Meeting publishers: my experience

So … in the many years I’ve imagined the first meeting with ‘my’ publishers, it never included cranberry biscuits, hilarity, discussion of dalliances in Berlin garden colonies, joining the Nigel Slater mutual appreciation society and a complete failure on my part to take any notes or be even a bit literary.

I’d always had a much more frightening scenario in mind: Armani suits, views over the Thames, thimbles of Italian coffee, abstruse gossip about literary luminaries. What actually transpired: mugs of tea, discussion of the relative merits of Wellingtons and hiking boots for digging allotments and lots of laughter added up to much more pleasant and relaxing experience. I felt at home. I liked the team. I very much liked the team! Finding points of engagement with the people who will be editing, publicising and selling the book was much easier than I’d ever expected, perhaps because this book deals with a subject that I’m passionate about, and they were fascinated by.

There were a couple of moments when I had the surreal experience of stepping outside myself and realising that yes, this was it: this was me talking to my publishers and it wasn’t daunting or tense, but those moments soon passed.

Publishers are people too – and mine are extremely nice. Who knew?

PS - the picture shows crochet lavender hearts, on sale this weekend at the Weald Allotments Open Day and Open Sheds, Hove (actually). Proceeds go to the RSPCA and I will be there if you've ever wondered what I do when I'm not writing (or making crochet hearts, obviously).

Dinner party writers

Following on from an excellent suggestion at Nik Perring’s blog and because food is still much on my mind (which would you prefer, dear reader, a recipe for purple-sprouting broccoli hash or a recipe for slow-cooked potatoes and mushrooms? These are the questions that currently torment me) I thought rather than recommend some books, I’ll recommend some writers.

If I could throw a dinner party (with somebody else doing the catering, obviously) for the writers I’d most like to meet, living or dead, I would invite:

Beverley Nichols – dear Bev was the first garden writer I ever read, and possibly the best. His life was a fascinating and complex one, including a declaration of homosexuality in the Albert Hall (on stage!) at a time when he could have been imprisoned for his sexual preferences, ghosting Nellie Melba’s autobiography and then falling out with her in ‘handbags at dawn’ fashion and a battle with alcohol that crossed generations and led him to write an appalling (and largely untrue) biography of his father. I’ve written a radio play about this demanding, frustrating and charismatic man and wish I’d met him. Beverly loved a dinner party as long as there was plenty of champagne so I think he’d make the evening fun. Merry Hall is one of his best books about gardens and gardening.

Barbara Kingsolver – one of my favourite writers about food, life and the environment (not necessarily in that order but you can see how food is dominating my thoughts), Kingsolver has become iconic for her warm but incisive characterisation of the best and worst of American life. I think she’d make a great guest and might even help with the washing up. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is a fantastic story and an example of how female writing can be domestic and yet transcend the mundane to deal with the big issues of how we live, and why.

Stephen R Donaldson – not sure this pick would be a perfect guest, but I love the Gap Series so much that I’d put up with him chain-smoking at the table and being rude about everybody. Anyway, Beverly would probably be a match for him and Barbara used to play in a band with Stephen King, so they wouldn’t be at all fazed. If you know Stephen Donaldson in the UK it may well be because of Thomas Covenant, but the bravura approach of writing a space opera (literally) based on the Ring Cycle and featuring the most terrifying aliens ever means that he gets a place at the table even if he does piss everybody else off.

Emily Bronte – would probably be quite taken aback by Mr Donaldson, or would she? She coped with Branwell after all, and the imagination that produced a Heathcliff might be more elastic and malleable than I imagine. I’m not sure what I’d expect of Emily but just sitting across the table from her and being able to stare into that pale, reserved face would be enough.

Peter Hoeg – because he’s been a consistently demanding and rewarding writer since I first read Miss Smilla’s Feeling For Snow and because Tales of the Night, which was his first published book, but late into English translation, does remarkable and complicated things with narrative. His writing about parties and dinners suggests he's got a very good handle on the nuances of social life and I'd love to see him and Kingsolver debating food miles.

A.L. Kennedy – bit of a cheat, this one, because I’ve actually sat across the dining table from Alison six times, at an Arvon course but I think I could easily repeat the experience weekly for the rest of my life. Day is the novel that I would recommend as a starter, only because it’s the one that I think best demonstrates the combination of cool observation and compassion that makes A.L. Kennedy one of our best living novelists. Her short stories are brilliant too. And I know that Alison is a fantastic dinner companion, so that's a no-brainer.

The writer I wouldn’t invite is Hilary Mantel, because if I was having dinner with Hilary I wouldn’t share her with anyone!

What I am not doing is procrastinating

Okay, I am. A bit. Although it’s less procrastination than fear that I may have entered a form of mad neurotic writing overdrive that will lead to a Back To The Future improbability that could cause the end of the world. I am writing about 2,000 words a day. Oh yes!

Whether or not they are good words is another matter. First reader, who possibly reads this blog, is probably being too kind. No matter, editor person, who also may read this blog, but it’s not very likely, is it, given how busy editors are etc, is not going to be too kind and is going to require the best possible book. So that’s all right then.

And road-testing recipes. The inimitable Kate was press-ganged into eating the apple and blackberry sponge. She’s still alive and still talking to me, so I assume it was okay. I’d rather hoped it would be superlative but you can’t have everything. Friend of short-standing (as opposed to short stature, she is of average height) has been sampling grape-thinning and redcurrant jelly. She said it was ‘yummy’ which I think is an imprimatur of excellence. First reader, who is coming in for a lot of odd requests, also road-tested the plum curd, and described it as delicious, so that’s all good.

I sound like a little hive of productive activity don’t I? But part of that a cappella murmuring is my neuroses having a field day, which is induced, in part, by imminent birthday and evidenced by the frantic exploration of the outer limits of cupcake invention. There are not going to be any cupcakes in the book, and that makes it difficult to explain why there have been six different kinds of cupcake in my kitchen this week.

Finally, after all that effort, Friday’s inspiration turned out to be the best, so I shall be celebrating my natal day with walnut and vanilla cupcakes with brown sugar fudge icing.

At which point you will realise that this post has almost nothing to do with writing because I am heartily sick of said subject, but still, let me try to creep up on the it in a roundabout fashion.

Saturday was Book Club day. We discussed Brick Lane. I admitted that I had failed to read the book three times previously and only got through it this time because it was Book Club. Another reader admitted she’d not got far into it the first time she read it either. We both agreed that we were glad we’d persevered this time, as once the first three chapters are over, the book really picks up both depth and pace. The humour, touted on the back of the jacket doesn’t really evidence for a bit longer but when it does, it’s delicious.

I still think this novel has a mediocre opening chapter, but from 25% of the way into the narrative, it’s the kind of book you’d carry on reading in an earthquake. I found some of the characterisations mordantly vicious and some of the characters utterly lovable and might even go and read some more Monica Ali. When I’ve finished baking, that is …