I’m going to be signing copies of Babylon Steel at Waterstone’s in Sutton on Saturday 10 March. 10 am to 4 pm. There I will be, with my pen, a hopeful expression, a little table and a chair; and, one hopes, a source of caffeinated beverages.

I am regarding the whole thing with a combination of delight (Me! A Signing! Waterstone’s! People knowing about my book and maybe reading it and buying it and wanting to talk about it!) and a sort of practical pessimism. (Hey, if no-one turns up, it’s six hours of writing time. In a bookshop. What more could one ask?)

But, rather scarily, I have been informed by Persons in the Know that on occasion people turn up at signings simply in order to buttonhole the author and ask them what The Secret is. You know the one. The one published authors have, the Special Magic Key, that gets you from ‘I haz manuscript’ to ‘I haz contract’.

If this happens, how do you tell them, politely and fairly briefly, that there isn’t one? If someone says, ‘How do I get published,’ what is the best response?
“Read a lot. Write a lot. Next!” seems a bit abrupt. “I don’t know, it just sort of happened”, may be seen as deliberately unhelpful, even though that’s sometimes what it feels like. “Here is a list of my favourite books/blogs on writing, go read ‘em”? “Discipline! Training! Wordcount goals! Get up at 4 am every day for the next twenty years”? “Go visit that little old lady in Schenectady, the one who does ideas”?

Unfortunately the real answer is probably some version of, “All of the above.” (Except the little old lady in Schenectady, of course. I never did manage to find her address).

There is no Magic Key. If there was, I’d have got published much earlier, at an age where there was less risk that 3pm may find me fast asleep and drooling gently onto a pile of books.

Which, of course, is likely to be exactly the moment when the photographer from the local paper turns up.

I’ve been getting reviewed, nicely too. Which is great. (You can see my ego being stroked here, here, and here, if you feel so inclined – there are a few more, too. People have been amazingly flattering).  And I’ve been doing guest blogs and an interview or two, with more due – which are fun, although I’m worried I’m going to start repeating myself and boring everyone if I do many more of them. 

See, there’s where the self-doubt comes sneaking in.  It seems to be an immutable aspect of my character.  And I’m doing a signing – my first ever official, in public signing, at the SFX Weekender on Friday at 2pm.  This is scary enough; what if no-one turns up? What if actual people actually do turn up? Am I supposed to come up with a witty, charming, individual response for everyone? I’ll have been travelling since about 6am – simply remembering my own name is going to be a bit of a strain at that point. 

Even scarier, though, is my first ever panel, at 4 pm on the Saturday.  Not only is it my first ever, it’s at the SFX weekender.  There are thousands of people at that thing, and it’s entirely possible some of them may come to this panel; because it’s stuffed with brilliant writers including China Mieville.  Dear lord, they’ve put me on the same panel as China Mieville.  No fair.  I am convinced I’m either going to sit there in gobsmacked silence, giggle stupidly, or shove my foot so far in my own mouth I’ll disappear entirely.    

Any advice gratefully received.  In fact, if anyone can come up with a way I can channel Babylon for the duration, they will be awarded my everlasting gratitude.  She’d be so much better at this…

Solaris have acquired the sequel, hallelujah!  And Babylon Steel was reviewed, favourably, in SFX.  Oh the relief.

I urge readers to buy a copy of that estimable publication;  quid pro quo, and all that.  It contains many an excellent article, apart from the review, (which I am in no way planning to have laminated, framed in gold, and hung over my desk.  At least not until after I have finished the rest of the Festive Preparations).

I am now, inevitably, in panic-stricken rewrite of the sequel, and suffering the probably entirely usual fears that I will fail dismally, that people might enjoy the first one but will find the second one a disappointment and strike me off their reading lists forthwith and with opprobrium.

I also seem to be suffering, as the astute reader has no doubt observed, from some strangely Victorian influence on my prose style.

I think it’s the hat.

I bought a hat, recently.  It’s a splendid hat, I like it a great deal, but it is high, and black, and has a tuft of feathers on one side, and in combination with a full-length, severely cut, high-collared black winter coat, does rather make me resemble a Victorian funeral mute.  Elderly people look at me askance, and shuffle away down the other end of the bus.

(This may not be because I summon thoughts of mortality, of course; I may merely look like some ominously dark-clad and eccentrically-behatted person they would prefer not sit next to.  I admit to occasional strangeness, but I swear I present no threat to the elderly – unless they should happen to read one of the sex scenes in Babylon Steel and suffer a fatal conniption as a result).

Clothes do affect my behaviour; a new pair of buckled boots gives me a piratical strut; a slinky dress brings out the inner vamp, in roleplay armour I get all butched up and start challenging half-orcs to arm-wrestling matches.

Hmm.  If I bought a navy-blue power suit, would I become suddenly efficient, whisk through the undone paperwork cluttering my desk, phone all the people I should have phoned six months ago, and generally Get Myself Sorted?  Alternatively, if I bought one of those cloaks that has a deep hood and goes all swirly when you walk, would I have no choice but to stand somewhere murky and brood a lot?

Maybe I should try the navy power suit thing.  In the meantime, I would be fascinated to know if anyone else finds that the clothes they wear affect their behaviour.