George Orwell said that there are four reasons why people write: political purpose, historical impulse, aesthetic enthusiasm, and sheer egoism. This weekend I indulged in a lot of egoism.
Yes, I went around bookshops looking for my book on the shelves. And I started taking photos of it. Here it is, for example, sitting on the shelf in my local bookshop, Prospero’s Books in Crouch End. I won’t show you the whole album – like holiday snaps, they all look a bit the same after a while. I think you get the idea.
OK, so it’s not very cool. It’s not something I could picture Salman Rushdie or Iam McEwan doing. But I enjoyed it!
Edit: As well as being uncool, it’s also turned out to be an expensive habit. With all that looking in bookshops, I ended up buying The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz, and Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I hope the novelty wears off soon, otherwise I’ll end up buying more books than I sell.