Tenterhooks

It's quite hard to write about this stuff honestly and strike a balance between not showing off too much, not putting any prospective agents off, not betraying anyone's privacy... but I'll try.

Several literary agents have promised to get back to me next week, which means that this weekend there are a whole load of Influential People reading my book. This week I've received emails saying things like, "I am LOVING Xxxx Xxxxxx ... PLEASE bear with me until Tuesday," and "I liked it a lot, so I'm not at all surprised that someone speedier has jumped on it. It's very fresh and original with a lovely, self-assured and witty narrative voice," so, well, next week could be pretty exciting.

But, well...

(and isn't there always a but? I think I need to go on some kind of But Diet)

...first of all, I feel guilty for being so greedy. One agent has already waxed lyrical about how good the book is and is eager to represent me. I can only have one! It's not like job-hunting, when you can register with several agencies. And it also means I can relax, as whatever happens this weekend I'm still sorted.

I can't remember what the other but was. Probably something to do with, this is only the first step. Even if I get the best agent in the world, that's no guarantee anyone will sell the book to a publisher.

God, it's such a tortuous process. It's now eight years since I started writing my first book, and I'm only just in the process of getting number 2 published, and still can't count on anything. If this book gets published, it won't happen until at least another year from now. Chances are whoever takes me on will attempt to sell the book at the Frankfurt Book Fair in October, and I wouldn't get paid for another few months after that, so I still have to look for other work...

But (and this is one of those fat-free buts) NEVER MIND ALL THAT! Things are happening. Things I dreamt of, and then stopped daring to dream of. People saying nice things about my book. People being EXCITED about my book. People being EAGER to sell it for me. I mean, maybe, just possibly... it might actually be a good book? One which will end up on a book shop shelf?

Supposedly The Dying of Delight sat on some bookshop shelves, but I never saw it there. That's what happens with a small publisher. They can't afford to buy space on the shelves of Waterstone's, for a start. After the first few disappointing experiences of walking into Borders and Waterstones and hunting, without success, for my book on their shelves, I gave up trying. And now it's out of print (but loads of people liked it and you can still buy it from me, hint hint).

BUT NEVER MIND ALL THAT. Good things are happening. And to remind myself of that, here are all the nice things literary agents have been saying about my book:

"I am LOVING Xxxx Xxxxxx ... PLEASE bear with me until Tuesday."
"I liked it a lot, so I'm not at all surprised that someone has jumped on it. It's very fresh and original with a lovely, self-assured and witty narrative voice."
"I love the idea of psychic dancing! ... I'll look forward to reading this."
"There are lots of things I like about the book, in fact rather admire it"
"fascinating and very quirky. Original too."
"There’s much that I admire about the novel"
"I can see why someone has offered you representation ... I was impressed by [the book] ..."
"I was struck by the fascinating story at the heart of the book and by your engaging writing style"
"richly descriptive and absorbing"
"the concept is a very interesting one"
"the premise is fantastically original and interesting and your writing strong"
"I was really grabbed by the opening of Xxxx Xxxxxx, loved the title, and was really keen to read it."
"you are a gifted writer because you can describe very complex human relationships and you have a lovely fresh style ... your writing has something special about it"
"I read the first section last night having waded through a month's worth of slush
pile submissions and yours shone out like a beacon ... sizzles with energy and imagination ... it's a wonderful novel. The rest of the book more than lives up to the promise of its opening chapters."
"I was very excited by the ambitious concept of the novel ... You are great on atmosphere and mood..."
"the writing style is fantastic"

Of course, some of these were followed by some very fatty buts indeed, but some of them WEREN'T, and that's what counts. The rest of them just said they were "enjoying it" which of course, in my newfound greediness, doesn't satisfy my superlative quota at ALL.

OK, my ego is duly stoked. And stroked. And now I shall eat some breakfast and dream of Richard & Judy.


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Miles and Dominic Davies

Ooh, I just remembered these two. I have to tell you about them.

I was dancing late at night to The Blockheads (they were great, and that reminds me to find out who was doing Ian Dury's bit, cos he was particularly great), and on the grass next to me was a pre-teen boy in a deckchair, reading a book and paying no attention to the band.

I thought maybe he was doing some kind of homework, because his book was covered in notes and scribbles. But I was close enough to see what kind of scribbles, and they were just the kind you'd make on a manuscript: Individual words crossed out, and new sentences inserted at specific points.

In the end I was so intrigued I crouched down next to him and asked about it. Turned out he was 12 years old, and holding the latest version of a book he and his 18-year-old brother are writing together, which he was in the process of redrafting. Later on the older brother appeared, and told me he's been writing since he was six, and this is what he does: he's a writer.

I gave some vague advice on coming up with a title (the current one is Rays of Hope, and they're not happy with it), but sadly I wasn't together enough to find out any more. They don't have a publisher yet. They did take my name though, so maybe they'll find this. I AM IMPRESSED. That is all (well, unless they'd like editorial / touting-round-publishers input on the manuscript itself, in which case they should contact me, cos I confess I'm mightily intrigued).

Oh yes, and if I manage to get preggers in the next few months and nothing goes wrong, my two kids will also have a six-year age gap, and I love the idea of them sitting on a deckchair in the middle of the night at some future Big Chill, collaborating on their latest book.


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Blobs of Moving Colour

As usual, I have reams of notes on fings wot have happened to me in the last week or so, but in a break from tradition I'm not going to promise to write about it all, even though I want to and fully intend to... cos I know from experience that I probably won't find the time.

There have been many emails and phone calls with literary agents. It's all getting a bit hectic, and quite hard to keep tabs on. I have a little text file which I update every time I have contact with an agent, and at the top are five lists of names, which fall into the following categories:
1. Has offered me representation,
2. Has asked to see the full manuscript,
3. Has asked to see a partial manuscript,
4. Has not responded to anything yet,
5. Has rejected me.

