Legend Press

Advent Calendar - 17th December

Seasons greetings! Today we are offering a free sample of Out of Office by Mark Piggott behind the advent calendar window.

Download Out of Office Sample

Praise for Mark Piggott's writing:

‘A great British voice – pithy and powerful’ Bill Coles

‘Reading Fire Horses is like riding pillion on a motorbike driven by a poet.’ Jonathan Trigell

‘Passionate, powerful, poetic – a fine debut from an original talent.’ John King

‘Piggott’s eye for social detail is acute, and his love for his characters shines through.’ Time Out

Lucy

Out of Office is available to order by clicking here

Author Blog from Mark Piggott

This Eighties revival is getting out of hand...

What could be more relaxing than sitting with the kids in Kentish Town McDonalds as cop vans screech past on their way to the latest riot? Quite a few things I suppose, but I have a guilty secret: I rather enjoy a good riot. So long as no-one nice gets hurt, obviously. That’s the trouble with riots: nice people getting hurt.

I was once at a demo where some bright spark chucked a cider bottle in the general direction of the police: their aim was out and it landed square in a woman’s face. But then, supposing it had been a cop? Or – a nice cop? These are the things that change as you get older: you begin to see shades of grey.

Saw quite a few riots in the Eighties: at Wapping, at football, at carnival. Moved to Tottenham after Broadwater to be closer to the action. Bad move. One of my greatest disappointments was missing the Poll Tax riots: I was in bed with a hangover and, wistful, watched the smoke rising from Trafalgar Square from my window.

Now, I worry: about my kids, about the poor bloody Poles trying to earn a crust in McDonalds, the families whose businesses and homes went up in smoke, and yes, the police. Is this middle age, or middle class, or some debilitating combo of the two?

My book, “Out of Office” (tasteless plug there), is set one hot summer in a London torn apart by race riots. One positive about this real-life story is that generally-speaking, the gangs and races seem united with one thing in mind: a new Plasma TV.

All this rioting better hit Islington soon. There’s an Aga in Gill Wing I’ve had my eye on for simply ages.

Mark Piggott in the Times today

Mark Piggott author of Fire Horses and Out of Office has written an article for the Times today in the T2 section:

“When I was fourteen my father invited me on a round-the-world trip. Never having been further than France I was thrilled, but there was a problem: I was due to start“O” levels and couldn’t go. As I waited for the bus to school each morning, my dad’s exclamatory writing on postcards from Bali and Perth was smudged by hard Yorkshire rain and disconsolate tears...”

Read the rest of Mark's article bemoaning restrictions on removing kids from school, why hes thinks local authorities have it all wrong and the crime against humanity that is Smörgåstårta in the T2 section of today’s "Times".

Visit Mark's blog by clicking here

Lucy

Mark's latest novel Out of Office is available to order by clicking here

Mark Piggott article in the Times today

An article by Mark Piggott, author of Fire Horses and Out of Office has been published in The Times today. Here is a piece from his blog www.markpiggott.com:

“And what do you do..?”

What do I do? Tricky one that, at parties; not that I get invited to parties. My preferred title would be “writer”; but then people usually pull a face.

“A – waiter? A rater?”

The trouble is if I say “author” people think that’s all I do; and when I’m approaching newspaper editors they don’t particularly care that I’ve had novels published – can I write features? If I say “journalist” then I’m usually thrown out of the (non-existent) party, or at least checked for listening devices.

Most of the time I say author and journalist, but sometimes vice versa; after all I’ve only been a published author for three years and writing for the papers for almost twenty-five.

Journalism often a bad press (pun intended) and particularly at the moment; nevertheless when I get a piece published I get a real buzz, almost as great as seeing my books on the shelf (but not quite). When you write about something that you feel is important and it gets published you might not change the world, but hopefully you can help people change their mind, or at least provide them with the information they need to make up their mind.

Coming from Hebden Bridge I’ve long been aware that asbestos is a deadly material; but even I was shocked when I discovered the full extent of the problem of asbestos in Britain’s schools researching my article in today’s “Times”.

As part of my research I went to the Commons, met some truly inspirational campaigners, spoke to unions, teachers, school-keepers, solicitors and medical experts, and met two women with mesothelioma, who I would like to thank for helping me get this piece published and maybe encourage politicians to start taking the issue seriously.

So am I a journalist who writes the odd book, or an author who occasionally writes for the newspapers? I’m a writer. I write. Which involves both rating and waiting.

Maybe I should just learn to speak proper.

