Mr T urged me to send out a copy of Matthieu Ricard’s Happiness: A guide to developing life’s most important skill to someone he had lunch with the other day. As I stuffed it into the envelope it occurred to me that maybe I should take a look at it myself since I could use some pointers.
I got to the first Exercise which counsels one to ‘examine the causes of happiness’ and to remember when you were last happy. Suddenly – wallop - the speeding train straight from Misery Central mows me down then reverses back up the line just to make sure I'm well and truly flattened.
Okay, so that won't work.
Somewhat opposed to Mr Ricard’s views of cultivating inner harmony, my agent tells me to wallow in the grief, to grab it with both hands and write my way out of it. ‘We need a second book, darling, get going on it.’
The idea appeals. I could be a tortured muse, banging away on the battered Olivetti of life, churning out a masterpiece. I could be Elizabeth Barrett without the Browning and write Hallmark Greeting Card rhymes for Rejected Wives and the Recently Bereaved. But instead I just whine to my friends looking like a Basset Hound with a hangover. I want to sink into the armchair of gloom or take to my bed with one of those Victorian illnesses that requires invalid food and a couple of housemaids to serve it, fresh linen, smoothed brows, drawn curtains, and maybe even a little fire burning in the grate to keep off the chill. I want to take my meals on a tray and waste away. I want to swoon and brush my forehead with the back of my hand like a pre-Raphaelite heroine, and generally look tragic.
Sadly, or should I say even more sadly, there’s little chance of that. The only thing that looks a bit tragic about me are my decades old jeans that since I began to live on cup-a-soup, I can miraculously fit into, though they are flares and come up to my navel so I look like Simon Cowell doing ladies’ leisure wear. All I need to do is get a chest rug and have my teeth bleached. The hair’s a bit tragic too. I used to have a side parting but I haven’t looked in a mirror for a week and so I fear the coiffeur has suffered somewhat and now looks like I’ve been raising fledglings in it, or keeping mice, a la Russell Brant. What with the too tight trousers and the big hair, if I could squeeze into PVC shirt (another 7 pounds to go) and I could almost do stand up impressions of him. Well, except for the accent.
My publisher at Waddling Duck wants a picture for their publicity department. Who of? The old me or the new me? A month ago I was blonde. A week ago I was a stone heavier. Yesterday I came in wearing my dress inside out. I told her to wait another week – who knows, by then I could be Sienna Millar in the big pants.
Exercise two is ‘developing attention’. Well, I suppose I could start by checking that I’ve got my shirt on the right way round.
Does that count?
Friday, 30 May 2008
Thursday, 29 May 2008
Gormley-less
Okay, don’t get too excited, Steven Spielberg isn’t calling me on speed-dial begging for the film option, in fact, strictly speaking the American publisher has not offered to buy the book, but rather the idea of the book, on the basis that I will set it in America. And, em, elaborate on the ending.
In other words. Rewrite it (for the third time).
‘But what if you win the Booker?’ says Val in the A Team Office. ‘If people try to read your back list they will find that you have two different versions of the same book.’
This, of course, is true. But then if I win the Booker, then it will have to have a brand new category, just for me and hell will probably have frozen over and so we'll have bigger problems. I don’t think I’m going to lose very much sleep over the fact that there’s a New England Agnes and a Scottish Agnes living parallel lives on either side of the Atlantic. I think it’s pretty safe to say that winning the Booker is about as likely as me going home and finding a bottle of champagne cooling in the fridge for what should have been my wedding anniversary.
So I’ll do the rewrite, and try and perform a one woman show of enthusiasm, tell myself well done, and try not to dwell on the things that are not happening in my life.
In any case it’s all too premature to book the marching band but as part of the pre-jubilation cheer-me-up scheme undertaken by one of my long suffering friends, I was transported last night to the ballet at Sadler’s Wells.
Mmm
A Moroccan-Belgian choreographer with a group of Shaolin Buddhists and a lot of coffin-sized crates – sort of Jenga with Monks doing marshal arts.
The coffins were variously bookshelves, temples, graves, beds, boats, dominos. You name it, really. But instead of what I had imagined – namely small athletic men leaping up and down in synch making Ayeeah noises, it was small athletic men leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises while doing an awful lot of dragging big bleeding boxes around, which squeaked and groaned when moved, and then fussily reassembling them in various shapes then hiding inside them, writhing inside them, hanging upside down in them, moving gracefully around inside them, then leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises before dragging big bleeding boxes around, etc, etc.