The names move up and down the lists. They start at number 4, and then typically move up through 3 and 2, before landing on 5 - but can find their way to 5 at any point during the process. I'd like to turn each name into a coloured blob and animate their movement through the lists; I think it'd look a little like that bouncing balls advert. I currently have a few names sitting at the number 2 spot, and altogether 50% of the agents I've approached have asked to see the whole book. Which is brilliant. And rather daunting. And brilliant.

In other news, the Big Chill got off to a rather weepy start when I did a negative pregnancy test on the first day and was knocked for six by my reaction, which was more upset than I'd expected. And we camped in Family Camping, which was all very well but there were cute toddlers everywhere and I missed Felix (who was on holiday elsewhere with his Aunty Em) and got horribly broody. So I buried my head in Harry Potter Number Seven (sorry, I long ago gave up keeping track of which title is which - I feel safer with numbers) and got frustrated by the Series of Superficial Social Interactions which is the Big Chill.

We've been going there for years, and Ally works there (he comperes / DJs the Sanctuary Stage for 13 hours or so on the Saturday), so we know about a gazillion Big Chillers, and particularly on Saturday when I was being a Sanctuary Stage groupie, there was an awful lot of "Hello, how are you, are you having fun?" to which the only really acceptable answer is "Yeah, great," and then they disappear. It's not anyone's fault - I don't want anyone to give me a deep breakdown of their psyche in circumstances like that any more than they want it from me - and to be fair I did have some proper in-depth conversations with a few people, but I wasn't exactly Mrs Happy and it was a little wearing after a while.

But never mind all that, I heard some great music, I finished HP ('twas great and made me cry, although the hallows themselves seemed a little superfluous) and on the Sunday My Man did an extremely good job of cheering me up, so many hats off to him.

And now I'm alternating between the rather pleasing job of Agent Juggling and the also-pleasant function of Holiday Mum. We're skint, so Felix and I are getting back to the simple enjoyments of packed lunches, climbing trees, fishing in streams, walking up hills and visiting friends. And cuddling. Lots of cuddling.


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Ooh and aah and bleurgh

Oh, I am a little fuzzy-headed today. It's that Lucy Pepper's fault. We spent a long evening last night drinking wine and talking, very fast and very lots. I have to say Grumpy Professor Man was not in the least bit grumpy and was in fact rather charming and clever and lovely, and her kids are cute as buttons. And she's very good at telling stories and doing voices, and she should be on the stage, which I forgot to tell her. Remind me to tell her. Except of course that she's rather good at drawing pictures too, so maybe she doesn't need the stage.

But isn't it nice when you meet someone from t'internet and they are even nicer than you thought they were going to be, and you get on with them even better than do online? We were old friends immediately. And bloody hell, she's an awful lot like Anna (another one who's even better in the flesh). Twins separated at birth, if you ask me.

AND my house is all lovely and clean and tidy, which I always enjoy but never get motivated to sort out unless we have visitors. I approve of this people-coming-to-me lark. Never mind all this nonsense of me trekking down to London for blogmeets. Everyone come to Manchester! I also saw Rob at the weekend cos he's in Manchester for some conference thing, and we had a short-but-nice pub-meet sandwiched between other engagements, and next week I'm going to see Petite and Mike and [anonymous secret other] in [secret location], so I'm rather spoilt for Meeting Nice Bloggy People at the moment. I'm a bit worried about Mike though. He's been hinting (I think, if I understood correctly) that his blogging days may be coming to an end, to which I say nooooooooo, his was the first second blog I ever read. Not allowed.

So anyway, did I mention a literary agent WANTS ME TO BE HIS CLIENT? And WANTS TO SELL MY BOOK? And thinks it is "wonderful" and "sizzling" and might even appeal to a mainstream audience, and has loads of exciting ideas and OH MY GOD I MIGHT FINALLY BE GETTING THERE AT LAST?

I'm being a bit of a Little Madam, I confess, and it's all rather gone to my head and I did promise some other agents that I wouldn't sign anything before they had a chance to get back to me and although I'm still getting rejections, I'm also getting emails along the lines of, "Hang on! Wait for me! I'll read it this week, I promise!" which is all rather surreal and exciting and OH MY GOD and of course it might all come to nothing and none of this is any guarantee that anybody will want to publish the book but I'm suddenly feeling a hell of a lot more excited and optimistic about it all.

And whatever happens, I will now definitely have a literary agent who will try and sell my book on my behalf, and I've never been in this situation before. I had an agent once, but I didn't have a book to sell at the time, so it was all a bit meaningless. But now I will have a cheerleader, someone authoritative who believes in me and wants to help me succeed and probably CAN help me and OH MY GOD (did I say that already?) and OK, I confess that although I've been hugely excited on Marie's behalf (her book, Gods Behaving Badly, is officially published today and has already had several great reviews and people have been spotted reading it on tubes) I've also been just a teensy bit jealous but NO LONGER!

Oh, and I'll find out this weekend whether I'm pregnant or not. I confess I don't feel in the least bit preggers, but, you know, if I am that would make this The Best Week Ever and if I'm not, what the hell, there's always next month and I'm so excited about book stuff I don't really care.

Eek. And ooh, and eurgh, my head.


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good news

I don't know why I've been so reluctant to blog this. Maybe because nothing's been signed yet and I don't want to jinx it. But...

Tomorrow morning I shall be talking on the telling-bone wiv a man wot wants to be my literary agent and says things like, "I've spent most of my Monday reading your book rather than doing the work I should be doing - it's a wonderful novel."

Just so's you know, like.

I bought two bottles of cheap Cava from Morrison's this evening. Haven't opened them yet, though. I told Ally one was for when I sign with an agent, and the other was for when I sign with a publisher. He said, "You do realise the second one will be opened as soon as we've finished drinking the first one?"

Well yes, OK then, and that might even be why I bought two in the first place...


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Buy Buy Buy!

OK, so am in trumpet-blowing mood this morning, and realise I'm writing way too many posts at the moment to expect people to read the comments, and therefore am copying and pasting this comment from B on this post here about the glowing review of The Dying of Delight wot has just been published by Chelsey Flood here...

