The man in my life has never read my books. Many people think this odd, unsupportive, and possibly many more things they are too polite to admit. Author friends have partners who help them edit. Others are just like me – left to their own devices.
Do I mind? No. It’s just the way it is. If I recall, I think these were his reasons:
- He doesn’t read fiction and wouldn’t want to react or advise without any expertise.
- He’d feel too close to me to advise without it becoming personal – wise man!
- He has never recovered from the time a chat show host asked me live on air if we performed the same manoeuvres in bed that my characters did.
Whatever the reason, this has become the status quo. And I like it.
Then, the other day, a box of audiobooks of The Accidental Life of Greg Millar arrived from Lake Union Publishing in Seattle. We were just heading out. He grabbed one.
‘Let’s listen to this in the car,’ he said.
My stomach tightened. ‘Let’s not.’ To hear my words read aloud with him sitting beside me! Dear God, I’d rather die.
Ignoring me, he banged it into the CD player – to the beautiful sound of silence. What he had grabbed was an MP3 CD. They don’t play in ordinary CD players. Not that I knew that; I’m new to this audiobook business. Point is: I was saved.
Then, today, another box arrived. You’ve guessed it, the other kind of audiobook, the one that will play in the car. (Impressive use of technical jargon there, you’ll notice). In any case, he is OUT THERE NOW, DRIVING AROUND, LISTENING. And I don’t like it. I really don’t like it.