I took home The Risk of Infidelity Index from the office in an attempt to stir myself out of the black hole that has swallowed me up. Perhaps I should have consulted it earlier to see where I was on the scale.
At work, I tackle the pile of unsolicited manuscripts. Rejection seems to suit my mood, though in this case I’m the one doling it out. I usually scrape up some sympathy for those whose literary efforts I have to decline, but I seem to have entered an empathy free zone. I just type the letters like an automaton.
'No' to the chap who sent a ream of manuscripts all decorated with jolly clip art and full of long verbose sentences that dance in front of my eyes like ants doing the conga after a few cocktails. They make about as much sense too. Reading them reminds me of standing at the bar when out at the theatre with a loud boring actor on coke, and not the stuff that wants to teach the world to sing.
Then 'no' to the history of the Local Council Elections whose author does not think it worth sending in a sample chapter, but wants me to rely on the index and a list of contents. Yep, knowing that Poll Tax is discussed on page 12, 98 and 156-187, really does give you a clear idea of the book. I might take it home with me as bedtime reading. It might hit the spot that so far the cocktail of Codeine and Sleepytime Tea aren’t touching.
‘Copyright exists’ should you wish to plagiarise.
'No' too to the person looking for work experience with bad A levels in subjects not usually associated with publishing such as Ceramics and Music Technology, and a love of historical fiction if, for no other reason because she’s is currently writing her own bodice ripper set in the Middle Ages. I know from personal experience, publishing books, enjoying reading them, and writing the buggers are not related.
Two weeks on my slush pile and she will never want to read another word.
'No', again, for the third time to the gay coming of age tale about a young boy seduced by his surrogate father.
And finally 'no' to the autobiography of a special needs teacher which is written on notepaper with pencil lines drawn across it.
I thought I was depressed when I started this but now I just want to bang my head on the table and cry.
It’s no surprise that publishers drink a lot.
I do feel bad. I do. I feel sorrow over the misery memoires (hell I could write my own) and pathos over the letters written in broken English with no punctuation. But most of all I just worry about licking the stamped addressed envelopes in case they have put arsenic on them as punishment for the rejection slip.
In other news, well, the world of publishing climbs to Alpine Heights of excitement.
Last night I got a call from an editor at Harpy with a drawling accent like the bottom of a Brooklyn budgie’s cage. For a second I thought it was my husband’s Buffalo girlfriend and I almost told her to go hunt herself into extinction, but managed to contain myself until the editor introduced herself.
Short story long - she had read my manuscript and ‘LOVES it, read it in one gulp’ but she has a ‘problem’ with the ending. She wants some sort of resolution. She felt let down by it. Join the club, my dear, join the club.
Excited I skipped into Mr T's office where he looked surprised, nay shocked even as I relayed my news, and then warned about the fickleness of American Publishers who promise the earth and never so much as cough up a bucket of stones, nevertheless I passed the message on to my agent and together we wait in hope to hear from the editor. So far, the silence has been deafening.
Hope? Way over there on a little speck in the centre of the Pacific. Me? Way over here in a cupboard under the stairs.