Um, that was a very tortuous sentence, I know, but am too sleepy to disentangle it. Bleurgh. I just wanted people to see this:

"And just for anyone who is reading this and thinking 'hmmmm that first book does sound interesting' - I thought that. Then I found some spare money and bought it. Then I read it really-super-fast because it is a GREAT book. Go buy! Now!"

So anyway, you know. I'm selling copies here. But please don't buy it anywhere else, even if it is a nice friendly independent bookshop*, cos if you don't buy it from me, I don't get any royalties.

OK. Shutting up now.

[wanders off, blushing and muttering to hide embarrassment]



*Apart from Portland Books on Oxford Rd, opposite the Dance House in Manchester! They give me a cut when they sell copies of my book.


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Hurrah for Optimism

Ah fuckit, I'll just be optimistic.

Cos it's more fun than pessimism, and there's a lot to be said for having fun. Even if it all comes to nothing, at least I'll have had some positive serotonins whizzing around my system for a bit. And that's got to be good for me, right?

And of course all these agents will now log on to this blog, read these posts and run away screaming from the mad upsy-downy woman.


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Ber-limey

There is an incredibly glowing review of my first book, The Dying of Delight, in Albion online magazine - and it's followed by an in-depth interview by Chelsey Flood, about The Dying of Delight, my current novel, blogging, and BloggersWithBookDeals.

It's very odd reading a review of The Dying of Delight now, considering that it was published three years ago and is now out of print. And also when all my current novel-writing energy and attention is so focused on Novel II.

I have no idea how Albion found out about me or why they decided to review / interview me. I'm pretty sure it's coincidental, since I haven't had any contact with either of them for ages, but it just so happens that the other two writers featured in the same issue are people I've met, and have vague connections with (James Hawes is the brother of a friend of mine, and Gwendoline Riley and I were two thirds of the "Sassy Northern Birds" (!) trio (the other one being Helen Walsh) - we did some writerly PR stuff together when our books were published).

So, anyway. If you want to read The Dying of Delight, PLEASE don't buy it from Amazon or elsewhere. If you do, I don't get any royalties (because it's out of print). If I don't earn a living from novel-writing, it's hard for me to keep writing. You can buy it from me for a fiver here instead.


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Oh!

In the last two days I've had two very enthusiastic emails from agents.

I confess I've become so pessimistic that I had to read one of them twice before I realised he really was saying things like, "shone out like a beacon" and "sizzles with energy and imagination".

These are people who have only read sample chapters so far, so it's way too early to crack open the champagne, but...

Well, I'm getting my optimism back.


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A New Project

I have had one of my hare-brained ideas...

One of the things I've always wanted to do is write the text for illustrated kids' books. Dr Seuss is pretty much my favourite writer ever, so it may well be in that kind of vein, although it may not be.

I currently have a list of Writing I Might Make Money From (I'll publish it here at some point), and Picture Books For Kids was on that list. But everyone I know in the industry says the picture-book market is pretty much impossible to get into, so I've given up on the idea of getting published or making any money out of it, but I'm still so keen on doing it, and already have some books written and waiting to be edited, and it seems such a shame for them to go to waste...

So I'm putting a call out for illustrators I know, and my idea is this: To collaborate with an illustrator and self-publish something. Now, I need to say upfront that it's PRETTY UNLIKELY we'd make much, if any, money out of it. We'd be doing it for fun. But if nothing else it will be something we can put in our portfolios, and it's good practice. And fun!

If you are an illustrator and you're interested, or you know anyone who might be, contact me and I'll send you / them some text and you / they could maybe sketch one rough sample, and we'll see whether we like the result and think it's worth proceeding.


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Loss of Something Small

I've been trying very hard not to be upset about this, but I am.

I carry notebooks with me everywhere I go, and fill them full of scribbles about whatever random stuff happens to come into my head.

My most recent one was very nearly full up. I was almost ready to put it in the pile of used notebooks and start a new one... and I've lost it.

Sometimes I transcribe stuff, transferring from notebook to computer. Some of the stuff in this book had been transcribed. Most of it hadn't.

I'm trying to console myself with the following thoughts:

1. Most of the stuff in those notebooks never sees the light of day anyway. I don't get round to using any of it.
2. If there were any really good, really important ideas in there, they'll pop back into my head again.
3. I rarely really lose things - I'm too careful about always checking before I leave anywhere. Normally what happens is I think I've lost things, and then find them down the back of the sofa.

But... there are reasons why, at the moment, it's more likely I might have done something with some of the ideas / material in that book. And we've just had a party which involved moving all the furniture in the house and then moving it back again, and having a massive tidy-up of all the piles, so I reckon if it were in the house I'd have found it by now.

It doesn't matter. If I can't remember what was in it, then I don't know what I've lost, so how can it matter? I'll keep having new ideas - at a much faster rate than I can use them - I always do.

But...

Pah. It's annoying. And I have this awful nagging sense of directionless loss. But loss, nonetheless.

[update: it seems that if you give two posts the same title, Haloscan just assumes they must be the same, and pops up the same comment box. Thus for a while, when this post was first written and titled "Loss", it seemed to have 17 comments from people who were very understanding about me having lost a baby. And when someone popped up in the Blogger comment box and said, "Look, I know everyone else is very responsive to your feelings of loss echoing the loss of the baby and I truly understand and echo their messgaes. And yet I do also want to say how much I feel for you losing the notebook"... I was initially bewildered and then, I'm sorry, but it did rather make me giggle. Here is the original comment box, which would - if applied to this post - seem to be rather full of worthy people drawing all sorts of deep conclusions from my feelings about the notebook...]


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Book Update

I often forget that some people who read this blog might be interested in how my latest book is doing...

So here's a summary.

