Misty water-coloured memories

... or rather not water-coloured, but closer to van Gogh style swirls and whirls. A tale of rejection sensitive dysphoria.

Here’s the inaugural post. It’s not wholly representative of what else is to come. In future, the content may be more musical and less downbeat. But well, it’s a start. Stick with me and see. This particular post is all about writing & rejection.

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I've been writing down thoughts for years and years, but have only comparatively recently wondered whether or not those written thoughts could form some kind of memoir. I'm now at around 80,000 words, the kind of word count at which you could publish. There are still a number of yawning gaps, as are there many revisions to consider, but what's also worth considering is whether to go ahead and publish what I've written, or to press ‘delete’. A third option is that I hold onto it all - password protected - for my own reference.

I've had enthusiastic responses from the few folk with whom I've shared extracts. Some of the more connected ones have been kind enough to put me in touch with their agents / publishers / editors. It seems that, as with the music business, it's who you know, and I'm not above benefiting from nepotism.

The Editor - A friend, a published friend, assured me that their (top notch) editor would be worth contacting and would be receptive. The friend passed along some of my writing. I never heard anything back from the editor. I didn't raise the issue with my friend because, well, why would I? I didn’t want them to feel awkward. Besides, the editor's lack of response spoke louder than any words, and in fairness, the approach was semi-unsolicited.

The Literary Agent - I sent some writings to another friend, a published writer themselves. They replied to say that they felt certain that their agent would love what I'd written, and so made the introduction. The agent replied to my email with enthusiasm, telling me that I was a Real Writer. Yes, they actually capitalised those two incredible words. A phone call was scheduled, and it lasted almost an hour. We got on like the proverbial blazing house in that Tarkovsky film. By the end of our conversation, I felt like I had an agent - it was certainly implied - and not just any agent, but one from the most upper echelon of the publishing world. Hallelujah! I could not believe my good fortune.

It was November. Christmas was coming and was threatening to get in the way, as it does when you’re an adult rather than an uncynical, Santa-lovin’ child. The agent suggested I send them more writing once all the festivities were done and a new year had arrived. I duly did so, and was ghosted, completely.

The waiting game.

Regretfully, (because I do wish I hadn't), I sent a polite nudge in the April of that year. I received an out of office reply, and nothing more. I was discovering the book world to be as disappointing as the music business. I felt jilted.

Publisher 1 - Another author acquaintance put me in touch with their publisher. The publisher was enthused about meeting, and so we had a Zoom call. It seemed to go swimmingly, and as our chat concluded they asked me to send them some writing, which of course, I did. I was then, once more, ghosted.

Publisher 2- Yet another friend, yes, also a published writer, offered to introduce me to their publisher. I had a Zoom chat with this (esteemed) publisher. They were congenial, and I felt, genuine. Conversation flowed easily, and they asked me to send them some writing along with some social media numbers, because naturally, they'd need to gauge how large or small my potential readership might be. A month passed by before I received a reply, the gist of which was that the company had to pass on the book, as sales projections just weren't robust enough. Graciously, they added that they'd enjoyed what they'd read and that they wished me the best; proof that in the book world, as in the music industry, pockets of decency exist.

With the exception of that truly professional, old school gent who let me know it was all about sales figures, (and yes, I was punching above my weight with that particular publishing house), I’d been left guessing as to why I was on the end of the (silent) 'thanks but no thanks' treatment.

The others? Well no names have been mentioned and I'm not looking to make anybody look bad - after all, it’s just business - but the briefest of emails to stand me down would’ve been nice.

Maybe they were going through a difficult time in their private / family life, perhaps their circumstances had changed, perhaps they’d time-travelled back to the 1970s and had spontaneously combusted, (it was apparently quite common back then), or perhaps this living, breathing, hopelessly hopeful human being had simply slipped their minds. I get that people are busy, and I get that I’m sensitive. Sensitive note, and not too sensitive. Who’s to say what’s too much and what’s not enough in the sensitivity stakes?

“I get that people are busy.”

I may sound a little bitter, but rest assured, I truly, truly am not. Perhaps those ghosting me had done me a favour in their rejection of my writing - in fact they absolutely did - because over the past year or so, my writing has become more confident, more meaningful and more authentic. This hasn’t occurred in some waspish, knee jerk, ‘Why I oughta… I’ll show YOU!’ fashion, but just because I’ve dug deeper into the old psyche and have then sat back a little on everything.

So, why the rejections? My feeling is that what I’m writing is perhaps too flowery and nebulous ever to be a punchy ‘rock’ memoir, yet not literary and lofty enough to be anything else. Yet it’s strange, that in a world which is in many ways moving away from binary thinking, my story isn’t black and white and unambiguous enough to be marketable. The brush strokes just aren’t bold enough. Too ‘swirly’, you see. In addition, I do have to conclude that I’m just not ‘famous’ enough to be a memoirist, and that’s the crux of it. There’s an outside chance that what I’ve written is rubbish, but I really don’t think that’s the case.

It may have been that the grapevine whispered, ‘Oh, but she’s so reclusive…’ and from that, any interested parties could deduce that I’d hardly be willing to schlep across the UK, smiling through book signings, only to spend the rest of the night weeping, having slumped - dramatically - to the floor of my Travelodge bedroom.

It’s just one more thing that the book world has in common with the music industry. These days you’re obliged to make podcasts, obliged to make little videos of yourself, obliged to sell, sell, sell yourself, and make people want to buy you, when really, it’s just the book you’d like them to buy, and for them to then read that book and hopefully get something of value out of it. I read ‘Out Stealing Horses’ by Per Petterson, and it captivated me, but my enjoyment of it was no less for not having queued up in Waterstones to have Mr Petterson sign my copy.

“People like it when you tell them things, in suitable portions, in a modest, intimate tone, and they think they know you…” Per Petterson in ‘Out Stealing Horses’.

I’m not for one moment criticising those who embrace self-promotion; it’s just not for me. I’ve finally concluded that to approach getting a book ‘out there’ in a more indie and cottage industry way - as I currently do with music - may well be the way to go... that's if I don't press 'delete'. If I do press 'delete' it won't be out of petulance. It will be because with a memoir, well, you really have to be 100% sure you want to share all that ‘stuff', don't you? Because it's not just your book that may be rejected, but the way in which you've lived your life.

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Notes & Links:

You might like to explore the issue of Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria aka RSD.

I can also recommend the book Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson.

You cannot go wrong with Tarkovsky. Try The Sacrifice, if you’ve not already seen it.