Writing Articles

Whenever I’ve daydreamed about an agent coming back to me and asking for the full manuscript of one of my books (as we all do) the reverie has always entailed happiness, euphoria and excitement.

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Wild parties and pink champagne often feature heavily as my imagination follows its course. I’ve tried out such phrases as wow, at last, and yes, yes, yes! (I’ve also tried out other phrases, but Sue has very strict guidelines, so I won’t include them here.) I’ve pictured myself swinging from the chandelier (never mind the fact that we don’t have one), or running madly through the garden yelling with delirium. In every scenario, needless to say, ecstasy is present.

All of which made my actual reaction when an agent asked to see the full manuscript of my children’s novel slightly bizarre. I didn’t shriek with joy, or scream with delight. I sat down, head in hands, and exclaimed with horror: “Oh no. I don’t believe it! Why now?” and stomped about the house rather in the manner of a female Victor Meldrew. Far from feeling delighted, I felt put-upon and dejected.

Why wasn’t I overjoyed when the email I’d been waiting years to receive finally turned up in my inbox? Because I’d scuppered myself by not following one of the golden rules of writing, that’s why.

To fully understand the enormity of my crime it is necessary to take a look at the overall situation I was in when the email arrived. I’ve been living in Spain for the past two years and my husband and I had decided to return to France. We were in that horrible state of being surrounded by boxes – filled, empty and halfway between the two, unable to find anything, not sure what to keep out or what to pack. Writing had taken so much of a backseat it was almost in the boot.

Vlad the Inhaler (the book in question) had been written the previous year and the first three chapters had been rewritten, polished and honed to as near perfection as I could achieve. Unfortunately, the rest of the novel was still in first-draft stage and nowhere near ready to be seen by anyone other than me. The submission of the opening chapters and synopsis had taken place several months earlier and I’d been telling myself to work on the remaining chapters ever since.

If only I’d done so, I would have been over the proverbial (although clichéd) moon, but I hadn’t, and was now in the position of having to revise and rewrite the remaining 30,000 words as soon as possible. I couldn’t even see the printer because of the goods and chattels piled up in front of it, but managed to manhandle them out of the way to print a copy to work on.

The removal van was booked and the date couldn’t be changed, which meant editing the book at the same time as packing up the home. The situation couldn’t possibly get any worse – could it? Well, yes it could. In my covering email to the agent I’d mentioned that I was working on a crime thriller and she asked to see the opening chapters for that as well. What’s wrong with that, I can hear you asking. Well, nothing, except that I’d decided to take the novel in a different direction and the opening chapters were in a state of flux. The first three chapters of Bad Moon Rising were also printed out and frenziedly worked on.

When I’d planned to make a living from writing it had never occurred to me that I’d be resting on a packing case, red pen in hand, trying to concentrate on serial killers, vampires, werewolves and other assorted weirdo elements while my poor demented husband was frantically filling boxes and shifting our worldly goods ready for transportation to France.

By the time the full manuscript of Vlad the Inhaler was ready, together with the revised opening chapters of Bad Moon Rising, our internet had been disconnected and I had to send the files from the dirty mac café. Imagine my horror when we were reconnected in France and I received the copy of the agent’s email I’d sent to myself for my records and found that the email had been corrupted and I’d sent a load of coded garbage. Needless to say, I immediately resent the files, together with an apology, but as I haven’t heard a word from the agent since, I can only continue to pray.

Was that my big break that just got broken? I don’t know, and have to hope not, but if it was, the fault lies squarely on my own shoulders.

So, the moral of the story, just in case you missed it, is this: Never, never, never submit anything to an agent or publisher until you have revised, rewritten and proofread every word on every page of the entire manuscript – not just the pages needed for the submission.

When your moment for euphoria arrives it’s seems a shame not to make use of the chandeliers and pink champagne!