My first book was published June '04. It was very exciting. And after that I was all fired up and motivated to write another one - my confidence in my writing skills at an all time high. But still I managed to dither endlessly, and 18 months later I still hadn't got any further. Well, I had written a novel's worth of words - about 80,000, I think - but they were all just notes. Almost no prose. And I had concocted an impossibly complicated plot that even I couldn't follow, or even keep all in my head at the same time.

My plan had always been to finish Novel II before starting work on Baby II, but I was getting older, my son was getting older, and the book wasn't even started yet. So I asked for unpaid leave and took seven months off work to finish the book. Not long after this I sent a very early draft to my agent, but she didn't like it. So I rewrote it. And ploughed ahead. In October '06, I finished Novel II. Supposedly. But it was only really a second draft, still needed work, and it wasn't until Feb '07 that it was finished. And then I sent it to four agents. And started work on Baby II. And waited. And then I had a miscarriage. And three of the agents said no. In a very nice friendly detailed very-nearly-yes kind of a way, but it was still No.

So I rewrote the first few chapters, edited the rest, sent it out again - to a bigger batch of agents this time. The current situation is that six agents have asked to read the full manuscript (this is a pretty big deal - it means they've read and enjoyed the first 3 chaps and asked to see more on that basis), four agents were interested by the synopsis and asked to read the first 3 chaps on that basis, and some others have still not got back to me after I sent unsolicited submissions.

Literary agents, for those who don't know, are hard to come by. They do a similar job to estate agents, with books instead of houses. And it's even harder to sell a book (for decent money, with respected publisher and good contract) without an agent than it is to sell a house. And the big difference is that, whereas an estate agent will tout for your business and take anyone on, literary agents are very choosy indeed. To give you an idea: Most literary agents get sent thousands of manuscripts per year, and only take on one or two new clients in that time.

But they are also busy people and always have massive piles of manuscripts waiting to be read, and the ones from existing clients get priority, and it takes them typically two to four months to read and respond to a full manuscript.

So now I just have to sit back and wait for a response. And I'm dealing with this by focusing on other stuff and trying to just forget about it.

Technically I'm in a very strong position. It's rare to get such a positive response from so many agents. And it is a great book. But I've been in similar positions before, and it's ended in disappointment. And there are millions of writers out there, and many of them have written great books, not all of which will get published. And the book has somehow got caught up with the miscarriage in my head - mainly because I received two rejections within a week of the miscarriage - and I daren't feel optimistic about it. Despite having had such encouraging feedback, at the back of my mind is an assumption that this book will never get published. That I'll have to write another one instead. That in two or three months the answers "No" will drip steadily through my inbox, and I'll have to decide whether to keep trying or to give up.

So there you go, and so it drags on.

[shrug]


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Rubbish Spouting Inc/k

Hmm.


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The Book Shop

I think this is what it feels like to be a writer.

I was walking down the road, and I noticed a book shop. Not just any old shop: This is the one whose proprietor emailed me, and asked me to take in copies of my book.

He's sold one, apparently. He recognised me instantly. I was impressed: My hair is completely different. But he didn't notice the hair until after he'd already recognised me. It was my eyes, he said.

The woman who bought my book walked straight to it, he said. As though she knew exactly what she wanted. Was it one of you lot? Did you buy The Dying of Delight from Portland Books, on Oxford St (Manchester, not London)?

I told the book shop man where I was going: to Highfield Country Park, to search for foundations.

He smiled. He said I looked happy (even though I'd been sobbing in a cinema only half an hour previously). He was nice. I felt like a writer.


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Write and Write and Write

And oh, I want to write and write and write. Can I do that now? Can I? Really?

And it won't matter whether it makes me happy or not, because there are two types of happiness: The one whose opposite lives in tears, and the one which lies beneath the tears, which is fed by the tears. The one with the outstretched hand and the grease-smoothed brow. I think I like that one best.


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Fantasy Thinking

I sent the book out last week, to some new literary agents. And I got a really good response. Many asked to see more, and within days I had an email from someone who said she was reading and enjoying it and would get in touch this week... this is A Big Thing.

I guess I assume everyone knows about literary agents and what they mean, but there's no reason you should. It's often said that it's harder to get a literary agent than it is to get a publisher. They only take people on if they LOVE your work and are very optimistic about the chances of their selling it to a publisher, for enough money to make their 15% cut worthwhile. And they get hundreds of submissions each week, and the last thing they want to do is encourage people. So, the fact that I'm getting such positive responses is, indeed, A Big Thing.

But.

I've had a bit of a year. The last time I sent the book out, it got rejected. They were nice rejections, friendly rejections, encouraging rejections, but rejections nevertheless. And the first one came the day after I found out I was miscarrying. And that has had subtle repercussions that I'm still discovering. One of which is... self confidence. I don't like or believe in myself as much as I did. Not a logically valid conclusion, but true nonetheless. And then there's the optimism.

I used to fantasise about good things happening. My name in glittering lights. My book, in bestseller lists. And when I got two emails, last Friday, saying two agents with great reputations were reading and enjoying my book... I thought, that's nice. But they'll change their minds before they get to the end.

That night, I tried to do what I used to do. I tried to construct a fantasy. What if... I stumbled at the very beginning. What if... they liked it? What if just one of them emailed me to say "Yes, I like it, I want to represent you"?

Nah. Wouldn't happen. Stupid fantasy. Think about something else.

Because optimistic plans don't come to fruition, not any more. You can't count on things, there's no point setting yourself up for a fall.

No. Come on. You can do it. What if... what if she likes it, she wants to be my agent, and I say, "Well, that's brilliant... but I'll just check what these other guys think; give myself maximum choice..." and then I email all the other agents saying "Ooh! Look! So-and-so wants to be my agent! What about you?" and then, oh, I dunno, maybe ten of them email me back and say...

No! Stop it, you ludicrous person! None of this stuff is going to happen! You are an idiot! Desist!

Bit I drank another can of beer, and I kept going. Right up to the point where I was auditioning literary agents within a week, and a weeek after that The Best Agent In The World had secured me the most amazing contract with The Best Publisher In The World and I lived happily ever after.

