On Saturday, I did a signing at Waterstone's, Westwood Cross, Kent. I didn't sell that many books, but met some very nice people, some of whom had read all the books, one of whom bought the latest and then an hour later came back and bought the rest. The manager showed me my sales over the months on their computer - a bit of a blur as I hadn't got my glasses on - and both he, Neil, and his assistant, Claire, were absolutely charming.
Since Murder by the Sea came out, I have been on the cover of a Saturday Review magazine (only in Kent, unfortunately!) and been interviewed (again) by our local papers, and, impressively, by a Kent glossy for their October edition. I have also featured recently in a magazine called This England in a piece about Kent based crime writers. I have also been asked to contribute to a charity anthology alongside such luminaries of my genre as Simon Brett and Reginald Hill and been asked to write a feature for the local paper.
Fears for the future were unfounded as the fifth Libby Sarjeant book has been commissioned for release next June and I have already started on that. This year I have also served on a panel at CrimeFest with other luminaries Andrew Taylor, Lesley Horton and Stephen Booth and, as previously anguished about, organised the Crime Writers' Association Conference.
OK - now. My problem is this. Can I now call myself a novelist? Can I now call myself a CRIME novelist? I can tell you (if anybody's reading this) I certainly don't feel like one. I feel as though I'm playing at it, and someone will pop their head round the door sooner or later and say: "Come on, now, Lesley, time to stop playing those silly games."
Oh, well. I suppose I just go on playing...