The audience loved it. The girl next to me was rapt, hanging over the seat in front of her entranced, or possibly catatonic with boredom. I just got rather irritated when, once again, the boxes were shuffled about. I wanted to shout: STOP BLOODY FIDDLING WITH THEM AND JUST DANCE.
I was, I admit, in a minority.
At the end when there was about ten minutes of absolutely sublime movement I finally began to enjoy it.
And then came the talk.
My friend is a serious artist. She always stays for the talk. The stage designer was Anthony Gormley, so she was definitely staying for the talk. (Apparently he too got irritated with the boxes not staying where he had put them.)
Seven people sat on the stage, one signing for the deaf, one translating for the two Chinese monks, with an empty seat for Antony who was, lucky bugger, in Japan so did not attend.
Sigh, too late, we were hemmed in Gormley-less and the microphone was circulating.
Audience member: This is a question for the monks. How much cooperation was there between the Monks and the Choreographer?
Silence while interpreter stares into space.
Embarrassed pause. Question repeated by the chairperson to the interpreter.
Interpreter: short stream of chah chah chah chah chah, Chinese dialogue.
Monks: Stunned silence, followed by hesitant but very, very long stream of chah chah chah chah Chinese dialogue.
Interpreter: They say there was a lot of co-operation.
Signer: Rapid hand movements
Choreographer: Oh yes, we co-operated all the time, followed by long stream of explanation and lots of jazz hands while looking all the time at the Chinese monks for confirmation, who continued to look blankly into the audience.
Signer: Very rapid hand movements
Audience member: I’m interested very much in your love of Kung Fu because I do discovered Kung Fu when I was a child and very much enjoyed Bruce Lee’s autobiography when I was younger. When I was at art school, in fact (little laugh), yeah it was when I was at art school that I discovered Bruce Lee, and he had a tremendous influence on me, like…..
And thankfully the swinging door of the auditorium closed behind him as finally, FINALLY, we left.
Leaving definitely cheered me up.
It was that easy.
Note to ex-husband. This does not apply to you.
In other words. Rewrite it (for the third time).
‘But what if you win the Booker?’ says Val in the A Team Office. ‘If people try to read your back list they will find that you have two different versions of the same book.’
This, of course, is true. But then if I win the Booker, then it will have to have a brand new category, just for me and hell will probably have frozen over and so we'll have bigger problems. I don’t think I’m going to lose very much sleep over the fact that there’s a New England Agnes and a Scottish Agnes living parallel lives on either side of the Atlantic. I think it’s pretty safe to say that winning the Booker is about as likely as me going home and finding a bottle of champagne cooling in the fridge for what should have been my wedding anniversary.
So I’ll do the rewrite, and try and perform a one woman show of enthusiasm, tell myself well done, and try not to dwell on the things that are not happening in my life.
In any case it’s all too premature to book the marching band but as part of the pre-jubilation cheer-me-up scheme undertaken by one of my long suffering friends, I was transported last night to the ballet at Sadler’s Wells.
Mmm
A Moroccan-Belgian choreographer with a group of Shaolin Buddhists and a lot of coffin-sized crates – sort of Jenga with Monks doing marshal arts.
The coffins were variously bookshelves, temples, graves, beds, boats, dominos. You name it, really. But instead of what I had imagined – namely small athletic men leaping up and down in synch making Ayeeah noises, it was small athletic men leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises while doing an awful lot of dragging big bleeding boxes around, which squeaked and groaned when moved, and then fussily reassembling them in various shapes then hiding inside them, writhing inside them, hanging upside down in them, moving gracefully around inside them, then leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises before dragging big bleeding boxes around, etc, etc.
The audience loved it. The girl next to me was rapt, hanging over the seat in front of her entranced, or possibly catatonic with boredom. I just got rather irritated when, once again, the boxes were shuffled about. I wanted to shout: STOP BLOODY FIDDLING WITH THEM AND JUST DANCE.
I was, I admit, in a minority.
At the end when there was about ten minutes of absolutely sublime movement I finally began to enjoy it.
And then came the talk.
My friend is a serious artist. She always stays for the talk. The stage designer was Anthony Gormley, so she was definitely staying for the talk. (Apparently he too got irritated with the boxes not staying where he had put them.)