And it felt good, and some of the optimism came back. Some. Just a little.

Other nice stuff has happened, too. The woman who interviewed me for Albion Magazine has submitted her review of my other book to a magazine dedicated to "overlooked gems" published by small and indie publishers. And my blog has been chosen as a candidate for Blogsday 2007. Oh hang on a minute, apparently that happened last night. Anyone know if I was on it? I don't have speakers on this PC. I'll go listen in a bit. What else? There was something else, I'm sure...

Oh yes. Tomorrow, Manchester University Union (Oxford Rd), 5.30pm to 7pm, me and Jenny Roberts will be doing readings from our books. It's open to the public, I think. Come along. I'm doing the First Ever Reading from my new book. Which might be as public as it ever gets.

I went to Caroline's book launch last night. It was great.

The optimism's seeping back. There is Big Stuff going on in my life at the mo. I'm sworn to secrecy for now, but I'm working from home at the mo, and this morning I played great music Really Really Loud, closed my eyes and swayed to it. And it felt good. Things can feel good. And scary. But good.

Maybe things will be all right after all.


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In Search of Adam book launch, Thurs June 14th

The exceptionally lovely Caroline Smailes has written a book called In Search of Adam, which is being published this week (I think), and there'll be a launch this Thurs (14th June), in Manchester from 7pm-9pm in Waterstones on Deansgate (city centre). Then afterwards, on to Mojo (a bar, I think).

I will be there, and I reckon it'll be a great event so anyone else in the NW would be recommended to attend to!

I haven't read In Search of Adam yet, but I've been wanting to ever since I read an extract on Caroline's blog, and since reading this review I want to even more. I'll definitely be getting myself a signed copy on Thurs.

I have smallish news about my book, too, but will write a proper blog post about that later.


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Updated Website

I've been updating the site - something I've been meaning to do for ages.

The main result is that the links work. It used to be that if you tried to explore the site you'd keep ending up back here no matter what you clicked. Oh, and this page here (and this one, this one, this one, this one and this one) no longer looks weird. And I've put links to most of my labels over there in the side bar (<---). And I've updated the Interviews section, to link to my recent radio interviews and tell you about an upcoming interview in Albion Magazine.

Oh yes. And Events. I'm doing a reading as part of Manchester Student Pride, next Sat (16th June), 5.30pm - 7pm. And I'm doing something as part of "Loved up in Libraries" in Oct or Nov. Details here.

I'll be reading from the new book at both of this events - it'll be its first public airing, which is exciting.

"Liverpool Libraries are going all rainbow coloured and want to put on a gay and lesbian literature festival as a new strand to their ever expanding homotopia festival.

The festival is to be launched by Armistead Maupin in June but will take place in the two weeks after York Lesbian Arts Festival (i.e. 29th Oct - 11th Nov '07). Should be something yummy to be involved with in its early stages as its something the council and libraries want to grow for next years Capital of Culture.

There will be one big launch event at Liverpool Central Library with workshops, speakers and food etc …also part of the format of the festival is to go out to the suburbs and run “Get loved up” in the libraries - sessions with much glitter, love tea and loving up going on in some frankly deprived and sometimes depressing areas…and to do some readings with authors to spread cheer and share stories with local residents."

Boring Update With Details and Stuff

I've been posting a lot of guff lately, little twiddly posts between great long Important Ones, and the page turnover is very fast, and some of you are new here, and some of you don't visit very often (don't feel guilty, I do that too). So here is a rundown of Where I'm At:

I was pregnant, and then I wasn't. Every time we visit the hospital, they give us three options: (1) Let well alone, and That Nature Thing will sort it all out. Maybe. Probably. (2) Take drugs to force my body into a sort-of-almost laboury-type thing. (3) Have a D&C, which is where they scrape out the inside of your womb under general anaesthetic.

At first we chose option 2 (take drugs), but then Nature stuck her oar in before we had a chance, so we decided to go for option 1 (leave it be). But then Nature got bored and fell asleep, so we went for option 2 again (on Friday 13th, which I thought was pretty hilarious), but it didn't work. Currently I'm having period pains / cramps / contractions / labour pains (I'm very confused about all these terms, and could write a whole bloody post about it, and probably will, but I think they're all basically the same thing) most of the time, and barely notice them any more (they're quite mild), but it means I'm not really my normal self. Oh, and my hormones are all over the place. And I'm sleeping a lot. And I'm getting strange pains in my left hip. But apart from that, I'm fine.

There's still a load of gunk in my womb though, and we're going in for yet another scan on Friday, so unless I start bleeding between now and then, I think we'll finally opt for option 3 (womb scrape under general anaesthetic). I'll be glad when it's over.

In other areas of my life, or rather the other area of my life, I wrote another book, I sent it to four agents, three of them said No, one of them hasn't got back to me yet.

A literary agent is like an estate agent. They take responsibility for finding a buyer for your book, and if they find one they get a cut of the proceeds. Selling books is a complex business, and a LOT easier if you have an agent on your side. They're much nicer than the house-selling kind. I'll probably have to send the synopsis out to a whole load of new agents, and hope one bites. And then I'll have to find a publisher. It's all a bit of a pain.

To be honest, I was rather hoping I'd be well on my way to a second baby and a second book deal by now, but hey ho. Life is never simple.

And now I'm all sleepy again, so I may go back to bed.

Sorry for raking over old ground like this - I just realised it was hard for the casual reader to work out what the hell was going on in my life.


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Silver Linings

You want to know what the best thing about all this is?

It's material. I'm scribbling constantly in notebooks. It's a fiction goldmine.

And the alcohol, I don't normally do this: Keep drinking with the aim of passing out.

Yes, I'm drunk.

And I hate myself.


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Magic Our Kenton

A top US mentalist has agreed to proofread and hopefully endorse my book.

We've swapped several emails now, and he's a thoroughly nice chap. He's really keen to like the book, so hopefully he will. He also has a great name. Kenton Knepper.

