A day out at the Writers Festival with a couple of proper characters.
I’m walking through the writers festival, feeling like a fish out of water. There are people here who have been at this game a long time, decades, with the scars to show for it. But, I’m here for a reason: to understand how all this works. I’m going from a standing start into a new world, and its rules and etiquette are a mystery.
Hardy is unimpressed. “You know this is a bloody highway to nowhere,” he mutters.
“You’re always a ray of sunshine,” Flint tells him.
“I’m just saying. You heard that talk. Those were actual famous authors, saying that no-one makes any money.”
“Yeah, but they do.”
“Obviously they do. Shit, even we’ve heard of them. But what did she say? Twenty thousand new books a year just in this country, and only three-hundred-odd sell more than a few thousand copies.”
“Ok,” I interject, “Keep it down. Let’s just stay positive.”
“Easy for you to say, mate,” Hardy shoots back. “Three from thirty bucks a copy to the author, a thousand copies, three grand a year. No, wait, it’s worse. Three grand, full stop. You need to do it every year, or at that rate, every month. No, what’s the minimum wage? It’d be….”
“Hardy, leave it. We’re all in this together,” Flint tells him. “If you’ve got any bright ideas, then let’s hear them.”
“As in, any ideas, any at all?” Hardy laughs.
“There are no such things as stupid questions.”
“Oh, shit, yeah, right. You’ve obviously never stayed in the pub past ten o’clock. Past your bedtime, Flint?”
Flint isn’t deterred, keeping pace with me as I thread my way through the exhibition space.
“I’m just saying, you got something then let’s hear it.”
Hardy cracks up. “How am I gonna do that Flint? I’m fictional. I’m also dead, thanks to the genius here. No-one even knows we exist. At this point, we’re both just delusions of his grandeur.”
I ignore them both and find the only free seat in front of the stage. They’re still going at each other, but it’s okay. No-one can hear them.
“Yeah,” Hardy pipes up. “No-one can hear us. That’s the point.”
“Really?” Flint replies.
“Sure. We’re characters in a book sitting on his laptop. Scream blue murder, I dare you. Think anyone’s going to hear your tinny little whine beyond the hard drive? Seriously, you heard what she said, twenty thousand books. Average person buys three books a year, tops, and given we’ve never bought a book between us I guess that means there must be a shit-ton of people doing a dozen to average us out. It’s just numbers.”
“Maybe we’re one of the good stories.”
“Ah, crap, Flint. The last time you were this deluded was… what was her bloody name?”
“Amy. Go on, prick, get it off your chest.”
“Yeah, Amy. That was suspension of disbelief on an epic scale. There was no way she was gonna go for you, and we all knew it. Even Purple said that.”
“He did?”
“And he apparently likes you more than me, so that shows the depth of assurance.”
“This isn’t the same. We just need an audience.”
“You can barely conjugate your verbs, Flint. And you start your sentences with propositions.”
“And you never shut up.”
“See, just proved my point.”
The speakers come onto the stage and we all go quiet. It’s a panel discussion with emerging authors, and it’s brutal. Afterwards, we file out quietly.
“You could have heard a pin drop,” Flint murmurs as we head outside into the sunshine to get some fresh air.
“Or the little tinkling sound of broken dreams,” Hardy replies.
“Give it a rest,” I counter.
Flint nods. “Yeah. No worries.”
Hardy doesn’t. “I mean, it seems like you have to be in the right place at the right time, catching the publisher on a sunny Tuesday with a following wind after a good cup of coffee on a day where she hasn’t packed her kids screaming off to school. It’s a complete bun-fight.”
“You heard him, can it,” Flint grunts. “Let’s just regroup.”
I find a spot in the sunshine. It’s a glorious day, even for winter, and the wall is warm against my back. The festival has attracted a specific demographic, and I’m definitely not part of the tribe.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I confess.
“What do you need?” Flint asks.
“Aside from a bloody lightning bolt from above, or maybe a permanent neon sign above your head?” Hardy says.
“Not helping, mate.”
“Ducks in a row,” I tell them. “You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression.”
“You gonna polish the book some more?” Hardy mocks. “Like, just one more pass, tweak a few more words, and then it’ll be perfect? You’re just stalling, and we’re gonna sit on your hard drive forever.”
“Hardy….”
“Nah, whatever. Maybe his grandchildren come across ye olde laptop and go through the files. We get another reader at last. We double our audience.”
“There’s a way through,” I interject. “I just need to work this all out.”
“We’ll wait, no worries. We’ve literally got nothing better to do. Take your time.”
“Do’s and don’t of self-publishing in an hour,” Flint comments. “Fifteen percent of all books bought worldwide are from the one single online marketplace. Interested?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s an option.”
“Shit me,” Hardy drawls. “Sounds at this point like it’s the only game in town. Stop dicking around with the endless editing, put it out there, see if people actually read it.”
“What if it’s not the right…?” I begin, but I’m ignored.
“Publish, self-publish, either-or, but just do it. Just get the bloody book off the hard drive and in front of another actual living human being. Grow a bloody pair. What’s the worst that could happen?”
He rounds on me, grinning like a maniac. “Jump,” he says.