We went into Waterstones. For fun, as Daughter put it.
What she really wanted to do was check out their boardgames.
Meanwhile I looked at their fantasy nook. I could always buy myself a new Terry Pratchett, and preferably not one on the list Daughter and the Resident IT Consultant carry round with them. (I live in hope for my birthday.) But while they had half a dozen or so, none of them were ones I needed.
Stepped sideways to the next nook. The one housing crime. The new Sara Paretsky was published – in the UK – on Thursday. I already have my copy, but wanted to see if they did too. They didn’t. And after a while I worked out why. They don’t seem to stock any hardbacks. They are – as I frequently complain about – so very large. I’d say they wouldn’t fit on the shelves.
It’s an interesting concept, though. Can you really not sell a book when it’s first out, but expect your customers to wait for the paperback? I suppose they’ll say you can order it to collect, bypassing the shelves.
Some new hardbacks were displayed near the doors, on tables, where I spied Percival Everett’s novel, James. I pointed meaningfully at it as we passed. But no Pay Dirt.
I recently enjoyed a flashmob performance of a song in a Berlin bookshop. By which I mean it was online. I didn’t actually go there.
The singer, whose name escapes me, stood on a table, and the camera panned from him to around the shop, which is when I saw the shelves in the corner, labelled Geschenkbuch. Or was it Geschenkbücher? Whatever.
They were – probably – of the coffee table variety, along with little diaries and similar. What you buy – might buy – if you want to gift someone a book. In a way I am grateful for this, as without such a useful label, many people might not give any kind of book.
But really, any book is a potential Geschenk, is it not? I would probably, definitely, welcome a normal average kind of book more. But they are hard to buy, whether or not you yourself are a reader. You might know what the recipient reads, but what if they already have that book? Give them something you have enjoyed? They might have read that too. Or their tastes are not the same as yours.
I’m now trying to think whether having a Geschenkbuch corner is a good idea or not. Possibly better than I thought fourteen lines ago. Oh dear.
A very big bonus to writing a blog like this one is that not only do I meet and get to know authors, whose books I like. But I have also met the spouses of [some] authors, as well as their dogs and children, parents, a favourite aunt or two.
Right at the top of that list has been Mr B, active sidekick and husband of Theresa Breslin. We first met him in the Edinburgh bookfest bookshop. Even if I expected Theresa would be busy at events, we sort of knew that Mr B – Tom – would be there, making whatever was happening more friendly and fun. His themed literary ties and printed t-shirts were always present, and his gift of the ‘risk of fire’ t-shirt he had printed just for me (in response to some bullying that was happening) was completely in character.
I simply couldn’t resist the opportunity of saying ‘Fletcher Moss, I presume?’ so had to start off this year’s Bloody Scotland with Alex Gray’s New Crimes, where she talks to new crime writers. She receives so many proofs every year that her house is in danger of collapsing. This year Alex – who apparently is the daughter of a seventh daughter – talked to Fulton Ross, who might be some sort of elf, to Jo Callaghan who knows about AI, and to Alex Hay (I like the rhyming!) who’s into historical heists. And then there’s the ‘thuggish looking deputy headteacher’ who was previously Fletcher Moss, but now writes as Martin Griffin, his real name. I think, anyway. He recognised me and we shook hands and we laughed about his long ago lack of book signing capabilities. It went better this time.
Next I trotted over to the Albert Halls where I denied all interest in Alex Gray several times, on the grounds I’d just seen her. But once I looked at the programme, and also discovered I didn’t seem to have the tickets I needed for my next event, I realised their eagerness in wanting to offer up Alex was that she was the one chatting to James Oswald, with a bit of help from Jonathan Whitelaw.
Unfortunately someone was sitting on my chair when I entered, but I sent witchy thoughts and eventually he moved. Before Alex and James were let loose, it was time for the two minutes in the spotlight from a new writer, reading from their first crime novel. In this case Axl Malton with Cries of Joy. (Took me a while to get his name right…)
You don’t want to watch television with James. He sits there with his notebook, ‘writing is a compulsion, it’s a terrible thing.’ According to James, if you plot, then that’s already been written and no good for when he wants to write. He has a whiteboard in his study, and he forgets his characters’ names. He’s less keen on swearing, but doesn’t mind violent murders. He gets depressed by the news and doesn’t read true crime. If it weren’t for copy editors he’d keep repeating the same clichés over and over.
