I have a problem. A serious problem. My brain is currently inundated with stories. So much so that I’m struggling to focus on what I should be doing. Adjusting to the edits on Book 2 before a final readthrough.

Did I say it was a serious problem? It is for a writer.

At the same time, I recognise that it is a nice problem to have. More than anything, I love the threat of a blank page. The crunchy feeling of stepping into a first draft like storming through autumn leaves. I can sweep out a draft like nobody’s business. It’s in the editing and the fine-tuning that I struggle to focus.
In time, I hope to have someone to handle that. I can just drop the ideas in and someone else can have the fun job of highlighting the grammatical and historical errors.

I’ve actually had a touch of that this time around. A trusted source is a fantastic editor so I’ve had her read through Book 2 and give me clear feedback on what is needed. It’s been a very useful exercise. As she had read the first version of the book, it’s nice to hear that the story has progressed, that I’ve dug into the relationship at the centre of the story. It’s gratifying and saves me hours of fumbling. Long may it continue.

Back to what I want to do though.
I have an idea to bring the protagonists from Book 1 and Book 2 together on a brand new adventure. There’s another historical fiction novel to write about a magician. I have written and recorded an entire album for a book about a fictional indie band. Then there’s the fun subject of the manosphere to dig into. I’d like to pull apart what it sells itself as being versus what it actually is. They’re a group of cowards and charlatans but it’s a morbidly fascinating topic and one that feels important to talk about.

For now, I’ll allow my mind to drift as I read through the comprehensive and brilliant notes on Book 2. It’s getting there. By September, I’ll be free to go into the next thing. Just need a little Focusin before I get there.

This week, I was in Amsterdam. If the tax man asks, it was for research purposes.
In case you can’t read as far as my surname, I have Dutch heritage. There’s some German and some Ashkenazi Jew in there too but I’ve always felt connected to Holland.

My paternal grandfather was born there. He met my (English) grandmother when she was working as an au pair after WWII. They lived on a house boat in Amsterdam, had my uncle and then moved to Billericay, Essex when expecting my father.

I’m currently working on a novel set in Amsterdam in 1940. See tax man, research! As such, I wanted to visit the house where my great grandparents lived.
A distant Dutch cousin had shared a lot of family history with me that I would not otherwise have known about.
By the time I could take an active interest in my family, there were no first-party accounts. I don’t want to get too deep into it here but maybe that is why I write on the subjects I do. Family, war, history, faith – they’re reoccuring themes for a reason.
My dad and uncle remember visiting Amsterdam when they were young. It was boring to them as kids, everyone spoke Dutch. They even came up with their own bastardised version of the language that they spoke to one another. In fact, they still speak it – Happy Herkleklerk.

On a sunny Wednesday morn (which I didn’t know Amsterdam was capable of having visited in the winter months when I was a kid), I walked from the Hotel V to Jacob van Lennepkade, the registered address for my great grandparents, Hendrikus Lucas and Antonetta Wilhelmina Schiernecker. Strong names!

I’d looked it up online but standing in front of that building, with a slim frontage to avoid building regulation fees, I was desperate for connection. I wanted to knock, to see who lived there.
To explain who I was and why I was there.

Before that thought claimed me completely, I took a moment. Whatever is behind that door isn’t what once was.
It was enough to see it, to stand there, to think of what life would have looked like for Henk (as he was known) and Antonetta when they got married over one hundred years ago.
Once that had flowed through me, like practiced square breathing, I was on my way.

These ghosts might not have time for me, but I’ve got time for them.

I am very proud to announce that pre-orders of my debut novel, The Forger of Auschwitz, are now available from HarperCollins, Foyles, Waterstones and from Amazon. You better believe I’ve had a good cry this morning.

This also represents the first time that most of you will have seen the cover, designed by Claire Ward (The Book Thief, Brick Lane, The Girl On The Train). I won’t be posting it here because you’ll see it when you click through to pre-order.

This week, I’ve also had headshots done for the promotion and filled in a press questionnaire. Everything’s coming up Milhouse!

