The Penguin Blog

Two weeks, thirty-six stores and fifty-three elephants

Last year we endured countrywide flooding, cancelled trains and a swan that attacked our car on the banks of Lake Windermere – so it was with some trepidation that I embarked on this year’s tour with Gervase Phinn to promote the publication of the paperback of ‘The Heart of the Dales’.

This year, as well as signing at 36 bookstores, performing at 8 events, we ate rock in Blackpool, saw dozens of plastic sheep in Liverpool, then dozens more plastic elephants in Norwich. We got lost in midnight Leeds (that one way system…), scared away a fox in a Secret Garden at dusk (that tiny brown smudge at the back of the garden is the exiting fox), and had to contend with some fairly adverse weather conditions on the road once again. I even managed to get Gervase into Lancashire, which for a Yorkshireman still smarting about the War of the Roses, was no mean feat. It turns out the best thing to come out of Lancashire ISN’T the road to Yorkshire after all – it’s the extremely lovely booksellers and bookshops there. 

To say that I used Gervase’s time well is an understatement – the two week tour ranged across most of the length and breadth of the country, and Gervase signed at an average of 5 stores a day, followed by an event each evening. When I said goodbye to him yesterday at Exeter Station, I joked that I’d lied to him that this was the last day of the tour, and that in fact we had another 3 days of the tour to go.  It turns out that only one of us should be making the jokes – and he’s the one selling out venues across the country each year, rather than the one holding the lead balloon.

It’s always nerve racking in those 2 minutes before the scheduled signing, approaching the bookstore not really knowing how enthusiastically the bookshop has been promoting the event in advance of the author’s visit.  I won’t post mortem each signing and event – largely the signings were really well attended and really well promoted by the various wonderful booksellers at each store, but there’s always the inexplicable exceptions, where despite the hundreds of leaflets which have been picked up by enthusiastic book buyers, the posters everywhere, and the ads and author interviews going out in the local paper – you’ll get 4 people turning up with a large tumbleweed following along close behind. But these quieter ones were definite exceptions to the more general tour madness, and were in the most part linked to bad weather rather than a lack of enthusiasm by customers and/or booksellers. Sold out events and massive book sales in each evening venue testify to Gervase’s countrywide and long lasting general appeal. 

A further few specific comments about the tour: to the friendly waiter in Pocklington who was sure that he knew me – I’m afraid we lied to you – you don’t know me off Casualty and I have never been swathed from top to toe in bandages on the telly.  To Gervase and Barry – it turns out that Nobby Clark is also an accomplished musician as well as Morris Dancer, bell ringer, pub landlord and all round keen bean - who knew? And to the author sharing the stage with Gervase at one event, having read from his novel for 45 interminable minutes, and asked at 10pm ‘have I got time to read any more?’ – the answer is always going to be a resounding NO! Good lord…

The nice chart position in the top ten of last weekend’s bestseller lists is gratifying, and solidifies the raison d’etre for the 2 weeks away from home, however it’s meeting Gervase’s enthusiastic fans in every town that really makes it all worthwhile. Most people who meet Gervase tend to thank him for cheering them up; from the lady in Christchurch who had a brain haemorrhage last year and was kept going for many long weeks in hospital by listening to all the Dales audio books, to the woman in Derby who was pulled over by the police for suspected driving under the influence, but was in fact listening to Gervase and laughing so hard she was swerving all over the road. The policeman, it turned out, was also a fan, so let her off without charge.

Going on a book signing tour with an author is one of my main reasons for wanting to work in the publicity department of a company like Penguin.  It’s incredibly hard work, but ultimately rewarding and, when you’re on the road with someone like Gervase, full of helpless laughter. Note: Evil Knievel was NOT the guy riding that bike in ‘Rebel Without a Cause’.

Katya Shipster
Press Officer

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'It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.'

Not yet they aren't. But one of the most famous opening lines in modern English literature seems to me a good place to start writing about where to begin when reissuing an old book.

A friend of mine over at HarperCollins - in fact the wise chap that employed me here at Penguin a few years ago - had to hire a new copywriter a while back. He was looking for a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff and came up with the rather neat idea of inviting all applicants to supply the current blurb of a book they were fond of together with an entirely new blurb of their own devising. They then had to explain why theirs was better.

