by Paul Carroll
‘Don’t be so pathetic. You’ve written a book, you’ve not given birth. I think it’s good. I think it’s interesting. I think it’s different. I suspect other people, people who don’t read Twilight, will think it’s good but don’t start giving me grief because I don’t fall at your feet and say it’s going to sell a million. I don’t know, that’s all, and neither do you.’
Wounded, and realising that he may have gone too far, Con went for the sympathy vote. ‘I just thought you’d like it more, that’s all. I was relying on you liking it.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what a publisher thinks.’ And then, the killer. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing, Con. You’ve spent two years on that book, and that’s enough. Get yourself back to work now, because I’ve had enough of supporting you.’
Con hadn’t seen that one coming and immediately regretted having pushed his normally placid girlfriend to this ultimatum. ‘But I need a few more months to polish it up and get an agent. I can’t go back to work now.’
Rosie, surprised at her own resolve, decided to press her advantage home. ‘You get it sorted, now. You finish the book. You start applying for jobs next month. If you don’t have an agent by the end of September, you start a proper job on October 1st. Otherwise, you and me have had it.’
The rest of the evening had been spent in fraught silence. Rosie had told him to sleep on the settee, and when he awoke she’d already left for work. Now, as Con indulged in writerly procrastination, he had time to evaluate the implications of the previous evening’s outburst. Rosie’s explosion had taken him by surprise – she was normally so, well, yielding. He must have done something to upset her. Maybe he should have printed off the manuscript for her earlier as it had taken him seven weeks to get round to it, what with the printer being on the blink. Could that have been it? No. More likely it was that cow of a sister, Grace, who was stirring the pot against him. She’d never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. How was he supposed to cope with all this? Jack Kerouac wouldn’t have got down the road very far faced with these odds. Worst of all though was that he knew Rosie meant what she said when she’d imposed the guillotine – there was no doubt in his mind that she’d drop the blade come the end of September. Well, she’d be sorry when A Refugee From the Seraphim hit the bestsellers and she’d walked out on the fame and glory at the wrong time. But what if the novel was too ‘dense’, as she’d called it? What then? He’d be back working at the hospital pushing codgers, cadavers and cartloads of dirty laundry around all day, or out on his ear. He couldn’t face that. He had to get a publishing deal, he just had to. This was shit or bust now. He had to make that breakthrough. But how?
Feeling more dejected than when he’d arrived he put the red pen back in his pocket, gathered up his file and headed for the exit door. He was too bloody depressed to edit today – he’d start again tomorrow.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Two hundred and twenty-four.’ Suzie was updating Chapman on the number of delegates already signed up for the conference in three months’ time. ‘And we have around a hundred unconverted enquiries on file that we’ll be chasing up.’
Chapman looked pleased, and not only because he was eating a large piece of chocolate cake brought in for one of the staff’s birthday. ‘Well done, Suze. At this stage that’s well on track.’ He brushed the crumbs from his lap on to the floor. ‘How many are repeats, and how many newbies?’
‘About half and half – well over a hundred first-timers.’
Chapman did some quick mental arithmetic. ‘We need more writers dipping their toe into the ink for the first time.’
Suzie, who knew their prospects of hitting 300 delegates now depended on getting to people they’d not previously encountered, had this covered too. She placed the yellow folder back on the desk. ‘The online campaign of pay-per-click ads starts next week. Anybody searching for literary terms like “finding an agent”, “getting published”, “writing a novel” or “editing your manuscript” will have the conference ad pop up.’
‘Love it. That’s the beauty of our market – there’s fresh meat all the time. A never-ending flow.’
Suzie fingered the blue folder, anticipating Chapman’s next question. She guessed correctly. ‘And how are we doing on those big-hitting experts to galvanise our punters?’
This news wasn’t as positive. ‘We’ve been concentrating on the delegate recruitment to date so there’s not much movement on new experts. But the list we do have doesn’t seem to be deterring people from signing up, does it?’
Chapman scooped the stray crumbs clinging to his paper plate and stuffed them into his mouth before responding. ‘People are signing up, that’s true, Suze, but what’s the story they’re going to have when they go home after the conference? We have to dazzle them.’
Suzie looked downcast. ‘Delegates have never complained about the calibre of our experts before.’
‘Come on, Suze. Just two or three more names, but they’ve got to be stellar. An agent, editor or author the punters will drop everything for just to share the same postcode as them for a day.’
‘Is there anyone you can suggest?’ asked Suzie, not unreasonably.
Chapman raised his arms in the manner of an Italian catenaccio appealing against a yellow card. ‘Suze – I don’t need to give you names. You know who we need. Think A-list, that’s all.’
Suzie made to scribble a note on her pad but all she could manage was a big question mark. She moved the conversation on by picking up a fourth box file from the floor, new to this meeting. It was green. ‘We should really spend some time on the programme.’
Chapman stood up and strolled to the window. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I want to ring the changes there, too.’
Suzie looked concerned. ‘I’ve already done an outline three-day plan,’ she said, ‘and there doesn’t look to be an awful lot of space for too many new things.’
