DOES IT MAKE YOUR HAND HURT?

It is an unseasonably humid day in New York, the kind of day designed for sitting in an air conditioned bar, sipping something cold and mildly fruity, and less mildly alcoholic with a copy of the New York Times for company in the absence of one's nearest and dearest. It is most certainly not a day to be hauling oneself in and out of subways and the occasional taxi in order to sign books at the city's bookstores - not, I hasten to add, because such an activity is a chore in itself, for it is not, and God forbid that anyone should read this and mistake it for a plea on the writer's part to be required to perform anything resembling a real job, but because it is slightly unbecoming of an author to arrive at a store's information desk bathed in sweat and panting like a bloodhound at the end of a long and harrowing fugitive hunt. Even the most understanding of booksellers is entitled to be a little dubious about the bona fides of a sweaty, croaky man with a peculiar accent who claims to be the author of the books in whose direction he is frantically pointing and ownership of which he is apparently claiming by spraying them with his own perspiration.

On the other hand, weather permitting, drifting in and out of bookstores to sign one's books is a very pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon, just as talking to readers and booksellers and about books - one's own and the work of others, assuming one's ego is wiling to allow the existence of the work of others, however inferior - is considerably less than a chore.

Quite often in the course of a signing, especially one that is particularly well attended, I'll be asked some variation on the question: "Does it make your hand hurt?" Now that's open to a number of answers, some of them unfit for popular consumption, but I tend to rise above the obvious and reply that, no, it doesn't at all, and even if it did it would be a very good complaint.

Like most authors, I can remember a time when nobody would ask me to sign anything at all. I recall tramping around Britain for EVERY DEAD THING, my first book, and arriving at stores in which my impending arrival, advertised with a showcard and a time, seemed to have aroused absolutely no interest at all among the local population. Now, again like most authors, I had kind of hoped that my first novel would change the world, and in every small town crowds of adoring acolytes would be waiting to greet me with palm fronds, rose petals, and babies to be kissed. The reality, as you may have surmised, was somewhat different, and this continued to be the case for a number of years. My novels sold okay, but nobody wanted to meet me, or have a book signed. Now more people want their books signed, and some of them even want to meet me, although not many of them want to meet me twice, which is probably understandable.

I remember going into a chain bookstore in the northwest of England to sign copies of EVERY DEAD THING, pen at the ready, only to be informed that I shouldn't sign too many copies. "We haven't sold any yet, dear," a nice lady explained, for this was a time when a signed copy was regarded as a sold copy, which meant that the bookstore couldn't return it to the publisher if nobody bought it. I would essentially have defaced my own book, thereby rendering it valueless. I signed three, I think. I hope that they sold. I wouldn't want to have left the bookstore with an irksome debt. Now bookstores don't tend to mind too much if I sign their stock, which is nice.

This was the first time that I had done the round of New York stores since Borders went out of business, and I missed them because they had been just as good to me as Barnes & Noble, and no writer likes to see bookstores go out of business. I'd also made friends among the Borders crowd, and it pained me to think that they were out of work, although some of them have now found homes at B&N, or with other stores, although most have had to find jobs in areas without an outlet for their love and enthusiasm for books and reading.

It's one of the reasons why I find myself growing increasingly angry with those of my peers who seem to have divested themselves of any loyalty to bricks-and-mortar bookstores in favor of a rush to solely electronic publishing, too ignorant to even be ashamed to use phrases like "dead tree publishing" or "legacy publishing" about the beauty and usefulness of a printed book. Hey, guys and gals: those bookstores, chains and independents, that you've apparently abandoned to their fate were the making of you all, and you were very willing to badger their owners into stocking your books when they were the only game in town. I'm as happy as anyone to take my royalties on e-book sales, and I'm grateful to the companies that distribute me in that form, but I firmly believe that electronic publishing and printed books can co-exist in our brave new world, and I'd dearly like to see bookstores survive to take their place in that world, because it will be a poorer, coarser place without them. End of lesson.

