One of my favourite poets is called Stevie Smith and she wrote a poem called 'Not waving but drowning,' which is basically about people misreading signals. (My most favourite poem by Stevie is the very funny 'The Jungle Husband' but is totally irrelevant to this blog unless a hippo happens to charge through at some point). 'Not waving but drowning' tells of someone in the sea waving for help because they are drowning. People on the shore wave back because they are thinking (stupidly, as it turns out) that the person is waving and saying 'Coo-eee! Look at me! I'm having a lovely time out here swimming in the sea.'
I am not writing but drowning...
I counted my rejection slips yesterday. There are 22. Okay, so it's not the 197 that I'd imagined in my overactive mind, but it's enough to make me feel marginally depressed. 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' has ground to a halt after its flying start. I've received wise words of encouragement from my writer pal Vera over at Labartere vis a vis what to do about this and I am trying to act on those words by distracting myself with other writing. Yesterday, for example, I wrote a 2,000 word essay comparing Lady Macbeth and Cleopatra's relationships with their respective partners. Today, I am contemplating writing a musical.
You see how bad it has become??
And to compound my feelings of literary drowning, Andy and I are off to the London Book Fayre on Saturday for a masterclass on how to get published.
I booked the ticket about 3 months ago when I was in a writing flourish and feeling good about being a writer and not anticipating this period of disillusionment when I am thinking I am a useless article and need to get a proper job earning proper money and maybe even go back to teaching. Perhaps the masterclass has come at the right time, I hear you shout. It will inspire you and get you back on track. This is true. I hadn't thought of that. Well, obviously I did, because I just wrote it, but the thought hadn't occured to me until a couple of seconds ago.
But because I am feeling miserable I think the experience will consist of listening to a bunch of smug people who got a publisher and a three book deal at their first attempt and then being descended on by a bunch of salesmen from the world of self-publishing who will try to sell their self-publishing packages to us lesser writers being roundly rejected by standard publishers. (I mention my suspicions of the self-publishing companies because when the fayre tickets arrived they were accompanied by many leaflets offering the services of self-publishing companies.)
Hey ho, that's how it goes...am I sounding bitter and pathetic? Sour, and like my face needs a good slap? Oh, it'll be okay. Things usually are. I'll schedule myself another hour or two of feeling miserable, then count my blessings, give myself a good slap and read 'The Jungle Husband.' At least my poet of choice today is Stevie Smith.
It's when I start reading Sylvia Plath I might have to start worrying...
Showing posts with label London Book Fayre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London Book Fayre. Show all posts
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Monday, 5 January 2009
How to get Published
So, in the paper last week was a FANTASTIC OFFER to book tickets for a Masterclass at the London Book Fayre in London (bizarre, but true) on 'How to Get Published - a Masterclass in 93 easy to follow parts.' Great, I thought. I'm a writer, I want to be published in order to justify my existence as a kept woman and this seems an IDEAL OPPORTUNITY to discover the secret of preventing my work from finding its way back to me with alarming regularity marked 'thanks but no thanks' (moving house seems a bit of an extreme alternative option). So I zip onto the appropriate website, carpe diem and all that and it said on the booking form 'If you wish to book more than one ticket please call the LBF booking line on 12345 54321 etc.' So I call the LBF booking line and am greeted by a recording of a nice young chap informing me that they're all out of the office at the moment recovering from Christmas and New Year excesses but will be back, bright and ready to go on 5th January between 9 and 5. Good job I don't still teach I think. I wouldn't be able to book tickets otherwise, not during those hours.
I tuck the details in my diary so I remember to call on 5th. I want to book 2 tickets - one for me and one for Andy. It is imperative Andy comes with me because a) I have no sense of direction and am bound to get lost as soon as I leave the end of our road b) I hate London, you have no idea how much it freaks me out and don't even get me started on the Underground c) I have recently been diagnosed as agrophobic and might need a slap if I get hysterical d) I like hanging around with him because he's great! And e) he will persuade me to eat all sorts of crap whilst we're out which, if I went on my own wouldn't happen because Matilda, my alter ego would be constantly on my case about not being able to do the splits on New Year's Eve if I eat that chocolate muffin and that's no fun, is it?