Mark

 

Mark Piggott: TFI Friday

What a week. Working on this story, off to Northampton to the university, traipsing round Walthamstow and all on top of a huge family party. Today I filed my story, visited a pet shop (long story) and it being a Friday and me being me decided to pop in a pub I haven’t visited for a while. It’s always had a strange feel, sort of passive-aggressive, but I had a thirst on.

As I entered, five or six huge men (and women) in decorating trousers were watching CCTV footage on a wide screen TV mounted on the wall, muttering in some East European language and occasionally shouting angrily. Seeing me one ran over and to my great relief took my order.

Thinking they were watching some Muscovite version of “Crimewatch” I looked closer at the screen. Wasn’t that the pool room of that very pub? What, I enquired politely, was going on?
The barman scowled.

“She mugger, she in here all time, hurting peoples, stealing their bags. Now we have her on film!”
“Now we know her!” shouted one of his colleagues (everyone except me seemed to work there), “when she come back we hurt her bad, hurt physically! She clean floors rest of her life!”

I sipped on my pint of Stella. Cold. Looks like I’ve found a new local.

Mark Piggott is the author of Fire Horses and Out of Office - click on the titles to purchase.

Visit Mark's website here.

Tom

Author Blog - Mark Piggott

A tough gig...

A London junior school assembly, 9am. Despite my daughter Emma’s strict instructions not to wave, smile or look in her direction, I know that unless I find her in a sea of five hundred little faces I’ll suffer the consequences. As “Akala”, a former pupil who now runs acclaimed artistic group “Hiphop Shakespeare” raps words from the Bard’s plays, frantically and through dirty contact lenses I scan the room: finally I see my progeny hiding her face in embarrassment. Last year the school asked if I’d speak at another assembly, about being a published author. I promised Emma then that I wouldn’t mention the fact I’m her father; unfortunately Mark, the school’s popular and dynamic head, pointed her out as she froze in mortification. (Later she said my speech was “tedious, like soooo boring,” but to my joy one of her friends said I was “awesome”). This time round, to both mine and Emma’s relief, the head doesn’t ask me to speak; as Akala (Kingslee Daley) tests the kids out on whether the lyrics he’s reciting are by Eminem or Shakespeare (I get it wrong) Emma even manages a secret smile in my direction. Maybe this won’t be such a bad day after all? At this moment another parent, who helped organise the “save our library” event at which I spoke on Saturday, enters the packed hall and hands me several copies of my own books, which I’d left on a stall in the forlorn hope that sales might help with the campaign. As I have no bag on me, I’ll have to carry my books around all day in a precarious, humbling tower.

As I line up in the playground with the group of Year 6’s I’ll be attempting to help, their teacher, Ben – who must be twenty years younger and six inches taller than me – makes a special announcement:

“Wonderful news, children. Today, our guest is an actual author who has had a real novel published! Maybe you can ask them how they managed to get their book into print and find out all about being a genuine writer!” Mentally I polish my nails on my jumper. Ben smiles in my direction as he continues.

“I’m pleased to announce that none other than T____ C________ will be joining us very shortly!”

My smile fades. TC is not only far more successful than I am; she was also at Saturday’s “save our library!” event, after which she got a mention on the BBC - whereas I didn’t. She was also in Sunday’s Sunday Times, handing out books on the tube as part of an ongoing (and frankly bewildering) “let’s give books away for free!” campaign.

As we enter the classroom, projected on the large screen at the front is the iconic cover of TC’s book, with its banner heading: “New York Times bestseller”. As the kids sit and wait expectantly to meet a living, breathing author, the head, Mark, enters and wanders over.

Mark: “Thanks for helping out, um... I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
Me: “It’s Mark.”
Mark: “Mark, that’s it. And you’re a.. journalist aren’t you?” A tad grumpily I slap my hand on my the pile of books. “And author.”

Mark looks down; probably he imagines I carry a pile of my own books everywhere I go, to try and justify my existence. He smiles sadly.

“An ‘author’, yes... Ben, could I have a word?”

When Ben comes back, I imagine the head must have filled him in on the fact that TC isn’t the only famous author in town – in fact, there’s one here not just to give a little talk, but to help the kids write. All day. Ben comes over.

“So, Mark, what made you decide you’d like to help the class out today..?”

Through gritted teeth I start to explain to Ben that I’m a published author. Once again I tap my pile of books, which Ben looks down on with an expression of regret.

TC enters in a cloud of good perfume and an air of uninterrupted accomplishment. As I watch morosely from the rear, in her patient American accent TC explains to the children how she’d only expected to sell oh, thirty copies of her book. She seems to be looking directly at me, hiding behind a pile of my own unsold books, when she continues,

“So as you can imagine, it’s a wonderful feeling to have sold over four million copies of this title alone...”

