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

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.

This will only be a short post and actually I’m doing well to post it at all, because in direct contrast to last Sunday I find myself this week with almost no time to write. This is not because I am busy, in fact the direct opposite, but by staying at my mother’s house in Berkshire I have effectively moved back to the Dark Ages, with my mother being the enforcer of this. By Dark Ages I mean that things like watching television, using mobile phones and especially LAPTOPS are frowned upon. Anything involving modern technology is not popular in this household. If she could make us all go to bed when the sun goes down and use candles she would do. I got a new phone yesterday (pink Samsung Tocco Lite) and the only reason that I’ve been able to look at facebook, email, etc. is because she hasn’t realised yet that I can access the internet on it.

Despite this, I am managing to keep on top of the various publishing commitments that are arising; I have now seen a pdf file of the official promotion poster and I like it! It’s only tremendously exciting if you’re me, though. And there is one mistake on it which needs to be rectified which is unfortunate because they’ve all been printed already. The initial print run for my book looks like being around 1000 copies which seems quite a lot to me. I’m also not sure how they have arrived at this figure, especially seeing as the original number I was given was 500-600, but there must be a method.

I’m beginning to feel quite productive towards my next manuscript. It started well but I seem to have written myself into a dead end which, as any writer will know, is a nightmare. It usually requires a complete overhaul of the entire thing and possible restructuring. Unfortunately I know where I’m going wrong, and remedying it does indeed require many and various changes. Which is not really possible in this house where doing any writing has the guilty feel of an adulterous affair about it – snatched moments when I can sneak onto my computer and type a couple of sentences before my mother passes through the kitchen and says “What are you doing on there?”. Obviously the possibilities in her mind are endless. I’ve batted away any potential conflict quite swiftly so far with much talk of publishers and emails and deliberately asking her opinion on the various issues I’ve been dealing with, but I can see her getting suspicious before long.

Plus it’s very difficult to have the space and peace to be creative here. It’s a large house with quite a few rooms but each one seems to be occupied by one or more of my four brothers at any given time, not to mention my own children and the assortment of pets here. There are: two dogs, a handful of chickens, a tank of tropical fish, a tortoise and a pygmy hedgehog. This last is particularly annoying because it’s in a tank in the room that I’m sleeping in and for those of you not in the know about captive hedgehogs, they like to recreate their outdoor freedom by running fifteen miles a night – in a squeaky wheel. And I can tell you that listening to fifteen miles of squeaking per night becomes very tiresome.

But other than that, it’s quite peaceful here. The Aga is still switched on and therefore chucking out gallons of heat which is completely unnecessary, but at least the fire isn’t being lit every night. And there’s lots of wine to drink; that’s always appreciated. However, due to unforeseen circumstances we will not be attending the Burlesque night so there will be no talk of stockings I’m afraid. Well, I could talk about my own but I don’t think it would be the same.

Next time: to be confirmed!