Beyond unthrilled by all the hype
HE WORLD WAS VERY young when the Secret Author published his first novel. Mrs Thatcher was in Downing Street, there were five “quality” Sunday newspapers, university creative writing departments had barely been heard of and, wonderfully, it was still possible to make a living out of book reviewing. The volume in question sold just over a thousand copies, attracted half-adozen reviews, some of them in magazines that no longer exist (does anyone remember , I wonder?) and went into paperback. Everyone, not least the proud