From her bag TC takes out some of the international editions of her book (which is, needless to say, also a major film):

“So here’s the Hebrew edition, look, you start reading at the back! And one of the Polish editions and – oh look, here’s a Korean edition, this is fun...” The children pass round copies of her books as I look up at the ceiling. When she’s finished and is about to leave, I smile at the famous author:

“You spoke at the library event on Saturday. So did I.”

The great author smiles wanly and is gone.

Despite everything it’s a fun day; the kids are bright, funny and have far too much ability for my liking. None seem in need of my advice and I’m reduced to thumbing through copies of my own books and looking out the window, and up at the clock, wishing I could go home: just like being back in school. At one point a kid confesses that his mum read one of my books; his eyes drop, as if to spare me any further misery, and I don’t push him further.

As three thirty finally arrives, Ben asks the children to give me a round of applause:

“Mark has given up his whole day to be here, when he could have been home writing or... watching telly or whatever... so, Mark, do you think you’ll be joining us tomorrow?”

“No,” I snap, perhaps a little too quickly, “I have too much to do.” Which is true. What, miss “Loose Women” two days running? Some of us have lives, you know...

Mark

Mark is the author of Fire Horses and Out of Office

Author blog - Mark Piggott

The walls are closing in. No word from my agent; editors their inscrutable selves; all frustration and one-way emails. My wife’s in the final stages of her dissertation, and though she hasn’t said anything I know she needs an empty house to clear her head. Besides which the scaffolders are all around, building a cage: outside every window (blinds down) as I try to write, effing and cursing as only people hanging off poles know how.

By Wednesday I needed to get out, to take a walk. The only question was where? I’ve explored every tree and every glade between Cuffley and Broxbourne, all the safe paths within walking range of my recovering nan. I love to city-walk but only when it rains, when it damps down the grit that gets between my eyeball and contact lens in such delightful fashion. But there’s been no rain for months, so I decided to take a train.

I could have gone anywhere, but somehow I found myself at Victoria Station. Even then, there were many options available, but as if from habit I bought a day return to Brighton, telling myself on the empty train I would walk on the Downs, to Rottingdean or Hove, along that polite coast. Even went in a stationers in London Road to check out a map. But of course I knew where I was going, the place I was being pulled.

Passing through the gates I walked up a long road lined with tall trees, panting in the unseasonal heat. Unwisely I ignored the tiny office; I’d know the place, I’d find her. Past the chapel where we sang sad songs, up through the gentle trees, across Bear Road into the new section, uphill all the way. All coming back to me now: the funeral, the illness, the scares; and all the rest, the good stuff that means so much more.

At the Eastern edge, the top of the hill, there is a green area where trees are planted instead of stone. Some of the plots have been allowed to slip and slide into disrepair; I staggered round, through deep grass, checking post after post for her name, Ennio Morricone’s music in my head as I ran, faster, faster, in ever-decreasing circles.

I thought I’d know the spot: thought all would be the same and her tree would jump out, branches festooned with musical trinkets. But eleven years have passed, and the trees have all grown tall. Unable to find her I went back down, across Bear Road, through the crumbling tombs, past the busy chapel, down the tree-lined road to the office, where I asked for a map.

The clerk was polite but insistent: no-one buried of that name, not that year. Did I have the right details? Yes, I said, polite but firm: I know the right place, the right year, I placed her in the ground myself. He frowned, perplexed, and went away. The room was so small after the wide spaces; so cool and dark, walls closing in. I checked the leather-bound register: nothing. Finally he came back: I’d got the name wrong, of course, forgotten she was buried with her married name. I laughed: I was there then, too, I said to the clerk. The wedding.

Back up the tree-lined road, past the chapel, another family grieving and smoking, through that shadowy bush, past the bowing angels and family mausoleums (the neat, encapsulating brackets “Born” & “Died”;), over Bear Road where race-drivers never slow for you and aren’t even ashamed, back out to the wide open space where I could breathe.

The map was confusing, but finally I narrowed the “X” down to three small trees, picking the centre one as hers and not really caring if I was right. This tree was tall and strong, bright orange flowers decorated the roots; she’d like it here, I decided: remembered she’d chosen the place herself that final spring.

I didn’t feel sad or guilty that I’d left this visit so long; didn’t feel the need to collapse on the ground, or pour Bacardi into the soil: I spoke a few words to her, of course, as I’m guessing many of us do alone at a grave; spoke of happiness and my wife and children, thought of leaving a photograph, took it from my wallet and screwed it into an empty bottle of water, but then decided that was too corny and melodramatic and so instead I turned and looked out across the sunlit hills and the city to the sea.

