Mortification: Writers’ Stories of Their Public Shame Read Online Free PDF Page A

note since it has been a long time since we were in touch. I think the last time was when you were editing
Firebird
at Penguin and I wrote a quite hostile review of it in the
Literary Review
. Surely that doesn’t still rankle with you, does it? Some people have long memories, evidently. Personally, I’d completely forgotten about that too and I’m surprised you haven’t. ‘Get a life!’ as Helen Simpson (I suppose
she
’s in it) would say.
    Actually, it occurs to me that you might be harbouring a more recent grudge. A couple of years ago I wrote quite a vicious review of a book you published: Thomas Lynch’s
The Undertaking
. Obviously it is galling – one might even say
mortifying
in this instance! – when your authors are reviewed unfavourably but you have to respect the critical integrity of the reviewer’s judgement, especially since I did not know you were the publisher at the time and, obviously, would not have written what I did if I
had
known.
    Anyway, to get back to your latest project. I can imagine what these tales of woe are like without even reading them. Let me guess … Will Self on how he did an event with Irvine Welsh and the line for people wanting copies of
Trainspotting
went right round the world and the queue of people who were there for him only went twice round the block. Well, I’ve taken a lot of drugs too but some of us choose not to write about it the whole time. The older I get, in fact, the less patience I have with writers who are narcissistically preoccupied with themselves and their own experience.
    So yes, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what these hard luck stories are like and I have to say my heart is breaking. Spare me. Well, obviously you have spared me by not asking me to write anything and, as it happens, I am far too busy anyway. One thing you can be sure about: if I ever edit an anthology of great literary triumphs I won’t be asking you to contribute. In fact I won’t be asking
anyone
to contribute. That book will only have one contributor and it’ll be
me
.
    Having said that, if you decide that the anthology would benefit from some
serious
writing do get into touch with me directly (I don’t have an agent any more). I doubt if I would have the time to do something but it might be worth giving me a call on the off-chance if the book has not gone to press yet.
    Yours
    Geoff Dyer
    PS: I could turn it around quite quickly and would not require a fee.

‘He hears
On all sides, from innumerable tongues
A dismal universal hiss, the sound
Of public scorn.’
Milton,
Paradise Lost
Nicola Barker
    I had a bad night in Wales. I was reading from my novel
Wide Open
. The gist of my presentation was that this was a novel which it was impossible to do a reading from. I was wedged between Alan Hollinghurst and Rupert Thomson. I ended up reminiscing – and at some length – about how my boyfriend once suffered from a series of spectacular nosebleeds while we were on holiday in Madrid, and how I could never really feel sympathetically inclined towards tapas after that.
    Later we were led to an adjacent tent where we were to do a signing. Somewhere close by – in a much bigger venue – Terry Pratchett had just completed a public appearance. The signing tent was soon packed with Pratchett fans. I was standing behind a table, waiting (in vain) for somebody to buy a book. At this point I was approached by an angry-looking woman holding Pratchett’s latest and waving a ten-pound note. She shoved the book at me.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered apologetically (five years’ experience as a bakery cashier, all coming to nothing), ‘but I don’t actually work here. I’m one of the authors.’
    ‘I don’t give a damn who you are,’ she hissed, ‘just take the fucking money.’
    Afterwards, on my long walk home to a rather isolated cottage where several of the authors were staying, I saw two genial-looking teenagers strolling, hand-in-hand, along the empty country road towards me. I