Tag Archives: publishing

Task Almost Complete

When I wrote my last Earplug Adventure – A Tale of Three Museums – it was against the clock. You may have read my post referring to it. If you haven’t, it’s a bit sad, but if you want to see it, click HERE. Time truly was of the essence. Well for Haunted Mars the pressure was reduced somewhat. But with Covid 19 still on the rampage (and me at a higher risk level than average), I really wanted to get it out there before I (potentially) succumbed. Well it’s done: all the episodes are complete, spell-checked and all that guff, and scheduled for release on this blog over the next few weeks. There are sixty-two episodes in all. And the megabyte-age is so vast that, once again, the story has needed excising in half – creating two volumes for the e-book version. Witness the preliminary e-covers…


For anyone who doesn’t want to wade through the serialised version, I intend to get the e-books out via LULU a.s.a.p. They won’t be expensive. Watch this space.

A Desperate Dedication

I mentioned in a post (at the time) that this comedic trilogy was written whilst laying upon the bed beside my ailing wife in her final weeks. She lived long enough for me to finish the task, but not long enough to see it published. Although the content is extremely silly, it was all that I had with which I could dedicate in her memory. I wish it was a worthy tome of some significance; but it isn’t. Hopefully it is funny and entertaining. I think she would have liked that. She was, after all, unpretentious – to a fault. The dedication reads thus…

This trilogy is dedicated to my late wife, Linzi, who (for years) not only put up with me shooting the pictures and writing the manuscripts; but actively participated – finding props and earplugs for me.

She thought I was completely daft – shooting pictures of “your little men”, as she called them: but she would always lend a hand when required, or surprise me with some ‘widget’ that she’d found that I might use as a ‘prop’, or a packet of unusually-coloured earplugs that she’d found whilst out shopping. “Ooh,” she’d say to herself, “my Toots could use them.”  It’s not much of dedication, but I’d feel so good knowing that someone had finished the tale on their e-reader and discovered it beneath ‘The End’. If you were thinking of buying an Earplug Adventure, please consider these first. They are available at my publishers, Lulu – for a very reasonable price too!

The Tale Wags Again

Were you to visit my publishers – Lulu.com – you would discover that this e-book…

…is now available to buy, at a very reasonable price. And were you to purchase said literary and photographic wonder, you would be pleased beyond measure.

P.S Other distributors – like Amazon, B&N, Kobo, Apple, etc to follow shortly

The First Tale is Wagging!

By that I mean  that the first of three volumes of A Tale of Three Museums has been published in e-book form at Lulu.com. Yee-hah!

It looks an awful lot like this…

Volumes 2 & 3 will appear before the final serialized version excerpt appears. Are the e-book versions better than the on-line versions? Of course they are!

P.S Kindle, Nook, Kobo, and other versions will follow shortly.

P.P.S The world may be a shit hole right now; but I’m doing my best to make it better.

Don’t Buy This Book….Yet!

It has been a while since I completed the re-write of this tremendous tome…

…but I’ve been loathe to advertise the fact. The reason for this uncharacteristic behaviour is because my publisher has recently revamped its operation, which included dropping several on-line author facilities and migrating all the files from the old system to the new…and things didn’t go…well let’s just say they didn’t go well.  From my point of view, they didn’t go well at all. They didn’t go well so utterly absolutely that – according to my account information – I’ve never sold a book, and they owe me zilch. Worrying, to say the least. They’re working on it – or so the auto-response to my e-mail said. I hope they’re working on pricing too. For some reason some of my books, in certain geographical regions, are selling for less than cost price, which means I owe the publisher if any of the books sell in those regions. Worse still is the fact that the system won’t accept my imput and let me alter the book price. Also worrying. So – for now – I’m pointing no one in the direction of my publisher. I’ve even removed the link on the side bar and the Tooty’s Books page beneath the header. But, because I can’t wait any longer to show off the new and improved photos from Worstworld Vol 2, I’ve decided to show you little montage from the book, which should show up on all the usual e-book retailers very soon…


Just How Famous Am I?

