London Book Fair

Oh, how embarrassing. An author at the London Book Fair. I felt as though I had wandered into a church stark naked. My jacket continually found itself being moved, despite the heat, over the badge announcing the two words: AUTHOR and WRITER. I struggled on past the big publishing houses with the massive advances that would sort out my life for ever, until I eventually discovered the oasis of help for struggling writers: the agents. And that, dear reader, was as far as it went. I blithely walked halfway through one entrance until a firm hand was stretched across the badge-bearing part of my chest with a "Excuse me, Sir. You can't come in here." I was firmly pointed in the direction of the badge registration. And the only way past this Checkpoint Charlie of the modern era was to have an appointment with an agent. A meek and pathetic request to walk around, not talk, but just put faces to names was met with the fact that "They don't like that." Seems like someone had already complained and it had just turned midday on the first day. Looking around I realised that the agents were walled in as though they were some dangerous animals in London Zoo. "Sorry, Sir, but you can't see them yet. They've just arrived and have yet to face humans. When they're tamed you'll be allowed to watch them in action." So, dear reader, my feelings. Although annoyed that I could not get in to hand out my work to a whole bunch of agents at one go, thus converting the entrance fee into postage and saving a bundle, I was heartened by the power wielded by these Gods of Literature. All that's needed is for one of them to be working for me. A couple of days later I was brought down to earth by a fellow writer who wondered why the fair was required with modern communications being so good. However, I made a couple of startlingly great discoveries. I don't mean that the best and cheapest meal was a short walk down the road. More later...