Alex believes the police – especially in Scotland, who are different – are fine people. All large organisations, including the police, have rogues. And having chatted to lifers in prison, they do not look for inspiration for crime in fiction; reading is purely entertainment.
At the signing after, I was pleased to see that Axl got to sit with James and Alex. And I was glad I caught James before the queues took over, so I could say hello before I was driven home for dinner and a rest, before returning to the Albert Halls for more.
Val McDermid and Abir Mukherjee chatted and joked for an hour, and we all had fun. In fact, it was such fun and the hour was perhaps a little longer than they ordinarily are. Luckily the very determined Ann Landmann was on door duty and let Abir know it was time to stop. Eventually he heeded her, giving everyone enough time to prepare for the next event. I occasionally struggle with hearing things, and had they not handed out the first two chapters of Val’s new book, I’d have come away under the impression the title is Past Lines. It’s not. It is Past Lying. (I have an appointment at the Hearing Clinic this week…) But, as always, great fun to listen to these two talk.
The evening ended with the only slightly delayed event of CrimeMaster, very ably run by C L Taylor and ‘Little’ Luca Veste. (Because Vaseem [Khan] wasn’t there.) The five contestants were Abir Mukherjee, Gytha Lodge, Mark Billingham, Mark Edwards and Susi Holliday. They all brought bribes; some better than others. Then we were treated to the sight of them competing on a sunny Stirling square (last year), proving it’s not really possible to write a – very – short story while running. As for the running in general and crawling through tunnels and jumping over obstacles; well that didn’t go well either.
But the worst came at the end. They had to spell the title of a book with the help of alphabet pasta in tomato sauce, without using their hands. It was disgusting but they all lowered their little faces into the troughs, I mean plates, of pasta. A couple cheated by using each others’ hands. Yeah, I know. It was fun. Even without Vaseem. At least for the audience. I think there was a winner. Possibly Mark Billingham.
This kind of thing is not terribly literary. But it has entertainment value.
Let’s hope Vaseem will be back next year.
The next day was ladies’ day. As chair Jenny Brown pointed out, there were more of us in the audience. On stage we had three ladies; her and Karin Smirnoff and Denise Mina. Both Karin and Denise have recently written books featuring detectives originally invented by men, Stieg Larsson and Raymond Chandler. Similar idea, but they came at it quite differently. Denise of the weird clothes (they are glorious!) likes research and has looked very carefully into LA and all that she needs to know. She also mentioned a Nordic coach trip ( sounds unlikely, I know) where people were told to get off to admire the views and engage in small talk. In Glasgow everyone talks to everyone.
Karin, on the other hand, did no research. She paid someone to do it for her. Although that might have backfired. Being a Swede and from the north of the country as well, she doesn’t like chatting. In her own quiet, non-assuming ways, Karin was actually quite funny. I’d been intending to introduce myself to her at the signing, but felt disinclined to disturb Karin’s Swedish silence, and left her to her queue of fans. After all, why would two Swedes chitchat such a long way from home?
The last day, Sunday, we went to the last panel of the weekend. The ballroom at the Golden Lion was packed to the rafters; a complete sellout. Barry Hutchison, aka J D Kirk, appeared with Marion Todd and Colin MacIntyre, chaired by Caro Ramsay. I’ve never seen quite so many seats in there, and was grateful for my chair in the far corner next to the marble column. I may have rested my head on it when things got a little too ‘Jo Nesbø-ish’ at times.
Marion was a fun new acquaintance for us, who seems to like murdering people in St Andrews. And Barry – aka J D – was pretty relaxed about his writing. He does no research, which is why he murders on home ground where he knows what’s what. He writes 4000 words doing 12,000 steps (he writes on a treadmill thingy). Or some such numbers.