Seven people sat on the stage, one signing for the deaf, one translating for the two Chinese monks, with an empty seat for Antony who was, lucky bugger, in Japan so did not attend.
Sigh, too late, we were hemmed in Gormley-less and the microphone was circulating.
Audience member: This is a question for the monks. How much cooperation was there between the Monks and the Choreographer?
Silence while interpreter stares into space.
Embarrassed pause. Question repeated by the chairperson to the interpreter.
Interpreter: short stream of chah chah chah chah chah, Chinese dialogue.
Monks: Stunned silence, followed by hesitant but very, very long stream of chah chah chah chah Chinese dialogue.
Interpreter: They say there was a lot of co-operation.
Signer: Rapid hand movements
Choreographer: Oh yes, we co-operated all the time, followed by long stream of explanation and lots of jazz hands while looking all the time at the Chinese monks for confirmation, who continued to look blankly into the audience.
Signer: Very rapid hand movements
Audience member: I’m interested very much in your love of Kung Fu because I do discovered Kung Fu when I was a child and very much enjoyed Bruce Lee’s autobiography when I was younger. When I was at art school, in fact (little laugh), yeah it was when I was at art school that I discovered Bruce Lee, and he had a tremendous influence on me, like…..
And thankfully the swinging door of the auditorium closed behind him as finally, FINALLY, we left.
Leaving definitely cheered me up.
It was that easy.
Note to ex-husband. This does not apply to you.
Across the pond life
Executive decisions taken so far this morning:
Whether or not to go down to Mr Patel for milk for Mr T’s morning coffee or hope someone else will do it.
It was a tough one. Took me a good ten minutes to ponder, but I decided, after judicious consideration, and weighing up all the different variables, including the fact that I had only 20p in my pocket, just to wait.
Em… that’s it.
Later, I made two rounds of coffee with milk fetched by AN Other (was thanked by an affectionate touch on the arm by one of the recipients – lovely man, is he looking for a wife – really I’m that easy…), poured several glasses of water, and sent out some books to very grand authors. Then I fielded a couple of phone calls from very important agents, one who spit into my ear like a shot from a close range rifle when I told him Mr T was ‘in a meeting’ – and the other who sounded like Brian Sewell pretending to be a female impersonator with a pug under each arm who said he would ring him on his direct line before I could tell him this was pointless, and the call diverted back to my extension.
'As I said, he's in a meeting,' I repeated, dryly.
Otherwise I waited outside Mr T’s office ready to spring on him between appointments, with little success – it’s just as well I’m not a lioness waiting to bring down an impala at a watering hole, because slapping post-it notes on desks and waving paper in front of fleeting eyes does not attest to my stalking skills.
I also walked round to One Alfred Place where Mr T had breakfast and picked up the credit card that he had left there after his breakfast meeting. I mean, when I say I work in publishing, you get an idea of the range of expertise this demands. So don’t bother asking me if I can get your little Pandora of Crispin work experience when they’ve finished their degree in Sanscrit and Psycho-geography at Bristol because they will need a first and/or a couple of living languages before they would even be considered.
You don’t get to run this caliber of errand on six GCSEs and a certificate in life-saving unless you’re me.
And then the phone rings:
Imagine mincing Kenneth Williams type drawl: Yes, good morning, I would like to speak to someone about a book I’ve written.
Imagine bored Scottish sigh: Yes…. (oh bugger off implied but not voiced)
Which is all I get out before he launches into long monologue: Blah blah blah, my book, similar to Robert Kagan’s Return of History blah blah blah manuscript 300 pages (I’m waiting for the word count) I don’t have an agent blah blah… (although in fact it was more of a mya mya mya sound.
Me leaping in with icy diction straight from Miss Jean Brodie: Let me stop you there because I’m afraid we don’t accept any unsolicited manuscripts…
Kenneth Keegan crosses the field and tackles: But as I explained it’s in the same spirit as Robert Kagan’s
Marion, sweeps in, grabs the ball: Yes, but as I’m explaining we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts and the fact that we’ve already published the Kagan would probably mean that we wouldn’t publish anything too similar.
Foul, I’m over clutching my ankle as he continues to insist: I didn’t say it was exactly the same, it’s about mya mya mya.
