I’ve just had the author photos done for the new book. I know, get me, there was a make up artist, photographer, assistant, specially booked venue and everything…sounds soooo glamorous, doesn’t it?

And it was, it really truly was…for about the first 15 minutes. I swished my beautifully straightened locks, smiled through my expertly applied lipgloss and batted eyelashes so layered with mascara they felt fake. The lights were on me, I had to smile, look this way, look that, tilt my chin, angle my head. Then gradually it began to get just a tiny bit dull, then really quite boring, then as we got into the second hour terminally tedious and by the end, I swear, my sympathy for Kate Moss’s heroin habit was total.

Who can be bothered to pose for a living? It is the most excruciatingly dull thing ever. Photographers, bless them, never worry intimately about how you look, they worry about really strange things. Like what you’re doing with your hands and what shape your leg makes when you cross it a certain way and whether or not you should wear a white shirt when sitting on a white sofa.

Anyway, the end result is a set of very nice pictures which will go inside all the newly printed, newly re-covered lovely editions of all five books.
Well, I’ve scrutinized the chosen author pic very closely and thought: couldn’t he have got me to pull down my top, so I don’t look as if I have three breasts? And what happened at the back, I wasn’t wearing a corset? and My God, if I’d known I was going to be barefoot, I’d have re-painted my toenails at least once since the summer holidays.

But I’m sure my most devoted fans ie Mum/ husband/ children will think it’s lovely.
And yes, early January… that ideal time for a photo shoot! When you’re all post-Xmas binge, skin dry as a desert because of buffeting winter winds, hair looking like a scarecrow’s. Yes, that was a kind choice. We tried to do some outdoor café type photos, until my lips got frozen to the coffee cup.

 

Also this month, went to the inaugural meeting of Glasgow writers support group. Drank far too much wine, listened to tales of ‘how my book almost, nearly, quite got published’, until I wanted to cry and hug people. Tried not to mind TOO much that I was the only published author there not invited to give a talk at Glasgow’s Book Festival, Aye Write. I suspect this is because I do not write literary fiction, darlings. At times like this, I think of Martina Cole’s words of wisdom: ‘Ah, but you’ll never win the Booker, Martina,’ someone said to her, ‘The Booker? £30,000 quid? That wouldn’t keep me in fags, sweetheart.’ I don’t know if this story is true or not, but it is funny!