Paperback Writher
When people ask me what I do for a crust and I tell them
that I'm a novelist, they immediately assume that my life
is a nonstop carousel of limos, television appearances,
hairdos, devoted fans, stalkers and all the glitzy
paraphernalia of being a public figure.
It's time to set the record straight.
I write alone, in a darkened bedroom, wearing my pj's,
eating bananas, my laptop on a pillow in front of me.
Occasionally -- it usually coincides with promoting a
book -- I am led, blinking, into the daylight, and when I
try to talk to people, discover that I'm not able to, that
I've become completely desocialized. And as for being
mobbed by adoring fans -- I'm never recognized. Once I
thought I was, but I was mistaken. I was in a shoe shop
(where else?), and when I asked one of the girls if she
had any of these sixteen shoes in my size, she looked at
me, put her hand on her chest and gave a little
gasp. "It's you!" she declared.
It is, I thought, thrilled to the marrow. It is me -- I'm
famous!
"Yes," the girl continued. "You were in the pub last
night, you were the one singing, weren't you?"
I was so disappointed I could hardly speak. I'd been
nowhere near any pub the night before.
"You've a great voice," she said. "Now what size do you
want these shoes in?"
Even the day a book comes out isn't as life-altering as
I'd once anticipated. The morning my first book,
Watermelon, was officially published in England, where I
lived at the time, I half-expected that people in the
street would look at me differently as I went to work.
That they'd nudge each other and mutter, "See her, that's
that Marian Keyes, she's written a book." And that the bus
conductor might let me off my fare. ("You're OK there,
Writer Girl, this one's on me.") But, naturally, no one
paid me the slightest attention. At lunchtime I rushed to
the nearest bookshop, my heart aflutter, as I expected to
see my beloved creation in a massive display. Instead I
found the latest John Grisham piled high where my book
should have been. I looked for a smaller display of my
book. None to be seen. Mortified, I went to the shelf and
searched alphabetically. And found it wasn't there. So I
went to the counter and got the girl to look it up on the
computer.
"Oh, that," she said, eyeing the screen. "We're not
getting any in."
"I can order you a copy, though," she called after me, as
I slunk away to shoot myself.
For a couple of weeks afterward, whenever my boss left the
office I grabbed the phone and systematically rang every
bookshop in London, pretending to be a customer, asking if
they stocked Watermelon. And if they hadn't got it, I rang
again a few days later, hoping they'd changed their minds.
In the end, I'm sure they recognized my voice. I imagined
them putting their hands over the mouthpiece and
shouting, "It's that Keyes one again. Have we got her
bloody book in yet?"
As well as expecting glitz and glamour, I used to think
that an integral part of being a writer was lying around
on a couch, eating chocolate raisins, waiting for the muse
to strike. And that if the muse hadn't struck, I might as
well be watching Jerry Springer while I was waiting. So it
came as a nasty shock to discover that if I was waiting
for the muse to come a-calling, it would take several
decades to write a book.
So now, muse or no muse, I work eight hours a day, Monday
to Friday, just like I did when I was an accounts clerk.
The main difference is that I work in bed. Not because I
am a lazy lump (OK, not just because I'm a lazy lump), but
just because the idea of sitting at a desk daunts me and,
frankly, I'm daunted enough. So the bed it is and it's
worked out nicely so far, especially since I started
turning myself regularly to avoid bedsores.
Most days I start work at about eight o'clock -- kicking
the day off with a good dose of terror. Today is the day,
I usually think, when I run out of ideas, when the
inspiration packs its bags and goes to find another
accounts clerk and transforms their life.
People often ask me where I get my ideas from and, God, I
wish I knew. All I can say is that I find people
fascinating, and seeing as I write about emotional
landscapes, this can only be a good thing. I think that on
a subconscious level I'm taking in information constantly,
and in case I come across extraspecially interesting
people or funny sayings, I carry a notebook with me at all
times. Well, actually I don't. I'm supposed to, and when I
give advice to aspiring writers that's always what I tell
them to do. But somehow when I forage around amongst the
sweet papers and lip glosses in my handbag the notebook is
never there. So my "office" (i.e., the floor on my side of
the bed) is littered with bus tickets and pastille
wrappers with little notes to myself scribbled on them.
Another question that I'm often asked is if there's any
downside to being a writer. Three words: the crippling
insecurity. In my old job, I worked in accounts. It may
not have been the most exciting job in the universe, but
it was very reassuring. If it balanced I knew I was right -
- it was as simple as that. But with writing, there's no
right or wrong ...
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