Mark

You can visit Mark's blog by clicking here

Author Blog - Mark Piggott

"Ich liebe dich" klingt schön in jeder Sprache

Hope that translates...

Anyway I'm typing this on a German keyboard where the "Y" is down on the bottom row and the "Z" is up top, so apologies in advance for any confusion based upon words such as zany, Yakuza and hazy - I'll try to use them less than usual. Also I usually write my blogs in Word then paste them in but I can't do that here so this blog will be shorter and even less coherent than usual, lacking that spontaneous feel that takes so many painstaking drafts. You even have to press 'shift' to type apostrophes. They really need to work, these Germans.

We arrived late Tuesday evening, and we're really impressed by the city and the people. Bonn is busy, friendly and thoughtfully designed; there are parks aplenty and the Rhine provides a neat focus to everything, with long barges and tourist boats crawling up and downriver, and (with few bridges) car ferries zipping back and forth.

Today we went out on bikes to the park for a picnic: our hosts (whose groaning bookshelf happily, for me at least, includes one of mine) have this cart contraption so we can tow the kids along like excited little gladiators.

When planning a break, Germany in general and Bonn in particular wouldn't necessarily be top of most people's bucket-lists, but that's the joy of house swaps - you end up off the beaten track.

The only complication has been the ferocious heat: like much of Europe, Bonn is being hammered by the sun and so we've had to take things slowly in case the kids get heat stroke or spontaneously combust, spoiling everything.

Like most people I often confuse temperature and climate; though it always seems that greenies are quick to say the two aren't linked when it's cold, they do seem to stress the link when it's "scorchio". However, this week has been so freakish I'm getting worried.

Ever been too hot to read? That's how it feels here sometimes, but when I feel able I'm dipping into a collection of early John Updike non-fiction. Great fun, particularly the reviews; his obvious dislike of Beckett's "How it is" written in Beckettian language, his respect for Sillitoe tempered by Alan's colloquial-seeming (to an American) class stereotypes. But I'm talking about weather, so how about Updike on Antactica, from "Our own Baedeker" in 1956:

"Were (Antarctica) to melt completely... New York City would be under three hundred feet of water. This is not likely to happen in our time."

Fifty years on, and a part of me would relish being three hundred feet under cooling water. The only way to survive this heat is to pour an ice-cold Reisling and watch the children play beneath the sprinkler on this, our eighth wedding anniversary. I'm reminded once again of Beckett, who was at Lord's one summer afternoon, watching a Test match with a friend, an ice-cold glass of wine in his hand.

"Makes you feel glad to be alive, doesn't it?" remarked his friend. Beckett probably shrugged.

"I wouldn't go that far."

Mark

You can read Mark's blog at www.markpiggott.com

Author Blog - Mark Piggott

Ten Thousand Hours: A Novelette

When I start writing, it isn’t always clear if what I’m doing will end up as a short story or novel; I just have this germ of an idea I want to explore, and if I’m lucky it takes on a life of its own. Whereas my first book, “Fire Horses”, was the result of twenty years of drinking, fighting and – um - “socialising” in London, “Out of Office” was based around a simple premise: how long you could work in an office without colleagues noticing you’d gone insane.

“Ten thousand hours”, which has just been published by the brilliant “Prole Books”, was based on Malcolm Gladwell’s idea that it takes around ten thousand hours of practise to become successful at pretty much anything. This weird tale of a man who goes to live in an abandoned town in the Australian bush started as a short story and almost became a novel; in the end, it clocks in at around 8,000 words. This is a problematic length for a piece of fiction.

According to Wikipedia, a “novelette” is “a piece of short prose fiction. The distinction between a novelette and other literary forms, like a novella, is usually based upon word count. The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America Nebula awards for science fiction define the novelette as having a word count of between 7,500 and 17,499, inclusive.”

So it seems ten thousand hours is best classed as a novelette. However, Wikipedia goes onto state that “The terms novelette and novelettish can also be derogatory, suggesting fiction which is "trite, feeble or sentimental". Hopefully, ten thousand hours only fits the first of these definitions.

Originally I planned to make the story exactly ten thousand words long, but that seemed a bit contrived so I went in the other direction, attempting to slice as many extraneous words as possible while retaining meaning. This pared-down style seemed to suit the raw, dangerous landscape of Western Australia where the story is set. Here’s the opening paragraph:

“From the porch Miller squints down the rugged coast toward Karratha and up Port Headland, a 240-km bite into the one/one million map of a blasted nation; the endless sweep of a continent adrift, red sand slices holding back ocean. Behind, thin red tsunamis of outback rock.”

