Last New Year, I ripped up a book contract.  It was an intriguing sensation to free yourself from the otherwise desired embrace of a Publisher. As all hungry freelance writers know, you need to lie about your availability and accept multiple and contradictory commissions with enthusiasm. Editors do not want to employ writers who say No.  
So why did I do it?  Guilt about broken deadlines was not a primary concern. Deadlines are a vital aspect of newsprint journalism, but if you are writing a book they are mere fences to be jumped, as if you were an old hunter at a point-to-point.  But I did know we were going forward into one hell of a year at Eland, moving all 182 titles into a new warehouse and a new distributor. I may also have talked about my next book too much, which can kill the joy of settling down in a dark corner for three months.  The story had already been told.  I was also enjoying the comparative success of The House Divided: Sunni, Shia and the Making of the Middle East and the invitations to book festivals.  

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