by Paul Carroll
‘He hasn’t got one, Gez.’
‘OK, so let’s come up with one. How about he goes on one of these “meet the agent” conferences I’ve read about? The worst that could happen is they tell him his book stinks, but you never know.”
Victoria was intrigued. ‘He can discuss his book with an actual agent?’
‘Course he can. Writing courses include that sort of offer to get the punters in. The Guardian runs pages plugging events like that all the time – there will be loads if you look. Eric would love that sort of academic approach anyway.’
Victoria could spot a small flaw in the argument though. ‘What if he did go on something like that, and they told him his book did stink?’
‘I’m sure they’d be a bit more diplomatic than that. Anyway, then we’d advance to Plan C – he’d have to self-publish then.’
The two conspirators cackled away, jubilant in their problem-solving skills and with nary a thought to Eric’s sensibilities. They were so pleased with themselves they asked for the dessert menu.
Con and Rosie were having a rare night out. Normally they didn’t venture much further than their local pub but Con had decided to make an effort, surprising Rosie with tickets for The Brian Jonestown Massacre at The Roundhouse. Admittedly, the neo-psych rockers weren’t exactly top of Rosie’s playlist but she knew how much the band meant to Con and she appreciated the gesture.
Since Rosie’s ultimatum to her boyfriend she’d been surprised at how he’d bucked up his ideas. He’d finally finished his edit and shown impressive organisation in ploughing through the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook to identify likely agents. While Con’s insurrectionary instinct had reared its head on reading some of the agents’ pedantic and punctilious submission guidelines, he knuckled down and played it straight. Each email and – far more labour intensive – written applications for the agents still in the dark ages, were ceremoniously despatched. Could this be the one?
Con agonised over which agents would be most receptive to his work and how many submissions to send out. He’d read that six would be a good initial number and that’s what he started with, only to crumble a week later and send out another six. He typed the list of agents contacted and marked up each name in blue to denote ‘pending’. After the high-pitched excitement of submitting his queries he told himself he’d have to be patient, that it would take weeks to start receiving replies. Deep down he fantasised about receiving an urgent call from an agent who, having read his work, couldn’t believe he was still on the market. In fact Con did receive a reply within three days of his first mail-out – a rejection. He updated his list and turned the agent’s name from blue to red. After the first six weeks the colour of the list was starting to resemble a litmus test where the combined pH of vinegar, lemon juice and battery acid was in the ascendancy. He administered a Rennie in the form of another six submissions to keep the overall balance neutral.
Rosie watched all of this activity with mixed feelings. She wanted him to succeed, of course, but as Con swam against the red tide she felt that the law of probability would most likely see him running out of options. She was determined not to go back on her injunction to him to return to work after the end of September, but at the same time she knew how crushed he’d be at not having made a breakthrough.
Con was becoming increasingly desperate as his options narrowed and this was another reason why he’d arranged this special night out. As they lingered in the bar during the support act, each clutching two bottles of Beck’s to save on queuing, he adjudged the timing to be right. ‘I’m getting nowhere with my submissions.’
This was hardly news to Rosie; she recited what she’d said one hundred times already. ‘I know, but you’ve got to stick at it. It could all change tomorrow.’
‘I think I should try another approach.’
Above the general hubbub of pre-gig pre-loading, Rosie gave him a quizzical look. Like what?
‘You know I’ve done loads of research – writing sites, blogs, Twitter, yeah?’ She knew that much was true – he was never off his laptop picking up the litter of the literati. Rosie nodded. ‘There’s this massive writers conference in Lancaster in September. If I went to that I’d be able to talk directly to agents about my book.’
This was news to Rosie, on a number of fronts. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. You get to see two agents and they read your opening chapters before you meet them. Then you discuss it with them. People have been signed up on the spot before.’
Rosie, despite being impressed at the sound of such an opportunity, had a practical query. ‘But doesn’t it cost a fortune to do something like that?’
