{"id":149,"date":"2011-02-13T00:55:56","date_gmt":"2011-02-13T00:55:56","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/geraldhornsby.wordpress.com\/?p=149"},"modified":"2011-02-13T00:55:56","modified_gmt":"2011-02-13T00:55:56","slug":"samplesunday-13th-february-2011","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gerald-hornsby.com\/blog\/2011\/02\/13\/samplesunday-13th-february-2011\/","title":{"rendered":"#SampleSunday – 13th February 2011"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>
\nFirst draft to Chapter One of “DEATH IN PRINT” – out soon.<\/p>\n

This is preceded by the prologue, also made available as a #SampleSunday on the 16th Jan – .: CLICK HERE :. <\/a><\/p>\n

Robert Casey stood facing the double doors into the main body of the bookshop, and took a deep breath. It was always like this, meeting his fans, the great unwashed who had given him his comfortable lifestyle. The bookstore owner, James something-or-other, bow tie adjusted perfectly around his bulging neck, stood at Casey\u2019s right elbow, peering in through the window. Casey knew he was mentally counting the punters and the pound signs they represented. Stan Lillywhite, Robert\u2019s long-suffering agent, stood on Casey\u2019s left side.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood crowd tonight, eh Robert?\u201d<\/p>\n

Casey grunted. This was by far the worst part of his author\u2019s existence. Lillywhite and the publisher said that it was an essential part of marketing. Both of them were hanging off Casey\u2019s coattails, taking their percentage. Casey thought it was just bullshit.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, let\u2019s do it.\u201d Casey followed the bookstore owner through the doors, Lillywhite peeling off to one side.<\/p>\n

\u201cLadies and gentlemen\u201d, bow tie announced, \u201cMister Robert Casey!\u201d A small round of applause fizzed into life from a few sad and lonely claps.<\/p>\n

Casey allowed himself to be led towards the rear of the shop, where a large table waited, covered by a pristine starched white tablecloth. To one side, several neat piles of books were positioned, and an empty space had been created on the other. Casey sat down on the utilitarian, orange plastic seat \u2013 why couldn\u2019t they ever use a decent chair for once? \u2013 and then stood up again, when he realised he would need to say something to the crowd.<\/p>\n

\u201cLadies and gentlemen\u201d, bow tie began, rubbing his hands together Shylock-fashion,<\/del> despite the oppressive heat in the shop. \u201cI\u2019d just like to welcome our esteemed guest for this evening, who I\u2019m sure will need no introduction. Mister Robert Casey.\u201d<\/p>\n

He started another ripple of applause, less effusive this time, following the introduction which apparently wasn\u2019t required.<\/p>\n

After the applause had died down, Casey cleared his throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. You\u2019re really kind.\u201d He stopped, looking around the twenty or so faces, wondering what they hell they were doing out on a cold and wet night like this. Do they think some ethereal stardust is going to get wafted from his aura? Are these people really that sycophantic, that they wanted to see their favourite author, up close and personal?<\/p>\n

He realised that there was the beginnings of an uncomfortable silence, and everyone was waiting for him to do something, to show them why he was one of the country\u2019s favourite authors, an honour bestowed upon him by some nonsense chat show he\u2019d done a couple of years ago.<\/p>\n

He picked up his dog-eared copy of \u201cDeath by Drowning\u201d, and opened it at the first page marked by a tiny yellow Post-It. \u201cI … err … before I start, I\u2019d like to give you some background to this book. Does anyone mind if I sit down?\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course they didn\u2019t. As always, he had them eating out of the palm of his hand. It was just a shame that all he had was a few cracker crumbs. Book sales were dropping off, and reviewers had begun to call his writing \u201cformulaic\u201d. He thought they had a point. His formula had stood him in good stead for some years now, and he saw no reason to change. The publishers disagreed.<\/p>\n

He sat down again, seemingly idly flipping through the book. \u201cThis is my seventh \u2018Death by\u2019 book, and I personally think it\u2019s my best yet, despite what the critics say.\u201d There was a murmur of amusement, and Casey glanced at Lillywhite, who was staring back at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI do like to try and push the boundaries of crime writing, whilst keeping my finger on the pulse of modern society.\u201d He paused. Christ, he was a walking clich\u00e9. \u201cPerhaps the best way of telling you what makes me write a book like this, is to read some sections from it\u201d.<\/p>\n

Casey went through the motions of making readings; he tried to inject some enthusiasm into it, he really did. But this was about the fifteenth book signing on his present tour, and any tiny bit of enthusiasm he\u2019d had when they started the tour had all but evaporated. He could see bow tie man getting twitchy. No one was enjoying this evening. What was the point?<\/p>\n

The publishers had said that they wanted to get him in touch with his core audience. Publishing speak for admitting that the big city centre stores didn\u2019t want him cluttering up their stores, when they could have a celebrity chef, an ex-MP, or a footballer who\u2019d recently been photographed with a team mate in a fairly compromising position. Some old has-been bean<\/del> crime writer just didn\u2019t cut it any more.<\/p>\n

