I have this thing where if a new book comes out from an author I love I have to have it now. Not tomorrow, not in the afternoon, now. And so today I spent my lunchtime running to bookshops trying to grab a copy of Mike Carey's new book and failing to find it.
In one shop there was an author, a greying, grinning, wince-worthy glimpse into the future. With a smile on his face he was handing a copy of his book to every person who came in. "I'm the author," he'd say, "and I'm signing copies." This was on a Thursday lunchtime so I was left thinking a) most people are on their lunchbreak and probably know exactly why they were there, b) were in a hurry and c) might not be into the type of book he'd written.
This resulted in many people smiling politely, reading (pretending to read?) the blurb and then, as soon as his back was turned putting the book down and running hell-for-leather out of the shop. I was a tad more respectful, I put the book back on the shelf with the other copies.
There's fewer things more desperate than a new author, me thinks. Were it me I'd sit behind my signing table looking forlorn. I'd carry my lack of popularity with dignity, less sweaty enthusiasm. I suppose it's tough but well, he's doing better than me, I guess, but I wouldn't do that. Let me be the only one having a bad day, I'm not going to drag poor work-a-day civilians into my pariahdom.
Anyway.
Writing is going. And I still have lots of books to read anyway.
Thanks for reading.
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