‘It’s not cheap, no. But there’s loads of seminars and talks as well on how to get published. It could make all the difference. It’s quite good value for a weekend.’
‘A weekend? Con, how are we going to be able to afford that?’
‘I was hoping you’d lend it to me? I’ll pay you back, I promise. If I don’t get any interest in Lancaster I’ll start back at the hospital on October 1st. Cross my heart. I’ve already asked and they said they’d take me back.’
Having established the magnitude of the conference fees and train fare for Con, Rosie worked out that it was roughly the same as the both of them going to the Number 6 Festival in Portmeirion being held the same weekend. She’d had her eye on that. However, the hash cakes they’d taken at the door to get them in the mood for the gig were now beginning to kick in, she felt mellow, and Con was right – after Lancaster there were no more lives to play with. ‘Right. I’ll lend you the money. Last chance saloon for a deal.’
Con felt euphoric. How brilliant his partner was, and not just because the hash cakes were starting to exert their influence on him too. ‘I’ll not forget this, Rosie. I’ll make you proud of me.’ He flamboyantly threw his arms around her, causing her to brush him off in embarrassment.
‘You’d better. Come on; let’s get a good spot. They’ll be on soon.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
After Reardon announced to Hugo that, following considerable thought, he’d decided to take the university job, he became an even bigger pain in the backside for the agent. The author now added to his incessant mithering over the lack of a new publishing contract an endless round of questions regarding his unexpected academic role. Hugo’s commission from the Edward VIII posting was scant consolation given the new role now provided Reardon with carte blanche to pester him on a daily basis. Would he have an office? How many days did he actually have to go in? What events and engagements would he have to attend? Did he have to mix with the other lecturers? How many students would he have to deal with? On what day of the month would he get paid? Hugo regretted not having dropped his client at the same time Franklin & Pope did. Today though, the agent was looking forward to calling him. Here was a chance to give Reardon something to worry about for a change.
Reardon was sitting in the GP’s waiting room with Belinda when his mobile rang. Belinda gesticulated to him not to answer it as a dozen pairs of ears honed in on the ringtone, Every Day I Write The Book. She hated her husband’s use of a novelty call alert, not so much because Elvis Costello was last year’s model but because she considered it inappropriate for a man of Reardon’s years to be personalising his phone like a 15-year-old. Reardon answered regardless.
‘Can you be brief, Hugo? I’m tied up at the moment,’ he boomed.
Ignoring the obvious question as to why he’d picked up if he was otherwise engaged, Hugo pressed on. ‘You asked me to give you the heads up on events you have to attend for Edward VIII. Well, I’ve got the list now and I’ve noticed that the first one isn’t that far off.’
‘Can’t you email it?’ Reardon said, trying to ignore Belinda’s dumb show to get off the phone.
‘I’ll send the list later,’ said Hugo, who could have done that in the first place ex
cept for the fact that he wanted to convey this news personally to his esteemed client. ‘I just want to make sure you get this one in your diary. It’s the first weekend in September, a writers conference at the University of Lancaster campus.’ He paused to let the information seep in properly.
Reardon, his eyes fixed on a poster promoting prostate screening for the over-60s, thought there must be some mistake. ‘Lancaster? I think you have the wrong university, Hugo. And when you say “writers” conference, who, exactly?’
‘No, it’s definitely Lancaster, Reardon, and the writers are all unpublished. It’s a conference on how to get published. Like your course students, the delegates will be looking to you for inspiration and guidance.’
Feeling as if a lubricated, latex-sheathed digit had just been inserted into his anus, Reardon let out a howl. ‘You can forget that, Hugo. There is no way on God’s earth I’m taking myself off to the arse end of the world in order to commune with a bunch of repetitive strain injury victims.’
‘I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Reardon,’ said Hugo, loftily. ‘Edward VIII is very keen to reach out to aspiring authors – they see conferences like these as a recruiting ground for future creative writing students. This is very important to them – you’re the best billboard they have.’
