In 2021 I started to write a book. At this point I’d already written a memoir of sorts, which documented my mother’s battle with pancreatic cancer in 2013 (I shelved this long ago as it’s far too personal and painful to ‘do’ anything with). I’d also been chipping away at a novel since finishing my Creative Writing BA. I’d amassed 90000 words over several years of working only interstitially, between the demands of work and parenthood. I was sitting on two large and not-quite-finished works when I started to type out some thoughts into my notes app. It’s typical of me to undertake another huge project whilst other projects run concurrent. Throughout all of this I released five albums of music and published articles in magazines and websites. I really didn’t need to commit to anything else but something in me spurs on this kind of action and I sit atop the bucking bronco, holding on with white knuckles, my trusty lasso and Wrangler bootcut denims. Yee-haw!
Maybe it was the cultural temperature that helped swing my judgment. I’d been furloughed for six months and we were all neck-deep in another lockdown. Everything was chaos. Writing is often my response to uncertainty. It helps me to sculpt something out of the miasma. The page provides a boundary or a container for the mess. And there was a lot to say at the time, given all that was happening. I remember my fervour finding its expression when I caught Joe Rogan gobbing off about something to do with activism. This was the seed. I started to note things down, particularly my dismay at the smugness of this hugely successful man who felt completely at ease in offering his unsolicited opinions about absolutely everything. I also knew that his podcast was bigger than heyday Last of the Summer Wine and that a certain demographic supplicated at the alter of Joe. His influence really irked me, you might say. Really vexed me. And so I continued to write to Joe in my phone’s notes app without any intention of sending my ire to him directly, until suddenly I had forgotten about him. Without really intending to, I found myself down a 20000 word rabbit hole that took in Covid, trauma, Black Lives Matter and George Floyd. I realised that I had something. What began as an angry retort to a millionaire gammon with a microphone became something bigger. What began as perhaps an exercise in procrastinating on my novel became an idea for a book. The idea of trying to sell my speculative fiction had always daunted me. With this topical non-fiction I felt a lot more confident. So for the first time in my life, having already written two books, I decided to actively shop my idea around.
I followed different podcasts for advice on writing a proposal, including the excellent, The Story Grid. I started to get my shit together. I spent a long time researching the market, competing titles and the like before collating all of this into a document to get in front of either literary agents or publishing houses directly. I researched agents and followed those who might be simpatico with my style/intention on social media. I discovered publishing houses open for submissions and away I went, logging each one I approached on a spreadsheet. The chaos now had a spreadsheet to deal with. I was on my shit.
The rejections came in. I noticed how accepting I was of them. Fifteen years ago when I sent out poems and short stories to different magazines (print and/or digital) and received a rejection I became apoplectic! I could not believe I would be rejected. I was an acutely insecure person then but I wholeheartedly believed in my talent. I think I placed far too many eggs in the talent basket though, so that when I got knocked back I felt like my only line of defence against a harsh world; literally the only thing of value I had to offer was failing. It was very much taken personally. It caused collapse Now, though, I was a father in my late thirties. A father in his late thirties who had worked incredibly hard in personal therapy for nigh on a decade. I felt robust. My worth had been measured by an altogether different metric than it had before. The rejection provided a handy litmus test for my constitution, if you will. I was different and I was ready for as many rejections as you could send my way. Only, within three or four submissions I received a message saying I had made it past the initial application process. I was also informed that 75% of proposals fail to make it this far. OK. Fifteen years ago, when I succeeded in publishing my writing it was like an extreme validation of my personhood. I operated on a manic level; scouring the dark ocean floor for any and all sign of something, anything that I could breathe through; anything I could hold up in lieu of actual esteem. So I got this good news. OK. That’s cool. No clutching. No frantic grabbing. Just, ‘cool’.
