Merry Christmas, Mr Agent

Dear Mr Agent

I’ve wanted to write to you since receiving my Dear John letter and finally I’ve got the time to pick up my pen and tell you how I feel. Some time ago I sent you my book and you wrote back and said you didn’t like it. Well, you said it was a fantastic story worthy of being told, held your attention, blah blah blah, the characters were believable, but you just didn’t love it enough to take it further. So, I’m writing back to tell you I LOVE the book and so do all my friends. In fact, a publisher loves it so much, he’s gonna print it and make me rich. As filthy rich as JK Rowling and Dan Brown combined. He said I’m gonna make millions from this book and he’s gonna turn it into a big Hollywood Blockbuster.

So have yourself a merry Christmas. When you’re chomping on your mince pie, and sipping on the brandy on December 25th, you can think back and wonder how it could have been. You could be rich now. You could be pulling out your wallet, flashing the cash, ordering a Ferrari and holidaying with Richard Branson. You could have bought a nice bottle of Bollinger and some fancy nibbles with your cut of my earnings. I bet you’re sitting there right now, watching the Queen’s speech with your paper crown on your head, thinking: ‘Crikey, if only I’d signed Mrs Writer.’ Well, this is your annus horribilis and you deserve every minute of it. I hope you choke on a brussel sprout.

I should also point out that, if I am invited to the Booker awards this year, I may just ask you to come as my partner, because quite frankly, I really want to see your expression as you sit in your seat while I collect my award. I may even thank you for not signing me, as I’ll get to keep the extra 12 per cent. With that, I’ll buy myself an Aston Martin. You’re not allowed in it.

All that’s left for me to say is Merry Christmas and a happy new year. I’m off to stuff my vegetarian roast and put on my expensive crown, not the ones you buy in supermarkets. I buy the really expensive ones which have gifts such as Mont Blanc pens and Breitling watches inside. And I’m actually pulling one of the crackers as I write this. I’m putting on my watch, and putting the finishing touches to my submission with my Mont Blanc. Are you jealous? I bet you are!

Yours sincerely

A Writer

Why don't they just tell us?

It has been said many times [citation needed] that 90% of the slushpile is awful. And this doesn't mean 'not publishable in the present climate' – it means 'absolutely bloody God-awful; awfuller than Rebecca Black's Friday if it were sung in duet with Justin Bieber and accompanied by Ann Widdecombe doing an interpretive dance.'

I've never seen a slushpile and I have no idea whether this is true. I find it difficult to believe – surely it can't be that bad? And if it is, then wouldn't agents just tell people to give up and stop wasting everybody's time? While first getting rejected, I almost wished someone would just come out and say 'Look, this is rubbish. Stop kidding yourself. You'll be selling potatoes for the rest of your life and you've got to accept the fact that's all you're good for.' I just wanted to know, one way or the other, whether I was deluding myself.

Except agents don't tell us anything of the sort – and now I'm very glad about that. If I were an agent, there's no way I'd be dictating who should stop writing and who might have some very carefully concealed talent that will emerge twenty years later.

This is not just because people might come round and boil me in a vat of green ink, and not just because composing individual letters would be boring and annoying, but because writing ability is not something that remains fixed from the moment we learn how to hold a pen. The writer who sends in a grubby hand-written tale with a narrator that turns out to be goldfish might wise up, work hard for the next several years, read hundreds of brilliant books in their genre, write something that hits the zeitgeist and find out how to submit it properly. (Or they might set up a funny Twitter account and get a book deal in two seconds.)

Writing is a bit like singing, in that people are expected (or expect) to be able to do it naturally, as though ability is doled out at birth and you either have it or you don't. How often have you heard someone state that they 'can't sing', as if that's the way it is and there's nothing they can do about it? And yet it's possible to learn to use your voice just as it's possible to learn an instrument. If you'd always wanted to play the violin, you wouldn't sit there and bemoan the fact that you couldn't. You'd save up for lessons and practise a lot. You'd expect a fair few tortured-cat sound effects at first but they'd all be part of learning and improving.

