Jamie Jackson novel

Lancet Fluke said:
How does someone with such poor writing ability have such a prominent job at a national newspaper? Is he sucking off the editor?
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Probably gets regular brown envelope cash drops from the swamp in return for creating largely fictional puff-pieces that are published in the paper he works for and who are obviously happy to employ him whilst he has access to "exclusives" on any swamp-related news, the printing of which generates clicks/sales and ensures that they are popular with the 694 trillion billion rags.
 
The sound of the choir hit large. A hundred voices sang Silent Night larger. The tone. The tenor. It floated from Shoreditch Church nave into the vestibule. It was groovy and yuletide-rich. It was orchestral. It pumped senses and sent the world majestic. It had Santa Claus in town and the ages continuing. It was people rejoicing. It was possibility.

Possibility.
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Sentences. The foundation of written thought. The brass forge in the key to enlightenment. Everybody uses them. But these were better. Shorter. Groovier. More injected with artistry. They flowed valiantly like a handbrake and sent the letters tumbling. It was moving. The planes of language drifted like a summer breeze. The full stops penetrating the mind with literary vision.

Vision. Visonary. Visionistic. Visontastic.

Softly they elude as we prepare for the dramatic.

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Pause.
 
Jamie Paradise has a Masters degree, lived in Ibiza’s San Antonio, India’s Goa, Pakistan’s Hunza Valley, Thailand’s Kao Phanang, and previously in London for nearly 20 years, being born in Camberwell. He has volunteered as a camp counsellor in America mentoring children from Philadelphia’s projects, managed a friend’s band, directed plays at university, wrote full length screen-plays, and generally been lucky enough to enjoy a wonderful life.

Apart from a gorgeous wife and two children, writing fiction is Jamie Paradise’s No1 passion, closely followed by house, disco, Italo-pop, and any other heart-fluttering music he can DJ with and bop along to.
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Oh.

He's doing that thing where he doesn't think he has any talent for something so his "character" is that he's crap at that thing.

He's unfortunately dull enough not to realise that that in itself is now a hackneyed cliche.

This is the problem with satire - it's pretty hard to pull off. Satirising crap crime novels by writing a crap crime novel is NOT satire. That's just ADDING to the amount of crap crime novels out there.

Just copying what the target of your satire is doing isn't satire, it's doing that thing more.
 
Damocles said:
Sentences. The foundation of written thought. The brass forge in the key to enlightenment. Everybody uses them. But these were better. Shorter. Groovier. More injected with artistry. They flowed valiantly like a handbrake and sent the letters tumbling. It was moving. The planes of language drifted like a summer breeze. The full stops penetrating the mind with literary vision.

Vision. Visonary. Visionistic. Visontastic.

Softly they elude as we prepare for the dramatic.

maxresdefault.jpg


Pause.
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Now that’s satire. Very good.
 
Damocles said:
Oh.

He's doing that thing where he doesn't think he has any talent for something so his "character" is that he's crap at that thing.

He's unfortunately dull enough not to realise that that in itself is now a hackneyed cliche.

This is the problem with satire - it's pretty hard to pull off. Satirising crap crime novels by writing a crap crime novel is NOT satire. That's just ADDING to the amount of crap crime novels out there.

Just copying what the target of your satire is doing isn't satire, it's doing that thing more.
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And this line follows:
"His alter-ego is Jamie Jackson, the Manchester football correspondent of The Guardian and Observer newspapers, for which he has worked since 2002."

There's also this list of backers (it seems to be crowdfunded):
https://unbound.com/books/night-time-cool/supporters

notables: Ian Herbert, Ladyman, and an Ed Woodward.
 
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