To read the rest of ten thousand hours, plus fiction by Adrienne Silcock, Sue Pace, J. H.Martin, Keith M. Judge, Lara S Williams, James Tobias and Jason Vandaele, and poetry by some fine poets (including Prole’s first “Laureate”, Helen Ramoutsaki), you can purchase issue 4 of Prole here.

Mark

Author Blog: Mark Piggott

At school this scrawny lad called Ben told me that Daffy, the class bully, kept beating him up. I wasn’t sure what to think – I didn’t know either lad that well - but I agreed to have a word with Daffy. Daffy told me to mind me own business so I twatted him. Then it turns out Ben wasn’t telling the whole story. He didn’t even seem pleased I’d twatted Daffy, in fact he said it’d make things worse. Then Daffy said his family were gonna get me later. Wish I'd kept out of it now. Some folk have no gratitude.

The end..? Probably not.

Mark

Mark is the author of 'Fire Horses' and 'Out of Office'. Visit his blog at www.markpiggott.com

Author blog - Mark Piggott

This afternoon I had the privilege of speaking at a protest-cum-celebration at Highgate Library, which Camden Council want to close. As someone who spent a great deal of my childhood in my local library, and uses this one regularly along with my kids (both of whom were in attendance today), I feel strongly that libraries are an integral part of our heritage,our community, and our future.

Last year I spent a great deal of time in Highgate Library, and what struck me was not only that children were able to pick up books, to look at them and browse at their leisure, but that their parents had a place to go, to meet and mix and relax without being pressured to spend money. In this the library is almost unique; along with the post office and the local pub, it is surely far too important to be viewed simply in utilitarian terms of profit and loss. Along with many others I signed a petition today; but do you suppose the government are listening?

Anyway, congratulations to all involved in the campaign for making it such an enjoyable afternoon, and to the many distinguished guests who spoke and read for the audience, including Roger Lloyd-Pack, Tracy Chevalier, Jane Hill, Julian Barnes, Hunter Davies, Danny Scheinmann, Celia Mitchell (reading the poetry of Adrian Mitchell) and local MP Frank Dobson.

Thanks most of all to everyone who went along and offered support, and to the clouds for holding in their sides...

Mark

You can visit Mark's website by clicking here

Author Blog - Mark Piggott

On the Road Again

On Wednesday, went with Legend Press supreme cheese Tom Chalmers to Birmingham, where we’d been invited by author Richard Beard to speak to MA students at the National Academy of Writing, of (or indeed at) which he is the Director.We talked for far too long on subjects including independent publishing, Print on Demand, and why I dropped “Liam” from my name on “Out of Office”.

As is often the case at these events, our audience were terrifyingly well-informed and had a whole load of questions to which we tried to provide some profoundly unsatisfactory answers. Afterwards, as is also frequently the case, we went for a too-quick pint then realised Tom and I had a train to catch.

On the way back to London Tom and I greatly annoyed our neighbours by discussing marketing strategies, the future of publishing and the respective merits of beer and cider, not necessarily in that order. Back in London Tom took a southbound Northern Line train while I headed north. I like to think everyone ends up where they belong...

Mark

www.markpiggott.com

Author Blog - Mark Piggott

Life/art/life and all that malarkey...

In yesterday’s Guardian, a number of public figures, including some I respect (Benjamin Zephemiah, Bob Crow, Jeremy Corbyn) and others I dislike intensely, write to condemn David Cameron’s recent denunciation of“multiculturalism” at a mass rally (sorry – “security conference”;) in Munich.

In my new novel, “Out of Office”, Britain is being run by a Coalition government, an ongoing terrorist campaign threatens to bring chaos to the streets, an EDL-type militant group threaten reprisals against religious organisations and the main character believes he is the object of football pundit Andy Gray’s affections (in his dreams).

Although I wrote the book before much of the above took place, none of this was particularly hard to predict; in any case, the novel also “prophesises” that the Olympic stadium remains a building site and a giant sea monster is discovered beneath the Atlantic.

However, I didn’t write “Out of Office” as a prediction, but because of my confusion and concern about what I see as the appalling state of current political debate. In the book, the (anti) hero, Chris Hook, begins to question beliefs he has long taken for granted, but his real confusion is with the people around him who he sees as apologists for what he sees as reactionary elements in society.

I’m no Chris Hook; for a start, he’s a Londoner and public schoolboy. But like me, Hook feels that deep down, he hasn’t changed; he still believes in equality for all, yet the rules appear to have been rewritten – without anyone telling him.

