Sunday, 19 April 2009
When I won a national writing competion a few moons ago, I was invited down to Londinium to meet my agent. I was 41 but the agent told me I couldn't be a new writer and be over forty. The magazines and publishers wouldn't hack that, so she made me 39. I lost two years. Already I'd entered the strange world of publishing. They also told me that something like 60% of new fiction titles are bought by women aged between 25 and 55, which is astounding. Does that mean men don't buy books ?Did I then have to have a sex change to have some sort of relevance to this market? Now I wanted to be published but when it comes to recoupling the pipework, sorry, enoughs enough, which is obvious really as they are spelled the same. They took me out and wined and dined me. I went to the Ivy, you know, Happy Eater but for celebland types, all lippy, pout and papparazzi. I had lunch with an India and a Tristram and they both sounded like something out of a BBC costume drama. I was from Stockport, so good they named it once. This was the first place I'd seen people wearing sunglasses inside. No post modern irony here, they seemed so desperate to be seen not being seen, I wanted to go over and give them a cuddle. All so lonely and loud. More tales soon I have to make breakfast for Mooselings.