REVELATIONS AND REVELRY

In general it can be interesting to learn how people ended up in their chosen career. In general.

However, when you’re talking about writers, that makes the leap from interesting to fascinating in my opinion, because you can’t just choose to become a writer. There is no ready-made protocol to follow, nor job vacancies with a sheet of interview questions. From experience I can tell you that you need talent, determination, tenacity and luck. Not necessarily in that order. And virtually no two writers will have entered their profession in the same way.

For myself, I always assumed that I would become a writer. This isn’t quite as arrogant as it sounds because I wrote stories from a very young age, in a classic torch-under-the-bedcovers type of way and I was an A-student in English throughout my academic career. The same cannot be said for maths. I was seven when I wrote my very first story, it was fifty notepages long and called ‘Once in a Blue Ribbon’. Most of my early stories involved ponies. Throughout my childhood I wrote lots of little stories and poems and plays; in fact I was probably always writing something or other. However, whilst I took for granted that I would write books one day, I also thought that I would have a proper career before that. You know, one that needs qualifications and that you get paid for, that type of thing. So I thought I might be a lawyer. I took 11 GCSEs, an AS-Level and A-Levels in English, Spanish and History, gained good grades (A, A, C) and went to Southampton University to study Law.

At the end of my first year I took the unusual step of having a baby. You won’t find it as an acknowledged option for undergraduates, but I took a year out to stay at home with my new daughter, and then returned to studying, graduating a year later than planned. And right up until my graduation I fully intended to become a solicitor. I had a place at the College of Law in Guildford and everything. But something niggled at me. And then one day shortly before I was due to start I had a conversation with my husband which ran a bit like this:

“Darling, I think I might not become a solicitor and go out to work after all.”

“Right. And what did you think you might do instead?”

“Well, I thought I might write a book.”

And he’d looked aghast, as well he might. I was exchanging potentially well-paid, permanent employment for what was little more than a whim. But sensibly, he did not voice that thought and I suppose he must have agreed because look where we are now.

And so I bowled headlong into writing my first, rushed manuscript which was a potted history of – at that time – the most eventful period of my life, namely being at University, studying Law with my baby in tow. Plus one or two other more salacious elements which don’t need to be mentioned.

When I’d written roughly half of it, I began sending it out to agents and I had a very encouraging response. Without actually being signed up. I was utterly determined though and took no notice of the rejections that poured through my door like lava out of Vesuvius. Every would-be writer knows that you don’t take any notice of rejections until you have literally exhausted every agent in the Writers & Artists Yearbook. For every ten agents that I approached, I would have a positive, personal response from perhaps one. The rest hadn’t even read it; you can just tell.

What I have covered in a few lines actually took a surprisingly long time. I was disciplined towards my writing (a skill learnt from studying and taking my finals with a baby; time management is essential) and refused to let the rejections knock my confidence. I knew I could write. But the process of researching appropriate agents, learning whom they already represented and writing personalised, covering letters with a measured amount of information, putting in a soupcon of arrogance and a handful of confidence with a sprinkling of determination all takes time. Then you have to be able to afford the postage for ten lots of three chapters, double-spaced and a brief synopsis to all these London-based agents, which as graduates we struggled to do. And then you have to wait. And wait. And after you’ve done that you wait a bit more. It can – and frequently does – take up to eight weeks for them to get back to you, often with a crushing response. But as a writer you cannot let that affect you, you must have confidence in your work and carry on. Unless you receive the same, negative response from fifty agents and then probably accept that your manuscript needs some editing.

It was a time of colossal uncertainty, hope and excitement. A lot of excitement about what I was doing, what I hoped to do and what I thought I could do. It did go on a bit though. I was ready for something concrete to happen a long time before it did, but unfortunately my writing wasn’t, so it didn’t come about.

However, the most exciting thing to happen to me during this time was that I came within a hairs breadth of being signed by a very good literary agent. She read my synopsis and first three chapters, loved it and rang me one evening to discuss it. However, ultimately, she decided that the manuscript wasn’t quite good enough and said no. After being so close this was a real blow. And I was so disenchanted with the manuscript after that I put it to one side and didn’t touch it for three years. I forgot about it. I eventually went back to it on the advice of another agent, read through the writing and realised that the first agent had been completely right. It was absolutely no good at all; it needed to be entirely re-written. I was so grateful for her advice (which is always spot on by the way) that I emailed to tell her, and to cut a long story short she ended up accepting the re-written version and it’s currently waiting for attention in the inboxes of various editors of publishing houses scattered around London.

