Trying to publicise a new book is like banging your head against a brick wall. It's nice when you stop. And when you finally sit down to nurse your sore head you still don't know if it's done any good. I'm currently trying to publicise my new book, REAPER, out on July 5.
In the past, I've done local radio interviews where my connection with the area has been tenuous to say the least.
"Can you do Radio Blackburn?" said the publicist.
"Well I worked there for a short time but that was 15 years ago."
"That'll do."
I also did two road shows with one publisher. They took a marketing team around the country, staying at posh hotels, and put on a night of free booze and food for the major retail book buyers of the area. At each event they rolled out a couple of authors to mingle and chat and make a good impression in the hope they would order your imminent new book. I attended events in Wakefield (for Yorkshire) and Manchester (for the North West). They were daunting until I got the first few drinks down my neck and then became highly enjoyable. What affect they had on sales I am unsure but their affect on me was intoxicating - I got wonderfully drunk on both occasions, but only after the buyers had gone.
Harold Robbins, on the other hand, got drunk before his road show. Well, he did in Manchester where I met him, before I had been published. Actually, when I say met, I mean I was in the same room as him with a dozen other journalists. He was touring the country doing Press conferences and book signings and the journos congregated in a private room in the main W H Smith's in the city to await the great man's arrival. He was late. When he eventually arrived he gave the impression he was not happy doing morning Press conferences. He didn;t seem to be happy doing mornings. He apologised for his tardiness and intimated he had spent the previous evening with an old friend called Jim Beam. Then he asked one of the promotion team if the reporters had been offered a drink. Tea and coffee, was the reply. Which upset him. He insisted alcohol be provided before he proceeded and so it was. I don't think he realised that what was provided was only sherry. There was, apparently, no Jim Beam on the premises. Maybe he'd drunk it.
Robbins, about five six, wearing a cowboy hat and dark glasses, was brilliant, even with a hangover.  I am useless with a hangover. So it was probably just as well that at my road shows I got out of my tree after the buyers had left and not before. 
I confess I never was a big Robbins fan, although A Stone For Danny Fisher is an excellent book. But I liked the man. He did the work and, as he told one snide journalist, it is hard work to produce a 120,000 word novel. Try it, he said.
The best publicity you can get for a new book are great reviews but reviews of any kind are few and far between. The numbers of books that arrive weekly at newspaper offices is incredible and only a few are chosen. Usually the ones by well know authors which leaves the rest waiting to be taken to the Hospice shop. 
To get round this, a publisher will sometimes approach a newspaper with a reader offer. We'll give you so many copies to give to your readers for free just for the publicity. This happened with one of mine, although the publisher didn't tell me about it. Probably because it was in the Sunday Sport in its early days when it had front page stories such as World War II Bomber Found On Moon and Adolf Hitler Was A Woman.  One of its later headlines, used when Gianni Versace was killed, was: Shoots You, Sir. No wonder they didn't tell me! No wonder the paper finally folded in April.I found a copy of my reader offer this week and, while I might have blushed with shame at the time, I think it a wonderful piece of memorabilia now.There I am, sandwiched at the bottom of a page between Space Junk Bombs RAF; Doggy-style Sex Gets The Bum's Rush!; and small ads for blue movies, adult phone lines and sex holidays in Thailand. Win one of 10 free copies, it says. And you know what? They even spelt my name wrong.(REAPER by Jon Grahame is published on July 5 by Myrmidon Books).

Why didn't anyone tell me before I started ordering a shipload of accessories from Amazon?
I have two digital cameras and neither would download pictures onto my computer after my foray into good husbandry had deleted all sorts of stuff. Which is why I re-loaded the softwar, which didn't work. Which is why I bought the thing to restore drivers, which didn't work. Which is why I sent off for new cable connections for both cameras, which still didn't work. Then, while trawling through those mostly incomprehensible websites where people with computer problems go to converse in techno-babble, I read the simplest solution ever.
