There's something which happened to me a couple of weeks ago which I've been meaning to mention here, but not got round to. I've finally been inspired to sit down and write about it today as it's a story I tell on an episode of a podcast on which I make a guest appearance, which was released this morning. The podcast is Gasbags from SOUNDYARD, run by my good friends and former colleagues Anna and Sophie. Gasbags is their own podcast about running the business, and their lives, and anything else which takes their fancy, and with Anna unavailable this week due to undergoing an operation, they very kindly and flatteringly asked me if I would sit-in alongside Sophie. As a sort of 'Guestbag', I suppose! You can have a listen to it here:
Anyway, on the episode I talk about the surprise I had earlier this month when I was rather aimlessly browsing the shelves of Waterstones in Norwich. I often think, whenever I am in a big bookshop like that, with all of those thousands of books and that unique 'new book' smell all around, what a fine thing it would be to have one of my own books on those shelves. I am pretty certain I may even have thought it when I walked into the shop that day.
Don't misunderstand me. I am very proud of the books that I have had published, and pleased with how they have been sold. There is no question that more people have found and enjoyed them through them being sold online than if they had only been available to stumble across by chance on the shelves of a bookshop.
And yet...
There is something a little special about the idea of having a book of your own on sale in a shop like that. I know I shouldn't think this, and others may rubbish it or even be offended by it. But I can't escape the idea, just speaking purely personally for myself, that in some tiny way it would make me feel a little bit more of a 'proper' writer.
And that day, browsing the shelves of the TV and film section in Waterstones, suddenly and completely unexpectedly there it was. There *I* was. Nestled between William Goldman's Adventures in the Screen Trade and David Hendy's book about the BBC, a copy of The Long Game. It took me a fraction of a second to process it, as I recognised the spine. A feeling of disbelief, and then pride. I didn't exactly shed a tear, thank goodness, but it did feel a bit of an emotional moment.
All those year, decades, of going into big, high street bookshops like that and fantasising about one day having something of my own on the shelves. And now, there it was.
It hit me all the more because of it being such a surprise. I had no idea Waterstones stocked it, and I hadn't gone there looking for it. I'd had absolutely no idea it was there.
Admittedly when I had another look last weekend, it was still there. I didn't know whether to be pleased, or disappointed that nobody had bought it! I suppose maybe I ought to have done to encourage them to stock more, but that would be a bit self-defeating!
No, I did not offer to sign it!
