Why I chose to launch my next book on Kickstarter
Picture this then — it’s April 19, 2018. A year earlier, I signed my first book deal. The dream of a lifetime. Years and years of misguided prose had seemingly been validated. Goddamnit an entire degree had paid off. And I was becoming that one thing I had always wanted to be...
A published author.
Our publishers were a lifestyle-focused Hodder and Stoughton imprint, called Yellow Kite Books. My book traced a childhood spent in the rural outback of Northern England, close to the Lake District. It was a travelogue of sorts (titled Swim Wild) about several world-first swimming expeditions I shared with my two older brothers - to our niche community we were known as the ‘Wild Swimming Brothers’. We had formed a strong family brand and accrued over 18K followers on Instagram. And off the back of that brand, we’d signed a book deal on a story I’d written about our adventures together.
Now, we were in mid-April. I was standing there in the lower levels of a busy London Waterstones. I had the Swim Wild hardback clutched in both hands, freshly ripped from a shelf of names I had no business being included in. Yet my own name beamed back at me. For a second, it seemed like a closed chapter. The kid who’d wanted to be a writer, putting stock in little else besides that, could finally rest easy.
In hindsight, I realised this wasn’t the end of my story at all. It wasn’t the start either. I was dangling somewhere below a hurried, heady first paragraph. And the next line followed in block capitals and launched a pretty jarring inquiry back at me - ‘So, what about this Book Two, then?’
They always tell you to fear the follow-up. The inquests rush in more quickly than you might imagine. Pretty soon you have loved ones asking you about your next effort. What will you write? What kind of a writer are you, anyway? Does a bad review disqualify you from a second attempt? And for almost two years I wrestled these thoughts and stuttered. The swimming expeditions dried up. Covid laughed heartily at the futility of our travel plans. Several doors in the publishing industry seemed to creak gently as they closed.
Finally, I opted to change my approach entirely. This time I would give them my best effort in fiction. If we couldn’t reach far-flung swim spots - to find real-life family adventures that warranted the ink and time - I would run wild in my own head instead. There I had always been at home. I had shaped dystopian stories to evaluate my own sense of belonging in a troubled world. And what’s more, there was even a starting narrative I could dust off and go back to. Something I had once called: Panopticon. A project I began back at uni’ in Newcastle - a 650 page clusterfuck that somehow stuck with me and outlasted the obscurity of a decade.
For whatever reason, I knew in my bones that this was Book Two.
Man, I chopped and rewrote that story so thoroughly I swear no single line, nor name, has survived intact. In the end, all that was salvaged from Panopticon were a few central themes and characters - the most well-preserved being an android who floats strapped to the low-orbit Argus Station. This android then dangles over Earth like a mechanical Christ. He is forced to spend his powerspan as an architect of global security and the enforced surveyor of a warful species, rooted to a dying planet.
When it was finished, Book Two - now titled: The Machine - did the rounds among publishers and agents (mostly London-based, with a few others in California and New York). Of course, I faced that common pressure of sharing my newborn with the world. It’s never an easy moment by any means. Actually, it feels more like you’re hunched in some shoddy rocket of your own design, blasting up towards the ether, awaiting either the breach of stormy clouds, or the equally likely explosion of scattered wingnuts, debris and heart tissue.
This time, my rocket had let out a series of guttural coughs and splutters before it breached our atmosphere. Out of 150 emails: I had been sent 33 rejections, a couple of shared partnership offers in which production/marketing fees are split, and a good amount of silent dismissals.
They say don’t give up until you hit 100 rejections - well, I was ready to go it alone. I knew in my heart that The Machine is a book I am deeply proud of. Over those 10 years it had seen it take many incarnations. I’d worked harder on it than any other project I’ve attempted before. So, if I couldn’t blast it out the ether the convential way (apparently, by rocket), I was going to use whatever other vehicle I could find. And no amount of crushing g-force would suffice to send me back to Earth in flames.
With that, I turned to trusty ol’ Kickstarter. I lined up a list of limited rewards, including digital artwork, as well as paperback, hardback and eBook copies of The Machine. I established distribution channels through Lulu Press and arranged to have each reward shipped out after the 60 day funding period was up in late October.
The pledges available on Kickstarter launch day (August 25, 2021) were:
£3 // Shoutout + First Chapter (Audio)
£5 // eBook + Digital Artwork
£15 // Get the book — Paperback!
£20 // Get the book — Hardback!
£30 // Signed Hardbacks
£35 // Hardback + Limited Edition Portrait
£60 // Book Two Character, Portrait + Hardback
£100 // Special Mention in Acknowledgements
3 days after the Kickstarter launched, we were 100% funded!
I was totally blown away by the support. And I want to close this off by saying a massive thank you to all of my awesome backers so far. We’re still accepting pledges until the 60 days are up on Kickstarter, but right now this wild dystopian adventure is a reality thanks to each of you. We built a rocket and together we rammed it right up into the depths of the unsmiling abyss.
At the time of writing this, I’ve just had proofs delivered for the paperback. Once those are finalised I will look over the hardback and ensure every scratch and mark is intentional.
Watch this space for plenty more dystopian updates and exclusive material. Or, if you ever feel like ditching your craft, please remember what the Irish writer Samuel Beckett famously said -
“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”
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