Publishing a Book is Pretty Much Like Having a Baby
‘Have you not seen it?’ my editor asked. ‘Your copies have already been sent to you.’
‘I haven’t seen any signs of a parcel,’ I said.
‘Well, you must see one now!’ he said emphatically, leaping up and striding off. I felt momentarily stunned. My lord, I thought. I think he’s going to fetch a copy. A copy of my book.
In a moment of dissociation, I saw myself from above, left alone at a table with people all round me going about their normal publishing-house business. They were bustling here and there, all the editors and publicists and foreign rights agents, making cups of tea and having chats with one another about upcoming titles. There I was, in a big, flash building overlooking the Thames, with images of the new releases flashing up on a bank of screens in the lobby above an expensive-looking seating area. My book would be flashing up there soon. I had an editor and a publicist and a rights agent. I was about to see my book. I must be an author.