It's fine – indeed, inevitable – to have a tortured-cat stage of writing too, but this doesn't mean everything we ever do will be rubbish. By communicating with other writers, by reading everything in sight and studying how favourite and not-so-favourite authors do things, and most of all by sitting on our arses and getting hundreds of thousands of words onto the page, even the most unpromising of us can work on our craft.

It stands to reason that a lot of us are going to make a mistake and send something out before it's ready. It would be pretty grim if agents took it upon themselves to tell us to give up, just because we didn't know what we were doing, yet. At the time, I thought it would be a relief to know that my submissions were the pits – but I'm glad no one went so far as to say so.

An editor's visitors - 1890

It's my turn to blog on Strictly today, but a few hours before this post is due to go up, I, as an international woman of mystery, will have just (I hope) arrived home from a top-secret mission to the Middle East. (Well, it's not really top secret, but it sounds cooler and more enigmatic that way.) I am, therefore, scheduling this post in advance. I'm handing it over to one Arthur Lockyer Esq, a Victorian editor who gives a glimpse into the process our writerly forebears had to endure when submitting their work. This is an excerpt from a piece he wrote for The Graphic newspaper in April 1890.

The editor probably suffers more than any other professional man from the visits of people whom he has no desire to see, but who are eager for a personal interview with himself. In this respect, therefore, his ideal of bliss lies in the two polysyllabic words, inaccessibility and invisibility. In the case of an extensive and highly organised concern, it is possible to achieve the first of these two substantives.

Let us give an example. You want to see the editor, or one of the editors, for in such an establishment there are often several of them. But you have learnt from private sources that the name of the particular editor whom you wish to see is Marmaduke Johnson, and so, with your manuscript in your hand or concealed somewhere about your person, you climb a steep narrow staircase until your progress is arrested by a sort of sentry-box, wherein sits an undersized, but preternaturally intelligent, youth. He has a manner as if the name of Johnson was entirely foreign to his ear; nevertheless he is fairly civil, and after inspecting your card, and holding a colloquy with an invisible person through a flexible tube, he hands you over to a commissionaire. The military hero, after conducting you along several passages, suddenly says 'In here, sir,' and ushers you into a small room containing nothing but a desk, two chairs, and a rather ancient map of London.

You inspect the map for about five minutes, when the door again opens, and in comes an elderly gentleman in spectacles, who asks you to be seated, and listens to your statement with patience and courtesy. You say to yourself, 'What a nice fellow Marmaduke Johnson is!' Unfortunately, however, this is not Johnson at all, but only his deputy, for presently the elderly gentleman says: 'Your manuscript shall have Mr. Johnson's best attention.' He then bows, touches a bell, the inexorable commissionaire appears instantly, like an Arabian Nights' genie, and in another two minutes you are politely marched off the premises, without having even seen the great man's coat-skirts. This is a specimen of the Inaccessible Editor, and a very enviable mortal he is, in this respect.

But, as spacious premises and a large and well-trained staff of subordinates are required to render an editor triumphantly inaccessible, some editors, who do not possess these advantages, strive, often with indifferent success, to render themselves invisible. Some accomplish this by notifying to their would-be interviewers that they are to be seen on Fridays between 4 and 6 P.M., and by taking care always to be absent on those afternoons; while others have a couple of doors to their den, and when they hear in the outer office the voice of a well-remembered bore they bolt incontinently through the inner doorway down the staircase, and hide themselves until the bore's patience is exhausted, and he reluctantly departs.

Sorry, no customers

Dear Agony Aunt

'I saw on the Smith and Jones Literary Agency website that they are 'no longer accepting unsolicited submissions.' I realise this sounds really dense - but does this mean that they are not accepting partials? Then I went to another site and they say 'no unsolicited mss'. Crikey, I need an agent. What do I do? Please help me.'

