Friday, October 21, 2011

I Have Writer's Block, Cramp, Elbow, Knee, Finger and a cactus called Rooney.

I was trawling through some online interviews with self-published authors, obviously none as famous as myself, but authors nonetheless, and a very good point I picked up on, with many of them, was that they wrote their first book as they thought it should be written. In other words following the mainstream advice, like sheep. You know the sort of thing, the macho hero, the love interest, the unlikable villain etc etc. And guess what? They bombed. When you write like this you are just another book on the shelf (didn’t Pink Floyd write a song about that?) The difference is that you are still an unknown and your work is nestled among famous and successful authors, which will sell a thousand times more than your own.

The wiser of the aforementioned indie authors soon realised that they should have been writing from the heart, not the textbook, and that’s when they started to sell and get themselves noticed. Now, I will never be a sheep, I prefer to think of myself as the deranged rabid wolf in the pack, the Anti Author. My next book may stay at the bottom of the Amazon Top Million for eternity, but at least I can stand up proudly and say that I wrote my own story. I didn’t pinch ingredients from several best-selling authors and make a plagiaristic omelette. (I’m only covering my arse here in case The United Kingdom Of Islam fails miserably :) but you get my point.

FBK1 and 2 were recommended on a recent Kindle forum as books “which grab you by the throat and won’t let go,” which I thought was nice. Bedtime reading at its finest.

I now have 29,000 readers worldwide.
FBK1 – 23,656 (Free + Paid)
FBK2 – 5,000 (21% follow through on sales from Part 1 in UK and 60% in US.)
The Sunday Club – 270
And this has only really happened in the last six weeks. FBK2 sales are ranging between 80 on a bad day up to 130. Some reviewers are still complaining about having to pay for the second part but after almost 5,000 sales there have only been 9 returns so they can’t be that upset about it.

I spent the last three days, rereading the three books I have on Kindle and still found a couple of typos, nothing serious but annoying for the reader, so these have been rectified. The problem with paying for an editor is that you’re not guaranteed to sell enough books to cover their costs, so until I have that luxury I will just have to get on with it by myself with the assistance of my blind mate, Quasi.

UKI is now up to 50,000 words, I hope to have it finished within a week or so, proofread and then online. My technique will be to publish it quietly, there will be no fanfare on the forums whatsoever. I want it to sell just like the Sunday Club so that the readers think they have discovered it themselves.

I hope to have FBK3 out before Xmas, but I am in two minds whether to wait until the glut of promotions and Xmas specials are over in case it gets lost amongst all of the forum “bumping”. Let’s see how I get on. I have the plot worked out in full, but you know me, it could turn into a vampire love story set in Pompeii during the alien occupation.

Stay tuned gang.
Best regards


“The flag of Islam will fly over Downing Street, and Queen Elizabeth will wear the burka,” Abu Waleed, Radical Preacher, London 2008.

2039 A.D.

It was in the year of our Lord, 2020 that they began to build the walls. The Welsh government were the first to act. The quarries couldn’t produce the stone they needed quickly enough, so they began to tear down schools, houses and even churches. A pardon was granted to each and every prisoner held within the land, on the condition that they assist in the construction. Not one of them absconded. They dared not.

Scotland quickly followed suit, but they built much higher than the Welsh, destroying bridges and roads leading into the country as they went. They were the best prepared of anyone. As soon as they heard the news they went into military lockdown. No one could come in and no one could leave. They had fought long and hard for their independence and they were determined to keep it.

Their army had sealed the border within an hour, their battleships and submarines put to sea and the air force scrambled. Some people say that they had been warned; some say they just saw it coming.

Ireland, for the first time in twenty years, reunited. The governing bodies on both sides of the border held an emergency meeting and agreed to turn their missiles away from each other and towards the British mainland instead. Catholics and Protestants stood together, with enough firepower to eradicate every living creature on the land mass formally known as Great Britain.

I have been told that it was terrifying and totally unexpected. The government agencies thought they were so clever monitoring their emails and chat rooms while all the time they were organising it by post. Sending letters like they did in the olden times. I’d heard my father talking about that.

