The London Book Fair

I saw a strange shiny thing in the sky this morning over London. Not sure what it was, but it had flashing lights and seemed to be moving quite fast in the direction of Heathrow. Probably some kind of UFO, I expect.

I’ve not made much progress with my novel so far this week as I’ve just returned home from three days at the London Book Fair in sunny Earls Court. I lugged my heavy laptop around with me between meetings, thinking I’d get some writing done in a quiet corner, but I would always bump into an old friend or bookseller or publishing colleague and get chatting for ages.

The London Book Fair used to be called The London International Book Fair, but the International bit was dropped some years ago. I suspect they dropped it because it sounded a bit chippy, but the absence of that word made the show’s title accurately reflect the almost complete absence of overseas visitors this year. There were empty stands where exhibitors couldn’t even show up. The majority of people’s appointments were cancelled. Summersdale sent a rights assistant home after the first day, since there was no point just sitting on the stand reading newspapers. It was a shame, because we were showing off our new design of exhibition stand and there were not many people around to appreciate it.

At least Summersdale’s 20^th anniversary party went with a bang. The place was heaving with guests including agents, publishers, writers, illustrators, some lovely people from Waterstone’s and a couple of blatant gatecrashers. We had fun with stories of the early days in the business when we all lived in the office, showered in the car park with a hosepipe and travelled the country in old Post Office vans selling books into the shops.

I think it was in my book How to Get Published that I wrote about how authors dress when visiting book fairs. Male authors have a tendency to wear hats and scruffy suits at these events, for reasons best known to themselves. Female writers just tend to be a little dishevelled. Both sexes will carry a small rucksack full of copies of their manuscript. They come to book fairs to make contacts with publishers, to offer their manuscripts for submission in person, and to learn directly what kinds of books publishers are looking for. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Publishers, however, are generally there to sell rights to their existing books rather than to sign up new ones from passing scribes. So it’s not unknown for publishers to pretend to be in an important meeting when a writer passes by their stand in order to avoid being drawn into a long sales pitch. Writers only have themselves to blame for this: if they smartened themselves up and checked their hats into the cloakroom at the entrance to the exhibition hall they would be much harder for publishers to spot and would have a greater chance of being able to pitch their book proposal. In my ‘disguise’ as a publisher I pitched The Sphinx Scrolls a few times this week to publishers and booksellers, and came away highly encouraged by the response I received. I really must put a hat on and finish this book now… 

More volcanoes

Just when I thought I was safe from the threat of volcanoes (see my recent posts from Lanzarote), I come home to find that Iceland – not content with helping themselves to the savings of English charities – has the cheek to squirt a whole load of volcanic ash in Britain’s direction. I couldn’t actually see a single speck of the dust that is apparently up there somewhere, but it was sufficient to close all of Britain’s airports today. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to look at the sky without jet contrails streaking across it, so this afternoon was quite special in that respect. For producers of period dramas it was a great day.

It’s not been a great day for my writing, though. I ended up spending most of it catching up with e-mails and then visiting a garden centre to look at the prices of palm trees (I want some in my front garden and another one by the pool in the back garden to give it a tropical feel). A skanky, half dead tree with its fronds stuck on with Sellotape will set you back £600. Bargain. I wonder if they do them in plastic?

Next week is the London Book Fair, and I’ll be heading up that way on Monday. It’s my company’s 20^th anniversary party, so I’m really looking forward to an evening of nostalgia and being reminded of how old I am. I can still remember what it was like on the day the company was formed. I sat at the desk in my bedroom, told myself I was now a publisher, twiddled my thumbs, and wondered what to do.

Can’t say it’s all that different twenty years on, really.

Failing spectacularly

About ten years ago in a London basement Malcolm McLaren said to me, from behind a haze of his own cigarette smoke, that everything he had tried to do in his life had failed. He was referring mainly to the bands he had managed (which had broken up, usually acrimoniously), and to the shops he had run (which had eventually closed). But he explained that he had a knack of ‘failing spectacularly’. He was not a person to fail with a fizzle: he failed with an explosive bang that got him noticed every time. I think that was how he created success. Sadly today he achieved his final failure and he’ll be missed.

I had a small fizzle of a failure yesterday, which was that I didn’t post anything new on my blog for the first time since I started it at the beginning of March. This was because I normally write my blog entries in the evenings, and I spent that evening at 35,000 feet trying to sleep despite the baby screaming several rows behind me. I got home at 1:00 am today and decided I was too tired to bother writing anything. And I haven’t worked on my book at all since I got back, so I have nothing to say on the subject today. I didn’t go jogging today, I didn’t study Mayan or Portuguese languages. All I did was catch up with e-mails, get a flat ready for a new tenant and collect Pooch from his own little doggy holiday. I think he had a nice time and got more of a tan than I did.

I’ve been offered a year’s free membership of a swanky London club. That’s rather lovely, thank you very much. I won’t name it in case anyone reading this has just had to pay a fortune to join the same place, but the photos of its rooms look pretty amazing on their website. I think I’ll take them up on the offer and give the place a go. Might be a useful and inspiring retreat for getting on with writing when I have to be in London for the Book Fair and other events.

Tomorrow I shall try to get back into my routine of fitness, writing, learning and whatever else needs doing. Probably the washing-up. But it’s hard to jump straight back in at the deep end. I’m still trying to get used to a world without Malcolm McLaren, having a Duchess of Cornwall with a gammy leg, and driving in a country that has road signs.