All the authors were younger than me - some only by a few years, but one was eighteen, having been offered a book deal when publisher Hot Key started following her on Twitter. What was funny was how much they themselves dressed and behaved like tween girls who had been let loose on London without parental supervision (sparkly tights, enormous heels). They hero-worshipped Jacqueline Wilson and talked about how they still felt as if they were pretending and weren't really proper authors, even with multiple publications under their belts.
They were a cool bunch and I'd have liked to be in their gang, but I don't think this is a market I should aim for, at least not deliberately (they all denied 'writing for tweens', insisting that they just 'wrote for me'). Frankly, I knew bugger all about nine-year-old girls when I was one and I know slightly less now.
On Sunday I visited my erstwhile flatmate calgor, bearing a home-made walnut cake. In exchange I got a delicious dinner, a late Christmas present of a bottle of Cocoa Gin, and an afternoon spent hanging out with Nigel, Drac and their two ferrets, which seems like a pretty good deal to me. The ferrets in particular were great value: rolling around in towels, playing in their very own ball pit, and sticking their heads down my bike boots.
Then I went home and watched The Musketeers while drinking a miniature of good-quality rum my bestie gave me for Christmas. It seemed appropriate. (Yes, I get given a lot of booze at Christmas, what of it?)