Not The Darling / Peaks and Troughs / Fail Better

 

I wrote my first book when I was nine. My mum tried to get it published. This is it, I thought. But it was a NO.

I finished my first novel in 1993, aged 25, and – from the first batch of agent queries – I got a full request. I cried to my sister on the phone. I got an R&R. This is it, I thought. But it was ultimately a NO.

I got further full requests for my second novel, around 2005. I got my best ever, most in depth and encouraging feedback (sustaining me ever since) from Felicity Blunt. This is it, I thought. But it was another NO. A very low point.

I was offered in-house critiquing by Curtis Brown, but the editor - for some reason - never produced the report. Another low. I shelved the book after an appraisal I paid for shot too many holes through it.

Let's add a cat - This is Moo, sunning herself

In 2018 I was one of 150 shortlisted from over 1300 for the Penguin WriteNow Scheme. At the workshop, the editor told me I’d likely been discriminated against throughout my quest for publication due to my Asian maiden name. Eye-opener. I was longlisted for the Hachette Future Bookshelf scheme around this time too. This is it, I thought. But was it fuck.

Let's have another cat - this is Loops

In 2019 I won Arts Council mentoring for, I think, my fifth novel, which I fought to keep when COVID hit. This was a big deal; highly competitive, I was one of only three writers chosen. This is it, I thought. Think again.

Positive agent feedback on first novel

In 2021 the same (fifth) novel was longlisted for the BPA First Novel Award, judged by Hellie Ogden. I was commended for the Laura Kinsella award too. But I knew this wasn't it.

In 2023 Mslexia published my piece on writing with chronic pain, a condition through which I subsequently medically retired from the NHS. In 2024, I succeeded in bagging a selective Curtis Brown Creative Writing Your Novel course with Suzannah Dunn. Its many benefits included agent liaisons. I had my fingers crossed, but ultimately no interest. Was it down to luck, timing, genre?

Since I was young I've collected stones with holes through them. I have loads of them, not just this one, lol. Hagstones. They're supposed to be lucky. 

In between these peaks and troughs, I gave up writing. Restarted. I paused to take up painting. I mourned and resumed writing. I attended conferences, drank myself into many stupors. I entered competitions, for their crumbs of feedback, for slivers of mentoring. I joined Nottingham Writers Studio for community and support. My invaluable betas laughed and cried at my work, sometimes called it stunning. Everything indicated impending success. During covid I indulged in online courses, workshops, events, by the bucket-load. My sister built my website. I built my blog. I shouted about myself from every social media platform and reluctantly got sociable on Facebook again. I religiously wrote a novel in instalments, over two years, online, attracting two stalwart fans and two small publishers. But I knew, by now, it wouldn’t catch.

Poster I saw on the train

To become a published author is all I’ve ever wanted. (You’ve maybe gathered.) But writing is more than just a vocation. Every writer knows this. All partners of writers regrettably, woefully, learn this. It’s like a personality disorder. You’re bleeding your soul on the page, after all. It’s like being possessed, obsessed. And I’ve noticed, in myself, a curious blend of tenacious self-belief juxtaposed with the ragged insecurity of a mayfly. My brain is a fucking battleground. Consequently, I’ve had shit jobs and no career. Who would be a writer? No other job interview involves this level of prolonged agony. Working your tits off, forever, for nothing. Thing is, we don’t choose writing, do we? It chooses us.

This was instrumental advice I got decades ago on a form rejection. It made me keep going! Very enlightening, interesting, encouraging.

I’ve had sufficient praise from literary professionals to know I’m a good writer and that I shouldn’t give up, painful as it is to continue whipping my bare arse with nettles.

You may notice my frankness. I’ve wanted to say all this for ages. To offload, moan, get sympathy, enlighten folks. I do realise most writers suffer arduous journeys. I really do. And I feel sorry for all of us. Because it's devastating, embarrassing, humiliating, depressing and heart-breaking. It literally makes me cry my eyes out, at times. It's broken me, like slow torture breaks a prisoner, wrecked my mental health, crushed my brittle layer of self-esteem. It's preoccupied me all my life, baffled me, kept me drunk and unfulfilled. Prevented me from following a different, normal, possibly even lucrative, path.

This is a tiny fraction (from just one year) of the many submissions I make. Inside and outside these folders are folders within subfolders and on and on forever.

The other night, I couldn't sleep. And all my focus turned to my failure to become a published writer. This happens sometimes, though mostly it's buried too deep. But that night I cried like I'd never cried before, like I'd never stop, as if the decades of trying to succeed suddenly crashed over me, like a motorway pile-up. I was despairing and justifiably full of self-pity. Everyone who knows me knows how hard I've tried. I've peeled myself off the floor like a bloodied boxer only to be twatted back down. Do I sound tragic and moany? THAT’S BECAUSE I NOW AM.

More positive feedback on my first novel

So, finally, here’s my question? Do I stop? Throw it all away? Drop-kick that stupid childish dream? The wasted set of skills? Countless unloved novels, encompassing my soul? 43,000 odd Word documents buried in 1000’s of folders, four burnt-out laptops, a word processor and my Dad’s old typewriter? A shedload of paper and ink, three printers, how many biros? (if we're being pedantic. Which I am.) Ruined relationships, teetering marriages, discarded friendships? I could go on but I know you’re praying I don’t. So that’s it. I don’t know how to end this without more theatrics, so I’ll just end it. There. Because I've got another novel to write.