On Thursday, I travelled down to London to meet my agent and publisher. This, I thought, would make everything official, and I would henceforth be able to call myself a Proper Author.
Despite hailing the one and only cabbie in London who *doesn’t* know where the Dickens House museum is, I arrived safely at Ian’s offices so we could get acquainted. He apologised for his visitor’s chair, a chrome and leather contraption in which authors have been lost, never to be seen again, and we exchanged tales of how book collections outgrow their shelves and having climbed the walls begin to colonise every available flat surface in one’s home like some sort of literary fungus. Continue reading
…but a fortnight is a bloody long time to keep your lip zipped when you’re sitting on astonishing news like this.
Lest I get too big-headed about this, I shall let theBookseller.com tell the story:
Yes, that’s me she’s talking about. Little old me who’s been scribbling away for mumblety-mumble years on a rag-tag collection of reporters’ notebooks, A4 pads and the backs of old envelopes. Who wrote the first draft of the opening chapter twelve years ago in a haze of rage and pain, and who wrote the entire siege of Chapterhouse in one sitting (read the book and you’ll understand what a big deal that was; go on, read it!) and bawled her eyes out as she killed off one of her favourite characters because It Had To Be Done.
As Nanny Ogg said, “Well I’ll be mogadored!”