When you’re a self-proclaimed literary genius, international author, and master chef, it’s monumentally important to discover just how famous you are. Or in the case of me – how famous I am. To this end I ‘Googled’ Tooty Nolan. Of course, strictly speaking, I should have punched in my parentally-given name. But, heck, I’m Tooty Nolan: I’ll do as I damned well please. But, anyway, I was reasonably pleased to discover that I’m averagely omnipresent. More importantly, so are my books. And even more importantly, it proves one of my assertions: I AM an international author. Look, the people of France can buy my books…

Not to mention India and Brazil…

Of course I’m well catered for in my homeland too…

And not just on Amazon either. Why, even Polish book retailers carry my titles…

Now, tell me, did you notice something peculiar about these screen-shots? Yes, none of them feature any Tooty Nolan books. Instead they display my best work. My ‘Silent’ Books – which is probably as it should be – because they really are rather good – in an old fashioned, very English sort of way. Well I think so anyway. Look, they even prefer them in Norway…

In most cases this pair of books sell through Barnes and Noble. So it came as a pleasant surprise that even that respectable retailer is willing to stretch it’s street cred by including Earplug Adventures…

And why not: wonderful prose and stunning photography rolled into one genre. It’s a no-brainer. Talking of no brains: oh dear – look at this…

Oh no – even Walmartians can read my books. The operative word being ‘can’. Maybe they have that right: unfortunately they don’t choose to exercise it. So far Walmart have sold exactly none of my books. Why aren’t I upset? 

So there you have it: clearly I am famous. Just not famous enough to keep the Bank Manager happy.

P.S This is how my daughter sees her famous Dad. Er…not exactly flattering, is it!

Barnes & Noble: Getting Thier Arse Into Gear

“Ugh?” I hear you question. “What is that Tooty Nolan talking about?” Well that would be understandable, because the title includes colloquial English, with which you might not be familiar. It’s the sort of English in which I specialise throughout all my written work – be it the earplugs, hamster-fiction, or my serious books. And it is this intrinsic ‘Englishness’ appearing in books that are published in the USA (and are available from e-book retailers world-wide) that amuses me and makes me realise that we really do live in an Internet-created global village, where we are all neighbours (or neighbors). But, more specifically, what the title really informs everyone, is that the retailers of the Nook reader have caught up with Lulu and iBooks. Evil Empire (and those e-books that precede it in the series) is now available for their reader. Good, eh?

P.S The first three books listed there are absolutely free!

Cometh the Earplug Cometh!

Yes, that’s right, the next in the series of touched-up, much improved, made gorgeous, Earplug Adventures has arrived at iBooks and Lulu.

As the blurb on the 2016 psuedo-cover suggests, it’s uncommonly long (for an Earplug Adventure)…

WARNING: THIS BOOK CONTAINS A HUGE NUMBER OF CHAPTERS! When danger comes visiting in the Museum of Future Technology, who do you call for? Magnuss Earplug, that’s who. Cometh the moment, cometh the earplug, or so they say. The usual mayhem ensues.

And boy does my right forearm know it. I have spent hour upon bloody hour on this refurb, and my ‘mouse’ hand has cried “Enough!”.

Anyway, here’s the usual montage…

And, of course, a snippet…

And just for my loyal reader, Jayne – it features those popular favourites of hers, Magnuss and Hair-Trigger!


Hard Work Worked Harder

Following the minor success of retouching The Museum of Future Technology, I’ve been at it again, with the second book in the series – namely this one…

Naturally I’ve re-published it, with all the pictures made-over and looking lovely. Here’s a sample…

The story picks up EXACTLY where the first ended, so there’s no need of a reprise. Of course it’s charming and of the highest literary quality imaginable. Check out Lulu (on the sidebar or beneath the header) to see it in all it’s glory.

Sample the Silence Once More

Every so often I try to introduce readers of this blog to my more serious fiction. It’s not exactly plentiful. Four books in total – and I haven’t written a new one in years. But oldies can be goldies – right? Right! And just to prove it, here is a sample from this book/e-book…

Although it was now over a year since disaster had struck across the entire globe, and reduced humanity to scattered remnants, we were still careful to walk at the side of the road, and be prepared to leap to safety on the verge or through a hedge. Few cars remained running – their owners eking out what remained of their precious fuel – but we weren’t surprised to hear the approach of an aging diesel engine.

Stepping onto the grassy verge we checked each other’s haversacks for signs of protruding semi-automatics. Of course, had there been a need for rapid deployment of self-defence weapons, we both carried Colonel Cosgrove-supplied Berreta 84Fs strapped to our ankles.   

Unsurprisingly a well-worn four-wheel-drive vehicle rounded the nearest corner. It was towing a small trailer upon which several straw bales were lashed expertly. I couldn’t help but notice that the vehicle was a Land Rover, and appeared to my eyes to be identical to the one in which Candice had sacrificed her life so that the rest of us could escape the clutches of Nigel Hawley and his private army. It even had the same fawn canvas cover on the rear bed. Even now I could still see that cover bursting off as the two hand grenades exploded inside the vehicle.

I must have made some sound at the recollection, because Tasman’s head snapped around to look at me.

