In the curious, make-believe part of the literary world which I occasionally inhabit everything isn't always what it seems. For example, I cherish the illusion that readers of my novel, A Half Life of One, are discerning aesthetes, serious types in search of a life-enhancing read.
Well, one of the interesting features of of the visitor tracking statistics that I have embedded in my blogs is that it will sometimes tell you why visitors have arrived where they have. Quite often they come via Google. Because they have typed in a query. You might expect queries like "Modern literary masterpiece" or "Gloomy but interesting read" or "Something I can't put down" and so on from the type of readers I expect to attract.
But how about "Suffocated to death after the woman sat on his face"?
I don't know who was more surprised after this person's visit. Me because he ended up reading my book in which at no time does anybody sit on anyone's face.
Or him (I think it must have been a him, don't you) when he discovered the literary sensation of the last six months.
Must have been him, I think, because he only read a couple of sentences before he scarpered.
Which is exactly what I must do. Down to the bank to borrow another million to expand the business.
Funny old world, though, isn't it?