The catch

You might think, reasonably, that a writer's work ends when he, or she, finishes writing his, or her, book. This was the view of Maggie Gee. So it came as a shock when her editor at HarperCollins turned down her fifth book because not enough people had heard of her and this was an age when "profile" counted. Like many writers, Maggie had shown no special interest in the "literary set". She had concentrated on writing and her home life. Maggie's dismal encounter with her mainstream publisher is told in her new book, My Animal Life, and quoted in the Guardian. She is now published by a small independent publisher. Many writers who now find the world of mainstream publishers impenetrable have done the same. I am among them. The publisher of my new novel, Five Deadly Words, is Solidus. The book is sold either by direct order or though Amazon, which after all is the world's biggest bookshop. I believe the best publicity is by word of mouth. Distribute some copies of your book to people you know to be readers in the hope that they will like the book and recommend it to a friend. It takes time to show results but be patient.

My new book

My new novel, Five Deadly Words, has just been published. This is the eleventh to get into print. The first, The Money Tree, was the easiest. I sent the ms off to Hamish Hamilton and three weeks later I had a letter inviting me to call in. I came away with an advance of £100, quite a respectable sum in those days. Getting published was easy, I decided. Silly me. These days mainstream publishers would rather receive a tax demand in the post than a ms from an author. Fortunately there is growing number of smaller publishers who retain the personal link with their writers. My publisher is Solidus, run by a clever woman called Helen Miles who uses new developments in printing to keep costs down. Five Deadly Words is sold though Amazon, the world's biggest bookshop, which thoughtfully also stocks almost every one of my previous books. More on this later.

Apology

I haven't written a blog for some time. My only excuse is that I have been working on a new novel, my eleventh, called Five Deadly Words, due to be published by Solidus next year. More later. Hold your breath.

Reunited by a blog

A blog produces surprises, usually pleasant ones. I had lost contact with Mike, a journalist, when we went our own ways back in the 1960s. He came across my name on the web and found my blog. Mike and I were sub-editors on the Daily Herald. It is not a publication much remembered now, although it was once the most popular newspaper in Britain. Its great days were between the wars. But by the 1960s it was losing circulation against the likes of the Daily Express and the Daily Mirror. While Mike and I were there it was relaunched as the Sun, but after a promising send-off it declined and was sold to Murdoch who turned it into the successful tabloid it is today.

Who reads books?

Andy Murray, Britain's brightest tennis hope, was asked what he was reading. He is said to have replied, "I don't read. I haven't read a book since the second Harry Potter", that is since 1998. Well, why should he read? Those who do read books sometimes find it hard to understand what life would be like without them. Pretty empty? Not necessarily. I think we may be moving into the post-literary era. To read a book requires some leisure time, and for most people their leisure time is already full up. Don't be snobbish about books. Is watching an hour of television less "cultural" than reading a book? It depends of course, but generally the answer is no. Culture exists in many ways: conversation, for example - the mobile phone encourages the long conversation; the cinema, even blogging. So who does read books? It is a minority activity. Quite small, and getting smaller. And yet there are all these books being published, seemingly more than ever before. A puzzle. I'd like to return to the subject when I've thought a bit more about it. I just want to turn on the TV to see how Murray has done today.

The last bookshop

I will be sorry to see the end of bookshops. They have been friendly places: and brave too, stocking books the booksellers knew they would never sell, but giving them accommodation, heat and light before returning them to their publisher for a credit. I feel a bit guilty too that in a tiny way I may be contributing to their demise. It is not my fault that most of my books are now sold through Amazon, which is not particularly friendly but is efficient at selling world-wide. All the same, I have spurned offers to join the Organisation of Latterday Luddites, decent people though its members are, and consider that its slogan, Gutenberg Lives, is not really accurate. I agree that, looking around one of the great book supermarkets, say Waterstones in Piccadilly, London, conventional book marketing does have a look of permanence. How could all this disappear? But they said the same about the British empire. Sorry about that. But there will still be secondhand bookshops. Very friendly places.
Hot news. My publisher Solidus has entered my most recent novel, Beyond Reason, for the People's Book Prize. This is a new prize with entries restricted to books from independent publishers. So no conglomerates. You can read about it at www.peoplesbookprize.com and, if you are so inclined, vote for your favourite book.

The perils of fame

I have always been aware of the perils of fame. Years ago, while I was waiting for my first novel to be published I offered the editor of the newspaper where I worked an article on this notable event. The danger to a young writer of instant success, the corruption of money, the pain of fame. He declined. Funny business, literature, he said. So it turned out to be. The event passed unnoticed. Five kindly lines in the Observer for The Money Tree did not impress my publisher, Hamish Hamilton (Jamie to his friends, Mr Hamilton to me).
However, the threat of fame did not go away. For my second novel, Point of Stress, Mr Hamilton primed some of his better known writers who also reviewed books that he expected some enthusiasm for this promising recruit to their trade. They did not fail him. It has the cleansing sanity of Candide and of the the best of Bernard Shaw, wrote John Raymond, then a critic of some eminence, sadly dead now. One is left in better heart for reading it, he insisted. Voltaire, Bernard Shaw? I turned the pages of Point of Stress with new admiration, smiling at the jokes, Voltarian ones presumably, although I had not read him. I awaited the summons, the four-column photograph, the agonising questions from the Paris Review, the need to preserve my privacy. But I was spared. The next two novels gave me no anxiety. No one much liked them except my editor at Chatto & Windus, Dennis Enright. I have had several more novels published, all well received, as they say; succes d'estime is the polite and meaningless phrase. This year I have another novel published, Beyond Reason (Solidus), and Profile Books has published The Economist Book of Obituaries, part of which I wrote. Good reads both, but best not spread it around.