19 September 1997
The royalty statement arrived today. Total royalties since publication: less than £10. I have spent more than that on postage in a single week of hope. I have spent more than that on cheap wine after a rejection that was, allegedly, encouraging.
There is something almost sublime about the number. Not zero, which would be clean. Less than ten pounds is a little candle stub of recognition, a coin placed on the tongue of a corpse. It says: yes, the work existed; no, it did not matter.
I rang no one. I did not want to hear the soft voices telling me that this is normal, that it takes time, that small presses build slowly, that one must be realistic. Realism is the cudgel people use after they have already sold you longing.
The book is not invisible in the way an unpublished manuscript is invisible. It is worse. It is visible enough to be counted and too small to cast a shadow. There are copies somewhere. There are records. There is a statement. The machine has noticed me and found me negligible.
I pinned the statement above the desk for an hour, then took it down because it looked too much like a verdict.