So, sweatiness apart, today was a very good day, enlivened by chats with booksellers, some of whom even bought copies of my books for themselves and for others. I almost had a shelf to myself in B&N on Union Square, and I rather hope that they'll put up a commemorative plaque when I die. At B&N near Greenwich Village I had a bonding moment over Nancy Sinatra & Lee Hazlewood with the marvellous staff behind the information desk. At Partners & Crime I had one of those fine chats in which recommendations are exchanged, and at McNally Jackson, that great independent on Prince Street, I met again the lovely Michelle, who used to work at RiverRun in Portsmouth, just down the road from my stomping ground in Maine.

Even after all these years, though, I'm still plagued by that sense of doubt specific to authors signing in bookstores, and it's this: if the bookstore has lots of books in stock, the author worries that nobody is buying them; if it has only a handful in stock, the author worries that the store is not ordering enough, and therefore nobody is buying them, because they can't. It will never cross the author's mind that people might actually be buying the books, hence the relative lack of copies, or that the author is sufficiently popular that the store feels confident enough to keep multiple copies of his or her various works in stock. No, it's either bad news, or worse news, with nothing in between.

But there was THE BURNING SOUL in each store, which was nice to see. Nicer still, perhaps, was the fact that THE BOOK OF LOST THINGS seems to have found a permanent place on the shelves of both chain stores and independents. I remain hugely fond of that novel, and I'm always touched to see it in stock. It had no luck when it came out: it was barely reviewed on my own side of the Atlantic, was rejected by a major TV book club for implying that Red Riding Hood might have harbored feelings for the wolf, and was the first of my novels not to make it into the Top Ten Bestsellers list. But as the years have passed it has found its way into the right hands, thanks to readers recommending it to other readers, and the passionate support of booksellers in both chain stores and independents.

And, every time I sign a copy, I think to myself, "Hello, little book . . ."

ON BLURBING - AGAIN.

Eighteen. That's how many there are in my office right now: eighteen. I feel guilty every time I see them, but I can't get rid of them, not yet. It's terrible, just terrible. I am, officially, a bad person.

I'm talking about advance copies of books that have been sent to me in the hope that I might be able to offer a supportive quote. They arrive at such a pace that it's impossible to keep up with them. If I read them all, I'd never read anything else. I'm on various publishers' lists, my own publishers occasionally send me a book (always with a 'no pressure, just if you have the time' get-out clause), and then there are manuscripts that have come to me by more personal paths, such as the one I'm reading one at the moment for a friend (a friend who will, incidentally, owe me lunch as a consequence, not least because he sent it as an electronic copy, and since I don't like reading books on screen I had to print it off, all 300 pages of it. You know who you are . . .)

Rather worryingly, at least one of these advance copies has been on my shelf for so long that it has already been released in paperback. I figure I can probably give that one away now. The others don't appear to be past their publication date yet, so I'd better hold on to them. It doesn't seem right to give the ones that haven't yet been published to friends, or to the charity store. They're the ones that make me feel guilty. "Read us!" they cry. "Please, we're really good, honest we are. Your quote could make all the difference to our chances of success . . ." Actually, that last part probably isn't true. In fact, if I look back on all of the books to which I have given supportive quotes, hardly any have made any kind of an impact at all. It may even be the case that a supportive quote from me is the kiss of death for a forthcoming book. I'm starting to suspect that even I wouldn't want a quote from me on one of my books.

Nevertheless, I feel like I've done my duty this year, because although I gave only - only! - four quotes, I've read at least twice that many forthcoming books. Some of the ones to which I didn't put my name were quite good, or at least interesting, but they didn't really make me want to enthuse about them to others. That's the key, I suppose. You have to ask yourself if, in the normal course of events, you had bought this book, and read it, would you press it into the hands of people you knew and liked on the grounds that they had to, simply had to, read it. If the answer is 'no', then you shouldn't blurb the book. Okay, so writers don't always adhere to this: they'll blurb a book because they like the writer's work, even if the book in question does not display the writer's talent at his or her best, or because an editor or publisher has put them on the spot, or because the writer in question is a friend, and they'd like to maintain that friendship. It's a complicated business, blurbing.

