Publicity Juggernaut

It is just over three months to lift-off, and the publicity juggernaut is revving up.

By that I mean that Pauline has sent me a list of things that I should do. “I see that Black Kids’ second single went straight in at number thirty-six,” she added. “Nice job picking them as the next big thing.”

“Are you marketing them on the side?” I email her back.


Picking an item from the list at random, I call my local library. I have no idea where my local library is, having never belonged to one, but the Internet directs me to Acton. An Indian man answers the phone.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“Yes, my name’s Christopher Hardy. I live right by you and I’m having a novel published in a few months.”

“Well bully for you, sir. Why are you telling me this?”

“Err…Well, I thought you might be interested in doing some kind of event for the launch or something.”

“What kind of event do you think we do? It’s a library. We have books and a few CDs that people can come and take out and enjoy. Do you think I have time to organise a party? Perhaps you would like me to heat up some sausage rolls and bake a cake for you?”

“I didn’t think you’d allow food in a library…”

“No we don’t sir. Now please I must get on.”

He hangs up and I cross the item off my list.



To my surprise, the local sales rep agrees to meet me for lunch (on his expense account) in my local pub. I haven’t worked in over three weeks and I would spend an hour with a contestant on The Apprentice if he paid for the meal.

Mick introduces himself with a firm handshake. He is all suit and hair gel and aftershave. I order a burger and a pint and to my disappointment Mick just has a lime soda. “Have a pint,” I urge.

“I spend all day driving around. I gave up boozing altogether soon after I got the job.” We find a table and sit down. “I heard you like your drink. Don’t you worry about your health?”

“Haven’t you heard? The economy is in global meltdown. Pensions and the NHS won’t exist by the time I reach retirement age. Aiming to live a long life is no longer economically viable.”

“But you could save the money you’d spend on alcohol and fund your old age instead.”

“Well, you have a point.” I gulp my beer. “So, how’s the book selling? I’m picturing posters smothering the windows of WH Smith’s, billboards dominating the city streets, a primetime television advertising campaign…”

Mick laughs. “You think that people who watch ITV read books? All I can do is get it into the shops.”

“And have you?”

“Some of them. All the major Waterstones and Borders will have copies. I was surprised that Harper Collins has labelled it sci-fi though. So I insisted on selling it as a futuristic thriller.”

My eyes widen. “You did? That’s great.”

“Yeah. It might have backfired a little.” I wait for him to continue. “I sort of realised that I already had too many straight fiction books and yours might have got a bit lost in the crowd. It was then that I realised why Harper Collins were marketing it as sci-fi. There is method in their madness.” He points his finger and smiles.

“So what’s happening?”

“Well, it lost a bit of ground. The shops were a bit confused. At least when it’s labelled as a particular genre it gets sold in a small section of a shop and has a better chance of being reached by a particular audience. So…it will be in the sci-fi section.”

“But not WH Smith’s?”

“Listen, these book series are slow burners. When the second volume comes out, everyone will want to stock it, as well as back orders of the first.”

“If it sells enough for there to be a second volume.”

“Well, there is that.”

“Has it sold well to the Ealing borough independents?”

“To be honest, the local market really didn’t seem interested. I’ve never had that before. Maybe we can try your hometown. Where did you grow up?”

“Dartford.”

“Dartford? Jesus. I’m not going there.”

“Oh.”

“But apparently Jeff Black up in the North East has been doing well with it.” He jumps up. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“My food hasn’t even got here.”

“Sorry. Got to run. Lots of people are clamouring to see James Hardy’s book.”



Back at the flat, I steel myself and call a local Internet radio station and give my spiel.

“Oh, wonderful,” the girl says. “We’re always looking to get local talent on.”

“Sorry? I mean, yes, excellent.”

“We’d definitely like to get you on for an interview and a reading, if it’s suitable for broadcast.”

“Well that would be great. I mean, I’ll make it clean. What’s your audience size?”

“We’re on the Internet so we have the potential for about four billion people listening at any time.”

“Right. And in actuality?”

“Couple of hundred.”

“Okay. Well let’s do it.”

“Cool. So what type of book is it Christopher?”

“It’s a futuristic…” I trail off, gazing into space.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sci-fi,” I say. “It’s a sci-fi novel.”