I know that presented like this my route into writing sounds gloriously easy and really quite a laugh – it absolutely was not. I had years of rejections and uncertainty and I was forced to face up to the fact that I just wasn’t good enough for a long time. I had to be ruthlessly honest with myself about the standard that I was writing to. But I didn’t give up, I didn’t lose hope, I just became more determined; it’s the only way you can do it. As I said in the beginning of this post, I had to keep going, keep trying, improve my writing, continually strive to be better, understand the marketplace more and do my research. And keep taking deep breaths and diving back in to the pool of agents to try and persuade them to represent me. That was my ultimate goal and I refused to compromise. It was a good thing that I didn’t because I got there in the end.

Next challenge: persuading a publisher that they want my manuscript. And the one after it. And the one after that, ad infinitum……

xxx

I appreciate that planning a book launch sounds like it’s a wonderfully glamorous activity, but it truly isn’t. It probably would be if I had access to approximately five thousand disposable pounds and about the same number of friends. No, I jest, I’m aspiring for my book launch to be a low-key, elite affair, not a scrum of people queueing four deep at the bar to drink Aftershock.

The Venue for my book launch

So I have a venue, this is the first thing. It is going to be held at La Place, a very lovely French restaurant in Winchester where I unexpectedly ate fish with bones in it for the first time. It was quite a step up from fishfingers, I can tell you. And the worst bit was that I was with someone who didn’t know that I had never eaten fish with bones in it before (I’m sure there’s a proper term for fish with bones in it) and I was keen to both keep this from him and simultaneously maintain my dignified air, which meant that I had to contain my shock when I discovered the bones. Swiftly followed by wondering how on earth I was going to remove them effectively and discreetly. It was my fault; I’d asked for the wretched fish specifically. There wasn’t anything on the menu that fitted my ideal so my friend asked if something could be found for me that was ideal – which it was, along with several hundred minute bones. But suffice to say that I managed with my dignity intact (I hope) and the fish was tremendous. I thoroughly recommend it. And bone debacle aside, La Place is the perfect venue for my book launch. It’s quite small which lends a nice, cosy air, the owners are French and therefore utterly charming and very accommodating, it has a fabulously well-stocked bar and there’s just an air of…..je ne sais quois about it. It has to be visited to be truly appreciated.

Having decided on the venue, the issue of cost became a concern. Some sums were mentioned during conversation between myself and my friend; I nodded and smiled to indicate ‘yes’ and only I knew that I meant ‘absolutely NOT’. If I thought it would make an important difference to the event I wouldn’t mind spending thousands of pounds on the evening (my husband probably would) but I genuinely don’t think it will. Ideally, what I envisage for my guests is to be able to come along for as long or as short a time as they wish, I want them to be comfortable, i.e. something to eat (and I promise there will be no unexpected bones) and more importantly something to drink. I want a relaxed, convivial atmosphere with my book being the focus of the evening, and I think a nice venue, French fare and a few bottles of wine are the way to achieve this.

My husband has come up with a staggeringly awful idea for the occasion, and this is that I should do a reading from my book. Apparently this is de rigueur for these events. And, perhaps, if I’d written a book about some amazing achievement like sailing a yacht single-handedly around the world or swimming in almost sub-zero temperatures up on Everest (just trust me on that one) then it might be nice to hear a particularly exciting excerpt read aloud. I can safely say this because the idea of me doing either of those things is so implausible as to be ridiculous. But my book is not about intrepid adventures. It’ll be bad enough that my guests will have no choice about buying it; I can’t imagine that they want to be forced to listen to it all evening as well.

So having found my venue and approved a menu I must now decide upon a guest list. I have a number in my head that I’m working to, considering the size of the bar, and I must allocate spaces carefully. If you are wildly influential or I particularly like you then you will probably be invited. If not, then the other thing I would suggest is just popping into Winchester on the evening of the 29^th September because the idea of this thing is that people can wander in off the street; there will be plenty of publicity posters up to engender interest and you’ll be guaranteed a glass of the one of the splendid wines at La Place.

And finally, I am very grateful to everyone who makes the effort to come and read my blog and if you haven’t already then click ‘Like’ on my facebook page, www.facebook.com/Sarahhaynes.Author and you’ll be notified instantly when a new blog is posted. Alternatively follow me on Twitter @SH_Writes and become my sixth follower! There will be a prize for the tenth. You can also ‘Like’ La Place on facebook – you’ll find the link on my facebook author page.

Next time: I SHOULD have received my review copies which means I can step up a promotion gear and start begging and pleading for shops to stock my book and to be allowed to come in and sign them for people. Time for my most charming self to make an appearance….