Belinda, along with 12 patients, could divine the call wasn’t particularly pleasing news for her husband. She pointed urgently at the exit to tell him to take his conversation outside. As he barged through the door Reardon crashed into a young mother pushing a pram on her way into the surgery. Hugo picked up the author’s next comment together with the accompaniment of a baby’s loud crying. ‘I’ll tell you now, Hugo,’ shouted Reardon over the din, ‘there’s as much chance of me attending this conference as Salman Rushdie turning out at the Tehran Book Fair.’
Hugo continued to play with a straight bat. ‘These are the commitments that come with these positions, Reardon. I’m sure it won’t be that bad – you may even enjoy it. I’ll send you the details.’ And with that he rang off.
A red in the face Reardon made his way back into the waiting room past the accusing eye of the young mother trying to sooth her distressed child. ‘You’ll never believe what they want me to do,’ he started, breathlessly.
Belinda glared at him. ‘Not now,’ she hissed. ‘At least you’ll have no problem describing your symptoms to the doctor.’
Since Rocket’s decision to target fresh, unagented talent Emily had been making discreet enquiries among industry colleagues concerning the lie of the land on writing festivals. The feedback surprised her. Initially, she feared that having to attend a conference for new writers would be akin to doing community service, a sentence to be endured. As she asked colleagues and peers about their experiences at these events she discovered that, far from being a chore, some of the agents and editors actually looked forward to them. Was it the prospect of discovering a new John Niven or Philippa Gregory that drove them? Not a bit of it. They’d have been quite happy to discover a writer who could shift 20,000 copies of a book detailing the author’s anthropomorphic relationship with a pet cat, or anyone who could bring a new twist to the story of Henry VIII and his six wives. No, it was because in the literary world in which they operated an event like a conference provided yet another social outing. It was a works do but without the boss looking over your shoulder. And not only could agents and editors continue their clubbable chatter without scrutiny, at the same time they could be treated as gods by delegates and organisers alike. So when Emily let on to her confidantes that she was considering checking one out, they urged her to join them. The more the merrier. And without doubt, the best shindig was the Write Stuff weekender in Lancaster. It was all about quid pro quo. Yes, they had to read a few opening chapters and do a number of one-to-ones, and maybe even prep a seminar, but it wasn’t overly taxing. On the plus side, you got expenses, got paid for sessions and seminars and got to hang out with your mates for the weekend while your bar tab was picked up by the organisers. In a corporate sense you were also underlining how your business nurtured and encouraged new talent. And for this noble flying of the company flag you also got days off in lieu.
In addition, Emily had discovered a further reason to attend a festival like this. Rocket had decided that as part of their – her – championing of unagented authors, they should set up their own novel-writing academy. His math, as he called it, was compelling. Limit it to 15 punters a time at around £2,000 a pop, and then use in-house staff and contracted authors to dispense knowledge over a few evenings and weekends. You never know, it might turn up a winner anyway. Charged with structuring such an academy as part of her new remit Emily calculated that by attending Lancaster and taking notes she’d create a painting-by-numbers outline for their venture that wouldn’t need much more colouring in.
