My Wife thinks I’m bolshi

And she might be right. But the change has been sudden…

I would not say I am shy nor retiring. I can quite happily talk to a complete stranger without turning inside out through embarrassment. But there is a difference between chatting with strangers and boldly going into a bookshop, saying: “Hello… I notice you have a few copies of my book on your shelf… Would you like me to sign them?”

I found myself in this very position on Tuesday during a shopping expedition around Leeds (Sarah was looking for a wedding outfit for the end of May). While the Waterstones Leeds branch was bereft of copies of The Secret War (not to mention almost all Macmillan New Writing titles, oddly), Borders had a healthy stock on show, and while I was buying a copy of Fortean Times I couldn’t help but grin at the poor girl behind the counter and say: “Hello… I notice you have a few copies of my book on your shelf… Would you like me to sign them?”
To her credit, and the manager’s, the response was an enthusiastic “please do!” But it wasn’t until after leaving the shop that I got a sudden shameful pain – exploited by Sarah who likened it to the infamous “local writer” scene I made in Blackwells, Broomhill (that later spawned a t-shirt).

“You’ve become bolshi,” she said with amusement, yet at the same time lamented my once modest demeanour.

And I lament it too.

Not so long ago I was meek about my writing, even about the idea of being published, giggling nervously if someone asked about it. Now, and within the space of months rather than years, I’ve become this self-promoting, shameless bloke who is quite happy to march into shops, asking if they want me to sign copies for them. And not just shops who sell my books – I’ve been into those non-sellers to wax-lyrical about The Secret War, providing promotional cards and guiltily enjoying every minute (especially the point when they order copies of the book in).

At the start of this whole adventure, I never thought I would be doing anything like this. If I’d had an inkling of my future in pimping I might well have declined (back in those innocent times, the idea of self-promotion was quite terrifying to me as it is with plenty of writers). But now that I am doing it - and unfortunately getting used to it - I’m actually finding masochistic pleasure from exploiting myself and my book to all who will listen.

Like in this blog, for example.

Shameless?
Probably.
But I am – afterall - a debut novelist, and if it sells books, it can’t be all bad, right?

Right?