The golem – Michelle Lovric

In Jewish tradition, a golem is a monster brought to life by a magical force in order to serve its creator. In my opinion, this is pretty much an exact definition of doing publicity for one’s publishers.

In Hebrew legend, there are various recipes for making a golem. But they all seem to involve the modelling of shapeless inanimate materials into a form that approximates a human being. The result: a body without a soul. But when the name of God is invoked, the golem comes to life. When its mission is over, the name of God is removed and the golem returns to dust.

In publishing, you make a golem this way: an author labours in obscurity for months, even years, to write a book. ‘Shapeless’ certainly applies to the cardigans, dressing-gowns and other writing-wear worn by most authors when crouched over their computers.

Then one day the manuscript is pronounced ‘a live one’ and the name of marketing is invoked. ‘This book could really sell,’ is the mantra. ‘Get a good photo!’

How many authors really look like their publicity photos? My publicity golem and I stopped resembling one another about five years ago. That’s because the photographer’s secret brief is for an image of the author ‘that could really sell’. The author is peeled out of the shapeless cardigan and tucked into something he or she would never wear, because he or she is rather fond of breathing, and also because of the authorly tendency to spill coffee and pasta sauce on most garments. The author poses in positions of extreme unnaturalness, to get that natural look. The author gapes like a kitten, in order to achieve that thoughtful gaze into the profound nature of things.

The publicity department chooses the least embarrassing image from the embarrassing contact sheet. The golem is born: a creature that has vaguely human form but is not inhabited by the soul of the writer.

The golem’s body is tipped, blinking, out into the glare of the world. The publisher accompanies the protégée golem to launches and parties (see photo above from Paul Wegener’s 1920 film, Der Golem).

From talking only to the cat, the author must suddenly become proficient at entertaining 80 children and their teachers. The author sits in front of microphones in those tiny self-serve studios at the BBC, scintillating about the book to remote radio stations. If the book is a success, the golem appears on television. (This sometimes unmasks the golem: the publicity photo can come unstuck at this point.)

This blog is not blasphemous, by the way, because the author never really becomes the golem. The golem is a separate creation, son or daughter of publicity and marketing, animated by an arcane formula: a body without a soul.

And that’s probably ok.

On a long publicity tour, a soul is not much use to an author. My soul, had it been present, would have run away and hidden in the ladies' lavatories when I had to do a signing of my Love Letters book at Men’s Night in Lingerie at Macey’s in New York.

The modern Hebrew translation of the word ‘golem’ is ‘cocoon’. But there are other meanings. They are usually variations of ‘fool’.

Golems have been known to run amok. Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel of Prague created a golem to defend the Jewish community against a blood libel. But his golem began to misbehave and so the rabbi had to deactivate it.

I guess this happens to authors too.

My golem went severely rabid, for example, when it was sent to Fox Studios to be interviewed alongside the true star-guest of the show: a dog who wore shoes.

But that’s another story …

Michelle Lovric’s website