So Emily decided to anoint Lancaster with her presence, not least because the dates suited her as her boyfriend was on a lads’ trip to Dublin the same weekend. Inviting herself was out of the question, not to mention necessary. She opened her junk filter and typed ‘Write Stuff’ in the search box. There must have been over ten emails from a Suzie Quixall there. She flicked through them, some going back to April, and felt the love and the desire coming her way. ‘Could she consider/would she be free/it would delight them’ and so on. Well, Suzie, she thought, today’s the day persistence pays off. Emily could have emailed a reply but she had another reason to talk personally to the conference organiser. She picked up her phone and called Suzie Quixall on her direct line. ‘Suzie? Emily Chatterton of Franklin & Pope. You simply won’t believe this, but we’ve been having an issue with our email system and I’ve only just seen your emails…’
Chapman handed a glass of champagne to Suzie. ‘You are on a par with Jane Austen when it comes to persuasion.’ As a toast it was a clumsy effort, particularly from a published writer, but the founder of The Write Stuff was in exuberant mood on learning of Suzie’s sterling work on the big-hitters list. Chapman had insisted on leaving the office and repairing to the wine bar opposite to celebrate. Pausing only to ask for some nibbles to go with their bottle of house champagne, Chapman wanted the whole story. ‘Blow by blow, Suzie. Tell me how it all unfolded.’
Suzie, intoxicated before the glass even touched her lips, started the account of her remarkable day from the beginning. ‘The Faculty of Humanities at King Edward VIII University called first. I’d contacted all of the universities with new creative writing courses to see if they’d like to put forward a speaker.’
‘That was smart thinking, Suze.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t think we’d get such a well-known author. I thought, if we were lucky, we’d maybe get a professor or a lecturer.’
‘Reardon Boyle is a big name, Suze. I can guarantee he’s not done anything like this before.’
‘I know, isn’t it exciting? I couldn’t wait to tell you but I thought I’d keep it a surprise for when you came in. And then I got the second call.’ Reardon topped her glass up. ‘It was only Emily Chatterton, the editors’ editor – I couldn’t believe it. I never expected her to reply in a million years, but, you know, nothing ventured…’
‘Wonderful, wonderful. Go on.’
‘It turns out that she’d not seen my earlier emails – some blip in their system – but she’d be delighted – delighted – to join us for the weekend as she’d heard so much about us. Chapman, you could have scraped me off the ceiling.’ A flicker of a memory flashed through Chapman’s mind. ‘And if that wasn’t fantastic enough she then suggested the third name.’
‘Yes, that’s curious. Another massive coup.’
‘Well, you never thought we’d land Emily Chatterton either.’
‘True. Anyway, what did she say?’
‘Well, she asked me what agents were coming, so I told her, and then she asked if Hugo Lockwood had been invited.’
‘Had he?�
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‘No. We daren’t invite him. Thought he’d chuck it in the bin. Anyway, Emily says she’s heard that Motif were casting their nets a bit wider for promising debut authors and she thought he’d be up for it.’
‘Incredible. And what did he say?’
‘ I didn’t actually speak to him. Emily suggested I call Hugo’s boss and explain what we were all about and then invite Hugo because finding new talent at the conference was as easy as falling off a log.’
‘You said that to him?’
‘Not in those exact words. Anyway, he said straightaway that Hugo would do it, that it fitted their current strategy wonderfully. Consider him signed up and all of that. Three in one day.’
Chapman was beside himself. This would be the most impressive line-up they’d ever mustered for a Write Stuff conference and would be sure to give last-minute bookings a boost. He congratulated himself on the merits of aiming high and never giving up. Flushed with success he now had another idea. ‘Suze, what’s the capacity for one-to-ones at the moment?’
Even without the blue file Suzie knew where they stood. ‘It’s good. Most of the experts are there for a minimum of two days so the one-to-one schedule has been the easiest to organise yet.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Chapman said. ‘So if we were to give each delegate the opportunity to have three one-to-ones instead of two, we could just about juggle the schedule to accommodate that?’
The look on Suzie’s face betrayed the amount of admin work that would be involved. ‘Theoretically, yes. But it would be a lot of juggling. I’m not sure it would be worth it.’
‘But it would be if we sold those extra slots at £50 a go, wouldn’t it? I mean, that’s what delegates value most, isn’t it – the one-to-ones? What’s another £50, or £100 if you can see three or four agents over the weekend instead of two? If two-thirds of the delegates opt for a third one-to-one that’s another £10,000 income – think of the extra profit even after we pay the agents out.’