Getting unpublished

Let’s get dramatic. In July, my book was unpublished.

It fell from the pre-order listings of a dozen online book shops, was deleted from Nielsen Bookscan. The galley proofs were unbound, de-covered and bleached back to white.

Reps got in their cars after really successful meetings with booksellers — who liked and loved and wanted to see more — and went home, tore up their AI sheets, and forgot the ISBN.

The book cover fell to bits and became Photoshop layers again, deleted in turn, by turns. The final draft sprouted mistakes; my editor grew concerned.

I went back through the third and second and first draft, adding long, clumsy sentences, plot holes, spelling errors, weird syntax and padding. I rewrote the best sentences into poor ones, and added about 20,000 words back in.

I got the contract back in the post and tip-exed my signature from the footer. I forgot the clauses, the royalty values, the way I wanted my name on the cover. I deleted the acceptance email and the voicemails and pictures of me, pissed and celebrating.

I reinstalled the prologue that so many other publishers hated. I retrieved query emails, deleted spreadsheets of research into possibles and not-possibles. I deleted the last ten chapters, then deleted the first thirty-two. I lost my notes. Forgot the ideas. Forgot the title.

Fact is, the pavement towards Published is a long one – and you wind up with a lot of tacks in your feet. I’ve been advised not to publish this in public; not to be so unprofessional. An agent tells me the book in question is tainted; almost impossible to place elsewhere.

The longer buried, he said, the better. The deeper buried, the easier to write something else.

But to me, transparency is better. It’s my policy now. And, since it’s harder than ever to get published — harder still to get noticed — writers are letting themselves get trodden into the carpet because they’re so desperate to achieve their dreams — and I’m hoping maybe this’ll be read by one or two or three who won’t make a similar mistake.

This is how it went:

I submitted my very first novel to a few places in 2007. It wasn’t a very good novel, and it wasn’t finished by any standards. Agents didn’t like it, publishers didn’t want it, and I realised soon enough that I’d written a novel in the way I presumed you were meant to write a novel. In effect, and from all sides, it was really, really balls. But I liked a couple of the ideas, so I shot it in the preface and wrote another one.

I submitted that, the second one, naive about all of the things I’m not now. A few people liked it, but it didn’t fit in lists on account of being quite weird. Others probably hated it. And then a breakthrough — the kind words I’d needed. The prologue was bollocks. There wasn’t a need, and I should lop it off and consider submitting to an independent who liked all that weird stuff. So I did. And, in January 2008, or thereabouts, it was accepted for publication. And my head near as fell off.

A terrid thing about being accepted for publication is you’ll want to tell everyone close-by. There were a few snarky ball-bags taking pops, yet I had a lot of support and a lot more encouragement. Then, over maybe eight months, things looked rosy aside from crippling self-doubt and a bout of abject paranoia that it was all a bit too good to be true.

It kind of was.

The publisher, who I won’t mention or link to (I’d wind up on the first page of Google with their name, probably), was a small firm with outsourced resources and a bunch of loyal acolytes. A good rep. A decent sales and distribution network. A fairly sizeable backlist, and a lot of bright ideas. They said the right things and seemed keen — on me and on my writing, so it was both brilliant and terrifying to get the opportunity.

Anyway. If I were to make a montage of the time between acceptance and editing, it’d be me getting a job, sleeping, and waiting. Nothing extraordinary happened save a contract I signed. I worked over the novel most weekends, battered it really. Somehow getting the contract made me see all the crap bits for what they actually were. Don’t feel sorry for me. I enjoyed it.

The edits happened; a happy accident with a fantastic editor, and the best bit of the whole affair. I was lucky, I found out since — as other people’s weren’t being edited. Or released. Or spoken about. There were alarm bells, and some more grumblings besides. The release was pushed back three times. I didn’t know my arse from my elbow. Nobody did. And we all carried on hoping, because we were authors now, with books to read from in a book shop, coming soon.

It got fairly desperate towards release. Other people were getting pissed about, and getting pissed off. There were rumours and rumours and rumours some more. It was most kinds of childish from more than three sides.

The publisher was very ill, with crap going on beyond my comprehension, and for more than a year my sincerest, genuine sympathy weighed strongly against the frustrations of not being told a thing. Sounds pathetic, or selfish, but like I’ve said, you’re an author; you hope. We’d put a lot into it, and we just wanted somebody to let us know.

It’s not them, it’s you, you’re thinking. Not just for a week, but for months on end. You put a foot wrong someplace; you said the wrong thing. It’s difficult to stay bright every time a friend asks when the launch is — and however self-indulgent any of this sounds, it’s the reality of what many think should be the most exciting time in the world.

I put up with the tension and the apprehension because I was flattered and blindly pursuant of something I wanted so keenly — what anybody who writes a long story, a novel, a book, wants.

And, I was selfish. I thought that whatever happened, if my book came out, it was a first step towards something bigger, sometime, somehow. It was a means to a career; it made me think, maybe, maybe, I can write a couple more. In that time I must’ve sent so many hundreds of emails to people who gave more support than I deserved, and I still feel guilty for that.

It wasn’t going to happen. Really, it wasn’t. So when I pulled it — mostly because the contract was void and always was — I was all up for giving up entirely. The Society of Authors couldn’t help. I didn’t really sleep wondering how I’d tell people who’d pre-ordered. I didn’t know how to delete it all and bury it. I had no plans to submit it again.

Anyway. Always with me, it’s anyway.

I don’t have loads of confidence in my writing. I don’t think m/any writers do. I haven’t read that final draft back because I’d hate it and I’d want to write it all again.

Despite that, I’ve also sent it out twice since. So far it’s got me the nicest rejection I’ve ever had – a rejection from a big publisher, but the kind of rejection that’s as almost close to a yes as a no can be. And, I’ve got a bunch of envelopes; a list of new places to send it.

I’m tentative to balls it up. I’m sometimes still in two minds as to whether I mention what happened with my unpublisher; whether it’ll scuttle my chances. Whether it’s a sales pitch or a nail in the coffin, basically, if we’re doing cliches. But like I said. How can transparency be a bad thing?

There is a point, though. It’s not all me. If you think going to an independent is a safer bet; more tentative, more of a softer route into a savage, savage industry, just be aware that you’re quickly on your own. I was lucky to have the support I did, and continue to have – but others really aren’t.

I don’t mean to sound bitter or cruel or vindictive about the publisher, though some days I’m all three. I simply find it profoundly unfair that the idea of ‘professionalism’ precludes being honest. Unjust that a desperation to escape the slush pile means you’re almost prepared to forgo dignity.

So, if you’re a publisher, and I tell you the partial sub you’re reading has nearly been published, this is why.

It’s taken six months to write this, which also means I’m a coward. Also, I’m a whining fanny. But if there’s a message at all for anybody — if there’s anything that’s worth my putting this on the blog, it’s a simple one:

Get a fucking agent, for heaven’s sakes.

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Update: I’m not the only one who’s written about this.

Caroline Smailes’ post on why a charity isn’t getting the money it’s owed is here.

DJ Kirkby’s post on much the same topic is here.