“What is it?” He said nervously as his hand began to reach downwards towards his hidden Beretta.

I shook my head. “Nothing.” I said, “Don’t worry about me. Just concentrate on the driver; see if you can deduce his intentions.”

It was necessary for Tasman to relax in order to best use his telepathic powers. He shook his joints loose; closed his eyes; and breathed out slowly through his nose.

“I don’t get a name.” He said as the Land Rover laboured up the rise to where we stood, “But he comes across as non-belligerent. Ah, he’s a farmer’s son. Hmm – he seems to be having trouble keeping the farm going. Lack of staff, maybe. He could be eyeing us up as potential work-mates.”

“No thanks; done that; bought several T-shirts.” I replied. “Is he alone?”

Tasman nodded. Moments later the vehicle covered the final few metres.

“Here he comes.” I said out of the side of my mouth. “Big cheesy smiles.”

As the Land Rover pulled alongside us, we could barely hear the driver’s cheerful hail above the din of its clattering diesel engine.

“Hello, you two.” He shouted from the side window of the two-seat cabin, “You’re from yon farm along the way, aint ya?”

I raised an eyebrow at this; I was somewhat surprised that the young man of (I estimated) eighteen or nineteen was aware of us. We’d chosen a well-hidden spot in a shallow valley that was all but invisible from the road.

He must have read my mind because he tapped the side of his nose, winked, and said, “Spent all me life ‘round these parts: pays to know who the competition are – ‘specially during times of plague and pestilence.”

“Yes, I imagine so.” I said as I extended a hand towards him. “Felicity Goldsmith.”

“Graham Perkins.” He replied – cutting the engine, and taking my fingers in his huge, calloused hands. “It’s nice to meet someone’s what’s civilised for a change.”

I was surprised at the coarseness of his hands. They felt like those of a man three times his age that had spent a lifetime tilling the land.

‘A farmer’s son. I think I can trust this man.’

Tasman then introduced himself as Brian Wilkins. I was glad that Tasman had slipped in a pair of his contact lenses; explaining his oblong pupils would have been problematical.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Graham spoke to both of us, “but I’ve been keeping a bit of an eye on your farm. I figured everybody’d be here when I found Soverton empty a few months back.”

I nodded; it was from the village of Soverton that we’d recruited the members of our co-operative.

“If you don’t mind me saying,” Graham was continuing, “you could use a bit of expertise down there.”

Although I bristled inside, I said nothing to the older boy. I merely looked at him with what I hoped was an inquiring expression.

“Them winter crops in the lower field.” He went on, “You need to sow ‘em further up the slope.”

Tasman threw me a glance. I could read nothing into it, and so wished that he could have used his telepathy upon me.

“Would you be interested in joining our co-operative?” He asked the young farmer.

Graham pretended to pause for thought. “Well I wasn’t exactly planning on something quite so bold.” He replied eventually.

Tasman continued as though the other boy hadn’t spoken, “It’s just that Felicity and I have business elsewhere, and it’s…you know…”

It let his words trail off into nothingness.

Graham grinned. “And you’d like someone what knows what he’s doing to take over?” He said hopefully.

“Pretty much.” Tasman replied.

I was surprised at the sudden turn of events.

‘Hey, this isn’t part of the master plan!’

I was concerned that we were in the process of giving away the fruits of many week’s labour to a complete stranger.

‘But wait a moment, Fel: Tasman might be too polite to read your mind, but you can bet your last…whatever…that he’s read Graham’s. Now would be the perfect time for two-way silent communication between us.’

I tried ‘sending’ Tasman a thought, but I expected him to be too busy concentrating his attention upon Graham to even begin to ‘hear’ me.

“Is this boy the real deal?”

Tasman’s eyes flicked in my direction: I detected the minutest of nods.

Graham appeared to be prevaricating, though I was certain it was just an act.

“It’s not every day that a lad your age gets offered the manager’s job on a working farm, complete with live-in staff.” I pointed out to him.

Graham’s head tipped to one side slightly in agreement. He then added, “No, and it isn’t every day that world ends either.”

I wasn’t absolutely certain what he meant by that remark. Perhaps he had more work on his hands than he could deal with. Maybe running our farm as well as his own would be too much for him.

“Could you give me a tour?” He inquired.

Had he asked the question twenty-four hours earlier, Tasman would undoubtedly have agreed to his request: But today wasn’t yesterday. Although no one at the farm knew it yet, Tasman and I were Absent Without Leave. Or in Lee’s parlance, we’d ‘done a runner’. We couldn’t go back; it would require that we explain the reason for our departure, and then face all the arguments that would no doubt be intended to keep us there.

