So, I saw copies of The Dating Detox in all the bookshops in T1 on my way to Ireland yesterday, and didn’t have the thrill I thought I would. Odd, huh?
I’ve only had two book-related thrills, actually. One was when Laura, my now-agent, rang to say she liked my first three chapters and could I send the rest. (“Of course!” I trilled, mentally calculating how long it would take me to actually write ‘the rest’.) At the time, I was in a conference room at the ad agency I was freelancing at (I copywrite to keep myself in lipgloss and ankleboots), and when we hung up, I did a little leapy dance around the table, yelping for joy. I then turned around to find the head of client services staring at me, with a gaggle of suits in tow.
The second time I felt a proper book thrill was when Laura rang to say that HC had made an offer. I hung up the phone and smiled so hard that I felt like I should have rays of light beaming from my body, like that nuclear dude in Heroes. It was late Friday afternoon and everyone else was still at work, so I went to the Botanist by myself, ordered a glass of champagne and smoked a celebratory cigarette, and texted everyone I know to tell them. (One reply – ‘That’s great, but who is this?’ – sort of put things in perspective. Thanks Greg.) Then I went out for dinner with Foxy and some friends, and drank so much champagne that the next day that when I met a girlfriend for coffee, I was forced to lie down on a park bench for a little while because walking was quite frankly out of the question. Champagne is a vengeful little bitch sometimes.
I think it would be highly exciting if I ever saw someone reading it, but I think that’s unlikely. Martin Amis wrote in Experience that he saw someone reading The Rachel Papers on the tube once, but he’d never seen anyone reading anything of his since.
And now, to my point.
Have you read any David Sedaris?
I was reading Me Talk Pretty Some Day a few weeks ago on the tube and found it so hilarious that I accidentally cackled aloud and slapped my thigh in delight. Note: try not to do this within Zone 1 or 2, as people will think you’re nuts. As you get into Zones 3 and 4, you can act more crazy without drawing too much attention to yourself, and once you’re in Zone 5 and 6, you could duct-tape a stuffed owl to your shoulder whilst playing the spoons on your nipples and no one would look twice.
I’d love any and all suggestions for funny reads. I'll need them for the minute I send the puppy we call Book Deux to Laura and find myself with lots of free time. And not just the isn’t-Mrs-Bennett-annoying and doesn’t-Hardy-have-the-horn-for-Tess type literary chuckles. I’m talking about out-and-out close-your-eyes-throw-your-head-back-and-guffaw laughter. Lucky Jim and Heartburn also make me laugh, by the way, but I’ve already listed them in the books-for-comfort post, so does Philip Roth and Joshua Ferris and a book called Making Love by a righteous dude called Marius Brill. But I need something new.
So come on. Let’s have it. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org