Is that ‘your’ book you’re printing out?
On impulse, I had my manuscript printed out at The Hub in Barrydale. There were a few heart-stopping moments as the man who agreed to perform this task, sat, idly gazing at the screen, and could it be that he was in fact READING THE FIRST PAGE OF EVERY CHAPTER as the printer whirred away? It’s no big deal, Annabel, he’s just staring at the computer, nope, his eyes are sliding along and then down oh my God he’s reading my book, I will have to rush over and pull the computer out of its socket?!
This couldn’t be the same person who’s been planning her packed-house book launch for, let’s see, the past three years, who’s been worrying about who will water her pot plants while she flies abroad to appear on the Ellen Show (Oprah = too phoney) and would Augusten Burroughs perhaps be free to walk his dogs when I’m in New York so we can chew the cud over the logistics of oversharing and legal action? This couldn’t, surely, be the same person who wants EVERYONE to read her book. Except, that is, the quiet guy at The Hub who dared to read a few paragraphs, and then went so far as to ask me afterwards: ‘Is that your book you’re printing out?’