No no, he's not a mental person, he's a mentalist. It's different. Totally different. My book is about a mentalist. Mentalists are coooool.


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Eek

I cracked. I emailed two of the agents.

This, according to people such as Miss Snark, is precisely the sort of thing you're not supposed to do. Agents don't like to be nagged. It pisses them off.

Except that both of these two emailed me straight back, apologised profusely and promised to read the book straightaway.

Eek.


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And while we're about it

I also found this, which does quite a job of explaining why being a writer isn't as great as you might think...


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Sucking Up (with a healthy side-order of paranoia)

I bet none of them are reading this, anyway.

I'm pretty sure they're not.

But they might be.

And if they are...

What if they think I'm all annoying and whiny and needy? What if they think I'm the kind of client who'd be on their case every five minutes, wanting to get status reports? What if they think I don't understand what a mountain of manuscripts they have sitting on their desks, and how hard it is to get through them all, and how it could easily take up to three months or longer? What if they think I sent it off to them at first-draft stage, without having edited properly or thought about what I was doing or giving my submission the care and attention I should have given it?

Spot who's been reading too much Miss Snark and taking it all excessively to heart.

I'm not though. I'm not any of those things. I'm a very easy person to work with. Honest. I am. And I'm only publishing all my internal fears and impatience because, well, that's what blogs are for. But that's as far as it goes. Just between me and 250-300 readers a day.

Um. OK. Better shut up now.


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Still Waiting

I was just over at Marie's blog, and God but doesn't her tale warm the cockles of your heart? There she is one minute, struggling author, trying to convince her agent her book is worth selling, while all her blog readers are holding our breath and willing it to be a good book and for all her dreams to come true...

But they don't really, do they? Dreams don't come true. Don't be silly. Of course they don't. Unless...

Crikey, they really do! And here she is, proper decent book deal with brilliant publishing house under her belt, people all over the publishing industry enthusing about what a great book it is, being invited to Amsterdam with Will Self and Brussels with a seven-foot bed, and...

No, I'm not. Not enormously jealous. Not salivating at the dangled carrot which will probably never be mine, not MASSIVELY FRUSTRATED at having reached this crucial point in my writing career and all I can do is sit here, and fret, and obsess, and read literary agents' blogs and convince myself that every little thing about the submissions I sent to four agents was wrong wrong wrong, and I should have spent more time on the synopsis, and I should have done another edit on the book, and I should have sent it to more agents, and I shouldn't be checking my email every five minutes to see if one of them is saying, "Yay! I love it! I'm going to sell it to someone wonderful!"

I'm not a patient person. I desperately want to phone them up, bombard them with emails, ring their doorbells, sit on their window sills with my feet in their flowerpots pleading with them to read it right now and tell me immediately what they think, tie them to their chairs and read the whole bloody thing out loud to them and force them to listen...

But I can't. I can't do any of that stuff. I just have to sit here patiently, arms folded meekly in my lap, smiling sweetly and ready to say when they ring (please please, let them ring), "Oh, that old thing? I'd forgotten all about it."

It's out of my hands now. That's the worst of it. I can't influence anything. My whole future as a writer is sitting there in front of me, a sealed tin box, padlocked, and I don't own the key.

IT'S REALLY FUCKING FRUSTRATING.

I'll just have to write another book, to keep me distracted. It's all I can do. Write another book.

Any suggestions?


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Where I'm At

As you'll have gathered from the other posts, I'm still waiting to hear about my book. I've sent it to some agents I've had some personal contact with and who have some vague idea who I am, which gives me a slightly better chance than just sending it randomly into the void.

But it's an inexact science, and agents don't generally take work on unless they love it. So you just have to cross your fingers and hope for the best. But if these guys don't love it, it doesn't mean someone else won't. In that case, I'd just have to start again from scratch and send it to a whole load of new people. After doing yet another edit on it.

Editing's a problem. I enjoy editing, and I'm good at it. Because I'm a perfectionist. Because I seek out and act on (appropriate) criticism. Because I'm an inveterate tinkerer and am always trying to make things better. But I'm also impatient, which means that sometimes I get sick of the whole thing and send things out before they're ready. And I have a tendency to rewrite, therefore introducing a load of new errors, and then not editing thoroughly enough to get rid of them (because I can't wait). But on the other hand... you have to stop somewhere. If you keep editing and editing, you can bash the life out of something. That's the thing. Did you send it out too early? Or too late?

So, yes. Sorry. Got sidetracked again. I'm waiting to hear about the book.

In the meantime, I'm pregnant, and that's making me a little ill. I do have another blog where I talk a little more about baby-related stuff, but I've been avoiding too much blogging lately because text makes me nauseous. Writing computer software makes me even worse, which is why I'm off half-sick at the moment. I can manage things in short bursts, so I'm working when I can, but it's a lot less than normal.

Indeed, I've done way too much blogging this morning and am now feeling rather queasy. Which means I need to step away from the keyboard. But it's a bit like not going to the loo when you're playing a computer game. You get all engrossed, and it's not until you step away from the keyboard that you realise your bladder's about to explode. I won't stretch the analogy any further - use your imaginations.

I'm eight weeks pregnant and my bump sticks out further than my tits already - which is saying something, as I am positively boobalicious at the moment. Sad they're so bloody sore and none of my bras fit, but I'm happy. And now I need to, rather gingerly, step away from the keyboard and do something else instead.


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Jonathan Cape

In 1964, a book called The Riddle of the Allabones, by Barbara Tutton, was published by Jonathan Cape. It was a children's book about a family called the Allabones. After their father's death, the children find themselves having to help their mother through poverty, despite their father supposedly having provided for them. But when a sinister figure comes sniffing around their Derbyshire cottage and stealing one of the few things their father left behind, they get suspicious. The next thing they know, the oldest son has been kidnapped in a stolen police car...

It's a great book. I hold a first edition in my hand. Barbara Tutton is now 92 years old, and no longer lives in Derbyshire. She's my grandmother.