Improving on what has gone before in publishing is usually not so difficult since jackets tend to stay on books for many years and by the time publishers get around to reissuing them they look rather tired if not plain antediluvian. Here's an example, appropriately enough, from the Eighties:

 

The blurb on 1989's Nineteen Eighty-Four doesn't sound much like a novel at all:
Newspeak, Doublethink, Big Brother, the Thought Police – George Orwell's world-famous novel coined new and potent words of warning for us all. Alive with Swiftian wit and passion, it is one of the most brilliant satires on totalitarianism and the power-hungry ever written.

Maybe. But it sounds like a bit of a slog.

When it came to doing the reissue (out in July) it didn't take a lot of head scratching for me to decide that a) it was time I re-read one of my favourite books and b) the starting point for writing this blurb had to be the excellent opening line, which manages to be perfectly ordinary until its very last word - which rips the rug out from under your feet. Nice work, George.

By listing some of the words that Nineteen Eighty-Four had added to the English language, the old blurb was trying to get across the book's weight, its sheer importance. Unfortunately, as if with a lot of attempts to make things sound worthy, Nineteen Eighty-Four just comes across as dull. Something to be admired rather than liked.

I think we can do better than that.

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.’

Winston Smith works for the Ministry of Truth in London, chief city of Airstrip One. Big Brother stares out from every poster, the Thought Police uncover every act of betrayal. When Winston finds love with Julia, he discovers that life does not have to be dull and deadening, and awakens to new possibilities. Despite the police helicopters that hover and circle overhead, Winston and Julia begin to question the Party; they are drawn towards conspiracy. Yet Big Brother will not tolerate dissent – even in the mind. For those with original thoughts they invented Room 101 …

This edition is not the Penguin Modern Classics edition. This edition is the one we want to get into the hands of school kids, to grab their short attention spans. So yes, putting the key words - Big Brother, Thought Police, Room 101, Ministry of Truth - in there is important, but that is no reason to leave the story or the characters out. The great thing about Nineteen Eighty-Four is that it is so unsettling, it is so terrifying and bleak (and not much fun as satire, either). To get that across we need to know what's at stake - what Big Brother is opposed to. We need Winston and Julia, their hopes and love, their humanity. Without Winston and Julia there is no tension, no story.

A book might be a classic, big names may rate it, teachers might tell you it is an essential read. But that's no reason not to sell it as if it's brand new - to some people it will be - or not to try to seduce the sceptical reader into turning to the first page despite themselves.

At the same time as Nineteen Eighty-Four we're reissuing Animal Farm:

Both books feature stunning covers by Shepard Fairey - if you're going to grab people, get them by the short and curlies. But don't let either cover art or blurbs distract you from the words within.

Any lazy or awful blurbs on good books you'd like to share with us? And can you do any better?

Colin Brush
Senior Copywriter

Nineteen Eighty-Four (ISBN: 978-0-141-03614-4) and Animal Farm (ISBN 978-0-141-03613-7) are re-issued on July 3rd.

Buy the pair on Amazon here.

PS I'm offering a pair of these Orwells to the first comment that correctly points out the (ahem) deliberate mistake I made on one of the new covers.

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So I'm having a West Wing moment

Don't know if you ever watch the West Wing but (last couple of seasons aside) it was possibly my favourite tv programme ever. If I could have any job in the world it would definitely be something that involved me being in lots of meetings, walking down corridors talking much too quickly, doing lots of very important work and having an assistant who not only would take my calls, do my photocopying and buy me coffee but would also organise my entire day so really I just had to be fabulous and dynamic at work without actually having to remember where I'm going next. Sadly my job isn't actually like that but I did just meet someone who may well be the real-life equivalent of Sam Seborne. Or maybe Joey Lucas. Mark Penn runs a PR agency and is a lifelong pollster and political advisor to the likes of both the Clintons and Tony Blair. He's been described as 'the most important man in Washington you've never heard of' and has just given me the idea for my next job. Upscale tattoo parlours! Did you know that whilst tattoos are massively on the increase every year, you still have to go to some slightly scary place full of huge tattoed men in order to get one? Why isn't there somewhere like an Elemis spa or The Sanctuary, full of smiley women in immaculate white coats to comfort you that you aren't going to catch something unpleasant (in a Pamela Anderson-type way) from their needles? Tattoo parlours for ladies who lunch in Whole Foods, it's the way forward!