“Tell you what.” Tasman said, “You know where the turning to the farm is: If I write a quick note of introduction, you can find your own way there. Ask for Carl, and show it to him. He’ll gladly show you around. He knows the farm isn’t nearly as efficient as it should be, and could use some pointers. And if truth be known – we’re a little over-manned: Perhaps you could take a few kids back to your place?”


This must have been exactly what Graham had wanted to hear. “I accept your kind offer.” He said whilst shaking Tasman’s hand.

He then produced a dog-eared note pad and an almost blunt pencil from a cubbyhole in the dashboard of his Land Rover.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

Needless to say, this charming (and at times violent) e-book is available all over the place – see beneath the header, or on the sidebar, for some of the better-known outlets – and as a paperback at Lulu.com.

Dreams are Crushed Beneath the Weight of Years

I say that, because recently I discovered a comment that I made in 2009 upon someone else’s blog, which talked about writing and being a writer. At that time I was writing avidly and had great hopes. This is the comment I made back then:

During the 90’s I tried desperately to get into writing for TV – and came horribly close once or twice. But eventually my resolve was worn down, and I quit – everything – and went on a sabbatical to Spain. There I discovered ‘proper writing’. Or rather I discovered that I could write fiction – and, surprisingly, comedy too. But it wasn’t until I created my two WordPress sites (The Bucktooth Times and Nauseous Nolan) in 2008, upon which I posted extracts of my comedy material, that I found that other people shared my off-beat sense of humour, and not only encouraged me to publish my work, but actively went in search of it upon Lulu, Amazon, E-bay, etc . And the amount of blogs that have plagiarized me is astounding: So I guess I must be hitting the right keys in the right order every so often. But although there is the potential for millions of readers to view my work – out there upon the internet – until those same people can actually hold my book in their hands – or at least conjure up its electronic equivalent upon their Sony Reader or Kindle – I can’t really call myself a writer.
Opinions anyone? P.S – yes I know one should never begin a sentence with the word ‘And’ – but rules are meant to be massaged and reconfigured into interesting new shapes – aren’t they? And anyway – I like it – it suits my style.
Paul Trevor (Tooty) Nolan

So what the heck went wrong? Whatever happened to The Bucktooth Times and Nauseous Nolan? I can’t even remember them! And when did that air of confidence evaporate? And see – I can still begin a sentence with ‘And’.

On the upside, I did discover that I’m now available on Walmart. Somehow that seems fitting. Check it out.

P.S This shot comes from the above era. Now, sadly, I’m a wizened gnome.

Re-Blog: Preparing to Dash Through a Forest of Triffids

I first posted this a handful of years past. Having discovered it among the older files, here it is again…

Thank you, John Wyndham, for the inspiration.


Had I not read the works of the aforementioned, I would never have written Silent Apocalypse.

Annotation: Strange that, at the time, I didn’t add the cover photo. Not feeling particularly mercenary, I guess. Maybe I’d sold a couple of copies that week. Well I don’t have that luxury now: let’s put that right!

And just for good measure…the sequel!

Big Problem with Latest Earplug Adventures!

I was rather hoping that the Time Tamperer e-books would be published by now; but (if I understand the forums correctly) it appears that the publishers, Lulu.com, have huge problems with the software that converts Word documents into EPUB – the format required for e-readers. The glitch seems to have first appeared in October 2018; and despite their best efforts, continues to reject manuscripts in a random manner. I’ve gone through the manuscripts of Vol 1 and Vol 2 with a fine-toothed comb and can find no errors my end – but still the converter refuses to convert Vol 1 – showing an ‘unknown error’ each time I try. In the short term I plan to publish in PDF form, so that my adoring fans can still get their mitts on a readable copy for their laptop or whatever – even if it isn’t any good for e-readers. Hopefully Lulu can get their problems sorted and before long these lovely e-tomes will appear in all their glory…

Coming Soon – to an E-Book Supplier Near You!

Once again the latest story is simply too big for one e-book. So, as a result, the multi-megabyte tale will be published in two volumes. And this is what they will probably look like – assuming that they get past the publishers standards, that is…

Utterly charming, I think you’ll agree. So watch out for more news on the subject.

P.S If you think either cover closely resembles a pile of excrement, please say so in the comment box: I’d hate to produce a shitty book.

Let’s Go Kobo

Checking out the availability of these, my latest, releases…

…I discovered Indigo, selling Kobo versions. So, if you own a Kobo Reader, you now know where to go. But, I feel certain, Indigo needn’t be your only port of call. If needs be, go explore the Internet.

