Meet the readers

Writing books is – in so many, many ways – an odd profession. 

By its very nature, it attracts those of us who are perfectly happy spending months, if not years, talking to pretty much no one but the cat. Long days in front of the computer or with the notepad or in the library, happily beavering away, speaking possibly 100 words aloud in an 8-hour-period.

And then when the book comes out, there are suddenly – if you’re lucky – quite a lot of people who suddenly want to talk to you very, very much, at great length, repeatedly.

They’re called your readers, and if you’re afraid of them, you might be in the wrong line of work. True, the literary world has its fair share of difficult recluses (Salinger, of course, Pynchon, Jeffrey Archer whenever he’s banged up), but let’s face it, neither you nor I are J D Salinger or Thomas Pynchon. You might be Jeffrey Archer, but then you’d probably lie about it.

For the rest of us, it’s a necessary part of the gig, and frankly, I – a fairly shy person who’s extremely suited to a self-directed solo job – enjoy it to a surprising degree.

I write for young adults currently, so when I do an event the audience is usually split between teens and parents. And I get all kinds:  there are the readers who really really love the book and sit in the front row with their copies and then when they get to the front of the signing queue afterwards, they’re too nervous to say anything at all, even in response to a direct question. I wish I could explain to them that I’m as nervous as they are.

I love the flipside of these readers, too, the ones brimming with confidence who are full of questions about every possible aspect of the novel, like what was I thinking on page 342?  And why did so-and-so have to die? And why did I end it this way? And how much money did I get paid for it? And will there be a movie? And can they be in it? You feel pretty good about the future with these kind of young readers.

I also love the cheeky ones who ask impertinent questions. There’s a talking dog in The Knife of Never Letting Go who spends most of his time talking about poo (as any real talking dog would), and there are inevitably a number of readers who want to ask about it with a broad grin. 

On Wednesday at the Hay Festival, for example, I was on a panel in front of an audience of about 300. When a question came up for me about talking dogs, someone in the audience, completely unprompted, shouted, 'Need a poo, Todd!' That’s brilliant. How unbelievably wonderful to have a reader share their joy with you. Could there be a better job?

Most of all, I think, I love the shy ones who want to be writers themselves and are dying of embarrassment at having to admit it in front of other people. They’re the ones who, with physiologically near-impossible levels of blushing, try to ask quiet questions that no one else will overhear. 

It’s particularly great when teenagers do this (and they do, especially when I speak at a school), because they’re exactly who I was when I was a teenager. More than anything, I want to tell them to hang in there, that becoming a grown-up will be even better than they think, and that I can’t wait to read the books they’re going to write.

Meeting readers can be a bit of a shock, like blinking into bright sun after a year of living as a writing Hobbit. But it’s a good shock, bracing and rewarding and sometimes surprisingly illuminating, even moving.

It’s also – and I never want to forget this – an honour and a privilege.  So if you see me at an event, don’t be shy. 

I’m pleased to meet you.