"You’ve written a sci-fi novel. That’s just not sexy..."

The publicist and marketer assigned to me are horrible crones with pointed beaks for noses and beady slits for eyes. They are hideously ugly and evil and their personal hygiene is questionable. They won’t mind me saying this because we have agreed I should be honest in this blog.

I’m sitting at a large table with them at Harper Collins. They look at me like birds of prey studying a vole in a field. “So, I hear it’s going to take over a year to get my book out,” I say.

“That’s very standard,” Pauline tells me.

“Really?” I say sarcastically. I reach for my water glass and send it spinning across the table, big drops of water leaping out and scattering themselves across the wood. I manage to grab it with both hands before it topples, and bring it to my mouth like a model in a Cup-a-Soup commercial. They look at me as if they knew I was going to do that.

“Yes,” Mavis says. “We need time to build a buzz about you. No one knows who you are right now. We need to change that.”

“Well, just tell ‘em,” I suggest. “A quick phone call, job done. A day at most.”

“Tell who?” Pauline asks.

“Don’t know,” I admit. I reach for my glass and take another sip with excruciating slowness. “The press?”

“There’s a lot of press out there,” Pauline says. “Do you know how many books are released every week?”

“Not my problem,” I say, trying a new tact. “It’s up to you to let people know I’m the next big thing. I’ve written a great book and it’s going to blow people away.”

“We have to be realistic,” Mavis says. “If we tell people that every author we have is the greatest writer since Hemmingway then they’re going to get bored very quickly. They get told that every week as it is.”

“Not every author,” I say meekly. “Just me. Worry about me.”

“We have twenty writers to look after,” Pauline says.

“So? What can you do for me?”

“Well actually, we wanted to hear your ideas.”

“Mine?”

“Authors are expected to do a lot of the publicity themselves, I’m afraid. If you want to sell you’ve got to put yourself out there. Phone local radio stations, print up flyers for appearances, go to reading groups.”

I’m aghast. “I want to do multi-page spreads in broadsheet weekend supplements. I want to go on Mayo in the afternoon.”

They look at each wearily. “First time authors don’t really get that level of publicity.”

“What about Zadie Smith?”

“Phenomena like that are rare.”

“Look at me though. I’ve got a face to grace magazine covers. I’m a happening young thing. I’m the new Alex Garland.”

“Well, you’re not really young, I’m afraid.”

“And you’re not as good looking as Alex Garland…”

“Or Zadie Smith…”

“And, well, you’ve written a sci-fi novel. That’s just not…sexy.”

We look at each other in silence for a moment. “We could call it…a futuristic thriller,” I suggest.

“Even so,” Mavis says. “With a year we may be able to make something happen. Besides, it sounds like you’ve got a lot of re-writes to do.”

“That could take a year anyway,” Pauline adds.

I get up from my chair and lie on the leather sofa against the window.

“Are you stressed?” Pauline asks.

“Yes.”

“Just relax.” They pull up chairs next to me and Mavis strokes my head. “We can help you. Part of our job is to make sure the writers are happy. We can’t have you all conflicted. Tell us something dark about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Something you’ve never told anyone else.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Come on,” they coax, “There must be something. We’ve heard it all. We can help you if you unburden yourself.”

“I have a fantasy…”

“Yes?”

“I fantasise about being covered in napalm and burning to death.”

“I see. What else?”

“I wonder if I held a lit match under my tongue would it sizzle.”

“Sizzle?”

“The spit.”

“Right.”

“I’d like to sleep with three groupies at once.”

“Sexual matters aren’t our forte.”

“Well, the napalm thing was specifically on my genitals. I didn’t say that at the time.”

“Close your eyes and relax.”



When I awake they have gone. No one can get hold of them on the phone. Nothing is resolved. They know too much.