A Writer Scorned

I’ve been invited to attend a couple of writer’s festivals recently, one in the Netherlands (where I am) and one in Australia (where I soon will be). When I say ‘been invited to’ I am, sadly, lying. What I actually mean is I have ‘invited myself’ to attend a number of forthcoming literary events, a somewhat debasing but necessary act on my part due to the fact that neither festival seemed about to make the first move. The first move being the one where they invite me to be a guest.
Usually when a writer releases a book, he or she is invited to some sort of literary shindig to do a reading, be part of a panel, sign some books and generally show off with the assistance of booze which is often free and always cheap. I know because I have done all of these things as a legitimate guest at literary festivals in the past. However despite the fact that I released not one but two books this year (within three weeks of each other, as a mat­ter of fact) I have been invited to no festivals, gatherings, galas or jubilees anywhere on earth, even Holland. In fact, I have not even been asked to show up to so much as a local bookstore and mumble in front of a handful of people who only came in to buy a newspaper. Hence the rather gauche behaviour of inviting myself to a couple of events – and the swift, absolute and humiliating rejection of my suggestion.
There are so few joys in this writer’s life, and to be denied the chance to rub shoulders with luminaries from the world of letters, people who are infinitely more successful at what they do than I am and who might be willing to pass on a few tips (use bigger words; place them in unusual order; write about a quirky Indian community in suburban London), well, it hurts.

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