Someone had the same problem as me and my cameras and had asked for help. All those clever dicks who live in hyper space offered solutions from buying new connections (done that) to others that were so technical that Mr Spock would have struggled. Then someone with the utmost common sense said: no porblem, buy a card reader.
What was a card reader?
I mean, birthdays and Christmas I can read my own. I didn't know anyone, apart from the Queen, had someone to read cards for them. But no, it's not that sort of card.
This is a simple device into which you slot the memory card from the camera. Then plug it into a USB port and bingo! The job's a good 'un. The pictures all download without the paraphernalia of cables and confusion.
If the cameras had come with one in the first place it would have saved a lot of problems and me the bother of buying all that stuff I don't need from Amazon. This may seem basic computer knowledge to many people, but it was a whole new discovery to me, but then I am old enough to remember the time before sliced bread.
My new notebook computer arrived, by the way. It's neat and a delight to use, with 10 inch screen and full size keyboard, and I have equipped it with a dongle for internet access. Dongle. Now there's a word that deserves exploring, probably in an adults only section. Maybe another time.
Anyway, cricket calls.

I never used to have this problem. Sharpen a quill, dip it in the ink and away you go on any spare piece of brown paper that was lying around left over from the shopping. But these days, you need a computer and I keep breaking them. Well, screwing them up.
In my first job as a junior reporter, I used a sit up and beg typewriter that was heavy enough to act as ballast in a submarine. The keys had to be hit with force and it took no prisoners. Get your finger stuck and it could be a lengthy and painful process to extract it. Then I got my first portable - an Olivetti. Oh the luxury. The only problem then was that if you wanted clean copy without mistakes, you either had to use Tippex every other word, or start again and, with the mistakes I used to make, the rain forests of Brazil would have been in for trouble.
In journalism it didn't matter if mistakes were made, as long as they were crossed out and the copy was clean and readable. On a weekly newspaper, it was possible to take time and care and use foolscap sized sheets of paper. On an evening or daily newspaper, time was of the essence and you used small sheets of paper, often with just a paragraph per sheet. This would concentrate the mind wonderfully. You learned not to waste words and make fewer mistakes.
My portable typewriter went with me everywhere. I went through two of them. And I always remembered to bring it home. Even on a memorable day at the West Lancashire Agricultural Show when I was so tired and emotional that I fell out of my wellington boots whilst trying to negotiate the front step after a hard day's work. The PR had made the basic mistake of filling the Press hut with a barrel of beer and cases of light ale.
The first book I wrote was written on my portable. I first wrote in longhand with a fountain pen, typed up what I had done, re-read it the next day, made corrections and re-typed it, then hand wrote the next bit. A long slow process, especially as, when it was all done, this was only the first draft.
Then came computers. I was, at first, wary of them and then realised what a labour saving device they were. I put my fountain pen to one side for autographs and signing cheques, and embraced the new technology. Unfortunately, I'm still not very good with it. I have had several computers and have managed to cock them all up.
My current computer seemed a bit sluggish on start up so I decided to delete all sorts of software that I had downloaded over the last two years. Unfortunately, some of it appears to have been essential and my camera will no longer download pictures. To try to rectify this, I bought online a device which allegedly identifies which drivers are missing (and no, I do not know quite what drivers are, except that they can be quite important) and repairs or replaces them. So far this has caused further damage and my scanner no longer works. Which is why I have bought a 10inch notepad. I am awaiting this with great anticipation.
It is as powerful as the computer on my desk and has enough sockets to plug in external mouse, monitor and keyboard, and is slim and small enough to take anywhere and use as a portable. I feel like I have gone full circle. Except that this isn't an Olivetti and I am now far too mature to get so tired and emotional as to fall out of my wellington boots. Except on special occasions when the beer is free.
When the notepad arrives, I will be back to using a portable. And I still have a quill and a bottle of ink on the shelf just in case.