I'm not on first name terms with any author. I can only assume the successful ones live in some other place. Certainly not Shropshire. And not any part of London I inhabited hitherto. A different planet maybe. In fact, I've sometimes wondered if they actually exist at all.
Except I did have occasion to meet a writer last year. A real writer. A proper heavyweight. A friend was getting married and I was asked to do a small speech at the ceremony. On the day, it became clear my bit was to follow immediately after a certain Julian Barnes. Who was going to be reading a Larkin poem. Honestly, I felt like an open-mic comedian being told he was due to follow Eddie Izzard. Who was doing Tony Hancock jokes.
Anyway, I sat near to the great man at lunch. I'm a big fan. I've read all his books and have lovingly collected a full set of first editions. So I was tongue-tied. Luckily, Anne was there to break the ice. She told him that the only book of his she'd read was that “Cookery one, you know, something in the Kitchen”, and that “I've asked around and only about half the people here know who you are, let alone have read anything by you.” For Anne has a way with people.
Joking apart, she really does, and as a somewhat shy Booker winner warmed to her, they got to talking about getting published and how hard it was. And Julian (!) said he thought it was down to “Talent, timing and luck. In that order.” Eek. We're gonna need great timing and a lot of luck...
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