Eventually, after the last reading, he sat down, only to be encouraged to his feet again.<\/p>\n

Bow tie led the applause, if it could be called that. \u201cLadies and gentlemen, I\u2019m sure before Mister Casey begins his book signings, he would welcome the opportunity to answer a few questions any of you might have.\u201d<\/p>\n

Casey looked towards his agent, but Lillywhite just shrugged his shoulders. Bastard! He knew about this. Casey made a mental note to grab a bookstore complement slip on his way out, so he could be sure he would never come here again.<\/p>\n

He sat down again, and waited. There was a moment\u2019s silence, before bow-tie opened up the questioning.<\/p>\n

\u201cI suppose I should have the pleasure of starting with the first question. Mister Casey, Robert, who would you say was your greatest inspiration? Where do you get your ideas from? I\u2019m sure I speak for a number of people here when I say that we enjoy your books immensely, but we couldn\u2019t imagine where some of the concepts and plots come from for your books.\u201d<\/p>\n

Casey groaned inwardly. This was probably the most common question he was ever asked, and usually he had a smart answer for the people, to keep them quiet, to satisfy their desire to ownwon<\/del> a piece of him. Tonight, the smart answer eluded him, and he struggled to come up with a satisfactory answer to this first of a number of boring, inconsequential questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, I read a lot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich authors do you read mostly?\u201d<\/p>\n

Oh Christ. \u201cI suppose I read a wide variety of authors. From, of course, Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler and James Elroy, to modern authors. A wide variety, I suppose, would be my answer.\u201d He paused, as if to think. \u201cI always try to inject as much realism into my books as possible. I put myself in my character\u2019s shoes, so I can see what they\u2019re seeing, and feel what they\u2019re feeling.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sweaty bow tie man laughed. \u201cI hope that\u2019s not true for your murderers, Robert?\u201d The audience shared the joke, politely.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, of course not.\u201d Was it time to get out of here and back to the hotel bar yet? \u201cNow,\u201d Casey said, with a bright tone to his voice, \u201care there any questions from the audience.\u201d He threw his arms out wide, either embracing them or throwing himself on their mercy.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat time of day did you find best for writing?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bloody hell. What a stupid, stupid question. \u201cI mostly write in the mornings. These days, I have timescales and targets and deadlines to meet \u2013 my agent, Stan Lillywhite over there, sees to that.\u201d He nodded in the direction of Stan, who stood at the back of the group, impassively. Probably thinking about the hotel bar, too. \u201cSo I try to get as many words out in the morning as I can. That way, I can edit and rewrite at my leisure in the afternoon and evening.\u201d<\/p>\n

Please God, get me out of here soon.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat sort of computer do you use for your writing?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bloody hell. That\u2019s a weird one.<\/p>\n

\u201cI dunno, really.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it a laptop? An<\/del>A PC or an Apple?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I see. It\u2019s a laptop PC. Nothing special.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWouldn\u2019t an Apple MacBook be better?\u201d<\/p>\n

Casey looked over to the man asking the questions. Nondescript, boring features, wrapped in what looked like an old plastic mac. Dark, wet hair, earnest expression. Christ, what a saddo. This question was important to this weirdo. Fortunately, bow-tie came to the rescue.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure Mister Casey has more important things to do than discuss the type and styles and makes of computer. Wouldn\u2019t you say so, Mister Casey?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I suppose that\u2019s true. I don\u2019t pay that much attention to the details of the computer. I just buy something that has a good screen that I can read for several hours a day. Nothing special at all.\u201d<\/p>\n

The same guy spoke up again. “Are you proud of your books, Mister Casey?” The quiet buzz of conversation in the bookshop dies away completely.<\/p>\n

“What do you mean?”<\/p>\n

“Well, it must be difficult to maintain standards over a long series, wouldn’t you say? Do you think the critics are right to describe your book as ‘outdated, belonging to a era of steam trains and Harold MacMillan?’<\/p>\n

The was quiet, before bow tie came to Casey’s rescue.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, thank you, Mister Casey \u2013 may I call you Robert?\u201d He\u2019s been calling me Robert all fucking evening so far. To the audience – \u201cNow if you would so kind as to form an orderly queue in front of the table here, and Mister Casey \u2013 err, Robert, will be pleased to sign your books for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLovely to meet you, Mister Casey.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve read all of your other books, Mister Casey.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do love the way you bring a sense of adventure into your books.\u201d<\/p>\n

Casey smiled dutifully, but watched out for the strange, aggressive man in the plastic mac. He seemed to have left the shop before the signings. “Probably a journalist,” Casey thought.<\/p>\n

Casey kept his head down, signing away on the hardbacked source of income. Good work, Peter. Cheers, Diane. Hope you enjoy it, Davina. Davina? He looked up. No, it wasn\u2019t THAT Davina. Thanks, Charlie. Cheers, Brian. And so on. He licked his lips. He could taste the beer already.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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