Amazon sales for my novel seem to have dried up, but here in Berlin, I’ve sold all 20 of my first batch. I say sold. I didn’t sell them all. At a Thanksgiving party last night, someone I don’t know very well asked about my book, so I got a copy out of my backpack.
“It’s €XX,” I said.
“It’s what I say it is,” she said, grabbing it out of my hands. “I’ll pay you what I think it’s worth when I finish it. Until then…” And stormed off drunk.
Most of my books have gone to friends and people at the bar I go to, but I’ve also got the support of two English bookstores in Prenzlauerberg, St. George’s, and Love Story of Berlin.
I just ordered another 20 copies, so if you want to you can either contact me or buy it here on Amazon: https://a.co/d/7WSpQQZ
Here is a little excerpt:
It’s been said of Berlin that it’s a city that’s always becoming, but never finally is. It’s a city eternally under construction; it’s a caterpillar turning into a butterfly turning into a thief with one eye and a bootful of gold coins; it’s an androgynous god trying on an array of colorful wigs, changing earrings, slipping into a pair of fuck-me pumps, then taking it all off and trying on something completely different. Berlin is a city that never stops metamorphosing; even if you leave it for a week, or a weekend, you come back and notice some change.
The Pickled Tortoise was the same. It was a microcosm of the city. There were always new crowds appearing, old crowds departing, old regulars vanishing without a trace, and a million other nuanced alterations.
On the following Tuesday night, I’d arrived there early, but already there was a crush of people around the tables, and the seats at the bar were all spoken for. The place was jammed like I’d never seen it before, and hardly recognized anyone. I worked my way to the bar with the five copies of Nightseamusic that I’d brought along. I was hoping to sell all five for €10 a piece, but it might’ve been wishful thinking. The last time I came with five copies, I only sold two, one to Latex Tim, who somehow lost his copy, the other to Batu, the Mongolian-Canadian, whose English wasn’t the greatest, and probably only bought it out of sympathy. Whatever. If I made enough tonight to pay for my drinks and a kebab on the way home, I’d be happy.
I ordered a beer with the new bartender, paid, then sat on the sofas in the back with Ken Downes and Malcom Rumgay.
“So, what happened?” Ken wanted to know.
I explained…
Sketches from Berlin (& Parts Beyond) 