Francis Plug Read online

  Paul Ewen was born in Blenheim, New Zealand, in 1972. He left New Zealand in 1996, lived and worked in Asia for six years including four years in Saigon, and now lives in London. He has published several short stories and a fictional guide to London pubs. How to Be a Public Author is his first novel.

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  textpublishing.com.au

  Copyright © 2014 by Paul Ewen

  The moral right of Paul Ewen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published by Galley Beggar Press, Norwich, UK in 2014

  First published in Australia by The Text Publishing Company, 2014

  Cover design by W. H. Chong

  Typeset by Ben Cracknell Studios Ltd

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Ewen, Paul.

  Title: Francis Plug: How to Be a Public Author / Paul Ewen.

  ISBN: 9781922182623 (pbk.)

  ISBN: 9781925095562 (ebook)

  Dewey Number: A823.3

  FOR LINDA

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Salman Rusdie

  2. Ben Okri

  3. Barry Unsworth

  4. Hilary Mantel

  5. A. S. Byatt

  6. Julian Barnes

  7. John Berger

  8. Kazuo Ishiguro

  9. Anne Enright

  10. Keri Hulme

  11. Aravind Adiga

  12. Thomas Keneally

  13. John Banville

  14. Howard Jacobson

  15. Pat Barker

  16. Roddy Doyle

  17. Penelope Lively

  18. James Kelman

  19. Yann Martel

  20. Ian McEwan

  21. Kiran Desai

  22. V. S. Naipaul

  23. Nadine Gordimer

  24. Margaret Atwood

  25. DBC Pierre

  26. Alan Hollinghurst

  27. Michael Ondaatje

  28. Arundhati Roy

  29. Graham Swift

  30. J. M. Coetzee

  31. Peter Carey

  32. Eleanor Catton

  Note to the reader

  Acknowledgements

  INTRODUCTION

  Bookish folk aren’t what they used to be. Introverted, reserved, studious. There was a time when bookish folk would steer clear of trendy bars, dinner occasions and gatherings. Any social or public encounters would be avoided at all costs because these activities were very un-bookish. Bookish folk preferred to stay in, or to sit alone in a quiet pub, reading a good book, or getting some writing done. Writers, in fact, perhaps epitomized these bookish traits most strongly. At least, they used to.

  These days, bookish people, such as writers, are commonly found on stage, headlining festivals, or being interviewed on TV. Author events and performances have proliferated, becoming established parts of a writer’s role. It’s not that authors have suddenly become more extroverted – it’s more a case that their job description has changed.

  Of course, not all writers are bookish. Not in the traditional sense of the word anyway. Some are well suited for public life, particularly those from certain academic backgrounds where public speaking is encouraged and confidence in social situations is shaped and formed. These writers may even be termed ‘gregarious’, and are thus happy being offered up for speaking engagements, stage discussions and signings. Good for them. But the others – the timid, shy and mousy authors – they’re being thrust into the limelight too. That’s my lot. The social wipeouts. Unprepared and ill-equipped to face our reader audience. What’s most concerning is that no one is offering us any guidance or tips. We’re expected to hit the ground running, confident and ready, loaded with banter, quips and answers. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

  That’s why I’ve decided to study the ways of the literary event. The know-how necessary for survival as a public author. This book is a culmination of that. It follows in the fine tradition of The Paris Review’s ‘Writers At Work’ series, teasing out methods and tips from the biggest literary names. Unlike their interview format however, this collection is based on first-hand experiences and observations at real author events. By attending in person and documenting the smallest details in true author style, I’ve managed to collate a rich mine of information pertaining to the public skills of our most noted writers. Stage etiquette, audience questions, book signings, wardrobe, performance. Invaluable knowledge for those of us forced to become public authors too.

  The authors I have chosen to focus on specifically are Booker Prize-winners. Writers at the coalface of public interaction, under the most intensive public scrutiny and spotlight glare. If role models are to be found in the world of public authors, surely this is the group in which to find them. Hopefully we can all benefit from their valuable expertise and knowledge.

  Francis Plug

  The water in Salman Rushdie’s glass is rippling. The glass itself is perfectly still, sitting flat on the even table surface, but the water inside is rippling. It’s Still water, but it’s rippling. I know it’s Still water because I can read the label on the bottle. Still Spring Water. I’m sitting in the front row. I can see it with my own eyes.