Chapman was now walking back and forth in front of the window, forcing Suzie to swivel her chair around to face him. ‘There’s always room for new revenue opportunities, Suze. I’ve got a new concept we should launch at Lancaster.’ Suzie put down her pen. She recognised the signs that Chapman had been donning his thinking cap and when he did he usually came up trumps. Chapman could be frustrating to work for at times but he never stood still – his inventiveness was one of the main reasons she’d stayed at The Write Stuff all these years. He may only have had an audience of one but Chapman was revved up, bursting to share his new idea. ‘We’re only just scratching the surface, Suze. That’s the reality. Our editing services and workshops do well but their main purpose is to feed the conference. But others are copying us now and we’re going to lose out unless we innovate.’ Suzie looked up at Chapman, her face bathed in admiration and expectation. ‘So the next step for us is a radical one, but a lucrative one. It’s something people are ready to spend big money on, and I want them spending it with us in future.’ Chapman looked Suzie in the eye, challenging her to guess the source of all this extra income. Not wanting to break his flow, and not having the faintest idea what was on his mind anyway, she stared back, her dilated eyes urging him to admit her into his confidence.
‘Self-publishing, Suze, that’s what we’re going to offer. A full self-publishing service with typesetting, cover design, printing, trade distribution, e-versions and marketing support services. There are more people writing books these days than are reading them. The mark-ups will dwarf what we’re currently making – the time is right.’ He paused to await his PA’s reaction.
Suzie, aware of Chapman’s less than complimentary comments in the past on self-publishing companies, was confused. ‘But doesn’t that contradict what we offer at the moment? We’re all about getting our writers agents and publishing deals.’
‘Yes, it is. Or it was. But think about it. How many people are we actually going to get pro
perly published? Not very many. You only have to read their stuff to realise that – there’s only so much we can do to polish a turd. If you think about it, what we’re actually doing is getting first-time authors to a point where they recognise they’re never going to get an agent or a publishing deal. The bridge of despair. And what do they do then? They go off and spend thousands of pounds with a self-publishing company so they don’t feel like they’ve wasted their time. That’s what we’re missing out on.’
Suzie recalled another of Chapman’s bugbears about self-publishing. ‘You’ve always said that it would harm The Write Stuff to admit that our writers may not succeed.’
‘Good point. But define “success”. All I’m doing is stretching the parameters of success for these writers. A small number will get deals; for the rest I’d rather they spent their money with us rather than someone else when they realise self-publishing is the only way their work is ever going to see the light of day.’
Suzie was still trying to get her head around this apparent volte-face. ‘I still think it could put aspiring authors off coming to us. Some would run a mile at the idea of us being connected with self-publishing; they’d see it as a failure.’
‘That’s true, Suze. That’s why we’re going to announce a “partnership” with Wellington Self-Publishing at the conference. It’s an association, a tie-up, a working arrangement between the two companies. Created so we can continue the journey with our authors to their work’s final destination. And who better to assist them than us? It’s the ultimate integrated offer.’
‘But who is this Wellington Press? I’ve never heard of them.’
‘I’ve not set it up yet, Suze. But rest assured, it will be up and running and ready for orders come September.’
The literary universe populated by agents and editors is remarkably small. In the constant criss-crossing and interchange of orbits it was therefore no major surprise that Emily and Hugo should find themselves sitting together at yet another book awards ceremony. This time it was the inaugural Great Book Awards to recognise the novel that best captured the natural and cultural beauty of the British Isles. The sponsor rolling out the red carpet and a lavish dinner at the taxpayers’ expense was the National Tourism Agency, funded by the Department for Culture, Media and Sport.
Hugo was studying the menu that was predictably split into Scottish, English, Welsh and Irish courses. ‘They’re pushing the boat out on this, Emily,’ he said. ‘At least we’ll get a good meal out of it if nothing else.’ Emily smiled, but didn’t bother to look at the menu. Her appetite had been somewhat diminished of late. Hugo knocked back his welcome glass of Nyetimber sparkling wine and then helped himself to one of the bottles of Three Choirs Oaked Reichensteiner nestling in the ice bucket in the middle of the table. He thought he might as well make a night of it as he’d given up a day-night game at Lord’s to attend. Neither Hugo nor Emily had any shortlisted candidates up for the award but that was immaterial – the organisers’ aim was to put the event on the map so anybody and everybody from the literary industry was invited.
As per the convention at these dinners Hugo and Emily conversed vacuously with the other guests on the table and made positive noises about how well everything was going in their respective fields. As they drifted towards the Blue Rathgore cheese course Emily and Hugo turned their heads inward to each other. Emily by this time was matching Hugo on the wine consumption front and as they poured themselves another glass of the Sharpham Pinot Noir Precoce both felt highly relaxed. Hugo was bursting to tell Emily about her former charge. ‘Get this, Emily. I land Reardon a professorship in creative writing at the King Edward VIII University and you know what? He’s “thinking about it”, the twat.’
Emily giggled. ‘I thought you were good, Hugo, but not that good. How on earth did you wangle that? They’ve obviously not met him.’
‘The old magic coming on strong, I suppose. But seriously, his dithering is putting me in an awkward position.’
‘Silly old fool. He should bite their hand off.’
