Singing, rejections and Bill Bryson

Singing plays an enjoyably large part in my life at the moment. We have several big gigs over the next few weeks, the first being last Saturday where our three choirs took it in turns to sing in the courtyard at Trelissick Gardens near Truro. In between Seamus played the accordion, there was a bar and if the weather had been a little warmer you might have felt you’d wandered into some Mediterranean walled garden.

Then at 9.30pm we all (audience included) set off down the narrow winding road to the King Harry Ferry which takes cars over to the Roseland. When the last cars were off, all 100 of us singers piled onto the ferry, followed by audience with blankets, hats, thermos flasks and all manner of warm stuff.

Then we all sang as one choir. It was just amazing, singing into the still of a May night while the water lapped around us. The inky darkness was soft and welcoming, carrying our voices with care. If it was half as good to hear, as it was to sing, that can only be a wondrous thing.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night. 100 singers together is quite something, but on a ferry in the middle of the river made it just magical and everyone sat, transfixed. The evening cast fairy dust over all of us and really did make me believe that in Cornwall, just about anything is possible.

Back to normal and I am trying to get an agent for my memoir of Pip and another walks book. Three rejections but all such encouraging ones about my work - and all saying that publishing is so difficult right now….

This week, on a completely different tack, I am off to interview Bill Bryson in London. That sounds so blasé but in fact I’m still pinching myself over this one.

“What are you going to wear?” cried my mother last night over the phone. “And what about your feet?” – she is clearly concerned that, at the age of 53, her daughter is unable to dress suitably for interviewing such an Important Author.

One advantage in having a small wardrobe is that there is little choice, so I had the clothes bit sorted some time ago. I am more concerned with having spare batteries for my tape recorder, making sure I have my questions and notes. (I sorted the clothes bit long ago) and getting the publicity lady’s mobile number in case my train’s delayed.

I know I will be extremely nervous beforehand, but it’s good to have nerves. It ensures that you do the job properly. But I am really looking forward to the interview. Someone who can write as magnificently as Bill Bryson does must just be a real pleasure to meet. So think of me on Thursday…..

This Post has Nothing to do with Christmas

A friend of mine once saw a psychotherapist when she was going through a bad time – she'd been made redundant, had depression, was unemployed and single and just about everything was going wrong.

This fellow was a sort of father figure and was there for her when everything else in her life seemed to be going belly up. Happily life improved after a while, she became involved in a relationship and instinctively felt that it was time to stop seeing this therapist. Nothing she could put her finger on; just something wasn't right. And she didn't feel the need to see anyone. Life was OK: she could manage on her own. So she told him she wasn't going to see him again.

He rang her at home. Several times. Wanting to know why.

She became uneasy with these phone calls. Why was he behaving so weirdly? Sounding so – desperate? The last phone call took place when her sister in law was visiting, and she was rather abrupt. Told him not to call her again.

He didn't.

She bumped into him many years later and felt uneasy about the whole incident. Nothing had happened, but it was the undercurrents of what hadn't been said that still rankled.

Wanting to get some closure on this, she told a friend. The friend was a writer.

She asked if she could use the material to write a novel. Her friend agreed, and the novel was written.

So far, two agents have asked to see the full manuscript, but both said no. Could it be third time lucky?

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.