How I Decide Which Excerpts to Post Online

An excerpt is often the first part of a book a reader meets, yet it has to work under awkward conditions: no shelf, no cover, and no conversation with a bookseller. Someone may find it while searching for a historical novel, sharing a passage in a book club, or checking a phone between trains. The text must create enough trust to keep reading without pretending to be the whole work. That is why I treat selection as an editorial decision rather than a promotional gesture. I choose the passage I would want to meet as a reader.

My own writing has moved among fiction, travel, memory, literature, civil rights, race, and the experience of Ireland. An excerpt from Gideon’s Children should expose the novel’s human pressure, not merely announce that it deals with injustice. A passage from An Irish Experience should convey the texture of travel and reflection, not function as a decorative Irish postcard. The same discipline applies to essays and blog posts: each selection should give a fair sense of the voice and leave the reader with a reason to continue.

Start with the reason a reader arrived

I begin by asking what the reader can reasonably expect from this particular excerpt. If it appears beneath a review, a chapter list, or a link to the book, the surrounding words may establish a subject but not a narrative. The passage needs to orient the reader quickly, then create a question that the rest of the book can sustain. A vague atmosphere is usually less useful than a moment in which a choice is being made.

I also think about the conditions of reading. On a crowded train in Sydney or a tram in Melbourne, a phone screen may hold the excerpt for only a few minutes. A reader may listen for a station announcement, share a seat, or switch to another tab. Such interruptions sharpen the need for immediate human detail: who speaks, what changes, and why the next line matters. White space, short paragraphs, and a clear opening help the passage survive on a small screen.

The source of the visit matters as well. A reader arriving from a search result may know little about the book, while one who has followed the blog may already understand its concerns. I try not to assume either level of knowledge. If the chosen scene relies on a character, place, or conflict introduced earlier, I add the minimum explanation necessary. The aim is hospitality, not a lecture before the story begins.

Find the scene with something at stake

A strong excerpt contains a small change. The character reveals a motive, a relationship tightens, an ideal meets an inconvenient fact, or a landscape alters the traveller’s sense of self. I look for that movement because a page without change risks feeling like a sample: pleasant in isolation, but disconnected from the pleasure of reading a whole book. The scene should have its own beginning, pressure, and aftershock, even if the larger narrative continues beyond it.

With Gideon’s Children, I favour passages where the social argument becomes personal. Exposition about history or institutional conflict matters, but I want the reader to encounter it through a person making a decision. The selected words should carry dignity without smoothing over complexity. An excerpt can open a disagreement between author and reader, but it should not invite the reader to confuse a charged voice with the novel’s final verdict.

For An Irish Experience, the test is different. A place can be beautiful and still fail as an excerpt if it reads like an inventory of landmarks. I choose passages where observation becomes interpretation: the writer notices something in a street, conversation, weather pattern, or local habit and discovers what it reveals. Then I read the passage aloud. If the sentences depend entirely on the printed page to sound convincing, I keep editing until the human voice is audible.

Supply context without taking over

Context is part of the excerpt’s courtesy. I identify the book, the chapter when possible, and the point from which the scene begins. I explain an unfamiliar institution, a previous event, or a term that would otherwise stop an Australian reader. I do not add so much explanation that I become the author of a different text. A short note should unlock the scene and then yield to it.

That balance is especially important when a work deals with public history. Readers in Melbourne, Sydney, or regional Australia may know the broad subject without sharing the specific local references that shape a scene. A brief glossary or a sentence of background can prevent confusion, but it should preserve the original cadence. I would rather clarify an unusual word than normalise the prose into something it is not.

I also mark the natural edges of the selection. Trimming in the middle of an exchange can make the excerpt feel manipulative, while joining two distant passages creates an argument the book never made. Sometimes a scene needs to begin several paragraphs before its strongest line. I test each cut by reading it without the surrounding chapter. If it feels like a missing page rather than a self-contained encounter, I move the boundary or choose another scene.

Test the passage against Australian reading habits

Australian readers arrive with wide differences in background, vocabulary, and expectation. Some are reading on an ebook during a commute; others prefer audiobooks, paperbacks, or a library copy reserved for the weekend. Public libraries and local book clubs remain important spaces for shared attention, and the excerpt often circulates there before anyone buys the book. I therefore edit for clarity without sanding away dialect, history, or a voice that may be unfamiliar.

The local bookselling market shapes what happens next. Dymocks, QBD, Booktopia, independent bookshops, and second-hand dealers serve different needs, from convenient ordering to the pleasure of browsing a crowded table. An online excerpt can bridge that gap, but only if it gives the reader a genuine sense of the book’s language. The commercial exchange should follow the literary experience rather than replace it.

Feedback matters because a passage can seem persuasive on the author’s screen and puzzling to everyone else. I ask editors, teachers, and attentive readers to say what they understood, what they assumed, and where attention fell. For a model of an honest exchange between writer and reader, I often return to this candid reflection. I treat useful comments as evidence, especially when several readers notice the same missing piece of context.

Apply a disciplined publishing check

Before a passage goes online, I separate editorial quality from technical and legal readiness. Owning the underlying manuscript does not remove the need to check permissions for quoted material, photographs, letters, or interview transcripts. The Copyright Act 1968 and its fair-dealing provisions may permit limited uses in some circumstances, but a disclaimer cannot replace a licence or ownership. Publication details also need care under the Australian Consumer Law, contained in the Competition and Consumer Act 2010: edition, format, price, and availability must not be presented inaccurately.

My final checklist is short enough to use and strict enough to prevent haste:

• Read the selection without the book jacket or promotional copy, then note where curiosity fades.
• Read it aloud to catch missing explanations, repeated rhythms, and dialogue that no longer sounds spoken.
• View it on a phone, tablet, and ordinary computer, checking spacing, captions, links, and page weight.
• Retain the author’s punctuation and meaningful repetitions, since these often carry the voice.
• Confirm attribution, permissions, chapter information, alt text, and every link before publication.
• Ask a reader outside the project to describe the passage rather than explain what I hoped it meant.

These checks are not a substitute for judgment. They stop small errors from making a serious piece of writing look careless. Once the passage is live, I read it again as part of the site, looking for a heading that makes a false promise and for surrounding links that compete with the excerpt’s own voice.

Keep the page useful beyond publication day

An author’s website has a longer life than most promotional material. This site now preserves material connected with my life and work after my death in 2016, so a published passage has an archival role as well as an immediate one. That changes the standard of care. A reader may arrive years later with a different question, and the page should still identify the source, offer accurate navigation, and avoid pretending that a temporary campaign has become permanent commentary.

I also resist the temptation to post every attractive paragraph. Quantity can dilute the reasons to read the complete books. The site is more useful when it balances new writing with dependable information about Gideon’s Children and An Irish Experience, including publication details and routes to Australian booksellers. Readers who find one excerpt should be able to understand the wider body of work without having to decode a crowded archive.

I often think of an excerpt as a hand extended across a distance. It should be truthful about what lies beyond it, generous about the person reaching back, and strong enough to hold that connection. The selection does not replace the book; it earns the reader’s next step.

Read an excerpt, follow the publication page for the work that interests you, and choose an Australian bookseller for the edition or format you prefer. Come back to the blog for essays on literature, Ireland, civil rights, race, and personal reflection, then share the reading experience with someone who has not yet found the book.