Still, you’ll need to get an agent first, I say, absently clicking on my email where I see an email from my own agent. I know it can’t be anything good or she would have called me. I’m guessing it’s more or less what I’ve been expecting – bad news or no news from the American publisher.
But I don’t have an agent, persists Mr Train Spotter, look – is there anyone else I can speak to?
OH MY GOD! I screamed.
This silenced him for oooooooooh all of one second.
I beg your pardon? he coughs, all affronted.
But I couldn’t answer him, my eyes were fixated on the email:
Then my mouth starts moving, saying ‘Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook’ and ‘list of agents’ and ‘all unsolicited manuscripts come to me and are returned’ as I read the words on the screen over and over again.
That lovey, wonderful, amazingly precient woman from Harpy in New York has typed with her very own fingers: ‘...and so believe it or not I would like to offer…’
Bloody hell – I’ve got an American publisher.
Whether or not to go down to Mr Patel for milk for Mr T’s morning coffee or hope someone else will do it.
It was a tough one. Took me a good ten minutes to ponder, but I decided, after judicious consideration, and weighing up all the different variables, including the fact that I had only 20p in my pocket, just to wait.
Em… that’s it.
Later, I made two rounds of coffee with milk fetched by AN Other (was thanked by an affectionate touch on the arm by one of the recipients – lovely man, is he looking for a wife – really I’m that easy…), poured several glasses of water, and sent out some books to very grand authors. Then I fielded a couple of phone calls from very important agents, one who spit into my ear like a shot from a close range rifle when I told him Mr T was ‘in a meeting’ – and the other who sounded like Brian Sewell pretending to be a female impersonator with a pug under each arm who said he would ring him on his direct line before I could tell him this was pointless, and the call diverted back to my extension.
'As I said, he's in a meeting,' I repeated, dryly.
Otherwise I waited outside Mr T’s office ready to spring on him between appointments, with little success – it’s just as well I’m not a lioness waiting to bring down an impala at a watering hole, because slapping post-it notes on desks and waving paper in front of fleeting eyes does not attest to my stalking skills.
I also walked round to One Alfred Place where Mr T had breakfast and picked up the credit card that he had left there after his breakfast meeting. I mean, when I say I work in publishing, you get an idea of the range of expertise this demands. So don’t bother asking me if I can get your little Pandora of Crispin work experience when they’ve finished their degree in Sanscrit and Psycho-geography at Bristol because they will need a first and/or a couple of living languages before they would even be considered.
You don’t get to run this caliber of errand on six GCSEs and a certificate in life-saving unless you’re me.
And then the phone rings:
Imagine mincing Kenneth Williams type drawl: Yes, good morning, I would like to speak to someone about a book I’ve written.
Imagine bored Scottish sigh: Yes…. (oh bugger off implied but not voiced)
Which is all I get out before he launches into long monologue: Blah blah blah, my book, similar to Robert Kagan’s Return of History blah blah blah manuscript 300 pages (I’m waiting for the word count) I don’t have an agent blah blah… (although in fact it was more of a mya mya mya sound.
Me leaping in with icy diction straight from Miss Jean Brodie: Let me stop you there because I’m afraid we don’t accept any unsolicited manuscripts…
Kenneth Keegan crosses the field and tackles: But as I explained it’s in the same spirit as Robert Kagan’s
Marion, sweeps in, grabs the ball: Yes, but as I’m explaining we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts and the fact that we’ve already published the Kagan would probably mean that we wouldn’t publish anything too similar.
Foul, I’m over clutching my ankle as he continues to insist: I didn’t say it was exactly the same, it’s about mya mya mya.
Still, you’ll need to get an agent first, I say, absently clicking on my email where I see an email from my own agent. I know it can’t be anything good or she would have called me. I’m guessing it’s more or less what I’ve been expecting – bad news or no news from the American publisher.
But I don’t have an agent, persists Mr Train Spotter, look – is there anyone else I can speak to?
OH MY GOD! I screamed.
This silenced him for oooooooooh all of one second.
I beg your pardon? he coughs, all affronted.
But I couldn’t answer him, my eyes were fixated on the email:
Then my mouth starts moving, saying ‘Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook’ and ‘list of agents’ and ‘all unsolicited manuscripts come to me and are returned’ as I read the words on the screen over and over again.
That lovey, wonderful, amazingly precient woman from Harpy in New York has typed with her very own fingers: ‘...and so believe it or not I would like to offer…’
Bloody hell – I’ve got an American publisher.