This was a tricky book to write, but I believe it touches on a number of important aspects of contemporary life. As for whether I got the tricky balance right, I’ll let others be the judge...

Mark

Visit Mark's website at www.markpiggott.com

Chalmers and Piggott on tour - Birmingham, 16th Feb

I am very much looking forward to giving a talk along with Legendary author Mark Piggott at The National Academy of Writing in Birmingham on 16th February.

We will be on at 2.30pm following a Masterclass by course director and author Richard Beard.

Full details can be found here.

Always enjoy events with Mark and I am booked to be at York, Salford and potentially Oxford over the next few months, so may invest in a branded bus.

Tom

Author Blog - Mark Piggott

With Lynda away and nothing to sedate me, I lie here awake. Three, four a.m., just like the bad old days BA (before acceptance). I used to dream I’d had a novel published, then wake up to find it wasn’t true. Now I wake in a cold sweat after dreaming it wasn’t true – life is but a dream. Yet three years and two novels down the line AA (after acceptance), what has really changed?

I still lie awake, listening to the night-noises of the city, to our two cats stomping across the living room floor (our basement flat is inverted, beds below decks). The noisiest cats in London, instincts dulled by lives spent indoors: sometimes one wakes me by hawking up its gift, a hairball, just inside the bedroom door, right where the kids will step on waking, so I get up and wipe, flush and spray... then back to bed, looking up through the grating at the diminishing night.

“Stars are stars”, sang Ian McCulloch, like my wife a proud product of new Kirkby, “and they shine so hard”. One star can shine brighter than a galaxy: my one shining star on Waterstones, a solitary reviewer who for whatever reason did not like my book. “Opinions,” as an old friend says, “are like arseholes: everyone’s got one”. Yet that one star outshines all others, it’s my guiding star, a spotlight from the heavens that nails me to the bed on which I lie dreaming.

Yet I am pleased with my book: with its urgency, its light, its prescience (a crumbling Olympic stadium, failed terrorist attacks, a failing Coalition, a leering Andy Gray – all we need now is a sea monster). At least it reflects the London I know and love; maybe that’s why it won “book of the month” at the same literary website that gave the same title to Cormac McCarthy, Hilary Mantel, Margaret Atwood and Colm Toibin (real writers all).

Naturally it’s disappointing to watch your novel disappear into the lower regions of Amazon; to calculate you’ve earned less from writing fiction in a lifetime than certain footballers earn every day, whether playing, training, lying on a beach or helping the elderly with some soothing foot massage.

Legend’s publisher Tom Chalmers and I good-naturedly disagree on whether newspaper reviews help one’s sales; he believes not. I say, it would be nice to get a review in any paper, even a bad one, especially when they’re filled with the same five novels all year round or yet another biography about the 30’s answer to the Scissor Sisters, the Mitford Sisters.

On Legend’s blog recently, Cassandra Parkin pondered on when it is you are able to call yourself “a writer”. Although I wasn’t able to look other people in the eye at parties until I had my first short story published (since getting published I haven’t been to any), I’ve always felt I am a writer.

Some people think writing might be a suitable and convenient job because you’re your own boss, the hours are flexible, it’s (supposedly) glamorous; these people aren’t writers. Sometime I think if I never publish anything else I’ll give up on the idea, go get a proper job. But I won’t. Instead I’ll keep doing the only thing I can do, want to do, must do.

Some people are born to write; others to post one star ratings at Waterstones. If I am unable to place my third or fourth novel, both now completed, I shall write another, and another, and short stories, memoirs and plays (maybe fewer articles) until the day I drop. Writing isn’t a part of me; it is me, it is, as a character in my latest novel, “emptiness” puts it, my irreducible core. As Ian McCulloch also sang: “never stop...”

Mark

Mark is the author of Fire Horses and Out of Office published by Legend Press.

You can visit Mark's blog at www.markpiggott.com

Mark Piggott in the Sunday Express

  

Mark Piggott author of Fire Horses and Out of Office had an article on homelessness published in yesterday's Sunday Express.

Lucy

 

Mark Piggott lecturing at University of East London

Mark Piggott author of Out of Office and Fire Horses  will be lecturing at the University of East London on Tuesday 7th December.

Lucy

Mark Piggott and Andrew Blackman event tomorrow

Andrew Blackman and Mark Piggott will be appearing at the Idea Store in Whitechapel tomorrow at 7pm.

Mark and Andrew will be joined by author Alex Wheatle.