If you want to steal the next big business idea that means you can get out of your 9 to 5 and stop working for da man, or you just want to impress your friends, then check out this man's book, Microtrends, set to change our world now!

Gina Luck, Penguin Press Senior Marketing Manager

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In Cyberspace everyone can hear you scream

"Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation ... A graphic representation of data abstracted from the banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding."

In 1984 William Gibson invented the word cyberspace in his seminal novel Neuromancer and today, nearly 25 years later, a growing and significant number of people are spending increasing amounts of time and money inside 'computer generated constructs', whether they be perhaps the most analogous to Gibson's idea of cyberspace (Second Life), game-like (World of Warcraft) or social (facebook).

Visiting Penguin

by guest blogger Alain de Botton, author of The Architecture of Happiness

Few more exciting things can happen to a sedentary author than to be called in to the Penguin building for a meeting. It doesn’t really matter what the ostensible reason for the summons is. The real excitement is getting out of the house for something other than a visit to the Post Office. One feels released, reinvigorated, wanted… It is typical to arrive very early.

The fun begins as soon as you step into the imposing Strand building. Many people still like to imagine that publishing is run from fusty Georgian buildings in Bloomsbury. Penguin’s HQ on the Strand is a reminder that publishing is now firmly plugged into the global economy. I relish the mirrored lift, the marble hall and the absurdly formal reception area. I have no interest in traditional offices full of ‘character’; I want James Bond, and the Strand HQ obliges.

The arrival inside the office proper is even more heady. Immediately one notices that people are doing things. They are running down corridors to meetings. Phones are ringing. The atmosphere is purposive, friendly but serious. So much of the problem of being a writer is connected to a sense of indolence. A good working day might mean 500 to 1000 words. How tricky to return home and face the family after such an output. This isn’t laziness; it’s just the limitations of the mind. After a few sentences, the brain blows a fuse and needs to be rested, like a delicate machine.

By contrast, in an office, you can feel permanently purposeful, even if you aren’t doing very much. You can go to meetings, you can talk to colleagues, you can discuss strategy. You can plot and plan. You can have a brainstorm with people in another department and share the burdens of decision-making. How I envy the team in the Strand HQ. There are moments in writing when one is convinced that there are no jobs more important, but most of the time one feels like a miniaturist, a watercolourist in a world painted in broader strokes – and though I imagine that the Penguin team once in a while looks at writers and envies their ability to eat chocolate digestives in pyjamas at 11am and collect themselves in words, even more often, writers look over the fence and feel unashamed publisher-envy.

Then there is the neediness. Whatever the reason for the Penguin visit, the author really wants to know one thing: do you still love me? It’s an irrational feeling of course, but – isolated, self-doubting, self-hating, on the brink of disaster at all times – the author needs dramatic doses of reassurance in order to make it to the desk every morning. The subtext is undeniably there in every nervous exchange, in every casually raised question, like ‘So what are the plans for the launch?’ or ‘How have sales been?’ One wants to break down and sob like a child.

A side-effect of a visit to Penguin is the crushing realisation that the publishing house has many, many children – and some don’t perform as well as they should. There are cookery writers and crime writers and writers just like you – but a little more successful. Writing is beset by sibling rivalry and the jealousies are intense. To you and your mother, you are the only writers that matter, but out there in the real world, you are dust. What’s more, when you stumble and fail, the publishing house won’t sink with you. Your professional death can easily be survived – the house is a stately liner, cruising on, its engines richly stocked. Occasionally an author falls overboard and no one hears their screams over the sound of the clapping in the state room where another writer is being cheered at a prize ceremony.

Still, it’s always a treat to be invited in. Just spare a thought for the internal turmoil of those very peculiar characters whom you come to meet at reception. They are – whatever appearances may suggest – likely to be deeply sad that the roles aren’t reversed.

Alain de Botton’s full, unedited article will be published at Hamish Hamilton in early April.