I have just finished writing a book and am moping about the house at a loose end. The conventional advice to anyone thinking about writing a book is: don’t. Unless you’re one of the 1 per cent of authors who make 99 per cent of the money, it’s a mug’s game as far as making a living is concerned. Your cleaning lady earns more per hour. So my advice is only write a book if you have an alternative source of income.
One of the hardest things about writing a book is stopping. The temptation to tinker persists until the publisher screams at you to stop and mutters that publishing would be a good business if it weren’t for the authors. Still, the end is in sight, and now I need something to do. I’ve tried reading the papers and browsing Twitter, but it seems as if little has changed since I entered book mode. Perhaps I need a hobby.
Writing a book isn’t hard if you know what you want to say. I started the latest effort in November, was unimpressed, took December off and started again in January. So, six weeks. A sprint. I can’t say a lot, but it’s about journalism and whether it has a future. If you want to know, you’ll have to buy the book. My previous book, A Devil’s Dictionary of France, took more than two years. Because: research.
I uncovered some good stories writing that book about France. There were bits about what happened here during the occupation, when there was a gun battle on the plateau between German soldiers and the Resistance. And how the village was saved from bombardment because the senior German officer was shacked up with a local girl.
I visited the tomb of Napoleon III at an abbey in Hampshire, guarded by fierce Benedictine monks against the efforts of the French government, which wants him back. I was impressed that they pray each day for his eternal soul. Someone should do that for me.
It was enjoyable. My efforts did not disturb the bestsellers list, but I learned a lot. Why didn’t it fly off the shelves? I blame the publisher. Awful cover. Poor promotion. All publishers are bastards – unless you’re Lee Child. The publisher blames me: probably not enough froggie-bashing. But I’m rather partial to the French.
My new tome is different because I already knew what I wanted to say. Also, I am ever more waspish in my senescence. Let’s say I settle a few scores. Writing a book has become much easier with ChatGPT. It’s like having a researcher. Footnotes, in particular, are easy. Just add jokes. Artificial intelligence has yet to demonstrate a sense of humour.
Psychologically, finishing a book is like having a baby. There’s a certain post-partum remorse after pushing the send button. Is that it? What now? Still to come is the actual publication, reviews by imbeciles on Amazon, and the general indifference of the world. Meanwhile, all the editors who normally pester me for dyspeptic rants think I am dead. Nobody writes, nobody calls.
So why bother writing a book? You shouldn’t do it for the money. You might as well buy a lottery ticket. You shouldn’t do it because you imagine it will change the world, your unique insights deflecting humanity from its plunge into the abyss. The only reasons to write a book are to please yourself, to laugh at your own jokes, and to tell friends when they ask what you’ve been doing. It sounds impressive. Now I will walk the dog.
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