Such a glamorous life

Such a glamorous life

Welcome to my new blog!

I thought I'd kick things off by shamelessly plugging my new Inspector Armstrong books with MX Publishing. It's always exciting to have a new book (or books) coming out but on the flip-side I am currently preparing myself for a further excursion into the win-some-lose-some world of book promotion.

I'm reminded of a particularly manic period a couple of years ago during crime month which saw the publication of a previous Inspector Armstrong Casebook. It proved to be a particularly entertaining few weeks, filled with the usual mix of triumph, disaster and comedy gold!

First up was a radio interview. Having dropped a review copy in with the lunchtime presenter the previous week, I duly turned up at the appointed hour only to find that he had gone sick. I was shown into the studio where I was introduced to his replacement. The good news was that she was also called Armstrong and therefore showed a genuine interest in her namesake's adventures; she delivered the bad new off air, just as the pre-interview record was fading out: "I was only given your book ten minutes ago so you're on your own." (Yey!).

I proceeded to tell the listeners all about the book and Val, the presenter, ending by saying, "Martin, you're an absolute star!" I don't know if that was a commentary on my writing or the fact that I had just filled in ten valuable minutes of an otherwise unscripted show (I left convincing myself it was the former).

That night saw me struggling with projector and screen in a village hall as I prepared to give a talk to the ladies from a local Women's Institute - an event that had been arranged months earlier but that which now coincided with the launch of the new book. Fortunately technology smiled kindly on me and off I went.

Throughout the lecture I was rather disconcerted by an officious looking lady who sat in the front row and peered at me over the top of her glasses - she was obviously the Miss Mountshaft of the group (what is it about a tweed skirt, woolly tights and brogues that strikes the fear of God into you?).

At the end of my talk I braced myself as she came over to me and said, "Well Mr Daley, I thoroughly enjoyed that. It is probably the best talk we have received in years." (Wow - who knew?).

A few days later, following a good article in the local newspaper, I attended the first of two book signings - this one at Bookends, the local independent store in Carlisle. It was a pleasant, relaxed affair in the small store that saw us sell a few books and spend a generally enjoyable morning.

Then it was a trek down to the Lakes for a book fair. Feeling strangely empowered in my new tweed skirt, woolly tights and brogues combo, of I set safe in the knowledge that no one would see me from the waist down behind the stall. If I tell you that I was in fact the token celebrity, you'll realise that it wasn't the biggest event the literary world saw that summer.

Now as we all know, There is nothing nicer than being in the company of like-minded people but equally, we all know the unpredictability of good old Joe Public.

The particular highlights for me on this day included a lady who came over and peered, unimpressed, at the pop up banner that was standing behind me (as my dad used to say, she had a face that would worry rats). "Creator of Inspector Armstrong?" she read, "Never heard of him," - and then looking me up and down with some distain - "never heard of you either!"

I put on my best ventriloquist smile (my wife thinks it makes me look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining) and try to lighten the mood - I explain that Armstrong is not so much Northern Noir as Cumbrian slightly off-white, but she continues to glare at me as if she has just caught me rifling through her handbag. "Don't do much reading," she says, failing to see the irony of her presence at a book fair, "not like my husband."

At this point I pluck up the courage to venture, "Maybe you could buy something for him," trying to steer her gaze toward the books on the table in front.

"He's been dead ten years." (Maybe not then!).

Off she went no doubt to brighten someone else's day. She was replaced by someone who turned out to be the female of Tim-nice-but-dim. This lady enthusiastically leafed through every book I'd ever written and punctuated her study with comments like, "Oh, you are so talented!" "Oh, this is wonderful!" "Oh, how marvellous!" She then looked at me in all earnest and said, "I must get some of your books, are they available in the shops?" (My Jack Nicholson smile descended into an expression befitting a gormless imbecile).

The afternoon was rounded off by a coach load of young Japanese tourists who pulled up outside. Looking at it from their point of view, there is nothing more quintessentially British than a book fair in the heart of the Lake District and they all duly piled in. Word got round that there was an author in the building and they all shuffled over to get a better look.

I watched them from afar, trying to guess at what they might be saying as they looked uncertainly in my direction:

"Who is he?"

"I've never heard of him."

"He looks nothing like Martin Edwards" (current Chair of the Crime Writers' Association).

I'm not sure what Japanese is for 'any port in a storm' but it seems their curiosity got the better of them and over they trotted, and when they discovered I wrote period detective fiction, there were in their element.

Their characteristically polite and enthusiastic enquiries ended with a request for a photograph. I acquiesced with pleasure and they all closed in around the back of the stall (I have since wondered how many mantelpieces in Tokyo are adorned with pictures of young Japanese students with their cheesing grins and victory signs, surrounding a bemused, bespectacled English guy).

The final event of the fortnight of my mini publicity campaign should, in theory, have been the grandest: a book signing at Waterstones. I decided against my new favourite below-the-waist look, believing that the high street in Carlisle wasn't quite ready for such an outrage. I therefore decided to play it safe with the classic author-look: the taupe action slacks. (Just me?).

The day duly arrives and I turn up and meet the 'manager' who looks about sixteen. "Oh, hello," he says politely, "we've set you up over there." He points to a chair in front of an advertising banner in the centre of the store. I hear the opening bars of Carmina Burana in my head. With no table to hide behind, I take my place. And wait.

For four hours, customers do that terribly British thing of ensuring there is no eye contact, as I sit there like a prized exhibit with tumbleweed bumbling by.

One man does come over and (thankfully) engages in conversation about my writing, books in general and the great Kindle for-or-against debate. He ends by telling me he won't buy one of my books because he has severe dyslexia (I'm sure you can picture the smile by now).

The day ends with two women coming over and telling me how much they like Jo Nesbo, Ian Rankin and Lee Child, and how the life of a writer must be so glamorous. As they walk away I hear one of them say to her friend, "He seemed like a nice chap." I'm sure I heard her friend say, "Really? I didn't like the look of him - he reminded me of that Jack Nicholson."

Well, that's show business I suppose. Wish me luck.


My Inspector Armstrong series is published by MX Publishing and is available from all good bookstores including The Strand MagazineAmazon USABarnes and Noble USA, Amazon UK, and for free shipping worldwide BOOK DEPOSITORY.

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