I would like to apologise to everyone in the blogosphere for my performance as regards my recent responses to bloggers. My latest book, Tigers on the Beach, was particularly hard to write because I did much of it just after my stroke. In other words, I really wasn’t in my right mind. I’d also lost my usual editor, Dmetri Kami at Penguin, though in the end he did have some valuable input. But I wasn’t as sure about this book as I have been about my other titles, probably because the self-critical part of my brain was no longer working properly. The first reviews I got for the title were the bloggers’ reviews and they were, I think it’s fair to say, pretty lukewarm. Some of them got a few facts wrong and I did something that I swore I would never do. I took issue and blogged back at the bloggers. Never answer a critic. Do not play in their sandpit. I even asked one blogger what was the point of reviewing books anyway, since it’s very difficult, it takes so long, and makes you no money. Of course, it is the bloggers that help to keep our books alive, so it’s hardly fair to trash them.
So blogmeisters and meistresses, I really do apologise from the bottom of my brain that I flamed some of you. Only, really, I haven’t been well. Tigers on the Beach is one of those books that took ages to write because life kept getting in the way. This is a very dry post, so above is a picture of La Giaconda with a moggy. Sometimes, it’s good to keep thinks in proportion. After all, Tigers on the Beach is supposed to be about comedy. It isn’t necessarily a funny book. Most discourses on comedy aren’t. Unlike retooled classical masterpieces with big cats. I don't own them, I didn't do them. And yet I wish I had.