A friend asked the other day if Plotting for Grown-ups is autobiographical, and I said “Aren’t all my books?” and then, after mulling it over and realising the import of what I’d said, I hastily corrected myself - “Well, in this book, just the stuff about publishing.”
So the easiest way to tell you how I felt on Friday when the books arrived is to give you a quote from the book itself -
“Oh – almost forgot – I’ve got something in my car you might like.” He jumped up and went to his car and brought back a jiffy bag. I looked inside. It was my book! The approval copy of my beautiful book!
“Thank you! Thank you!” I shrieked. “Isn’t it fab? Isn’t it, oh, isn’t it...”
I stroked it and sniffed it and opened it and flicked it, and put it to my cheek to feel the smoothness and the newness, then I stroked it again and laid it carefully on the patio table on top of the jiffy bag. And then I flung my arms round his neck and kissed him as if I hadn’t seen him for weeks. (Which I hadn’t.)
“Well, I don’t know,” he said between kisses. “I tell you it’s ‘game on’ and you sit there as limp as a left-over lettuce leaf, only manage a smile as paltry as PG Tips, and speak in a voice as quiet as a mid-list novel, and then I give you a book and you more or less ravish me. I’ll make a note for future reference.”
Reader, I took the book to bed with me.
Last night Isaac sent me this beautiful photo of Lux and Cece, which filled me with a different kind of joy.
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