And don’t forget it’s also at Barnes & Noble. and for your Kindle at Amazon! So get on over there and take a look. Why not give your funny bone a treat! 

New Release; With a Touch of the Hypothetical

Were you, by chance, to visit the iBookstore, you would discover that these two e-books have appeared there…

And were you the owner of an Apple product, upon which e-books can be easily read, I would urge you to visit. The world is full of wonders and although these books aren’t two of them, they are quite nice. And if you were to read them in public places, people might notice and begin to doubt the fullness of their lives. This, in turn, might cause them to investigate the Earplug Adventures – rendering them instant Earpluggers. How good would that be!

Launched…into Cyber Space!

Yes, even before the last excerpt appears on-line, The Grand Tour makes it into e-book-land. These two devilishly stylish volumes are now available at Lulu.com – prior to general release everywhere else. Go take a look, if only to satisfy your curiosity.

I’d like to think that the story was just too big for a single volume; but, to tell the truth, all those photos use up an awful lot of megabytes. The e-book file would have taken an eternity to download. So, yeah, like I said: the story was just too big for a single volume!

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 13

Long before those delectable earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

The following excerpt erupts, like a literary volcano, from Fanfare for the Common Hamster…

Nobody likes a sore loser, and there was surely no loser of more intense soreness than the Law Master of Weasels Pit – after once more losing her quarry – this time in a vast sump of slurry. Feeling utterly defeated she returned to the Rancid Maggot Inn where she resumed her copious imbibing, and entertaining those few lawmen who could be bothered to join her by showing them her latest piercings. Slowly, as the rough ale took its revenge for having been wrenched from the sanctuary of the beer cellar, Perfidity’s thoughts slowed, and the exalted feeling of being one with The Wheel seemed to putrefy, releasing the very beast within her that, under normal circumstances, she would have most dreaded: In short she got all horny.

Naturally Quentin Blackheart had already slipped from the scene, and was enjoying a bowl of steaming night time gruel in his little cabin beside Lake Effluence, so could not begin to assuage her needs.

Bet he was probably hamster-sexual anyway’, she thought morosely.

And the others now lay upon the floor, snoring in a most unmelodious way. It took a few moments for her brain to fully acquire the next thing that she looked at; but when she recognised the stairs for what they were – the way to Tybrow Mooney’s bedroom – she put aside her feeling of revulsion and loathing, and sent herself reeling towards the door.

Now it’s quite possible that in the event of the Law Master bursting into Tybrow Mooney’s private sanctuary  – smelling something evil, and swaying like a rhubarb frond in a hurricane – the potential recipient of a really good rogering could have been forgiven for clutching his night dress to his shallow chest, and screaming shrilly until either his eyes watered, or he ran out of breath. But this did not happen. This did not happen because Tybrow Mooney was very conspicuously absent.

“Ugh?” Perfidity grunted as she whipped back the sequined duvet that covered the solitary bed. Then she staggered in confusion: She could clearly hear the skinny hamster’s snoring; but of his body there was no sign. “Ugh?” she repeated.

Then, as is the way of well-trained Law Masters, her ability to overcome drunkenness kicked in: Rational thought returned.  She replaced the approaching third grunt with, “What the f…?”

Then she noticed that the candle beneath her outstretched arm was not burning her fur in the time-honoured way of candles: Instead it was making it stand on end, and giving her tingling feelings in places that she didn’t know existed.

“Tis the Axle’s candle!” she boomed like a wounded fog-horn, “Be extinguished!

With that she attempted to snub out the flame with a thumb and finger.

Naturally the sole result was that she was flung across the room by the resulting electric shock.

Stunned back into full intelligence she decided to avoid the problem of the Axle’s candle for the moment, and concentrate upon the invisible snoring. Well it didn’t take long for her to discover the hidden speakers, and then trace the wire to the bedside cabinet in which the old-fashioned cassette tape recorder lay. Of course she had no idea what she held in her paws as she turned it over and over in a close inspection: But she knew that it was a device, not of Prannick, but of somewhere else entirely. She also conjectured that it was evil incarnate.

“Hmmm,” she hummed as she replaced the items, then tidied the mess that she’d made whilst flying across the room. “Hmmm.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

If, by chance, you’d like to view this wondrous e-tome, you can do so by visiting the pertinent book covers upon the sidebar to the right side of your screen.

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 9

Long before those nauseatingly fabulous earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

On this momentous occasion I’ve elected to share with you an excerpt from The Psychic Historian.

