into orbit

Last Saturday, Glyn Brown launched her book Dancing Barefoot at an event in Whitstable. We’re fairly confident – though we’re waiting for official confirmation from the relevant authorities – that it was the first literary launch ever to give a starring role to the much-maligned kazoo. In honour of that, we’ve handed this blog post over to Glyn so she can tell you about it all herself. Here’s what she has to say….

To kazoo or not kazoo, that is the question. Well, it hadn’t been. It’s just that I’d written a book (we’ll come to that), found a publisher (ditto) and now for godsake got a launch arranged. I knew I’d be nervous that day – I’d been getting nervous a good four months ahead. First ever book launch, I was convinced I’d mess it up. ‘What can go wrong?’ friends had asked, smiling. Oh, I could fall off my chair. I could knock my drink over. I could knock it over my notes. I might go blank. Even at the start, though normally I have a voice like a howitzer, maybe I’d struggle to be heard over the clamour of the four or so people who turned up, and they’d just carry on chatting.

Nerves are silly, and only get in your way. Cathi Unsworth, a writer friend I know from our Melody Maker days, said she dispensed with anxiety after a book tour alongside indie-punk queen Lydia Lunch, who told her in a New York growl, ‘You fuckin’ wrote it, you can read it.’ But I didn’t have Lydia. I only had Ken the kazoo, and he’s plastic. Still, as the big sun-filled room at Whitstable’s Horsebridge arts centre filled up – I mean, good grief, it filled up – and I finally took my seat, and the background conversation got so loud it drowned the playlist, I cleared my throat, which had the expected lack of effect, raised my kazoo and began to play.

My book’s called Dancing Barefoot: How to be Common. Naturally, I played the chorus of Patti Smith’s song. I may be wrong, but I’m pretty sure no one recognised it. What did happen is that a horrified silence began to descend. I could see it, working its way back from the seats at the front to the standing people and through the bar area, where no one ever stops talking. Utter. Silence. And then, as soon as I said, ‘So that’s Dancing Barefoot… destroyed,’ huge laughter. I got that kazoo at a recording of Radio 4’s I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue, and sometimes I do wonder if that phrase is the story of my life. Whatever, I’m from a rock-writing background, I feel such events need an instrument, and this was mine.

How did I get here? I’ve only been trying for ever. I grew up in a bungalow without books, unless they were the ones my builder Dad brought home from demolitions. It never occurred that you could be a writer of any kind as a job, but eventually I became a freelance journalist. I’ve been attempting to write something slightly more creative since I was about seven. When, in my twenties, I’d produced a handful of what I thought were decent short stories, I sent them off and was surprised to get a flurry of positive responses from publishers like Penguin, Secker & Warburg, Jonathan Cape and Fourth Estate. One of these mentioned a collection and wanted to see all my short fiction, but I’d been writing at night after work, didn’t have enough that was polished, sent it off hastily and their interest died. The dream faded away as the day job got tougher but I came back to writing for myself some years later, getting up before dawn to put in a secret hour, sitting with my coffee, typewriter and desk lamp, just so the day would seem worthwhile. I’ve sent off what I had to publishers many times, and got close, but mostly been ignored by conglomerates with celebrity agendas or small presses with what seemed to be rigid rules. And then I had Dancing Barefoot, and I thought I am not giving up. After a year, I almost did. Until Ignite wrote back to me, and Ignite had felt everything I’d wanted to communicate from the chapter I’d sent them. The words had connected.

A year later, here we were. I read, and then my friend Cheri Percy read from her book Come Away with ESG, about the NYC no wave band. People were entertained, they were moved and they applauded, and when we’d finished they even asked for more. They bought books. We revved up our playlist again – from Amy Winehouse’s Monkey Man to Blondie’s Rapture – and at one point as I handed someone a drink (we did this on a shoestring), I turned to see a queue of people who’d bought the book, waiting for me to sign it.

I don’t think things get better. Although maybe…

If you buy and read the book, I really hope you find its humorous central story and the bittersweet lives that weave around it inspiring. And if you’re trying to write something yourself – whatever you do, don’t give up. I mean it. And so does Ken.

Ken, basking in the glory