"Are your books doing as well as you hoped they would?" I have been asked this question so many times, and I haven't once been able to answer it. I have no answer. In order for my books to do as well as I hoped, I'd have had to hope in the first place. I was told by a very dear friend, when I was sixteen years old, that there's no money to be made in writing about art. He'd been doing it for years, and was very well respected in the field... he knew what he was talking about. I listened to him, accepted that I would make no money, and continued regardless. Much later, another writer friend told me that I'd have more chance of being struck by lightning than becoming recognised for my great genius. I accepted that I would be broke and unknown, and continued along my chosen path all the same. Later still, I was told to expect poor reviews... to take them on the chin, as nobody escapes them. I was prepared to be broke, unknown, and disliked by those who did manage to discover my existence. I was also told to avoid book signings, as they are unproductive and painfully boring, and that book buyers are prone to staring, pointing and telling you what they really think of you, to your face, so direct contact should be avoided if at all possible. I anticipated being broke, unknown, disliked by those who did uncover my existence, and eventually heckled by Saturday shoppers... and still I persisted. 

I have people come up to me at signings and say, with that particular dreamy look in their eyes, "I want to be a writer". Surprisingly (well, I think it is) they go on to talk of celebrity and fortune. If only they had the time, they'd write that bestseller and retire to a condo on the beach. I try to bring them down to earth gently, by informing them that I am nowhere close to building a condo on the beach (which is just as well really... I live in Weston-super-Mare, it would sink), and that most books fade into obscurity three months after they're published. I dash their hopes, and they hate me for it. "But this shouldn't stop you from writing," I say, as they trundle off to the cookery section to plot my assassination. 

In truth, I have no great desire for fame and fortune. I have no objection to money, so if it throws itself at me I won't beat it off with a stick. But I am not the best candidate for fame... being too fond of speaking my mind and using the words "bugger" and "backside" in public. Infamy might be more up my street, and I think I may have achieved that in certain quarters already. I have been very pleasantly surprised by the positive response my books have received, by sales figures, and by the fact that I haven't, as yet, been accosted by book buyers wielding pitchforks (though I do realise that this might be because of the rarity of pitchforks in modern shopping malls). 

I suggested to an aspiring writer (who was really an aspiring celebrity) that we should take one writer and one rock... monitor the progress of the writer as he attempts to get published and the rock as it attempts to turn itself into a squirrel... and take bets on which will succeed first. He huffed at me and thought me a swear word with knobs on. Writing a book is hard work. Marketing a book is hard work. Everything about this writing malarkey is hard work. Becoming a number one bestseller and household name is as much about luck as it is about talent. In fact, the former isn't reliant on the latter.

It's got to be about the writing. The sheer desire to write, regardless of the outcome. Everything else is uncertain and likely to drive you slowly around the bend.