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
How to say No without really caring
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.
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.
How to say No without really caring
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.
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.
Monday, 19 May 2008
It's a dog walking life
I have nothing against dogs. I even sort of, kinda, quite like them. As long as they are about two feet away from me and don’t have their snout anywhere it shouldn’t be without an explicit invitation. I’m not that mad about kids either. Yes, mine are great and when they were small, there was a select number of other people’s that I could tolerate. Even now some friends have children who leap over all my defences, but as a race, I’m not that keen and I don’t think that breeding is the be all and end all of life time experiences and things to do before you die.
I’m glad I did, but there are still other things on the list.
Having a cocker spaniel with a ribbon in its hair isn’t one of them.
I know I have the retirement fantasy of the yellow Labrador called Mabel, but that’s all it is – a fantasy. I can see the attraction of having another breathing, living thing in the room that sleeps all the time and doesn’t say much and looks at me adoringly. And far down the line when I give up on the idea of ever fitting into a size twelve frock and when my cleavage looks like a toast rack, yes, I could just about see myself in the heavy waterproofs and the wellies, with the wet dog at my feet panting. I mean assuming that Brad Pit is unavailable.
But…wet? On second thoughts, maybe not a wet dog – I’d probably take it out in plastic shoes and dry it with the hairdryer in the hall after I make it walk through a santised foot bath.
I’m just not doggy.
Sorry.
Don’t get it.
I can see why other people get it, but at this point in my life I just don’t need another dependant being whose toilet habits I have to be on plastic bag terms with. They might be child substitutes, but who needs a child substitute when you have four and a half of them already?
But the doggily demented are always with us. I am happy to live and let live. Whether you want to dress up in ladies’ clothes and wear make up like my friend Jenny/Andrew then go in peace and walk in heels. I don’t necessarily want to look at the before and after pictures of your surgery, but to be honest, neither do I much want to see a picture of your dog.
I don’t whip out pictures of my kids the minute I’m sitting comfortably on a train, so why am I expected to swoon over snaps of your Yorkshire Terrier? Let me tell you something – even if her name is Mitzy and she is wearing a tartan coat the truth is she’s not that distinctive. She looks like ALL THE OTHER Yorkshire Terriers. I am not going to be able to pick her out of a line up.
I am prompted to launch into this long rant because of a weekend spent with a woman of a certain age who, seconds after we had been introduced, whipped out her wallet (her wallet, I ask you?) to reveal a snap of her baby – a little brown pug called Sasha, who, she giggled as she pointed out, ‘has exactly the same hair colour as me’. Family resemblance then. In fact they both had a bit of a pug face too, but the doggy didn’t have freckles.
The rest of the weekend, whenever the rest of us who are sprogged up, talked about the minutae of sprog-life, like who was looking after them, or how old they were, what they were doing while we were gone, we were treated to anecdotes about Sasha, and how she would be missing her, and where she was staying, and… well I risk you murdering me even by repeating it.
I wanted to scream: IT’S A DOG. It’s not a child. Mentioning your pug in the same breath as someone else’s kid’s 11 plus exam, or comparing a teenager's drug problem to a worming treatment IS NOT THE SAME THING.
At one point during the weekend we all sloped off to a farmhouse in the middle of the countryside and this huge black mastiff came careering out of the long grass, loping like a tank over tough terrain with enormous jowls, a sneer at each side of its mouth revealing blood red gums and dripping white frothing saliva hanging in soapy rings from its jagged teeth.
Anybody who had any sense, or love of their extremities, jumped back except for doggy person who made cooing noise, stuck out her hand and attempted to stroke it. The dog could have swallowed her whole, but unluckily, did not choose to do so.
‘I so miss my little Sasha,’ she crooned once the beast had been tethered by an inch wide chain.
If I heard one more thing about that pug I would have bitten her head off myself.
Elsewhere I seem to be surrounded by the dogged. Since my friend Nel and I have started tramping round Wormwood Scrubs as part of our health drive, it’s impossible to miss them (together with a number of other subspecies of the strange and desperate – model air enthusiasts, kite flyers, flashers and junkies). They seem to have a uniform – including anything fom Boden. a Barbour, waxed jacket or one of those sleeveless puffa jacket thingies from the eighties, big Wellington boots and a headscarf. Even in May when we’re walking in short sleeves, they are still in full dog-walking kit. It’s all faintly ridiculous when having passed by this Teutonic woman bristling with tweed, you see her followed by miniscule poodles with pom pom coats. There are the ‘local’ dog walkers too – ie men with shaved heads and tattoos with Staffordshire and Pit Bull Terriers.