  Salman Rushdie has barely touched his water, unsurprisingly. The water was placed on the table shortly before 18:30, and he didn’t sit down until 19:07. So it’s been sitting there, warming, for nearly forty minutes. Imagine what it must taste like now, especially under all those bright lights. Like a heated swimming pool, or a glass of hot-water bottle water. Sometimes I drink the warm water in the shower when I’m washing my face, but I don’t swallow it because the taste is like something from an ornamental frog in a garden pond on a very hot day. So instead, I spit the water out down my tummy. And then I give my tummy a good soap down.

  Bacteria thrives in warm water. It’s rampant in waterbeds. I heard of a couple who never cleaned their waterbed, not once. You’re supposed to add chemicals to keep the heated water free from bugs. But this couple didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t know they needed to, or maybe they just forgot. Anyway, one day they were preparing to move house, and they emptied the contents of the waterbed bladder into their bath. The water that began to sludge out of the valve was filled with dozens of little scaly
things with legs and no eyes. Little hairy mites, kicking about in their clean white tub. The couple were horrified. But there was more to come. A squelching noise was heard, and out slid a huge slimy worm, two metres in length, maybe more, thicker than your thumb. They’d been sleeping on that. Sleeping on a bed of worm.

  So don’t drink the complimentary water at your author events, because you might get worms.

  There are other dangers too. Perhaps your unattended water bottle in the empty auditorium has been tampered with. We only have to look at the lessons learned from Agatha Christie. People in her books are forever being poisoned. She even spells out what the poison is and how it’s administered. In their drinks. The organisers of this event must be only too aware of Agatha Christie’s back catalogue, and of the brugmansia flower, formerly known as the datura, a South American pendant-shaped plant belonging to the Solanaceae family, also famed for its spicy night scent, which is used by Amazonian tribes as distilled poison to tip their arrows. It doesn’t take an idiot to work this out.

  Tonight’s event was scheduled to begin at 19:00, but Professor John Mullan, who’s asking all the questions, and his guest, novelist Salman Rushdie, didn’t sit behind the light pinewood table until some seven minutes after. Authors, I’ve noticed, are always running late. That’s why, unlike other celebrities, they aren’t paid loads of money to advertise expensive watches. In contrast, I entered the Shaw Theatre this evening at 18:20, which is why I’ve secured this top-notch seat in the middle of the front row. If Salman Rushdie were on TV, I would need to move further back because the light would be bad for my eyes.

  Earlier, after saving my seat with my coat, I ran through the empty theatre playing Cops and Robbers. Assigning myself the role of robber, I darted down a row, between the folded up chairs, with my right hand tucked under my sleeve holding a gun. When I reached the wall and realised there was no escape, I spun around, drew my gun and begun firing randomly, shouting AAARRGHH!! A policeman shot me in the face, and I fell backwards over the row of seats below, my legs sprawling in the air. It was all quite real to life, with mild concussion and everything, so I ended the game early and slowly crept amongst the rows, loudly flipping all the seats. Another thing you can do before your author event is stock up on complimentary wine.

  Drinks Table Woman: Back again?

  FP: Yes, that was very tasty, thank you.

  Drinks Table Woman: And you want another glass?

  FP: Yes please.

  Drinks Table Woman: [Holding up bottle.] White?

  FP: Um, yes white and red, thanks.

  Drinks Table Woman: White and red?

  FP: Why not! [Laughing nervously.]

  Drinks Table Woman: One of each?

  FP: OK! [Laughing nervously.]

  Drinks Table Woman: You’re quite early aren’t you? Still half an hour yet…

  FP: Yes. Do you have any Kasmiri brandy?

  Drinks Table Woman: Kasmiri brandy? No…

  FP: Any Mercurochrome?

  Drinks Table Woman: No, just the wine.

  FP: Right. Does any of the wine contain pickled water snakes? For virility?

  Drinks Table Woman: No, it’s just ordinary wine. With grapes.

  FP: OK. Maybe I could take a bottle. Save me… save you pouring all the time… [Laughing nervously.]

  Drinks Table Woman: You want to take a bottle?

  FP: Ha, ha. Yes.

  Drinks Table Woman: Hmm. I’m only supposed to give out one glass per person. And you’ve had three glasses already. Three glasses, plus an entire bottle would be like… seven large glasses…

  FP: I’m like a lawn, aren’t I? A lawn.

  The empty bottle now stands beside my shoe as Salman Rushdie discusses his Booker Prize-winning novel, Midnight’s Children. Right now he’s talking about the use of topical issues.