It was clear from Freda Bludgeon’s appearance that time had passed in the green valley where the famous author lived in her stone-built cottage. Now her grey muzzle perfectly matched the low cloud that hung above the valley like a menacing oil spill. Her clothes had become worn, and the previously bright white net curtains that hid the interior of the house from nosey passers-by were dull and splattered with the detritus of years.

Freda, herself, was trying desperately to write her latest best-seller, but it was obvious that she had been stricken with the nastiest case of writer’s-block since the invention of the written word.

“Oh woe is me.” She cried plaintively as she flung aside her tatty, almost useless, typewriter, “Until I can feel my belly full once more I swear that I cannot write another word.”

Any other complaints and utterances of self-pity were put aside when there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Get up off yer skinny arse; answer the door; and you’ll find out – won’t you.” The gruff reply pierced the thick wooden door that barred the cold, blustery, day from entering like a head-hunter’s spear.

The voice belonged to Izzy Ekaslike – the local postal delivery person. For a moment the thought of what Izzy might have in the bottom of his satchel gave Freda reason to hope. ‘Is it possible that he might be delivering a royalty cheque?’ She thought it unlikely – especially since everyone was so poor now that not a single book had sold in the last year – anywhere throughout the entire land of Hamster-Britain.

‘But there’s always overseas sales.’ She thought, ‘Not every country has adopted the environmental concerns, and legislated new anti-pollution laws that my endless campaigning has managed to push through parliament, and which now cripples the country’s industry and farmers to such an extent that they’re no longer competitive in the world market.’

“Be right there.” She said chirpily.

Izzy Ekaslike stood and dripped in the doorway as Freda opened the door to him.

“Izzy.” Freda said by way of welcome.

“Miss Bludgeon.” The miserable-looking male hamster replied politely – if a little curtly.

“Do you have a little something for me?” Freda inquired.

Izzy held secret feelings for Freda, so he was surprised, and slightly thrilled, by the question.

“How’d ya mean?” he inquired in turn. “What – in me trousers, ya mean?”

Freda, for all her fame, was no female-of-the-world. “Your trousers?” she looked puzzled. “Has your satchel developed a hole in it?”

Izzy’s shoulders slumped. He knew it had been too good to be true. Famous authors never had sexual intercourse with postal delivery people: It was a well-known fact. “Yeah,” he said, even more grumpily than usual, “It’s a letter.”

With that he flung an envelope across the threshold; turned away abruptly; mounted his push-along-scooter – which Freda noticed no longer bore any tyres upon its tiny wheels – and made off at his best speed, which was actually very slow, due in no small part to the fact the road was nothing more than potholes held together by short stretches of tarmac.

Moments later Freda had returned to her pantry, and was tearing the envelope open with her incisors. It had been weeks since anyone had bothered to contact her, and she was shaking with the excitement of anticipation.

When, after she’d managed to calm her trembling paws, Freda had battled her way past the arsenic-laced seal, the cheese wire wrapping, and the small incendiary device inside, Freda’s eyes pored over the attached letter. In the brief moments before her solitary oil lamp stuttered into extinction she managed to decipher the opening lines: They read…

Dear Miss Bludgeon, you are an utter bastard. I hate you with all my heart. When the time comes for you to die, I hope it is long and protracted, and gives you the opportunity to reflect upon your actions, which have been instrumental in destroying the fabric of life in Hamster Britain. If it was physically possible for a minge to fall off – I hope your does. Or at least get horribly infected. Due to your stupid environmental interference I have lost everything, – my company, my family, my self respect, and, most importantly, my great wealth. Recently I was forced to sell one of my kidneys to one of the few rich people left in this benighted country, and the larger of my testicles to scientific research – merely to buy a loaf of bread and some fuel to power my lawn mower.  Worse still is the fact that I am one of your biggest fans. This winter I have found it necessary to burn my entire collection of your mystery novels – not because I now hate your work, but because it is the only way to heat the tiny garden shed that I now call home. If Springtime doesn’t arrive soon I’ll have to burn all your self-help and sex guides. After they’re gone I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t even nail up an electrical socket without literary aid: And quite what I’ll find to do with my willy confounds me. But that’s all by-the-by: The point of this letter is…

To say that Freda was shocked was possibly the understatement of the year. She was more than shocked. In fact she was so shocked that she had to run to toilet, which was fortuitous because she kept an early prototype Timmy the Twonk Engine wind-up torch on top of the cistern for situations just like this. Winding the handle on the side of the torch for all she was worth, Freda dropped her knickers, sat her withered buttocks down as comfortably as possible (which was difficult because the toilet seat had broken during an autumn storm, and she was yet to find the fiscal resources to replace it), and settled herself to read the remainder of the letter.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013

These magnificent e-books are available all over the place. For easy access to your chosen e-reader (or whatever) visit the book covers over there → on the side bar. Failing that, you can always click on the Lulu logo, or Google ‘Tooty Nolan Books‘.