It was clear quite a few people were there for him, issuing stern instructions on not killing any [more] dogs. After some parting words from Gordon Brown, we went to queue outside. The first man in line for Barry hauled six paperbacks out of his rucksack. That’s proper dedication, that is. The queue was long, so I had to wait for my hug, but I got it in the end.
So that was a pretty good Bloody weekend in Scotland, and with some luck Vaseem will be back next year…
It’s coming up for twenty years since the Once New Librarian came to stay at Bookwitch Towers for a couple of months. She was only a wannabe librarian at the time, and she joined me briefly in Offspring’s school library, as well as doing stuff in the local bookshop. She liked reading ‘horrible’ books. Or that’s what I remember thinking of her style as.
So I put Malorie Blackman’s Noughts & Crosses in front of her. That had sad and horrible enough things happening in it. I believe the book passed muster. And for some reason I sent a copy of the book to the crime reviewer at Dagens Nyheter.
And now that trilogy has come to an end, by which I mean not exactly ‘now’ but a couple of years ago, and it’s not a trilogy but six books. But you knew that already.
I took my time reading the last book, Endgame, because when you reach the end, it’s the end. Possibly I waited too long as I was really grateful for the family tree in the book, reminding me of how the characters connect with each other. I’d even forgotten some of the names.
But I remembered how Troy and Libby ended up where they were in the last book. And I never trusted xxx, because… Seems I was right not to. Also XXX. Not everyone is good. And not everyone is alive at the end.
If I was going to say one thing, and I say it as a white person, almost two decades was too long in respect of how we’ve gone from our world being almost all right, to it not being terribly OK at all. Malorie’s world being a bit the other way round, is both the same and not. I like to feel when the end has been reached, that much is now ‘fine’ except for the obvious plot needs. Now though, it feels like nothing is right in either that world or ours.
But it’s a strong series of books. Not just anyone could have come up with it, or written it. And we have to have hope.
Panicked again when I realised I’d gone into Waterstones, and out again, having bought four books without any sort of list to support my behaviour.
I shop so rarely. And in this case we were in the Stirling branch; the one where I don’t go upstairs. But I felt sure I’d find ‘stuff’ on the table displays. Well, the first thing to remember is not to attempt to support myself on them. The first table almost went down when I touched it.
I began by rearranging a couple of books to give one I love a wider spread. No doubt someone will tidy up after me, but worth a brief try. But then, well, I didn’t feel the books came rushing at me, exactly. But as I felt I needed, wanted, to buy books, I did.
And when I got home and looked at them, they weren’t too bad. Considering there was no list, or great plan, or anything. Found Doug Johnstone’s The Space Between Us on the sci-fi table. I like Doug, despite never having read more than a short story by him. Remembered, with some difficulty, that I had planned to get Val McDermid’s 1989, so walked out with 1979, on the grounds that I ought to start at the beginning.
Kirkland Ciccone’s Sadie, Call the Polis was a definite. Wasn’t sure if he’d be general fiction, but he was. I even remembered where in the alphabet one finds the letter C. It was signed! A last minute brainwave reminded me I want to read Ali Smith’s Companion piece. Except, what was her name? Not Ali as a surname. That became clear. After a massive effort I made my way to S for Smith.
Basically, you shouldn’t let me loose in shops. Daughter instructed me to write lists. On my phone, or something. On the whole, though, I wasn’t disappointed in me.
It wasn’t as funny as I’d hoped, or expected. And I hope Shaun Bythell who is responsible for this diary as a bookseller, doesn’t mind. After all, he can be quite acerbic about both customers and staff, and somewhere there seems to be a competition running in how to insult him the most. I wouldn’t dream of joining in.
So, there was some disappointment. I can’t deny that. But it’s also interesting in a lowkey sort of way, and towards the end I was enjoying the lack of pace and good manners. And who wouldn’t want a bun that has had its icing licked off by a member of staff? Shaun, apparently.
I think the thing is, I felt he was/is living the kind of slow life I am increasingly wanting for myself. He stays in his shop, day in and day out, except for when he leaves it in the capable hands of the bun-licker, so he can drive off and look at [often dead] people’s book collections with a view to buying. To sell on.
