To be able to stand in front of their friends and family and share their world with them. To show them that it wasn’t all a waste of time and to reward them for their support. That’s what every writer dreams of. No matter how much they pretend they don’t.
That’s what my book launch was like.
Having tortured myself with visions of a half-empty room and a mountain of books left unsold, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that weeks of trumpet blowing on behalf of myself and my mother had paid off. Faces from the dim and distant past, book club members, fellow writers, the bridge brigade, neighbours, all turned up in force.
Faces floated in and out, words were snatched here and there. Flowers were pressed into my hands. I pressed as much flesh as I could. If I didn’t get to speak to you, I apologised. I installed myself behind a table and books were thrust at me. Words flowed in a nearly illegible scrawl from my pen to the pages of the books. Words were spoken, by publisher John Mooney, by author Suzanne Power, who launched the book and by me. And centre stage on the night was a birdcage painted pink to echo the novel’s title, The Pink Cage. This was the genius idea of my intended, Norman