I asked Mr Brain Smart, a literary agent to tell us:

'What 'unsolicited submissions' means is that I don't want people mailing me with chapters if I haven't specifically asked for them. However, writers are free to e-mail the agency with a query. 'No unsolicited mss' on the other hand means I don't want tomes arriving on my desk. We will read and respond to all e-mails and if my lovely assistant Debbie Magee feels your work is of interest, she will pass your e-mail on to me and I will respond promptly.'

When we trudge through agents' websites, all too often the familiar 'shop closed' sign is up - 'no unsolicited submissions'. As a lowly writer I used to grip my head and wonder how they managed to put in their day. My interpretation is (and this is open to debate) 'no unsolicited mss' means sample chapters and synopsis only. 'No unsolicited submissions' means phone or email first, then you're 'solicited' and Bob's your uncle.

I do take the 'no unsolicited submissions' with a pinch of salt though. When I go to Sainsbury's I don't expect signs up saying 'sorry, no customers.' That would be insane - a killer move by a company which relies on the goodwill of people to open their purses.

Agents too rely on us to provide them with income, so we have every right to send a query straight to them, requesting/begging (delete as appropriate) representation. We are their employer. On previous occasions, I've fired off e-mail queries to agents who have stated on their websites 'no unsolicited submissions' and they've responded by asking for sample chapters. My gut instinct is that they don't want the next JK Rowling passing by.

For my second book, I made the rash decision to query a New York based agent who represents an Irish writer whose work is very similar to my own so I popped the letter in the post, after a rough lesson on how to write a US style query. I included my e-mail address and no return postage in any shape or form. Now, being the big agent he was, I assumed his list was full and that I wouldn't hear any more in response to my Dear John letter. However, two weeks later I received a nice rejection, nicely folded up in the agency's envelope, signed by the man himself. How nice, I thought. Considering I didn't pay return postage, he really didn't have to send me the rejection. In the letter which included my name and address, he said his list was basically full and wished me well.

In conclusion, if the shop is closed, then break down the door. Lack of perseverance will get you nowhere. Unlike in the real world, you won't be arrested by the police for breaking and entering. What's the worst the agent will do? Put your book in the bin?

*Subbing* seems to be the hardest word

Forget cardiovascular workouts, forget frenzied, passionate all-night lovemaking sessions… al...though…no… no… c’mon, focus now…and forget the sheer icy panic you get when you think you mightn’t have locked the front door before your 2-hour trip… or turned the gas off (seriously? WHO forgets to turn the Gas off?) Nope - if there’s anything guaranteed to quicken my pulse, send my heart-rate into overdrive and my blood pressure soaring, it’s sending out a submission.
And I’m not alone *gulp* am I?

 Over the years, I've probably lost about fourteen pounds (that’s a stone, right?) just sitting at the keyboard with my finger poised over the left-clicker – THAT’s how trembly my right hand gets. I've never needed one of those mad machines that shakes my cellulite into surrender, like a crazy blender with no lid… oh no, all I have to do is prepare my nice polite enquiry email, make sure I’ve got a new document with three chapters in it, polish my synopsis until I can see my (sweaty) face in it, swallow back whatever meal that threatens to re-appear and hover over ‘send’.

I’ve even been known to do it with my eyes shut; it gets that bad. As if shutting my eyes somehow makes the whole process that much easier, less stressful, more dream-like. Like it maybe didn’t happen because I wasn’t looking? Isn’t that a bit like calories not counting if you eat something when nobody’s watching? Love that idea. Eating alone is my diet of choice. But I digress.
Subbing.
I used to take Subbing to the max. “Extreme Subbing” if you like. Back in the days when paper, ink, envelopes (including self-addressed) and stamps were de rigueur. And Post Offices. My God, Post Offices. I’m still very surprised that the lady behind the counter who worked the 2 o’clock shift didn’t ever ask me if I’d thought about therapy, the number of times I got her to weigh the envelope with contents, then take out the self-addressed envelope and letter and weigh it all again so I’d know how much the return postage would be. Because sometimes I might have used ‘heavier’ ink than the last time. I mean, wouldn’t it stand to reason that the lower an ink cartridge gets, the fainter the print, and the lighter the whole caboodle? And I didn’t want those nice people at the Marsh Literary Agency* thinking I was a total prole for not understanding something as straightforward as the Royal Mail standard postage weights and measures guidelines. Well, did I? Such ineptitude would surely send my manuscript back to the bottom of the slush pile - for only submissions by writers with a basic grasp of Post Office Protocol would be worthy of reading.
At least that was my worry. Well, one of them.

