Sir Arthur Conan Grant, acclaimed author of Sandra’s First Pony, explains…

Many people ask me what it’s like to be a writer. How do you cope with the constant praise, the sparkling reviews and all the money, they ask. And yet despite your busy and glamorous lifestyle, your dogs have such glossy coats – is that Pantene you use?

It’s always good to ask questions. I regularly question Twiglet, for example. “Where’s my bloody cup gone now?” I ask playfully, and “Why are you lying right across the doorway trying to kill me?” But as to writing…

Writers commonly believe that thousands, if not tens of thousands, of people are out there, just dying to read their books if only they could get them published. They are sure that there is a huge audience for their brilliant plot ideas and their devastating use of the English/Chinese/Icelandic language.

This is Not True. The world is a cold and hostile place (unless you have a lurcher to hold).

I believe, on the other hand, that no-one is especially bothered about what I write, or why. And that there’s no particular reason why anyone should want to sit through my literary output. This makes things much easier, because it is then clearly my job to do little more than the following:

1) Bludgeon everyone repeatedly with my stories until they groan and give in.
2) Trick them into buying my stuff by pretending to be their friend and an all-round Nice Chap.
3) Sound like a proper author with meaningful things to say, and separate those pesky intellectuals from their wallets.
4) Become popular enough in the media so that you buy my books but don’t read them.

All of the above will eventually make me money, even if you don’t enjoy what you buy. Or even open it. Money is useful. You can’t, for example, feed three large dogs on Morrison’s own-brand bargain baked beans for long before the house becomes completely uninhabitable. I tried this experiment, and I can assure you that about three hours was quite enough. We don’t even talk about the left-over chili con carne.

They say that the writer’s lifestyle is a lonely one. This is also Not True. My lifestyle is constantly interrupted by scam phone calls, e-mails asking me if my paved drive is big enough, people at the door wanting to tarmac my manhood, the family wanting to be fed and so on. Did Tolstoy constantly have to unblock the toilet whilst writing Pride and Prejudice? I think not.

But what about where the work is actually done? Some writers have a study, a retreat or even a cabin in the Lake District in which to concentrate on their work. I have two special places in the house for my creative endeavours. The first one is trapped at my computer desk, unable to take a break because the dogs have laid down under the wheels of my swivel chair (I’m terrified of running them over and ending up with thousands in vet’s bills).

The second place is lying on the floor with a longdog on top of my notepad, trying to push my glasses off. Neither of these positions is ideal. “Look,” I say, “Isn’t that a squirrel?” Then I hope that they all shoot off into the garden and leave me alone for long enough to write at least a paragraph.

After that, I usually go upstairs to consult a reference book, or check some period detail in a Victorian story. Not fooled by the squirrel trick for long, the dogs pile up after me, convinced that I am about to brush my hair and take them out. The crucial plot element which was about to come together is swept away in a tide of tangled leads and escaping poo bags, most of which float high across the street like little blue doves receiving their freedom (and that’s proper writing for you, Mr So-called Dickens!).

Of course, in line with Objective 2) above, I should admit that Django, Chilli and Twiglet are actually Equity-paid acting dogs, hired to make me seem like a jolly dog-loving person. They pose for pictures on the moors, lie on a sofa or two and then all go back to their trailer to play poker and drink bourbon. Chilli always wins, but I think she keeps a spare ace under her tongue.

So is writing satisfying? Well, I do enjoy those moments not talking about it, not doing it and not reading my rejection slips, so yes, it has its perks. In my spare time I also enjoy not fishing and not collecting stamps. This leaves me with many hours of relaxing past-times, such as re-plumbing the bathroom because I’m a writer and can’t afford to get someone qualified to do it. I now know more about olive nuts, copper piping and soldering than I do about semi-colons, so life isn’t all bad.

And there you have it, the exciting life of a writer, with added lurchers. Of course, there is always one final question which visitors to Grant Manor ask:

But Sir Arthur, do you have to have longdogs to become a really successful writer?

I’ll tell you the answer when my next cheque comes in…

Coming up on greydogtales in the next month or so:

Harry Potter: A Warning from History
Living Hell in the Swamplands of Southern Borneo
My Paranormal Life
Lurchers for Beginners: The Advanced Class

Consumer warning: Some of these entries may not be real