It's her copy of the book, and tucked inside the front cover is a telegram from the publisher:



I'm still puzzling over the signature, which seems to say "Louise Our Cape". Can anyone decipher it (click on the picture to get a closer look)?

Anyway, Jonathan Cape are also publishing Marie Phillips and have published some other friends of mine, and alongside Canongate are at the top of the list of People I'd Like To Be Published By. And apparently Dan Franklin responds to direct submissions from writers, so if I don't get myself an agent I'll go straight to the horse's mouth. No, that's not quite right. The horse's pen. The horse's eyes. Ears. Legs? Oh, whatever.

Not that nepotism counts for anything (apart from anything else, 1964 is a long time ago and I doubt anyone there will remember my grandmother), but I do like the idea of continuity. My mother's publishers - Andre Deutsch - sadly don't exist any more.

Not that I'm fetishistic about it. If there are any other publishers out there [waves at other publishers] who want to publish my latest book, then hey. Be my guest. You're all great.


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Imagination

Last night I decided my fantasies were getting a little boring.

I think them to myself several times a day, but they're a bit repetitive. My most favourite one goes like this:

[phone rings]

Clare: "Hello?"

Mysterious but somehow alluring voice: "Hello, is that Clare? I'm a Fantastic Literary Agent. I've just read your book. It's amazing! You're a genius! Please let me be your agent. Please? Pretty please?"

Clare: "Oh, all right then."

So anyway. They're very nice imaginings, but not exactly creative. So I'm going to start spicing them up a bit. Here's the first appropriately-enervated one, which I came up with last night:

A copy of my manuscript, the one I sent to an Important Man at Vertigo Films (he asked to see it) (it would make a great film) (oh, didn't I tell you about that? Well he did, and I did) (oh, and he asked me to tell you all about their latest brill film) (I'll do that in a mo) falls into the hands of a postie. Because it's a parcel. And postmen have a habit of handling such things.

But this isn't any ordinary postal worker. This is a man called Jeremy, and I know that makes him sound posh, but he isn't actually posh at all. It's just that his mum has a crush on Jeremy Paxman. Even though she hates current affairs. But she says he has nice eyes. Anyway.

Jeremy is a bit rubbish at his job. You see, his problem is that he's paranoid about terrorists and bombs and the like, and every time anybody gives him A Package to deliver, he gets all worried and jittery, and gets this overwhelming urge to open it and make sure it isn't a bomb, even though he knows full well this would be A Stupid Thing To Do. So mostly he manages to resist. But sometimes he gets to thinking, and he can't stop thinking, what if, what if, and he knows he's a bit neurotic and he thinks it probably isn't a bomb, and if he could just open it and make sure, then everything would be all right and he could go about his daily business with confidence.

So there he is, supposedly delivering my book to a London office... well, it's obvious what comes next. He opens it. Just to set his mind at rest. He finds it to be suspiciously well parcelled, with Duct tape and two envelopes and a plastic bag and lots of stickers. He rips through the lot, and finds...

...this.

Oh no! Not a bomb. Not at all.

He has a quick scan at the synopsis, and rather likes the look of it. What he really wants to do at this point is read the whole blimmin' thing, right there and then. But he worries that if he does, it might be so good (and the first page would certainly indicate that it might be) that he wouldn't be able to resist telling people about it, and maybe if he was questioned by the police they would be able to catch him out with trick questions that reveal him to know more than he should...

No. Too risky.

But it's probably a very good book.

By now, he's burnt all the torn packaging. Covering his steps, you see. But he can't remember who it was addressed to. But it was probably a publisher. Stands to reason, doesn't it? So he should send it to a publisher. But he doesn't know any publishers. But he does know where the British Museum is, and it stands to reason that clever types like publishers are bound to hang out in museums, so maybe if he just sticks it in a prominent place outside the museum... publishers are probably always looking for manuscripts. It's bound to catch their eye.

So he puts it in a bin outside the British Museum. And as soon as he walks away, the top few pages get caught up in a gust of wind...

Now, it just so happens that at this point A Publisher is walking down the road. Outside the British Museum. Near the bin.

The question is, which publisher?

Well, it would have to be either Dan Franklin from Jonathan Cape or Jamie Byng from Canongate. But I daren't choose one of them, because what if the other one happened across this blog and got all nose-out-of-joint because I chose the other one, and they decided Never To Publish My Book as a result?

OK, so Dan Franklin and Jamie Byng are both walking down the street as the synopsis flutters past on the breeze. They both see the words "Xxxx Xxxxxx - synopsis", are both intrigued, both spot the paper trail leading back to the bin, and have a massive barney in the middle of the street, fighting over who gets the manuscript.

(no, I haven't written a book called "Xxxx Xxxxxx". I did publish the title here a couple of weeks ago, but then thought better of it. What if someone steals it?)

Of course, in the fracas all the paper blows away and all they are left with is a title page each - one from the front, and one from the back.

Luckily my phone number is on the title page.

They both ring me up and beg me to let them see it, and when I finally send it to one of them they like it so much they sign a contract promising to publish every single book I ever write and pay me a living wage in the process.

And I get a fantastic launch party.

And Tom Paulin says I'm ace.

And no, I'm not telling you which one I choose. After all, they might be reading this.

[waves at Dan and Jamie]


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Good News

Isn't it funny how things work?

I don't know how often this happens to people, but it's never happened to me.

I just got an email from a literary agent, who stumbled across this blog and wants to see a copy of my book on the strength of it.

So not quite the news I was waiting for, but still...

Yay!


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Argh

I just received the latest Bookseller bulletin (I subscribed to the website on a free offer a few months ago, and as is often the way with these things, when I refused to pay up at the end of the introductory period, they left my subscription intact nonetheless).

It doesn't contain anything in particular apart from loads of BOOKS being PUBLISHED and WHEN IS IT MY TURN?

I know, I know, it's been less than a fortnight since I submitted. But I am not a patient woman. I feel like a kid with her nose pressed up against the sweet shop window and all her pocket money already spent for the month.

