(Excerpt from How to Publish a Book by Timothy L. Marx, 1928)
There are many despicable aspects of this grubby business and to my mind none are worse than the requirement to bare your existence to the world in the manner of a cockerel or post-prandial parliamentarian. Indeed it shares many aspects of the latter, and the hopeful author has to ingratiate themselves to their public like an eager candidate standing in an election. There are perhaps less babies to kiss, although that may depend on the age of your readership.
In my case the situation is made intolerably worse in that it isn't myself I am shouting from the treetops about, it is that infuriating dullard Cuthers. How on earth has he managed to write a book? I cannot wring any sense out of either the predicament or the book. It's quite extraordinary, and yet I find myself de-facto literary agent for this unliterary creature. He of course has no qualms about crowing his genius from whatever high perches present themselves. You might be tempted to ask what my problem is in this case? Why don't I just let the great clod get on with it while I salve my nerves with some French Rumbo's at Hubbard's? The problem is that too much confidence is off-putting. Also the more Cuthers voices his opinions, the greater the body of evidence against his wits amasses. My job has become that of a moderating presence, a notion that I'm sure would be greeted with much guffawing should I volunteer it at the club. Whenever he speaks, I must be ready to cut short any digressions into politics, race, or, God forbid, cricket with a furious wiggling of eyebrows or a well-timed fit of coughing. The confidence of the man is bafflingly boundless and I thank heavens that he is still a bachelor as the thought of him populating the world with similar offspring is enough to send me to my grave.
In order to sell your books you will need to sell yourself. I do not mean that in some vulgar Whitechapel way, but more that you should be prepared to be seen out and about and be entertaining while doing so. Public appearances are an essential chore. There is a good circuit of speaking arrangements at gentleman's clubs and societies that can put you on the right track, but be careful not to overdo it or your audience will tire and withdraw, or worse, throw over-ripened fruit at you. This has only happened once and jolly funny it was too, but professionally speaking it was something of a set-back.
One tactic that can be effective when used carefully is to align oneself with a controversial cause. This will garner much publicity, but caution should be applied lest you move from notable to notorious. I offered this advice to Cuthers, which was in retrospect a terrible blunder. Lacking any sound judgement, he immediately allied himself with a deeply unpleasant fascist brigade and at the time of writing is hiding in a bedsitting room in Waterloo while various interested parties from the police to rightfully incensed members of the public seek him out. If he were to be arrested or soundly beaten that might make my life easier. I wouldn't need to manage his public appearances and the scandal would be sure to shift a few copies. But alas that would then be the end of the matter and I have already run up considerable debts during this folly, particularly at the club. There is talk of my membership being revoked, and being associated with someone now believed to be a fascist really isn't helping my case, even if half the old duffers in that place would probably agree with some of the fascists' talking points given the claptrap they come out with before they slide out of their armchairs.
The only way I can see out of this mess is to announce that Cuthers was in fact infiltrating the fascist organisation in order to conduct research for a forthcoming book exposing their dastardly ways. Then I can get him to show support for Battersea Dogs Home or something similarly innocuous. With luck everyone will forget about the exposé because he certainly isn't capable of writing it and I'll be damned if I'm taking the task on.
In the meantime I am quite enjoying the brief period of peace that this episode has brought on. While Cuthers is in hiding I'm spared his constant wittering and whining. In fact in an effort to prolong this state of affairs I've taken to disguising myself with a hood and hammering on the door of his bedsit to dissuade him from any thoughts of leaving. So all in all perhaps things haven't worked out so badly.
