Fifteen years ago, my first book – The Art of Falling Apart – was published by a major UK imprint. It, and my second book, Subpoena Colada, sank without trace.
Hardly any sales. No reviews. The only contact I had with readers was when a friend handed me a copy of Subpoena Colada that she had bought in a charity shop, and a note slipped out on which the reader had noted all the legal points that I had got wrong. Not quite what I had in mind. I’d always had the dream that one day I would see a commuter with one of my books open on his or her lap while I took the train into work (this would be just before I quite working to write full time, of course). That didn’t happen, either.
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