The 29th Junior Earplug Adventure: Get it Free…Now!

Because the latest Junior Earplug Adventure is a little shorter than usual, I felt it unfair to charge the same price as the much longer editions. So I decided to give it away. Somewhere between posting the last episode on-line and publishing, the name changed. So this is what The Museum Out of Time now looks like…

Initially it is available only at Lulu; but it won’t be long before it appears for the Kindle, Nook, and Kobo. Small and perfectly formed, I think they call it. Download it: see for yourself.


Nookers Shame Kindlers

It happened before: it’s happening again. The owners of this brand of e-reader…

…kindly buy my e-books.

The owners of this brand of e-reader…

…take the free giveaways.

I’m saying nothing. I merely observe. But if you’d care to prove my observations wrong, I’d be most pleased. Go for it!

Curtains for the Earplug Adventures?

Fear not, Earpluggers: the Earplug Adventures will continue, though at a reduced pace henceforth. Had I written this post yesterday, the title would have been a question mark short. In fact it would have been replaced by an exclamation mark. Yesterday I all but decided to quit writing my photo-novels entirely; but, being a sensible fellow (beneath this tomfoolery), I chose to give myself twenty-four hours to cogitate upon the subject.

“Oh, Tooty, what could have caused this almost-monumental decision?” I hear you cry into your coffee / beer/ wine / vimto / lavatory bowl. “Why, oh why, would you want to deny the world your fabulous literary/photographic delights?”

Well the evening hadn’t started well: I’d wanted to watch Star Trek: The Original Series, but the magic box beneath my TV said: “No – not unless you want me to stop recording either Bones or Medium.” Then the cistern in my bathroom decided to form a small boating lake on the floor beside the lavatory. So things weren’t going well when I decided to Google myself. Naturally (having punched in Tooty Nolan) I found page after page of my nonsense on sale – often on sites that I’d never heard of (and which make me wonder why I’m not receiving the royalties I might be due). Then I discovered that back in my dark depressive days – or 2013 to be more precise – I’d joined Goodreads. I’d even posted some book extracts there. Then I noted the absence of my 2014 novel Silent Resistance, and duly elected to add it to my listings there. But when I began a casual meander through the book in search of a suitable extract, I discovered that during the subsequent three years – all of which have been Earplug Adventures years, I might add – I’ve become a lousy writer. No wonder I felt the need to abandon my third Causality Merchant novel – Broker Me No Future: I can’t write anymore.  And what was it that I found in Silent Resistance that so disillusioned me? It was this paragraph…

When morning finally revealed the new day it was quite unlike those of recent times.  Although the sun was winter-weak, wisps of steam rose from the sodden wooden walls of a nearby barn into a perfectly clear azure sky. Likewise the early morning mist that slowly retreated from the surrounding fields and dissipated into nothingness. And the broad leaf trees of a distant thicket shone in glorious shades of orange and yellow, and were perfectly counterpointed by the sombre greens of a scattering of conifers amongst them.

I breathed deeply in the clear country air – something that was becoming more and more prevalent since the demise of industry, the motor car, and people. I could almost imagine that this was one year previous, and soon my sister would join me as I searched through the orchard for late fallers.

My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Colin in the farmyard. He was studying the AA roadmap as he trudged from the farmhouse.

“Hey,” he called, “I’ve found a route back that doesn’t involve us going anywhere near anywhere we’ve already been. It’s a bit ‘round-the-houses…”

“Circumbendibus.” I interrupted.

“Circum-what?” He inquired as he came to a dead stop.

I repeated the word. “It means ‘round-the-houses.” I explained.

I think he was going to argue, but it being early in the day he thought better of it.

“Oh, right.” He said as he recommenced walking towards me. “Well I’ve found a route to that co-operative of yours that shouldn’t take too long – just as long as nothing gives us gip.”

It was my turn to exhibit ignorance. “Gip?” I said.

“Trouble. Pain. Inconvenience.” Colin explained. “A broken leg would give you gip; but in another way so would a broken-down car.”

“Got it.” I said. “Gip bad: we no want.”

“Yeah.” Colin responded – his expression clearly indicating that he thought I’d gone mad.

But any opportunity for us to swap examples of our personal lexicons was interrupted by the bus engine stuttering into life.

“How’s the fuel supply?” I shouted to Kylie as she leaned out of the driver’s window to wave hello.

