Novel News

When I opened the door, the postman stood there with a Big Parcel. It was a jiffy bag which meant this was my novel back from the New Writers Scheme. The fact that it had been returned meant it wasn’t good enough for a second reading. My stomach plummeted as if I was in a very fast lift, along with my confidence. Bugger.

With trembling hands I ripped the package open, desperate to know what the report said. Well, I had an idea – “ this is well written but xxxxx needs looking at and I wasn’t happy with xxxx and your plot needs working on and you could improve it by xxxx and good luck and keep writing.”

I stood in the kitchen, shaking while I scanned through the compliments (those are always first) waiting for the BUTs. A few very minor ones – like missing pages, a briefly mentioned character who never reappears again – she could be got rid of as she doesn’t add anything to the story. I could perhaps sharpen it up by cutting down on the description but don’t get rid of too much because it’s lovely.

Then at the end, a warning that there is no guarantee that an agent or publisher will take this on. If they don’t, I might need to tighten up a certain passage of the book, but it reads well as it is. Next page, a list of agents to send it to.

So this is a good report? Where’s the list of things that are wrong? If the writer thought it was good, why didn’t it get a second reading?

Brain went into complete overdrive and I couldn’t concentrate for the next hour.

Thankfully I was due to meet a friend in town so I had a long walk, a good chat and came home and sent the first few chapters off to Piatkus.

I’ve now re-read the report several times and while I’m delighted, there’s no guarantee that this will succeed with an agent or a publisher. If it did – well, we won’t go there. I’ve been disappointed too many times.

But – and this is the tricky bit about being a writer - I know this is the best thing I’ve written. Can I do it again? Already I’m thinking that the next novel, which I’m plotting, is weaker. The characters aren’t as strong or as quirky. Or are they?

Oh hell, who’d be a writer? Why, a friend of mine asked, do I do something that continually tests my flailing confidence? Why do I work in a business that means I’m continually up against rejection?

That I can’t answer. I inherited the writing gene – no idea from whom - and I have to go with it.