This week, I finished edits on what I am hoping will be my second book, A Neighbour In Amsterdam. I don’t want to say too much about i. I will say is that this is a full rewrite. The characters remain but the timescale and the story have completely switched up.
As annoyed about this discovery as I am, rewriting the entire thing has really enhanced my understanding of the message, the characters, the tone and the themes. It feels different to The Forger of Auschwitz but at the same time, nods to the same time period and, if you know TFOA, hides Easter eggs.

While I really enjoyed writing it, Paul Schiernecker hates editing. The relentless slog of holding yourself accountable for your actions is unsurprisingly not something I signed up for.
There’s a wry wink and a nod there, that applies to my life as well as my writing.

The next steps for A Neighbour In Amsterdam are two-fold. Firstly, I’m going to Amsterdam. The first time I’ve been allowed back in since my father’s ill-fated stag do in 2018.
Secondly, the manuscript is off to a good friend to edit before it makes its way to my agent. If you read this James, I hope you enjoy it. So much of the changes are the result of your support.

While Paul Schiernecker hates editing, there was a moment this week where I could not stop myself from opening a crisp, fresh Google doc and typing a new title and my name on a cover sheet. Then, I set the font to Times New Roman, the font size to twelve, the line spacing to 1.5.
I started writing. Something new. Something completely different from the SCU (Schiernecker Cinematic Universe) in TFOA and ANIA.
I don’t know if anything will come of it. Feels a bit like it’s a “one for them, one for me” situation but it exists in a space between American Psycho, Yesteryear and Adolescence. Make of that what you will.

This morning I finished reviewing the outstanding 353 comments in the Kindle version of The Forger of Auschwitz and sent them back to my editor at HarperCollins.

I mentioned last week that the final stage of edits is to put the book on my Kindle and read the whole thing out loud to check for the flow of sentences. It amazes me how much I miss in previous edits by doing this. I’m sure there would be other things I found if I were to read it through again but I gave myself a deadline and I’m standing by it.

I was also really excited to read this morning the news about the films rights of Paul Warner’s A Spy In The Blood selling. As another Watson Little debut author, it’s really exciting to see. Hopefully an opportunity that I can echo next yar.

It feels like I’m entering a room that I’ve been knocking at the door of for the longest time.

When I announced the news to my writer’s group, they asked what I was going to do to celebrate. I’ve told them the truth, I’m going straight into the next book. I’m not stopping any time soon.

Given the changes that have been made to my manuscript, including the name, and with the knowledge that I could be asked to read from it, I’m currently reading the whole thing out loud. I’ve downloaded it to my Kindle so it feels different to reading it on my laptop screen.
This is the E-Reader stage.

Last night, I went to my bi-monthly writer’s group meet-up. By that, I mean we meet up twice a month not every other month. It does me good to get out of the house, to be around other writers, and to reflect on what I have been working on.

I had every intention of reading the latest version of Chapter One. As it turned out, even with half the group absent, we filled two hours with others readings and general updates. I think people wanted to hear more about my time at the HarperCollins office.

The positive to take from the months of edits I have done while working out what my personal life looks like now is how the story looks on the page after all this work. I have never committed myself to one project for so long. Weirdly, that includes romantic relationships. It has been gruelling in the best way. I’ve been forced to confront how I write, what I do and how that works. There have been times when I thought we would never get here but it’s now very fucking real and very fucking cool.

When this is done, I will not sit. I will not relent. I will continue to grind.
Because as much as I love this story and cannot wait to share it with the world, I am ready for edits on the next one. Then, when I send that off, I’ll work out what comes next. It’s an insane approach but I refuse to switch it off.

I’m in the weeds right now. Attempting to elaborate and define, explore and detail. In all the places where I thought I had given enough, there’s a little more to tweak, exchange, enhance. It can feel like I’m overegging it, but that’s how I like my eggs in the morning, in abundance.

This week I got to meet with my editor. This is the kind of thing that I’ve been dreaming of. Not just since my book was picked up but since I first picked apart the sequence of events needed to get something published. I won’t go into details but it was a really positive experience and before I asked if I could pocket some books, they told me I was welcome to take anything that took my fancy.