‘Exactly. But “writing can’t be taught” according to his lordship.’
‘Well, he might have a point there,’ Emily said. ‘But it’s not stopped a load of other authors pretending it can, especially with the sort of money that’s on offer. About time Reardon relaxed his principles, otherwise he’ll starve.’
Hugo saw an opportunity for some intelligence gathering. ‘So, you’ve chopped a few more as well as Reardon, I see?’
Emily looked around as if she expected Rocket to be standing behind her posing as a waiter. ‘You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on, Hugo, you really wouldn’t.’ Hugo topped up her glass and waited for her to continue. ‘It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, but apparently we’re – I’m – going to be setting up an imprint specifically for unagented writers. Rocket is going to open the floodgates to a tsunami of typos.’
Hugo halted the trajectory of his glass halfway to his mouth. ‘Unagented?’
‘Yes. Apparently you’re obsolete, Hugo, and I can do your job in the fifteen minutes I have spare each day.’
Hugo bristled. ‘That’s the daftest thing I’ve ever heard. Madness. It’s like going back to the dark ages.’
‘Well, Hugo, I suspect it won’t affect you. You’ll still be the golden boy. It’s me that’s going to have to carry the can.’
The agent understood the implications for one of his favourite editors. ‘Is it time for you to look around, Em?’
‘I have, but where? I don’t have that many options.’
‘You’ll just have to go with the flow for now. It’s on Rocket’s head really.’
‘I doubt if it will be his head on the chopping block when it all goes wrong.’
Hugo nodded sympathetically at this last observation. ‘So when are you going to tell the hungry authors you’re laying on a free buffet?’
‘Rocket has this idea that I should find a suitable Writers Conference and launch it there. It will be like being the only woman on an island full of sex-starved sailors.’
Despite Hugo’s apparent compassion towards Emily’s plight he couldn’t help but let out an astonished laugh at the thought of Emily being sent off to a conference full of desperate wannabe authors. ‘Oh dear, Emily, that is tough luck. Poor, poor you.’
‘You won’t tell anybody, will you? I shouldn’t have said anything but I know I can trust you.’
‘As if you need to ask,’ Hugo said as he patted her on the arm.
Almost instinctively, both pulled out their mobiles – time to update the world on the important work they were carrying out in the pursuance of their respective crafts. Each made sure they added the greatbookawards hashtag to their tweets describing the glittering night in which they were playing a major role – a guest’s way of thanking their host these days. However, Hugo let out an exclamation as he checked his timeline. ‘Arsehole. Being bloody trolled again.’
Now it was Emily’s turn to be amused. ‘Another of your fans, Hugo?’ It was no secret that Hugo had a tendency to court controversy within this most popular of social sites. Agents and editors like Hugo and Emily had no trouble attracting thousands of followers on Twitter – most of them eager to have any form of contact with the literary world they were so desperate to join. Professionals like Hugo and Emily never followed back – this was strictly a one-way transaction. Since Hugo had found himself in this position of power he could be icy and sharp – pompous – when it came to expressing his views and opinions on Twitter. He tried hard to be affable and chatty – many of his numerous followers continued to be baffled by his ongoing comments on cricket – but if it’s true that sentiments set down in writing can often be misconstrued then the restricted canvas of 140 characters was an amphitheatre of misinterpretation.
‘Some idiot attacking me saying I singled him out to make a point. As if.
’
Suzie looked at her timeline to pick up the thread. ‘Did you?’
‘Never bloody heard of him. I put out a tweet earlier saying that one of the things that really got my goat in submissions “was, the, over, use, of punc-tu-a-tion”. This nutter thinks I was having a go at him and is accusing me of personally humiliating him. “I should use generic examples, not specific ones” etc.’
‘But you don’t mention anyone by name.’
‘Exactly. The guy’s paranoid obviously. Bollocks to that.’ He took up his mobile and responded. ‘Sorry, if, you, thought, I, meant, you. But, you, clearly, think, you’ve, got, a, problem, so, you, may, need, help.’ The MC announced that the awards ceremony was about to commence. ‘Just think, Emily,’ beamed Hugo. ‘Soon you’ll be able to meet all of these stalkers and inadequates in person.’
CHAPTER TEN
All around him, there was darkness. He gingerly extended a hand in front of his face, but came into contact with… nothing. A bolt of fear shot through his frame and he clutched his arms to his chest in a gesture of self-protection. He could feel bare skin. He ran his hands downwards over his torso – he was totally naked. Straining his eyes in an effort to penetrate the gloom he could make out no discernible shapes or outlines in the pitch-black void. Where the hell was he? He tried to recall his last waking moments but his mind was as impenetrable as his surroundings. It was warm, which must be a good thing? He also realised that he was standing. He took a deep breath and achieved two slow steps forward before being met by a solid surface. He kneaded the vertical plane in front of his face to identify any giveaway features. A door surround, and after more scrambling, a doorknob. He braced himself to turn the handle. Another deep breath, a rapid twist and push, and he was suffused in a blinding fluorescent light as bright as creation. Reardon Boyle stood stark-bollock naked in a long, featureless corridor and wondered what on earth he was doing there.