By calamities, I don't mean the usual monetary moans triggered by author-publisher relationships, but cock-ups on a grand scale.
My first fiasco happened years ago with a London publishing house.
My draft manuscript was accepted at a time when literary production was conducted over glasses of sherry and lunches fortified with Bordeaux.
I was immediately attracted to the civilised, genteel culture of the industry.
I was flattered that my work was being carefully cosseted by a team of editors and art directors, honing typefaces and imagery - naturally, between more sherry sessions - leaving me believing it was a pity the rest of the world didn't operate the same way.
After eventually approving the proofs, I was handed over to the promotion manager for the nationwide launch.
After an address from the store manager, I stepped forward and held aloft the new release, planning to read an extract, but froze speechless as I discovered I'd unpacked a beautifully bound book of blank pages. Frantically rummaging through the boxes, we discovered the entire stock consisted of covers filled with blank paper.
The publisher's representative and I handled the situation in a businesslike manner, by retiring to a nearby hotel and drinking ourselves under the table.
My second book-signing mishap happened more recently, and was organised by a North Shore publisher.
Turning up at a Queen St store, I was greeted by window signs misspelling my name as Peter Blomfield and found my books had been sent to the wrong city.
No wonder I've turned to self-publishing.
This week I arranged a signing session with a city store. No more business blunders!
Preoccupied with putting the baby back into her wagon, she forgot to load the parcel and drove off - leaving my precious cargo of books on the pavement.
Gone, God knows where.
Anybody want to go and get drunk with a despairing author-turned-publisher?