My first book was published the day the World Cup began. I wasn’t bothered by that; they’re hardly rival events. Even in my most solipsistic moments, I don’t regard my literary debut as a matter of global interest. And I like to think that there’s nothing to stop lovers of the Beautiful Game from dipping into one of my short stories at half-time.
What did worry me, as someone with virtually no interest in football, was the level of competitiveness I began to feel about the book. For the first few days after publication I was checking online sales rankings, trawling through the more arcane backwaters of the bestseller lists, searching for reviews, and punching the air if they were positive. It was a pretty undignified display, if I’m honest, and some time in the early hours of one morning, as I looked for the umpteenth time to see if anyone else on Twitter had given it the thumbs-up, I realised I had to stop.
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