Several appointed readers considered my work during the next stage. I did allow myself to feel some excitement, but as is common with me, I assumed the worst. I’d read several titles under this imprint and comparing my own writing to those, I felt I didn’t hold a candle. The first reader rejected my proposal. Something about ‘There’ll be loads of books like this coming out’. OK, that’s not an invalid point. I was writing about the world post-Covid. Their feedback seems common-sensical. I had two more to go. There was still hope. The next rejection came through. Something about ‘This kind of writing will dissuade the revolution because it talks about Instrumental Marxism rather than Structural Marxism’. Oh, wow. This is a far-Left publishing house so I suppose I had to expect something like this. Game over. The third rejection limped in, though it felt like a totally unnecessary additional slap, a bit like the hammer fist brought down upon an already near-catatonic cage fighter, already stricken by a knockout blow. I tussled with the idea that I had willed this into existence. I find manifestation ick, particularly when the healer-dealers online encourage us all to open up and ‘Ask the universe’ for whatever; material wealth, I presume. However, perhaps ironically, I completely accept manifestation in its inverted sense; you ask for shit then you’ll get shit. Intrusive thoughts bombarded me whilst the reader reviews were hanging in the balance. The outcome of the reviews were conditional upon every minor decision in my quotidian life. Doors had to be shut and re-shut, lights switched on and off and so on (and so off), lest my destiny be completely uprooted and shat upon. I tried to think my way out of this. I tried to think over the thoughts, telling myself ‘This is nonsense’. They didn’t abate.
In the end, I took heart from the rejection. At no point did anybody feed back, ‘The premise is shit’ or ‘The writing is shit’. Something that I’d constructed out of misguided rage toward a man who looks like a walnut had been seriously considered by one of the first (and one of my personal favourite) publishing houses that I'd approached. I had something. I had also already put in the work to be in the position to submit my proposal. I just had to keep on.
Keep on I did. More rejections came. I added to the spreadsheet. I was told ‘Perhaps apply to a more mainstream publishing house’. I took this as a good sign and did as I was advised. The publishing house rejected, but advised I perhaps breakdown the chapters into separate essays. I thought about this once I’d updated my spreadsheet. I didn’t agree but I’d spent a good deal of my life avoiding constructive criticism or ignoring it; electing to consign those trying to help to the draw marked ‘What the fuck do they know?’ With that in mind, I grappled with my defences and sought to amend my work. Then I received an email from Olympia Publishing. I casually opened up the Email on my iPhone whilst sitting in my car. I started to read the opening paragraph, steeling myself for the lull that I was sure would come following the opening tenor of geniality. The second paragraph began and it ended. They’d be delighted to offer me a contract. Yadda yadda, attached is such and such a draft of a contract, etc etc. I locked my phone, placed it down next to my gear stick and finished my no duck hoisin wrap. Huh. Well then. I could sense myself dissociating. Then I burst into tears.
When I was roughly 8 years old I was at Poundstretcher with my elderly neighbours who often looked after me whilst my parents worked. I noticed a lot of small books with beautiful artwork. I think I recognised these as Charles Dickens. I think I was aware of ol’ Chuck (by the age of 6 I was watching Robocop almost every day. I seemed to be aware of things). I reported back to my dad what I had seen. He peered over his reading glasses and Evening Chronicle with an intense curiosity. ‘Get in the car’ he uttered, sounding like Harry Callahan. Within minutes I was back home with every single book I’d seen in that shop. My dad was usually frugal when it came to indulging me as a child. When it came to anything related to reading though, he went above and beyond. This was the beginning of my love affair with the written word. I cannot find these books online. I did manage to find a Poe book from this collection in a second hand shop a couple of years back. I intended to follow up on this, until the book was stolen. Yes, somebody stole my book of Poe, truncated for children. What kind of sick world do we live in. Anyway, from this point on, I wanted to be a writer. Particularly from the age of 18 to present day, I actively worked very hard on honing my skill. I studied at university; attended night classes; submitted work to competitions and different publications; wrote every day; bought all the cliched books and consulted them, including Robert McKee’s Story. I wrote for local magazines pro bono, all to help improve my writing and gain experience. So when I was told a publishing house ‘Would be delighted to work with me’, the tears came easily.
But then, old Mark kept gasping for his day in the sun from within the duvet that I’d used to suppress him. The uncanny feeling of foreboding started to stretch out across my days. That certain frisson you get when you’ve lived a certain life and something ‘good’ happens; the palpable shiver of dread. This is going to go wrong…
Part 2 coming soon
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