It’s the worst month of the year for me and has been for years. Example: this month eight years ago I fell and bashed my head so badly I was unconscious for four hours, and ended up with a permanent scar on the back of my head. Plus concussion. Plus self-loathing. Plus a missed opportunity to go to New York and hang out with Keith Richards. What a great Xmas that was.
There are countless other examples, many much worse. The point is, I have come to dread November. Don’t talk to me about Movember or Slowvember or WTFvember, I live with No-November every year.
This time around, though, it has been worse than ever. Family members snuffing it, other family members on the verge, friends of the family with their own death-soon difficulties. Then me, and the VAT, and the nasty story that now goes nowhere, and the flu (still going on) and general loathing of Xmas and its suicidal songs. And as of yesterday, the news that my credit files have all been hacked and that I now probably have multiple dark-web-influenced identities, none of which are actually me but all of which will naturally be much better off than I am as a result.
You’ve got to laugh, right?
Ha ha ha.
Suddenly everything about the lens has grown darker. So when I say that my new Meat Loaf biography comes out here, Australia and New Zealand this week, I do so with angst more than anticipation. Example: I have seven radio interviews lined up with major Oz stations this week, plus a few more to come in New Zealand. Followed by Oz Breakfast TV stuff. And nothing in Britain. That will be followed by newspaper and magazine interviews, online interviews, in Oz and NZ. And none in Britain.
You might shrug and say, yes, but that’s how it’s been for all my books for the past five years, and you would be right. You might say I’m lucky to have any interest at all from anywhere and on that you would definitely be right too. But that doesn’t lessen my dismal pain about the prospects of the book’s success here in Britain. You can’t buy what you don’t know exists.