What does a bookshop do which nobody else can? And what has it got to do with why my bad memory can make even the hardiest, most optimistic author’s heart sink, and whether or not my family ever read this blog?
It is a little-known fact that the old trope of a piano falling on someone’s head was inspired by every Irish person ever who felt proud of themselves for even five minutes. In this post I deal with misplaced pride, indie publishing scams, bogus bestsellers, my difficult childhood, and why if you want to be original, you should never read anything written by anyone else. Ever.
I want to blow my mind with a book, but the publishing world is consistently offering me the literary equivalent of aspirin. Unfortunately, what I want doesn’t seem to fit into those narrow marketing categories which now dictate everything we read. Don’t they know that the biggest blockbusters of the last few decades didn’t fit in either, and that’s kind of the bloody point?
When it comes to selling your book, what’s the difference between marketing and shouting? Is it possible to promote through social media without your friends and family feeling like they’ve come under attack? I asked social media guru and non-fiction author Lorna Sixsmith – is it possible to market a book without annoying people?
Holiday reading lists are ridiculous. They are lists of books people haven’t read yet, and therefore full of books people won’t ever actually read. Authors are particular culprits, promoting their own books by lying about their intentions to read those written by other people. But are the rest of us mortal folk missing out on a trick? Not being quoted in newspapers doesn’t mean we can’t also go around lying about what we’re reading this summer. Why should authors have all the fun?
Why is Young Adult Fiction pigeon-holed into a daftly narrow age category? If so-called General Fiction is a mirror held up to society which helps us to cope with what we are – how better to do this, than to look at ourselves while we are becoming what we are? But don’t worry, it’s not all serious. Or perhaps it all is, except for that last sentence. Hmmmm.