Confession 4 The Author and the Internet

The author and the internet:

Number of Amazon reviews received over two novels: 13 (erp)

Number of top *****Amazon reviews by author friends (unsolicited, they know how much it means, bless em): 4

Number of top *****Amazon reviews by mates (unsolicited, bless em): 3

Number of top *****Amazon reviews by mates (shamelessly solicited): 3

Number of top *****Amazon reviews by complete strangers (love these people to BITS): 2

Number of bottom bummer * (Heading: "I'm sorry I wasted my money on this book") Amazon reviews by complete strangers (?) (utter bitch cow): 1

Number of top ***** Amazon reviews typed by self: 2
ARGH, OK: The first was a review posted by friend (solicited) but she posted to the US site Amazon.com instead of Amazon.co.uk, I couldn't let these lines of ego-boosting words of wisdom stay hidden in the depths of my million+ rating (I'm not published in the US), so I copied it out on the UK site. The second was a friend who wrote a review but couldn't work out how to post it on the site, so I kindly did it for her.

Number of times I check my Amazon rating: Once a day. (Part of logging onto computer morning ritual, along with e-mail, www.bbc.co.uk/celebdaq.co.uk (currently 851 hooray highest score yet); www.writersalmanac.publicradio.org; www.chicklitworkinprogress.blogspot.com
& 1 game of freecell (sign that writing going well at moment).

Number of times I Google myself and my books: Once a week (very surprising activity. Have just discovered secondhand books on e-bay, a new supplier of narcissistic timewasting. Recently uncovered a lovely review by an Aussie trying to flog novel. It had had two bids and reached 3 Australian dollars.

Number of times I inspect www.bookcrossing.com: Once a fortnight. (Disappointing activity, despite having 'freed' one of my own books. It was picked up by a librarian who liked the game but was put off by the primary colours of the OTT commercial cover.)

Number of times I check my mates' books out on Amazon: Once a week.

Number of times I check my rivals' books out on Amazon: Once a month. (Relative: at time of publication this rises to 5 - 15 times a day in tandem with own hysterical ratings obsession.).

Bye bye, thanks for visiting, come again soon.

Confession 3 Overheard Conversations

Daughter and friend were playing blind man's buff pick up sticks last night. The 'on' player takes two pick up sticks and uses them like chopsticks, is blindfolded and then picks up sticks by remote instructions from mate. They both wear walkie talkie headphones which makes it more technical, a bit like home-made version of The Golden Shot.

After a while they came into my office, complaining of voices on the headset. I listen. I can hear every word of conversation from the house next door via their baby monitor?! No. Oh noh noh noh. To use this, to even CONSIDER using this would be an evil snooping thing to do of the highest order. Overheard conversations are the choice found objects of the writerly existence. They come into your life of their own accord through the fug of everyday choring around, you can't go and look for them or have them handed to you on a plate like this when you're not expecting it.

As soon as the children get bored and go off downstairs to watch telly I tip toe into daughter's room and grab headset. A conversation is in full flow about about buying two for one. I quickly take the headphones off and hold them away from me between two fingers. I won't do it again. Really. No. Snippets have to be overheard at random points in daily life. All this will throw up is dross and feelings of being the saddest spider in the box. The best can't be made up and come when you're least expecting them. Long may it be so.

On London bus last week:

'He went to sleep with a pizza on his face.'

Bye bye, thanks for visiting, speak again soon.

Confession 2 Publication worries

Philip Larkin said publishing a book is like farting at a party.

My first publication worries in ascending order of sleepless night panic were:

• That nightmare estate agent woman from Chestertons, Tower Bridge Road will recognise herself and sue me. Changing hair colour wasn't enough.
• I will also be sued by Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr who will both read the book all the way through, see "coo coo ca choo" as their copyright and immediately get on the phone to each other to discuss lawyers.
• The sex scenes will be read by my mother, the vicar, the man in the sweetshop and my daughter's headmistress. This is excrutiating. Including graphic detail in cheap, tawdry desperation to get on publishing ladder now seems like a very bad idea indeed.
• Someone will want to interview me.
• No-one will want to interview me.

What happens is the latter. I checked the reviews from The TLS to Heat. Like every new author, I had my rant about the Waterstones stitch-up regime (publishers pay them hefty sums to get on those tables) and I drifted around in a bubble of anxiety, dictated by what everyone I bumped into said - friends, relatives, acquaintances (the worst) - for at least the following three months. Everything in my tiny author mind was categorised by whether they mentioned the book or didn't mention the book. The don't mentions are excrutiating, why aren't they saying anything? They must have hated it. The very worst are the ones who say they've read it but don't give any comment.

Bye bye, speak again soon and thanks for visiting.

Confession 1 Hello and Welcome

Hello and welcome to my blog.

I've just spent ages telling you all about me, only to lose it somehow after 'publication'. Seems I'm never going to get the hang of this publishing business. So, here we go again, a much shortened version because I'm tired and the children are still up watching DVDs (3 in a row, thanks Blockbuster) and it's dinnertime .

1. They say that once you're a published author you never walk into a bookshop in the same way ever again. This is true. After the first of my two novels was published this became a nervous high street tic. And as my surname is at the arse end of the alphabet, this meant going to the lowest shelves in the darkest corners and getting flat down on stomach to inspect my (nearly always) absence. These days it's a permanent absence, my books being history (2003 and 2004). You get about three months on the shelves if you're lucky before they start sending them back as 'returns' and getting the next batch of hopeful newbies in.

2. I also can't look at a photograph in a magazine or any scene on television or in a movie where a bookshelf is present without turning my head sideways and looking for my titles. I even do this with old movies and photographs of Winston Churchill.

Bye for now, speak soon and thanks for visiting.