HOPE THIS EMAIL GETS YOU OFF

Or: How to win at being a writer without doing any writing ever

I’m on the train to Derby with my mate Laura when the thought occurs to me that today, I will have to sign books.

I hate signing books. I love having books to sign. And I love that people want me to sign those books. But I hate that I never have any idea what I’m supposed to write.

Hope you like these stories!

Thanks for buying my book! :)

You’re the best, [insert name]!

Hate it.

Laura, also a writer, eyes me with barely disguised contempt. Is there anything more obnoxious than a writer complaining about her successful book publication? Well, probably. But not on this train there isn’t. I’m definitely the most obnoxious thing happening on the 08:56 to Derby this morning.

We’re heading to Edge Lit, a day-long convention for writers. It’s a small con compared to others. But it’s a good con. Partly because it’s so small, but mainly because they don’t cancel you for not putting your pronouns on your name badge.

I’m looking forward to a day of brilliant workshops, insightful discussions, and powerful readings – none of which I shall bother to attend. Because there will also be a bar, and people I haven’t seen for a few years, and I want them to admire my sexy outfit and compliment my hair way more than I want to sit at the back of a room learning about the intricacies of narrative point of view.

Also, have I mentioned that I’m a lazy bitch? There’s that, too.

I haven’t even seen a copy of my book at this point, although the pre-orders went out a week ago. My dad has already called me to say he’s read the first two stories and doesn’t understand why I can’t write something nice for once. “And who on earth did you get your sick, evil genius from?” He asks. “Because it wasn’t me.”

“Why are you laughing?” He adds. “It’s not a compliment. I’m genuinely disturbed that you can imagine these things.”

I pretend to be ashamed of myself and get off the phone as soon as possible so I can write the words “sick, evil genius” in my journal, surrounded by love hearts.

Steve, whose small press has published my collection, is meeting me at Edge Lit with a box full of shiny new books, which I will attempt to foist upon any and all individuals who get within selling distance. My catchment area is essentially the entire bar and the tables outside. Basically anywhere there’s no actual work happening, aka my comfort zone.

But the signing bit. That bothers me.

People always want their books signed at these things.

I ask Laura what she thinks I should do. She gazes at me in silence. It’s the silence of a talented writer who cannot fucking believe someone as vapid and vain as me even has a book that needs signing in the first place.

And it turns out that for the first couple of hours, I don’t need to worry about it. Because there are no books to be signed. Because Steve isn’t there.

I compose a frosty text.

Where the fuck are you.

No question mark, no emoji. I show it to the guy sitting next to me. He agrees it looks scary.

Send.

Wait.

No reply.

Fucking Steve.

It turns out that fucking Steve is exactly what some lucky person has been doing in a hotel room while I am waiting for my work of sick and evil genius to be delivered. When at last Steve shows up, gently flushed and slightly terrified, I all but rip the books from his hands.

“I could have sold ten books by now,” I say, in my most scathing tones.

Steve flinches, but ultimately cannot disguise how much he doesn’t care. He’s smug, like a man who has no fucks left to give. Literally.

But it doesn’t matter. Because while I’ve been waiting for my books, I’ve hit upon a great solution to my book-signing problem.

“Hey,” I say to Laura. “What if, instead of the usual boring crap, I write disgusting, lewd, and filthy messages in people’s books?”

Laura makes the facial expression of a woman who is wondering how she ended up being friends with this egomaniac who’s spent the entire morning talking about herself and is now pestering her for advice and validation while she, Laura, is trying to learn something about the use of tenses in historical fiction. (Or something. I haven’t looked at the programme.)

But I am undeterred. If anything, I’m encouraged.

I think I’m a fucking genius, to be honest.

And I’m right. Twenty minutes later, I have a crowd of people gathered around me, all queuing up to spend six quid and get a filthy message scrawled to them in the front of a book.

Hope this gets you very hard.

Hope these stories get you off.

If you’re not hot and wet by the time you’ve got to the end of this book, I’ll give you your money back.

This is an absolute lie.

There is literally nothing erotic in any of my stories. I do not hope that they affect anyone’s genitals in any way. And if someone does happen to find them sexy, I definitely DO NOT want to know about it.*

Within minutes, I sell out of books. I even have to sell my own copies, and the copy I’d been saving for Laura, who, for completely understandable reasons, has taken the first opportunity to get away from me and catch a train back home by herself.

At the end of the day I find Steve and berate him for not bringing me more books to sell. He gives the mild shrug of a man who deeply doesn’t care, and holds his hand out for the money.

And that’s how I manage to spend an entire day at a writing convention, surrounded by writers, and not even think about writing or being a writer once.

I believe I am finally becoming a master of my chosen art form. Which is, of course, the art of doing fuck all and wasting everyone’s time. But in a sexy way.

*And no, of course you can’t have your money back.