  Salman Rushdie: … anyone who tries to incorporate, particularly contemporary history or contemporary political material into a contemporary novel, it’s a very frightening thing to do because, you know, the subject always changes, whether it’s next week or next year or in five years time…

  The Sauvignon Blanc kept its chill far better than Salman Rushdie’s water. Why didn’t the Shaw Theatre offer him a jug of iced water? Maybe they thought he’d be impressed by the fancy bottle and the fact that the water came from a spring. Oh dear. If a halfwit like me can see through that silly guise, I’m afraid Salman Rushdie is very likely appalled. Other stage performers have people running on from the wings with fresh drinks, but Salman Rushdie is lumped with water that probably smells like a wet mitten drying on the radiator. What if he takes a large swig and has to spit it out? Where will he spit it? In his hand? What will he do with it then? Tip it into his pocket? And what if there’s too much water to fit in the cup of his hand? Will he keep it in his mouth instead and gargle it? Or will he allow it to run out of his mouth and down his bearded chin? No, he will do no such thing. This is a literary event, and Salman Rushdie has a reputation to uphold as a distinguished man of words. He will be forced, against his best wishes, to swallow the warm water, resigning himself to the fact that he mustn’t drink any more, even though his throat is dry from all this talking, something he’s obviously not used to because he’s a writer, and writers don’t talk, they sit quietly.

  Just to reiterate, DON’T drink the complimentary water at your author event.

  The ripples on Salman Rushdie’s water, I believe, are being caused by a series of deep sighs. Sighs that are escaping through his nose. I’ll describe Salman Rushdie’s nose, just as others may, in turn, describe yours. It is not a monumental organ, but it appears to have a lot to say for itself. From bridge to bow, it is about the length of a modern mobile phone, and it resembles a bunch of small, upside down flowers that have been pinned to his face without a message. The nostrils are shaped like melting clocks, and their generous girth offers flume-like passages for volumes of air to travel both down and up. A pair of stylish glasses are affixed to his nose – I’m not sure of the exact optician or designer, but perhaps closer scrutiny on internet images will confirm this. It’s important to note that his goatee beard and moustache, which are succumbing to grey, are neatly trimmed.

  The event is taking place in front of a live theatre audience, but it’s also being recorded for future public use. On the surface of the desk, alongside the warm Spring Water, is a recorder device and some microphones. A young man plugged these in shortly before 19:00, and he now sits behind a side desk, wearing headphones and facing the audience like a courtroom typist, recording the facts. The purpose of this electronic gadgetry is to save the author’s voice as an audio ‘Podcast’, which will be accessible for free on the worldwide web. It must put even more pressure on the author because every word he says is being kept alive for the entire world to hear. Not only words but other noises too, like laughs, snorts and sneezes. My smoker’s cough will probably make today’s file. I once dropped a bottle of scotch at a similar event, and it made a loud thud on the floor, and I cursed a bit. I suspect you could also hear me laughing by myself, and, on that occasion, weeping.

  These recordings don’t describe the authors themselves, however. Their gestures, their body language,
their trousers. Hopefully the book you are now reading will assist in these respects, as will any such events you attend as an audience participant yourself (recommended).

  Salman Rushdie and the professor are sharing a microphone on the table. But if your voice is soft and projects poorly, you might require your own, attached to your lapel. However, this may need to be removed if you’re drinking wine instead of water because you may well start talking much louder. You might even begin shouting.

  FP: [Aloud.] Why did I only get one bottle? I should have got two.

  I met Salman Rushdie earlier, as it happens, because I was lighting up a Gold Flake cigarette outside the theatre just as he arrived. He was, and is, smartly dressed in a dark suit with shiny black shoes, a white shirt, and a gold tie with strawberry splotches. I assume his publishing company are fitting the bill for his expensive attire, because no writer worth his salt is going to own a suit of their own. No way. When I dress to go out, I dress to go outside, into someone’s garden. But it’s worth having a parent/grandparent on stand-by if your publishing company is not forthcoming in this respect, or if you happen to be a successful self-published author. Salman Rushdie is a short man, which is a consolation, because so am I. Writers don’t have to be pin-ups. An athletic build is not a prerequisite, and in fact, many writers are beginning their careers just as professional footballers are finishing theirs. This may be why you don’t see big-name male authors advertising the latest hi-tech razors. Because their faces are just too wrinkly.

  As Salman Rushdie approached the Shaw Theatre, I nervously waved him in, as if he were a taxiing aircraft.