So - another list of Best Young Novelists. This time, Americans. None of whose work I know, but then I do live in the UK, where writing from the outside world barely penetrates. Okay, we can argue about the unstoppable behemoth that is American Cultural Hegemony - but many American contemporary writers are as far removed from Hollywood clones as you can get, and the UK just doesn't seem willing to admit books by great writers in English from any other countries, never mind translations of great writing that started out in other languages. Our loss.

Anyway, I'm glad I've never heard of any but one of these writers - hopefully that means they need the exposure, and listing will wing them on their way to earning a living by writing, rather than by selling their internal organs to captains of industry.

I was listed in the British top 20 twice, so I can recall how delightful it was to have sets of journalists asking me "What does it mean to you?" on and off for the duration of two different years a decade apart. My honest answer would have been "I have no idea. I know it doesn't mean I've won money, which would stop me having to work to earn money so that I can write, only the earning money means I don't have time to write because I still need to eat and sleep - I'm thinking of giving up naps and lunch."

The second listing was fairly low-key and by the time it came round the absurdity of the wonderful world of literature was something to which I had become acclimatised. The first time, all the attention gave me panic attacks interspersed by feelings of creeping anxiety and good-fortune-compensating tumour growth.

The first listing also involved touring the country for readings, largely to tiny audiences, and sitting in a cupboard with my fellow authors to sign so many copies of Granta that by the end of it all, my signature was so permanently mangled I had to notify my bank. And it meant I attended a party at the Saatchi gallery and got to see the Blood Head and Patrick Stewart. (I have no idea why he was there, but you could tell he didn't want anyone to mention Star Trek. Then again, everyone was pointedly ignoring him, because it was a highbrow crowd and no one wanted anyone else to think they might be talking to him about Star Trek. He seemed slightly depressed.)

I also got to see a work of art which was called, I believe, Two Fried Eggs and a Kebab. The piece involved two fried eggs and a kebab being left on a wooden table. Of course one literary guest stubbed their cigarette out in an egg and was then upbraided by a security guard.

"That's a work of art."

"It's a fried egg."

"You've ruined it."

"Then fry another egg."

I did presume that eggs were fried anew every now and then to prevent the exhibit being rechristened Two Rancid Health Hazards and a Potentially Fatal Kebab - or maybe that was the point. I've never been that good with modern art.