Carole Cadwalldr finds that, when it comes to fiction, there really
is an ocean between Britain and the US.
A week before Christmas, I received a call from Kathleen, my publicist
in the States. "It's amazing!" she shrieked down the phone.
"You're the lead review in Entertainment Weekly! They gave
you an A-! It's a whole page!" "Wow" I said. "That's brilliant!" She
rang off. It was only then that I thought to ask: what exactly is
Entertainment Weekly?"
As the British author of a British novel that's been published first
in the States, I'm living a strange double life right now. The novel,
The Family Tree, is out. I just can't buy it in any shop. I
did eventually manage to get my hands on Entertainment Weekly,
though. "It's a bit like Heat," I told my mum. "And you're in it?"
she said. "Yes!" "And that's good, right?" I hesitated. "Right," I
said, suddenly just the teeniest bit unsure.
The finer nuances of my reviews are only the latest in a long list
of things I've had trouble translating. On the one had, the family
in my novel, the Monroes, could be any family anywhere. On the other,
my Monroes are from Middleton, England, and the main sweep of the
novel takes place in the period between Margaret Thatcher winning
the 1979 election and 1982, when Price Charles married Lady Di. A
time capsule, in other words, of British suburban life in the late
Seventies and early Eighties.
When I received the list of queries from Laurie, my editor at Dutton
in the States, it was a primer in transatlantic difference. "Mixer
taps?" said a note in the manuscript. "What on earth are these?" It
took five very confused minutes on the phone to establish that in
the States the concept doesn't exist: all taps are mixer taps. The
Monroe family's caravan took even longer to pin down - we plumped
for a Winnebago in the end. Bruce Forsyth's The Generation Game
become Man About the House, re-made as Three's Company
in the States, and a huge hit in the 1970's Ariel washing powder became
Tide (US version only). Mr Sheen, Pledge (ditto). And Coronation
Street, after a long debate, remained Coronation Street.
Although the book was sold in both countries at the same time, Doubleday
UK wanted to bring it out in March, Dutton in January. And although
both versions have my name and the title on the front cover, that's
where the similarity ends. The US version is pillar-box read. "Very
striking," said my British editor, "but not quite right for
us." The British on has a rambling cartoon-like tree that looks like
it's been drawn by a child "Lovely!" said my American editor, "but
of course, it would never work here."
Last autumn, Lisa Johnson, the publicity director at Dutton, rang
to say she'd decided to send me on a pre-publication tour of six key
book-selling cities. "Right," I said. "Like a book tour?" "Well no
- your book won't actually be out then. You'll just be meeting booksellers."
"I see," I said, thinking I'd got the hang of this. I'll go round
the bookshops." "No," explained Lisa. "Restaurants. You just have
to go out to dinner with them." Which was how, in October, I found
myself in Los Angeles, my first city, watching Danny de Vito eating
spaghetti at the neighbouring table and nervously wondering if I should
talk about the book, me or the upcoming election (all three, as it
turned out). It was Blind Date crossed with Late Review
- a couple of easy personal questions followed by a light grilling
about Tony Blair's strategy in Iraq.
Lisa, I discovered, seemed to be working on some sort of domino theory.
Sometimes books "take off" in one city, she said, and then spread.
In San Francisco, there were so many independent booksellers to invite
that I had to switch seats three times. In Portland, I met the buyer
for Powell's, America's biggest bookstore. It's five storeys high
and occupies a whole city block. "How many books do you actually stock?"
I asked her. She fixed me in the eye. "A million." I gulped and took
a swig of water. There are some facts that as a first-time novelist
you are better of not knowing. Suddenly my mini dinner tour seemed
distinctly mini. I went to six cities in 10 days, four on the west
coast, two on the east, and none in the middle. I'm now on the shelves
of Powell's nestling between 999,999 other books and realistic about
my chances (slim).
Still, if nothing else happens and I fail to sell a single copy,
I will always have the memory of my high-powered New York lunch. It
was with chief fiction buyer for Barnes & Noble. After discussing
John Kerry and George Bush, she came around to the book. "You know
who it reminded me of?" she said. "No," I said, "who?" "John Irving."
"Gosh!" I said, honoured, thrilled. I beamed at her. "Yes," she said.
"When you're reading it, you get swept along with the flow. It's only
later when you look back that you realise that actually it's completely
demented."
I suspect that this isn't another example of transatlantic cultural/linguistic
difference at work. But I've decided to take it as a compliment anyway.
Publishing News, 11 February 2005