For further details of the event please click here

Lucy

Mark Piggott article in 3:AM magazine

Mark Piggott, author of Fire Horses and Out of Office has written a brilliant article for 3:AM Magazine. Below is a taster:

As part of an obsession with digitising aspects of my life I’ve been scanning old photos. There’s something rather satisfying about scanning: the whirring sound and flash of lightning, the appearance on your laptop of those images from the past so that they’re easily viewed, accessible whenever you choose. The added bonus being they’re easily hidden, in secret folders in the hinterlands of your hard drive, if (for example) they’re of former lovers, and you’re happily married, and you don’t want too many awkward questions from your kids – “who’s that lady you’re kissing, daddy?”

Most satisfying of all, your photographs seem safe; once pixelated, no longer are these windows on the past vulnerable to fire, fading, photo-eating mites; they become eternal. So when I have writers’ block, or just feel this need to wallow in history, and I’m alone in the house, sometimes I scan, and listen to music from the old days, and become tearful and wonder where it all went right: not so much “if only”; more “what-if?”

Recently I was scanning some pics from a trip I took with two girlfriends round Europe by train in 1988, or rather, one sans hyphen (Jacqui), the other, Debbie, a mere girl-friend. The photos brought back some memories, and confounded some others; but the thing that struck me was how beautiful Debbie was. As I scanned the photos and saw the way Debbie seemed to look at me through the camera, across the years, I began to wonder: what if Debbie loved me and I her? Was I in love with the wrong woman all along?

Oh my god, what have I done?

To read the article in full click here

Lucy

Tony Blair's loss is our gain!

Being opportunists at Legend Press, on hearing news of the cancellation due to protests of Tony Blair's book signing at Waterstone's Piccadilly, it was suggested that we offer to step in and fill the free slot.

This sounded like a good idea to us and who better to put forward for the signing than our own Mark Piggott, author of the fantastic FIRE HORSES and OUT OF OFFICE. As we speak we are now awaiting the call.

In anticipation, for the call would appear inevitable, we set the best poster designer in the poster business, our own Lauren 'Whack it in a Large Font'' Parsons, to work. And, as seen seen to the left, this is clearly a work of art.

Opportunity knocks.

Tom

www.markpiggott.com - all sexed up!

Go and visit the updated website of Mark Piggott, author of FIRE HORSES and OUT OF OFFICE. Looks great and like the pictures from, let's say, 10 years ago!

Yom

Hear the great Mark Piggott!

Great to see the launch of a new audio magazine - 4'33'', well worth checking out – and to see included there a tape of our very own Mark Piggott - author of the frankly brilliant FIRE HORSES and OUT OF OFFICE.

Listen right here.

And then make sure you've ordered the books.

Tom

Out of Office - Bookgroup.info's BOOK OF THE MONTH!

We're very excited to announce that the UK's foremost book group website, Bookgroup.info, has selected the brilliant OUT OF OFFICE by Mark Piggott as their book of the month!

In addition to a fantastic review they are offering a competition with ten free copies available. To view all, just click here.

And here is a sample from the great review:

Mark Liam Piggott is a talented and exciting writer; his novel is original, powerful and fast-moving, and takes his readers, all unprepared, into places they would probably have avoided had they been warned. But from page one it is too late – they are being hurtled along and cannot get off.

Tom

Mark Piggott interviewed for Writing Magazine

Mark Liam Piggott, author of the brilliant Out of Office has been interviewed in this months Writing Magazine. To read the interview in full click here.

My first novel 'Fire Horses' came out in 2008. It's based on something I started almost twenty years ago. I kept going back to it because it had something. My second novel, Out of Office, came out in March. It's about an outwardly respectable office worker who begins to lose his mind, while at the same time a terrorist campaign is taking place across London.

Lucy

Mark Piggott on shopping!

Mark Piggott week on website Outside Left is still continuing and today Mark has been musing about his shopping habits.

1) What was the last electrical appliance you bought?

It was either a toy piano for my daughter that has some happenin’ beats or a mobile phone I am sadly unable to operate. I’d love one of those machines that converts records and tapes to digital but my using one would probably result in a complete collapse of the space-time continuum.

2) How many shoes do you own?

An odd number, but no more than nine – and that counts trainers and steel toe-capped wellies.

To read the interview in full click here.

Lucy

Outside Left promoting Out of Office

Today website www.outsideleft.com are featuring a short story by Mark Piggott author of Out of Office. The story is called Jackie Milburn Said. Below is a taster:

Just after George Best died, he immediately found himself drifting along a long, dark tunnel a lot like Wembley Way. Finally he emerged into a blinding light, and to his astonishment, realised he was at a kind of gate, or rather, a turnstile, where two men were waiting for him: Matt Busby and Bill Shankly.

‘See?’ said Shanks gruffly to Busby, ‘I told you it were more important than life or death.’