Today being 5th, I telephone the LBF number. A lady answers. She sounds a bit pre-occupied, like she is doing her nails or playing blow football with Maltesers. 'I'd like to book 2 tickets for the London Book Fayre Masterclass on How to Get Published,' I say in my best telephone voice. 'You can book them on-line,' she says. 'I know,' I say. 'But it says, on-line, that if I want to book more than one ticket, I have to call this number.' 'Does it?' she says. 'Yes,' I say. 'Oh, well, all you have to do is fill out the form twice if you want 2 tickets,' she says. 'It's just the same as we would do here in the office if someone telephones.' 'Oh, right,' I say. There is a bit of a silence. Call me old-fashioned but I was thinking, in the manner of good customer service that at this point the lady what answered would say 'Can I take your details, madam, and I'll see that 2 tickets are sent your way forthwith.' I even had my credit card ready in my hand.
'So, ' she says, ' are you okay to do that?' 'Do what?' I ask. 'Book on-line,' she says. I pause. 'I suppose so,' I say, a little hesitantly. 'Lovely!' she chirrups. 'Thank you for calling! Goodbye!' And then she hangs up!
I sit on the stairs clutching my newspaper cutting, my diary, my pen and my credit card. I don't know why, but I feel like crying. Instead I concentrate for a moment on the piece of carpet Tybalt favours for scratching his claws with which has become more fluff than actual carpet. And then I go downstairs and book two tickets, using two separate on-line forms to the 'How to Get Published Masterclass.'
'This had better be worth it,' I mutter, as two separate e-mails arrive to confirm that a not insubstantial amount of money has just been debited from my credit card twice and I shall receive my ticket pack times two in March. In light of my telephone experience I try to think of a clever phrase for the initials 'LBF'. Unfortunately, the 'F' is in the wrong place.
I tuck the details in my diary so I remember to call on 5th. I want to book 2 tickets - one for me and one for Andy. It is imperative Andy comes with me because a) I have no sense of direction and am bound to get lost as soon as I leave the end of our road b) I hate London, you have no idea how much it freaks me out and don't even get me started on the Underground c) I have recently been diagnosed as agrophobic and might need a slap if I get hysterical d) I like hanging around with him because he's great! And e) he will persuade me to eat all sorts of crap whilst we're out which, if I went on my own wouldn't happen because Matilda, my alter ego would be constantly on my case about not being able to do the splits on New Year's Eve if I eat that chocolate muffin and that's no fun, is it?
Today being 5th, I telephone the LBF number. A lady answers. She sounds a bit pre-occupied, like she is doing her nails or playing blow football with Maltesers. 'I'd like to book 2 tickets for the London Book Fayre Masterclass on How to Get Published,' I say in my best telephone voice. 'You can book them on-line,' she says. 'I know,' I say. 'But it says, on-line, that if I want to book more than one ticket, I have to call this number.' 'Does it?' she says. 'Yes,' I say. 'Oh, well, all you have to do is fill out the form twice if you want 2 tickets,' she says. 'It's just the same as we would do here in the office if someone telephones.' 'Oh, right,' I say. There is a bit of a silence. Call me old-fashioned but I was thinking, in the manner of good customer service that at this point the lady what answered would say 'Can I take your details, madam, and I'll see that 2 tickets are sent your way forthwith.' I even had my credit card ready in my hand.
'So, ' she says, ' are you okay to do that?' 'Do what?' I ask. 'Book on-line,' she says. I pause. 'I suppose so,' I say, a little hesitantly. 'Lovely!' she chirrups. 'Thank you for calling! Goodbye!' And then she hangs up!
I sit on the stairs clutching my newspaper cutting, my diary, my pen and my credit card. I don't know why, but I feel like crying. Instead I concentrate for a moment on the piece of carpet Tybalt favours for scratching his claws with which has become more fluff than actual carpet. And then I go downstairs and book two tickets, using two separate on-line forms to the 'How to Get Published Masterclass.'
'This had better be worth it,' I mutter, as two separate e-mails arrive to confirm that a not insubstantial amount of money has just been debited from my credit card twice and I shall receive my ticket pack times two in March. In light of my telephone experience I try to think of a clever phrase for the initials 'LBF'. Unfortunately, the 'F' is in the wrong place.
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