My next book is published today. The long wait between acceptance and publication feels to me very like being pregnant, except the gestation can be as long as ten years. Tomorrow it’s the launch – the christening, I suppose – where the baby’s head will be well sprinkled with champagne and where I hope the world will gaze as fondly on my new offspring as I do myself.
Then there’s the sense of anti-climax, of what happens next? I fight the urge to check my Amazon rankings and imagine I can immerse myself in the next novel seamlessly.
I’m preparing myself for this book to slide painlessly beneath the waves, jostled and suffocated by the other 2,000 odd that will also appear this week. Some writers can market their books, get publicity, make sure their moment in the spotlight is as long as possible. One reason why I am too cowardly to self-publish is that I lack the stomach for the endless graft of selling myself.
If you were to ask me what I would like from you, my potential reader, it would be this. If you read it and enjoy it, tell your friends. Word of mouth is the best way to sell a book. Then ask your local library to stock it. That is all. I hope you will.