But they don't bother with the ribbons in their hair.
Nel bemoans her otherwise highly intelligent academic friend who greets her dog with the regular call of ‘come to mummy’ while yet another, previously sane friend has also succumbed to the lure of the evil hound. Every day she’s out tramping with a pair of Alsatians, coincidentally with somebody I used to know who has recently acquired a whippet. Nel joined them one morning and was distinctly unnerved by the conversation. We talk about food and the GI content of almond chocolate muffins (1, apparently – seems unlikely but we’re willing to be convinced) as well as regular moaning about college kids (lazy idle), DIY obsessed husbands (Energetic always busy), ex husband (gone) and writing (not happening).
Yup, we’re Renaissance women.
The dogged, however, just have very strange doggy conversations: whether you can take them with you on airplanes (thank you Richard Branson for making sure I never fly with you again), doggy passports and doggy cars. My friend has a big Range Rover, especially for transporting the dog twenty yards from her house to the car park where they walk. They know all the other doggeds by the breed of their pet (‘Oh look it’s the corgi/sheepdog over there’/’haven’t seen the two Airedales for a while, do you think they’re on holiday?’)
I met my friend (whippet, keep up) the other day just as she was putting it in the front seat of the specially bought car with the belt around it (dog can’t sit in the boot behind the bars because she gets lonely).
‘How are you?’ I cried, all excited to see her and hear about how her job at the FT and her kids and her husband's new book are doing.
The dog, in the meantime, let off a volley of barking that sounded like a rocket launcher going off in my ear, and flattened itself against the car window, snarling, its mouth open revealing a ring of slavering teeth like the hound of hell.
I jumped back into a different postal district.
‘Oh ignore her, she’s such a sweetie’, said my friend as I cowered.
She didn’t tell me anything about her life, but you’ll be pleased to know she’s the dog is actually a whippet cross.
A bit too f*ing cross if you ask me.
I’m glad I did, but there are still other things on the list.
Having a cocker spaniel with a ribbon in its hair isn’t one of them.
I know I have the retirement fantasy of the yellow Labrador called Mabel, but that’s all it is – a fantasy. I can see the attraction of having another breathing, living thing in the room that sleeps all the time and doesn’t say much and looks at me adoringly. And far down the line when I give up on the idea of ever fitting into a size twelve frock and when my cleavage looks like a toast rack, yes, I could just about see myself in the heavy waterproofs and the wellies, with the wet dog at my feet panting. I mean assuming that Brad Pit is unavailable.
But…wet? On second thoughts, maybe not a wet dog – I’d probably take it out in plastic shoes and dry it with the hairdryer in the hall after I make it walk through a santised foot bath.
I’m just not doggy.
Sorry.
Don’t get it.
I can see why other people get it, but at this point in my life I just don’t need another dependant being whose toilet habits I have to be on plastic bag terms with. They might be child substitutes, but who needs a child substitute when you have four and a half of them already?
But the doggily demented are always with us. I am happy to live and let live. Whether you want to dress up in ladies’ clothes and wear make up like my friend Jenny/Andrew then go in peace and walk in heels. I don’t necessarily want to look at the before and after pictures of your surgery, but to be honest, neither do I much want to see a picture of your dog.
I don’t whip out pictures of my kids the minute I’m sitting comfortably on a train, so why am I expected to swoon over snaps of your Yorkshire Terrier? Let me tell you something – even if her name is Mitzy and she is wearing a tartan coat the truth is she’s not that distinctive. She looks like ALL THE OTHER Yorkshire Terriers. I am not going to be able to pick her out of a line up.
I am prompted to launch into this long rant because of a weekend spent with a woman of a certain age who, seconds after we had been introduced, whipped out her wallet (her wallet, I ask you?) to reveal a snap of her baby – a little brown pug called Sasha, who, she giggled as she pointed out, ‘has exactly the same hair colour as me’. Family resemblance then. In fact they both had a bit of a pug face too, but the doggy didn’t have freckles.
