I have a really good gossip story for you this week.
A publisher tries to get in touch with one of his authors for a publicity stunt he succeeded in setting up. He sends the author an email. No reply. A few days later, sends another one – of the type “I was wondering if you received my previous email?” No reply. Might the author indeed be on holiday? On the other hand the publisher knows the author is the owner of a one of those beauties called a blackberry. In fact on a previous visit the publisher has seen the author checking the device on a regular basis. So after another couple of days the publisher decides to give the author a ring. He is put through to the answer machine. Leaves a message. A few hours later he finally receives a phone call – not from the author but from the author’s agent. Firstly the author is not interested in the publisher’s publicity stunt, secondly he prefers not to have direct contact with the publisher and thirdly he hopes the publisher soon will publish the author’s next book.
To avoid misunderstandings here: this little story has nothing to do with me or Peirene’s growing number of authors. Six by now. It’s merely an anecdote I overheard at the hairdresser’s the other day. After all, I live in North London, an area known for its authors, art folk and publishers, too.
I am biased of course. My sympathies go out to this poor, hard working publisher. A win-win situation for all sides, that’s what he seems to offer his author. Surely any author would want publicity? Get known? Sell more books? Presumably that’s why an author decides to get a publisher in the first place. To help him spread his work. Otherwise, why bother getting a publisher. The work might as well stay in the drawer.
There is of course another explanation: The author believes his job is to write and the publisher’s job is to do the rest: to publish, to publicise, to market, to sell, to make famous the book and the author.
Fair enough. Some people like clear boundaries. Nothing wrong with that.
And that’s not what caused my internal outrage when I heard the story. No. The impoliteness of the author is the scandalous bit. When you are spoken to nicely, you answer back nicely. Simple table manners. You don’t send a third person. The poor, poor publisher.
Anyway, it’s none of my business. I got me hair done and went home. And now I am sending loving thoughts to all of my authors for being such brilliant collaborators and communicators, and also to their parents for bringing them up so nicely. With our combined positive energies, I am sure Peirene and them will go many successful miles.
P.S I won’t be able to delight you with a story about the pain and passion of a small publisher next week, but shall be back in two weeks time reporting on THE summer party of the year - the launch party of “Stone in a Landslide” , Peirene Title No 2.
dream of mocking her. Or have you never heard of the famous fable of the tortoise and the hare?
performed beautifully and guests enjoyed themselves. No drama, no story to tell. End of this blog entry. Were it not for the beauty competition. We introduced this new aspect of the literary Salon quite subtly, not everyone might have noticed.
girls when they grow up, adjust their dreams to reality. Not me. I still want to become a chic lady, in fact a lady who lunches. I work hard to achieve my dream. And not anyone will do as my dining companion.
empty. But Peirene and I had the best fair ever. Honest to God. And I promise you if you read on – there will be no sad, sudden traumatic twist to the story. Total bliss. For three days. And the glow is still written all over my face.
year is complete. On Wednesday I had booked myself up for all the three days of the London Book Fair next week - so my little publishing house has clearly “arrived”. And on Thursday I finally caught up with the email back log from the Easter break. Life and work had fallen into order. I put on some music, Bob Dylan, to help me through the last task of the day.
Peirene No 3, 
woman who needs something less intellectual, more straight forward. With Edward Cullen it’s serious. No teenage infatuation. I loved him in Twilight and love him even more in New Moon. It’s out on DVD and I got it, watched it and now I can’t forget him. I want to become a Vampire to be happy forever after.
blame him and his Marmite obsession for the failing taste buds of our children. He force fed them the stuff at an early tender age and now they think they love it. But they can’t – they are half German after all. However I fear the damage has been done. My poor darling children are scarred for life.