The first thing anyone knew about the uprising was when the cargo planes hit London. Father had told me stories about something similar happening in New York when he was a child, but he compared those planes to mosquitoes. He said they were small and filled with blood; the London planes were filled with explosives. Sometimes, when I was smaller, Father would show me pictures of the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, somewhere called St. Paul’s and the other places that were lost. I remember those pictures well; I had never seen buildings like that in real life, but there again I had grown up in the Northern Territory.
I vividly remember Father’s stories of the war. There must have been thousands upon thousands of them in the army, navy and police, train drivers, airport workers and hauliers. Father told me that’s how they got their hands on the tanks, ships and planes. I can’t believe no one saw it coming, the mass slaughter of their colleagues. He told me it happened at exactly midday on September 11th, 2020.  That was when Britain went to war. That was the day when the Radical Islamists took over our skies, seas and roads.

            The French aircraft carrier, “Charles De Gaulle III” which they dispatched to help us, was sunk in the English Channel, reportedly torpedoed. The hijacked radio stations and television networks played a recording, over and over again, announcing that London was now under Sharia Law and that the Radical Islamic Party had formed the country’s new government in the absence of any other, or a reigning monarch.

People fled like rats. They say that every last boat left the island that day, ferries, yachts and even canoes. We don’t know how many were lost at sea trying to make it to Europe or Ireland.

            As the troops marched through the streets, Father said it became obvious that they had been planning this for years. The soldiers and police officers marched as one, their British uniforms burned; dressed all in black now. Their faces Asian, white, black, young, old, male and female. Their uniforms bore the same emblem as the warplanes, which flew low overhead and the tanks parked on almost every street corner. The letters RIP surrounded by five stars, white on black, Father once told me that it looked a little like a flag some European Union had once used, but they were long gone now. Maybe they could have helped us?

            They used helicopter gunships to take over the prisons; the most serious offenders: the murderers, rapists and paedophiles were executed in their cells, the bodies burned in the exercise yard. The remainder were ordered to leave the city and head north. Their own prisoners were rewarded, their sentences exchanged for titles.

Ahmed Al Adel – 45 years for inciting racial hatred, possession of explosives and conspiracy to commit mass murder – Secretary of State for Defence.
Ramadan Ali Munawar – Life imprisonment for the 2012 bombing of the Olympic Stadium, killing 21,857 – Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Abdul Bin Shallah – 7 life sentences for the British Freedom Party annual conference bombing, 2018 – Home Secretary.

The prison cells didn’t remain empty for long. Whomever the planes didn’t kill that day were quickly rounded up like stray dogs: politicians, councillors, right-wing extremists, journalists and even members of the clergy. No court, no trial. Political prisoners they called them. Father said that it was the Jihadist Death Squads who came for them, the Black Hawks. Balaclava-clad men and women. “The Motorcyclists of the Apocalypse”, he had called them; he said they were the most frightening beings he had ever seen. They carried machine guns and swords, riding three abreast always in groups of twelve and followed by the “meat wagon,” a large black security van equipped with a fireman’s hose on the roof to wash the blood from the streets when they were done. They sounded like something from one of those ancient 2D war movies.

It didn’t take long for the ethnic cleansing to begin. The head of RIP, Mohammed Kazik, had assured people that they were free to remain in their homes but were now under Sharia law and must abide by it if they chose to continue living in London. Should they decide to leave, they would be given free passage to the North. Little did the wretched souls know, but their passage north would not be so free.

They travelled south, in their hundreds and thousands, to join the revolution, arriving on hijacked trains, in buses, packed to bursting point and in the back of trucks. They were bloodthirsty. Their time had eventually come. The convoys of vehicles poured towards the capital, like an army of giant ants, flags waving, horns blasting, driving on both sides of the roads and motorways.  The infidels had no chance. Men, women and children of all ages and nationalities. Christians, peace-loving Muslims and atheists, it didn’t matter to them. They were all the enemy now. The RIP government denied genocide and there was no one left to question them.

The simultaneous uprisings in Bradford, Birmingham and Leeds had drawn the new boundaries. The north-south divide had eventually become a grim reality and a deadly one at that.

My name is Emily Piper, I am the leader of the Northern Resistance Force and this is my story.

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