Fooled

Welcome.

Among the many things I won’t be doing this week is delving into the archives to dig up a nugget of an article I wrote a long time ago. Nor will I be reproducing one of the glorious letters from that splendid book, “Two Ruddy Ducks and a Partridge on a Par Three”. Instead, I shall simply recount a recent episode that I think is an interesting comment on something or other.

I’ve recently moved, more or less seamlessly, from the crazy world of journalism into the wacky world of literature and have, rather pompously, come to think of myself as less of a scribbler and more of an author. Indeed, the self image of me as an accomplished published author undoubtedly appeals – to me at any rate. But those who presume that the literary universe is altogether more genteel and is inhabited by decent well-mannered intellectuals as opposed to the grubby dog-eat-dog world of doorstepping hacks are being naive, as indeed was I. Trust me, the book scene is populated by a ruthless breed thirsting for profit every bit as determined as the grizzly guy in the dirty mackintosh going in search of scoops. The former may lunch in smart restaurants while the latter sups a pint in the Dog and Duck but both are sneaky, sleazy and best avoided.

I was first made aware of how tough the world of books can be towards the end of last year when I received an unsolicited email from what I foolishly thought was a genuine fan. Evidently an erudite fellow of immense good taste, he clearly loved my book and was fulsome in his praise. “It deserves to be very much more successful,” he gushed, “but perhaps not enough people know about it.” Then, adopting a more forthright stance, he said, “I’m involved with a number of book clubs, I’m sure I could stimulate a few sympathetic reviews if you could see your way clear to covering their modest out-of-pocket expenses…” Outraged of 10 miles south-east of Tunbridge Wells, I did the Internet equivalent of slamming my phone down in disgust.

I received three more very similar approaches, which I contemptuously rejected, until last week when an altogether nicer guy emailed me to say how much he had enjoyed my brilliant book and proceeded to ask me if I would mind if he recommended it to this book club he was involved with. He was so full of seemingly genuine praise that I immodestly read his email out loud to Rose, my wife, who outrageously suggested that he would soon be asking for money. “No,” I hit back, “This guy is just a huge admirer of my book.” She laughed, I sulked. And so when the fellah’s next email thanked me effusively for allowing him to recommend my book, I again read it to Rose. “You see,” I yelled, “no mention of money. Your trouble is you’re just too cynical.” I savoured the moment but my faith in humanity was dealt a cruel blow when his next email explained that, “In the interests of transparency, I should explain that I need to reward my readers and would therefore hope that you might be able to see your way clear to … .” Aaarrrrgggghhhh!