The rest of the weekend, whenever the rest of us who are sprogged up, talked about the minutae of sprog-life, like who was looking after them, or how old they were, what they were doing while we were gone, we were treated to anecdotes about Sasha, and how she would be missing her, and where she was staying, and… well I risk you murdering me even by repeating it.
I wanted to scream: IT’S A DOG. It’s not a child. Mentioning your pug in the same breath as someone else’s kid’s 11 plus exam, or comparing a teenager's drug problem to a worming treatment IS NOT THE SAME THING.
At one point during the weekend we all sloped off to a farmhouse in the middle of the countryside and this huge black mastiff came careering out of the long grass, loping like a tank over tough terrain with enormous jowls, a sneer at each side of its mouth revealing blood red gums and dripping white frothing saliva hanging in soapy rings from its jagged teeth.
Anybody who had any sense, or love of their extremities, jumped back except for doggy person who made cooing noise, stuck out her hand and attempted to stroke it. The dog could have swallowed her whole, but unluckily, did not choose to do so.
‘I so miss my little Sasha,’ she crooned once the beast had been tethered by an inch wide chain.
If I heard one more thing about that pug I would have bitten her head off myself.
Elsewhere I seem to be surrounded by the dogged. Since my friend Nel and I have started tramping round Wormwood Scrubs as part of our health drive, it’s impossible to miss them (together with a number of other subspecies of the strange and desperate – model air enthusiasts, kite flyers, flashers and junkies). They seem to have a uniform – including anything fom Boden. a Barbour, waxed jacket or one of those sleeveless puffa jacket thingies from the eighties, big Wellington boots and a headscarf. Even in May when we’re walking in short sleeves, they are still in full dog-walking kit. It’s all faintly ridiculous when having passed by this Teutonic woman bristling with tweed, you see her followed by miniscule poodles with pom pom coats. There are the ‘local’ dog walkers too – ie men with shaved heads and tattoos with Staffordshire and Pit Bull Terriers.
But they don't bother with the ribbons in their hair.
Nel bemoans her otherwise highly intelligent academic friend who greets her dog with the regular call of ‘come to mummy’ while yet another, previously sane friend has also succumbed to the lure of the evil hound. Every day she’s out tramping with a pair of Alsatians, coincidentally with somebody I used to know who has recently acquired a whippet. Nel joined them one morning and was distinctly unnerved by the conversation. We talk about food and the GI content of almond chocolate muffins (1, apparently – seems unlikely but we’re willing to be convinced) as well as regular moaning about college kids (lazy idle), DIY obsessed husbands (Energetic always busy), ex husband (gone) and writing (not happening).
Yup, we’re Renaissance women.
The dogged, however, just have very strange doggy conversations: whether you can take them with you on airplanes (thank you Richard Branson for making sure I never fly with you again), doggy passports and doggy cars. My friend has a big Range Rover, especially for transporting the dog twenty yards from her house to the car park where they walk. They know all the other doggeds by the breed of their pet (‘Oh look it’s the corgi/sheepdog over there’/’haven’t seen the two Airedales for a while, do you think they’re on holiday?’)
I met my friend (whippet, keep up) the other day just as she was putting it in the front seat of the specially bought car with the belt around it (dog can’t sit in the boot behind the bars because she gets lonely).
‘How are you?’ I cried, all excited to see her and hear about how her job at the FT and her kids and her husband's new book are doing.
The dog, in the meantime, let off a volley of barking that sounded like a rocket launcher going off in my ear, and flattened itself against the car window, snarling, its mouth open revealing a ring of slavering teeth like the hound of hell.
I jumped back into a different postal district.
‘Oh ignore her, she’s such a sweetie’, said my friend as I cowered.
She didn’t tell me anything about her life, but you’ll be pleased to know she’s the dog is actually a whippet cross.
A bit too f*ing cross if you ask me.
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
Rats...
We didn't win.
Moving swiftly on... did I mention that my daughter who is currently gap-yearing on a remote islant in Vanuatu has a new skill?
Apparently she can kill rats with her machete.
You've got to stab at them.
Really hard. Really, really hard.
That's all.
Just thought I would share that with you.
Moving swiftly on... did I mention that my daughter who is currently gap-yearing on a remote islant in Vanuatu has a new skill?
Apparently she can kill rats with her machete.
You've got to stab at them.
Really hard. Really, really hard.
That's all.
Just thought I would share that with you.
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