Another sale, and my thoughts are turning to reviews . . .

I had the fourth sale of Smugglers this afternoon and it is a funny feeling to think that, with the exception of my first buyer, who hails from Canada, I have no idea who the other three are.

Could they be the next door neighbour but one, could it be a family member? A work colleague? The fact is, almost nobody knows about my ebook and all members of my family are under instructions not to buy it off Amazon which is currently the only place I have my it for sale. I simply want to feel that any purchase is a genuine one, ie. one made by a stranger or a sworn enemy or something - not my best mate, or a sympathetic neighbour, or a kindly in-law who feels I need a little encouragement.

And the other thing is, will the book get reviewed - I can be pretty sure one of those buyers will review it but not necessarily the others. I do feel a slight feeling of unease that anyone anywhere in the world can download my book and just read it for themselves. My first buyer, who is himself writing a book, expressed that very emotion in an email to me and it made me realise I feel the same way.

I suppose it is easy to be nervous about any possible criticism but it is through critical appraisal that we all learn and all fledgling novelists should remind themselves that the greatest writers in history have their critics and indeed, from Shakespeare through to the likes of Thomas Hardy, have stuff to their name that is, shall we say, not their best.

It's interesting that my favourite author, George Orwell, so disliked his early two novels A Clergyman's Daughter and Keep The Aspidistra Flying that after early print runs, he refused to allow them to be reprinted in his lifetime. I enjoyed reading both, but in particular, Keep The Aspidistra Flying - a harrowing tale of a struggling writer who could barely make ends meet and felt worthless in the process. There is some very powerful, and at times poetic language by Orwell and I only wish he had written more of this type of book.

Anyway, enough of Mr Orwell for one evening, it is already nearly half past midnight here in North Wales and I could go on about him all night, and after another tiring day on the paper (working from home today though, not the office) I probably ought to get to bed.