I’ve never been to Wigtown. I always used to see it as a place I needed to visit. Now, I’m not so sure. It could be that it’s better as somewhere that is elsewhere. With a grumpy bookseller. (I do believe I have met the man who drives him crazy by leaving his shoes in the middle of the room when he visits. And he seemed so nice, too.)
And to be quite frank, which seems only right as Shaun himself is into frankness, I take issue with his comment on shoppers in December; ‘the few people who give second-hand books as gifts for Christmas are usually eccentric, though, so it is worth opening purely for the entertainment these characters afford.’ Ah, I see he goes on to say ‘they are the most interesting customers.’ Well, of course we are.
So yes, it was more a comfortable grumpiness I enjoyed than laugh out loud cheer.
North. South. Front and back. It’s hard to keep track.
On our recent long weekend away I suffered from a disappearing library. University library at that.
We stayed in a flat in St Andrews’ North Street. South side. Front windows looked out onto the library across the road. Back windows looked south. It was probably the Waterstones building we saw the back of.
Bedrooms faced front, i.e. north. Living room faced south.
Are you with me so far?
I was pleased to to have a view of the large library building where Daughter once collected her knowledge. Did her homework. But when I sat down in ‘my’ armchair, I was confused because the library wasn’t there. Just some roof top. Wrong windows. Something about which room faces front? Or back. Also, isn’t front always south? Apparently not.
Three days wasn’t long enough to learn where the library was. But I’m sure a library ought to be visible from a person’s armchair…
At least the flat had books. I’d have been quite happy to read some of them, had I come unprepared. There was also a selection of books for sale at Kinross Services, where we had time to kill while the car charged, which it only did because there was literally no parking (Bank Holiday weekend). At all. So I made the executive decision that since the charging spots were empty and we had a car that could ‘eat’ there, that’s what we would do.
You may recall my thoughts on going into bookshops to browse. Occasionally I really want to do that, to see what’s new. To touch it, and to decide. And how my local shop’s crazy lift makes me not want to browse after all. How I wait until I’m in St Andrews, where browsing can take place on the level. Street level.
So that is what I planned to engage in over the weekend. We went in. I found crime, and YA, and children’s for various ages.
What I didn’t find was inspiration. Nothing leapt out at me. Not having been informed of much that is new, I simply didn’t ‘see’ it. By the time I reached children’s, I could remember one preplanned title. Slightly hard to find, but I did walk out* with Derek Landy’s latest, the Skulduggery Pleasant prequel, Hell Breaks Loose. Which seems very prequelly indeed, going back in time considerably.
*I paid for it. Obviously.
Looked at crime on the way out again, but wasn’t inspired.
So that was that.
Didn’t even muster up any enthusiasm in the shoe shop which came next. Must be me, then.
When I got to the copy of The Bookseller which had its front page advertising Usborne turning 50 this year, I already knew that Peter Usborne, whose photograph was right there, had died. The day before the date on The Bookseller. Very sad, but he clearly did a lot for children’s books.
For quite a few years I believed that Usborne didn’t publish ‘real’ books, by which I mean mainstream novels and the like. I was wrong, and there have been a good number of YA novels just to my liking. It just seemed as though they weren’t always sitting next to all the other publishers’ books in the shops.
My own past with Usborne had to do with the bookselling parties. That was back in the 1990s. Possibly earlier and later as well, but this was my decade for selling parties in general. I was lonely, at home with Offspring, and as is so often pointed out, ‘there was no village.’ As an outsider I was ripe for selling parties; going to them and hosting them. I was also a pretty bad host, happily telling my prospective customers/guests that I didn’t care if they spent any money. I just wanted lots of people to come.
But I seem not to have ruined Usborne’s business. Possibly because I bought so many books myself, to make up any shortfall. We liked them. Content-wise they were just right, and they were so readable. While I can’t recall what the titles were, and I seem not to have kept them, they were gold for bedtime story reading. These stories could be read over and over.
And there was a video or two, mostly about the farmer, Mrs Xxxx (can’t remember her name). Much enjoyed.
So yes, Usborne should be celebrated.
(Coincidentally, I am reading an Usborne novel right now, and enjoying it a great deal.)
The Occasional Bookwitch 