Pah.


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A Note For Agents and Publishers

I've always been rubbish at keeping secrets about myself. Other people, no problem. I understand they like their privacy, and how distressing it can be when people betray your confidence. But me... I'm not that arsed about privacy. Never have been. And it gets me into trouble.

I'm always telling the world whatever the hell pops into my head, and then agonising over whether maybe I shouldn't have...

There's a convention that you don't tell people about pregnancies until you reach 12 weeks. Because of miscarriages, which are more common than you think. But if you don't tell anyone, then if anything does go wrong, it's harder to get sympathy and support. Because nobody knew in the first place.

So I'm not worried about that.

No. The thing is...

What if agents and publishers visit this site? What if they say to each other, "Oh my God, she's got some terrible illness that's going to put her out of action for the next nine months, and then there'll be a baby, and what about edits and rewrites and publicity and... nah, don't bother."

So this is me saying, Come back, agents and publishers! It's all right!

First of all, I'm not going to get ill. I'm determined. I've done everything I can to avoid it. I am not going to get ill. But because I'm a planner and a control freak and always contemplate every eventuality... I can also tell you that if I do get ill, it will come in fits and spurts and there will be plenty of time around the edges of it all when I will be fine. And the illness would all be over long before the book was published. And I'm good at meeting deadlines, small babies or not. And and and...

Oh, just publish my book. Go on. It's a great book.

Thank you.


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Bloggers With Book Deals

I'm a bit late in blogging this, cos the intervening period got all taken over by my new book and the like. But a week and a half ago, I went to a lovely sort-of-blogmeet in London, where I met a whole bunch of really interesting and talented fellow writers. And bloggers. Writer/bloggers, if you like.

It's a strangely solitary pursuit, being a writer. Not just because you spend hours on your own in front of a computer, but also because it never seems to occur to agents, publishers and the like to introduce their authors to each other. So meeting up with a large group of people who also happen to write books was a particularly pleasant experience - especially with them being such a nice bunch.

It all started before Christmas, when I started to realise just how many bloggers out there were getting book deals. And how hard it is to blog about various aspects of the publishing process, but how useful it is to have people with similar experiences whose ears you can bend.

So I set up BloggersWithBookDeals, which is a Yahoo! group for, er, bloggers with book deals. And in case you had already heard about us and were worried that we were all getting together behind your back and plotting your downfall... well yes, of course we are. That's what private forums are for. We also have secret initiation rites involving home-knitted balaclavas and bowls of fruit.

Yes, it is closed-membership. Sorry, but how else am I going to get everyone to tell me their deepest darkest secrets, and then gather them all together for a book about books about blogs? Richard & Judy, here I come...

Ahem. Anyway. If you know of any published / soon-to-be-published bloggers, send them in my direction. Fiction or non-fiction, we're not fussy. I've set up a few of these things, and they work like a kind of trade organisation. When we're not bobbing for apples in our hand-made woollen head gear, we have many tedious conversations about stuff that nobody except us would be remotely interested in. It's useful to have a place to go and natter about all that stuff without having to worry about boring you all to tears.


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More Yay

Yay, the very first person has read and given feedback on my new book.

And OK, so she's not an agent... but she's still ace. And she also brought the initials of the book to my attention, which has amused me greatly, particularly considering the subject matter (lies and bent truth).

Anyway, "she" is Zinnia and she said stuff like this:

"Enjoyed it a LOT"
"Great sex scene"
"A terrific read"
"I have had my head stuck in it all evening and refused to talk"
"I loved it"
"The bit with *****, I was on the edge of my seat all the way through that"
"I adored the ending, absolutely my very favourite kind of ending"

Oh yes, and I got another nice acknowledgement from another one of the agents. Go me.


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Flump

Well, after the mania of absolutely definitely really actually finally no-really finishing my book, the steam's gone out of me a bit. In a good way. And as luck would have it, it also happens to be half term, and Felix has gone to York, so I get to do nothing apart from go to work, come home, put my feet up, watch Deal or No Deal and Richard & Judy, and generally flump.

Apart, of course, from the fact that on Friday night I sent my book to four agents, and I have to check my email every five minutes - just, you know, in case. I mean, personally I expected them to be So Terribly Excited about the chance to read it that they would have been waiting in hushed silence by their computers in the early hours of Saturday morning, printers at the ready.

But apparently not.

Still, this morning my obsessive email-checking was rewarded by one of them getting in touch to say thankyou for the book, and that it looks interesting and she'll read it asap - aha! Somebody who understands the wonderfulness of what she holds. Or the potential wonderfulness. Or who thought she'd better be nice, just in case...

(If any of you lovely lovely agents are reading this right now, I'm not normally this bigheaded. I normally hate myself. But, you know, it really is a good book, and what could you possibly have to do with your lives that would be more interesting or important than reading my book right now and then emailing to tell me how wonderful it is? Huh?)

(Not that I'd want you to think I'm being demanding or anything. I mean, nobody reads this blog anyway, right? And I don't really mean it. In fact it's fine by me if you read it a page a night for the next 424 nights, as long as you end up loving it and selling it to A Really Nice Publisher who likes it so much they give me a salary and a contract to publish every book I ever write from now until the moment I die, aged 133)

(But it'd be even better if you were even as I type writing me an email to tell me how ACE my book is)

(Because it is)

So, anyway. I concluded from today's email that intensive inbox checking obviously WORKS, and therefore I should do it even more often.

Some people have been trying to tell me that it might be weeks (yes, that's weeks) (WEEKS!!) until I hear anything. Which is fine, as long as you don't all mind if I EXPIRE from impatience.

Apart from that, I'm really very chilled out. And now I'm going to go and put my feet up and watch more telly and eat more snacks and get even fatter than I am in this photo, wot a friend took of me at the weekend.

And no, I'm not the one with a carrot for a nose.

And it's not me that's fat anyway, it's the coat.




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