Press Clippings...

Harper Collins has sent me a package with all the press clippings surrounding the release of my novel, Clear History. I was expecting a motorcycle courier, but the folder arrived instead with the rest of the Royal Mail correspondence in a single A4-sized envelope.

I pick it up between thumb and forefinger and flap it, as though it might trigger some expansion mechanism. It doesn’t. It remains depressingly thin and light.

I spread out the contents on the bedroom floor and pick through the skeletal remains of my writing career. “How could people have bought the thing if no one knew it existed?” I ask Cheryl.

“They don’t know what they’re missing out on,” she says with a sympathetic look.

“Wankers,” I say.

The few national newspaper articles are brief mentions of the book’s existence, either in release round-ups or within reviews of other books, the two relevant words diligently highlighted in luminous yellow marker pen. Most of the actual reviews are short, lukewarm, and from local papers around the UK. Several are nothing to do with me at all, just coincidental uses of the phrase ‘clear history.’

On one clipping, presumably included on a particularly desperate day, someone has attempted to get away with marking the words Clear and History in a paragraph, despite the fact that the words are used in separate sentences in an article about fish tank maintenance.

The print-outs from sci-fi websites are generally longer and more positive, and I linger over them, nodding my head at the praise and ignoring the criticism.

One blogger seemed obsessed with the novel, making almost daily posts in between other entries about Star Trek and The Matrix. Over time he went deeper into his analysis of the themes and morality of my book, penning whole articles on subtexts I had never intended (probably created in my editor’s revisions), creating graphs detailing the complex relationships within the story and supplying his wishes for plot developments in subsequent novels in the projected series. Even he, though, perhaps through a lack of response from anybody at all, appeared to have lost interest after a few weeks, and after an accurate and thorough investigation of my main influences (including, cheekily, Scotch) he never mentioned it again.

I quietly stack the papers together and slide them back into the envelope. “That’s that, then.”

“Not necessarily,” Cheryl says.

“No, not necessarily. But, barring a miracle, almost certainly.”

“I’ve got a little surprise for you,” she says, pulling a copy of Time Out from her bag.

I watch her in silence, not allowing myself to become excited, knowing how disappointing her surprises usually turn out to be. She opens the magazine and hands it to me. The article is entitled ‘The Fifty Best Books You Didn’t Buy This Year (but should have).’

It takes me awhile to find any pertinent information because she hasn’t highlighted anything in yellow. But, near the bottom of the page at number forty-six is Clear History by Christopher Hardy. ‘Stylish, brutal, nightmare vision of the near-future,’ it says.

“I know it’s not huge,” Cheryl says, “but it could be the beginning of a re-examination or something. It might be one of those cult things that get noticed over time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, smiling.

“And look, it’s written by loads of people so it’s not just one person’s opinion.”

“It might get on a few lists,” I say. “And then people will take notice.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you.”

She throws her arms around me and we lie on the floor and cuddle. This, combined with the fact that it is almost dinner when I can start drinking openly, gives me a rare moment of genuine happiness. I kiss Cheryl on her forehead and my stomach is taut with love. She looks beautiful.

I almost tell her that I am happy and that I will never forget this moment, but I hold back. I don’t like to say nice things to her because if I ever leave her then it will just have created more memories for her to feel bitter about. Better for her to think I didn’t care that much than for her to be sitting alone in a dark room for months on end, saying ‘He must have still loved me when he said that…’



Mavis finally replies to an email from days ago:

Christopher, I’m sorry that Chris is not responding to your emails, but I’m afraid I do not have time to track him down personally. I’m sure he is as busy as I am and will get back to you in due course.

Thank you for sending me the chapters of your new novel. Unfortunately, I am not trained to give feedback on an author’s work, and have not read them.

Pauline says to say the same.