After giving her dashboard a quick scrutiny she called back, “Loads. More than we need to get us where we want to go.”

“And afterwards?” I pressed.

Her face dropped. “Who says there’s gonna be an afterwards? We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

I nodded without replying: it was time to rouse the others.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014

Well there you have it. I need…no MUST…get back to that standard of story telling. So, from now on, it’s less earplugs and more ‘proper’ writing – if I still can of course. A good place to start would be that unfinished novel. Now I wonder where I’ve stashed it away.

P.S This book is available as an e-book pretty much everywhere (take your pick), and as a paperback and e-book at Lulu (see Lulu logo on side bar).


Five Stars! Five Stars!

I’m pleased to note that the iBookstore has finally listed The Masters of Scroton; so now all of you lovely Apple product users have no excuse to avoid buying it for an extraordinarily paltry sum. You can see it HERE at Lulu.com, which will then guide you to the iBookstore. And were you to click HERE, you might be astonished to discover that some exceedingly astute reader, with enormously good taste, has given the photonovel five stars. Yes, this e-book…

…is a 5 Star publication. How can you possibly resist?


Not So Much a Best Seller…

…More a Least Worst Seller. The title of this post refers to a book and e-book first written in 2004; then re-written in 2007; before being giving a once-over again in 2014. It is…

new silent ptn 8x11

But since it is my Least-Worst seller, here’s an extract from it…

A stray shaft of sunlight shining in my eye woke me from my troubled slumbers. Straw may look comfortable, but it pokes you in places you didn’t know you had, and it can really make a body itch. Fortunately the others had neglected to mention rats the previous night, so, when upon numerous occasions, I awoke to scratching sounds, or the weight of some furry animal running across my back, I was greatly alarmed. If I’d known what to expect in advance I’m pretty certain I’d have taken a tent with me – or just slept beneath the stars, and hoped that it didn’t rain.

Now, as brightness attempted to blind my bleary eyes, I knew that I hated living rough.

Nature? You can keep it!

Katherine, on the other hand, was full with the joys of spring. She already had a fire burning outside, and the smell of coffee perked me into a sitting position. I noticed the absence of Lee and Kevin immediately. As I wandered outside I enquired after them.

“My, who’s a sleepy head, then?” Katherine chided. She then answered my question, “They’ve gone hunting.”

“Lee went hunting with our only assault rifle?” I was surprised that Lee would willingly waste such irreplaceable ammunition.

“No, silly.” Katherine replied – offering me a cup of black, watery coffee.

“With Kevin.” She added, “The lad’s very good with snares.”

I admired Kevin: He was worth two of any other boy of his age.

“He’s a little diamond.” I said as I sat myself  beside Katherine.

The coffee was awful, but it was wet and warm, and at that moment it was enough. I gazed out upon the silent countryside, and let my brain slip into neutral.

Some unmeasured time later the boys returned with four dead rabbits. They were young. Perhaps born only a week or two after the virus had struck. It seemed such a crime for us to take life when it was so rare and precious. I must have said as much…

“Wanna eat, don’t you?” Lee was slightly miffed. He and Kevin had worked hard to make their catch. I apologized for my foolishness.

“Next time,” Kevin spoke eagerly to Lee, “I can show ya fish tickling.”

“Are there any?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Came Kevin’s positive response, “loads of ‘em. I seen ‘em in the river this morning.”

“Make mine trout.” Katherine put on her cut-glass accent, “Just like my men – I prefer them slightly soused.”

An hour later, with a rabbit each tied to our haversacks, we made our way along a dusty dirt track. It was a fine day, and in our childish ways we had shrugged off our troubles for the duration. This came to an abrupt end when a bullet kicked up the ground beside us.

© Paul Trevor Nolan

Thrilled? Moi? Of Course!

The first time that I ever saw one of my books appear on the Internet I came very close to feeling thrilled – well as close to thrilled as I can get anyway. Things haven’t really changed during the intervening years: when I saw this recently…

kobo site

…it still brought a smile to my face. You can access this particular outlet by clicking on KOBO.


Thank You Again Nook Users

Yup, it’s a new year, and the usual book sales situation continues. Good old Silent Apocalypse leads the way, followed by the sequel. Everything else – including the earplug novel and photonovels – languish horribly. Likewise the formats and platforms. Barnes and Noble Nook rules! I suppose what I’m trying to say is…if you happen to have an e-reader, of whatever brand, why not try something other that Silent Apocalypse. Be a bit daring. Show your silly side. Prove to my publishers that I’m not a one-hit-wonder! Oh, but don’t think I’m not grateful for sales of this…

new silent ptn 8x11

I most certainly am.