what matters.  About what this story really is.  
Then you think about what will constantly motivate the reader to follow in your wake, while you stride confidently on, leaving that trail of appetising story-chunks behind you.

For the next 349 pages (or 89 script pages) you may be the all-powerful god of this world you created, but you’re also a considerate one.  Because you never, ever take the reader’s attention for granted, in this world crammed full with ten billion other things for them to do. 

When describing your world, you focus on salient points, rather than the whole shebang.  Instead of slavishly listing the contents of every room, or a step-by-step account of trivial actions, you hone it down to what matters.

And you never stop raising those questions.  You never stop sinking those hooks into their brain.  Or making those intriguing, oh-so-real characters reveal themselves through action.  Or unveiling the rock-solid architecture of your story, one sexy beam at a time.

Ideally, too, you’ll also create the impression that this story is about something.  Regardless of whether the theme only ever manifests itself almost subliminally, or it’s all up in yo’ face, this book has meaning, dammit.  And that meaning should somehow radiate from your book from the very beginning, like the words which run throughout a stick of Blackpool rock.

All in all, without wanting to stretch that God analogy to breaking point: in order to inspire unshakeable faith, you must leave clear irrefutable evidence of design behind you, as opposed to a whole flabby bunch of meandering chaos.

Sounds like quite a lot of work?

Damn right.

For most of us, it will be a lifetime’s worth.

Now, over to you.  What do you look in an author’s work, to convince you to keep reading?  And/or conversely, what makes you shut their book, vowing never to return?  Let me know in Comments.

See Claire North's Touch at Amazon UK | Amazon US

The new issue of Doctor Who Magazine is a 100-page monster, with countless Daleks on the cover from various eras of the show.  As you'd expect, it's full of exciting stuff to read, including my first piece of writing for the magazine since my two-part interview with the director Rachel Talalay earlier this year. 

As the Doctor Who Magazine page of my site testifies, I love writing for this magazine, which leads right back to my childhood.  I just don't get as much time as I might like to put my old journalist hat back on, due to writing novels and the like.  Recently, though, I've found time to get involved, interviewing a few of the writers for the imminent Doctor Who Series Nine. 

One of these writers has been poor Toby Whithouse, whose Brighton home I recently invaded in order to quiz him for literally three hours.  The first fruits of that epic conversation are in this issue, in the form of a preview of Toby's first ever Who two-parter, Under The Lake/Before The Flood, which is a great and ghostly tale.  Next month's DWM will feature my full interview with Toby, which I wanted to make as comprehensive as possible.

I've known Toby for a while now.  Back in about 2008, when his show Being Human was green-lit for BBC3 production, I ran a fairly extensive three-part interview on my old blog, which can still be read there.

Hey - brand new Doctor Who starts this Saturday on BBC1, 7.40pm!  Oh, it's a good life.

So.  I had this idea for a post about how, as a writer, to come across as a safe pair of hands.  How to communicate, as quickly and clearly as possible, the following message to your reader, like a subliminal mantra intoned from beneath the actual text: "Don't worry, it's going to be all right.  You can trust me to tell you this story. You're going to love it, you lucky lucky reader, you."

It's easier said than done.  I know I often close a book forever, as early as page two, because I haven't been filled with the confidence I need, in order to dedicate myself to ingesting a marathon tale.  These hands just don't feel safe and I want out.   

When planning this post, I remembered discussing this very topic with my agent Oli Munson when we first met in November 2013, before he represented me.  Of the Safe Pair Of Hands feeling, he said, "That's the difference between the writers I represent and the writers I don't represent".  So I dropped him a line the other day and asked for a quote on his thoughts on what constitutes A Safe Pair Of Hands.  What does he look for in a submission?

Not being a man to do things by halves, Oli sent me back more than just one quote.  He wrote a whole piece and wrote it so well, sharing so much of his outlook as an agent and a reader, that I don't want to chop it up.  So I'll run it in its entirety now, then return at a later date in a second post to add my own thoughts, from a writer's perspective.  Take it away, Oli...

"One of the reasons I love being an agent is because, quite frankly, I can represent whoever and whatever I choose. I don’t have to do anything by committee: that’s unfortunately the modern-day editor’s lot in life.  If I think I can sell a book I’m passionate about, I’ll give it a go.  All I have to lose is time and reputation whereas of course publishers have more immediate financial concerns to worry about.
 
"Firstly, I’d say it’s a real accomplishment for anyone to start and finish a novel.  It requires dedication, perseverance and most of all a real passion for the art.  You can’t start out doing it for money.  Writers write because they have to let the stories out. That’s fundamental.  And then we get to the tricky bit.  Will people want to read what I’ve written?  Some people may not care at all if anyone reads what they’ve written.  The act of writing is enough in itself.  But if you take the time to approach agents for representation, it’s fair to say you would like to find a readership for your work.
 