Along with all the others. Did I put the right letter in the right envelope? did I put the right SAE in the right envelope? did I stick stamps on every-bloody-thing? And of course, did the nice Post Office lady really understand what it is I was asking her to do in the first place anyway?
I’m surprised I slept at all.

But at least in those ‘paper-days’ I’d have been able (if I’d been so inclined and that convinced that something in an envelope was awry) to stake out the box into which the envelope had been posted, lie in wait for the post van to collect the contents and then wrestle my envelope from his sack so that I could rip everything open only to discover that nothing WAS actually wrong in the first place and actually I DO need to seek psychiatric assistance of some kind.
After my second book did the (boomerang) rounds and I worked out I was probably spending more in posting my submissions than I was getting paid for in the part-time job which fuelled my habit, I decided to just sub to Agents whose email details appeared in the Writers and Artists Yearbook.  And there're a fair few of them.  But it doesn't make the 'sending' any less traumatic.  In fact there's not even the consolation of being able to lie in wait for the Royal Mail van after you've hit 'send' - and the blind panic I felt once when I realised I'd sent an enquiry to two different Agencies but addressed to the same person, was something I do not wish repeating in a hurry.

And, so having committed this idiotically heart-stopping misdemeanour, would YOU:
a) send another e-mail saying 'oops, sorry about that - I'm a fool who doesn't deserve representation.  I insist you send this message and any attachments directly to your recycle bin', or
b) pretend you didn't notice and hope they don't either, or
c) convince yourself that they'll think you're just a typical creative-type who, although obviously a skilled story-teller, has a head too full of creative ideas to master the banalities of basic emailing.
Yup, me too.  I'm a c) person every time.

*Just one of a number of very lovely Literary Agencies Out There.

PSM and Whine Flu

I’m suffering. From acute PSM. No, that’s not a typo. I do mean PSM not PMS, though PSM does share similar symptoms to those of that other well known nasty acronym. For example, at the moment, my mood swings vary from elation to manic panic. Elation, when I manage to convince myself I’ve written the best novel possible and then immediate manic panic when the word ‘deluded’ comes to mind and I think of what must come next. I’m mildly irritable and want chocolate. I have stomach cramps. My long suffering husband can see my red aura of oversensitivity and knows not to offer an opinion, unless I ask for one.

For those of you who are afflicted by this debilitating condition, don’t despair – it’s actually quite common amongst and almost exclusive to the male and female writing fraternity.

The good news? Pre Submission Mania, along with another condition common in writers, Whine Flu, do have temporary remedial alternatives to finding an agent and a publishing deal. Although to be fair, it is only either or both of these options that have been proven to provide an actual cure... There are encouraging alternatives available which provide immense symptom relief during the manic fear phase of PSM. The trick? To encourage the writer to think of anything else other than actually submitting their manuscript. I personally have self medicated during the height of acute symptoms by:

1. Taking a long evening walk, followed by Sky plus recordings of Judge Judy accompanied by alcohol.


2. Facebook stalking, not scary stalking, just watching what others are up to.


3. Positive mantras e.g. ‘Marion Keyes, Who IS she? Marion Keyes, Who Is she? repeated in the mirror.


4. Chocolate.


5. Lines. You know the punishing school type ones? My favourite is, “I must not whinge, ‘But I want to be PUBLISHED’ to my husband anymore.” This particular one does only provide relief to Whine Flu symptoms and I’ve found it’s a lot quicker to type it out, rather than write it longhand?


