I appreciate the value of the promotional round, but it's not my forte. The best way to approach it, I've found, is never to read the interviews and never, ever to look at the photographs
'During interviews, the author must be enthusiastic, coherent, uncontroversial ... ' Photograph: Thomas Butler for the Guardian
If you're a long-term reader of this blog then – of course – thank you, and meanwhile, you will be aware that we have together gone through the process of researching a novel and then preparing to write, starting to write, continuing to write, finishing, losing the author's marbles, finding the author's marbles, rewriting, tweaking, discussing the cover of, hammering out the cover blurb for and generally the entire genesis of a novel. Next month the bloody thing – wearing its cover and blurb - will actually appear to annoy people in person. So again, to those of you who have been around throughout – thank you for your company and support. (And a big hello to all those of you who think I'm a Left Wing fanatic who should be shot as soon as possible. Somehow, the fact that you are of that opinion makes me delighted that you can manage to hold it of harmless old me.) Given that we've been trundling along for some considerable period now, I would imagine that a number of you have also completed projects. If this is the case, I hope they prosper.
I am now about to embark upon the round of promotional activities which is always appreciated – if no one were taking an interest that would be a very sad thing for the book – and yet which is, also, hideous. I will soon have my photograph taken by professionals who usually deal with attractive human beings who can be safely enlarged across newspaper pages without causing public distress – we will both know that many things are very, very wrong with this picture. Still, I must try not to look as if I would rather slit my throat that be repeatedly humiliated in this manner. I must somehow stand at an angle that implies I have written something readers might like and smile the small smile that makes me seem human, or at least not dangerous. Over time, I have got slightly better at this, but not much. Sometimes circumstances are kind, or I know the photographer, or we can chat about lenses, or light, or puppies and pretend that the photos aren't happening.
Sometimes occasions inform against me. For example, I was once snapped exhaustively in Paris quite close to the offices of Vogue. Parisian passers-by - who tend to be dapper, suave and socially engaged – made no secret of the fact that they were finding it very hard to work out why their arrondissement suddenly had a blighted gonk lurking in it for a photo-shoot, rather than the usual, achingly gorgeous succession of Brazilian lingerie models. For a long moment they would stare, then they would reflect and then they would make an internal statement which ran something along the lines of "Ah ... the Before picture." Or, indeed, "Ah ... she must have been in a terrible accident and can no longer model lingerie, only surgical corsets and veils. Quel dommage."
And then there are the interviews, during which – as a contractual and career-sustaining obligation – the author must be enthusiastic about his or her own work, must be coherent about his or her own working process, must not say anything that inadvertently damages or embarrasses a friend or loved one, must try to appear in some way interesting and must not mention anything inept or controversial, or comment on anything to do with the Wonderful World of Literature that might blow up in his or her face later, causing untold woe.
Read AL Kennedy's full piece here.
I am now about to embark upon the round of promotional activities which is always appreciated – if no one were taking an interest that would be a very sad thing for the book – and yet which is, also, hideous. I will soon have my photograph taken by professionals who usually deal with attractive human beings who can be safely enlarged across newspaper pages without causing public distress – we will both know that many things are very, very wrong with this picture. Still, I must try not to look as if I would rather slit my throat that be repeatedly humiliated in this manner. I must somehow stand at an angle that implies I have written something readers might like and smile the small smile that makes me seem human, or at least not dangerous. Over time, I have got slightly better at this, but not much. Sometimes circumstances are kind, or I know the photographer, or we can chat about lenses, or light, or puppies and pretend that the photos aren't happening.
Sometimes occasions inform against me. For example, I was once snapped exhaustively in Paris quite close to the offices of Vogue. Parisian passers-by - who tend to be dapper, suave and socially engaged – made no secret of the fact that they were finding it very hard to work out why their arrondissement suddenly had a blighted gonk lurking in it for a photo-shoot, rather than the usual, achingly gorgeous succession of Brazilian lingerie models. For a long moment they would stare, then they would reflect and then they would make an internal statement which ran something along the lines of "Ah ... the Before picture." Or, indeed, "Ah ... she must have been in a terrible accident and can no longer model lingerie, only surgical corsets and veils. Quel dommage."
And then there are the interviews, during which – as a contractual and career-sustaining obligation – the author must be enthusiastic about his or her own work, must be coherent about his or her own working process, must not say anything that inadvertently damages or embarrasses a friend or loved one, must try to appear in some way interesting and must not mention anything inept or controversial, or comment on anything to do with the Wonderful World of Literature that might blow up in his or her face later, causing untold woe.
Read AL Kennedy's full piece here.
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