"Taste is such a subjective thing.  I would say that I know within the first five pages of receiving a submission whether or not it’s for me.  You can tell rather quickly whether an author can actually write, whether they can craft sentences and draw a reader into a story.  I’d say that’s not subjective.  That’s pretty universal.  The next consideration is whether they writing has me turning the pages.  I operate on the more commercial side so that ability to hook a reader and drag them through 350 pages is crucial.  And that’s a combination of well-paced writing, compelling characters and an intriguing plot.  I’ve turned down books where the actual storytelling aspect falls flat although the writing is of a high standard.  And I’ve turned down books because I’ve just not seen the commercial potential in the story itself.  That’s when the subjectivity really comes into it.  I never begrudge anyone any success and if another agent sees something in those books that I’ve missed, hats off to that author and agent.
 
"Sometimes the whole crap shoot aspect of what works and doesn’t work can drive all of us up the wall but in another sense it’s that random element that keeps it interesting.  So far this year I’ve sold new books by authors writing psychological suspense, historical crime, police procedural, sci-fi and horror.  All wonderful books with one thing in common – I didn’t want to put them down. Hopefully the wider reading public will feel the same."

Oli is at AM Heath Ltd. He is currently open to submissions in Crime, Suspense, Speculative Fiction and Non-Fiction.

And here's How To Be A Safe Pair Of Hands: Part Two, in which I share my own thoughts on what keeps us reading to the very end of a book...

One of the many mistakes made by new writers and indeed some not-so-new writers, is showing their work to people too soon.

That initial urge to share your work ASAP is only natural.  Until other people absorb your stuff into their brains, it exists in a vacuum.  Might as well not exist.  If a script sits on a hard-drive with no-one around to read it, does it make a difference?  No.  Only to you, at this point in time, unless you have an agent or editor badgering you to finish it, or at least waiting for it.

Hand in hand with that drive to show people, comes the feeling that whatever you write in that vast, gaping, intimidatingly blank Word or Final Draft file will be read.  Sometimes, that feeling can bring about a terrible paralysis.  You're standing on the brink of a huge vortex of possibility.  Worst of all, there's the sense that This Is It.  No more talking: it's time to do.  Time to prove yourself to the world.  Again.

Me, I love the first draft.  I love that open road, beckoning you to burn rubber along it.  Most of all, though, I love the fact that no-one will ever read this shit.

This is because the first draft you hand to Important People should never be the actual first draft.  Crucially, it should be the first draft you've decided to show them.  Personal first-draft, public first-draft.  Very different beasts.

With that in mind, I like to call my first salvo Draft Zero.  For one thing, it sounds cool.  Zero-anything is cool besides, off the top of my head, Size Zero.  Zero tolerance, Patient Zero, the Zero Room, Zero Mostel, allowing absolutely Zero to stop you finishing this script or novel.

For another thing, the concept of Draft Zero helps cement the idea in your head that this draft is your own personal sandpit.  Sure, you're taking it seriously and making every effort to construct a strong skeletal structure to which you'll eventually graft muscle, organs and finally beautifully flawless skin, Hellraiser-style.  But at the same time, you have absolute carte blanche to fuck it up.  You can't win unless you're not afraid to lose.  Forget all external pressure and fuel yourself with internal pressure: the burning desire to write this story before you die of anticip-p-p-pation. 

Launch yourself into that sandpit and write like the seven winds.  Momentum is everything.  Never look back.  Pretend you're being chased by a shark which devours words (an image which reminds me to strongly recommend Steven Hall's extraordinarily vivid and imaginative novel The Raw Shark Texts).  Some writers continually stop, survey what they've written, then go back to fix it.  If that method works for you, great, but I can't do that.  Momentum, momentum, momentum.  When I realise I've messed up, or that things will need to be fixed later, I make Running Notes, then just keep writing.

When you reach the end of that fun, breathless marathon, what you have is Draft Zero.  And it's yours.  All yours.  A template for future greatness.

You'll go back to rewrite it again and again, restructuring, ironing out the many flaws, de-clunking that often laughable dialogue, shifting or destroying wonky plot-points, starting to introduce or strengthen those lurking themes.  And at the end of that process, that's when you emerge triumphant from your steaming, churning brain-factory with The Actual First Draft.

Draft Zero is your own personal, very private first-born.  Enjoy the vacuum in which it resides.  In space, no-one can hear you scream that it hasn't turned out quite how you expected.

My novel The Last Days Of Jack Sparks is currently half price in the UK Kindle store, at a mere £1.99 for a limited time! My novelette Auto Rewind is also new to Kindle this week