In two cases, I read the books that I'd been sent because an editor or writer broke the First Rule of Blurb Club: you never, ever ask if the writer has read the book that he has been sent, or even if the book has been received. It's like putting a message in a bottle. You throw it into the sea, and you just hope that somebody replies. You don't send another bottle asking if someone has received the first one. That way lies madness. Still, some people insist on breaking the rule, and then the recipient of the advance copy and subsequent rule-breaking e-mail has to squirm a little, and either come up with some excuse for not reading the book, or play dumb, or simply read the blasted thing while nursing a grudge for being pressured into doing so.

You see, I do try to read as many of these books as I can and, at last count, I think I've given quotes to four books already this year, and that's probably quite enough. If my name appears on many more books, I'll start to feel like James Patterson. It's also a question of trying to make a quote worthwhile. After all, if your name appears on every second book announcing that it's the greatest thing since Tolstoy looked at a pen and thought, you know, I might give this writing lark a go, then readers will have a right to feel suspicious. This is known as being a 'blurb whore', and blurb whoredom is the writer's equivalent of being the girl (or boy) who can't say no. You get a reputation. You're anybody's for a cheap meal, or a couple of free books. A certain amount of ego may enter into the equation too. It's quite nice to be asked to give a quote, because it implies that you've moved up a little in the rankings. Your name is worth something on the cover of someone else's book because you have a relationship with your own readers, and maybe they trust you enough to believe you when you say that another book is good. That can go to a boy's head, and pretty soon your name is popping up all over the place, blurbing stuff that even the author's mother won't read, and suddenly folk don't respect you any more, and you're forced to wear a pair of scarlet letters on your breast. BW: hang your head in shame.

But the other problem is that I buy lots and lots of books. I like buying books. By investing my money in them, I'm kind of promising myself that I will also invest the time required to read them, as well as supporting the industry of which I am a part. I even buy books published by my own publishers, even though I could get them for nothing if I asked. Except for books by a handful of authors whose work I love more than most of my own limbs, I'm less likely to read a book that I've received for nothing than a book for which I've paid. It's a curious thing, but there it is. With that in mind, the bookshelf in my bedroom, which is generally where my purchased books end up, is currently piled high with unread material that I really, really want to read. I buy a couple of books a week, on average, but rarely get to read more than one, so the pile keeps growing at a faster pace than I'm reading, and then all of these other books arrive each week that I haven't bought and which might be good but, then again, might not be, and . . .

Well, you see where I'm going with this. We only have so much time on this planet, and I'd like to spend as much of it as possible reading books that I know I'm going to enjoy, or in which I was sufficiently interested from the off to purchase. It may be a sign of the slow encroachment of some crushing conservatism that will eventually lead to a dementedly right-wing mindset, causing me to read only non-fiction books about the Raj, and begin sentences with the words "You know, Hitler did a lot of things wrong, but . . ." Then again, it may simply be the case that reading shouldn't feel like homework, and while some of the advance copies I've read this year have given me immense pleasure, and I've indicated as much by putting my name to them, I've generally enjoyed the books I bought far more.

Do I want people to stop sending them? Sometimes. Then again, I know there's the possibility that one may catch my eye, perhaps a book that I might not otherwise have read, and I'll read it and think, hmmm, that was good. Maybe I should tell someone about it.

Still, eighteen. Eighteen books, none of which are now likely to be read.

And more on the way . . .

THIS WEEK JOHN READ

A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin

AND LISTENED TO

Weather Report, Stan Getz, and George Benson. Hey, it was a jazz week . . .