This can be a depressing season for writers. Those Best Books of the Year lists start appearing in time for people to do their Christmas shopping and one must face the fact that yes, there are some brilliant writers out there talking about interesting subjects. And then there are the rest of us. There are a few cases of Mutually Agreed Plugging – you stroke my book and I’ll stroke yours – and I even spotted Julie Burchill recommending (tongue in cheek, but still…) her own new book. And there are some infuriatingly obvious stocking-filler bestsellers. Terry Wogan just published something. Nothing wrong with Terry. He writes well, talks sense and everyone loves him. But you can’t help but think, ‘did you really have to?’ It’ll fly off the shelves of course.
But anyway, I have to decide to stop being a whining Grinch between now and Christmas and become instead a cheerful giver. I’m offering a copy, signed if you wish, of one of my back-list titles, to the first six takers. I have stock of most of my fiction titles. Admittedly the books cost me nothing. They are gathering cobwebs in my study. My gift to you will be my time spent shuffling slowly forward in the Post Office queue.
Send me a message if you’d like a book. Tell me your preference and I’ll do my best to oblige. First come, first served. Hurry, hurry.