Book Fair dinners – you know the drill: a cellar somewhere in East London, where on average, two people never show and two are never mentioned. You sit between two people you’ve never met, who behave as if you’re invisible and the two people you want to flirt with both sit too far away. The food arrives when everyone is drunk and five people have left by the time the bill arrives. Battle lines aren’t clearly drawn, so the opportunity for social disaster is immense. Last night I was in a noisy cellar, talking to some guy who said he worked for Quirky Books. ‘God, bad luck’ I said loudly, ‘how is that dreadful old perv, Geoff?’ A terrible silence descended at the table as ScaryScout turned to me and said, in cut-glass tones, ‘Daisy – I don’t believe you know....Geoff...from Quirky Books '. ‘Gosh, I have to run,’ I gulped, ‘got a window I’ve got to ram my head through,’ throwing £100 on the table and racing out of there to cab it over to the safety of the Canongate party. Great as ever – Kate AND William on decks were a high point.
As soon as I arrived at the fair on Tuesday, people started consoling me for not being included on the shortlist for the Literary Agent Of The Year Award, which is very kind, but I want to use this opportunity to publicly announce that I withdrew my name at the last minute. Yes, I have a conscience and a deep sense of justice. What chance did anyone else stand if I was in the running? I’m quite like Meryl Streep in that sense – I should probably be nominated every year, but I’m happy for my work to stand alone, I don’t need the affirmation of a massive trophy to underwrite my sense of self or the outstanding contribution I have made to this industry. Colleagues, you’re welcome.
After a busy day I stood with the LIBF’s Arch-supremo, Alastair Burtenshaw in the IRC gallery late on Tuesday musing on the fun to be had, swanning about between the stands, bumping into friends /pushing over enemies. As we admired the terrain, it suddenly dawned on me that publishing was standing on the edge of an abyss and that if something wasn't done, there might be an Armageddon.
An idea hit me and I turned to Alastair. ‘Al - you know publishers are looking to cut overheads?’ ‘Yes’, he mumbled, – looking nervous. ‘And you know that publishers are looking for ways to innovate in a tricky market?’ ‘Yes’, he said – sounding concerned at where this way going. ‘Ok Al, start getting excited - why don’t we just get every publisher and agent to sell their offices, buy Earls Court and have the Book Fair 365 days a year?’ He looked stunned, but strangely exhilarated – a bit like a judge to whom the concept of lap dancing had just been explained. I rolled with it, continuing – ‘Jamie Byng is too busy saving mankind, so I will step up and turn this idea from straw into gold. I don’t need awards or Earls Court to be renamed The Frost Building - my rewards will come from my maker.’ His face started to flush as a smile broke out and ‘Jerusalem’ swelled over the tannoy. I went for it: ‘Forget Disney World, Al- we could build PUBLISHING World – a literary theme park with a Career Rollercoaster, a Pulp flume, a Pitch To Publication Ghost train and even a little stall where editors could get all their ducks in a row before making an offer. Good God, if we bought Earls Court 2, we could even keep authors in cages.’ There were tears in Al’s eyes now and we held hands and silently agreed that we would not cease from mental fight till we had built Publishing World in Earl’s Court’s green and pleasant land.
Am off now to conclude my last deal of the day - the auction for my Emperors New Clothes project. It currently only exists as a notion but last night I worked out how to turn it into a concept. Simon+Schuster and Canongate are going head to head for it. Bidding now at £600,000.
Stay in touch @missdaisyfrost
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