A What-am-I-chopped-liver Post

Something Gerry Potter's just been saying on his timeline has rang true with me - it's about never being asked to do anything for National Poetry Day, even after all his years in poetry, all his publications and success and brilliance as a live performer. It's weird, isn't it?
It rings true to me because, though I'm a novelist rather than a poet, and I don't get asked to come and do things as much as would be nice. I never get asked for World Book Day things, or that many festivals. Some nice festivals - such as Edinburgh - have had me back over the years, and been very loyal. But on the whole I think it could be better. The North East doesn't show a great deal of interest in me - even though nearly everything I’ve written has been set there - doggedly, determinedly (and even when I get patronised to death by people who think fiction should be set elsewhere, and a sign of maturity as a novelist is gravitating south...)
My old agent used to send my new books in proof to Manchester Lit Fest each year - and if they ever did reply, they'd be really snotty about me. (Even though, living here, my expenses would be pretty cheap...!) It's daft, because i'm really good talking about my stuff - and i can teach a workshop like a dream, too...
Sometimes I think - after 20-odd years and 30-odd books, it'd be nice to be made more of a *fuss* of, somehow. But then i rally and just think - oh, bugger it. Get on with it. Write something new. Get on with the work. What do you expect? Just keep on scribbling and knickers to it.


Anyhow - their loss! x