All Things Considered

Doom and Gloom, Go Zoom to the Moon!

Anyone who's read any of my previous blog posts knows that I am not a floaty, fluffy, 'it's all sunshine and moonbeams' kinda gal when it comes to this writing malarkey... I'm a realist. I'm all for realism. What I'm not a great fan of is scaremongering codswallop. So, the publishing industry's going through changes... has that never happened before? Book sales are down and, apparently, the end of the physical book is in sight... well, we're in the middle of an economic recession... money spent on social drinking is down, but who's going to suggest that beer's about to become extinct? There are less people reading and buying books than ever before! Really? Considering the fact that in early Victorian Britain a third of the population was illiterate, a further third was only semi-literate, and the working classes couldn't even afford to buy books, I find that very hard to believe. The silver screen was going to kill books dead, the TV screen was going to do the same thing... ebooks promised the same. When did it happen? I think I must have missed it, as I saw books in the bookstore at the weekend, and they were real... I touched one to make sure (ok, I admit it, I bought five).

When I do a book signing (selling full-price books in this climate where, according to the 'experts', only discounted books stand a chance of selling), I sit in a bookshop for hours, watching the people come and go, search the shelves and then trundle off with their bundles of books. I listen to them talk about their hunger for more books to read, their frustration that the current economic climate means that they have had to cut back on buying books for the time being, and their hopes that when things get better they can go back to buying as many books as they did before. There's no sign that books have lost favour; they just aren't as important to the survival of mankind as food is, so when a choice has to be made, people buy that instead. I know, I know, who could have predicted that would happen?

Whilst Philip Roth is predicting that interest in fiction will dwindle to a 'cultic' minority enthusiasm within 25 years, I am going to predict only one thing... that in 25 years, people will be predicting that interest in fiction will dwindle to a 'cultic' minority enthusiasm within 25 years. So, doom and gloom can go fly to the moon. It's all happened before and, for anyone who knows the first thing about history, it was actually worse back then. If the end really is nigh, as it has been countless times since time began, I would like to be told when 'nigh' is going to be... I'm sick of waiting and I want to make sure I'm wearing clean undies for the big event.

Great Expectations

'Are your books doing as well as you hoped they would?' I have been asked this question so many times, and I haven't once been able to answer it. I have no answer. In order for my books to do as well as I hoped, I'd have had to hope in the first place. I was told by a very dear friend, when I was sixteen years old, that there's no money to be made in writing about art. He'd been doing it for years, and was very well respected in the field... he knew what he was talking about. I listened to him, accepted that I would make no money, and continued regardless. Much later, another writer friend told me that I'd have more chance of being struck by lightning than becoming recognised for my great genius. I accepted that I would be broke and unknown, and continued along my chosen path all the same. Later still, I was told to expect poor reviews... to take them on the chin, as nobody escapes them. I was prepared to be broke, unknown, and disliked by those who did manage to discover my existence. I was also told to avoid book signings, as they are unproductive and painfully boring, and that book buyers are prone to staring, pointing and telling you what they really think of you, to your face, so direct contact should be avoided if at all possible. I anticipated being broke, unknown, disliked by those who did uncover my existence, and eventually heckled by Saturday shoppers... and still I persisted.

I have people come up to me at signings and say, with that particular dreamy look in their eyes, "I want to be a writer". Surprisingly (well, I think it is) they go on to talk of celebrity and fortune. If only they had the time, they'd write that bestseller and retire to a condo on the beach. I try to bring them down to earth gently, by informing them that I am nowhere close to building a condo on the beach (which is just as well really... I live in Weston-super-Mare, it would sink), and that most books fade into obscurity three months after they're published. I dash their hopes, and they hate me for it. "But this shouldn't stop you from writing," I say, as they trundle off to the cookery section to plot my assassination.

In truth, I have no great desire for fame and fortune. I have no objection to money, so if it throws itself at me I won't beat it off with a stick. But I am not the best candidate for fame... being too fond of speaking my mind and using the words "bugger" and "backside" in public. Infamy might be more up my street, and I think I may have achieved that in certain quarters already. I have been very pleasantly surprised by the positive response my books have received, by sales figures, and by the fact that I haven't, as yet, been accosted by book buyers wielding pitchforks (though I do realise that this might be because of the rarity of pitchforks in modern shopping malls).

I suggested to an aspiring writer (who was really an aspiring celebrity) that we should take one writer and one rock... monitor the progress of the writer as he attempts to get published and the rock as it attempts to turn itself into a squirrel... and take bets on which will succeed first. He huffed at me and thought me a swear word with knobs on. Writing a book is hard work. Marketing a book is hard work. Everything about this writing malarkey is hard work. Becoming a number one bestseller and household name is as much about luck as it is about talent. In fact, the former isn't reliant on the latter.

It's got to be about the writing. The sheer desire to write, regardless of the outcome. Everything else is uncertain and likely to drive you slowly around the bend.

I Still Think of Cedric

On the subject of food again, I don't often talk about the fact that I'm a vegetarian. When the subject does come up, I'm usually asked how I came to be a veggie, and my answer is always the same... 'I once murdered a chicken.'

The roots of my vegetarianism lie in the year 1972, in a village in southern Italy. I am half Italian (Calabrese to be exact), and my grandmother had a farm (like Old MacDonald). On that farm she had some goats... and chickens. She also had a granddaughter who, at the age of three, thought that chickens were cute and cuddly and handy during a game of cricket when no ball was available. Not realising my own strength, or that the heads of chickens are not made from reinforced concrete, I took a length of wood and swiped my new feathered friend (Cedric was her name) across the noggin with all my might. The sound of the wood making contact with that chicken's skull was followed by a cry from my grandmother. That cry was followed by half an hour of plucking, and the eventual appearance of that chicken on a large ceramic platter as dinner was served later that evening.

The connection was quickly made, in my young mind, between my activities with a makeshift bat that afternoon and the demise and subsequent consumption (not by me) of Cedric later in the day. The events of that day formed the basis for numerous storytelling sessions by various family members who thought me rather cute. I thought me rather murderous (and still do) and made a vow never to harm another living creature.

I was the first vegetarian in my family, as far as I know. Thankfully, my mother, being prepared for my unusual eating habits by the fact that I had refused milk from the moment I was born and had always been a difficult bugger to feed, had learned to be rather creative in the kitchen. This was not the case with my extended family in Britain, who believed that vegetarians could exist on a diet of nothing but cheese and pickle sandwiches.

But anyway, there you have it... how I came to be a veggie. I still think of Cedric... very often in fact. I have much to thank her for... the rest of chicken-kind is safe from me. I do wonder, however, how much consolation that would provide.