I have come to accept that I am not for everyone. My writing might not be for everyone. To have found myself with an agent who believes in me and supports me and to now be working with an editor who really gets what it is I’m trying to do, it’s genuinely the stuff of dreams. I have to remind myself that just a few years ago, this was the kind of lofty hopes that I had. Now I’m actually here.
I guess we have to think about my audience and how I find them or they find me. If you’re seeing this, hi. You’re my audience. I really appreciate you.

It’s less than a year until my debut comes out. There’s obviously a lot to do on it still but I’m excited. That and the follow up are heading in the right direction. I’m being given everything that I need and the expectations on me are helping shape it all.

I am in a position where I am excited by my life, by my work, by my people. What more could I ask for?

I’ve spent the last few weeks deep in edits on The Novel. For all the developments that have been made to it, working with a proofreader ahead of the Italian publication and now an incredible editor at HC, there is still a way to go.

I guess I assumed I was a writer who was exempt from other people having views on what they were doing. It’s good to be humbled sometimes, for someone to prove you wrong. It’s going to be so much richer for the experience. If everything goes well, so will I, lol.
This novel is now so loaded with heart that I don’t know if I’ll ever duplicate how this one feels. And believe me, I’m really trying.

For all the line edits that were needed, there are also a number of delicious asides that highlight what does currently work and how we can lean into that. Gripping onto them like Rose and Jack clinging to a door of the Titanic.

I’ve also, in the last two weeks, seen potential cover designs. It will come as no surprise to those of you who know me that I immediately burst into tears. Somehow, despite all the conversations up until this point for my book to become real, seeing a cover by a highly accomplished and wonderful designer absolutely tore me up. Very excited to finalise and be in a position to share.

For now, I remain in the shadows, like Batman.

This week, I started to see the book come back together after being pulled apart. The flow of the story is there. The justification for movements of characters. The foolish spelling and grammar mistakes eradicated. I’m so grateful to those who have got me here.

It’s all happening.

I’ve felt a bit listless this week.
Struggling to focus. Lacking attention in things that I usually find pretty engaging. Lost in the doom scroll rather than sitting with big feelings.

The fact of the matter is that I always turn this stuff inwards. Make a habit of punishing myself, not being kind. The way I can talk about myself in terms I wouldn’t ever express to anyone I cared about.

I overthink and I analyse. I can be brutal in my treatment of Paul Schiernecker. It also doesn’t help that something has triggered what I’m pretty sure is undiagnosed OCD.

That’s why, this morning, I dragged myself up to the gym. Forcing myself through exercise in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s to make myself feel better but actually to punish and feel much, much worse.

Recognising that on the way home, I turned down the music and had a word with myself. It felt strong. I would compare it to Shia LeBeouf’s Just Do It but it’s hard to make any kind of comparison when the guy is going through his own shit right now.
It was a moment to recognise that I have to turn inwards with kindness, look after those fundamentals and wait it out.

Things feel pretty shit, but they won’t always.

Once we had wrapped on this year’s improvathon, I was grateful to get out of Southend and to explore somewhere else. To touch grass, as the modern parlance goes.

Surprisingly, this little utopia took the form of some farmland outside of Ongar where we had a cabin, an outside bath and a view that was unrivalled.

For five days (ruining the title of this blog but I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to reference a Bloc Party album), I had my phone on Do Not Disturb mode. This meant that for the week, my screentime was halved.

During those five days, I sat on our little veranda, writing, earning an enviable sunburn on my bald head and drinking copious Dr Peppers.
I have a fantasy of going on a writer’s retreat, you know, like a proper one where it is organised and you have all your meals catered and have to journal and earn your stripes. I wonder if this was a better fit for me.

We cooked jacket potatoes on an open fire each night, had long baths watching the sun set and then curling up in bed to watch an ever improving list of films.

It’s no secret that I carry a lot. I burden myself. It’s a lot to be in my skin, in my brain. To relent, to relax, to give in. No agenda. No destination. That’s unusual for me. Fuck, it felt so good.