Busby gave Shanks a tenner and smiled at George.

‘What kept you? We’ve got the match of the century tonight.’

Too dumbfounded to speak, George regarded the two living – or rather, dead – legends open mouthed. ‘What – where am I? Am I dead? Dreaming? Drunk? What?’

Click here to read the story in full.

Lucy

Out of Office featured in Open Wide Magazine

The fantastic Out of Office by Mark Piggott has been featured in Open Wide Magazine http://www.openwidemagazine.co.uk/ Below is a taster:

At its best, Piggott’s writing conjures evocative portraits of individuals lumbering between political correctness and more culturally ingrained biases. He possesses a way with metaphor and analogy which, when utilised sparingly and with a lightness of touch, rivals Martin Amis. He is expert at offering up succinct definitions of the quite complex web that multiculturalism, changing technologies and generational misunderstandings can weave around us.

To read the review in full by clicking the link below: Download OpenWideReview

Lucy

Out of Office by Mark Piggott out soon!

Out of Office by Mark Piggott is out on 27th March! The novel is a powerful narrative set in London in 2012 at the time of the Olympics. The London described in the book is dirty, claustrophobic and troubled - dealing with issues of race, terrorism and corruption.

Christian Hook’s problems are growing daily. As the build-up intensifies for the 2012 Olympics, London wilts beneath the onslaught of a heatwave, racial tensions and failed terrorist attacks. Hook finds himself seeking escape from abstinence, family and routine in the search for something better, something new.

In ten short days Hook’s life spirals out of control; his only hope is a tip-off from a mysterious and alluring stranger who needs his help. Unable to resist being pulled in deeper, Hook finds himself increasingly immersed in a world of violence, anger and destruction.

Having thrown himself into freefall, Hook soon realises there’s no going back to his safe old life – and he’s not sure he would even if he could.

Lucy

Mark Liam Piggott in the Saturday Times

 Mark Liam Piggott, author of the soon to be released Out of Office had an interesting article published in the Times on Saturday. In the article Mark writes about the tragedies associated with his home town of Hebden bridge and his adolescent life there.

A combination of poverty and good luck took me to Hebden Bridge in 1970. I was 3; my mum, a Londoner barely out of her teens, was moving from one dump to another in inner-city Manchester. Then Dad bought us a house for £300 in a village called Pecket Well, high on the moors above this small, pretty Pennine town. I left in 1985, but almost 40 years later Mum remains – still an “oftcomer”, as locals call outsiders.

Mum and Dad were part of the first wave of outsiders to take advantage of the house prices in this semi-derelict but stunningly situated town. The Hebden of today is often portrayed as an idyllic bohemian town; one of the few towns to have banned plastic bags, the first to open an organic shop, the backdrop for Jamie Oliver in a recent Sainsbury’s Christmas commercial. But in 1970 it was very different: many of the houses were unfit for habitation and factories were closing. One of these was Acre Mill, a factory that manufactured asbestos products; up to 1,000 former employees have died (and are still dying) in what remains one of Britain’s worst industrial disasters. I spent hours with other kids playing on the local tip, nobody realising it was where trucks from Acre Mill dumped asbestos.

To read the article in full click here

Lucy

Mark Liam Piggott in the Times tomorrow

Watch out for Mark Liam Piggott, author of the brilliant Fire Horses and Out of Office (27th March) tomorrow in The Times. Mark has written an article about his home town of Hebden Bridge and the high suicide rate associated by the area.

Out of Office is available to order now:

Pre-order your copy of Out of Office now - £7.99 

Lucy

Legend Press is Out of Office

We are very excited to announce the acquisition of Mark Liam Piggott’s second novel Out of Office, to be released on 27th March. Backed by a major promotional campaign the book is set to be a lead title for Spring 2010.

Based over 10 days Out of Office is a gritty fast-paced novel about a man dissatisfied with life. Set around the time of the 2012 Olympics, the novel sees a chaotic London, with failed terrorism attacks and significant problems in the City, leading to a growing sense of unease.

The central character Christian Hook finds his life spiralling into freefall – abstinence broken, his marriage disintegrating, Christian leaves work in search of something better. Set in a troubled London and living with the anxiety of regular terrorist bomb plots (failed for now), Christian finds himself being drawn into a world of violence, racism and terrorism. As Christian’s life spirals out of control, he cannot help himself being pulled further in to this dangerous underworld, and is not sure he would want to stop even if he could.

Mark Liam Piggott’s first novel Fire Horses was released in 2008 and was described by John King as ‘passionate, powerful, poetic – a fine debut from an original talent.’

Lucy