One unfortunate side-effect of publishing a novel is you end up fielding some strange reactions. I have one out later this year and I’ve already noticed certain patterns. People (and I have to say this is usually men) will stand with their shoulders back and one thumb hooked through their front right belt loop and say: “Go on then, sell it to me. Give me the elevator pitch.”
Or they will say “which bits are based on you then?” about characters you spent an excruciating amount of time crafting precisely because they aren’t you. “If this book is to be read as my diary then I shouldn’t have made everyone in it so morally clapped,” you will think grimly to yourself, as you smile and say: “Oh, it’s all made up.”
