You are surprised as a published writer…

You are surprised, as a published author, by how many people have not read your book. You board a train, you look at all the faces as you walk down the aisles, from carriage to carriage, apparently looking for a seat, and no, none of these people have read your book. You can tell. They don’t have that look in their eye, one that says, yes, I know you, the writer! You book a table at a restaurant. Upon giving your name you wait for that moment of recognition, are you?, it might not even be them, the booker, who has read it, your book, it might be their wife, rolling helplessly from their marital bed in laughter as your book drops from their hand, the funniest thing she has ever read, definitely, a work of unquestionable comedic genius, I said sir, shirty now, FOR HOW MANY PEOPLE WOULD YOU LIKE THIS BOOKING? You have been going to the same hairdresser for many years, know everything about her, even take in small gifts for her cat, unironically called Tiddles. Over the past months, years!, you have mentioned that you write, put down a few words now and then, and after your last haircut you had left a small flier on your chair, you had made it yourself, just the cover of your book and a few concise words you had made up extolling the many virtues of your offering. You thought she, the hairdresser, may have been interested, she had always taken such great delight in your holidays, imagine what she would make of your fictional journeys! But you did not take it to heart when she had flicked your flier to the floor, and swept it up with your hair droppings. An easy mistake to make! You remember, you start to say, taking your seat in preparation for your new haircut, and you intend to drop in the title of your book and that it can be ordered from Waterstones in the precinct, or any good bookshop!, but she interrupts you and tells you how her partner has been arrested for attempted murder and, yes, he probably did it but she hopes the evidence doesn’t stack up because she doesn’t think she can afford the mortgage on her own, who can these days? Quite, you say, and then you sit there quietly, stunned, as she looms over you loudly sobbing, chopping roughly at your hair, filling you in on all the gruesome details of the almost murder; with a meat cleaver, a lot of blood lost, and a leg or two, but at least he didn’t die. Because then that would be actual murder. Quite, you say. You go and visit your mother. I love you son, she says, upon opening the door, and I did read the opening paragraph. She gives a shrug, invites you in, and once you are settled she asks you if you would ring the library for her, her hearing is not too good these days, especially on the phone, and ask them if they have the latest Agatha Raisin. She can’t wait to read it. They are so good. So so good. Out of the blue you win a trip of a lifetime to mainland China. It is all expenses paid but as you walk amongst the Terracotta Warriors, stroll across Tiananmen Square, amble along the Great Wall, eat noodles in the Forbidden City, all you can think is, one and a half billion people and not one of them has read my fucking book. On your return you decide you need to get away. Alone. You travel further and further North, suffering many iniquities and hardships, until you arrive at Savissivik in Northern Greenland. But even this is not far North enough! You spend your very last cash on a night in a cheap basic hotel and the next morning you set out shoeless and sockless across the icy plain, your shoes and socks having worn quite away. One day passes, maybe another, you do not know, you are delirious, at death’s door, crawling on your hands and knees, when you come to a sturdily built igloo and there outside it is a figure, in front of a roaring fire, wrapped snugly in furs, and there in this figure’s hands, is a copy of your book, your actual book. You like it? you ask, Fabulous, he says, this exquisite fur-wrapped figure, and although you subsequently spend many years with, you never do grasp his name, or any of the language, you are happy, having dirty constant sex and eating sardines. You look forward to the season when the polar bears visit. Are rapt with awe at every showing of the Northern Lights. And one cloudless Summer day you marry, whatever his name is, you are done with names, what you have is more beautiful than names. All the others, for there are others in this area, come and you celebrate together. Get drunk. And as the seasons come and go, as time goes on, as the local children grow and leave, as the town expands, as one McDonalds arrives and then another, and yes, as you grow old and fatly content, you contemplate writing another book, the autobiography of your wondrous and happy life. Will anyone read it? You no longer worry about that. You are done with that. Life is enough.