6. Ebay (It’s amazing what people sell) Write words and other writerly sites.


7. Buying the envelopes and folders for the submissions, then staring at them with my hands over my ears singing, ‘La, La, La, La…..La, La, La, La’


8. Googling Johnny Depp to see if he’s still married to that French woman.


9. Burying my copy of The Writers and Artists Yearbook in the garden whilst eating maltesers.


10. Washing, ironing, cleaning, recycling. You get the gist.

Of course when the fear filled mania phase passes and the faith returns, as it always does, it means you have to stay away from mirrors. It means you have to dig up your copy of the yearbook, address the envelopes accordingly and enclose your SAE, crossing out the manic reference to Marion Keyes The Second or similar after your name. And that's when Whine Flu threatens. Close your eyes. Ignore the 'But.....' and 'What if' symptomatic comments in your head and give it a little kiss, put it in the post box and send it on its way. You'll be fine. Until next time.

Just Post It

Writing a book is one thing. That only takes a few years of dreaming, scribbling, typing, banging your head on the desk and waking up in the middle of the night with the most original idea ever, only to discover in the morning that your bedside notebook is scrawled with stuff like “elephant – maggots – how many?”

Making it fit for anyone to read is quite another thing – more months of editing, editing again, polishing, re-editing, re-polishing. Maybe even giving the manuscript to a friend for their opinion, only to have them say ten weeks later, “Sorry, I've been, like, really busy. I'll read it soon, promise.”

But then comes the difficult bit. If you want your book published (though there's certainly no law forcing you to want that) you have to pluck up the courage to submit it somewhere. OK, so you could spend the rest of your life shifting commas about because you're scared of rejection – that's no skin off anyone else's nose – but if you want to see it in print, you have to send it out.

So... let's say you've written a book, agonised over the synopsis, constructed an elegant covering letter, formatted your first three chapters to perfection and printed them off, because lots of agents still don't take email submissions. Next comes the most important part of the process:

• Go to your office stationery cupboard when no one is looking and select two good-quality envelopes.
• Print one of them as an S.A.E. or, better still, write it out with a lucky pen.
• To be on the safe side, consult a graphology website and ensure your handwriting makes you look artistic, intelligent, a delight to work with, and not insane.
• Address the other envelope, put your submission into it and seal it up.
• Unseal it to make sure the S.A.E. is definitely there.
• Stick it back down with a piece of sellotape, because the glue now doesn't work.
• Oh, God, what if the agent really hates sellotape? Check their website in case they mention it.
• Affix postage, go to the postbox and nervously walk up and down for a while, worrying whether you have put the synopsis in the right place. You put it after the letter and before the sample chapters. But what if it should have gone at the end?
• Approach the postbox. Discover that it was designed before the advent of A4, so you have to bend your pristine envelope in half.
• Oh God, what if the agent really hates creased envelopes? What if she sees the creases and just slings it straight in the bin?
• Gormlessly stand there for a while with your hand halfway into the postbox.
• Will yourself to let go. Think: Just post it. Drop. The. Envelope. Go on, just drop it. Seriously. Drop it. No, seriously. Arrgh! Just POST IT! Just let go! NOW!
• Wait! The S.A.E. is definitely in there, isn't it?
• Of course it is. You checked.
• But what if, when you checked, you actually took it out and forgot to put it back in?
• FOR GOD'S SAKE, JUST POST IT!
• Someone behind you coughs impatiently, so let go and listen to the envelope flopping into the darkness, beyond your control. Go pale as you have a sudden flashback to proofreading the submission letter.
• Rush back to your computer and open up the file. See that it begins “Der Ms Bloggs.”
• Go very red and start to weep.
• Correct it and send to the next agent. And the next, and the next, while writing another book.

And if you really, really want to be published, keep sending until you get an acceptance or you die. Whichever comes first.