I thought of doing a day in the life of a publisher, but I don’t want to be responsible for your stress levels.
This is the hour I have set aside to write that talk I’m supposed to be giving in London in March. Instead, I’m looking disconsolately at my inbox. There are fifteen emails to answer not including the ten left over from yesterday. The phone goes. The talk organiser is on the other end sounding flustered.
“That talk I booked you in for March?”
“Yes.”
“Actually, it’s the beginning of February. Will you have it written by that time?”
I switch to my word processor and look at the blank page. The cursor winks at me malevolently.
“Lesley?” The organizer sounds nervous. “Are you still there?”
“Sure. No problem. I’ll be ready.”
The cursor is still winking. Tentatively, I type: Ladies and gentlemen—
The phone rings again. This time it’s Jim our Marketing Manager. “Have you sent out that proposal?”
“Not yet. I’m working on it.”
He sees through me. “You don’t know which proposal I’m talking about.”
I don’t, and he reminds me that I need to send out our application to participate in a major book festival. I promise I will get right on it and put the phone down. Part of my reluctance stems from the ‘celebrity culture’ which as infected so many literary events. The need to bring in ‘big names’ is stifling the voices of new authors in a constant chicken or egg situation. You need be known to get publicity. You need publicity to be known. I have a feeling I will be returning to this theme. In the meantime, I delete Ladies and gentlemen and type: It is my great pleasure—The phone rings again.
This time it’s an author having a meltdown about the layout of his manuscript. Apparently everything is double-spaced and there are ugly section breaks. I calm him down and explain that this isn’t a typeset galley, but an early proof for him to check typos. I put the phone down, delete It is my great pleasure and type: Thank you—
The phone rings. This time it’s Wendy our administrator and all-round organizer of the many finer details that yours truly forgets.
“You haven’t got back to me with a decision about reordering.”
“That’s true.”
“Have you taken a decision yet?”
“No, but I’m working on it. I’ll get back you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Today. I promise. As soon as I finish writing this talk.”
I say goodbye and waste several minutes wondering if it would be unethical to switch my phone off for the rest of the day. I check my emails. There are now twenty-eight emails to answer. Back at the word processor I type: Ladies and gentlem— before remembering I already deleted that opening and delete it again. The doorbell rings.
This time it’s a large delivery of books. I attack the parcel, which is bound up more tightly than the corpse of King Tut, with a large kitchen knife, managing in the process to cut open my thumb. Staunching the wound with a mostly unused tissue found in the recesses of my pocket, I inspect the books. The cover is squint. Time to phone the printers in a panic.
Back in front of my laptop, I type: What an honour— The phone rings again. It’s the organizer of the talk. Apparently, there’s been a mistake and my talk is back on in March. He apologizes for any inconvenience. I make the gracious sounds of one, who was ready and eager to give a talk at a moment’s notice. I put the phone down and wonder if I might get some of the emails answered. There are now over fifty. I decide to drown my panic in a cup of coffee: my sixth this morning.
As I watch the coffee machine in a kind of frenzied daze, I remember how the other day a friend of mine was playing a game of, What would you say if a doctor told you, you only had an hour to live? Most of the people in the group answered predictably: spend the hour in bed/call my girlfriend/get drunk, and one pathetic soul answered: finish my D&D campaign. My answer came easily:
“What’s that doc? Sorry. I’ve got a lot on today. How about I schedule being terminal for next Thursday?...No, wait. Thursday’s booked too. Let me get back to you.”