As the title says, I am now home and, happily, full internet usage can resume. Honestly, it did get wearing in the end having to creep about just so I could get my daily fix of facebook status updates; I can’t rest until I know what’s going on! Who’s together – who’s split up – who has had what baby – who is sad – who is happy – who is drinking what alcohol, etc. etc. This last is quite funny actually, because it ranges from my older, more sophisticated friends with their Pimms and Meursault and champagne right down to my student brothers where I’m most likely to see the words ‘White’ and ‘Lightening’ together.

This week has been very trying one way and another and I am not sorry to see the back of it. I went to Berkshire one person and I have come back as quite another – and with a new phone, a new handbag and minus most of my hair. This began as a whim and ended as a truly cathartic measure; the symmetry to be found in cutting and shaping one’s life and then doing the same to the hair is particularly pleasing to me. And my trip to Toni and Guy in Maidenhead today re-affirmed my conclusion that however much make-up you are wearing (and I put make-up on especially to go) it is NEVER ENOUGH. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you look passable because when you sit down in those harsh lights and have the direct comparison of the stylist next to you, you will instantly see how wrong you were. What looked acceptable and even nice in your own home will seem paltry, lazy and misguided in the hair salon. Wrong shade of foundation/wonky eyeliner/smudged mascara – I’ve fallen victim to all of these in the past. But today for a change I looked better than the hairdresser, who was wearing no make-up. As she was talking I also drew the conclusion that she was Australian, there was a slight twang to her tone, and I almost asked about it. I was glad I didn’t when I realised that actually she was from Essex  – can you imagine how embarrassing that would have been? Clearly I have been much affected by the Home Counties to leap to the conclusion that a person is from Australia rather than Essex.

To continue on the hair theme, I had rather an unpleasant evening yesterday spent in the company of my two girls, my sister and four brothers – and about fifty thousand nits. Or head lice. Whatever the ones that are big enough to get on the rides at Chessington are called. It was appalling. It had begun that morning when Molly woke up and said her head felt itchy, which immediately rang alarm bells. However I didn’t actually remember to inspect her head until we were in the genteel environment of the John Lewis café – where we were glared at by the older generation for bringing in children and not drinking Earl Grey tea. I dare not think what their faces would have been like had they been aware that we were probably scattering lice like Hansel and Gretel scattered crumbs. When I looked at Molly’s head I could literally see a louse scurrying about in her hair. But considering where we were I didn’t feel justified in expressing this. Instead I quietly murmured to my mother that we might invest in a Nitty-Gritty comb – and quickly. “Rubbish,” she said. “They don’t have nits. My children don’t get nits.” Oh but they do, I confirmed. “No. I’m sure not. Ben’s had his hair checked recently by the hairdresser. He can’t have.” Ben was scratching madly but absent-mindedly at his head during this exchange. “I’ve seen one,” I hissed. “Huge. In Molly’s hair.” Her response? “Well. It’s probably a fly. From the garden.” Yes, of course. Silly me. A fly has flown into Molly’s hair, shrunk a bit, turned brown, lost its wings and half the length of its legs in order to masquerade as a head louse. “Nevertheless,” I said firmly, “I think I’ll get one.” So we stopped at the small, village chemist on the way home where I couldn’t see the comb I was after. When I asked the assistant she gave me a long look before saying “I think I have ONE left.” She then rummaged at the back of a shelf where she had quite literally hidden it behind the toothpaste. I didn’t ask. And upon the combing the children, one was crawling in lice, one had a handful and out of my brothers two of the three older ones had a few in their hair. Which was mildly amusing because it’s not often you have three teenaged boys lining up to have their hair nit-combed. But the minute that word spread through the house that nits had been found, everybody was smothering their hair in conditioner and clamouring to be combed so as the resident expert I obliged. Just to reassure you, the hairdresser made no comment this morning so I’m assuming that I’m clear. I don’t think even nits can withstand the 220 degree heat of my GHDs.

And out of the emails I have been able to pick up this week, I had a vastly reassuring one from my publishers (spot the sarcasm) confirming my publication date of 30^th August. Er – no. That is a month too early. I sighed a big sigh and corrected them.

I’m going to have to end here because I’ve realised that wine stocks are running perilously low and it’s Friday. My lovely husband has had approximately five hours sleep over the last few days and is currently travelling back from the very north of England – I don’t think he’s going to be too impressed if I send him out to collect alcohol on his return. That said, he has our debit card so my funds are also perilously low…….White Lightening it may yet be.