As we’ve said before, Nicola Morgan’s new book Wasted is utterly brilliant and we’re delighted that she’s visiting us as part of her blog tour to promote it. Wasted has its very own blog but Nicola’s dropping by lots of others to talk about all manner of bookish things and – appropriately given that we have two bookshops – she’s here to talk about the relationship authors have with booksellers… over to Nicky…
Vanessa says I am allowed to be snarky. Does she not realise the risk she runs when she actually invites a crabbit old bat to be snarky?? Thing is, she then emasculates me (or whatever the feminine of that is) by saying lovely things about Wasted and telling me it will sell in shed-loads. And when a bookseller says your book has big commercial potential, how is a crabbit author then supposed to be snarky?
Meh.
And meh, frankly, is how authors usually feel when we go into bookshops. Which is what I will now be snarky about. Vanessa has quite rightly (*bows and scrapes*) griped about bad author behaviour in bookshops. Bad author behaviour, fyi, includes things like: improving the display by putting our books face out and covering up the Harry Potters and Flower Fairy nonsense best-sellers; accosting real customers; never actually buying anything; sneering at the bookseller for not having heard of us; not believing the “oh, we sold the last copy just three minutes ago” line; and generally behaving like a prima donna.
But booksellers are very scary people, holding our career, self-esteem and earning power in their hands, so going into bookshops is usually HORRIBLE for authors, even though we love books and really want to buy lots and lots and lots.
So, I want to use my snarky card to describe what a bookshop experience feels like and why. First, we are usually drunk when we get through the door, because it takes that to make us brave enough. Either that or we’re feeling a bit sick with all the cake we just ate at Falko Konditormeister or a bit guilty about the money we’ve just spent in Coco’s of Bruntsfield to give us some much-needed feel-good factor before the inevitable slough of despond.
Then we open the door and we see All Those Books which are probably not ours. And bookseller recommendations for books that are probably not ours. And customers. And the scary bookseller, who is smiling because she thinks we’re a customer. And we know we’re not.
The next stage is a combination of Delaying Strategies and the Buttering Up Routine. These involve smiling at the bookseller and holding the door to let a customer with a large buggy in. The customer with the large buggy isn’t actually going to buy anything but she would like her sticky-mitted child to play with the books. The bookseller stops smiling.
Next, we have a clever trick, which must be practised a lot before attempting it for real: it’s called How to Identify the Shelf Where Our Book Should Be, without having to ask for the book by name. Because, if you have to ask for it your only option is then to leave the shop and come back later in thick disguise.
Having identified the shelf, and casually picked up several books by people who do NOT deserve to be there, and having established the absence of our book, there are two options. Option 1, the one I usually follow, is to pretend my phone has rung and it’s Newsnight wanting to interview me. I then leave the shop to complete the “interview”. Option 2 is to approach the bookseller, preferably when no other customers are in ear-shot, and say, “Erm, hello, I was just wondering if by any chance I could possibly interest you in getting me a glass of water because I may actually be about to faint.”
Supposing we then gasp our way through the next bit and actually mention the book and start blabbering about how it’s really quite exciting and has had lovely reviews on Amazon and that they might have seen the Guardian review / Scotsman interview blahdy blah, we then have to deal with any combination of the following responses from the bookseller:
(BTW – this would NEVER happen in Vanessa’s shops.)
- Sorry, I haven’t heard of you but I’ll see if I can find time to read your book, maybe next year because I’ve got a huge pile to read.
- Your publisher didn’t mention it.
- The sales reps don’t really visit any more.
- It’s all done by Central Office, see.
- It’s really hard selling YA stand-alone fiction these days – what with the recession and everything.
- I think we did have a copy but it sold. I’m not sure when we’ll be re-ordering.
- The system says we’ve got a copy. Someone must have nicked it. You should be flattered.
- You need to get your publisher to pay for it to go in a promotion – it’s the only way books sell these days.
- What did you say your name was?
- What’s it about?
- Will you do a free event?
- I’m only temporary.
- Sorry – I don’t normally work in the teenage section so I don’t really know.
- Have I heard of you?
- I think your name rings a bell. Oh no – that’s my hairdresser.
- Is it self-published?
- Thing is, there are 110,000 books published in the UK every year.
- Oh yes, a customer was asking about that the other day – looked a bit like you, actually. But older. Your mother?
Meh, frankly. Do you feel our pain? It’s a real bugger being an author sometimes.
However, Vanessa does stock Wasted, and Deathwatch, and even others of mine (except when she’s just sold the last copy) and she makes a very, very good job of selling them. But I still enjoy a little foray into Coco’s of Bruntsfield before visiting her shop – it doesn’t do to be unprepared.